I don’t know where to begin, but begin I will… I am a woman. I am a writer. I am interested in telling stories about existential grays. About life and love and relationships and philosophy and pain. I have high hopes. With but one book under my writerly belt, I am still a rookie, but I do hope my stories will, over time, reach oodles of people. I also hope that they will receive critical acclaim should they deserve that acclaim. It would also be nice if, by doing what I love (and, man, this is it right here), I am able to contribute mightily to the financial integrity of the family I cherish. That’s right, here I am, at the starting gates of this literary race, hoping humbly and boldly for commercial and literary success down the road.

(Per New York law, dreaming big is perfectly legal.)

Late last night, friend and fellow blogger Kristen of Motherese sent me a link to a Huffington Post article by Jason Pinter wherein Jennifer Weiner and Jodi Picoult, two vanguards of women’s fiction whose talents and careers I respect deeply, discuss a recent online controversy about “the alleged shoddy treatment of commercial writers, in particular writers of what is commonly referred to as ‘women’s fiction’” that arose after the New York Times and other publications extensively covered Jonathan Franzen’s most recent novel Freedom. In this Huff Po piece, Weiner and Picoult offer “their thoughts on what role gender plays in literary criticism, the importance of popular fiction in our culture, and whether progress is being made.”

I implore you to click over and read the entire article now because it is stuffed with insights and angles and I can only scratch the surface of it here. Picoult and Weiner argue, each wielding her own compelling arguments and anecdotes, that the literary establishment, and the Times in particular, tends to overwhelmingly review male authors over female authors and “literary fiction” over popular or “commercial fiction.”

Something Weiner said really struck me, and concerned me: “I think it’s a very old and deep-seated double standard that holds that when a man writes about family and feelings, it’s literature with a capital L, but when a woman considers the same topics, it’s romance, or a beach book – in short, it’s something unworthy of a serious critic’s attention.”

When asked why she deems it important that commercial fiction receive critical attention, Picoult responds, “Because historically the books that have persevered in our culture and in our memories and our hearts were not the literary fiction of the day, but the popular fiction of the day. Think about Jane Austen. Think about Charles Dickens. Think about Shakespeare. They were popular authors. They were writing for the masses.”

Is there this double standard? I don’t know, but maybe so. Why might there be this critical rejection of tales that appeal to the masses? Again, I don’t pretend to know, but these things worry me and make me wonder about the literary world into which I tiptoe at this very moment. Here’s the thing. I have tremendous respect for Picoult and Weiner. Both of these women are immensely gifted; their writing is good and resonates with so many of us. I also love the Times. I grew up watching my parents flip through this paper at the breakfast table and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t dream of one day seeing a book of mine reviewed in its pages.

So what now? Should I duck behind my decidedly male name and allow some readers or reviewers to think I am a man? Of course not. Should I whip up some tales of espionage or murder? I don’t think so. I am a woman and I will write the stories I want to write.

What more is there to say? A whole lot. This thicket of questions and concerns is far too complicated for me to understand or address fully on this Friday morning. But what I can and will say is thank you. To Kristen for sending this article my way. To Jennifer and Jodi for standing up and speaking up on behalf of all of us. To Jason for bringing this article to life.

And thank you to you guys, my readers – writers and people – for allowing me to dream big here. And doubt big, too.

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• Have you followed this controversy? Have you read the article? Thoughts?
• Do you agree that there is a double standard in the writing world (and maybe in other professional worlds)?
• Do literary and commercial success need to be mutually exclusive?
  
• Why do we insist on a distinction between literary and commercial fiction? Can’t a book have literary heart and soul and pack a commercial punch?
• Do you think I should keep my unwieldy dreams to myself?
  
• Have you read books by Picoult and/or Weiner? Have you enjoyed them like I have?
  

“All first drafts are shit.”

Ernest Hemingway

I am a perfectionist. Full of paralyzing pride. I like to do things well, and right. Quite often, this perfectionism serves me splendidly. There’s nothing wrong with having sky-high standards, right?

Wrong.

