Setting Myself Up

For the past couple months, my laptop was on the coffee table.  I sat on the edge of the couch, hunched my body, and did whatever I wanted on the computer: Check Reds scores or watch Hulu or Netflix; read blogs and "like" things on Facebook; yell at politicians.  I had the world at my fingertips.   Click, click, click.

But you know what's hard to do, hunched over on a couch?  Write.  It's awkward and uncomfortable.  Even leaning back on the couch, my laptop on my lap, I found myself avoiding Blogger.  I focused for a few minutes before switching to a tab that gave me more instant gratification.

I've been beating myself up for not writing and for not wanting to write.  I've been angry that I haven't found any inspiration for writing.  But I have to give myself a chance, right?  Today I moved my laptop back to my awesome desk, in the room with my giant penguin and comfortable office chair.

We'll see what happens.

Trip to Pompeii

I haven't fallen off a cliff; nor have I lost my ability to type or compose sentences.   The past couple months, however, I've thought of myself more as a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, a girlfriend, and a library worker than as a writer.

Not that I have to think of myself as a writer to post blog entries... I just have to feel like I have something to say.  And time to say it well.


Yesterday, my boyfriend and I went to the Museum Center at Union Terminal to see the Pompeii exhibit.  I didn't bring my camera to the exhibit, but here are some pictures from outside the building and inside its gorgeous rotunda:

The Long Arc of History

The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice.  This week, the President of the United States came out for marriage equality.  People may argue that it doesn't matter, that it doesn't change the hearts and minds of bigots, that laws are still the same.  But I think it matters a lot.  The most powerful man in the world just acknowledged that gay men and women deserve the same rights as their straight counterparts.  He acknowledged that a civil union is not the same as marriage.

We've passed the tipping point.  Never again will we have a Democratic nominee for President against marriage equality.  The question is, how long will it be before the other party climbs out of its cave?

More Lightning

If April showers bring May flowers, what do May thunderstorms bring?

My boyfriend took both of these with a really long shutter; that's how he got multiple strikes in one frame.

Lightning Strikes...

I know life is getting back to normal for me when insignificant things like this bother me:

I preordered "Insurgent," the sequel to Veronica Roth's "Divergent," for my Nook.  "Insurgent" was released today.  But my mom has borrowed my Nook, and even though I've paid for the book, none of my software is letting me open up the book file on my computer.  Argh.

Electronic books are here to stay.  But Barnes and Noble will have to do a better job of giving us access to our books--and allow us to share and lend our books--if it wants to remain relevant.

Anyway, things are getting back to normal.  Work's good.  I bought a new camera (through this link so a portion of the sale went to my dad's foundation!)

Wildflowers in a nearby park

And taken this evening, during a nasty thunderstorm (well, not nasty--I love thunderstorms, the louder the better) I took this with a 5-second shutter speed.

Just Some Baby Geese...

Truth and Beauty and Regret

I just finished reading a lovely memoir by Ann Patchett, writer of acclaimed novels such as State of Wonder and bel canto.  In the memoir, Truth and Beauty, Patchett chronicles her own development as an author.  But the main focus of the book is her friendship with a fellow writer, Lucy Grealy (Grealy's own memoir, The Autobiography of a Face, won her visits to the Today Show, Charlie Rose, and even Oprah).  Patchett describes herself as a loyal friend to Lucy, a talented poet and writer who struggles with depression and undergoes countless painful surgeries to repair her face, disfigured from facial bone cancer and the subsequent radiation treatments and chemotherapies.

While both women went to Sarah Lawrence for undergrad, they didn't become close until they enrolled in the Iowa Writers' Workshop and roomed together:

We had invented time, and we could not kill it fast enough.  After dinner, dancing, and baths, we read, wrote our poems and stories, brushed our teeth, and tumbled into bed, only to find the next day was exactly the same.  We had not moved one inch forward in the night.  It was like prison, not in the punishment but in the vast sameness of the days.  We were impossibly rich in time, and we lavished the excess on one another.

Patchett describes herself as the ant, Lucy the grasshopper. Patchett was steady.  She wrote her pages, finished manuscripts, and got them published.   Lucy was a gifted writer, but she was also impulsive.  Sporadic.  She didn't meet deadlines or pay bills.  When Lucy was struggling to write a novel for which she had already received (and spent) her advance, Patchett even offered to write it for her.  Lucy constantly asked, "Will anyone ever love me?" even though she had an enviably large circle of friends.

When Lucy died at age thirty-nine, she was alone in an apartment.  It was ruled an accidental overdose, and Patchett shows how haunted she is by the death:

Most nights I dream of her.  I am in a strange city and I see her sitting in a cafe, drinking coffee and writing in a notebook.  She is frail beyond anything I could have imagined, barely able to pick up her cup with two hands, but she's happy to see me.  I run to her, kiss her, and she pulls herself up in my arms to sit in my lap and curl against me like a little bird.

But she dreams of her less and less and concludes,

Lucy, weighing about a hundred pounds, having survived thirty-eight operations, had become officially invincible.  She believed that the most basic rules of life did not apply to her, and over the course of our friendship, without me knowing when it had happened, I had come to believe it myself.  The sheer force of Lucy's life convinced me that she would live no matter what. 

That was my mistake.

Robin and Me, December 1994

This book, about a gifted woman whose demons prevented her from reaching her full potential, struck a personal cord.

My mom's sister passed away last Wednesday at age sixty-five.  I've written of Robin's encounters with the hospital in the past and of her nine lives.  Because her health problems and personal struggles have so dominated the last decade of her life, it's easy to forget what a vibrant, funny, and creative person she had been.  She made us homemade cards on our birthdays that, when you pulled a tab, dropped confetti all over.  Robin had a dog she named "Zac" because, she joked, he smelled "egg-ZAC-ly" like poop!  She was a constant and welcome presence when I was in the hospital following my accident.

I wish I had been more of a presence for her these last ten years; I no longer had the excuse of being a child.  I think of how regularly I visit my grandmother, how I've been a steady presence in her life, and wish I had been better for my aunt.  It may not have made a difference in my aunt's life, but it probably would have made one in my own.

When someone dies, we reflect on that person's life.  We think about its arc, its highs and lows.  But we should also reflect on our own lives.  I wonder, am I being the kind of person I want to be?   What are my values, and am I living up to them?  But for now I'll just allow myself to be sad--sad for my mom who lost her only sister, for my 96-year-old grandfather who lost his child, and for me and my brothers who lost our only aunt.