05 January 2015

Different New Year Resolution & Why Writing Makes You Healthier

Did you know that of those who make resolutions (45% of us) only 8% successfully achieve them. For more fun facts and statistics click on this link:

New Year Resolution Statistics and Fun Facts


This year, I found a different way to approach resolutions. In my Christmas stocking, Santa left my annual  Marilyn Monroe calendar. (Isn't he a sweetie to remember what I want?) When I saw January's photo of the great MM, I knew how I would use the image.

Look at that expression! All joy and hopefulness. I'm using that image for my 2015 emotional rudder. She’s lit up and gorgeous, isn’t she?


Ok, some of you feel compelled to make resolutions. I understand. If so, read this post. I think it will help. Oh, and btw, it's ok to change your resolutions, refine them, ditch them, or even map them out over time. Whatever works. Just remember: be good to yourself, be kind, be reasonable. Ask yourself, would you want your son or daughter or mother or father to make resolutions like yours? Can you really achieve that? Or do you need to break that massive resolution (Publish a novel!) down into doable parts (write a chapter a month).

Resolutions Best Served with Humor


For those of you who don’t consider yourselves writers, I have news for you. Maybe you should try it. Not for publication, heaven help you, but to increase your life span and improve mental health.
In a 2005 study on the emotional and physical health benefits of expressive writing, researchers found that just 15-20 minutes of writing three to five times over the course of the four-month study was enough to make a difference.

Another study proved that wounds healed faster and cancer patients improved the quality of their life. Here’s a link to one article about the studies:

Science Shows Writers Have a Serious Advantage Over the Rest of Us

Grab one of those lovely journals or, if you hate messing up a lovely journal, a pad of lined paper. Dabble, scribble, pen your thoughts, your dreams, the ideas that you never want anyone else to see. You’ll be amazed when you let go of that perfectionist streak that keeps you from being messy. Face it! Thoughts are messy.

When you’re not worrying about what other people think about your writing, you don’t have to contain, perfect, or edit what you write. Just gloriously stream-of-consciousness get it down on paper. Or in the sand, on a wall (yours preferably), or across a roll of brown wrapping paper. I’ve written on napkins. (No to phones or laptops. You have to connect directly with pen, crayon, or pencil with any other surface.)

Wow. Doesn’t that feel good?


Congrats to Tonya Rice who won the Nadine Gordimer collection Life Times  and to Judith Watt who won the detective collection that includes PD James. What a great way to start the new year!

Hugs to you all,

Coming Up! 
Sitting is the New Smoking: How to convert your writing space for a healthier you

15 December 2014

The Concert VIP Experience with Fleetwood Mac—What It’s Really Like

Rocking Out with The Mac—Back Together Again

Fleetwood Mac is my all-time favorite rock band.
Through their early years, especially the Rumours album years, I’d fallen in love and out of love and in love again. I’d made a mistake with a married man, spent a lonely and scared winter in a wild land far from home, had forsaken love and grown cynical, and then ended up with the love of my life. 

No, not him!

Him! Dan's the love of my life.
No better soundtrack fit my life then. Fleetwood Mac’s music also echoed the life I wanted to live, a life with creativity at its core.
When the band announced that Christine McVie was back after a sixteen year absence and they were going on tour, I knew I had to see them again. I’ve always sat in upper sections for their concerts, having to see them through binoculars or on giant screens, their bodies but miniatures moving around on stage.

When VIP tickets went on sale, I thought how lucky those people were who bought them.


But why couldn’t I be one of those people? This could be the last time they played together. If I had a bucket list, this would be at the top. Could I push past my Scottish freak-out no-impulse-buying self, and then overcome a scarcity consciousness guilt trip? (What about the homeless, the old kitchen sink that needs replacing, my 92-year-old mother in Florida?)
I went online. I filled in the necessary information. I put in my credit card info.
I went to click on the BUY button.

I closed the tab instead.


Here’s the deal on VIP tickets for concerts. Most people buying these tickets know only the essentials, the info given online. The online info for this VIP ticket promised a seat in one of the first five rows and a meeting onstage with Mick Fleetwood who would talk and answer questions. I would also have a photo taken with him and be given tour mementos. 

But what I wanted more than anything was a front row seat with standing access to the stage during the concert. Would the cost be worth it?

A little info about VIP tickets in general:  VIP tickets can include 1) meeting the whole band, 2) only meeting one member as this one did, or 3) just front row seats and some trinkets. VIP tickets sell for as much as or more than $1500; the lowest I heard was $350. A regular ticket on the floor at this Fleetwood Mac concert cost $179. Add on another $500 for the VIP privilege.
I’d be paying a whopping, heart-stopping $700.

