A.C. Gaughen's Blog, page 12

Quicksand

I've never written anything about 9/11.  I've never thought I really had anything to say about it; not like Meg Cabot's absolutely wrenching tale of first hand experiences that day.  I experienced it, yes, and I vividly remember every detail of that day, but I never thought what I had to say was significant. 

Lately it just feels very relevant to my life.  So I'm going to talk about it here. 

I was on my way to Bioethics class in my senior year at a Catholic high school.  Uniformed, tired, shuffling my way to class in the basement.  A girl named Amanda breezed past me in the hall--literally breezed, there wasn't a lot of air flow down there and kind of like on a subway, the act of moving displaced enough air to make it feel like wind--and said "Did you hear?  Someone ran into the World Trade Center". 

I wrinkled my nose, confused.  "With a car?"  I was picturing the mostly stone building of the Boston World Trade Center and thinking that wouldn't matter enough for her to pass it on in the hall. 

Our bioethics class got relocated to the library to watch the news coverage, and that when we found out everything. 

The Twin Towers.

Two planes.

Terrorists. 

The Pentagon.

Flights to and from Boston (there were actually no flights to Boston, but two flights departing from Boston were used in the attacks; this wasn't clear at the time). 

And then my heart stopped, because it suddenly became more than a bad dream:  my dad was on a plane from DC to Boston. Like the one that might have crashed into the Pentagon.

And on a day when bad dreams became reality, it seemed likely that there was no good luck left, and my dad had been on the plane. 

I tried to stay calm; I tried not to think about it, and the teachers did a good job of keeping us busy.  Really, we did not know how bad it was.  It wasn't until after school that I would see footage of the buildings collapsing, of bodies jumping out, of the photo-shopped devil in the cloud of smoke around the towers.  I just kept thinking to myself, 9/11.  911.  9/11.  911. 

And then I was heading to lunch, and I turned into the long hallway at my school, and I saw my mom, her face devastated, holding her purse, at the end of the hallway. 

He's dead. 

I couldn't get within ten feet of her; I just stopped, and by that time the hallway had cleared out.  "It's dad?" I asked, because sometimes there are things you can't say, and sometimes there are things you have to say. 

My mum ran forward and hugged me and said, "No, no, he's fine, his plane is later. I couldn't get through on your cell phone and I just needed to check if you were ok."

My dad's flight was grounded, and he ended up renting a car and driving back from DC--driving past the barrier around the smoking Pentagon--and maybe it's for this reason that I've always felt like somehow, by the grace of God, I got one of those tiny threads of luck on that awful day. 

But I remember, so vividly, coming home and sitting on the couch with my mom and my dog and curling my fingers in her fur as we watched the news because it was something solid to hold. 

As a person entering adulthood, 9/11's impact in my life wasn't immediate.  It wasn't something I felt for a long time, and I feel like it's now that I can look back and better understand.  It took the security away.  It took the floor out from underneath me in a global way, because it made me wonder if America would cease to be the country I knew; if all of things we read about in other countries and cultures would happen here (like a total destabilization of government and economy); if America wasn't safe anymore. 

I wasn't sure of anything.  How many were dead; if it would happen again; what it meant to my life. 

Things normalized.  We, as a country, found a way to continue on, and that felt inspirational.  But I understood that things could never be sure again, never be simple. 

It had happened to me about six years before that--my parents divorced, and in the most emotional, personal and quiet way, the floor had fallen out from underneath me.  Everything I knew that had been protective and anchoring was gone, was called into question.  Then, a few years later, 9/11 happened and it felt like the outside world destabilized as well. 

There was a natural loss of faith in the world around me, a natural loss of my personal sense of faith in God.  As I graduated, that felt like a typical progression; leaving Catholic school behind to go to college, and intellectually shaking my fist at God.  But I think it was a lot deeper than that--the only thing I could trust anymore was myself and whatever was going on within my head. 

I felt the same way when the economy nosedived as I graduated from college and I couldn't get a job.  Like all these things I'd always known--real estate is the best investment because it always appreciates, going to college means you'll make more money and get a better job, college graduates are SUCCESSFUL--weren't true anymore.

Looking back, I feel like a lot of the past 15 years of my life have been spent bracing myself over quicksand, frozen and crying and straddling the pit, trying not to fall in, trying not to get sucked in.  And never really succeeding.  All I've ever wanted was to make something stable for myself, something I could rely on--someONE I could rely on, too. 