Particularly when it comes to writing. As I have mentioned, I am in the process of writing my second novel. And, depending on the moment, my fingers are flying fabulously or I am having a hard time. In these difficult moments, I am getting stalled and stuck and stranded. And I think I know why.

I want exquisite prose and deft dialogue to tumble out of me. I want my ideas to be crisp and spicy, full of authentic and existential bite. I want my story to take shape like a famous statue. Right away.

Ha.

Thankfully, I have a good memory. I recall Life After Yes’s infancy. That famous first draft. It was utter and unequivocal crap, a big clumsy pile of paper riddled with inconsistencies and holes and nonsense. It was embarrassingly bad. But, you know what?

It was also a start. The start.

I shaped that pile of paper, that stream of words, into something better. And then? I shaped that something better into something even tighter. I did this over and over again, working hard, having fun, chipping away, adding, reinventing. And one day? One day, I had something that was okay. And then one day I had something that was good. And one magical day that good thing was really good. And then great. (Hey, I am biased. I wrote the thing.)

It is so helpful for me to remember this. That this writing thing is a process. It is so helpful for me to read Hemingway’s words. And I am not a fan of profanity but I make an exception here because, well, first drafts are shit. They just are. And an important and subtle distinction must be made. That distinction? First drafts are perhaps meant to be shit. This has nothing to do with experience, with rookie-dom. This is the way it should, perhaps must, be every time. Writing a first draft is an inherently messy endeavor; we are spilling shreds of self and story onto page, gathering bits of imagination and invention, collecting ingredients for what might become something wonderful.

But not yet.

So, on this fine Thursday morning, I want to thank Mr. Hemingway for his sage words and reminder to just write and write and write some more. To spew shit. The good kind. There is plenty of time to clean up later.

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• Do you agree with Hemingway that first drafts are meant to be mangled and messy things?
• Are you a perfectionist too? Does this help or hinder you more in your life?
• Do you spend more time writing or editing?
• Do you agree that there is wisdom in Hemingway’s words not just for the writer, but for the person? That, so often in life, we should just stop worrying and act and then edit the drafts of days later?
• Would you be suspicious of someone who claimed her first drafts were marvelous? (I would.)
  

I’m going to come right out and say it: I love Facebook. I do. It’s worth noting that I do not spend much time at all on the site – maybe ten minutes a day? – but the time I do spend is both enjoyable and rewarding. I love that Facebook facilitates connections with friends old and new. I love being able to see pictures of tiny babies and beloved dogs and lavish weddings and happy people. I relish being able to stay on top of the careers of authors I admire. Most of all, I love getting back in touch with people who were once important in my life, but slipped away for no good reason at all.

A few days ago, a friend from college whom I have not seen in ages – a beautiful and brilliant girl – messaged me to say that she had finished reading Life After Yes. I was thrilled of course to hear that she loved the book, but her note was so much more than simple praise for my literary debut. I could explain how deeply her words affected me, but decided it would be far more powerful to share her words with you. I asked her if I could write a blog post about our exchange and she was quick with a generous yes. She said I could post her letter and even use her name, but I have decided to refer to her instead as d just as she closes her note. I have also eliminated information about where she lives. (Hey, I’m a paranoid creature.)

Hey Aidan!

I just finished your book today and I LOVED it! I know it’s taken a while for me to finish, and I’m going to share why it’s taken so long because its so very relevant to how the book affected me. I’ll try to be brief (not because I don’t want to share– I’m an exceedingly open person so I will always elaborate– I just didn’t want to ask you to read a novel of my own, just yet So, the move to X was great and I love the city. A few weeks after starting work, I was getting ready to take time off to study for the bar (which I wasn’t that excited about since I’m even more ready than I thought to not be in the law), when my dad suddenly died. It was unexpected, so it was a lot to process and a lot to do (his affairs are a mess and it’s going to be a long time to sort things out). I wasn’t close with my dad, but had already gone to a lot of therapy to address those issues, including asking the question of whether I was okay in case he died (weird I know but my sister has crazy weird premonitions and last summer she said she thought he’d die in the next year or two). Even so, it still hit pretty hard. But I still had to study for the bar and then the MPRE, so that was pretty stressful- flying back and forth to Y with my little barbri books.

