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.

____________________________________

• 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?
  

After a long, hot day, you two retire to that small room with that big bed. That waiting cloud, puffy with pillows. You slip out of your clothes, fold them carefully and put them away. You grab your favorite pair of pajamas and step in. You are brushing your teeth in the bathroom when you feel it. A familiar hand on your waist. A playful finger tucks into the waistband of your pajama bottoms. Pleasantly startled, you turn. Drop your toothbrush. Your head throbs with details and doubts from your day, aches with the sharp stuff of reality, but still you smile…

Hold up. As much fun as it might be, this blog is not the place for quasi-erotic domestic snippets. Sorry. The title of this post is not entirely deceiving though. I do have a bedroom dilemma. But it concerns my daughters. Not so racy, I know.

Again, sorry.

In less than three weeks, after more than three years of dreaming and planning and work, we are moving into our new home. Once upon a time, I documented the progress of this home on this blog under the clever title Happy Headache. It was fun to trace the progress of our renovation here, but then I stopped. Not sure why. Anyway, we are moving. Soon. And in our new place, the girls will each have a wonderful room.

Toddler’s is purple.

Baby’s is blue.

But.

As many of you know, we just returned from an extended vacation and during said vacation – to the woods, the farm, and the beach – the girls shared a room the whole time. Husband and I were a bit worried about this arrangement because our kids have different sleep schedules. But we rolled with it. And you know what? Everything went well. Better than well. The girls loved being in the same room. Every morning and evening, Husband and I listened to their conversations, precocious and precious, on a sound monitor. Over the course of the two-plus weeks, Toddler taught Baby how to sing her ABCs, Twinkle Twinkle, and Itsy Bitsy Spider. Post-vacation Baby is far more verbal than pre-vacation Baby. And the girls? More so than ever, they are best buds.

Now. Now we are home and the girls are back in their own rooms. They don’t appear overly sad about this. They are indeed adaptable little critters. But I’m a bit sad about this. Because there are no longer those amazing conversations to spy on at the opening and close of the day. There are no longer the impromptu music lessons. Or the quiet discipline. (At a certain point every night, Toddler would say firmly to her signing sister, “It’s bedtime now. No more books. No more songs. No more Mommy and Daddy.”) The tight togetherness, surprisingly harmonious, was temporary. We are now back to our world of sisterly separation.

And so. I find myself in the thicket of another parenting dilemma. Yes, we have designed two separate rooms for our two girls in the new place, but should we use them or should we put our little creatures in the same room? It is worth noting that Husband and I are leaning toward having a third child at some point, so the girls will likely share sometime in the relatively near future anyway.

This might not seem like a big deal to you. Or a genuine dilemma. But it is to me. Because I grew up sharing a room with all of my sisters. We all bunked in a giant green dorm of sorts and I slept on a top bunk. It was absolute chaos, but I loved it. There was never a lack of laughter or drama or friendship in that room. And this was such an important aspect of my childhood that I actually wrote my college essay about it.

So. This question matters to me. And I have a mere eighteen days to decide what to do. And so I’m asking you to weigh in here. Because you all have experiences. As kids who shared rooms or didn’t. As parents whose kids share rooms or don’t.

(Help. Pretty please.)

What do you guys think? Give the girls their own space or let them bunk together?

If you like my writing or me (or the wallpaper in my kids’ rooms) or you simply want to make me smile big, please buy my book (which is considerably more spicy than this post)!

First order of business: Thank you. For reading my admittedly very vulnerable post yesterday. To be honest, I was very scared to publish those words. Scared to put myself out there. Before publishing, I read those words to Husband and he said to go for it. That those words were honest and raw and heartfelt. And that they were me. And so. With shaky hands, I hit publish. And then I sat there, shrouded in soft silence, waiting for you. Your words. And they came swiftly and sweetly. And, throughout the day, I lapped them up, your sentiments, thoughtfully strewn here in my space. And, magically, meaningfully, I felt stronger. More secure. Before I knew it, smiles, real smiles, returned.