So I did what I do when faced with a decision like this. I pictured myself sitting in the nose bleed section again. I pictured myself after the concert. I tapped into how I would feel. I cried.When I got home, I bought the ticket.
Front row. Seat 8.
I had a moment of panic. Then I jumped up and down, let out a yelp, and cried in relief.

Jump to the Saturday morning of the concert.
Dan and I had overnight reservations for the Marilyn Monroe room at the Jupiter Hotel. We packed the car—suitcase, pillows, drinks, concert clothes. When I couldn’t find the paperwork for the reservation, I called the Jupiter.
Didn't happen
I’d screwed up. The reservation was for Friday night. We not only had no room, we now had to pay for a night as a “no show.”
That no show flipped me out. Was this a bad sign? Dan said not to worry, we’d drive home after the show and get in around 2:00 a.m. No big deal. We headed to Portland without unpacking.

3:00 We arrived at the Moda’s box office lobby early. Following the email instructions that arrived three days earlier, we waited at the box office for the VIP guide who would arrive at 4:30 with our tickets. A crowd of forty people slowly amassed and I talked to a few. One couple our age took Rock Legends cruises; a young woman, Stephanie, had been to a Fleetwood Mac VIP meet and greet and told us a little about what to expect; a woman in a Stevie Nicks ensemble came over, gave me a hug, and told me she loved my outfit. Justin, our guide, showed  up at exactly 4:30, had us line up for our tickets at the box office, handed out lanyards with Mick Fleetwood’s photo and with good humor and a scripted intro proceeded to tell us how the VIP tour would go. Dan waited with me. I had bought him a ticket on the floor, but he wouldn’t be able to go in with us. I’d text him when the VIP tour was done. I needed to change for the concert and figured I had enough time between the VIP event and the 8:00 concert to dash out to the car to change. 

Justine said to follow him and we headed to the entrance, where he informed us once in the Moda Center, we will not be able to re-enter if we left. Great. Now I wouldn't be able to change into my new concert jacket. Also, at that point, I didn’t want to let go of Dan. Seeing other couples go in together, excited and talking, made me wish I’d bought him a front row ticket, too. At least we could be together just before the show. We kissed good-bye.

Inside, Justin gave us a bathroom stop. Then we followed him down to the front rows, took seats in the middle section, and were told that we would go onstage to meet Mick Fleetwood.

“Some of the instruments onstage,” he said, “are older than the band members, so please don’t touch anything and stay together in a cluster at stage left. Leave your coats and purses, all cameras and phones, on your seat. You cannot use audio or video during the meet and greet. Ready?”

I took off my coat and shoulder purse, and left them on the seat. We climbed metal stairs and stood on Lindsey’s side of the stage, stage left. I was on a mission to get a good photo of him for my fourteen year old granddaughter Maddi, who called him her “older man.” She sent me videos of her rocking out to Fleetwood Mac. The whole family would be there tonight, but up in the nosebleed section. I wouldn’t see them, but I knew they were there.
I stood next to Mick’s 18 carat gold coated drums. Blindingly gorgeous. So was the inlaid Koa wood kit. More like jewelry than drums. In an interview I had read in "The Sunday Express," Mick said he’d probably be a crazy old man busy melting down all the gold drum stands, as he had a warehouse of them. He called it “the new rock ’n’roll retirement plan.”

Mick Fleetwood's interview on the Express 

Then he appeared, tall, still skinny, wearing a sapphire blue jacket that looks vintage and a scarf with colors of the Hawaiian Islands (gold, blue, orange). He was accompanied by Robert who I called a “handler”and who Mick called his assistant.

Mick said hello with a big smile. He was laid back. His white hair was messily pulled back in a ponytail. Because we weren’t allowed recording devices, I have to paraphrase. Most of what he said has to do with the excitement and rejuvenation of the band with Christine being back. Mick was generous with his energy. He told us about
his drums, said one of our VIP members was a friend from Maui who had designed the inlay for the wood drums. We applauded. Mick made us laugh when he said John McVie wouldn’t do a meet and greet if his life depended on it, that John didn’t even like a light on him while he played during the concert.
Mick’s assistant brought out shiny black leather loafers. Mick explained that he was wearing his red drumming shoes and if he stayed standing in those for very long they’d cripple him. At Robert’s prodding, Mick sat down on the drum platform. He was three feet from me. The loafers were so close, I could see their high arch supports.

