Fight!
Below is my annual collection of the people, places, and things that made 2022 another year to remember. It’s titled FIGHT! because that was my Word of the Year—not as in “fight with others,” but rather “fight for myself.” I think I succeeded in that quest.
These reflecitons are in no particular order, as each is special to me. And yes, I am fully aware I am four months late with this edition, but I have good reasons that shoul become clear as you read on. Enjoy!
The Collaboration (play)
I had the pleasure of spending two weeks in New York City over the holidays in December 2022. Now Manhattan is almost universally acknowledged to be a magical place at Christmas and New Year’s, and this trip jived wholly with that vibe. I stayed at the Soho Grand, which was decked out in fairy lights and fir fronds, golden ornaments and red ribbons, and I was made to feel like a downtown Eloise at The Palace by the warmth of the staff. There were a number of notable individual days to document, but arguably the most outstanding was my theater day: I took in a matinee of The Collaboration at the Samuel J. Friedman, then saw Death of a Salesman at the Hudson in the evening. Both were wonderful, vital productions, but if I had to choose my favorite, The Collaboration wins hands down, for a variety of reasons.
The play, set in New York in the eighties, dramatizes the ill-fated, gallery owner brokered partnership between aging pop art celebrity Andy Warhol and rising art world star Jean-Michel Basquiat. I have a couple of connections to the material: When I was a junior in high school, clearly still bored and unchallenged by the advanced English class curriculum offered, my teacher assigned me to read The New York Times every Sunday, then report back to her what I’d learned. I fulfilled this request begrudgingly at first, then eagerly, reveling in exposure to politics, opinion, literature, and art. It showed me there was life beyond suburban New England–something to aspire to. I remain eternally grateful to Laurie Pieterse for broadening my horizons this way.
I became utterly fascinated with the “Style” section, in which pages Warhol and Basquiat played outsized roles at that time. It set me off researching Warhol’s work in such detail that I wrote my end-of-grade term paper on him–his drawings, his screen prints, his films, and his muses. I actually attempted to interview him by sending a typed list of questions via snail mail to Interview magazine; I didn’t get any of his trademark enigmatic answers in return, but I did receive a signed copy of the publication for my efforts (and yes, I still have it).
Meanwhile, Basquiat was just transitioning from prolific graffiti artist whose primitavist work captured the eye and imagination of the New York art scene to enfant terrible commanding seven figures for that style translated to canvas. In 1989, I spent a summer at NYU in the Sight + Sound filmmaking program. My mother came to visit me by bus one sultry day, and we had a brilliant time schlepping around a much grittier West Village and Soho, shopping for unique, au courant fashion, stuffing our faces with red sauce and cannolis in Little Italy, and stumbling across a show of Basquiat’s paintings, where we were treated to flutes of cold champagne and some history by the exhibition’s curator. I was smitten.
Fast forward to present day, and I entered the theater with all sorts of expectations. The show had just opened two days earlier, and notices were tepid. But from the second I slipped into my velvet seat in the mezzanine beneath the glittering disco ball installed on the ceiling and began to chair dance to the period tunes the DJ was spinning while watching archival footage of bygone New York projected on the scrim curtain, I was 1000% invested. And that investment paid off tenfold. From the moment Paul Bettany took the stage as Andy Warhol, he embodied the character. It was such a vivid portrayal of a personality I’d studied so minutely, it brought tears to my eyes. Thankfully, this wave of emotion was quickly punctured by the humor and tenderness of the script. By the time Jeremy Pope appeared as Basquiat, I was primed for a rat-a-tat repartee between two very different artists examining their conflicting aesthetic and personal ethos. Where latter-day Warhol is cold and twee, a man composed of tics and tight angles who fears he’s lost the ability to wield a brush, Basquiat is hot and wild, a nascent legend full of impetuous urges, including the one that eventually led to the addiction that cut his bright life short.
But this play doesn’t go all the way there. Rather, the first act is about how Basquiat breaks through Warhol’s defenses and gets the master to paint once again, while Warhol attempts to film Basquiat’s process. The intermission features more vintage music accompanying clips from the actual footage Warhol shot with Basquiat as they worked side by side. The second act depicts how their collaboration produces a body of material worthy of seven-figure sales, yet splinters, then shatters under the weight of Jean-Michel’s heroin use. It is, by turns, a fun, elucidating, and tragic ride, and it had the effect of making me love these two damaged creative souls even more than before.