And today? Today I am happier. Happier because I allowed myself to stop pretending and strip down for you. Happier because you allowed me to be something other than polished perfection. You allowed me to be me. Today, I am happier for another reason though. Last night. Last night was pure celebratory magic. Last night was another Happier Hour. The third I’ve hosted so far. This time, the party took place in a gorgeous four-bedroom apartment with fabulous city views in a new building on the Upper East Side called The Azure. We women sipped delicious wine donated from a wonderful Argentinian label called La Linda and talked about Commitment & Celebration. And my co-host was the incredible Jes Gordon. And because I know many of you are new here (welcome!), I will read you what I said to the cluster of sixty or so women who gathered to listen and learn.

Welcome all to this beautiful apartment on this beautiful evening. Many of you know the idea – both simple and profound – behind Happier Hours, but it’s worth repeating for the rookies here. The idea is that a chilled glass of wine is a scrumptious way to bookend a long, hot day, but that conversation and connection are what truly make us happier.

And tonight, I am plenty happy. I am happy because my first novel Life After Yes debuted a little over two weeks ago. Some of you might know that I had a bit of trouble coming up with a title for my story. Up until the last few months, it was called BlackBerry Girl. But then one random Wednesday afternoon, as I was wrangling my little girls on the Wild Wild Upper West, my editor called and told me – very diplomatically – that we needed a new title.

At the time, I wanted to cry – and I’m pretty sure I did – but after many brainstorming sessions at Starbucks, I came up with Life After Yes. And it is the perfect title if I do say so myself. Because, yes, it captures the subject matter of my book – an engagement and a maybe wedding. But more so, because, really this story is about something bigger. It is about saying Yes. About commitment. Not just to a man, but to happiness, to a city, to a career, to friends, to dreams.

And what is life, but the commitment and re-commitment to people and places, to passions and purposes? And so. Tonight, we celebrate commitment. Tonight, we commit to celebrate. Conversations and connections. Life and love and literary ventures.

But my book is not all that is making me smile. Hardly. Tonight, I am giddy because my good friend and event planner extraordinaire Jes Gordon is here with me. Sure, Jes is a rock star in her own right. She runs her own very successful business and she too just published a book. But what means something to me, a great something, is that once upon a time, Jes planned my wedding to Husband. I remember waltzing into her studio with Mom, sitting and talking and dreaming about my big day. I remember her showing me the tiny white ski vests that became our totally ridiculous, over the top, and amazing save the dates. They said: “Take a snow day!” Jes was incredible to work with and thanks to her love, creative genius, and imagination, my wedding day, the day on which I committed to my forever guy, was perfection. Not fairy tale perfection. But my kind of perfection.

So, thank you, Jes. For helping me celebrate my commitment more than five years ago and for helping me commit to celebrate many magical moments in my own life after yes.

Like this one.

And then I turned things over to Jes. Unlike me, she had nothing planned. She did not clutch a piece of computer paper between quaking fingers. Instead, she just talked. About her story. About her commitment to helping people celebrate. She was articulate and engaging and wickedly funny. She threw around a naughty word here and there which made us blush and giggle. I wish I could tell you everything she said because she was really that good, but I will stick to one thing. One brilliant thing.

Jes talked about being naked. About how writing a book and putting it out there in the world is like standing naked for all to see. She also said that this is what happens when we are brides; we think we are there tucked away in our expensive tailored gowns, but in reality, we are stripped down, naked, there to be judged. And that this is a scary and amazing thing. As Jes said these things, I stood beside her, smiling and nodding. Yes, because I love me a good metaphor. But more because she is right. I remember my wedding day. Standing there in my vast princess dress. Surrounded by people looking, watching, judging.

And that is how I feel now. My book is out there. Which means I am out there. A piece of who I am is floating about. But I am also still here. In my yoga pants and glasses. Behind a soothing screen. A human being. One with dreams and doubts and fears and flaws. One who is just now realizing how powerful, truly powerful, vulnerability can be. How it can free us, and connect us, and make life real and good.

Thank you, Jes. For your unique and unwavering friendship and support. For making me – and all of us – realize that buttoning up and playing it safe is not what makes us happy. No. It is being naked from time to time – at our weddings, in our words and wishes and ways, that makes it all worth it.