“This is a first,” he says, as he changed shoes in front of us.
Then photos with Mick began. Justin with a professional digital camera called people up to stand next to Mick. Photos would be posted online. Our instructions had given us a link where they could be downloaded. Stephanie, the girl I met earlier, asked Mick if she could have a hug for her picture and he said, “Yes, of course!”

Unfortunately, when it was my turn, he was distracted by his friend from Hawaii and I didn’t get to ask for a hug. But that was fine. When I left the stage and descended the metal stairs, I said hi to the cute little girl, Mick’s granddaughter Isidora, and asked how she was doing. She rolled her eyes like, “Oh, god, this is so boring.”
Instead of sitting down, I stood with a couple I’d talked with earlier. They were dancing in the aisle. “Warming up,” they said.

When photos were done, Mick joined us off stage to answer questions. He was asked about his “balls.” For those who don’t know, Mick had always gone onstage with a set of wooden balls about the size of golf balls, attached to and hanging from his belt. They were his good luck totem.

He told the story about the early days with Peter Green while playing the blues in small joints in Europe and hope the band made the Sex Pistols look tame. I thought he said that Peter Green actually let his balls, his real ones, hang out of his pants while playing. One day Mick had gone into the men’s toilet and taken down two of the chains with wood balls at the end that were pulled to flush the toilet. That had been the first time he wore them on stage. He lost that pair, but he kept others in a safe backstage. He wouldn't go onstage without them.

Mick talked about Christine being back with the band, technical drum stuff that I’m not educated enough to pass on, the blues influence on their music, and, with self-deprecation, his drumming accolades. (This interview with the CBC Q program covers most of what he talked about onstage.)

When he finished and went backstage, most of us headed to

concessions to buy food, cocktails and water. I met Dan when they let the rest of the ticket holders in around 6:30 and we grabbed something to eat. I also had to fork out $45 for a t-shirt because our VIP mementos, given to us earlier, were a drum cover with Mick Fleetwood’s initials and an autographed photo of him. Our meet-and-greet lasted about an hour and a half.


This is what you pay the big bucks for.
Around 7:40 Dan and I headed into the arena where we kissed good-bye again. When I joined the other VIPs, I put my jacket and mementos under my seat and looked around. I wanted to be in front of Stevie who had always been an icon in my life for so many reasons (poetess, goddess, mystical, mythical, Gemini, tough survivor), but a number of unexpected things happened.

When I tried to move over toward where Stevie would be, one of the security guards stopped me. “Where’s your seat?” I pointed. He told me to stay at a spot at the stage near my seat. Then he forced everyone standing who didn’t have a front row seat to return to their seats. These people had paid the same amount of money as I had. Stephanie, the young woman I'd met earlier and who told me what to expect, was forced to take her second row seat. They weren’t polite.
Then two beautiful young women moved in next to me. They were squealing, hugging each other and saying, “Oh, my god, I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” Justin our VIP guide was “beautifying the pit” as the guy next to me called it. “What the fuck!” As the two young women moved up to the stage, I leaned on the stage and took up as much room as possible. This was bullshit. More young, attractive, mostly blonde women moved into our midst. I was pissed until the the opening notes of “The Chain” signaled the concert had started.
Screw it. I turned to the stage and the magic began.

How do you describe an experience that is so personal and electric that you just want to keep it to yourself and relive it every so often by playing the music and dancing in your living room?
I can tell you this:
“The Chain” is the only way to start a Fleetwood Mac concert. It starts slowly and builds. The words perfectly describe the group and its members’ connections.
Even though Christine was back and the crowd demonstrated its excitement for her, Lindsey and Stevie owned the stage. Lindsey played like he was never going to play again. Phenomenal guitar.

Stevie wasn’t going to let
Christine steal   her spotlight and rocked it for “Gypsy” and “Gold Dust Woman.” She moved more than I’d ever seen her move. Even on those six inch heeled boots. The setlist showed all the individual members' strengths. The music made me forget the young shrieking women next to me. The music made us all one and if Lindsey needs young blondes to spur him on, so be it. He was sweating buckets and rippin’ it. I honestly don’t know how musicians do it night after night.

Once again, there was a frostiness between Stevie and Lindsey, and he was all charming and sweet to Christine. Maybe I’m reading into the body language, but when Christine, Lindsey and Stevie came out together for the first encore, Christine broke away and Lindsey and Stevie walked onto the mid-stage holding hands, but it wasn’t warm and he turned away from her way too soon.

My one small experience:
When Lindsey first approached his mic, he looked exhausted. For a moment, he looked around, caught my eye, and I lifted the corners of my mouth with my index fingers in a smile. He smiled back and then laughed.
I’m always helpful.

