Ethel Rohan's Blog, page 15

Whee!

I’m having fun with Tumblr. Check out my new “Writerly One Wonders” series. Yes, A Series. Fancy.

Help

In the past few weeks I’ve had an unprecedented number of fellow writers reach out and ask me to help. In the two weeks alone since my last post “Nails” (wherein I admit I’m floundering (again!) and want to step back) nine, yes nine, fellow writers wrote me, asking. Requests have ranged from advice to interviews to book reviews to book blurbs. I responded to all with a wholehearted yes. I am always happy to help others and pay forward the many kindnesses I’ve received from other writers and editors along my own journey. I asked to be snagged by a nail, to be shown how to live meaningfully. Is this flurry of calls for help that nail? I have to believe so.

My dilemma though. How can I support other writers, and support them well, without engaging in social networking? I recently interviewed Nuala NiChonchuir at PANK. Nuala is best served if I tweet and facebook and blog about her interview. I did so, one tweet, one fb link, and now this one blog mention here. But I did so reluctantly. In the two weeks I’ve stayed off social networking I have been more productive and much happier. I like the peace and the quiet. As a writer, though, I definitely feel more isolated and ignorant of the various goings on. I also feel so much less supportive of my fellow writers and the community and I hate that.

I want to stay in touch and up-to-date and fully engaged with my fellow writers and the writing world. I want to continue to help and contribute as best I can. Thus I guess I’m going to have to get back on the social network bull and withstand the bucks. Hee-haw.

Nails

Today is my sixteenth wedding anniversary. For our wedding, my husband and I flew back to Ireland from our home here in San Francisco. We were married in Lacken, a tiny village in County Wicklow where my father was born and raised. When I was a girl, Dad would often drive our family of eight down from Dublin to visit Lacken. By that time, Dad’s family had scattered elsewhere and his childhood cottage home had fallen to ruins and was no longer owned by any of his blood. Our Lacken adventures largely skipped over the remaining stones of Dad’s former home and instead we enjoyed the stunning Blessington Lakes, the surrounding scenery, and the tiny (but to us children awe-inspiring) church, Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

In 1996, the year my husband and I married, Lacken church was no longer in regular use and we required special permission to marry there. (I can write a hell of a letter when needed.) I wanted to marry in Lacken Church because I’m sentimental, because it was the only church I’d ever felt any deep connection to, and because I wanted my father to know that I loved him.

I would like to pretend that it was my mother, or that I can even remember who advised me, but shortly before the wedding, someone suggested I pause at the start of the aisle and take a moment to soak in everything: my family, friends, and guests in the pews, the sunlight spilling through the stained glass windows, the sharp incense, burning wax, and sweet flowers, and my husband standing at the altar waiting for me, his head twitching to turn around.

As I walked into the church that sunny Friday afternoon, my arm linked to my father, I had every intention of stopping as advised at the start of the aisle and taking my moment and committing everything to memory. However, just as I reached the aisle, my long, long veil (there are streams shorter) caught on a nail and tugged my head backwards. As I walked the fog-locked beach this morning in San Francisco, far from that tiny Irish village, I realized that my veil getting caught on that nail is one of my most vivid memories from my wedding day.

So much lately I’ve been asking myself what are the moments that stand out for me. Where are the nails? It seems the nails could be clues to who I truly am and what really matters to me. Last week, I attended The Rumpus party for Cheryl Strayed and the release of Tiny Beautiful Things, a ‘best of’ from her brilliant Dear Sugar column. As Cheryl Strayed radiated from the stage, I knew I was in the presence of someone enlightened and light-giving, someone who really knows who she is and what she stands for and what work she was put here to do. Me, I’m still floundering. Me, I’m still too full of fear. Me, who is me?

The constants in my life have always been reading and writing. That I know. My body, my gut instincts, have always guided me well. That I also know. It’s also true that I’ve grown into the kind of woman who would remain at the ruins of her father’s childhood home much longer than I ever did in childhood, paying homage and realizing how hard it must have been for Dad to see the cottage fallen to rubble, like nails through him. “We didn’t have much,” he once told me, “but we had a happy home.”