Today I am happier.

Thank you, Jes.

Thank you, all.

___________________________

• Do you agree that there is an immense power inherent in vulnerability?
• Do you agree that life entails constant commitment and re-commitment to people and places and purposes?
• Do you have a hard time stripping down and letting go?
• Are you good at celebrating life’s sweet moments?
• Are you afraid of commitment?
• Did you feel naked at your wedding or at other times in your life? Was this scary or amazing or both?
• Do you think that in blogging we are in many ways stripping down, exposing emotional and existential skin?
  

She sauntered into the room atop hot heels. Scattering sexy and sheepish smiles. Oozing intelligence and experience. Like cultured creatures, we approached one another – a blonde Professor of Insecurities and a brunette Professor of Irresistibility. We sized each other up, shook hands and traded words of welcome. I thanked her in advance for joining me, us. For sharing her wiles and her wisdom. She thanked me for inviting her. We were off to a good start.

Marie Forleo.

As some of you know, I hosted Happier Hour Part Deux this past Wednesday night. Along with seventyish other women (including one of my beloved bloggy buds and one male crasher!), I welcomed the fabulous Marie. And she didn’t disappoint. To the contrary, Marie wowed us all, sharing brilliant bits of her expertise and experience (her nixed engagement, her foray into hip-hop, her self-publishing bravery, her insights on being rich, happy, and hot). She made us laugh deeply and nod fiercely.

Marie did something on Wednesday night that I attempt to do here every day at Ivy League Insecurities: She told her story and in doing so, she told ours. She talked about how alike we all are. Brunette or blonde, young or old, shy or bold, city or country, we are all going through many of the same things. We all face many of the same challenges. We are all victims and victors in the same thing: Life.

And it became clear – and instantly – that Marie is good for far more than dating advice. Her fabulous book How to Make Every Man Want You is indeed a Trojan Horse. Sure, it contains tips on lassoing good men, but at bottom, it is a guidebook on how to love. Self and other. And how to live. Well and fully.

And so. I am a wee bit biased, but I think the night was pure magic. We sipped cocktails and savored conversation. We were silly and serious all at once. We listened and learned. We allowed ourselves – on a random Wednesday in April – to slow down, open up, and be happier.

Marie shared so many compelling ideas about presence and purpose, but one in particular struck me. And I wanted to share that idea with you because this idea has already changed something in me. It was, and is, that powerful. An existential light switch of sorts.

You are not your mind.

You have a mind, but you are not your mind.

Marie elucidates this concept in her book,

You have a mind, but you are not your mind. You are also not the conversation you have with yourself in your mind. You may be thinking, “What conversation? What is she talking about?” That one!

…Your mind … is a past/future fear-based machine that is primarily concerned with survival. It’s always comparing, analyzing, scheming, and talking to you about what you need to do in order to become better, prettier, more successful, or more attractive. The mind is usually not supportive of your irresistibility. It likes to talk about your mistakes and how bad, unattractive, stupid, or unworthy you are. (By the way, none of those things your mind talks to you about are actually true, but unless you become aware that you are not your mind, you believe them to be true.)

As someone who is tethered to a busy and buzzing mind, a mind that does not cease with its creative and critical chatter, this was good and necessary for me to hear. I love my mind dearly, but sometimes, often, it distracts me and drags me down.

I am more than my mind. Far more. We all are.

It seems that I was not the only one who was shaken – in a good way – by Marie’s musings. Kate Northrup – my friend who generously introduced me to Marie and who was also with us on Wednesday night – wrote a great post yesterday about how she too is more than her mind.

We are not minds. Or bodies. We are people. People with bounty to bring and luggage to carry. With questions to live and love to give.

We are all insecure. We are all irresistible.

Thank you, Marie, for making Happier Hour such a smashing success and for waking me up to the reality that I am more than my marvelously manic mind.

______________________

• Do you have any professional/intellectual crushes?
• Do you agree that we are more than our minds, than the conversations in our heads?
• Do you believe that we are more alike than we are different?
  