Since all the videos I shot are larger than the limit I can post here, I will put them on my Facebook page periodically.

And here's to you making a dream come true.

Bring water. You’ll be hours near the stage and in the arena.
VIP lanyards, even with Mick’s photo on them, will not give you entry to anything. Keep your ticket handy at all times. You’ll be checked constantly, especially in and out of the VIP area.
Don’t assume that cell phones will connect you with anyone you’re meeting. It’s sometimes impossible to hear your phone over the din and roar.
Do NOT put your things under your seat. Mine were almost ruined. People put plastic cups of beer on the floor and then kick them over. My jacket was almost ruined.

Thanks for reliving the concert with me.

All photos Copyright Valerie J. Brooks

30 November 2014

A THREESOME: Much Gratitude, Random Literary Fun, and Giveaways

Welcome back, Posse!

A massive, heart-felt thank you for hanging in there with me. I so love you and appreciate you. To celebrate the return of my blog, I’m making this post about you and dishing up a three-count fun adventure.

First, a flashback:  I left off blogging in order to concentrate on writing my novel. I did finish, and I’m into the next phase of working toward publication. I’ve also taken on writer clients, am working on novel two in the STEALING PARIS series, and am writing a memoir. More about all that in a later post.

For now, however, let’s start with you. Call it an antidote to fear-inducing news and relief from holiday shopping, daily pressures, and technology's over-stimulation.

Fun Fact—Hilary Mantel on Morphine

Hilary Mantel, author of Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, recently admitted to writing her latest, The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher, on morphine. No, it wasn’t an experiment. She was in the hospital receiving treatment for endometriosis. She must have liked the morphine, however. Click on THIS LINK for the whole story.

A little Hilary Mantel advice I love:

Who are You?

You may have already taken this personality test, but for those who haven’t, find out which classic literary character you are by clicking on THIS LINK.

This is my classic literary character. I'm honored!

— Two Giveaways —

P. D. James

Nadine Gordimer

To celebrate the lives and works of two of my favorite writers, Nadine Gordimer & P. D. James, who both passed away this year, I’m giving away 1) Nadine Gordimer’s Life Times: stories, 1952-2007 and 2) The Detection Collection, an anthology of British mystery writers that includes P. D. James.

To enter to win:

1) leave a comment on this post with a suggestion of what you’d like to see on my blog. More about my writing projects? My dreams and nightmares? (My husband says, “Don’t go there!”) Jokes? (No, I’m English and French; we’re not known for our humor.) Observations about life in general? Recommended reads? Photos that have something to do with my new novel? Places where I write? Places I set my novels? Interesting, obscure, fascinating, crazy facts about writers, artists and musicians I love? Memoir pieces?

2) at the end of your comment, put NG for Gordimer’s book or PD for James’ collection.

I will randomly select a name from the posts that are left on this blog and post the winners in the comments and on my next blog post.

Again, thanks for sticking with me. You’re the best!

In the meantime:
Let yourself breathe. Listen to music. Laugh.

Upcoming post:

The Concert VIP Experience—What It’s Really Like
Rocking Out with Fleetwood Mac

Me and Mick Fleetwood, FM's amazing drummer
If for some reason your comment won't post, email me at ValinParis@earthlink.net

29 January 2013

My Disappearance

I have always disappeared in one way or another. The history’s there; I just had to write this blog to discover it and understand why. 

My family lived in New Hampshire in a small ranch house across the street from Lake Winnisquam. I shared a bedroom with my sister who is six years younger. My brother, two years younger had his own room. The walls were thin, the commotion pretty constant, and finding privacy almost impossible. Dad used to tease me about spending so much time in the bathroom, the only room where no one barged in or bothered me unless it was an emergency.

I first disappeared into a typical pre-teen refuge, burrowing down after bedtime under my blanket where I would read or write in my diary by penlight with one ear bud plugged into my transistor radio. Even though I had school the next day I would stay up until one or two in the morning, leaving my parents dumbfounded as to why, when in the morning, I was so miserable to get out of bed. Sometimes my dad resorted to pulling the pillow out from under my head and yanking back the covers. One time he sprinkled my face with cold water. My escape was discovered one night when I fell asleep, the transistor radio cord unplugged, and rock-‘n’-roll woke my parents.

That was around the time the Beatles took over my life and I soon disappeared into a fantasy world with three other friends. We formed a secret club, each of us becoming “the bird” of our favorite Beatle and writing stories about our “luv” and then exchanging them. That only lasted until one of the parents caught Ringo’s bird passing a rather risqué story to John’s bird. We had to disband. After that, I didn’t dare write stories.