Filoli Walk and Talks (monthly outings)
For the bulk of 2022, I had the pleasure of spending the first Saturday (or thereabouts) of each month at Filoli Historic Estate and Garden in Woodside, California, traipsing the grounds and talking with a dear friend. Marisa and I have been acquainted since we were both allowed to bag a ninth grade science requirement in order to work in the middle school cafeteria at Kiley Junior High in Springfield, Massachusetts (don’t get me started on the relative wisdom of allowing Honor Society members to eschew Physics for selling our compatriots Twinkies and Suzie-Q’s). That we both migrated West and eventually ended up in the Bay Area is such a happy accident. It is a true gift to have someone who’s familiar with your foundational years and who knows the geography of your youth to share more mature struggles and triumphs with on a regular basis. Note that I can’t take credit for coming up with this scheme–it was Marisa’s suggestion. But I leapt at it, because, well…amity, flowers, and cake? Yes, please!
We began our visits in February, when there was still a bit of chill in the morning air and dew on buds and early blossoms. We have since then relished the privilege of seeing the grounds progress through a lifecycle of dormancy to abundance and back again. Some highlights: the March riot of multicolored tulips in terracotta pots; May and June’s rose explosion, fragrant blooms and sharp thorns reaching above and beyond manicured beds; a September accounting in the orchard, with apples, pears, and pomegranates bowing branches; a rainy December evening stroll amongst fairy lights dotting the landscape, complete with hot cocoa served around a fire pit in a bedecked courtyard.
But perhaps even more remarkable has been the support Marisa and I offer each other as we stroll. We discuss topics as varied as caring for aging parents, her hopes and dreams for her extraordinary son, travel adventures real and aspired to, the pros and cons of my changing jobs (yet again), and our creative processes as a writer (me) and an artist (her). I cherish the time we get to perch on the patio of the Bird’s Nest Café, sipping tea, nibbling sweets, reflecting on how far we’ve come and where we’ve yet to go.
Filoli was originally home to the Bourne family, who made their money owning the mine and water rights that underwrote formation of the Pacific Gas & Electric Company. Patriarch William coined the name by combining the first two letters of each sentence in his personal credo: “Fight for a just cause. Love your Fellow Man. Live a Good Life”. I’d like to believe Marisa and I are embodying those values as best we can. We’ve renewed our membership for 2023.
The Sierra Nevada Mountain Range (place)
I fell in love with a new landscape this past year. I mean to say “new to me landscape,” because it’s certainly been there for millennia at this point. My partner took a solo photography trip to the Sierra Nevada south of Lake Tahoe in June, and the images he captured of trees and lakes and honest-to-goodness craggy mountain peaks ignited a desire in me to see the scenery in person.
So we booked a cabin at a fancy glamping type place over the long Labor Day Weekend, loaded up his Subaru Forrester with our gear, and made the incredibly hot drive (temps hitting 115 degrees Fahrenheit in spots along I-5) slightly north and very east of the Bay Area, up into the fabled range. Sorenson’s Wylder Resort had the air of an upscale summer camp, with fine dining and full bar on the deck, s’mores around the campfire, three-legged races, and acoustic sets by local musicians each afternoon. It was actually a bit over the top for our purposes, but it was comfortable enough lodgings for us to restore our weary bones after long hikes on nearby moderate-rated trails or to cool off in the clawfoot tub after a pleasant visit to the historical society museum in Markleeville.
The highlights for me were twofold: As my partner set about setting up his medium-format camera equipment and composing compelling frames, I would sit adjacent on my tripod camp stool to sketch the soaring views or natural objects close at hand, and to scribble wild lines of poetry. And later the next day, when I was too sore to walk out again, I stayed behind in the cabin to work on my novel in progress. That I had the presence of mind, the inspiration, and the motivation to undertake substantive writing? This is the hallmark of a place I could inhabit.
Therefore, one month later, we made more long weekend reservations at a motor lodge down the road a ways in Woodfords–a less posh, but more affordable and somehow more livable, option. The proprietors provided an extremely well-appointed Continental breakfast, plus the room had a refrigerator and microwave, so we were able to pack in some foodstuffs. We spent two days redux in the woods, wandering amongst the turning gold leaves of the silver-trunked quaking aspens, and the third morning on the hunt for real estate as far east as Gardnerville in Nevada. I am open to investing in a little second house, a literal pied à terre, in this area–someplace we might escape to as civilization chafes our souls.