• Do you believe that insecurity and irresistibility can commingle in us?
• Do you think that, in some part, our insecurities and humanness can add to our irresistibility?
• Do you think we are so insecure, to some extent, because we do not feel irresistible enough?
• Have you ever encountered an idea or person that triggered a profound realization in you? What was that idea?

ILI DAILY CHARM: MORE OF ME!

Today you can also find me and my words next door at Amy’s wonderful blog the Never-True Tales! Is it a bit bizarre and egotistical to feature myself a daily charm? Perhaps. But Amy’s blog is well worth a visit. And anyway, as my friend Gretchen Rubin says (or quotes someone who said?): “Ubiquity is the new exclusivity.”

Did this title hook you in? Fabulous. That was the intention.

But it’s not my title. So I can’t take credit. This is the title of Marie Forleo’s bestselling book. The subtitle for said book? How to Be So Irresistible You’ll Barely Keep from Dating Yourself!

Committed or no (Marie assures me that the title of her book is a bit of a Trojan Horse that belies the deeper, more universal substance of its pages) how can you not be the least bit curious about the contents of this book? I am. Check out the first paragraph of Marie’s Preface: “What if I told you, that in about an hour, I could share information with you that could make you happier, healthier and more attractive in a matter of minutes?”

Um. I’d be listening. We’d all be.

And we will be! For it is time for Happier Hour Part Deux! Many of you know that a month ago I kicked off my quasi-salon-series Happier Hours and that I hosted the incomparable Gretchen Rubin who spoke and sparked conversations on the topic of Happiness. We all know that I suffered a sublime Happiness Hangover after that exquisite evening and found myself debating the Dollhouse Hypothesis of well-being. The gist was that the first gathering for wine, women, and words was a ringing success.

Next Wednesday (4/21/10), I will welcome the incomparable “multi-passioned” entrepreneur and author Marie Forleo. Marie’s resume might make you cry. She is a best-selling author, speaker, online-entrepreneur, Nike Athlete and Master Trainer, fitness personality, and dancer/choreographer. Marie’s Rich, Happy & Hot™ brand is “dedicated to empowering women with tools to create financial, spiritual and emotional wealth through entrepreneurship.”

On top of all of this, Marie is a philanthropist, fiancee, and mother. (Nauseous yet?) Marie has appeared in The New York Times, Shape Magazine, on The Rachael Ray Show, ABC’s 20/20, CNN.com, Forbes.com, HSN and has done numerous interviews on radio and TV.

I could go on. But won’t. You get the picture. And it’s very pretty.

I am thrilled to have encountered Marie (thank you, Kate!) and am eagerly anticipating next Wednesday when Marie will grace a wild pack of curious and conscious women with her wisdom and words. Marie will speak on the topic of Presence, on how we can all do a better job of residing in the present moment, and as I am terrible at doing this, I can’t wait to hear what she has to say.

Between now and then, I will do my homework and think about what I want to ask Marie. Some questions I know I want to ask: Ultimately, how effective are self-help books and programs? Has she seen remarkable changes in people who have followed her ideas? Can things like happiness, irresistibility, and presence truly be taught – and learned?

Admittedly, these are tough challenges. But I have zero doubt that Marie will have some insightful answers for me. And all of us.

______________________________

• How do you feel about Self-Help books and programs?
  
• Do you think we can study precepts on how to improve ourselves and truly improve ourselves?
  
• Do you think that happiness, presence, and irresistibility can be taught – and learned – or do you think these ever-elusive qualities are innate or acquired through life experience?
• Do you have any questions you would like me to ask Marie next week?

**Because this Happier Hour will not take place in my cozy home, we can be a bit more flexible with respect to numbers. If you are reading this now and you are in the Big Apple vicinity and are interested in joining Marie and me for Happier Hour Part Deux next Wednesday (4/21), please email me at ivyleagueinsecurities@gmail.com, introduce yourself, state your interest in attending, and I will send along pertinent event details!**

The past few days have been stuffed with love and laughter. And fun. Turns out we Donnelley girls (yes, that includes Mom!) have not forgotten how to have a good time.

But now. I am here. Home. The place where I belong. In the orbit of two little girls. My little girls. I missed them so much it hurt. And it is good to be with them.

