Lacey Louwagie's Blog, page 2

My Most Significant Book Purge. So Far.

For my New Year’s resolution, I said I was going to cut the number of cookbooks I own in half. I have not accomplished that, but I have done myself one better. I cut my ACTUAL book collection in half. Approximately.

My Young Adult collection, BEFOREMy Young Adult collection, AFTER, with room to add graphic novels, poetry, and short storiesJust a few boxes of books bound for Elsewhere.

For a few years now, I’ve had a troubled relationship with my book collection. I have a problem of acquiring books much faster than I can read them, and my interests only seem to get broader with every passing year — without me necessarily losing interest in all the passions of years gone by. I love most of all the “treasure hunt” aspects of used book sales, where I never know what I’ll find and can fill a bag with abandon, knowing it will rarely cost me more than $20. But what that has ultimately cost me is a lot of shelf space.

My family is amazingly supportive of my book hoarding tendencies. My husband has never made a snide comment about the books stacked double on bookcases, or even suggested a downsize when I complain about general clutter in our house. My sons consider the bookcases at their level to be an open invitation to use my books to construct roads and bridges for their toy cars.

But I knew something was amiss when I moved into this house at the beginning of 2019. All my books were packed up in the garage. I felt an amazing sense of freedom. I could browse the library again! I would no longer be paralyzed with indecision when I only had a dozen books at my disposal (the ones I had acquired since moving into the house, primarily.) When my husband started bringing boxes of books into the house because he wanted more space in the garage, I got a sinking feeling.

In the time since then, I have come to realize that while I used to feel a sense of pleasure and anticipation when I beheld my book collection, with the onset of motherhood and its ensuing constraints on both my time and my space, the presence of all those unread books began to feel suffocating. And perhaps like a bit of a rebuke.

More than that, I felt like it stifled me from following the whims of my current interests. I have a reading list on my library’s website that ALSO includes hundreds of intriguing titles I have curated for myself, but I hardly ever delve into it because I feel this obligation to read the books I own and start clearing them off the shelves (I rarely keep a book after I have read it.)

The final push came when I read, It’s All Too Much: Living a Richer Life With Less Stuff by Peter Walsh. I have read other decluttering books, and each has helped me in its own way, but Walsh had a way of describing the emotional hold our stuff has on us that was what I needed to hear. As he says often in the book, I had gotten to a point where my book collection “owned” me rather than the other way around.

I have attempted to “Marie Kondo” my way through my book collection before by using a slightly altered “spark joy” rule. Rather than ask myself if a book sparks joy, I ask myself, “Do I want to drop everything and read this book right now?” If the answer is no, I part with it.

But this method had only ever led to the purging of a dozen or so books. I needed to go further. So this time, I compared my books against my local library’s collection. If my library had a copy, I got rid of my copy. I retagged the books in LibraryThing, the database I keep with my mom and sister of all the books we own. When I wanted to read them, I could check them out of my library. If the library lost or weeded its copy, I could get it through interlibrary loan, because its record in my book database would remind me of its existence. In the meantime, those books could take up space on the library’s shelves — not mine — while I waited to get around to them.

IT FELT SO GOOD. My new rule is that there shall be no double-stacking in my bookshelves from now on. I still have an OBSCENE amount of books. But because they fit into the space allotted to them in an appropriate manner, they can no longer make unreasonable demands of me, that I MUST read them before I can even think of checking out that shiny new book from the library. Now, there is an “equality” among my reading list that frees me up to read what I want to be reading in this moment. And what I want to be reading in THIS moment is …

Well, that’s a subject for another blog post.

Author Biography Book Review: Star Child by Ibi Zoboi

Star Child: A Biographical Constellation of Octavia Estelle Butler by Ibi Zoboi
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A very readable and compelling biography of Octavia Butler told in prose and poetry. Written for middle-grade readers, it focuses on the author’s childhood and the historical forces that shaped her writing. My one criticism would be that I wish Zoboi had spent at least a little time giving an overview of Butler’s work — I think the book is likely to be read by people who are already somewhat familiar with Butler, but because it is written for young people, it’s also possible to be a first introduction. And I would have appreciated the refresher on her body of work, too.

Loved the little “extras” like lists and letters written in Butler’s handwriting and photos. She was such a treasure.

View all my reviews

Writing is Not a Solitary Pursuit

Recently, a member of my writer’s group died.