I’m at a point in my life where I’m reading and writing more than I ever have before, and yet my gut instincts tell me something’s missing, something’s wrong. Keeping this blog once gave me so much joy, so did social networking (Hail, Twitter, Hiss, Facebook). I love keeping up with online friends and the lit community at large, it feels important, vital, and less lonely and isolating. However, more and more, I bring little if anything to these forums and I’m getting back much the same.

Another vivid moment from my wedding day is right before the ceremony, when my father and I stepped out of the wedding car and through the iron gates into the grounds of Lacken church: Dad looked at me, his head tilted upwards, mouth open and his eyes shining, a look of wonder and pride pouring out of his face, a look I’d never seen from him before or since. His look was a nail of an altogether different sort. It was the kind of joyous, proud, love-filled look I want to be able to give myself in the mirror.

I’m going to take some time out and try to get quiet and still and to listen and see. I’m going to pray for help. Please God, show me how to live a life of meaning. Then I’m going to wait to be snagged by a nail.

For Out of The Heart

 

My review of Jensen Beach’s debut story collection, For Out of the Heart Proceed, from Dark Sky Books is live at HTMLGiant.

Brave: How Princess Merida Might Have Saved Me

In response to my essay “Bodies in Bikinis: Are You Buying It?” at The Rumpus, the editors of Gadfly Online invited me to submit an op-ed piece. My thoughts on DisneyPixar’s BRAVE are now live here. My deep thanks to Matt Conover for his excellent editorial feedback on this one.

I’m finding it’s as true of opinion essays as it is of my fictional stories: I don’t know what I know or care about until I write it out.

Thank you for reading.

Always Focus on the Positives

Yes, Make Good Art, YES, Enjoy Ourselves Along The Way

I’m Getting a Gavel!

The Wind in my Hair and my Reading

I’m two weeks into a three week trip to Ireland and so far the highlights largely center on all things literary. I have limited access to the Internet while here so I will make this a quick post and write a longer round-up on my return to San Francisco on June 27th.

I did want to mention now what a thrill it was to attend the Dalkey Book Festival and to participate in a film project during the Festival on Bloomsday headed by Chris Binchy where I read an excerpt from the first chapter of Ulysses. Thanks so much, Chris, for including me in this wonderful project.

I hope you enjoy.

 

Josh and Roscoe

Yesterday evening, in downtown San Francisco, I met Josh, a homeless young man in his early twenties, and his handsome dog, Roscoe. I’d noticed Josh and Roscoe sitting out by the Muni station every evening for the past couple of weeks now, but only yesterday did I work up the nerve to go talk with them. Josh has a sign written in black ink on brown cardboard: “What would you do if you were hungry and homeless?” Before I tell you more about Josh and Roscoe, let me go back a little:

Yesterday evening, I also finished a two week office sublet at The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. The Grotto is a downtown office housing a community of writers and filmmakers and its membership, as my dear friend L. would say, reads like a “Who’s Dat” of the Bay Area literary glitterati. I return to the Grotto in July for a three week sublet and plan to sublet again in August. Eventually, I hope to rent or share an office there on a permanent basis, if they’ll have me.

I enjoyed my two week stint at the Grotto. I got some solid writing done and spent much less time surfing the internet and on social networking. It felt good to get up in the morning and have a destination to go to other than my writing dungeon here at home. I found I liked my ‘get ready to go out’ ministrations every morning versus my usual ‘sneakers, sweatpants, unbrushed hair, unwashed face, and who the hell is going to see me anyway’ look.

I noticed a shift in those around me too, in my husband, daughters, and friends. Despite the fact that I’ve worked solidly at writing every day at home for five years now, suddenly, in others’ eyes, because I was going out of the house each morning and returning home each evening, I was ‘at work.’ “How was work, Mom?” my daughters asked. My husband phoned, “Sorry to disturb you at work …” A friend, “Are you going to work today?” Amazing.

Strangely, I’m guilty of seeing my new routine more as ‘work’ too. This past week at my daughters’ school they needed volunteers for various graduation events. Normally, I’d sign up and devote hours, but this time around, because I was going downtown to the Grotto, I refused to volunteer and instead got some solid writing done. “Oh, you’re working now?” one of my fellow school parents said. Hello? I’ve also worked with my husband for the past thirteen years doing all the layout and interior design on the various properties he remodels. I’m no slacker. Yes, this shift to “Ethel’s working now” is going to be good for me and everyone around me.