But I think that's naive.  Because in a lot of ways, I have just been waiting, and it's no one's job but my own to create something stable.  While divorce sucked, and 9/11 was arguably the greatest tragedy our nation has known, and the economy crashing was something that ruined the lives of a lot of people, clearly these things happen.  Terrorist attacks.  Natural disasters.  Layoffs.  People deciding they don't love you anymore.  And one way or another, finding out the person you become is determined by how you weather these storms. 

The floor will fall out beneath you up to a hundred times a day.  What you don't see coming will wreck your world, and instead of clinging to the wreckage, instead of bracing above the quicksand, I think the only solution is to, when the floor disappears, figure out a way to fly. 

 

 

Going a Little Cray Cray

What can women and girls in your city, community or school do to IGNITE Change? 

A bonfire starts with a tiny little spark; change can be as simple as something you're already doing, like joining a book group or a community service project.  It can be something you see women around you doing, or it can be a totally new idea. 

As you answer, think about not only the action that you can take, but also be sure to include how this change will impact your community, why it is important, and how you can make it happen.

Where's My Dark Room?

I have been running around like a chicken with my head cut off for the past few days.  Not a lie!  There has been laundry, postcards, first pass pages, stamping, several trips to the post office, handwritten notes, trips to the library, workshop writing and general organizing.  My hands are sore; no creative writing has been done.

And suddenly, when I stopped for a second to think about it, I have the panic inducing sensation that I am in so far over my head. 

Like so far. 

Within the next year, if I have my way, there will be workshops.  And presentations.  And school visits.  And interviews.  And appearances.  And signings.  And maybe some of those will overlap because frankly, I don't have the mojo to plan all of that successfully. 

What the hell was I thinking?  I didn't want to become an English teacher because I never thought I had anything to say to the world.  To students.  And now I've unwittingly become someone who is supposed to talk to students.  Someone with something to say. 

What am I going to say?  What am I going to talk about?  How am I ever going to do this and get through alive?  My stomach is churning right now and I feel a little nauseas.  Or nauseated, if you want to be technical. 

I'm not being coy, either; yes, I'm a decent public speaker and usually it doesn't bother me, but for some reason, I'm currently freaking out and genuinely panicking a little.  I'M A WRITER!  Can't I just sit in a dark room and drink copious amounts of alcohol or something?  It worked for Hemingway.  Except for that whole ending....

If anyone has any words of wisdom or any repellant for the suddenly-violent "I sucks" (other than, like, anti anxiety meds), let me know. 

Gahhhh! (err...Writing is Hard)

I am a spoiled brat. 

I really am.  When it comes to writing, it's always come pretty easy to me.  I've been writing excessively since I was about nine years old.  I've been writing novels since I was about twelve.  And I've been submitting novels since I was fourteen. 

So, okay, clearly the submitting thing was not so charmed, but I fully acknowledge I wasn't remotely prepared for that.  And all I really cared about was the writing part.  And it was so easy.  I have hundreds--not exaggerating here--of notebooks from the past fifteen years filled with story after story after story.  The words were always there for me, the stories came easily, and when they didn't, I switched gears to another story that caught my attention. 

Now, going to college and grad school and reading abundantly and really focusing on what I wanted my work to be and become was challenging, but it always felt like fun rather than grueling.  The stories became better, fuller, more precise and sweeping at the same time.  I changed tracks from really writing whatever the hell was in my head to communicating a vision into a medium that someone else could share, an experience that could be translated into someone else's experience. 

FYI, I think that's the mistake most writers make when we start.  We don't realize how our writing sounds from another person's perspective, and it takes a long time to develop that detachment.  And, since you're still trying to communicate your internal thoughts, it's not always so smooth. 

Anyway, the point is, it's been pretty easy.  Hell, I wrote Scarlet in three months and I felt like I had blacked out during it--the words poured onto the page so fast and fluidly that I almost felt like I didn't know where they came from. 

oh god.  so. not. true. anymore. 

For the past year I've been wrestling with this book that I'm writing now; hemming and hawing and going back to it and running away from it.  it's the most emotional thing i've ever written; its the most invested i've ever been. 

i always thought that people were crazy when they said write what you know; I mean, you know that--why bother?  I always wanted to write what I didn't know.  I wanted to use writing to explore, to feel, to experience things that I hadn't. 

You know, like lusting after Robin Hood.  And throwing knives.  Obvi. 

But at the same time, writing IS how I feel, and explore, and experience.  It's the lens through which I view my own world, and there were things I just never wanted to write about.  I didn't want to process them. 