It was unexpected, and the three of us who remain don’t know very much about it. He lived alone, and another member raised the alarm when he didn’t respond to the emails about an upcoming meeting in his usual timely fashion. What followed was a week of this member attempting to communicate with him through every available channel. Because we meet by Skype, all of us were hundreds of miles away. We couldn’t go to his house and check on him. We asked one of his local friends if he could follow up but didn’t hear back. Finally, the member doing the legwork on this contacted the police department in his city. When she had sufficiently proved her personal relationship with him, they told her he had “died of natural causes.”

That is all that we know, as well as a rough timeframe of his passing based on when he last emailed. Because of this, it’s been very difficult for me to process.

I’ve found in the past that it is often hardest to grieve those who we don’t see on a regular basis. I grieve deceased pets the moment I walk into my house and feel the space of their absence. Grieving humans that do not live with us is more complicated. Although I talked to him almost every month for the past seventeen years or so, there’s a part of me that won’t truly understand that he’s gone until that first meeting without him.

We have not held that meeting. We are in a sort of shock-grief-limbo. I assume all of us know we will eventually resume, but I think it still feels too painful.

A few nights ago, I finished a freelance project ahead of deadline after the kids were in bed. So as I was about to fall asleep, I planned my upcoming week in my head. I had babysitting scheduled for Friday morning, which I thought I would need to use for the freelance assignment. With that time freed up, I considered using my babysitting hours to continue work on my short story in progress.

Immediately, I felt an overwhelming resistance. Not the run-of-the-mill resistance all writers feel when we sit down in front of a blank page. The kind that results in one more cup of tea or one more tidying up of the desk before we can motivate ourselves to tackle the task at hand. This was an ache-in-my-gut, how-could-I-possibly-work-on-that-project, kind of feeling. And I knew that was a signal of where this grief process was going to play itself out. Not in the context of my day-to-day life, which has remained unaffected by my friend’s death. I still order groceries, load the dishwasher, take my kids outside, read during the baby’s nap, monitor my health, watch Netflix with my husband. Post-kids, I’ve had to squeeze writing time into nooks and crannies, and so, that’s where my grief has been stuffed as well. I know I still need to write and, what’s more, that my friend would WANT me, want all of us, to write. If anything, his death should remind us that the only time we have to pursue what’s important to us is right now.

But the way forward is still unclear to me.

Writing is often referred to as a “solitary pursuit,” but that is not exactly true. Yes, we are usually alone — need to be alone — in those moments when we are actually transmuting our thoughts into written language. But many of us write as a way of eventually forging connections, or find that forging connections along the way makes the journey more sane and infinitely more rewarding.

The bond between the members of a writer’s group is not one that would necessarily be easily understood by those outside it. Because of this, I am neither surprised nor offended that my friend’s next-of-kin did not think to notify us of his death. The members of the group are at different points in our life journeys; we do not share our day-to-day activities or concerns with one another. We have not chosen to be life partners and initially forged our relationship for “professional” and not personal reasons.

And yet.

There is a part of me, a deep and essential part of me, that these three — now only two — people know more intimately than anyone else in my life. To share your writing with another, especially in its formative stages, requires a great deal of vulnerability. And from that vulnerability comes a trust that rivals the trust I have in my husband, my best friend, or my mom. Because time and again, they have proved themselves worthy to be allowed into my inner landscape, the world of my mind that is shared only sporadically with those I share my “real life” with.

Losing one of the few people who I consistently trusted with that part of myself is no small thing. And grieving it is no small task, especially when it is tied up so closely with the very thing I have turned to throughout my life to process everything else. But it’s the only way forward.

Like with any death, I have regrets. Regrets about not getting around to answering emails or not staying on a call just a little bit longer. Regrets about not telling him how much certain comments or conversations have stayed with me through the years and how valuable his feedback was. But our writing group has developed a habit of saying thanks at the exchange of each submission. The reviewer often says thanks to the writer, as in, “Thank you for trusting me with this.” And the writer always says thanks to the reviewers for giving significant time and thought to their piece.

I am so grateful to this practice — which I did not start — for covering what most needed to be said before this relationship ended.

Thanks.

It’s the Yearly Blog Post!

So, have I mentioned that I don’t do nearly as much writing as I used to or want to? I had babies, a pandemic happened, I’m the kids’ “primary caregiver” (read: I’m a SAHM who doesn’t get a lunch break), blah blah blah. But you know, I was here in March, and I’m here again on the last night of the year with, what else, resolutions!!

My Writing Resolutions Are …

To finish the short story I started when I was eight months pregnant with my son who is now sixteen months old. And to submit the (other) short story I wrote right before pregnancy with said son commenced. That is all, because that is a lot.

