A new day. One with a clearer, brighter complexion. The blemishes are there – they always are – but today they are less conspicuous, less alarming. Yesterday, I was rattled. Beyond rattled. I wrote a post about my very good and very pregnant friend who is in the hospital battling pneumonia topped with likely swine. In that post, I marveled at how quickly things can change, how hope and fear can wax and wane, how little control we sometimes have. And, today, I am thankful for time and its unpredictable and lovely jig. Today is better.

Today, my friend’s husband sent an email updating us and thanking us for being there. He told us that my friend had a much better night, that she actually slept, and has been able to walk around this morning. In the middle of his email, he called me out, he wrote my name. He thanked me for my post.

Words. He thanked me for my words. And I read his words, his email, his thank you, over and over. I let them soak in. I let them penetrate. And I realized that his words changed me, something in me, they made this day okay. And my words, my honest and humble words, affected him, helped him, touched him. In some small way. Words matter. They do.

And he had more words for us. More powerful words. My friend’s husband said: We all spend so  much time together between classes, parties, play visits etc.. but when something serious like this happens everybody really showed how much love and support there really is between all of us.

Time. Love. Support. These things matter. Deeply. Time does its thing, marching on, flitting by. Love happens, emerges, unfolds. Support is offered and accepted and expected. But often, too often, we take these things for granted. That there will always be a surplus of time. That love will shroud us and sustain us. That support will be there, sturdy and strong, when we most need it. And it is when we most need it, in those impossible hours, that the truth reveals itself. That true friends reveal themselves.

True friends. They call and cry and concoct imaginative ways to help. They rally and listen and act. Like time and love and support, true friends are not a given. They are an exquisite privilege, more brilliant than the most perfect stone. True friends shine when the world doesn’t.

And then there are those more magical times, happy times when true friends come through and come together. At birthdays and weddings and when a baby is born. Or many babies. Several years ago, I met three girls in the halls of an esteemed law school. We stared each other up and down, we traded superficial smiles. And then came the words. We talked. We talked about life and the law. We talked about exams and interviews and jobs. Together, we sipped wine and swallowed wisdom. Together, we survived, graduating into a world, a wild and winsome world. In time, life did its thing, separating us geographically and professionally. But we stayed together. True friends do.

And now. There are babies. Beautiful baby girls. Five among the three of us. (Seven if you count our other good friend who was unable to make the trip). Five baby girls. Each one unique and alive and thriving. Five different smiles. Five different personalities. Five different people. And each of these babies, each of these tiny creatures, was at our place last night. We all gathered for a casual and baby-friendly meal of Thai takeout. And there were tears and spit-up and moments of utter mayhem. Of course. But there was also wine and words.

We sipped wine, just like we did in the old days, and traded words. Exasperated words, well-worn and lovely. About how much has changed. About how we used to spend hours discussing happiness and contemplating career paths and imagining our futures. And now, here we were, entrenched in the very futures we both hoped for and could never have imagined, talking about parenthood and personhood, about breastfeeding and bottles, about life. New life. Good life. We told stories, new and old. We laughed. So hard we worried about waking whatever baby was sleeping at the time.

Over the course of the night, I periodically checked my BlackBerry for word about my friend and her condition. My mind, my disobedient and rattled and emboldened mind, zoomed between concern and celebration. But this is life, isn’t it? The wilderness between concern and celebration?

And today? Today is my oldest and best friend’s birthday. This friend has been there through it all. A little over a year ago, on the eve of her wedding, this friend gave me an engraved copy of “Charlotte’s Web” that I keep on my bedside table and flip through when I want to remember childhood and Dad and the wisdom of a certain friendly spider. Happy Birthday, M! I love you more than you know.

Words. Time. Love. Support. True Friends.

These things matter. Deeply.

And on this chilly Saturday morning, I am thankful to have these things in abundance. Genuinely thankful. Thankful for the reminders, however startling and scarring, that life is both beautiful and precarious. And now, I will get back to my life. I will go collect the scattered toys and sip coffee and nibble on Baby toes. I will make a birthday call. I will check up on a certain mommy-to-be. I will reunite with true friends and tiny babies on a certain university lawn. It should be a good day.

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Thoughts? Comments? Birthday wishes?

I’ve said it before. And here I am saying it again: One of my very favorite elements of blogging is encountering new and interesting people and having new and interesting conversations. Enter self-proclaimed “writer, mom, graphic designer and lawyer’s wife” Angie of the wonderful, “honest and earnest site” All Adither. In her endearing bio, Angie states, “I am egregiously tall, have a son with severe food allergies and love cookies with beer. I alternately struggle with existential angst and the fit of my jeans.” Now, I am more of a cupcakes with Pinot Grigio girl myself, but I am thrilled that this egregiously tall and talented creature agreed to grace ILI and answer some of my questions. Thank you, Angie!

