Soldier Stories

If Memorial Day reignites your appreciation for the sacrifices our soldiers make to serve, consider reading my friend Marcus Brotherton's book, A COMPANY OF HEROES: PERSONAL MEMORIES ABOUT THE REAL BAND OF BROTHERS AND THE LEGACY THEY LEFT US. It's filled with the never-before-told stories of the The Band of Brothers.

* * *

In other news, some Americans are upset today because President Obama won't be at Arlington National Cemetery to recognize Memorial Day. Instead, he'll be in Chicago at Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery, honoring America's fallen.

Well, guess what I learned?

He's not the first president to be away for Memorial Day! Presidents Bush, Bush and Reagan were away from Arlington on Memorial Day during their tenures in office. President Clinton, however, never missed a year.

Read the article here at snopes.com for the full scoop.

And Happy Memorial Day, wherever you're celebrating it.

The Daykeeper's Grimoire RELEASED!

My new writer-pal Christy Raedeke just published her debut YA novel, The Daykeeper's Grimoire, from her Prophecy of Days series.

In the book, punchy and smart teenage narrator Caity MacFireland takes on an old secret brotherhood that's attempting to sustain a sinister and conspiratorial world order. At her new home, an inherited castle in Scotland, Caity finds out she's an integral part of a prophecy to save the world, and uses the Mayan calendar and other ancient concepts or texts to interpret the prophecy and thwart the brotherhood's plan.

The book is an exciting, well-written and intellectually-stimulating adventure. Kids these days are so lucky to have this in the reading nook.

And the second one promises to be equally good.

I wasn't in the writing group when Christy wrote this first one, but she was kind enough to let me revel in her victory as one of her "Writing Group Buddies" at her recent Bloomsbury reading.

As a group, we were the proudest, giddiest folks in the audience, appreciating the tenacity and talent it took to get there.

From Left to Right, you see Jennie Englund (in green), me (chewing gum, woops), Julie Inada (Christy's long-time friend who gave a kickin' intro that night, referring to becoming hooked on Christy's writing back in 5th grade when Christy would leave notes for Julie in the Girl's Bathroom), Christy herself, and another writer, Marcia, who currently is taking a break from the group.

Christy's from Ashland, and Bloomsbury was packed - with family, friends, and even her former teachers, including her fifth grade teacher who was absolutely beaming.

For my Washington pals, go be inspired at one of Christy's upcoming readings!

*Village Books in Bellingham on June 5th at Noon
*U Village Barnes and Noble in Seattle on June 5th at 5PM

Tell her "Anjie sent me!" if you go - and tell her you'd love to hear more about Mr. Papers, the monkey who communicates through origami.

Just for fun, I've included some pictures of some hubbies and offspring.

THE GINGERBREAD MAN CAME TO TOWN

In the spirit of Flat Stanley, we just sent off a postcard to my friend Maya's son, Kai, in Mill Valley, California. His kindergarten class was collecting postcards from around the world (a map lesson) and Kai hadn't gotten a postcard yet. He was sad! So Maya sent out a distress signal via Facebook last night, and Dane and Aubrey and I answered the call.

Here's the postcard we chose this morning:

Here's what the kids wrote:

Dear Kai - The Gingerbread man came through Ashland, OREGON, and marched for PEACE at a MLK Jr. event with our school. Then he skied down Mt. Ashland, watched a play at the Shakespeare Theater, and drank the best hot cocoa ever at The Mix Shop! When he finally went to bed at our house that night, he fell asleep watching Yoda train Luke to use The Force on Dagobah (on DVD). From Aubrey & Dane Reynolds

***

Will post on Peter Ferry soon...

In Memory of Ruth

Ruth Scott was one of those members you can't miss. She was older than many of us at the Writing Mamas, somewhere in her seventies, and she spoke energetically and with wisdom. She also spoke often. That's the part that sometimes created detours in our meetings that slightly infuriated me (yes, I'll admit that) -- but usually her stories and insights were memorable for all of us. She was real and thoughtful and had depth of perspective that was special.

Occasionally, she commented on the Writing Mamas' blog site. One of my favorite comments ever came from her. I had written that I couldn't stop crying for the multi-layered losses a high school friend had endured, reflecting on how fiercely we pray not to lose those closest to us. Ruth commented:

I find it amazing that anyone is brave enough to have a child, to love another, as loss is always a possibility. Yet without the risk what is life. I know everyone has a sorrow. I go out everyday trying to not add a burden to anyone as I know they may already be overburdened. We are all interconnected in everyway. Beware that fear of losing someone can cause anxiety and over-protection and this too can be destructive. Ruth Scott

She had loved, lost, risked, gained, and survived - and had powerful thoughts on how to meet our challenges.