My Domestic Resolutions Are …

To make more snacks from scratch, because my four-year-old eats too much processed junk. Even the not-very-junky stuff we keep on hand as snacks (granola bars, jerky, etc.) is pretty junky. It’s just very hard to find shelf-stable snacks that are truly healthy and not just “less junky.”

And to weed my cookbook collection down by half. Honestly, I can think of 3-6 cookbooks that I absolutely would NEVER part with, each with plenty of untried recipes. So why don’t I just pare down to those? Major food FOMO. I need to get over it.

I don’t know why I think I would possibly succeed at this weeding process this year when I’ve failed miserably at it so many times in the past, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have to put “failed to weed cookbooks by end of 2022” on my resume, so there’s not much to lose by just throwing it out there.

My Reading Focus Will Be …

Reading books my kids pick out for me. Seriously. They’re still too little and around way too much for me to tackle some of the more ambitious reading projects I have in mind, which involve a fair amount of planning, writing, and reflecting, but I have to keep reading as it’s the thing that makes me feel most connected to my core identity. But don’t worry, it won’t be all picture books. They will be required to select books from MY bookshelves each time I need a new read.

I suspect this will mean I will be reading a lot of sci-fi and fantasy in 2022, as those are the shelves they can reach most readily. (And the shelves they use to pull down books for roads, bridges, and other essential construction projects because apparently blocks aren’t a thing?) I’m kind of okay with that. Going into year three of a pandemic with little kids (one of whom was a freakin’ embryo when this whole thing started), I don’t think I’ll mind the escapism.

I like the sense of “surprise” this will bring me, and also that it takes one more decision off my plate (albeit a very fun one). Aaaaand I’m going to go a little Marie Kondo on this project.

Book people know how excruciating applying her “spark joy” process can be to weeding their book collection. “But they ALLLLLL spark joy,” we whine. When I organize my books, I tweak the question a bit. “If holding this book doesn’t make me want to drop everything and read it RIGHT NOW, I should get rid of it.”

A ridiculous number of books pass this test in my home.

But this project will test this idea in “real time.” If it’s time to read a new book and one of my sons brings me one that I’m not interested in reading at that moment, I’m going to chuck it.

Just writing that gives me a little jolt of anxiety. Which probably just confirms that it’s an excellent idea.

To all twelve of you reading, I hope your 2021 was better than your 2020 and that your 2022 will be better still. I am “cautiously optimistic” that 2022 will continue to bring more freedom, both as the grip of the pandemic loosens (at least one of my kids will be eligible for vaccination before the end of the year), and as my kids get older and more independent. For me, 2021 was not entirely better than 2020, but the postpartum haze started to lift somewhere around June, and I can say definitively that I’m in a better place now than I was a year ago. And that’s enough for me.

Happy New Year, everyone.

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Year of Expanded Reading Wrap-Up … Sort Of

So, 2020 was supposed to be my “Year of Expanded Reading,” a year to focus on reading non-white and/or non-American authors. I came across the challenge to do this year-long project when my first son was under a year old. I remember thinking, “My life feels too chaotic to undertake a yearlong project right now, but maybe when he’s about three or so.”

In keeping with that rather vague goal, I felt ready to start this project last January, when my son was two and half and motherhood no longer felt like it was occupying an inordinate amount of my headspace. But on January 11, I found out I was pregnant again. I spent the next three months sleeping whenever my son was asleep (and sometimes when he wasn’t) and puking when he was awake. There went all my reading time.

My Year of Expanded Reading bookshelf, minus the books I actually managed to read this year.

When I started to emerge from my first-trimester haze and consider rejoining “normal life,” normal life disappeared to a global pandemic. I lost a lot of the parental support system I had begun to cultivate, falling victim to social distancing. I continued to utilize a couple trusted babysitters so I could keep up with my freelance commitments, but utilizing them so I could do more reading or writing felt indulgent. My son dropped his nap in June, and the obligatory pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum books encroached upon the reading time that I still managed to find. And then my second son was born at the end of August, and well, Juno totally called it: babies are a time-suck.

My epic shortfall on my Goodreads reading goal (46 out of 75 books) reflects that I missed almost as many books as I managed to read, and not all of them were Expanded Reading books.

I’m not beating myself up over it — I think last year looked differently from ALL our expectations in the oh-so-innocent January 2020 — but I do feel a little disappointed that I wasn’t able to devote nearly the amount of time or thought to this project that I wanted to. But even if I had been able to fully invest myself in it, one thing is clear: one year would not have been enough. I could have spent a whole year on any one subset of expanded reading (African American writers, European writers, Latinx writers, etc.) and still only absorbed a small fraction of the diversity these minds have to offer.