And then right after I finished the bar, I was in one of my close friend’s weddings in San Diego and I was totally caught off guard by my reaction to the father/bride dance (I played it off after a good long cry outside). And then the next day the guy I’d been seeing for the last 2 months (not terribly serious but high potential) broke things off. So, quite a lot in the last month.

I’m actually doing really well, and this weekend finally had some time, so I picked LAY back up. I think it was just what I needed. In this crazy way it tied together so many things I’m struggling with– wanting to escape the law in part because I question whether I can remain ME within it, dealing with the death of my father (who was not perfect, but was still my father), knowing it will be my mother who walks me down the aisle some day, and still looking for the person to walk towards. So, not only did I think it was brilliantly written and raw and honest in a way I don’t expect from first novels (call me a literary snob , but it touched me. And I mean it REALLY touched me. As a writer I imagine you hope to touch people and I’m hoping this is one of the highest compliments I can give you for your first of what I hope are many brilliant novels. So, thank you for writing it! I’m also so excited for you and will be recommending it left and right!

I realize this was a bit of a sad face message, but it was only so you could see how much your book meant to me. Otherwise, I am doing well– X is a great city, I’m thrilled to live near my mom and sister and nephew, I already have some great friends, I really like the people at my firm, I do yoga a ton and am still running (gearing up for a half in Moab, Utah which is supposed to be gorgeous)… so overall I really am okay. I only emphasize this because I know if I read all that, I might question whether “I really am okay” is an email message front covering a broken soul. I’m not broken– I’m just settling back in to “whelmed” from “overwhelmed” and wanted desperately to finish your book and tell you what I thought! It just happened to have taken on a very personal edge for me.

Anyway, I hope you are doing well! I see pictures of your gorgeous little girls and see you in their faces… so amazing!

xo,
d

I read these words again now. For the umpteenth time in two days. I smile and fight tears. This friend is going through so much right now, but she is also so strong, so vibrant, so d. It means the world to me that she took time from her life, her complicated life, to write these words. To tell me that my book affected her, struck something in her. This letter reminds me of many things, but two in particular: (1) We are not alone. We are all struggling with something. We all have open wounds, lost parents or lost loves, haunting personal and professional doubts, mental and physical aspirations; (2) I am writing to make people feel. This, for me, is not ultimately about sales rankings and bestseller lists and money. This is about writing words, stringing them together with heart and soul and reverence for humanity, in such a way that they might, if I succeed, touch someone else, and profoundly.

Thank you for your words and the reminders they bring, d. I love you and know you will weather this cruel storm with your trademark fortitude and grace.

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• Do you have any words of encouragement or wisdom for my friend d during this time?
• Do you write to make people feel? To make yourself feel?
• Are you amazed by the resilience of human beings during objectively rotten existential times?
• Do you enjoy the connections and re-connections that Facebook facilitates?

This morning, I woke up sad.

For several minutes, the inaugural minutes of this July day, I didn’t know why I felt this way. I looked around me for clues. My legs were tangled in powder soft sheets. The door to the bathroom was ajar; through the opening I heard the rumble of Husband’s shower. Out the window, tree branches swayed, flirting with the sun, cocky even at this early hour. A muffled melody came from the corridor; the sweet chirping of little girls. And, at all of this, these small things that are so big to me, these mundane morsels of the everyday, I did smile. But that smile faded too quickly. And I was left there, alone in my bed, swaddled in sadness once more.

But like a good existential trouper, I sat up, reaching for my glasses on the bedside, eager to see. Eager to see more clearly the lines of my life, my good life. Eager to see more clearly the lines of my melancholy. Because there is one thing worse than sadness: unexplained sadness.

I paused on the edge of our tall bed, my feet dangling freely like that of a little child. I continued to listen. The sounds changed. Husband turned off the spray of water. My girls started calling for us. And it hit me. Suddenly and swiftly. I am sad because we are moving. Because one week from today, our life will be in boxes and crates. Seven measly days into the future, my family will migrate.

