These days, I have been thinking a lot about college.

You see, I am knee deep in the writing of my next novel which is about three women who met in college. Though I am writing about the school I attended – Yale – I am not writing about my experience. But I do find myself thinking about my bright college years, and reminiscing.

Who was I in college?

I remember my first day of college. Arriving on Old Campus, meeting my three roommates: the funky granddaughter daughter of a famous baseball player who also hailed from Manhattan, a softball pitcher recruit from Arizona, a Connecticut local and track star who would spend four years throwing the shot put for us Bulldogs. I remember walking around the pockets of green with a best friend from high school – not a roommate, but coincidentally placed in Pierson College with me – and looking up at the sky and thinking, This is it. College. We are here!

I remember the first two weeks well. Taking the French placement exam among a sea of fellow freshmen, sitting on folding chairs as the dean welcomed us to Yale. The next time you are all gathered like this will be for graduation, he said. I remember going to the same Mexican joint, an amazing hole in the wall my older sister had introduced me to, night after night, delighting in the sangria even though I was just seventeen. I remember how we went to great lengths to convince the portly bar owner (Sponz, I think) that we were medical students at the school. He didn’t care about our story; the fact that we were young and bubbly and blond seemed to suffice.

I remember studying late at the library, my mind lost in a stack of notes, my hand dipping into a vast bag of gummy raspberries. I remember the charge I got in that particularly good philosophy seminar when we were debating ontology and phenomenology and talking breathlessly about Spinoza and Leibniz and the theory of other possible worlds; how my heart thumped magically in my chest as I threw up my hand to say something. I remember standing in sludge in fraternity basements and laughing with friends and flirting with boys and literally feeling youth and freedom with every breath.

I remember eating cup after cup of Tomato Florentine soup from Au Bon Pain when I was hungover; it seemed to be the answer. I remember dancing with a group of sorority sisters, all of us happy and dressed in black, on the Women’s Table on Cross Campus. I remember getting ready for a night out in my room, blasting my big sister’s mixed tape (Think: Nothing Compares to You, Jessie’s Girl), passing around a bottle of cheap champagne. I remember meeting with my Philosophy adviser, a small and brilliant man, who was passionate about Plato and loved to tell stories about yogurt.

I remember being selfish, confident, excited, nervous, happy, proud, uncertain, young, mature, free, protected, lucky, pressured. I remember feeling gorgeous and feeling fat. I remember falling in love and feeling doubt. I remember not knowing a thing, and knowing absolutely everything. I remember reading, and writing, and drinking coffee. I remember calling home. I remember going home, picking up a Subway sandwich at the train station, hopping on Metro North, heading home, the world blurring by.

I remember graduation day. I was tired and puffy. I wore a black dress with little flowers under my gown. It was sunny that day as we came together in clusters and walked. I remember the Pierson dean announcing my honors: Aidan Donnelley. Magna Cum Laude. The gasps were audible. I’m pretty sure everyone thought I was a not-so-smart blond.

I remember so much. It’s been years, more than ten, but I can still see it – the campus green, my hand flying across a ruled piece of paper taking tiny, meticulous notes, a girl who loved to work hard and play hard and live life, smiling big, struggling too, but smiling, at the beginning of it all.

The College Me. Quite the character. One I love and laugh at and celebrate and forgive. And remember.

They say you can’t go back, but the really amazing thing is that you can. You can sit in a Starbucks at 6:34am on a Friday morning in February with your cup of coffee and computer and your mind and you can go back. To the land before commitment and career and kids, to the campus of not yet knowing, to the fun and the frolic and the ferocious learning. To the four years that slipped by so fast because you were not yet a creature desperate to pause things, to arrest time, to hold on.

This has been fun for me. This little exercise in going back. And now I must do a different kind going back. Back to the home front and the three tiny things in pajamas who have it all ahead of them. That is pretty incredible too.