Living as we do in La Honda, in the minor elevations of the Santa Cruz Mountains (though I now know these hills barely rate that geographic, geologic designation in comparison to the Sierras), we are accustomed to being tenuously connected to the grid. My one request before we completely indulge in the search and engage a realtor was to see the situation during winter. Presidents’ Day Weekend, here we come: We rented a cozy Airbnb featuring a wood stove and a colorful host by Grover Hot Springs. There was no wifi, only intermittent cell service, and a record snowpack due to the atmospheric rivers that pounded the state in January. We ventured a tiny bit off the beaten path one day, then explored Gardnerville more thoroughly the second.
California’s motto is “Eureka!” which means, “I have found it.” I’d wager I have.
Alaska (adventure)
“Let’s go to Alaska,” my mother said in October 2021, while I was home on a visit to celebrate my father’s 75th birthday a year late, due to the pandemic. We were in my childhood house’s tiny kitchen, chatting while she fed the cats. We had a credit on Norwegian Cruise Lines, the result of a 2020 booking to Greece and southern Italy derailed by Covid-19. I’d considered an Inner Passage voyage a few times, but ultimately always deprioritized it in favor of more exotic destinations. So when she proposed it to me this time, adding that she didn’t feel quite safe yet leaving North America, I jumped on the website and pulled up our options.
We settled on a seven-day round-trip sailing from Seattle that would take us north to Sitka, then back down through Juneau, the Dawes Glacier, Icy Strait Point, Ketchikan, and Victoria, British Columbia. We chose high season—August—in order to capitalize on our work schedules and the “good” weather. We selected a cabin with a private balcony, and got specialty dining and a drinks packages, plus internet connectivity, for free. There was an extra advantage to the deal, since cruise ships were still having difficulty filling ships: half-off airfare and “buy one shore excursion, get one half off.” Now even with these reductions, the price gave me a bit of sticker shock. Cruising to Alaska costs easily twice as much as going to Europe. But I was in line for a bonus at work, we had a chunk of the cost covered with the aforementioned credit, and it really did seem to be the experience of a lifetime. I entered our details, input my credit card number, and clicked the buy button.
Then the real planning began…
I was born and raised in Massachusetts, so I know a bit about changeable atmospheric conditions. As Mark Twain famously said, “If you don’t like New England weather, wait a few minutes.” But as a transplant to California for nigh on thirty years, my blood has thinned and my tolerance has waned. In other words, I no longer owned mud-proof boots, thermal layers, or a down jacket. I didn’t even have proper rain gear that fit anymore, since drought and a pandemic weight gain rendered my water-repellent jacket a useless shell of its former self. I would need to shop my way to Alaska.
This mission might have proven daunting to some, but truth is, my mother and I are champion shoppers. My mother trained me on long afternoon expeditions to the mall in my adolescence to be both bargain-hunter and Boy Scout in my approach—look for a good deal and be prepared. With these edicts in mind and some anecdotal guidance from a dear friend who’s spent a few summers puddle-jumping up North, I dove headlong into off-season sales in March 2022.
I ordered a bounty of items to be delivered: Black zip-up Uggs with faux-fur lining and grippy treads, the better to walk on glaciers. Wool-cashmere wicking socks to keep my toes toasty and dry. Insect-proof hoodie to keep gnats away from my tender, lower forty-eight flesh. Wind-resistant, quick-dry leggings to swaddle my legs on whale-watching and hikes. Plum-hued Gore-Tex raincoat with a great hood and myriad sealable pockets. Bright yellow, lightweight, waterproof daypack to carry essentials–gloves, hat, scarf, sunglasses, chapstick, and tissues, as well as binoculars and a telephoto camera lens. By May, I was fully outfitted.
On July 27th, my mother boarded her first ever solo flight at Boston Logan and met me at SFO. We’d scored TSA pre-check for the next afternoon’s hop to Seattle, so we breezed through security. We installed ourselves in a wine bar and raised a couple of celebratory glasses. I let Mom pay, since I’d footed the bill for the cruise. It was my pleasure to be able to do this for her. She works so hard, as a school librarian, a homemaker, and a caregiver to my father, my aunt, and my younger brother. We’d made arrangements for all three of those family members to check in on each other regularly so Mom could truly get away for ten days. She and I toasted to what was to come.