One of the things I noticed early on was that I wasn’t really loving a lot of the books I was reading. Mostly three-star reviews — average — which I give out pretty regularly anyway. But this felt a little different. It made me realize that so much of what we consider an “amazing” book often has to do with how well we RELATE to that book, how articulately another human being has captured OUR experiences. That’s what makes a book resonate, and it’s a very limited way of seeing what constitutes an amazing read.

As a teen services librarian, I remember coming across the idea that books could serve as “mirrors” or “windows.” A “mirror” reflects back your own experience, which is validating. A “window” gives you a glimpse into someone else’s reality. Both are iimportant, of course, but I wonder if the majority of us give preferential treatment to “mirror” reading. I know that I do. We all seek to be understood and seen, and the intimacy of a book can often do that even better than another human. But maybe if we spent more time with “window” reading, we could develop not only more compassion for ourselves and our experiences, but for the experiences of others. And sometimes, we might even be surprised by the overlap — finding a “mirror” in what we thought was a “window.” (Windows are also reflective, after all.) Books should serve both to remind us of how we are different and of how we are the same.

Another thing I noticed is that almost every book written by a person of color made reference to that identity throughout the narrative, even if it wasn’t central to the plot. It was a reminder of how much we still see whiteness as the “default,” something that doesn’t need to be remarked upon in any way, whereas the dominant culture does not allow those who live as minorities to have the luxury of just ignoring that facet of their identities. (For clarification’s sake, I feel it’s necessary to mention that a minority group is one that does not hold most of the power in a culture, NOT the one that has fewer numbers. As the demographics of the U.S. change, people of color will easily outnumber those of European descent, but this doesn’t make white people a “minority” until people of color hold most of the power.) When I read books written by non-American, white authors, race or ethnicity was also similarly ignored.

Aside from those observations, there is no sweeping pronouncement I can make about the books I read this year or the experiences of those who wrote them, which is exactly as it should be. Below is a list of everything I read that fits the reading project’s definition, with links to my reviews and a couple thoughts on anything that felt particularly salient.

My Year of Expanded Reading: The Books

(I realize that it is incredibly reductionist to refer to each writer by their race, nationality, or ethnicity alone. I do so here only to show how they fit my definition of “expanded reading,” the goal of reading books by non-white and/or non-American writers.)

The Sun is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon (Jamaican-American writer)Stay With Me by Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀ (Nigerian writer) – This may be the book that sticks with me the most from this year. It was way outside my cultural frame of reference but portrayed a character going through experiences I have also been through — infertility, followed by eventual pregnancy and multiple children. Listening to it while I was pregnant was a somewhat harrowing experience, if I’m going to be honest. The Path To Love: Renewing the Power of Spirit in Your Life by Deepak Chopra (Indian-American writer) – This was the first book I started on this project, before I knew I was pregnant, and it took me MONTHS to finally finish it once the symptoms of early pregnancy took hold. One of the exercises in particular helped me make peace with the big transition looming in my life, and I will probably find myself returning to the insights from that exercise throughout my whole life. I feel like it showed me the first thing I really “knew” about Vincent, back when the only thing I knew was that he was coming (and not even that he was a he.)The Story Hour by Thrity Umrigar (Indian-American writer)Silver Meadows Summer by Emma Otheguy (Latinx American writer of Cuban and Puerto Rican descent)The Inner Voice of Love by Henri Nouwen (Dutch writer)The Testaments by Margaret Atwood (Canadian writer) – I felt like this one met the “letter” of the challenge but not the “spirit” of it. Writing from a white woman of Canadian descent is not that far removed from my usual fare of white writers of American descent. But I really wanted to read this one while it was still somewhat fresh so I could discuss with my husband. Pilgrimage to Dzhvari by Valeria Alfeyeva (Russian writer) – I wish this book would have talked more about how growing up in Communist Russia had impacted Valeria’s search for spirituality, but instead it felt a little bit like it happened in a vacuum or that certain things were just assumed to be within the reader’s frame of reference. Maybe they were for those who read it in the original Russian. Possibly my fault for being out of the loop, not the book’s.Monday’s Not Coming by Tiffany Jackson (African-American writer) – One of those books that led me down a rabbit hole of learning everything I could about the events and themes that inspired the book. This one will stick with me. Strange Birds: A Field Guide to Ruffling Feathers by Celia Perez (Latinx-American writer of Mexican and Cuban descent)Amal Unbound by Aisha Saeed (Pakistani-American writer)The First Rule of Punk by Celia Perez (Latinx-American writer of Mexican and Cuban descent)Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz (Latinx-American writer of Mexican descent) – This was a re-read that I picked up again because my book club was reading it this year. The Sisters Matsumoto by Philip Kan Gotanda (Japanese-American writer)Mr. Fox by Helen Oyeyemi (African-American writer) – Probably my favorite book I read for this project. I loved this book even though I didn’t really understand it.Ways to Make Sunshine by Renee Watson (African-American writer) Some Places More Than Others by Renee Watson (African-American writer) – I tried not to read the same author twice for this project, but I did for Renee Watson and Celia Perez because I interviewed them both for New Moon Girls. (Also, Emma Otheguy). Slant by Laura E. Williams (Korean-American writer) – I will forever remember this as the book I read when I spent the night in the hospital monitoring my baby after a fall. Exactly one week later, I was in the hospital again giving birth to him.Sophie Someone by Hayley Long (British writer) – The first book I read after my son’s birth. Sister Mine by Nalo Hopkinson (Jamaican-Canadian writer)The First Forty Days by Heng Ou (Chinese-American writer) – What a treat to have an obligatory pregnancy/postpartum book overlap with my Year of Expanded Reading!Falling Into Place by Amy Zhang (Chinese-American writer … who also happened to be 15 when she wrote this book) – This was a rare book written by a PoC in which all the characters were white. Amy Zhang addresses that a bit in this interview. The Flatshare by Beth O’Leary (British writer)Beartown by Fredrik Backman (Swedish writer)Becoming by Michelle Obama (African-American writer)The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers (German writer) – DEFINITELY my least favorite book of the year.