Ruth died last week, unexpectedly, quietly, in her sleep, after spending the holidays with all of her children and all of her grandchildren.

Here's her essay, which The Marin Independent Journal published yesterday at the request of The Writing Mamas.

Read it. You'll catch a glimpse of what we all loved about her, and what we will dearly miss.

***

HOW IT IS: FIRST TIMES CAN'T QUITE COMPARE WITH LAST TIMES
By Ruth Scott


At 39, I had cancer.

During the week before surgery, I was walking down the street in Mill Valley holding the hands of my 4-year-old daughter, Ann, and my 7-year-old daughter, Alison.

In their other hands they each held an ice cream cone. I remember extreme awareness of my surroundings as I thought to myself, "If this is all there is, then I am blessed." At that moment I saw every leaf on the tree before me as individual, unique and important, yet interconnected to the whole. I've never forgotten that moment. I later heard someone describe a similar feeling that they had experienced with psychedelic, acid-type drugs.

I could understand why they would want to have this experience again. Life with cancer had given me a blessing. I felt centered, free to be in the moment.

Twenty years later I had my second cancer. One of my thinking processes at these times was to accept death, and try to learn its lessons. I wrote, "Thoughts of death bring sweet return, when from them more of life we've learned."

If you do not live, you have little use for this lesson, but there is always the chance that you will have time to practice what you have learned. I admit that I have learned many more things than I have been able to put into practice. I believe it was Goethe who wrote, "A seeker of truth is a student of death."

I believe this is true.

I created a game, a habit, of looking at or experiencing things as if it were "for the last time." We go through life learning new things, doing them for the first time. First we learn to see. Our eyes do not focus so vision must be practiced and learned, and it really is exciting if only we could remember. You can watch a child take his first step and see the joy and excitement it brings. We may record his first spoken word.

There is a different excitement and joy that comes from doing things and seeing things for the last time. There is a sense of appreciation and thankfulness, a gratitude for having the experience that a "first" cannot compete with.

To watch my grandchild take her first step is magnified and appreciated for perhaps I will never again experience that moment when a child launches herself into the bipedal upright stance. I savor the moment as I do all the times in the last few years that I have skied down the perfect slope on a clear winter day for the last time.

This summer I jumped off a cliff on Long Lake below Mt. Elwell, again, for the last time. The height scares the grandchildren; the cold of the lake challenges me, but it's there and the "last time" makes it seem easier, not so cold. "I won't have to do this again," I say, and I jump. My grandchildren may return at 75 and remember, saying, "Well, Grandmom did it, so can I."

Perhaps, I'll inspire from the grave what I could not inspire in life.

I climb again to my favorite pine that grows high on a rock over Big Bear Lake. It is alone, and one cannot see any soil around its trunk, only rock. Year after year this pine is still there, facing winter storms, the cold and the weight of wind and snow, and still it survives, bonsai, and beautiful. I come back every year for the "last time" receiving comfort and strength. "If you can make it, I can make it," I say to this tree, my friend and inspiration.

I can walk through Mill Valley for the last time and it's amazing what I see and review and I am renewed. It is enough to have had each experience and if it is the last of the last times I am fortunate to have appreciated each moment in time.

First times you can only have once; last times you can experience over and over again.

***

Click here to read more of her writings.

JenniePal WriterPal SkirtPal

Jennie Englund and I met at Noble Coffee last summer. I was working on a new chapter for my novel; she was having coffee with a girlfriend. We started talking about writing and teaching (she teaches English 100s and 200s at Rogue Community College) and we hit it off.

We hit it off to the extent that Jennie suggested we be friends. This was rare, and I quote her: "I don't try to make new friends, do I?" she turns with a nod to her coffee friend. Her friend shakes her head, no. "I can't even be a good enough friend to the friends I have, so I'm never looking for new friends. But I want you to be my friend. It has to happen. We have to write together."

It was the funniest, silliest intro I could've had to a new friend in Ashland, and I was all over it.