As a writer AND blogger, what do you think is the biggest different between writing prose and writing posts?

Angie: I think in writing posts you have to be more aware that another website is just a click away. People have less patience with internet content than with a magazine or book they’ve purchased or invested time to get from the library. It’s more crucial, I think, to grab the reader instantly. When I’m blogging, I try to write as if I’m talking to my friend.

That said, in my personal blog, I tend to let myself get artsy and play with turning phrases, etc. Though I generally try to keep my posts quite short and attach one of my photos that loosely relates to the content. It’s my place to experiment. On sites I’m hired to write for, as well as on my cooking site I’m much more strict with myself.

You’re married to an attorney. Several years ago, I stopped practicing law to become a full-time writer. It seems like the writer-attorney bond has many incarnations! How does the “lawyer’s wife” perspective affect your writing?

Angie: I don’t know if it’s being a lawyer’s wife per se, but being a wife in general has given me tons of material. The dynamic between a husband and wife, the richness, the tension, the arguments, the flirtation with longing, a little bit, for single life again all tremendously add to my writing.

Lawyers do tend to work long hours, so there’s that too. The resentment and sympathy toward your spouse who is, physically and emotionally away a lot of the time puts a certain spin on everything I write.

Love is something that comes up a lot here on Ivy League Insecurities and I noticed that you recently posted about celebrating your eighth wedding anniversary. What is one thing you wish you could tell every newlywed about making it to eight years (and beyond)?

Angie: When I look at my parents, who’ve been married forty-two years and my husband’s parents, who were married more than fifty years, eight doesn’t seem so lofty. And I fumble through it all just like everyone else. I guess I would say to choose your spouse wisely. Go for character over personality. And try to pick someone with a similar temperament. If you’re super social, don’t go for a hermit. You won’t be happy. Also, be open hearted. It’s so hard to live with someone, have kids with someone and handle daily stresses all while trying to compromise with another person, if you have compassion for your spouse, and a sense of humor, it’ll make it go more smoothly.

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Thank you, Angie, for your candid and thought-provoking answers! Cheers to the eternal struggle with jean fit and existential angst. Cheers to good blogs, good marriages, and honest words.

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Do you have a different set of standards when choosing blogs and books to read? Do you agree that a blog must grab the reader’s interest more instantly?

Do you agree that there is immense material inherent in the husband-wife relationship? (I do!) If married, do you experience the longing for single life to which Angie alludes? How do you cope with this longing, however minor it might be?

Do you agree with Angie’s counsel to go for character over personality when selecting a spouse. Do you agree that it is advisable to pick someone with a similar temperament?

Moliere said, “I live on good soup, not on fine words.”

Truth be told, I have no idea what he meant by this, but I like it. Fine words are yummy, but good soup is what nourishes us, what allows us to live. I also love this quote because I adore soup. When this time of year rolls around, I daydream of soups. I think of my Mom’s famous chickpea soup and my mouth waters. I think of that silly Cabbage Soup Diet I went on for about six minutes in high school. I think of that Tomato Florentine soup from Au Bon Pain that I slurped up as a hangover remedy at Yale. I think about cozy dates with Husband, dreaming together over decadent bowls of French Onion.

Soup. Mmmmmmmm. If it weren’t 9:09am, I might just sniff out a bowl.

Last Friday, I had an amazing cup of soup. It was white bean, chock full of vegetables and flavor. But it was not the soup that was so memorable. It was the company. I sat across a tiny table from writer and big-league blogger Gretchen Rubin. (She had the gazpacho which was indeed my second choice.) As many of you know, Gretchen has an extremely popular daily blog called The Happiness Project where she shares her insights on that one thing we all want: happiness. Gretchen’s highly-anticipated memoir THE HAPPINESS PROJECT hits stores at the end of December and I have no doubt that it will be a hit.

Gretchen and I sat there, eating soup, sharing bits and pieces of our respective publishing stories. She talked about her recent dilemmas over cover art. And of course I regaled her with my recent drama over my title. I listened. She listened. Now Gretchen is more of a big-timer than yours truly, but she sat there with me, talking and brainstorming, about blogging and life and books.

