The simple fact of April has hit me harder than any pollen ever could. But with every unnaturally hot day that swings into a literal freeze watch on my weather app, I’m grateful for the flowers fighting to bloom and grow. I feel myself moving toward things, not simply outrunning others.
Not that I could anyway; Skyrizi has yet to start working for me, but I remain optimistic. I watch Veep on the elliptical at the gym, I find new ways to make my same old salmon dinners, and I listen to my dog’s halting, perfect breathing.
In French class, I say il est 13 ans. Our instructor thinks I must have made a mistake, but no, he is mon petit bebe, and he is kind of old. I remember when he was new to us, and sort of the world, just 4 years old.
Memory is a wonderful, perilous thing. I remember when I first went to the doctor for knee pain in my twenties. First, maybe, it was my feet. Later, my jaw. A coincidence, a mistake. I must have slept wrong. I must have done something to these joints.
How much time do we spend convincing ourselves, or being convinced, of things? Like pain, invisible or not.
I’m grateful for my rickety skeleton and every morning I wake up now, knowing I’m just me. There’s not another, easier way I could be. And I’m trying.
After some six years, this is my last week at my part-time corporate job—a departure that’s as brave and true as it is inconceivable, even to me, the one who made the choice to leave! Though I’m pivoting specifically so I can dedicate more time to writing and teaching, which smacks of privilege because it is a privilege, the job I leave behind is not a “day job.” Not to me, anyway.
I don’t moonlight as a writer just as I didn’t sideline my creativity to do the work that has sustained me financially for the last decade. My role in marketing has been strategic and rewarding, infuriating and crushing, and I’m more myself because of it—not despite it.
When authors disparage desk jobs or simply “non-writer” jobs, particularly those that provide insurance and consistent pay and all those unsexy essentials in America, they inadvertently disparage the people who do the work. Not all non-writing work is thankless or dull or ethically fraught. Sometimes it’s those things! But sometimes, if you’re fortunate, it’s another way to make a living and even a life.
I don’t dream of being a full-time writer. I just have different dreams than I had before, and different ways of achieving them.
I’m celebrating dear pal and Writing Co-Lab co-founder Sara Lippmann’s new novel, Hidden River, on Wednesday, May 6th at 7:00pm at Narberth Bookshop! We’ll be in conversation about grooming before #MeToo, coming of age in Philly, and of course, Eileen Fisher. No RSVP required, open to the public.
On Tuesday, June 30th at 6:30pm, I’ll be at beloved neighborhood (cook)book shop Binding Agents with my agent sibling and former Philadelphian Krys Malcolm Belc to discuss his second memoir, What I Made for Dinner, which tackles food celebrity, being blessed/cursed with pandemic cooking for a family, and our beloved Ina Garten… among other things. Link forthcoming, but save the date!
Writing Co-Lab Summer Camp is back and it’s better than ever! Especially because you can get the whole shebang for $400 or the mini version for just $30; both include my generative Power Hour class. My readings and prompts are not to be missed. Enroll in the full thing or the mini version.
Other things are also on the horizon, like a new-date-to-be-announced poetry event in Philly featuring the wonderful Alison Lubar and me.
They’re good, really and truly, they are. Like Hacks being back for a final jaunt. And Ponies, a thrilling, funny spy show about friendship and sleeping with the enemy! Being gifted the Before trilogy, Criterion Collection edition. Being touched by the luminous Bridget Everett literally and figuratively at her Philly show, Big Titties, Big Dreams.
A Z Supply summer dress that doesn’t wrinkle, even if it’s snug in the hips. The hat rack you got on Etsy and mounted in the entryway. Saying you’re not going to write The Novel and then writing like, a ton of it. Vanilla extract on sale from Penzeys. Learning to make a mini zine at the direction of The Adjunct author Maria Adelmann—and making one about Caboodles, specifically.
A pint of Milk Jawn’s Playoff Party flavor, vegan. Junk removal! Cheaper, better liquid eyeliner. Fear, and not bowing to it. Fear, and choosing to believe instead.
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