My family was headed to King Tut in San Francisco for the weekend, so summer felt busy, but Jennie and I kept in touch via email and finally got together for some serious writing at the beginning of fall. This was a couple weeks after I'd seen her in Albertson's wearing an outfit I didn't realize was a costume. Turns out she was dressed like a pirate for the Tree Frog Trek camp, but I thought she wore ruffly shirts and vests for real.

Here's the beauty of this: I've been wanting a serious writer-friend to write with, revise with, and set goals with. Check. Check. And check.

A few weeks ago, Jennie let me read something she wrote a while back and I suggested she submit it to Chicken Soup for the Soul's Christmas edition; I also suggested she submit it to Skirt magazine's holiday contest.

Guess who won honorable mention in the holiday contest???

Yup, that'd be Jennie. Following is her story in full. You can also link to it here at Skirt! Way to go, Jennie! And I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for Chicken Soup - because we all like a paying market now, don't we?

How Sallie Bowles Saved Christmas

by Jennie Englund

­
Flames licked the fireplace door as my mom sat on the sofa, cradling her hot cocoa in her hands. Her blonde hair had long since fallen out from relentless rounds of chemotherapy. Instead, a blue handkerchief covered her head, and a reindeer-printed fleece blanket draped her swollen legs. She still wore mascara‚she always wore mascara. But her thin face and tired eyes reflected the battle she was going to lose.

She took it all in: the stories, the drama, even the fighting. She knew this was her last Christmas.

At 27, I knew it was her last Christmas, too. But my seven younger siblings didn't know it. Maybe some of them chose NOT to know it. And the two littlest‚ my ten year-old sister and four year-old brother‚ had absolutely no way of knowing it.

Ribbons, bows and wrapping paper flew around the room. Photo albums and Lego sets were ooo'ed and ahh'ed over, until the next package was ferociously ripped open. That year, we tore into the gifts like lions at their prey. We were looking for the magic gift—the contents of the one box that would make us forget our mom's suffering, and our own.

It never came.

The next Christmas, the reindeer-printed blanket was folded in the corner of the sofa. No one wanted to open any gifts. We wanted our mom.

But Christmas wasn't about wanting. And it wasn't about sorrow. The rest of our Christmases couldn't be this way. As the oldest sibling, I had to do something. We didn't have our mom, but we did have each other. And for the sake of our dad, who had lost his college sweetheart, I had to bring back Christmas.

As we pushed around ham and mashed potatoes with our forks, an idea came to me. Slipping from the table, I rummaged through my teenage sister's room for sequins and baubles. I fastened a too-tight silver bra over my black t-shirt and threw a feather boa over my shoulder.

There was one clear choice. My husband put in the CD we'd brought from our house: the soundtrack to the 1972 musical, "Cabaret." The sole song to which I knew all the words was the title track. As the trumpets began pumping, I slunk sheepishly from the hallway. My dad nodded. My teenage sister stood up on her chair. The four year-old gaped in wonder and surprise.

Like Liza Minnelli in her role as Sallie Bowles, I began singing tentatively at first. I stood motionless at the unplugged microphone, bathed in the beam of a powerful flashlight. Of course I asked myself what I thought I was doing, or even what I was undoing. Was this irreverent? Flat-out blasphemy? I mean, I was the responsible one. And even with all the sequins and baubles and boa and bra, I felt naked, completely naked.

But I could feel the eyes on me‚desperate for the return of holiday folly.

The music picked up pace. Sallie's voice picked up pace. And my confidence somehow adjusted accordingly.

I bumped my hips and twirled my necklaces and wrapped the boa around my brother's neck. My dad was laughing‚really laughing, îand every chuckle was melting the previous year of pain. My teenage sister danced on her chair. The four year-old clapped his hands against his thighs.

THEY were inspiring ME.

By the end of the show tune, I was belting out the lyrics, with my legs kicking up in the air:

"Life is a cabaret, Old Chum.

Only a Cabaret, Old Chum.

And I love‚ a cabaret.‚"

I held the last note until the drum stopped.

And then I collapsed forward.

The cheers and whistles were deafening. It had worked. "Cabaret" couldn't bring back our mom, but it could begin to restore a broken family's joy and hope.

Coffee with Kamy

One of the head honchos at shewrites.com, Kamy Wicoff, is on a West Coast tour. My writer friend Jennifer Margulis thought it'd be fun to woo her to Ashland on Kamy's drive south from Eugene to San Francisco, so we've got her at Noble Coffee this morning from about 10-11.