When I first looked back on my year, I was disappointed that I only managed to read 26 books that fit my definition of “expanded” reading — overall, a little over half of all the books I read for the year (46). Most of the books I read that didn’t fit my challenge were either pregnancy/postpartum/parenting books, book club books, or books I read for work. Anytime I was at liberty to choose my own books, I tried to read something that fit my challenge. And I guess managing to read one challenge book every two weeks despite everything else that happened in 2020 isn’t all that bad.

So, What’s Next?

Even though my Year of Expanded Reading is done now, I find myself more often drawn to and choosing books by authors outside of my established reading patterns. I read a handful of books early in the new year that didn’t make the cut-off date but fit my Expanded Reading definition.

I won’t be doing a focused challenge this year. But I am going to try to prioritize the various parenting books I have accumulated, mostly because I don’t want to be cleaning off my bookshelves 20 years from now when my boys are grown regretting not having read more that could have helped me and them during this time. And parenting two young children is an incredibly isolating experience even without a pandemic and social distancing in the mix. I found with my firstborn that reading books about and by parents was one of the best ways to feel connected to other parents in a season of life that I find to often be characterized by the kind of intense loneliness I have very little experience with as an introvert.

Writers of the Future Honorable Mention

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I found out a couple weeks ago that a short story I entered into the Writers of the Future contest received an honorable mention. According to the judges, that means it held their interest enough to read the entire thing — which is a compliment, considering that the story was about 25 pages long (my short stories tend to be on the long side of short …).

At first I wondered if the honorable mention was basically a participation award, but I did some research and found that it’s only awarded to 5-15 percent of participants. So I feel pretty good about that, especially since this was my first time entering. (As an aside, a couple of members of my writers group have also made it to the honorable mention or finalist stages of this contest, which means we must be an elite group of ALMOST THERE writers. ;))

This particular story holds special significance to me because it was my first new work after the birth of my son; I started writing it a few months before his second birthday and finished it about six months later. It’s something I never could have written in the same way without becoming a mother.

For me, one of the scariest things about motherhood is and was its impact on my writing. A combination of mental adjustment, lack of support, and a son who was an epically bad sleeper all combined to throw me WAY off my writing game for almost two years. When I did start writing again, I started to feel whole once more.

Then, just as I began getting excited about this new equilibrium and possibility for making space for my writing, I found out I was pregnant again.

I have continued to write through this pregnancy, but most of my focus has not been on producing new work but on finding ways to continue writing after the second baby comes. This mostly consists of submitting my work and applying for grants to pay for more childcare so I can keep writing. (It’s hard to justify paying a babysitter for work that doesn’t generate immediate income, although I’m getting more okay with it as an investment in my mental health and career. The problem is that I always give paid work priority, and there always seems to be something more I COULD be doing on that front.)

But this time around, I really, really don’t want to wait almost two years to get back on my writing game.