One thing she asked me as we finished our late afternoon soups: “What’s the special sauce?” What makes people in general and blog readers in particular want to go out and buy your book? What is that extra special sauce? And I loved this question because I love metaphors and this was a good one. And I didn’t have a definitive answer for Gretchen, but I did offer something. I said that if people like you, if they can relate to you, if they like what you have to say and how you say it, I think they might want to buy your book. And maybe this is foolish, but I believe it. When it comes down to it, we are not lawyers and writers and bankers and mothers. We are people. And we root for people who are honest and good and real. At least I do.

Maybe this is an utterly naive answer. It’s likely. I often hang in the clouds. Delusions are my friends sometimes. But I don’t know. I believe there is something to this.

All I know is this is how I work. Sure, it doesn’t hurt when major reviewers declare words fine, but I think there is more at play than that. I for one will race out and buy a book written by a good person and good writer who is kind enough to sit across a tiny table and eat soup with me.

Thanks, Gretchen. For setting a sparkling example as a former lawyer and a blogger and a writer and a person. For tackling a topic that affects all of us deeply. For nourishing this rookie with good soup and good conversation. I have already pre-ordered my copy of THE HAPPINESS PROJECT, but maybe my readers will click here and follow suit. Cheers to good soup, fine words, and special sauce!

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What’s your favorite kind of soup? What makes you go out and buy someone’s book?

As I type these words, my fingers are tingling and my palms are sweating. I’ve had these symptoms before. A lot recently.

Why the sweaty tingles? Good question. And you, my friends, deserve an answer. So do I. Truth be told, I’ve had this tingly/sweaty thing on and off for a while now. And it’s finally occurring to me that it’s not the copious amounts of Pike Place Roast that I pump through my veins at all hours of the day. No.

Maybe it’s the compelling chaos that is my current life. The juggling act at which I am continually failing. Balls are falling all over the place. Maybe it is the looming deadlines for LIFE AFTER YES? I am supposed to be writing reading group questions and an author essay. My publisher needs these things from me. Now. And I cannot bring myself to do these things. Maybe this is why the fingers are tingling and sweating. Could be.

I think I might be on to something here. But it’s not a simple matter of having things to do and not doing them. It’s the resistance. There is a reason I am not doing these things, writing these questions and this essay. I am not doing these things because these are the last things I have to do to complete my book. And maybe if I don’t do these things, there will not be a book.

Bear with me. I’m not crazy. Just suffering a moment of debilitating, crippling honesty.

I have decided that if I am going to stand up a blog about being honest in this world of ours that seemingly spins on an axis of BS, I should be honest. With you. More importantly, with me.

I am thrilled.

I am petrified.

I am both of these things at the very same time. As I type these words, I am literally living my dream. On the day I left the law firm, I penned that required departure memo to my colleagues announcing that I would be leaving. In that memo, I wrote these very words, “I am leaving to chase a persistent dream.” I wrote those words. And I meant them.

Those words, simple and true to me, ostensibly cryptic to most everyone else, said it all. I was walking away from prestige and a paycheck to chase a dream. My dream to write. And, here I am, writing. At 10:55pm when I should be snoozing. But should doesn’t have much currency when it comes up against must. So here I am. Writing. Writing words which matter. To me. And maybe, in some small way, to you.

And there is a book. The book. The story. The story of which I am maternally proud and protective. I took my time with this story. I butchered it and put it back together again. Off and on, between the pressing business of bellies and boobs and babies, for four years, I wrestled with my characters. I followed their lead. I had dreams about these characters. I still do.

And now. This story will no longer be just mine. It will no longer be that thing about which I am admittedly sheepish and a bit shy. In a matter of months, it will be yours too. It will be out there. Stacked on shelves. Flipped through. It will be read. It will be loved and liked and hated. It will no longer be just mine.

But this is what I wanted, right? Yes! I think so. Maybe. Of course. I don’t know. Of course. Of course this is what I want. I want to write books and I want people to read them. I want to teach and inspire and entertain. Of course. I wrote a book. I found an agent. I found a publisher. I have a deal. There will be a book. These are all of the reasons why I should shut up. Now. Before you boycott my unabashedly egotistical blog. This post shouldn’t exist.

But it does. You’re reading it now. And I’ll probably regret it later.

I am supposed to be strong. I am supposed to be proud. I am supposed to be cautiously optimistic. I am supposed to cross my fingers. I am supposed to do these things. And I will. Some of the time. But I can’t all of the time. Because that would be fake.

I am petrified. That the book will be a disastrous failure. That the book will be a huge success. I am petrified of it all.