I just heard about shewrites.com last month when a San Francisco girlfriend emailed me to tell me to check it out. It's essentially a writing network/information station for women (although their disclaimers say men can join; after all, they'd be bent out of joint if there were a men's only writing hub that excluded women). They have "webinars," forums, manuscript "help" match-ups, and a growing list of members who've published books.

So far I've just been a voyeur; I'm currently in a phase of writing where I'm kicking myself. Kicking myself into gear (I just sold "That Bike" to The Christian Science Monitor; it should publish in the next couple months), and kicking myself for not being as disciplined as I'd like to be in writing new stuff.

As a stay-at-home mom, sometimes teacher, freelance writer, I'd say I don't do a very good job of going AIC ("ass in the chair" as writers call the disclipline) on the writer part -- at least not for very long periods of time. Currently, I'm writing, actually writing, about 30 minutes a day and thinking about writing the rest of the day. Maybe that's a formula that will pay off, but I'm pretty clear that I need to spend more time than that to revise and craft the raw material I have.

It's almost time to quit saying life's transitions are distracting me. Dental school's over, we've fully re-located, fully moved into our home, nearly fully remodeled the kitchen. It's time to get a grip.

So, I'll go have a cup of java with Kamy Wicoff and let myself get inspired about the craft, the time commitment, the obstacles, and writing's original lure. After all, shewrites.

FIRST INTERVIEW

One of my new friends here in Ashland, Jennifer Margulis, is an accomplished writer. And I mean accomplished: she's published a couple books, was a Fulbright scholar, and has written articles for the likes of The New York Times and The Smithsonian.

Imagine my surprise then when she wanted to interview me for her website. I didn't think about it too long, though, and decided to just jump right on board. You can read the interview here. She says you should feel free to comment.

SO, HOW WAS SOAPSTONE???

Writing's coming hard these days for all kinds of reasons, so I'm conveniently attaching this email I sent to a few friends who asked about my Soapstone experience. It's been a month and I'm starting to process it some.

For some of you, this may be info you have no interest in, so just skip it. Some of you might be curious, so read on if you feel like it.

Here it is:

I have to say the experience was very strange. (Remember how you felt like the Squaw Valley Writer's Workshop 'broke you' for a while, Jessica? I'm feeling that way now about Soapstone, but for slightly different reasons.)

I honestly wrote very little while there, which I found frustrating -- all but 2 (?) 3 days (?) were spent kind of paralyzed. (I did revise and sell the Perspectives piece, and worked with momsrising, CDF, etc., but still...!)

Here's my Lame-o list:

• I was processing my grandfather's death (I said goodbye to him the weekend before; he died the night I got there). Wrapped up in that were images of my father's death 15 years ago. So I felt very unfocused on my story or essays -- and felt like a little of the fun of the experience had shifted. I couldn't have foretold it, either, but processing a loss only made those warm, life-affirming hugs from my kids feel so far away.
  
• Mick also felt far -- he was very encouraging to me (in fact, he talked me through some blocks), but he had/has a lot of his own stress going with dental school finishing up right now -- and it's time to start working on applications, and thinking about practice, moving, new schools, change, etc. (Why didn't I just cancel amid this? I couldn't come up with another date I could do this during 2008, so I took what I could get. I knew I'd regret canceling, and I didn't want to live with that.)
• Oh! And it was way cold! Snowing, freezing, storming, etc.! I'm from the PNW, but I think I've gone a little soft. :) I could see my breath in my cabin for two hours each morning as I stoked the wood stove, and walks along the logging route were a bit windy and nippy! (I did get to the coast -- note photo of "Goonies" rock -- on one of the milder days.)
• My housemate was nice but VERY vocal about her own daily (hourly?) writing magic that she felt deep in her bones. She gave me unsolicited updates on word counts, etc. (silent scream).
  
• I think somewhere in there the writing process slid from fun and playful to strenuous and serious. I've never written well under those circumstances. (Term papers and my thesis come to mind.)
  

Don't I sound like a wimp? See why I haven't said much???

Here's the thing, though. I DO think I learned some valuable lessons that stemmed from identifying what's playful and too serious in my writing process, and how when inspiration hits it's divine, and how the pieces of the puzzle sometimes end up fitting together in ways we can't foresee. It was good for me to suffer for a while to learn this about myself and the writing process -- and to perhaps be more generous or patient with myself/it than I've ever thought to be. (Being patient is REALLY hard for me.)