Next, I disappeared into my diary, filling it with a teenage angst pot of longing for love and someone to understand me, a place to help me figure out what to do with classmate troubles and old-fashioned, strict parents.

Then the summer after turning fourteen, I wrote in my diary that I’d fallen in love.

Because we lived on the opposite side of the road from the lake, we had to use the right-of-way at the west end to go swimming. That summer I met and fell for a boy from Boston who was there with his family vacationing in one of the summer cabins. His name was Bruce, but his cousin called him “Punk,” as I would. To my astonishment this handsome lad liked me. I kept him a secret as my dad thought all boys from Boston were “bad seeds.” Punk and I would meet and hang out at the right-of-way during the day and a few times we met in the evening to be alone. I wore peddle-pushers and a mod satin shirt with puff sleeves and twenty-five tiny buttons down the front. I wasn’t ready for the heavy petting. I only wanted to kiss him, and those buttons kept me safe.

After Punk returned to Boston without conquering that blouse, a few letters followed, but soon my first love faded away. My parents never saw the letters as I brought in the mail every day, so I was safe from discovery, or so I thought.

One night at dinner, Dad asked about the boy from Boston.

I can’t remember what I said, but I must have asked him how he knew, and he said, “You shouldn’t leave your diary out and open on your desk.”

I waited for some kind of punishment while I went from fear of discovery (Oh, my god, what had I written? What had he read?) to anger at this breach of my privacy. (What gave him the right to read my diary? And how could it have been open on my desk? I always lock it and hide it away.)

I don’t know what happened to that diary. I wish I had it now. After that, I only wrote notes to my girlfriends, poems, and school reports. For my escape, I started drawing and painting instead.

When the fights with my dad increased, I would retreat to the right-of-way and sit under the old tree where Punk and I made out. The roots that protruded above ground held me between them and I would lose myself in the cry of loons, the twinkle of lights from cabins across the lake, the smell of bar-b-ques, and the accompanying laughter and voices of other families that drifted to me over the water’s dark surface. I often took a book and could stay there for hours.

The day after my father committed suicide, I disappeared to the right-of-way, scaring my mother. But that house was too chaotic and filled with confusion, shame and grief. I needed to be alone, to cry, to settle my head, body and soul so I could return and carry on, although my heart would be damaged for a long time.

Life continued and changed many times, and so did my reason for and avenue of disappearing. Whenever life became too noisy and stressful, whenever I needed to escape trying times—the fear of moving to a new land three-thousand miles from home, the loneliness of being that far away with a three year old, divorcing an abusive first husband, the craziness of an out-of-control seventies and drug culture—I would lock the door of my house, hang up a do not disturb sign and paint or draw while listening to music. For days, I would do this, often having to tell those who stopped by, “Yes, sorry, that sign does mean you,” even when it was a new friend.

And here in the writing of this blog is where a memory brought an epiphany.

Kippy, a blue and green parakeet, was my first pet. I think I was around ten or eleven. He’d ride on my shoulder, poop on my cousin’s blonde flattop, repeat a whistle I taught him, and generally make everyone laugh. I fed him regularly, cleaned out his cage, did my best, which I admit, being a kid, probably wasn’t up to adult standards.

One day, after school, either my mom or dad forgot to bring home birdseed. Knowing that kids often don’t give their parents enough heads-up time about these things, I probably waited until the last minute to tell them I needed birdseed.

I walked to the local market and bought wild birdseed, the only kind they had. Just before dinner, as mom was cooking and dad was reading the paper at the kitchen table, Kippy started to choke. I took him from his cage. A sunflower seed was caught in his throat. I yelled for my mom and dad, raced to the kitchen with him in my hands, crying, as I watched my bird struggling and falling down. Mom continued to cook, dad read his paper. They looked over, but by the time they responded, Kippy was dead. I think I remember someone saying, "It was only a bird." Maybe not, but I heard it in my heart.

Something lodged in me that day, something that equates with how it feels to have something dying in me. I tried to feed my parakeet so it wouldn't starve, and I had the wrong food, so Kippy died. No one from the outside helped. And that’s what brought me to this conclusion as to why I disappear.

I believe that when creative people are threatened with the outcome of being a “starving artist,” it’s a way to discourage us from taking hold of our creative life. (My dad: “You are not going to be a starving artist; you will go to college to be a teacher, nurse or secretary.”) If you’re not being productive in the traditional sense, when you’re seen as selfish or self indulgent because you want to follow your art, your passion, then you're gifted a sense of guilt.