But I am also thrilled. That here I am being me. Not an impostor lawyer. Not a meticulous mother. Not a blue ribbon wife. Me. Doing something that I love. Doing something that I must do. Doing something that I care about so much and so deeply, it makes my fingers tingle and my palms sweat. I am thrilled to be chasing.

But I am also petrified.

On Wednesdays, I usually write silly stories (like this one!) about my adventures with my girls. And maybe I will pony up a second post today in which I regale you with one such silly story. But, in this post, my agenda is (slightly) more serious. I must articulate two apologies for transgressions I committed. Transgressions of which I have heretofore been haplessly unaware.

The first apology is to my girls.

The second is to the world. Yes, the world.

You might wonder how I learned of these transgressions. Or you might not care much. It doesn’t matter whether you care or not because I will tell you. I wrote a post yesterday, a love letter to my Ex-Profession. I was proud of this post. I am proud of it. A big legal website linked to my post which was both thrilling and terrifying. Thrilling because I like and respect the site’s editor and because the site has oodles of visitors. Terrifying because some of those visitors, especially the ones who decide to leave comments, are not very nice. Whether this vitriol is evidence of the perils of anonymity or deep-rooted disillusionment within the confines of the legal world, I’m not entirely sure or qualified to say. But, anyway, once that link went live, I bit my lip, willed my skin to spontaneously thicken, and waited for the jabs to come.

And come, they did. Not as many as I feared. But a couple. And this, friends, is where I learned of two very terrible things I have unwittingly done. Things for which I will now apologize. I will post here the exact quotes of the two comments I received (on the aforementioned legal blog) so you can appreciate the full flavor.

Comment #1: The “Ivy League Insecurities” article was written by some chick named “Aiden.” On the site she explains she has two girls with boy’s names. Child abuse is a cycle. How sad.”

Apology to My Girls: I am so sorry for giving you names that are traditionally considered to be male names. Yes, I love these names. Husband loves these names. In fact, we think they are beautiful and whimsical and suit each of you perfectly, but I didn’t realize that in shrouding you with these more masculine monikers, I was in some way perpetuating a cycle of abuse, a cycle of which I was myself unaware. Perhaps I should have been more honest with myself about all this. I should have taken stock of just how much I have suffered over the past thirty years by having the name Aidan (with an “a,” dear commenter). And I should have wanted to protect you at all costs from the misery and mockery I have endured and given you decidedly feminine names. I hope you girls find it in your kind hearts to forgive us.

Comment #2: Anyone read that Ivy League Insecurities article? It was pathetic- what really struck me was all the sappy supporting comments which were made. People wonder why the economy is so bad- it’s because too many Americans (regardless of their academic background or lack thereof) are lazy, self-entitled and have their heads in the clouds.

Apology to the World: I am so sorry that by stepping off that high-wattage corporate track, a track on which I could have and perhaps should have persevered and excelled, I helped break our national and international economy. I never knew that choosing to follow my dream of being a writer was tantamount to sticking my self-entitled head in those proverbial and naughty clouds. I never knew that taking care of two young girls and writing books and penning a blog post everyday was the portrait of laziness. Silly me. Oh, and those “sappy supporting comments”? Upon second glance, yes, they were pathetic and saccharine and not at all thoughtful or honest. The fact that there are people out there who believe that it is good to pursue passions and chase dreams and that it is okay to have “what if” moments from time to time is nothing short of sad.

Phew. Now I feel much better.

Okay, I have officially run out of sarcasm. We all know that sarcasm and self-deprecation thinly veil deeper, more meaningful and murky feelings. Truth be told, the above comments didn’t devastate me. I read them and I chuckled. But their acidic essence stuck with me. They affected me enough that I have now framed an entire blog post around them when I should be writing about how Toddler scarfed Jelly Bellys for breakfast and Baby ran macaroni through what hair she has and gelled it into tiny little horns.

Why did these comments affect me? Because I am human? Because I am sensitive? Because I am worried there is a kernel of truth in each one? Because these two little comments represent what’s to come when this blog grows and the book debuts? Because part of me thinks I should have named my girls Jennifer and Jessica? Because part of me thinks that I am being weak and lazy and self-entitled by playing with words at Starbucks rather than plugging away in a corporate institution somewhere in the morass of Midtown? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I love my post about leaving the law. I love my girls and their wonderful names and the stories that make up our days. I love doing this. Thinking. Digesting. Creating. Writing. I love all of your comments because they make me think and want to write more.

I will not apologize for loving these things. You can’t make me. Neither can those meanies at Above the Law. So there.

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What are your thoughts on this? (The sappier the better.)