And what followed was absolutely perfect…
Seattle was suffering under a historic heat wave, so we didn’t venture out too much during the day, but we did get to enjoy an al fresco dinner at historic Oddfellows and a shopping excursion in the excellent Elliott Bay Book Company with one of my college roommates, Christina Buchanan. Chris lives in Seattle and spends a lot of time navigating the surrounding waters, so the next afternoon, she was able to snap a pic from the helm of her sailboat of our vessel, the Norwegian Epic, as it exited Puget Sound to the Pacific Ocean.
Our at-sea day was easily occupied with settling in and exploring the ship. I introduced my mother to the pleasures of the Observation Deck, meaning ever-present nibbles and bar service. The view was blanketed by fog and the waves were noticeable, but not sick-inducing. And her Mudslides and my Botanical Spritzes certainly helped. We roused ourselves from the comfortable window-side chaises to sample wine and cheese pairings in the Italian restaurant, then had a lovely French dinner at Le Bistro, the French restaurant. Finally, we capped the evening by enjoying a production of SIX, the lively musical about King Henry the VIII’s many wives, in the main theater.
Sitka was overcast when we docked early the next morning, but the clouds broke by the time our excursion boarded the tourist boat for the first leg of a full day of wildlife viewing. The crew remarked how lucky we were; it had been raining sideways for weeks prior. We were treated to sightings of soaring eagles, playful dolphins, silly harbor seals, a particularly cheeky otter, and a few whale flukes (tails). Then it was off to a couple of rehabilitation centers–first the majestic raptors, then the mighty bears. We learned how hard the incursion of humans has been on these animal populations. Birds are most frequently rendered unable to fly by encounters with power lines, while bears are most likely orphaned when their mothers are struck by cars.
Juneau was wet, but not too cold. We dressed in layers and donned our raincoats to board a coach for this excursion, and were driven along the one main road in town, past the infamous Red Dog Saloon, the small airport, and the Capitol (where, our driver assured us, we could not spy Russia from the kitchen window). Our first stop was the Mendenhall Glacier, and it was spectacular. The ice was so pure and deep, it was rendered a shocking aquamarine shade. The second stop was a beautiful botanical garden that had been integrated seamlessly with the surrounding forest. It was here that we learned how to tell the difference between the Western Hemlock and the Sitka Spruce by reading their bark. Departure was at 1 PM in order for the ship to cruise through the Endicott Arm to view the Dawes Glacier. My mother and I were lounging in our stateroom, throwing glances out past our balcony doors, when she spotted a huge chunk of that bright blue ice floating past–an iceberg! The relatively warm temperatures were causing the glacier to calve, so the Epic had to turn around before achieving its usual proximity to the terminus. It was still pretty darn cool.
The next day’s port, Icy Strait Point, failed to live up to its name–it was brilliantly sunny and in the high 60’s for the bulk of the day. The warmth caused our dedicated whale watching excursion in the morning to be less than clear; the difference in water and air temperatures produced thick gray fog, so it was difficult to make visual contact with the mammals. But we heard them quite clearly: I captured the stirring and eerily beautiful song of a mother and her calf on video. Our guide also taught us how to remember the five types of salmon by associating each with a finger on our hand–Pink for pinkie, Silver for ring, King for middle, Sockeye for index, and Chum for thumb. The afternoon featured a ridiculously fresh and bountiful seafood feast outdoors, followed by some souvenir shopping in the fishing village of Hoonah (the ancestral name of the area). We spent the rest of the day sunning ourselves on our balcony–not something we'd anticipated doing on an Alaskan cruise!
This time together with my mom–it’s special to me. We weren’t always well-suited to being in the same room, let alone to traveling together in close quarters. I was an over-sensitive adolescent; she was an over-critical parent. We also had some struggles related to the childhood trauma of her alcohol abuse, which she defaulted to in order to blunt the pain of the sudden, early death of her own mother. Let me tell you though, that therapy is priceless. And so we’ve found ourselves bumping around Italy on a tour bus, sharing a cruise cabin and cocktails across the Mediterranean, and packed into a van for a motor adventure through Ireland with me driving. Alaska is just the latest frontier we’ve explored.