I know I should stop apologizing - for my limits, for my longings, for my life – but this is who I am. And so I am sorry. That this post comes late in the day. That these words are wispy and lack true metaphorical heft. I have been traveling and I am tired. I am home and I am happy.

Now. I must go and snuggle two little creatures on our big couch. We will wait – just us girls – for Daddy to come home.

In twenty-eight minutes, there will be a soft knock at the door. And I will pop up, tighten the sash of my white robe, tiptoe across carpet and answer it. A kind man in a uniform will smile at me and ask me how I am. I will keep it simple and tell him that I am fine. Even though on this morning I am better than fine. This man will walk past me, silver tray in hand, and place it down. I will thank him and walk him out. And once the door swings gently behind him, I will pour my first cup of coffee. I will sip it by the window while my sister sleeps. I will peer out. At the coy morning sun. The shimmying palm trees. The brave waves slapping soft sand.

I am not home. I am away. And at this moment, away means Palm Beach, Florida. I am here with Mom, Sister C and Sister I for a girls’ trip. At this very moment, I sit cross-legged on my side of the king bed I’m sharing with C for one more night. The room is silent, but for the whisper of a ceiling fan and the erratic tapping of my computer keys.

I sit here next to my little sister and best friend, a small blue book resting between us. A book C gave me on Sunday morning. We arrived at Newark Airport, a bit sad to have left our babies, but excited for a few days of sleep and sun. When we saw that our plane was delayed, we decided to get breakfast to kill some time. We found a little table and perused plastic menus. We attempted to order breakfast burritos and celebratory bloody marys, but our waiter said no. (Breakfast wasn’t being served and there was a pesky state law that forbade him from ponying up booze before noon on a Sunday.) So, we settled for salads and water.

While we ate, C pulled something from her bag. “I saw this and thought of you,” she said, handing me a small blue book.

I looked at it and smiled big. I Never Metaphor I Didn’t Like by Dr. Mardy Grothe. Immediately, I started flipping through. The smiles kept coming. “C, I am obsessed with metaphors. I love a good metaphor.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I got it for you.”

And so. We sat there, thumbing through the small book together, reading bits of truth.

Words are the physicians of a mind diseased. - Aeschylus

Light tomorrow with today. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. - Hawthorne

Several minutes into our metaphor tete-a-tete, we came up for air and giggled, realizing how funny we must have looked. Two blonde sisters, scarfing airport salads, cooing over quotations.

The airport was packed with families. C and I chuckled at the fact that we left our own babies just to hang out with other people’s little creatures. We found our own plot of carpet at our gate and I pored through my new book, smiling. Remembering. Realizing.

Remembering my first college philosophy paper. It was called “The Umbrella of Skepticism.” It was a terrible thing, but I still like the title.

Remembering my start five years ago. Five years ago, when I started writing, I bought a slew of books on the craft of writing and read them with great care. I noticed that everyone felt strongly about metaphor. That good metaphor was the heart of good writing. And many authors seemed to suggest that the art of metaphor was something enigmatic that could not be readily taught – or learned. This concerned me because I didn’t know much about metaphors – how to craft them, when they were appropriate.

Undeterred, I started playing around with words. Comparing things and ideas. Flirting with metaphors. The very first draft of LIFE AFTER YES contained a bunch of incredibly clumsy metaphors that were ultimately banished from my manuscript. It’s possible that a few remain. Part of me hopes so.

Thousands of years ago, Aristotle said:

The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblance.

Today. I sit here on fluffy hotel sheets, a rookie mistress of metaphor, reading these words bequeathed to all of us by a brilliant man from a book bequeathed to me by a brilliant and thoughtful sister who slumbers beside me. I sit here nodding.

Nodding in agreement that there is a certain magic inherent in sharp metaphors. Nodding in awareness of the power of escape from life. Of getting away. By plane. Or by prose.

Today, on this tiny Tuesday morning in the grand scheme of things, I sit here next to my sister and with myself and I write. And realize.

That some things can’t be taught. How to mingle with metaphors. How to love. How to be loved. How to be true. How to find truth.

