Those who have been following me here this year know that I’m participating in Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challengewhich means I’ve been *trying* to write one essay, no matter how small, every week during 2017. Alas, I have fallen behind, but I’m going to continue this practice regardless. The act of attempting to produce something worth sharing every week is helping me to get into a writing groove that I think is sustainable long term, even though there will be occasional breaks. That’s just life.

This practice is also inspiring me to share essays in places besides here on my personal blog. Today I’ve posted my essay #12, a distinctly adoptee observation, at Lost Daughters. I hope you’ll visit there to read.

Middle Place

The closer I get to turning fifty, the more age obsessed I find myself, including with my own writing progress. I’m noticing how often I read stuff written by much younger people. Twenty- and thirty-somethings are publishing all over the place, in confident voices that make them sound worldly, wise, and fearless. How did they acquire so much swagger, so much knowledge, while I feel perpetually timid and inadequate?

It’s probably not true that everyone publishing anything is younger than me, but sometimes it seems that way, just as it seems that every writer worth a damn is flitting off to residencies or conferences. Either they’re young enough to not yet have many commitments other than to themselves and their work, or they’re old enough that their downsized empty nests and ample retirement income allow them great freedom. I try to push away the nagging worry that they’re more invested in their writing than I am in mine.

Authors I read who are close to my age are well-established. It’s rare to discover fellow middle-aged beginners, though I realize they’re out there. Curious, I googled and found a group over in the UK called The Prime Writers, all of whom published their first book when they were over forty. I’m heartened knowing they exist and that they’ve found each other.

When we hear the word “emerging” though, we picture someone youthful, don’t we? And when we see youthful writers, we accept their beginner status without criticism. On sight, a middle-aged person is expected to have achieved something more, just as my son, who has always looked older than his actual age, has been expected to have already reached certain milestones before people who meet him understand how young he really is. I may look aged, but in terms of my writing, I have a long way to go.

I often think of myself as a beginner, but am I being fair? I signed up for my very first creative writing class back in 2000. That was seventeen years ago. Four years ago, I earned my MA. I’ve managed to publish a handful of pieces. When I’m at my lowest, I chide myself for not being dedicated enough, but in reality, I’ve stubbornly stuck with this writing thing for nearly two decades, during which time I’ve also been doing a good deal of living life. Hmm. How about that?

A few weeks ago, I attended a local, one day writing conference and realized that I wasn’t as much of a beginner as a good number of the other attendees. It’s probably fair to say that I’m at some sort of middle place in this writing journey. I’ve learned some things and developed some skills, and I’m aware that I have more to learn and develop. I can stop thinking of myself as a beginner, despite not yet having published a book of my own. I’m relieved by this realization.

Still, I marvel at the confidence of those younger authors I read. How did they get to where they wanted to go so fast? Some days, I feel as if I’m stuck in a traffic circle, unsure of which exit to choose, which road will lead to a place where I’ll be happy to settle in. Perhaps it’s because I’m older, because I want to avoid a costly detour, that I hesitate to push forward too quickly. Perhaps my life experience is a handicap. I’ve lost all faith in five year plans. I know that life will toss me this way and that, so what use is a firm goal anyway?

More and more I think I’m doing this less as a means to an end than as a way to become more myself. Perhaps that mindset is the guide that will point me to the right road. It’s true, I’m envious of those younger writers so sure of their own voices. I wish I had been so sure at their age. I’d like to be so sure just once, if only for a moment.

I saw a piece yesterday in which a writer lamented her own lack of patience with the process of learning and practicing writing, and I think I’ve had the same kind of impatience. So I’ve been trying to breathe more, to relax and to allow my writing to wander wherever it wants to go. I’ve been reminding myself that, for me, writing isn’t so much a career choice as it is a lifestyle. I’ve always written and I will continue to write, regardless of any outcome. It’s just what I do.



I’m participating in Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge. This is #11 of 52.






On a recent episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Erika had a full-on meltdown during dinner with the other ladies. Unlike most of the housewives, she has been very reserved—not unfriendly to the other women but not chummy either. Throughout this season, she’s clashed with a newcomer to the cast, though she kept her feelings mostly to herself until this particular evening. In a deluge, all the hurt she’d held inside came rushing out. When another cast mate tried to say something helpful, Erika overreacted, lashing out at her, too. She reminded me very much of myself.

Forty-five-year-old Erika Girardi joined the cast last season. She’s a self-described homebody and tomboy who’s married to a high-powered lawyer, but she has an alter-ego—she performs as the dance club musical artist Erika Jayne, wearing ultra-sexy, ultra-glamorous outfits during her somewhat risqué shows. It’s a seemingly crazy contradiction: quiet, shy Erika Girardi vs. flamboyant Erika Jayne.

Recently on the show, she revealed that her mother had been hard on her while she was growing up. She called her mother a “disciplinarian” and said her mother had been very critical of her. She pointed to her mother’s treatment of her as the reason why she seldom cries and finds it difficult to connect with other women. Others have described her as cold, but she sees herself as tough. She was forced when very young to buck up, to handle things on her own, and she’s carried that directive inside herself all this time.

I can’t help wondering about the link between the child Erika not having a mother who was a solace to her and the grown Erika who tries to conceal her vulnerability from other women. This makes sense to me. It’s something I’ve recognized that I also do. Vulnerability often feels to me like a weakness that shouldn’t be revealed, and other women feel the most unsafe to me, probably because I want to avoid experiencing again the pain of motherly criticism or rejection.

But there are times when we all need to cry on someone’s shoulder. When we try to handle everything on our own, we risk an explosion like the one Erika had at that dinner. Sometimes we don’t even understand why we’re so upset until long after the episode is over.