The real threat, however, is being starved of time, freedom and the opportunity to create. The real threat is not taking care of our true selves. The real threat is listening to that inner “guilt pusher” that says you should be doing something else.

In the past six months I have cracked a rib, had oral surgery, helped plan a big party for my mom’s 90th birthday, gone to that party in Florida, returned home to the worst sinus infection I’d ever had, and during this time I had to make a decision: while I healed from these various health issues, I could concentrate on writing my novel or continue to take time from that writing and blog.

I took care of myself. I met with a few friends, but stayed home most of the time and was as quiet as I could be as I worked on my novel. I had breakthroughs. I had a-ha moments. I held myself in my hands and removed that sunflower seed. I fed myself the right food.

And the irony was, when I tried to blog in November, the universe slapped me silly. My blog feed would not work. No matter what I did, I could not get Feedburner to send to my email recipients. I didn't need a clearer message. I went back to work on my novel.

Since then, life has allowed a little time, and I switched my blog email feed to a reliable one. 

Hopefully, for those of you out there who have had a rough time lately—and I’ve read and heard many of your stories—I hope this brings some kind of epiphany for you, too. Even if you are not an artist or writer, you have a creative soul. We all do. 

Last year in January, astrologer Johanna Mitchell said about 2012, “It's a great year if you’re going to change. It’s not such a good year if you can’t find inspiration in chaos.”

My discovery makes me wonder if others out there have found themselves “disappearing,” or retreating, or whatever name you put on it. I wonder if you found your creative soul or true north in all that chaos and if you took the time to feed what was starving.

So much of our time is spent in trying to figure out what to do when we really know all along what we need; for some reason it seems counter-intuitive to care for ourselves. That’s when I go back to the context of “starving artist.” It all depends on who you’re listening to.

Hugs to all,


Other blog posts that you might enjoy:

Kristen Lamb's Blog

"Author Blogging: You're Doing It Wrong"
I think blogging is a wast of time.
"Get Rid of "Should" Once and for All"

"They Call Me the Wanderer"

If your comment won't post, email me at ValinParis (at) earthlink (dot) net. I'll post it for you.

23 October 2012

What the Heck? My Latest Blog--Again

My last blog seems to have gone ... astray.

Not really. I posted last week. Unfortunately, I've been hearing from my subscribers who receive my blog via email that they didn't receive it. And d'oh, I didn't get mine in my email box either. What seems to be the problem? The Feedburner tool OR me. Maybe my blog was too large to send. I am a big girl. I do have a lot of content.

Feedburner won't let me send the same blog post twice, so for a quick fix while I spend time trying to fix the dang thing, here's a link to my last blog post when I introduced Cheryl Strayed, our NW powerhouse and NYTimes bestseller of Wild, at her event in Eugene, Oregon. The intro is me as cheerleader and writer's advocate. It was a fabulous night.

Click here for the LINK to my post.

More later! And let me know, dear subscribers, if Feedburner delivered. If not, a change is coming!

17 October 2012

Cheryl Strayed at the UO and My Intro for her Event

Sometimes life as a writer can't be topped. 

This past week, I was fortunate to be asked by Laura White from the University of Oregon Duckstore to introduce Cheryl Strayed at her event in Eugene last Wednesday night. I've known Cheryl since 2006 and, in an earlier post that you can read here, Cheryl gave me the courage to dig to the deepest part of my writer's heart. Once I was there, I was able to write another post, "The Day My Dad Died," that started a memoir.

So I have a lot to be thankful for.

Cheryl's event Wednesday night showed her ability to captivate an audience, swinging them from laughter to tears and back. She read from both books, her memoir Wild and a collection of her favorite Sugar columns, Tiny Beautiful Things

It's taken a week to post because I had one day after the event to prepare and pack for a week away from home: the weekend to attend Wordstock, Portland's brilliant book festival, and a week of writing at Colonyhouse with three of my posse. All I can say is, "I'm in heaven."

Me and best pal Jan Eliot

Jan talking with Cheryl
I decided to share the introduction I gave Wednesday night for three reasons: 1) to let you know that, even though the event sold out, the UO Library has a video recording of the evening, 2) I felt the intro would be encouraging to writers, and 3) readers will learn a few things about Cheryl that I'm pretty sure aren't out there on the internet.

A special thanks to Kirsten Steen for taking the photos and to Laura White who did, and always does, a superb job at organizing author events and does it with infectious enthusiasm.

(Bonus: If you read to the end, I give an inside detail about Cheryl's fashion for the evening.)