That most everything can be learned. If we want something enough, and are willing to work and wrestle and stumble and fail, we can get closer to that something.

I sit here, miles from home, miles from Aristotle, miles from genius, closer than ever to Me, smiling. Clutching a little blue book. Clutching awareness. Clutching gratitude.

Because a good metaphor, like a good sister, like a good family, like a savored escape, is a gift. Exquisitely wrapped. Endlessly enjoyed.

Now I will sign off and wait for that knock. And for your words.

______________________________

• Do you agree that mastery of metaphor is at the core of compelling writing?
• Do you have a very favorite metaphor?
• Do you agree in “Away Sweet Away,” that we all need to escape our everyday from time to time (via travel or the written word) in order to nurture self and appreciate our lives?
• Have you been given a gift recently that has been particularly, and surprisingly, meaningful?
• Do you believe in gifts? That some people are born with talents that others cannot learn?
  

Today is full of sunshine and slow motion and big smiles. Today is a good day.

A happy day.

Last night’s inaugural Happier Hour was a splendid success. Gretchen Rubin was a phenomenal speaker, the crowd was diverse and delightful, and the conversation was priceless. And my shoes? Those impossibly high and silly bright yellow cagey things? They didn’t hurt one bit.

I will be back tomorrow with more delicious deets about the exquisite evening and today’s Happiness Hangover and a chance to win an early copy of LIFE AFTER YES (hey, I’m feeling happy and generous!), but I wanted to leave you with a tiny taste of the night. The following are the words I used to welcome sixty-plus (!) wonderful women (and one very hot man) and to introduce the lovely Gretchen.

Thank you all so much for coming tonight for the inaugural Happier Hour. For taking the time to indulge me in this project, this experiment, this dream.

For me, happiness is conversation. The more genuine, layered, open conversation I have in my life, the happier I am. But tonight is not ultimately about me. Nor is about the lovely Gretchen Rubin who will speak in a few moments. It is not even about the wonderful group of women (and one important man!) we have gathered here. It is about something bigger than all of us: Happiness. That thing each of us covets and craves.

Many of us here are smiling tonight. Many of us consider ourselves to be happy creatures. But. Yes, there is always a but – especially if you are an over-thinker like I am. But we can all stand to be happier.

When I dreamed up tonight, I had one person and one person only, in mind to speak and she stands beside me now. Gretchen Rubin. Gretchen’s recent book THE HAPPINESS PROJECT has now spent eleven weeks on the bestseller list. Not too shabby, huh?

Bestseller or no, I loved the book for its core message, in many ways the message that unites us tonight. We can all do more to appreciate our days. To honor their goodness. To be happier.

On page two of her book, Gretchen writes:

But though at times I felt dissatisfied, that something was missing, I also never forgot how fortunate I was. When I woke up in the middle of the night, as I often did, I’d walk from one room to another to gaze at my sleeping husband tangled in the sheets and my daughters surrounded by their stuffed animals, all safe. I had everything I could possibly want – yet I was failing to appreciate it. Bogged down in petty complaints and passing crises, weary of struggling with my own nature, I too often failed to comprehend the splendor of what I had. I didn’t want to keep taking these days for granted. The words of the writer Colette had haunted me for years: “What a wonderful life I’ve had! I only wish I’d realized it sooner.” I didn’t want to look back, at the end of my life or after some great catastrophe, and think, “How happy I used to be then, if only I’d realized it.”

These words hit me. And haunt me.

Because this is me. This is all of us. We all have many things to appreciate, to feel happy about. And yet this business and busyness of modern life complicates things that should be simple. This business and busyness of modern life makes it almost impossible to have meaningful conversations about big ideas and universal questions. This business and busyness of modern life makes it hard, so hard, to meet new people, interested and interesting people, who are thinking big and dreaming big and doing good.

And so. Here we are. To talk and toast. To engage and enjoy. To laugh and learn.

And most importantly, to be happier.

Cheers!

____________________________

• Do you feel like you fail to appreciate your good fortune, the brightness of your days?
• Do you ever worry that the moments and years will blur by and that you will look back and wish you had realized your happiness more fully?
• Do you agree that the “business and busyness” of modern life complicates things that should be simple?
  