What attracts us to cruising? It’s the convenience of lugging luggage to our lodgings and unpacking just once. It’s the novelty of a new port every day. It’s the fine dining options and the all-inclusive adult beverage package–we eat and drink our fill very well. And it’s our openness to trying new things and seeing new sights. On this particular trip, however, it was important to take our limitations into account. She is, after all, 76. She’s had back surgery and has a nasty bunion plus arthritis, though overall, she’s in excellent health. Her day job as a teacher and children’s librarian keeps her on her feet, physically and mentally engaged.
Still, I knew there’d be no kayaking, ziplining, or back-country hikes on our itinerary. For my part, I have back issues and am significantly overweight, so I never felt deprived; rather, I think we matched up quite nicely in terms of interests, abilities, and pace. We walked a ton, but we rested, too. We hit the sack most nights around 9:30 PM and woke without an alarm circa 6 AM. And our appetites were generally in accord. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again–she deserves to be treated like a queen for what little time I can pry her away from her obligations. I feel privileged to experience the world with her.
Our day in Ketchikan was a stunner from the outset, offering up bright blue, cloudless skies, plenty of warm golden sunshine, and salmon preparing to spawn by literally leaping from the water (the females do this in order to loosen their eggs via impact with the waves). The boat-based excursion was super successful: We viewed multiple bald eagles up close in the wild, including a mated pair caring for their offspring in a huge nest. I got to photograph and learn about the Native Alaskan tribes’ carving handiwork as we passed Totem Bight State Historical Park. Did you know that all of the colors on the poles are naturally derived? Women chew salmon roe in the longhouses in order to extract the oil, then the men mix it with charcoal for black, fired shells for white, iron oxides in the soils for red, and copper for turquoise. And yes, each pole is unique, broadcasting a message to incoming peoples. And the lighthouse perched at the far reaches of Tongass National Forest was the perfect final marker for our trip. After a bit more souvenir shopping, we re-boarded the Epic and cruised through the rest of the day and the bulk of the next in order to dock in Canada.
Victoria, British Columbia, activities were done at dusk into night. Mom and I had signed up for a “Bites and Brews” tour. Over the course of a two-and-a-half hours on foot, we indulged in salmon dip and the local drink of choice, The Shaft (vodka, Kahula, espresso, and cream); a crisp cheese croquette and a hoppy regional IPA; and a gourmet maple chocolate from old-timey local institution Rogers’. We both agreed we’d love to return to take in that lovely town during the day.
Finally, we returned to Seattle the next morning, disembarked onto a tour coach, hit the heights at the Space Needle, had an amazing berry kombucha ice cream float at the Public Market, then were bussed to SEA-TAC for our flight to SFO.
We spent the next day (shopping, of course) in the Bay Area before I installed her on a plane back to Massachusetts. The only downside to the whole expedition? My mother contracted Covid-19 somewhere in her travels. She suffered a relatively mild case (not even necessitating Paxlovid), and was back in action two weeks later, saying forcefully that it has all been worth it–she didn’t regret taking the trip at all. Neither did I. It was the adventure of a lifetime!
Rest is Resistance (book)
I come before you humbly, considering myself seriously, needfully, joyously schooled; I listened to author Tricia Hersey read her phenomenal REST IS RESISTANCE: A MANIFESTO in November 2022, and it rocked my world. This essential book contains an unapologetic argument for exploited populations to rise up and settle into a reclamation of their divine and human right to rest. To say that it struck a personal chord with me, then exploded my view on conditions I know nothing about, is an understatement. I am forever grateful for Hersey’s work.
The book begins with the author’s homespun remembrances of her Grandmother Ora taking a daily pause to simply close her eyes and be at rest. This resonated intimately with me: My own Nana, Mary Magdalene Sullivan McDonald, would do the same each evening after a long day at work in the family business, running a food service concession at a local golf course from 5 AM till “close.” Much like Ora, Nana wouldn’t nap or pray or even reflect during these twenty quiet minutes—she’d just sit and breathe and recharge. It was a beautiful sight for me to behold and a valuable lesson learned, my grandmother taking the pause she needed in order to feel at peace.
The difference between Mary and Ora, however, is a stark and strong one, and Hersey goes on to drive that contrast home in her powerfully insistent yet gentle voice. Ora’s rest carried with it the weight of an act of resistance against generations of unpaid or poorly compensated Black labor. My grandmother experienced cultural and religious persecution as a young woman, facing down “Irish Need Not Apply” signs in storefronts and offices in Western Massachusetts during the 1920’s and 1930’s. But that literally pales in comparison to slavery and its institutional aftermath. I finished REST IS RESISTANCE feeling, well…awakened to this reality. I exist—and my ancestors before me existed—in a place of privilege. I acknowledge and embrace this now in a way I hadn’t previously in my ignorance.