Introduction for Cheryl Strayed
UO Bookstore Event
7:00 pm, Oct. 10, 2012

When Laura asked me to introduced Cheryl, I thought, What an honor. And this will be easy.

An honor, yes. The easy part? Not so much. How do you introduce a literary rock star, especially Cheryl, who really needs no introduction?

Do I focus on the theme of grief, how Cheryl was a perfect example of the dual nature of grief where one wants to feel nothing because one feels too much. And what do you do to get past that? Or do I focus on her anonymous life as Sugar on The Rumpus, an unpaid gig, btw? How she used private stories to help others, showered her advice seekers with love, empathy, “honey buns” and “sweet peas?”

No, I didn’t need to tackle either of those because all you have to do is read Wild or Tiny Beautiful Things to immerse yourself in her overarching theme.

She’ll tell you this: “The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It’s not fragility. It’s strength. It’s nerve.”

Yes, that’s all there. But to me, her work, her life’s theme, is love. It takes strength and nerve to keep love as a theme. It takes resilience and faith to champion love. In her work, I see love as the motivation, conflict, struggle, journey, epiphany, and resolution, whether it’s love for a dead mom, love for herself, or love for those poor struggling, terrified, advice seekers.

So what do I say about Cheryl, especially now that she’s a literary super star and you know everything about her? When she’s in the phase of her life where she’s known as “Sugar,” “Oprah’s Pick,” or “a New York Times bestseller?” Amazing, the distance she’s traveled, both literally and figuratively.

In fact, when I met her in 2006 when she and a close friend of mine Randy Sue Coburn appeared at UO bookstore for a reading from their novels, approximately 25 people attended.

Oh, how some things have changed.

Many of you have probably followed Cheryl since Wild was published, what with the accompanying media blitz of articles, appearances, and interviews. The media has treated her as a literary darling and delved into the minutiae of her life as all celebrities are treated. We want to know what Cheryl eats for breakfast or how she copes with fame or, for example, what she packs around now. Is she still a Monster-carrying traveler in all her trips for promoting her books? We love our authors. We love our celebrities. We want to know them on a personal level.

Unfortunately, the media also likes to create buzz by sensationalizing stories. We are not naïve. We know they do this. But as writers we are sensitive to word choice, and that gave me my moment, the answer to how to introduce Cheryl.

Oh, yes, how some things have changed for her.

According to some media, Cheryl’s an “overnight sensation.” She’s also been referred to as “an unknown writer” who “came out of nowhere.”

Well, let’s clear this up right now. Many of you are UO students, some with dreams of becoming an author. Don’t fall for the idea that you can become an overnight sensation by being a writer. I know that our microwave culture sells us on the idea of now, fast, riches, fame, celebrity. But that isn’t the heart and soul of being a writer. We all come from a place where we seed ourselves in the soil of a literary community, grow with nourishment from other writers, and are tended by our families. We produce—a book, an essay, an article, a blog, a chapbook—and we keep steadily growing.

Cheryl recently posted about being referred to as a writer who “came out of nowhere”:
I bristle at this narrative not so much on my own behalf, but rather on behalf of the many writers I love, admire, respect and read. There is a strong and vibrant literary culture that exists and thrives in this nation and it does not exist in a place called nowhere, whether you know about it or not. It's the place where the writers work.
She may not bristle at this on her own behalf, but I do. Cheryl is sensational, but no overnight sensation. She’s never been an unknown writer. Just ask her lifelong friends, her writing group, her husband, Brian. The “nowhere” where she lives is a thriving little town called Portland.

The reality is, she started early and worked her tail off—or should I say toenails.

She didn’t just walk the Pacific Crest Trail, stop at a bridge, eat an ice cream cone, and write a book. She’s been on the long arduous, amazing, eye-opening, toe-bleeding writer’s trail since she was a kid.

As Cheryl says, her success is built on a million smaller successes. Cheryl began writing stories at age seven and never stopped. Her first real short story was called “Murder on the Midnight Express” and featured a talking parrot named Poncho.

She earned a Bachelor’s Degree in English and women’s studies from the U of Minnesota, and afterwards worked various jobs and wrote on the side. She earned her MFA in fiction writing at Syracuse University in 2002. In 2003 her short story “Good” was selected by Joyce Carol Oates for inclusion in The Best American Voices 2003. Her personal essays, “Heroin/e” and “The Love of My Life,” were both selected for inclusion in the prestigious Best American Essays collections in 2000 and 2003 respectively. Other short works were published in The Washington Post Magazine, Vogue, The Missouri Review, New York Times Magazine, Allure, and The Sun.