• Have you ever experienced a Happiness Hangover, a day when you can’t stop smiling, are a bit slow on the uptake, and have this foolish but fabulous warm and fuzzy fairy-tale-feeling that life is good?

Please leave a comment here between now and 6am EST tomorrow (3/25/10) for a chance to win a copy of THE HAPPINESS PROJECT!

Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks that meaningful conversation enhances happiness. Check out this recent piece from the New York Times entitled Talk Deeply, Be Happy?

A few weeks ago, I returned to Dalton. My beloved second home from K-12. The place where I learned to read, write, and play the trumpet. I went in on a Friday afternoon to speak to a fifth grade class. It was Sister I’s class. She invited me to come in and talk about LIFE AFTER YES and the publishing process. And of course I agreed. But I must admit something. Making a cameo in her classroom made me impossibly nervous. But I shoved the nerves aside and I arrived. Clutching an advance copy of my book in sweaty palms, smiling a shaky smile, excited beyond belief.

My sister was wonderful. She met me in the lobby. The same lobby where I used to meet my friends before soccer practice. She led me to the room where she spends her days educating smart and curious kids. And the kids were amazing. They were quick on the approach. They studied me with keen eyes and promptly declared that Sister and I look alike. And they were right. We do.

And then I sat in the front of the classroom, twirling nervously in a black desk chair, talking about my own life after yes. About stumbling into a dream I couldn’t deny. About working hard and writing hard. About traveling down dark paths to destinations unknown. And I also talked about less lofty, ephemeral things. Things that were presumably a lot more interesting to a pack of eleven-year-olds. Things like book covers and vampires. Yes, vampires. On that topic, I had little expertise.

I loved the questions. The raised hands. The kids asked the most intelligent, nuanced, searching questions. One girl told me that she loves to write and that she has started several stories that she can’t seem to finish. She wanted to know if I had any advice. And we all know that I am haste to dispense wisdom, but I was put on the spot and I said something. I told this girl to write when she felt compelled, to give her stories the space they need, to finish them when they were ready. Her young smile, sheepish and smart, was priceless.

One kid asked if I always knew I wanted to write and I said no. I said that I always loved to write, but didn’t know until relatively recently that I wanted to write. And then another student asked me if I came up with my own title. And I said yes. Because I did. And then another soft-spoken girl asked if the process was all that I thought it would be or whether there were surprises. And I told her both. That it was everything I thought it would be, but that of course there were surprises.

There always are.

But the best part of the day? By far? Seeing my own sister in action. My big sister. The leader of the Donnelley sister pack. Sister I has always been exceedingly smart (she learned to read at age two and skipped Kindergarten), but she is also exceedingly modest. I had heard through the glorious Donnelley/Dalton grapevine that she is a wonderful teacher and very well-liked and respected, but on that day I got to see it. How she handled her kids with a mixture of humor and affection and firmness. How she alternated between questions that had answers and those that were not meant to be answered.

The day was incredible. Going back to Dalton was without a doubt one of the best experiences I have had since inking my book deal. And I think I am too close to that day to know why exactly. Maybe that day was so big for me because when I stepped into that colorful classroom, I could picture myself as a fifth grader – a quasi-studious tomboy in a green wool Celtics cap – eager to learn and eager to live. Maybe because I was given the sweet opportunity to talk about the twists and turns of the past eighteen months, and a fascinating process it has been a tremendous privilege to enjoy. Maybe because the happiness I felt on that day confirmed for me that this is it. That I have arrived. That whether or not LIFE AFTER YES is a sparkling success or dismal failure, this, right here, is where I am meant to be.

Ultimately, I think the reason that day was so important to me is actually quite simple. I think that for some reason, for some foolish and elusive reason, I have been reluctant to call myself a writer. Which is plain ridiculous because the moment I began hammering away at the trusty keyboard is the moment I became a writer.

Those of us who write? We are writers.

But that day? Standing up there in front of those bright young things talking about my life and my story and my book? It made it real. Exquisitely real. I walked out of that classroom and out of that school and back into my city and I felt different.

I felt, finally felt, like a writer. A real writer. And this is good. Because I am one.

I am a writer.

(It feels good to write this.)

(It feels good to believe this.)

__________________________

• If you have any questions at all about writing or publishing, ask away.
• Have you ever been given a glimpse into the professional world of one of your siblings?
• What were you like in fifth grade?
• Have you gone back to visit your grade school?
• Why do you think so many of us who spend our days writing are so reluctant to call ourselves writers?
  
• What is the deal with vampires? Why are they so hot these days?
  

*Little experiment in generosity here: If you have a blog post you are particularly proud of, please leave a link to the URL in the comment box and (as long as it is not wildly inappropriate or offensive), I will Stumble It. I got this idea from a recent post on social media written by the lovely Scary Mommy. She “stumbled” a link of mine and I received a groovy boost in traffic that day so I am paying it forward. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with writers supporting other writers, huh?

Today Sister C sits for the first day of the New York Bar Exam. And I am nauseous. Not nauseous because I am worried she won’t pass. I think she will. Nauseous because I remember that exam all too well. Nauseous because those were two of the most torturous days of my youngish life.

And she hasn’t passed yet, but I am already so proud. I am proud because C has been studying hard, pulling late nights, and she has a young baby. Baby Bulldog is just six months old and C has been logging endless hours learning the bland intricacies of New York law (blech) when she could have been tickling tiny toes. I am proud because I know this hasn’t been easy.

So, yes. She got pregnant in law school. And gave birth a few months after graduation. Many would say that she should have graduated and taken the bar exam with her peers this past July. Many would say that she should have gotten the career rolling before popping out a delectably cute son. Many would say she did things out of order. That it should have been Bar before Baby and not the reverse.

But I disagree.

And not just because she is my sister and I love her to tiny pieces. I disagree on more objective, principled grounds. I think this society of ours is far too obsessed with its schedule of shoulds. Who says it is always better to firm up a career before starting a family? Who says we shouldn’t sometimes do things at the same time? Who says it is always better to wait?

Many people would say that Sister C should have waited. But you know what? She had the courage not to. When Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer two weeks before Sister C’s wedding, things changed. Our Donnelley world shifted. I think, I know, Sister C realized like I did that life has cruel limits, that days are unpredictably numbered. I think, I know, she realized that family is it. And so, she went for it. She battled morning sickness while studying at school. She donned a polyester cap and gown in her final trimester. She spent several weeks at a law firm before welcoming her little guy.

And today. Today, she will kiss her little boy goodbye and go sit at a desk somewhere in this fine city and fill in tiny bubbles and take a big step toward a big future that is blindingly bright, but unknown. And when the long day is over, she will go home. To her man. To her baby. To her family.

And then tomorrow, she will do it again. And then it will be over, mercifully over, and I will take her out. And we will celebrate. We will go to the right kind of bar and sip a tall glass of wine. We will talk about babies. About family. About futures. We will talk about life. How, like the bar exam, it is multiple choice. But how in life, there is more than one right answer.

We will clink glasses and smile.

Two lawyers. One past. One future.

Two sisters. Always.

Two moms. Forever.

And I will say then what I write now. That I am deeply proud of her. For being exquisitely brave. For doing things in her own way. In her own order. For blazing her own trail. For having a baby, an impossibly sweet baby, before taking that exam.

For not waiting.

_______________________________

Leave a comment and wish Sister C good luck! Do you agree that there is no such thing as out of order when it comes to life? That there is no objective schedule of achievement we should heed? Do you think that having a child before cultivating a career is brave or foolish? What are you waiting for?

ILI Daily Charms

* Do we lose ourselves in marriage? Stephanie Klein seems to think so. Click over to read her raw and searching post on the fate of self in the sea of commitment.

* Are pictures enough? Becca from Drama for Mama serves up a timely reminder that blogging isn’t such an empty endeavor and easy catharsis after all. Maybe there is a profound purpose in memorializing moments that might otherwise fade.

* Do therapists mess up their kids? Yes, according to Bruce over at Privilege of Parenting. But Bruce assures us that, “we ALL mess up our kids in our own unique ways.” Cheerio!