I'm sure I've neglected many details; and I encourage anyone who's so inclined to apply if 2 weeks alone in a cabin on a creek sounds fabulous. I'll give more scoop on that if you're curious. Who knows? I might apply somewhere sometime again soon -- I'm willing to open myself up to new and bizarre lessons.

I'll attach some pictures that might portray a little more 'magic' than my report offers. :) I hope I don't sound too lame. It really was a good experience, but for different reasons than I would've anticipated. (Which reminds me why I usually try to live by that old motto about low expectations...)

-anj

My cabin, the one with the cube on top; my housemate's

cabin is right next to it, with the pointed roof.

Above: in a dusting of snow. Even on days without snow,
the weather was still usually below freezing.

Above: Haystack Rock of Goonies fame.

Above: between our cabins, the hot tub. I used it twice.

At the woodshed.

One last detail: the kids were wonderfully taken care of by Jan. Two weeks was a long time for them to be apart from me, though (and me from them). I really felt how deeply we missed each other around day ten. I know we all would've been fine if I'd packed it up then. Even if I'd been creatively juiced up, I could tell they felt it was just really long.

Are You Up For A Review?

I received this email from a fellow Writing Mama who has joined the competitive world of novel publishing. If you feel like playing the game with her, read her novel excerpt (an amazon.com download that will cost you $0 -- yes, zero) and write a quick review. It doesn't have to be splashy.

Here's her email:

Good news - my novel made it to the semifinals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards. The selection for the next stage will be based on public reviews. It's cool to get a page on Amazon, and see the power of the online community. I got my first review from a book lover who's interested in China. I'm tickled; she found my book among the 420 mainstream entries.

I'd love it if you have a chance to read the excerpt and write a review. It's a fast read, and I could use your support. Grand prize is getting PUBLISHED. (Let's hope we all get a piece of the publishing pie this year!)

The reviewers get to win prizes, too. Check out the main contest page at www.amazon.com/abna.

To download In the Lap of the Gods, chapter 1:
* Go to my page at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00124CO2U
or search for the title on Amazon under Books ("official ABNA entrant")
* You can download the excerpt easily after signing in. It's free.

* Go back to the bottom of my page to post a review.

One hundred finalists will be selected by **** FEBRUARY 19th ****

BUT - it's probably best to post your review in the next ten days, since somebody has to *read* them all. Gotta love those deadlines!

-Li Miao Lovett

My friend Shannon just wrote this:

HEADLINES
33 Shot Dead in Campus Massacre

The headline stopped me for a minute when I scanned the online news yesterday afternoon. Then I returned back to my work. I didn’t think about it much the rest of the day ― I was busy writing, I had a couple of client calls, then I transitioned quickly into the usual evening routine with my daughter: dinner, bath, tooth brushing, and bedtime stories. It wasn’t until she was asleep that I thought to turn on the television. I watched the news for about 10 minutes or so, then switched to Jon Stewart. Like me, he opted to repress, focusing instead on jokes about the White House e-mail scandal and Alberto Gonzalez.

Why wasn’t I more upset by what has now been confirmed as the worst shooting spree in U.S. history? I remember when the Columbine murders happened – how disturbing that incident was to me, so disturbing that I felt physically ill. I watched the news for days afterward, unable to believe it had actually happened. But it did happen. And so much more has happened since then. September 11. Genocide in Africa. Daily reports from Iraq of eight dead by a road-side bomb, 20 dead in a market, 100 dead in a mosque.

All enough to numb your brain and your heart.

Motherhood has changed me ― sometimes in ways that I hadn’t expected. Instead of becoming even more sensitive to the tragedies of the world, I feel like I’ve become a little bit harder. I hold these events at an emotional distance ― not because I don’t care, but because it’s how I get by. Otherwise, I just couldn’t step up to making chicken fingers and reading Harry the Dirty Dog on a day when 33 mothers got the worst news possible. Somewhere, something bad is going to happen tomorrow, too. But I like to think that there will also be babies born and lives that are saved and long-awaited reunions. I have to believe that there is some kind of balance.

I say a prayer for those 33 families. Then I look at my daughter and say a prayer that she will always be safe and happy, and that all the other daughters and sons, brothers and sisters and moms and dads will be, too.

Logically, I know that this is a tall order. But it’s my small way of trying to balance out the headlines.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka