Let me start with this:  I have little (no?) respect for Tiger.  Tiger has a beautiful, almost perfect, game, yes.  He’s a brilliant golfer, maybe the best who’s ever lived.  But he’s a jerk.  He doesn’t sign balls for kids.  He’s flip.  He refers to his opponents by childish nicknames.  He breezes by the gallery (the fans) like they’re not even there.  He’s above … above it all.  Superior.  Arrogant.  Entitled.  Painful.  And don’t even get me started on the cheating scandals like this one, or this one.    But this, this kind of thing, is what lets Tiger off the hook.

Sergio, comments like yours let Tiger off the hook.  You were right with everything you said, with all of your brave comments about Tiger, before your “fried chicken” commentary undid it all.  I’m from the  midwestern south.  I love fried chicken.  I love fried chicken so much I’d request it — along with mashed potatoes and gravy and biscuits — for my last-ever-on-this-earth meal.  But we all know what your fried chicken comment means, and you’re not fucking funny.

I come from, was raised in, homes where the ‘n’ word was used like “the” and “but.”  As my stepfather once said, “I don’t mean anything by it, it’s just what they are!”  And frankly, in too many cases, this … this … still is.

But even me, me with my self-enlightened ways, am not immune to falling into the trap.  I remember a long-ago dinner at home with my son where he was suddenly wearing a LeBron James bracelet — “King James” in white — LeBron new and special and uber-talented in the game of basketball.  I was serving up the salad at our table and said something about all NBA players being thugs, hoodlums, LeBron included.  My son started to cry, to protest.  He surely would have left the table if he wasn’t so much nicer than me.  He surely would have left the table if I hadn’t been falling all over myself trying to set that uncalled-for, shocking even to myself, racist statement right.  I said it.  And I said it without even knowing where it came from until it was out.  Out of my own mouth.  Some statement laying there, in wait, for me and my past.

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What comes out of your mouth that shocks you?

Until now.  Here’s the best book I’ve read this year.  You won’t be able to get these characters, or their decisions, out of your mind.

You can read an interview with the author — a first time novelist — here.

The first person I met when I arrived at Alley Cat Books for last night’s reading was the publisher, Jon Roemer.  Jon could not have been nicer or more welcoming, and you could tell how proud he was of the anthology.  I had fun meeting and talking to my fellow writers.  I took pictures.  I put my glasses on top of my head so I would know where to find them, only to discover, upon returning to my seat, that I hadn’t even needed them — since I’d printed out what I was reading in 20 point font.  (ha!)  And then, as I was leaving the store, a complete stranger asked for my autograph (bless you, sweet woman in line).

Alone in the car on the drive home, I recalled my 6 or 8 or 12 year old self.  The reading went well, as readings most always do, in the end, but I understand that what I feel coursing through my body when I stand on a stage or at a podium isn’t as simple as nerves.  It’s that same feeling I had as a kid.  Low in the gut.  Hands and shoulders shaking.  Chest pounding, waiting, possibly, for the hard poke of a man’s finger.  I’ve always blamed nerves — who wouldn’t be nervous reading their personal, paper words out loud in front of strangers? — but I realize lately that nerves aren’t the whole story.  It’s the fear of taking up too much of someone’s time.  The fear of causing trouble.  The fear of being noticed and told to go outside.  The fear of not belonging in the room.

You may recall that at my last reading I was so scared I forgot how to put my own glasses on my face.  Ah, well.  This time it’s a reading and a publication party.  There are 12 of us.  I can blend into the crowd.  Comfort in numbers.  I’ll only have the mic for 5 minutes, then it’s all party and wine and cheese.  I can survive 5 minutes, right?

I’m excited about this anthology, excited about having one of my little stories in a book — a real, live book that will be sold on-line and in bookstores — with writers like Jasmin Darznik, Andrew Altshul, and oh-my-god Stephen Elliott.

Unfortunately, Stephen’s movie starts shooting this week in New York, so I doubt he’ll be back in town for our party.  Imagine.  Reading with Stephen Elliott.  Seriously people — how much fun would that have been??

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Or so I thought.

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It was only when they were posted side by side that I saw it.

In the one of me with my mother, I’m 27.  A year later I’ll be divorced.

In the one of mom with my little brother, she’s 27.  A year later she’ll be divorced.

And is it just me, or do our hairstyles look remarkably the same?

Here’s to Mother’s Day.

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*comments for this post are OFF*

Thank you, Mr. Sedaris.  We laughed for an hour and a half, from your first sentence to your last.

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After his reading last night, someone asked how he got started as a writer, about his process, about showing work to people (family, friends, beta readers, fellow writers, etc…).  He said he thinks it’s tougher for writers starting out today, that there’s so much expectation to share every thought, to expose yourself, to get your work out there, to “Get Published!” even if you have to do it yourself; that he is often directed to “read my blog” or is given the link to read someone’s self-published book.

No thanks, he says.

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David Sedaris wrote for 7 years before he showed his first sentence to another human being.  We live in the age of over-sharing.  How do you keep yourself current without being carried away by that rip tide, and drowning?

But two weeks later, even after I brought Annie home, I worried over Bruce — who was going to adopt this playful, 14 year old boy?

The woman who fostered Bruce wrote the following essay for Labrador Retriever Rescue‘s newsletter.  And as this is where I celebrate great stories well-told, I’m sharing the best thing I’ve read this week.  Here’s to you, Elisa Painten, and to foster mothers everywhere, of all kinds.

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LETTING GO
by Elisa Painten

Several weeks ago, I said goodbye to Bruce, my 14-year old chocolate Labrador retriever foster dog.

Bruce, one of the sweetest dogs I have ever known, came into rescue underweight and with double ear infections. He had significant hair loss on his hindquarters from a flea allergy and two raw, oozing sores on his paw. He leaked urine and his dull coat was covered in dandruff. Bruce’s owner was no longer able to care for him. Fortunately for Bruce, his owner called Golden Gate Labrador Retriever Rescue instead of having him put to sleep or bringing him to a shelter, where he might not fare well as an older dog with medical needs.

Golden Gate Labrador Retriever Rescue immediately had Bruce examined by a veterinarian, where he tested negative for heartworm and Cushing’s Disease, and was treated for the flea allergy. Medication helped with his leaky bladder and two rounds of antibiotics resolved his paw and ear infections. He was placed on a high quality diet. An ointment was applied daily to the sores, and he was given twice-weekly baths with a prescription shampoo. For good measure, the veterinarian added a few supplements to support his thyroid function and to help alleviate suspected joint pain.

Despite his condition, Bruce was a happy boy right from the start. In typical Labrador style, he managed to be both dignified and goofy. He shimmied with excitement when it was time for his daily walk, ate his meals with gusto and placed his big, blocky head on my lap when he wanted affection. A tennis ball in his mouth, he trotted around the yard with obvious delight. Over the weeks, Bruce’s coat grew back in, his sores healed and he had more energy. He loved our daily walks and short games of fetch. His delightful personality, which had been subdued by the physical discomfort he was in, began to show more and more. He was one year past the average life expectancy for his breed, but Bruce still knew how to have a good time.

I have fostered older dogs and dogs with special needs before, and have been inspired by the caring people who adopt them. But given Bruce’s age, medication and special dietary needs, I thought he might be with me for a long time. I was wrong. Seven weeks after he arrived, Bruce was adopted by a semi-retired gentleman, and went to live with him in a country home not far from the ocean.

I was only one part of the effort to see Bruce off to a new life. Saving an animal always involves multiple people, not to mention resources like food, medical care and supplies. As a foster, I get the additional benefit of the animals’ companionship for however long they stay with me, and the opportunity to learn from them. Of course, this also means I develop a strong bond with them. This is especially true for the dogs like Bruce who come into rescue with an illness, or suffering effects from neglect or abuse. I enjoy playing a role in their rehabilitation and seeing them flourish into healthy, happy dogs.

Of course, that is also when it is time to let them go. Inevitably, people will ask how I can stand to say goodbye to a foster. Some even remark that they could never do it, because they would not be able to give them up. But, like most foster providers, the reason I can let them go is not because I don’t love the animals I foster, but because I do. Bruce, like so many other rescued pets, is safe and loved now. His troubles are behind him; he is cherished, safe and happy in his new home. And with so many dogs in need of rescue, there is no time to dwell on sadness. When I think of Bruce, I will not think of missing him. I will think of him walking on a country road with his new best friend, the sunlight dancing on his full and shiny coat. And then I will open my home, and my heart, to the next one.

I finally wrote Chapter 1.  I’ve been working on this book for my whole crazy life about 4 years now and I’m just now writing Chapter 1.

I thought I had Chapter 1, was sure of it, but … alas … no.  I’ve apparently been faking my Chapter 1 all this time and had no idea.

This is how writing works.  You think you have it, you think you know what this is all about, this chapter and paragraph and sentence writing stuff, and you’re going right along with your happy-dance of a story and BANG.  You don’t even have the opening.  You don’t even have your first words.

A year ago I went to a writing workshop for two weeks —- I’ll be going back to that same workshop shortly —- and I remember meeting with our leader and her saying, “I think you’re six months to a year from finishing this book.”  Of course I nodded my agreement, but you know the cartoon fireworks were going off and I was thinking really really loud, “Six months?!  A year?!  No way.  I’ll be finished with this book by the end of summer.”