It may just be that the things that are hardest to write are the most important.  The most necessary.  Because even as a 26 year old adult, I feel like, with this novel, I'm discovering a voice I had no idea was there.  And pain that I knew was in there somewhere, but I didn't really know what it was about.  And hurt that I couldn't express.  And love that was so incredibly complicated, but unimaginably deep. 

So let's just put it this way; the spoiled brat has hung up her spurs. 

Covers, Combs and Campaigns!

Well crikey, could a critter construct a creative yet concise title containing more uses of the consonant "C"? 

I didn't think so. 

First up, congratulations to Gabrielle, the winner of the SCARLET hair comb for being the 100th person to LIKE Scarlet on Facebook!  WHOOO!!!  I'm still giving away a comb for 150, too, so tell your friends.

AND I have some really cool covers to show you guys:

This is for Diana Renn's TOKYO HEIST, and I am SO happy for her--I think this is the coolest cover!  And it jockeys for awesome space with the completely different but equally amazing:

OMG, how gorgeous is this? It's A BREATH OF EYRE by Eve Marie Mont  It makes me want to go on a Bronte sisters and/or Regency reading binge. 

 

I LOVE sharing covers, even when they aren't my own. 

 

But wait, there's more! 

 

I'm joining the Platform Building Campaign over on Rach Writes' blog.  To be honest, I'm not quite sure what I'm getting into, but if you're interested in created a stronger online presence, check it out! 

 

Now we're done. 

 

xx

Mini Contest!

Alright, so this is a very little contest, but I got these really cool hair combs, and I'm just itching to give one away. 

AND I'm itching to get 100 "likes" on Facebook.  And after that, 150 likes on Facebook. 

So I tell you what; the 100th person that likes Scarlet on Facebook can have their pick of either a THIEF or SCARLET hair comb. 

Same for the 150th! 

So go on, get "liking"! 

40 UNDER 40

No, this isn't some weird math problem.  Apparently, I've won an award for being an emerging leader in Boston's South Shore!  As far as I know, I was nominated for both being a young adult author and for the work I do as a board member of Boston GLOW.  I've got some great company on the list, but really I'm just pretty honored to be recognized like that! 

Thank you! 

dudes with bows

Maybe it's the Robin Hood thing; maybe I just think that bows and arrows are an incredibly elegant and yet unbelievably powerful set of weapons. 

combine that with my undying love of thieves and the trouble they get themselves into, and I totally swooned for this:

This was the best still of the action sequence I could find, but on this week's WHITE COLLAR, Neil Caffery gets chased down with a legit bow and arrow.  That somehow seemed more deadly and more harrowing than bullets flying. 

AND it was just an insanely terrific episode all around--I love this show and I think this season it's really stepping up it's game as it lets Neil question whether he wants (and can be) good or bad.  So seeing Neil running from the bad guy to the point where Neil is cornered, on his back, at the villain's mercy, pushing ineffectively away....

Man.  It was awesome.  And actually REALLY inspiring. 

How's that for TV you should be watching?

Girl heroes: 2011 Women's World Cup Soccer Team

Raise your hand if you played soccer as a kid. 

Yup, my hand is raised. 

Now, this was before the days of Mia Hamm and Brandi Chastain, Hope Solo and Abby Wambach. This was when the only soccer idol I had was my older brother, and girls didn't really play soccer past the sixth grade.  Actually, there was one girl in my high school who totally rocked the soccer field and it earned her a college scholarship, but that's beside the point. 

This year the ladies rocked it hard core, not only making it to the finals of the Women's World Cup against Japan, but duking it out and rallying time and time again.  They made it to a shootout AFTER double overtime, and they fought down to the last second.  This is the kind of athletic heroism that's unbelievably inspiring; like the Red Sox clawing their way back from being three games down in 2004, just playing the game isn't the inspiring part.  It's staying in the game when the chips are down, continuing to fight when the going gets hard, and never, ever giving up.

These ladies are total girl heroes because they level the playing field and pave the way for young girls to have what ever dreams and, ahem, GOALS, they want. 

 

 

In Utter Sadness

I can't believe what happened last night in Norway. 

This is the sort of thing I feel like something has to be said about it, for it, because of it, but this is the sort of thing where words fail. 

Children were hunted at a summer camp.  In the forests, in the water, in the main meeting room. 

A bomb went off in the city of the Nobel Peace Prize. 

What the hell is going on in the world?

Afterward, [the Norwegian Prime Minister] had a message to whoever may have been responsible: "You won't destroy us," he said. "You won't destroy our democracy. We are a small but proud nation. No one can bomb us to silence. No one can scare us from being Norway. This evening and tonight, we'll take care of each other. That's what we do best when attacked."

My heart goes out to you, Norway.