The most rewarding and simultaneously challenging part of my stint at the Grotto was the sociability and daily communal lunch. I both loved and dreaded coming together with everyone. I often felt ridiculously shy and awkward and sometimes inadequate and inarticulate. I blushed, a lot! Who knew I still blushed? I stuttered and couldn’t think of words or remember names. Who knew I stuttered? Sheesh. Some days I felt tempted to remain inside my office at lunch time and hide. I didn’t. I attended the lunch every day and some lunches were great experiences and some less so. This is life. The important thing is I kept going back.

Thursday night, the night before my last day of this stint at the Grotto, I attended a Daughtry concert. I’ve been a fan of Chris Daughtry since, yes, American Idol. There were a crazy amount of bald men there, my own man included. Chris Daughtry’s passion and large heart really comes across in his work and his performances. Several times the backdrop to his songs included sobering footage of the sad state of our world and the terrible atrocities that occur every single day. His performance of “What About Now” and its accompanying video was especially sobering and moving.

Which brings me back to Josh and Roscoe. Thursday night, after the Daughtry concert, I lay in bed thinking about Josh and Roscoe and the line in white letters that came up on the large screen while Daughtry sang “What About Now?” The line read: “I am belief in your humanity.” I had noticed Josh and Roscoe every evening for two weeks mostly because Josh, like my two daughters, is a voracious reader. He reads these thick, hardback library books and one evening I’ll pass him and he’s just started the book and the next evening I pass him and he’s almost finished the read. My 13 year old won’t be happy to hear this, but it seems Josh is an even faster reader than she. I decided in bed on Thursday night that the next evening I would offer Josh a copy of Cut Through the Bone and of Hard to Say.

I thought of Josh often throughout yesterday, hoping he’d be in his usual spot and that I could speak with him and give him my books. Yesterday evening, when I rounded the corner of Second Street onto Market, Josh wasn’t there. An old man occupied Josh’s usual spot. I felt that sinking feeling and also relief. I’d become anxious throughout the day thinking about my planned encounter: What if Josh was mentally ill and dangerous? What if the dog was also aggressive? What if Josh pleaded with me to help him, to save him? What if it all got messy and ugly?

I spotted Josh and his dog further down Market Street, sitting at the other end of the Muni exit/entrance. I walked past Josh, four times!, trying to work up the courage to approach him. I didn’t fully understand my fear? My awkwardness? I was shaking, inside and out.

I finally approached Josh and Roscoe. “Hi, I noticed you like to read?”

Josh reached for his dog and held onto the animal’s neck. His eyes, wary, slid over my face. “Yeah.”

“I write short stories,” I said. “I was wondering if you’d like a copy of my books?”

Josh looked up from the dog and into my face, searching, the wariness still there. “That would be great, thanks.”

I took the books and a pen out of my bag. “What’s your name?”

“Josh.”

The dog moved next to my legs and barked and Josh tightened his hold on the dog’s leash. My adrenaline surged and my heart raced. I couldn’t stop shaking. I wrote, Dear Josh

“What’s your name?” Josh asked.

“Ethel.”

“Nice to meet you, Ethel. This is Roscoe. He’s about nine months, just a puppy. He’s a good boy. I’m still teaching him some, how to sit and lie down. He’s getting it. He’s good.”

I talked to Roscoe and he quieted and sat down.

I wrote inside both my books, mindful of Roscoe sniffing at my knees and hoping I’d find just the right words, something that would matter to Josh, that might help him. I was still shaking so hard my handwriting came out terrible.

I handed Josh the books. ”I hope you can read my handwriting, Josh. I hope it all works out. I’m rooting for you.”

Josh looked up from my books and for the first time smiled, not a grin, not joyful, but still a smile. A smile that seemed part sad and shy and surprised and thankful and maybe, maybe, just a little moved. “Thanks, Ethel.”

Of all my books I’ve sold and gifted and given away thus far, none of it mattered next to giving Josh those books yesterday.