Alive in the superunknown


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superunknownMy alarm went off today at 5:45 and the first thing I saw when I grabbed my phone to hit snooze was the AP alert that Chris Cornell was dead.

I know I’m a writer and I’m supposed to be able to describe these feelings in a way that you might not have heard before, but to which you can also relate, but fuck me if I can do that right now.

I cried in bed. I can’t cry about any aspect of my own life to save it, but SPCA commercials, songs, movies, my kid saying unexpected poetic things, dead children in Syria, dew on a spiderweb–beauty and pain, beauty and pain, beauty and pain, there go my eyes. It’s never buckets. It’s an ache that rises and squeezes an offering of empathy to my face, cheeks, hands, to evaporate into some shared space. It’s permission to feel. I might be broken but I heal.

When there is a very public death of someone we don’t know “in real life,” especially when we lose an artist, I always think that it isn’t the person so much as the loss of possibility that we mourn. I’d like to revise that sentiment. Continue reading


Someone I love is being abused: Notes from the other side


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A friend of mine recently shared with me that she’s been dealing with emotional and physical abuse at the hands of a guy she was seeing.

I say was because she has fortunately left the relationship, and now is when I worry about her the most.

The most dangerous time for a victim is immediately after escape.

My friend was safe last night and this morning. She has a plan and she is strong.

I’m not going to share her story because it’s not mine to share, but I do want to talk a little about being on the other side of this for once—being the friend who listens and believes and doesn’t say should, the way my closest friends listened to and believed me and didn’t say should. (And guess what, not saying should isn’t easy, so thank you, friends. You’re incredible.)

I’m not new to people telling me they’ve been abused. Writing about domestic violence in a public way means that women frequently contact me and tell me about their own experiences. It’s the most positive feedback I receive—which might sound strange, but those messages always come with a thank you, I feel less alone since I read what you wrote. Good, that’s why I wrote it.

What I’m new to is being close to someone, seeing warning signs, and still practicing what I preach about listening instead of instructing. Continue reading

Taking over the Elizabeth Ayres Center for Creative Writing: On gratitude and humility while still owning one’s success


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Friends, it is not very often I get to share news this big, and I’ve been sitting on it for nearly four months, so here goes.

I’ve been teaching and designing online writing courses for the Elizabeth Ayres Center for Creative Writing for almost three years now. The Center is independent, founded in 1990 by Elizabeth in her own home, and exclusively online and expanding since 2000. It’s wonderful work and I’ve been so happy doing it. On this past New Year’s Eve, Elizabeth called me to say she wants to retire to follow a lifelong dream of hers (this incredible woman has many, many dreams), and she offered me the Center: to take it over, run it, grow it as I see fit.

After I picked myself up off the floor, I accepted her offer. Continue reading

My little thunderstorm


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It occurs to me I haven’t written about Jax in a long time, so I have to tell you about his obsession with thunderstorms, and maybe commit to sharing a funny or adorable Jax story on a more regular basis. There are, after all, zillions from which to choose.

Jax has always been a little jumpy about thunder. A couple weeks ago, it started thundering while we were eating supper. Our kitchen table is directly in front of a big bay window overlooking the back yard, with woods behind it, so we started to see some lightning and the first drops of rain. I checked my weather app and sure enough… Continue reading

Just a quick reminder about how badassly powerful we are


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Last Friday, 45 pulled his disastrous excuse for a healthcare bill after learning he didn’t have the votes to pass it via a repeal of the Affordable Care Act.

This is what victory looks like. Or rather, this is what incremental victory during would-be-apocalypse looks like.

I don’t know how many calls and faxes I made to my representatives in defense of maternity leave, covering those with preexisting conditions, keeping Medicare intact, etc. etc., but I made them. I was deeply concerned about accessibility to affordable healthcare for all Americans, and I spoke up, along with millions of you, and look what we did. Continue reading

#Mustread: “Resistbot Turns Your Texts Into Faxes to Elected Officials”


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botYou guys gotta try Resistbot!

Also, we all should be reading more Teen Vogue, for real. Last week, this mag featured an article about a tool called Resistbot, and it sounded interesting so I bookmarked it and promptly forgot about it until sippin on a hot toddy last night after putting kiddo to bed at the end of a particularly patience-draining day of another kind of resistance (i.e., preschooler to mother about EVERYTHING). I was scrolling through my bookmarks and whoa, hold up, you can text a message through Resistbot and it will fax it to your reps for you?

Yep. Resistbot is a thing. I just used it to fax Casey and Toomey about (again) opposing the new healthcare monstrosity legislation.

Here’s how it works: Continue reading

TV, teen girls, and feminism matter, or, still wiggins about my Buffy essay pubbed at Salon


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buffy over twilightAny time you can transform hundreds of hours of binge-watching your favorite TV show into a paid byline, life is grand.

Last week, my essay about Buffy–edit, my word-geeking about the greatest show to ever feminism–was published at Salon. I’ve never been published at Salon before. I’ve never had work published anywhere with as much reach. The fact that I hit such a milestone on the hem of one of Buffy’s still-fabulous leather trenches is delicious.

But honest to god, it was just so fun to write. Continue reading

Some (more) thoughts on trigger warnings


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traffic-sign-160659__340TW: brief mention of domestic violence

I have been very outspoken in my support of trigger warnings in the past. I believe it is crucial that we don’t shut trauma survivors of all kinds out of conversations and readings. I believe warning people about the content they are about to consume is not enabling avoidance, but choice. I believe no one else but me should decide when I read or view something that might disturb me. I believe trigger warnings are shows of compassion.

At the college where I work, there was recently a guest speaker who talked about trigger warnings. I couldn’t go, but a colleague gave me the run-down. She said this speaker was adamant that “trigger warning” is an insufficient label, and it really made me think.

A trigger is not necessarily a word or phrase or topic. Triggers are multi-sensory. Continue reading

Must read: “If They Should Come for Us”


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flame-1013280_1920No think piece must-read will do this week. We should all read this poem by Pakistani, Kashmiri, Muslim American writer Fatimah Asghar, “If They Should Come for Us,” from the March issue of Poetry. God.

my people I follow you like constellations
we hear the glass smashing the street
& the nights opening their dark
our names this country’s wood
for the fire…

When I’m weary of the headlines, I get the same news, the same humanity and inhumanity, from my overcrowded bookshelves and the literary web.

Sometimes poetry is the only way to hear things that we can’t and shouldn’t un-hear.

When it rains warm and cleansing, it pours chill: Success and the demon of doubt


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Photo by Flickr user allison rose (Creative Commons license).

Good things are happening to me, left and right. A development in my professional life, to be announced soon, is so big and incredible and affirming that I sometimes sit back in my desk chair and beam upon remembering with a jolt, a dozen little such jolts each day, that this thing is happening. Forgive my vagueness.

I recently had a big breakthrough in a writing project I’ve been working on for at least two years now. The proverbial aha moment where the pieces click into place and a title comes and oh hey, this is what a book looks like just before it’s born.

My volunteer work is fulfilling. My resistance work, the bit that I can do and manage with two jobs and that pesky need for sleep, is fulfilling. My relationships, even those that have been troubled lately, are fulfilling. My son is a magnificent brilliant sensitive alien star-fire gift of love and being his mom is The Fulfilling. I am healthy. The bills are (mostly) paid and the car started this morning.

And still. Past trauma + current political climate says, hold on there, mama. Too self-assured, too solid. Here, have some anxiety about it, about all of it. Have some self-doubt. Remember who you are. Continue reading