Hersey’s work with her organization, The Nap Ministry, is vibrant and vital, and I am on board to support it any way I can. On a micro level, I intend to make time for myself to rest on a regular basis, shunting away the Go-Go frenzy of my Silicon Valley-based job for a spell. On a macro level, I will spread Hersey’s gospel and donate financial resources so underserved folks have the same opportunity as I possess to engage in this practice.
The Library Bar, Toronto (place)
There are bars, and then there are excellent nights spent amongst new friends in historic drinking establishments. My visit to The Library Bar at the Royal Yorke Fairmont Hotel in Toronto most definitely falls into the latter category.
I was in Canada on business: I’d moved on from my Development Director role at Sledgehammer Games/Activision in May 2022 to take a proper adult job as Senior Operations Manager in Mobile Growth at Electronic Arts. Can I opine for just a moment how difficult it is to find a proper adult job in game production? It’s ridiculous that this industry still believes itself to be young and hot enough to get away with exploiting those who possess dreams of earning their keep in it. I’d put in stupid hours on Call of Duty for eighteen months to get the next installment of the franchise out the door on a compressed timeline during a pandemic. I had eighteen direct reports to juggle. And I was staring down the barrel of having to do it all over again with fewer resources for 2024. No thank you.
EA, on the other hand, offered more money, a mature corporate environment, a more reasonable schedule, a manageable four-person team, and refreshingly macro responsibilities, meaning I’d be using all of my hard-won experience to identify issues, put processes in place, and suggest solutions to leadership, instead of having to solve everything all by myself.
Three of my team members were based in Toronto, so off I went to the Great White North in September to finally meet them in person. We spent the first day of the trip reviewing our department’s mandate and parsing upcoming organizational changes. We spent the second day (and night) bonding by touring the city, from visiting the public library and rifling through its extensive clipped article files, to perusing used book heaven The Monkey’s Paw (where I availed myself of the unique token-operated book vending machine called the Biblio-Mat to blind-date a book), and from tramping around Kensington Market (and dodging ever-present wasps trying to steal our slices of pizza), to indulging in a delicious family-style Thai meal at PAI. And I spent the third day doing a presentation on everything I know about bringing structure to creative workflows. But it was the third night that proved most remarkable.
I’d heard about The Library Bar from my partner, who’d been to it decades earlier on a junket to the Modern Language Association’s annual conference. At that time, it was apparently a dark and smoky place with a literal study feel–worn leather wing chairs, heavy end tables, shelves arrayed with thick bound books, and a drinks-only menu heavy on Scotch.
In the intervening years, however, it had evolved into a cocktail bar scene. There were just enough lights on the assorted low tables to render the space a doable dim. The seats were now upholstered in velvet. The copious volumes remained tucked into the bookcases lining the walls, but the menu now included an assortment of small plates and choice main courses with which to cut the effects of a sizable selection of inventive libations. It was pricey and toney, to be sure, but I had the okay to expense a meal for us to cement our working relationship, so in we sashayed and, two-and-a-half hours later, out we stumbled, feeling all the more connected and motivated to work together.
I honored the romance of the new aspects of the bar by starting with a Twist of Fate (Hendrick’s Gin, Lillet Blanc, Gentian, Raspberry, Verjus, Prosecco Rosé) and Oysters Rockfeller, then moved on to the mystery of its days of yore with a Secretariat (Old Forester Bourbon, Santa Teresa Rum, Maraschino, Branca Mentha, Angostura Bitters) and the Bay Street sandwich (shaved prime rib, tobacco onion, horseradish aioli, pretzel roll, frites).
But as delightful as the consumables were, the company was even moreso. Jaymie, with her wide-eyed writerly enthusiasm; Jen, with her inquisitive and caffeine-fueled energy; Wing, with her low-key yet incisive demeanor–all of them clearly appreciated the atmosphere and the conversation. We talked about business, sure, but we also touched on the differences between our countries, our backgrounds, and what we hope to accomplish in both our professional and personal lives. It was $350 Canadian more than well-spent (bless a favorable exchange rate)!