Especially since this pregnancy has proved to be crazy fertile ground for new story ideas. I haven’t felt this creative in years. Once a week I wake up with an idea that I feel I MUST WORK ON RIGHT AWAY. This is a far cry from the inspirational silence I experienced during the first year or so of my son’s life, and I hope it doesn’t immediately dry up in the postpartum period.

I’m less than six weeks from my due date, with freelance obligations to complete and a slew of “new baby” planning to do, not to mention the submissions I still hope to make. I don’t think starting new writing projects is in the cards for me right now. Jotting down the ideas and opening scenes will have to do, in hopes that somehow I’ll find a way to return without too long an absence.

I have better support this time around — relationships with a couple trusted babysitters, a mom who is now retired, preschool (hopefully) on the horizon for my older son. And a brain that has been changed physically by motherhood with new avenues of creativity still untapped and waiting to be discovered.

Hopefully the wait won’t be too unbearably long.

Trouble Processing and My Year of Expanded Reading

I have been having a lot of trouble processing my life lately. And the world.

In January, I found out I am pregnant again. It came as a surprise, which meant I immediately girded myself to get used to a whole lifetime that looked a little different from what I imagined. That was OK — I was sure nine months and the pregnancy hormones would be enough for me to really wrap my head around this new vision for my life.

Except I had no idea at the time all the other things life would throw my way that I would have to try to wrap my head around in that same span of time. All while raising a toddler. In quarantine.

In May, my beloved 16-year-old cat died, my family had a close encounter with Covid-19 (we all tested negative), my son started dropping his naps (a trauma you probably only understand if you’re the exhausted parent of a young child), and other stuff that is too personal to write about here.

And on May 25, police in my home state senselessly murdered a Black man — the most recent entry in a long history of our country’s betrayal of the BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) population. Justified unrest erupted — and while some unscrupulous people took advantage of the situation, many others used it as an excuse to push their own racist views and agendas.

And all of this took place against the constant, low-level trauma that is the Covid-19 pandemic, a steady erosion of life as we knew it with no clear end in sight.

Many of my thoughtful (white) friends shared sentiments about privilege and solidarity, sadness and anger, on Facebook and in other forums. I reposted the words of those who articulated better than I could. I felt like I SHOULD say something, should somehow prove that I cared, should be clear about what side I came down on. But I remained silent.

If silence is complicity, then I was complicit. But that was not the reason for my silence. As a privileged white woman, I felt like anything I said would be trite and out of touch. That as a white woman, maybe I had already said plenty in my lifetime. Maybe it was time to just shut up and listen.

Especially since I was having so, so much trouble processing it. I still am. During my first pregnancy, Trump was elected president, and I had a similar difficulty accessing my rage and despair in the midst of nationwide protests and the steady rollout of the injustices of his agenda. I think a part of my brain shuts down a bit during pregnancy as a protective mechanism against overwhelming anxiety and despair and the flood of hormones that would tell my growing baby that this world he is coming into is not a safe place to be.

I am aware that it is my privilege that allows such a mechanism to take hold. Pregnant or not, if I were Black I would not be able to automatically “protect” myself in this way. The reality would intrude much the way it intrudes into the pregnancies and consciousnesses of all the women who have had to gestate and deliver in war-torn countries. Because if you are a person of color, this country IS a war-torn one.

A couple weeks ago, I broke down crying in the bathroom before bed, feeling like it was just too much and that I wasn’t giving ANY of it its emotional due. Not the racial injustice. Not the baby growing inside me. Not the years of love and loyalty from my cat. My mind alternated between frantic, unproductive spinning and a sort of closed-off silence.

In the middle of the night, I woke up thinking about my Year of Expanded Reading project.

The project is simple: a year of focusing on reading books by non-White and/or non-American authors. I started it because I wanted to challenge my underlying assumptions that the experiences and storytelling style of people like me — white Americans, which is primarily what I read — were somehow humanity’s “default.” I wanted to develop a stronger subconscious awareness of experiences and storytelling outside my own “bubble” that would perhaps help me not default to Eurocentric, privileged worldviews in my own writing.

With George Floyd’s death, the project has taken on a new meaning, a new urgency.

As I lay awake in the middle of the night, I realized that taking the stories of others deep into our psyches is a powerful way to combat seeing those who are different from us as somehow being less than us. Most police are less likely to treat white citizens cruelly because they see IN those white citizens their own family and friends, their own stories (the exception being extremely poor or mentally ill white people, who are still abused with alarming regularity according to the court documents I used to read every day for a living.)