She won a Pushcart Prize for her essay “Munro Country.”

Her first novel Torch was published in 2006. That was the year I met Cheryl here at the UO bookstore.

Her unpaid career as Sugar, the anonymous Rumpus advice columnist, began in March 2010. Cheryl came out as Sugar this year on Valentine’s Day.

In June of this year, Wild was chosen as the inaugural selection for Oprah’s Book Club 2.0. Reese Witherspoon optioned Wild for her company Pacific Standard. Lisa Cholodenko is slated to write and direct the film with Witherspoon to star.

On Sept. 17, Cheryl’s 44th birthday, she finally paid off her student loan debt.

Please welcome Cheryl Strayed.

If you've been patient (or cheated and skipped ahead), I'll tell you what Cheryl was wearing on her feet that night:
Black Harley Davidson boots. Yup. The girl keeps her edge.

And my favorite photo taken by Jan Eliot. How can I not love this.

Be brave! Stay adventurous!

Wordstock Fun
Where I Work: a photographic peek into my writing spaces
A Confession: What happened after my six readers responded to the Beta version of my novel

12 September 2012

Fabulous Blog Ribbon

Thank you, Cheryl Fassett, fellow blogger and writer extraordinaire, for honoring me with a Fabulous Blog Ribbon. After a mixed summer of highs and lows, you made my entry to fall, my favorite season, a grander one.

Check out her blog Catching Fireflies where she captures creativity, magic and inspiration.

I’m a little late thanking Cheryl due to a cracked rib. I had no idea they hurt so much and could slow me down to half speed. But being recognized by one of my favorite bloggers is enough to sprinkle fairy dust over my writer’s world.

For those unfamiliar with blog awards, they come with a set of “rules,” but I would rather call them guidelines and give out awards without asking for anything back, in this case answering questions and passing the award to five fellow bloggers.

Call me conflicted, but sometimes these things remind me of a chain letter when they’re actually meant to help bloggers expand readership and feel good about the time and energy they put into their blogs. I know what it takes to keep up a blog, keep up with life, and keep up with other people's postings, and therefore I am reluctant to add one more “to do” to the list of these extraordinary bloggers. I hope you visit their pages to see why I love them so much.

Here are the guidelines for receiving this Fabulous Blog Ribbon:
  1. Thank the blogger who gave it to you and share the link back to the awarding blog.
  2. Name 5 fabulous moments in your life.
  3. Name 5 things that you love.
  4. Name 5 things you hate.
  5. Pass the award to 5 deserving bloggers.

So, without further ado…

Five Fabulous Moments in My Life
  • The birth of my son, Jason
  • Finding my sweetheart, Dan, and being with him for 36 years
  • Discovering my life as a writer—over and over and over again
  • Being in Paris the first time
  • Seeing Fleetwood Mac in concert for the first time

Five Seven Things I Love
  • My friends and family, with all my heart
  • Writing, writing, writing
  • Paris
  • Books by my favorite authors and discovering new ones
  • Music, mostly rock ‘n’ roll, jazz, funk, French pop, folk
  • Dancing
  • Art in all forms

Five Things I Hate
  • Crazymakers
  • The word hate
  • War
  • Dishonesty and greed
  • Not giving art & culture in our society and government programs the recognition it deserves

Five Bloggers Who Deserve a Fabulous Blog Ribbon*
  • Barbara Sullivan for her extraordinary wisdom and big heart in The Solace of LoweredExpectations
  • Kirsten Steen and her exquisite blog Write-on-Thyme for keeping me in touch with our beloved Paris (plus having such gorgeous music on her blog, too!)
  • New to the blogosphere in March, Karla Droste with open heart and adventurous spirit takes us on her life-changing journey in Re-inventing Karla
  • DianeProkop keeps my reading pile high, not just in height, but in the quality of her book reviews and recommendations
  • Supremely gifted artist and creative, Beth I. Robinson, who keeps me laughing and gives me the gift of being inside the head of a working artist (p.s. check out one of my favorite pieces of hers at her website)

* Ribbon recipients: please accept this Fabulous Blog Ribbon, enjoy freely, post the ribbon, know that I give this ribbon to you with no expectation of you having to do anything more than enjoy it for all the hard work you put into your blog.

As for something to entertain you further, I offer this bit of writerly eroticism:

Thanks for tuning in!
And yes, for those who asked, my cracked rib is healing nicely. Thanks for being concerned!
Keep creativity in your heart and soul,

Where I Work: a photographic peek into my writing spaces
A Confession: What happened after my six readers responded to the Beta version of my novel