The New York Times’ Music Recommendations (music)
The last place I’d expect to be getting new music recommendations from is The New York Times’ Cooking Newsletter, but here we are! Both Sam Sifton and Emily Weinstein like to close their editions with a smattering of marginalia; sometimes it’s a book to devour, an article to consume, or a show to binge. And sometimes, it’s a song to scramble eggs or braise a roast by. If there is to be a musical tip, it’s always the last entry in the list, as if to play you off into the kitchen to indulge all angles of your creativity.
A few recs that have struck chords for me this past year include:
The Beths, “Expert in a Dying Field” – Indie rockers from Aotearoa (aka, New Zealand, for those not up on ancestral land names) whose melodies chime ever-so-pleasantly and whose lyrics, at first listen, feel light and frothy. But upon a deeper slice, the whole package proves complex and smart. It’s beer spilled on a small club’s sticky floor kind of music, but it’s less piss-yellow Budweiser in a red Solo cup and more an amber craft brew in a pint glass.
Caroline Shaw, “The Wheel” (as performed by I Giardini) –For a contemporary classical turn, this album builds at a slow boil and embodies an artistry that is a thing of rich and silky beauty. I feel as if my IQ shoots up several points and my blood pressure ticks down a few measures when I indulge in these masterful compositions. This is the wine of fine vintage in the bunch.
Meg Baird, “Furling” – Super ethereal and dreamy tunes from a San Francisco-based singer/songwriter with a sweet but never saccharine voice. Great music for sipping creamy coffee from your favorite mug on a chilly morning as the sun rises and the dew on the local flora sparkles. If Baird were an aromatic herb growing in the garden, she’d be leggy, soothing chamomile.
Andrew Bird (featuring Phoebe Bridgers), “I Felt a Funeral in my Brain” – How could I not love a song that embodies beloved verses scribed by my home region’s heroine Emily Dickinson and sets them to moody music? This is like a draught of strong-steeped black tea deliberately spilt on a starched white table cloth by an impetuous poetess. It also serves as a gateway drug to Bird’s solo work, which is quirky and piquant, peppered with clever turns of phrase and plucky guitar strings.
Fiona Ferris’ Body of Work (books)
I am going to admit to perpetrating a (not so) guilty pleasure: Each night, when I take to my bed, I arrange my harried head on a silk pillowcase and open my Kindle to read until the words on the small screen blur and sleep overtakes me. My genre of choice for these evening forays? That would be the short jewel boxes of books crafted by “How to Be Chic” blogger, Fiona Ferris. Ms. Ferris’ themes tend toward the self-help side, but never in a prescriptive or unforgivably cheerleading fashion; rather, she exhibits a gentle touch, demonstrating by example and offering advice like a well-meaning friend.
I attribute a good deal of Ms. Ferris’ delightful style to her nationality–she’s a Kiwi, having been born and raised in New Zealand. Her series of publications trace a lovely life path, from working for a well-known cosmetics and skincare brand, to co-owning a small shoe store in a large city with her husband, to now being a full-time stay-at-home author in the tiny, verdant wine country in the town of Hawkes Bay. I’ve often said that, along with the Irish, New Zealanders are the nicest, most pleasant people in the world. Ms. Ferris certainly does nothing to contradict this.
I’ve utterly devoured many of her titles, from Thirty Chic Days to Financially Chic, and from 100 Ways to Live a Luxurious Life on a Budget to The Glam Life. The best book, however, from my personal point of view is Thirty Slim Days: Create Your Slender and Healthy Life in a Fun and Enjoyable Way. I am not exaggerating when I say this volume changed my life last year.
Ms. Ferris is a master of the compact, yet content-rich list. She offers details on her own topical experiences, and interweaves quotations and impressions from her wide-ranging reading, as well. But for me, the main value lies in the exercises she suggests. I journaled intensely on a variety of questions in Thirty Slim Days, all having to do with how I was taught to approach eating and nutrition as a child, up through my habits today. Via this exploration and examination, I was able to pinpoint the precise moment when I learned to use food as a self-soothing tool instead of as fuel for a healthy and satisfying lifestyle. I shared this epiphany out loud to my partner, and it was as if the weight of decades of trauma and subsequent numbing evaporated from my body.