Would those police have been more likely to listen to George Floyd’s pleas of distress if they had spent a year or more immersed in the stories of Black people, either through reading, other media, or, best of all, ACTUAL LISTENING? I think they would have. I think they would have much more quickly seen the humanity of the man in their custody, and the inhumanity in their treatment of him.

A few of my friends who are librarians have reported long hold lists on books that speak to the experiences of people of color. Many libraries are making these books available to download without a library card. Reading about those whose experiences are different from your own is a very privileged, safe way to start unraveling your own internal biases and assumptions. And it will take far longer than a year for those of us steeped in white culture and white privilege to truly internalize these experiences and perspectives. But it’s a start.

All of our bookshelves — in bookstores, libraries, my house — are full of the voices of white “experts.” I think most of us have been talking long enough. Perhaps we should make a commitment to finally shut up and listen.

Notes From My Isolation

(At the end of this post, I have some suggestions for creativity and self development during isolation. If you are not interested in my own experiences/reflections, please feel free to skip straight there.)

[image error]Teddy bears in the window for neighborhood kids #goingonabearhunt

Like many of you, I am self-isolating. As a freelancer and stay-at-home mom, my work life has not shifted dramatically, and the major adjustment I’ve had to make is not being able to take my son to storytimes, playgroups, and other kid-friendly activities to stimulate him (read: tire him out) and give me the opportunity to get out of the house and see, sometimes even talk to, other adults.

My husband’s job is also secure, as he supplies a product for an essential industry (agriculture) and is able to work from home. So all three of us are holed up together on this, day 17. (For me, the break between when social distancing started and when normal life ended was not as cut-and-dry as for others. I never got sent home from work. Instead, I mark it from the week literally every activity I took my son to got cancelled.)

I have read — and agree — that writing during this time is important, although similar to when I am not in isolation, finding time and space to do so proves to be difficult. All the same challenges of trying to parent a toddler and find space for writing that existed in my “normal” life are just as overwhelming in isolation. Perhaps moreso, since my son sleeps fewer hours now, often leaving me to catch up on my sleep during his naps and robbing me of the one chance I used to take for jotting a few words down during the day. I have heard from other writers who feel guilty about having all the time in the world to write, but not feeling motivated to do so.

[image error]When isolation first started, we bought a bunch of used games to help keep my son busy. It’s been a good investment!

I like to believe that if circumstances were different, I would be productive during this time. But that might not be true. I know that in times of stress or transition in the past, I have had trouble working on writing projects and instead have tended to just journal a lot until I had cleared enough brain space to return to fiction.

I have tried not to dwell too much on all the things I COULD be accomplishing right now if the pandemic had hit at a different point in my life — namely, before I had kids. I have tried not to spend too much time imagining how my life right now would be “easier” if my son were older and more self-sufficient. The truth is, we all face our own unique challenges during this time. Those who live alone with the most freedom in their isolation also face the most crippling loneliness. Those with older children are often trying to juggle working from home with homeschooling, an untenable situation as both are full-time jobs. And then there are those who have young kids like mine at home, kids who are not self-sufficient, who are ALSO trying to work from home, which is a situation I can’t even imagine trying to attempt. I know from experience that even if you are working from home, you NEED childcare. The only reason I am able to write this at all is because my husband and I have agreed to take turns with my son in the mornings before he starts work, and today he’s on childcare duty. (Even with that, it’s taken me three days to complete this post.)

[image error]The kinetic sand my son received for Christmas from an aunt is proving useful now.

If this had struck while I was single, my anxiety would have been astronomical. Now, I have the calming influence of my husband’s presence as well as a million day-to-day concerns (what are we going to eat? how will I keep my son occupied today? how can I get caught up on the laundry? what should I prioritize workwise the next time the babysitter comes?) that keep any “bigger picture” anxiety at bay (is this the end of the world?!?). The “ideal time” seems to be after my marriage but before I became a mom, so I would have companionship but also more discretionary time. But if that were the case, I would have been working full-time and all this discretionary time I keep imagining probably would not have been in as much abundance as I think. So, there’s no changing any of it; I am where I am, luckier than most, and trying to practice daily gratitude in the midst of such uncertainty.

I have heard other readers talk about which books come to mind for them during this time. Many of us have not lived through the Great Depression, major world wars, or other events that have dramatically and abruptly changed our day-to-day lives. So we think about the way we have experienced these things vicariously through the books we’ve read. The two books that keep coming to mind for me are the Life as We Knew It series by Susan Beth Pfeffer, and Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. In both instances, the change occurs for very different reasons. In the former, an asteroid hits the moon, disrupting weather and other climatic patterns; I don’t think I need to tell you the disruption Anne’s family experienced. But both are written as detailed journals from isolation, with the young protagonists and their families trying their best to establish a sense of normalcy and optimism in isolating, dire circumstances.