And then there was Chapter 1.

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I’m writing like a madwoman this week.  Is there a bigger moon?  It’s hot here.  93 yesterday; 80-something today.  I’ve got a military-esque routine going, which I kind of love, and the dogs certainly love, so it works for the house.  Last night I woke up at 2 am, wrote some stuff down, turned on the TV for the latest episode of “Housewives of Orange County” (crazy women!), and ended up going back to bed in the dogs’ room.  I turned on the light in there so I could find the bed without tripping over them and they all looked at me like, “Um, huh?”

Today on our walk I was listening to music instead of the usual audiobook.  I heard an old favorite.  When I first moved to northern California, I would listen to this song every single morning on my dog-walk, always on the way back, coming up the hill, the last steps to our new home, enamored with the story and the alliteration of “A California life alone…”  I guess that was a whole other Chapter 1…

My good friend, Tara DaPra, has a piece in the new issue of Creative Nonfiction titled “Writing Memoir and Writing for Therapy: An Inquiry on the Functions of Reflection.” I met Tara more than a decade ago, back when we were both undergrads at the University of Minnesota taking our first nonfiction writing classes, back when creative nonfiction was still a fairly new and terrifying genre, back when we were still trying to figure out if we had anything to say.  And even if we did, were we capable of writing it, and would anyone care to read it?

Because I write about my real life and my family, the question I get asked the most — aside from “aren’t you afraid you’ll get sued?” and “how would you feel if someone was writing about you!?” — is “do you find writing therapeutic?”  I always answer no.  No is simple.  I always answer no because I want to make it clear that I don’t feel like writing is anything at all like being in therapy, even though, even as I hear the emphatic “no” come out of my mouth, I know this can’t possibly be the whole truth.  How can writing, like any art, not be therapeutic?  In her essay, Tara explains this far better than I’ve been able to:  I agree that confession and redemption alone are no formula for good writing or art of any description, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t co-occur. And doesn’t a life have to be exposed—at least in part—before the writer can examine it? Why can’t a memoir speak about trauma or reveal family secrets and still be literary?

Head on over here to read the rest.

So yesterday, when I was reading Tara’s essay and thinking about how brilliant it was, how proud I was of her for having her work in this great magazine, right there alongside Mr. Creative Nonfiction, Lee Gutkind himself, I suddenly stumbled across some sticky words and saw myself as a character.  As in hey, is that me she’s describing, am I that person with no name?!  ”How would you feel if someone was writing about you?”  I’m barely there, a mere cameo for a sentence or two, my young, 37 year old self.  But I’ll tell you, it felt …. well …. a little surreal.  A taste of my own medicine that was good for me to taste, and remember.

This morning I was standing in my driveway, pondering the Vatican across the street, wondering why they’re covering that gorgeous stone wall with tall, leafy plants, when a cute young mom ran past.  She was running at a pretty good clip, right down the middle of the street, down the steep hill, while pushing her baby in a carriage, while pulling her little dog along on a leash, while talking on her cellphone, laughing.  Look Ma! No Hands!  She didn’t notice me; she didn’t notice the new plants at the Vatican; she had no idea there were 2 cars inching along behind her, kindly giving her space.

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I had coffee with a friend and we talked about the Audrie Pott sexual assault case.  At an April 15 press conference, Audrie’s stepmother read from her Facebook posts in the aftermath of a party:  ”My life is ruined…I am in hell…The whole school knows…My life is over…”  Audrie committed suicide.  Audrie was 15 years old.

My friend lives in that school district.  Her son is in the 8th grade.  She was telling me that a girl in her son’s class texted a topless photo of herself which has, as they now say, “gone viral.”  My friend had to have the talk with her son — you know, the new talk about what you do when you’re just a kid and you see or receive inappropriate images on a cell phone.

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Do we really need to take The Pledge, vowing not to text while driving?  Do we?

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If you’re walking down the sidewalk, staring into your phone, why are you so angry when you run smack into me?  If the parking lot is full and you see me waiting, with my blinker on, to take your parking space, do you really need to check your texts and emails before pulling out?

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This afternoon I took my big brown dog to the park.  Two young mothers were sitting next to each other on a bench, staring at and tapping messages into their phones while their children played.  I saw a little brown-haired girl, who looked to be about 4 years old, wander over the path and through the weeds and up the hill to see what was going on at the Vatican.  A construction worker walked toward her; he bent down to talk to her.  I saw a small boy slip and scrape the back of his leg on the concrete surrounding the sandbox.  He started to cry, which scared my big dog, so my y big dog barked at him, and I yelled at my big dog to stop it while the boy swiped off the blood and looked around the park, wondering, perhaps, if someone, anyone, might come running.

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