And I know this is exciting. That it is a distinct privilege that we have been able to dream and design, brainstorm and build, and pick wild purple papers. I know. And I know that it is a matter of time before we are settled there, before the new place is home.

But for now. For now, this is home. This is our place. This is the place where I have spent seven-plus years, stumbling and evolving. I arrived here a young girl, a student of life and law, confident and confused. I will leave here a different breed. A wife and mother and wordsmith, a student of love and loss and longing, ever confident and ever confused. Husband proposed here. Our babies were raised here. Dad knew this place. I wrote my first book here (and at Starbucks). I threw killer parties here. A lot of good things happened here. A lot.

In the kitchen this morning, as we were pouring our coffees, I hugged Husband. Like always. But this time I lingered, not letting go. “I’m sad that we’re moving,” I said.

And he hugged me fiercely. “I know, but we are moving in the right direction.”

With these words, something lifted in me. Lightened. A smile settled. And, this time, it didn’t fade.

“Thank you,” I said. To my man. The man who moves me every day. Who will move with me next week.

And then I felt a rush, a tricky emotional tide. Of sadness, yes. The sweet kind. Of happiness, in muted and magical tones. Of excitement, building. Of change, scary and sublime. Of relief, that I can be honest, that I can be sad, that I can say what I’m feeling. To my guy. To you.

With my cup of coffee and my computer, I went to the couch. The couch that will be soon hoisted by strong strangers into a big truck. I did what I so often do when I’m a bit lost. I looked for words. Words about change. And I found something that made me smile.

“There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction”

Winston Churchill

This made me smile because Churchill and my man said the very same thing. I told Husband. You are a very smart man, I insisted. And I kept smiling.

But behind that smile, this smile, the complex sadness lingers and asks. What is the right direction? Is there such thing? How do we find what is right? What if we are not as happy in our bigger home with the high ceilings and crystal door knobs and  fancy wallpapers?

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• Do you ever experience unexplained sadness? How do you cope?
• When you approach big change in your life, are you more confident (a la Husband and Churchill) or confused (like I am)?
• How have you handled the moves in your life? Has it been hard for you to leave behind the space, the memories, the years?
• In life, do you think there is such thing as the “right direction”? Or do you think there are just directions, paths, this way and that, and we tell ourselves they are “right” to feel better about our choices?
• Am I a spoiled brat (indeed likely) for not being 110% ecstatic about moving into our lovely new place?

{Shameless self-promo. Because I want a big, bad writing career and rumor has it that sales matter }

Life is like riding a bicycle.

To keep your balance you must keep moving.

Albert Einstein

I am not very good at stopping.

My days are stuffed with chaos. Profound chaos that emerges from a brilliant mixture of choice and chance and children. Persistent chaos that defies my clumsy attempts at boxing it. And this chaos, this chaos that has come to reign, it keeps me on my toes, keeps me acting and reacting, thinking and saying. Night time offers no solace. There is chaos there too; a choppy storm of images and insights. Each morning, I awaken with shards of more chaos to carry with me.

My days are full of flux. Activity. Motion. There are creatures crying and singing and laughing and running. There are emails dancing. There are things to do, mouths to feed, goals to envision, words to write, hands to hold, memories to tend, fears to accommodate, hopes to fluff. There is Time, that beast that has no choice but to tick and travel, marching on with us and past us. There is no pause button. There is no status quo. There is evolution with is soft core and hard edges. There is change, good and bad and indifferent.

Life moves and morphs. We cannot ask it to stop. It does its own thing. And so. We must move with it, spinning those wheels, our wheels, looking ahead and around, speeding and slowing, the world’s wind whispering sweet nothings and sweet everythings into our tiny ears, toward destinations unknown. To keep our balance, we must keep moving. Always moving.

I am not very good at stopping. Which is good, I guess. Because I am in the business of living.

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Do you believe that to keep our balance in life we must keep moving? That if we stop fully to study the landscape of existence, to question things, to discern order, we will fall?

*** Would you like to join Team LAY? Click for details!***