I have since conquered my cravings and binging behaviors. I eat for sustenance and taste now, and stop when I’m full. I’ve shed several pounds quite effortlessly, and have begun to revel in a regimen of recumbent biking, yoga, and calisthenics to supplement that weight loss. In short, I feel wonderful for the first time in years–in control, lighter, and hopeful. It’s simply amazing, and I owe it to Ms. Ferris’ work. She’s accomplished something decades of talk therapy, doctors’ orders, Weight Watchers, and other diet schemes could not. I am eternally grateful.
So if you’re looking for positive and supportive observations bestowed in a manner not unlike those famous Parisian bisous, I heartily recommend Fiona Ferris’ Chic books.
America’s Next Great Author (experience)
I blogged pretty extensively here about my experiences with the America’s Next Great Author competition in early November, immediately on the heels of having traveled to Newark, New Jersey, for the pilot taping. I was seriously impressed with how the weekend’s proceedings were handled, and I was inspired to call COMPLIANCE my next novel project.
Fast forward four months. How do I feel now? Honestly, I am still on something of a high from having participated in some small way in this wonderful event. The producers, through the official email list, have kept in touch with the semi-finalist cohort, periodically providing positive reinforcement plus tips and tricks, and soliciting status updates on our work. They’ve also been great about letting us know how the editing process for the TV show is going. It’s a slog for them–there were four hours of footage of pitches proper, as well as at least eight hours of B-roll, to watch and winnow, then arrange into a couple of sizzle reels. They’re not quite there yet on those show trailers, but have promised to share the results with us as soon as they’re ready so we can get them out on our social media accounts. This should help bolster the show’s chances of being picked up by a major channel for full production.
But even more impressive, perhaps, has been the energy my fellow semi-finalists have brought to keeping us together in order to maintain the magical bonding that took place during that whirlwind forty-eight hours. We have a private Facebook Group in which to post updates on our writing-related activities. And the moderators have organized two virtual write-in sessions so far (which I have not been able to attend due to prior commitments, but definitely plan to in the future). These are wonderfully generous, motivated, and accomplished writers well worth the effort to remain engaged with.
What am I ultimately hoping for out of this literary scheme? I want a good number of us to break out as published authors because, based on the pitches I heard, we deserve that recognition. I want the full series to happen because I see both the entertainment and emotional value of demystifying and disseminating information about the creative process. I want to be able to continue to participate in some way in the show because I trust everyone involved to have my best interests at heart. I want America’s Next Great Author to succeed.
DIRTY (novel-in-progress)
Something extraordinary happened to me creatively at the end of 2022: I was able to leverage my relationship with a book coach who is very familiar with my work, a second productive stint at an excellent writing retreat, and the intense flurry that is National Novel Writing Month (aka, NaNoWriMo) to get my long-gestating novel-in-progress, DIRTY, wrestled into near query-worthy shape.
I don’t know what shifted after ten years of on-and-off clueless drafting and intermittent, half-hearted revision; I know only that it was as if a switch flipped. I was able to see what I had more clearly, what it could be, and how to get it there. In other words, I realized I had a killer concept, two fantastically engaging characters, and a whole lot of language in service to those elements. I had actually written a book—one I’d love to read and that I believe others will, as well.
I was chuffed when Ammi Keller agreed to do a pass on the manuscript with me in starting in mid-October. I’d just come off the Bell Valley Lit Camp Retreat in late September, where I read the pages from start to finish, marked them up with proposed edits and additions, then shared excerpts at the nightly salons. I’m not too shy to say I received hoots of laughter and gasps of surprise in all the right places, plus hollers for more of the sexy stuff. Damn, that felt amazing! After the last night’s session, Janis Cooke Newman, the founder and director of Lit Camp came up to me. “This is very different from your other material. Where are you with it?” I told her I’d done three drafts, but ultimately shelved the project. “What?!” she exclaimed. “This is a great idea—you have to finish it.”
So with a heavy assist from Ammi and the time-boxed space of NaNoWriMo in November, I put my head down and made a push. And just days before I left to spend the December holidays in New York, I submitted my last batch and got notes. I wasn't able to address those notes until March and April of this year, due to some day job shenanigans, a depressive episode, and more travel. But just before my departure for an adventure in the Netherlands this month, I typed THE END and hit save on over three hundred pages and 65,000 words. I am due to pitch to agents this coming Saturday, April 29th, then I will enter the query phase, sending letters of introduction to potential agents, who would subsequently offer the book to publishers and editors. I feel ready. This feels right. And I am hopeful for a favorable response.