It was interesting to see and hear the other housewives’ reactions to Erika’s meltdown. None of them seemed to know how to interpret it or how to help Erika calm down. Their faces displayed their shock at her outburst. They didn’t have the tools to approach her in a way that wouldn’t seem critical, dismissive, or threatening in that moment. The one person who came closest to understanding what was happening mistakenly reached out in the wrong way and endured Erika’s wrath in return. It was like watching a rerun of episodes from my own life. I’ve blown up over seemingly minor things or at inappropriate moments. I’ve jumped down the throats of friends who have only wanted to help. Sure, RHOBH is a fluff TV show in which the cast is thrown into contrived situations intended to provoke drama. Even so, this incident was very real and revealing to me about what is and isn’t reasonable for me to expect from other people, what it looks like from someone else’s point of view when I overreact, and how my behavior may be misinterpreted.

People who’ve grown up in mainly healthy, emotionally secure environments may have trouble understanding why someone might feel they always need to protect themselves, why they might not want to reveal themselves very quickly, why they tend not to easily trust. Watching how the women reacted to Erika both in the weeks before and the minutes during her meltdown made me realize how my own words and actions may give a different impression to other people than what I intend, consciously or not, to communicate. I’m sure that some people haven’t known how to deal with my being as closed off as sometimes I am. Maybe they’ve mistaken me as being cold-hearted or not liking them because I’ve held back. I’m sure that, like Erika, people find me hard to get to know.

Watching the show, I want to throw my arms around Erika and say, it’s okay, you’re okay, I like you. I want to tell her it’s okay to cry and it’s okay to want to talk to a friend. She and I both struggle with making female friends and tend to feel more at ease with men. I wonder how a weak bond with one’s mother correlates. In interrogating the motivation behind her behavior, I’m also investigating my own.

I read an article last week about children who grow up as people pleasers, how damaging that can be because these kids never have the experience of messing up yet being loved anyway. They become adults who think they’ll only be loved if they do the right thing—whatever that is. I know this is part of my psyche, and I wonder if it’s part of Erika’s, too. How many unmothered daughters are still trying to figure out something they can do that will please their mothers enough to be loved? This need to please can be another reason why we hold back. We hesitate to speak until we ascertain the right thing to say. We want first to observe, to figure out what we need to do to earn approval.

Deep down, though, we long more than anything to be seen and heard. So sometimes we do big, showy things for recognition. We rebel in major ways to challenge this requirement that we must conform in order to be loved. We want to show off our ugliest, our most outrageous, most dangerous selves to challenge people to love us anyway, to prove that we weren’t crazy, that the love we received was conditional all along. But these displays aren’t the whole of us. The tender parts are hardest to reveal. We are still on guard, still protecting ourselves, even at our most flamboyant. I think of how Erika puts on a glamorous costume for every scene on RHOBH, as if she’s reluctant to let the other women see her un-made up, how her makeup and hair and clothes are a challenge as well as her armor. If you don’t accept this part of me, I’ll sure never let you see the rest.

There’s a separation people like me and Erika create between the parts of ourselves we allow to be public and the parts we hold sacred. Maybe most people do this to some degree, but it’s evident on the show that Erika does it to the extreme, and I know that I do, too. It’s a means of hiding, of trying to stay safe, by not risking all of ourselves. How would it feel to walk around in the world unarmored and to be okay? I imagine that’s what freedom feels like.


I’m participating in Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge. This is #10 of 52.

I Told Myself I Would Be Real

I never felt known as a child. When people looked at me, I felt they saw the shell but nothing underneath. I became what people wanted to see when they looked at me; in this way, I created the shell of myself that no one could see beyond.

I hid inside the shell. Instinctively I protected my tender core, the real part of me that I felt was not known. I wanted to be known. But being known felt dangerous. Yet over time, not being known also hurt me. I felt intensely lonely. Alone in the world, as if no one could understand my language.

I believed that my real mother would understand me. This was the story I told myself: My real mother somewhere out in the world loved me, and one day she would find me. She would know me without my having to explain anything at all about myself. She would know the colors and flavors I liked, she would know why I needed to have long hair, she would know why walking barefoot outside was the best thing and why I couldn’t see the world the way the people I lived with did. She would just know.

I didn’t have to create a fiction for myself because I knew somewhere in the world there was a woman inside whom I had become real. It was just that we weren’t together. I told myself we would be, and then I would become real again. I didn’t come from thin air, I couldn’t have, because I couldn’t fly. I came from water, just as everyone did, and I would swim again.

I didn’t want to be this mystical creature inside my shell. I wanted to be normal. Normal seemed good to me then, desirable. Born of a body. How odd I must have seemed, without a solid form. Without matter. I wanted to matter.

I knew my mother was somewhere out in the world loving me because I could feel it. We had a bond that could not be broken. And if I was with her, she would care about the core of me, the real me that no one cared enough about to even miss. I would be important to her, I told myself over and over, and this story gave me hope, and hope kept me going all the way out into the real world.



I’m participating in Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge. This is #9 of 52. 



A Year of No

I committed to myself in 2016 that I would make more of an effort to get my writing out into the world. I submitted my work to publications more often last year than ever before. For the writers among my readers, here’s a breakdown of how that went:

I submitted individual pieces (poems, essays, and stories) 70 times, to 25 different outlets. Twice I submitted directly to an editor; the other times, I submitted via whatever means the publication specified on their website—Submittable, some other system, or email. I drafted multiple versions of cover letters as well as my biography, tailoring them for specific markets. I reported most of my submissions on Duotrope, which I’ve been using for several years. I also began keeping track of my intentions and outcomes for specific pieces and markets on a spreadsheet.

In some cases, I responded to calls for themed submissions; other times, I fervently searched for the best home for a piece; occasionally, I entered contests. I spent $12 on sample issues and $15 on contest fees. Continue reading “A Year of No”