I feel a kinship with these girls right now; and they also remind me both how lucky we still are and how bad things can get. Be grateful, but also be smart and be prepared. But never at the expense of kindness.

If you haven’t read these books, I’ll leave it to you to decide whether they would be cathartic or just a little “too real” during these times. No judgment if you’re opting for escapist literature instead! (I’m personally just working through my Year of Expanded Reading as I would have in the absence of a pandemic.)

I want to reiterate that whatever you are doing to cope during this time of uncertainty, even if it is not “productive” is FINE. Binge-reading, binge-watching, binge-podcasting, sleeping till noon, video-chatting for hours, baking too many cookies. These are unusual times and perhaps what our brains need most is a break. If you are in a position to give it that, don’t feel guilty.

But if you ARE looking for ways to engage that are not as passive as reading or watching, here are some of the things I can suggest (also known as, the list of things I fantasize about doing with my time.)

Suggested Isolation Activities for Writers



Write. Obviously. If producing new work feels daunting, keep a journal or blog; revise something you’ve worked on in the past; or work through writing exercises you can find online or in writing books.Binge-listen to Writing Excuses. This is an excellent podcast that has only become more self-aware with the number of years it has been in existence. It is geared toward speculative fiction writers who are past the “beginner” stage in their craft. Each episode ends with a writing prompt or “homework” if you are looking for something to get your writing juices flowing during this time. Take Brandon Sanderson’s writing masterclass. This started when a grad student asked if he could record Sanderson’s writing class and post it online. Sanderson was cool with it and it became a significant part of his web presence. While the original lectures are still available, Sanderson is also re-releasing the lectures with higher production values. The link above will take you to both the original lectures and the new releases. Explore a Great Courses class. I have been salivating over these courses on my Roku app ever since we first added the channel when my son was born. I never paid for them because I knew I wouldn’t find time to take full advantage with a baby, and then a toddler, in the house. But currently, they are offering a month free. Now’s the time!Or, check out the excellent university-level classes ALWAYS offered for free on Coursera. Before I became a mom, I was obsessed with Coursera. The classes offered are diverse and amazing. I’ve taken one on birth control, one on philosophy, and one on spirituality. They vary in how rigorous they are and because you are basically “auditing” the class, you can put as much or as little into them as you want. Perfect for a period of upheaval and uncertainty when motivation levels may vary.

Let me know what other enrichment opportunities you may have discovered during social distancing. I know this list barely scratches the surface.

Author Interview: Sofiya Pasternack

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I’ve been using my writing time lately to meet some grant and contest deadlines, so I got behind on posting this interview I did for New Moon Girls with Sofiya Pasternack, author of Anya and the Dragon.

One thing I love about doing these interviews is that they always contain great nuggets of writing wisdom. My favorite bit of Sofiya’s interview came when one of New Moon Girls’ members asked her how she kept herself motivated to write. Her response was not what I expected, which I loved.

“Motivation is kind of a dirty word in our house. Motivation won’t really get you places because you can run out of motivation. So around here, the word is ‘discipline.’ … I mean, I’m not motivated to get out of bed in the morning, especially when it’s cold and snowing outside and my bedroom is cold and I don’t want to get up because I’m warm and comfy … but my discipline kicks in, and it says, ‘Get up,’ and it takes the blankets off and it pushes me out of bed. Discipline requires practice, and you really hold yourself accountable.”

Here’s hoping you are finding the motivation and/or discipline you need to keep writing in these strange times.

Young Writers Conference: Retold Fairy Tales

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This week I gave three presentations on retold fairy tales to elementary and middle-school students at the Conference for Young Writers at SMSU in Marshall, Minnesota. I have very fond memories of this conference, so it’s fun to be able to “give back.” It was the CYW I attended when I was 13 that impressed upon me the importance of writing something every day. (There have been times when I fall short of that, especially now that I’m a mom, but I still try to keep writing part of my regular routine, even if it’s just a journal entry or book review.)

The highlights for me were two middle school girls who tried to “out-fairy-tale” each other in their knowledge of the originals when answering my questions, one of which told me she writes lots of retellings from the villains’ perspectives that are “really dark.” And an elementary-aged boy who was totally thrilled with the table full of retellings I set out for kids to look at if they finished writing early. I even heard him gushing to his parents about my stash after the conference.