Who were you in college? Any fun memories? Have you changed a lot since your stint as an undergrad? Do you think it is presumptuous for me to assume most of you attended college? Are most people you know, and socialize with, college grads? I know several of you are still in college, so share your stories since you are experiencing them now and we would all like to live vicariously!

I would like to think of myself as a Morning Person. You know, one of those creatures who just springs out of bed, often without an alarm. One of those creatures who welcomes the new day with a stretch and a smile. One of those creatures who says, Hello day or if marginally more bad-ass, Bring it on.

I would like to be like this. But I am more the creature who throws her covers over head, curls into a toasty little ball under there, and pretends she does not hear those kiddos calling. That’s more my style.

Husband is of a different breed. He rises early to ensure a bit of quiet time with Morning Joe and his hot tea before his ladies make their cameo in his day. He insists that starting the day on his own terms, with this tiny stretch of peace, makes for a better day. And maybe it does.

Today. Today I am up. I am out. It is 5:49am and I am already at Starbucks sipping my grande. There are few of us here. It is still dark outside, and cold. In ten minutes, I will walk a few blocks to a spin class. That’s right; I am not just awake but ambitious. I plan to cram in a high-octane workout before slipping into the morning rush with the girls. We’ll see how it goes, right?

The thing is that I believe in change. I think we can train ourselves to be Morning People. I think we can convince ourselves to see things, and do things, differently. Am I fooling myself? How long do you think this Project Morning Person will last?

Oh, if so inclined, please send me good vibes between 6:15 and 7am this morning. I am hoping to survive spin without a fatigue-induced flip off the old bike.

When do you wake up in the morning? Are you a Morning Person? Have you always been? What’s your favorite workout these days? Anyone a Soul Cycle devotee?

Several times a day I’m faced with The Question.

The Question: So, how’s your writing going?

It’s a simple question. A logical one. Innocuous. But somehow this question makes me tense up and spew a slew of nonsense.

Well! It’s going well. That is, when I find the time to write. Or, I should say, MAKE the time to write. Because, really, it is all about MAKING time and I’m not sure I’m very good at making the time. With the three kids, it’s hard you know. Because there is always SOMETHING. Someone is sick or someone has a birthday party or a class trip or just needs me. You know, SOMETHING. But I can’t let these excuses trip me up because I really LOVE writing and it’s what makes me HAPPY and this is what I want to DO, you know? But it’s going well. I love it. My writing, you know.

Nonsense, I tell you. And I apologize if you’ve been in my path of late and have made the mistake of inquiring about my writing and I have hit you with some rendition of this garble.

It’s not nonsense because it’s not true. The thing is that it is impossibly true. My writing is going well, brilliantly well, when I actually do it; I’m absolutely in love with story I’m shaping (ever-so-slowly). And it is also true that I’m not spending enough time on my writing and that I’m not making enough time for my writing. And it is absolutely true that these three little girls have me on their lovely little leashes, that I relish being so tethered, and that there is indeed always something.

But this is all nonsense in another sense of the word. It is nonsense because if I really want to write (oh and I do) and I really want to publish another book (oh and I do) and I really want to be a writer, I must, well, write. And so. For the umpteenth time, I vow to do so. I will write! I will produce words! Watch me go!

I recently stumbled upon two really great pieces about the writing life. One is serious and one is silly but they both convey the very same message, I think, that message being:

Writing is hard.

Dani Shapiro ponders why it is often so difficult for her to write. She says,

Rarely, it happens that something legitimate gets in my way.  Say, a leak in the house.  A blizzard.  A call that a friend’s parent has passed away.  You know, life.  But more often than not, the only thing getting in my way is me.  Sound familiar?  It seems so simple, so obvious that all we need to do is get out of our own way.  Set up some ground rules (no internet, no email, no phone) and just follow them.  But we all know that it isn’t that easy.  And the reason it isn’t easy is because writing is hard.  It ain’t for sissies.  It’s painful, exhausting, and it exposes nerves we didn’t even know we had, not to mention turmoil.  It unleashes the beast of memory.  Left to our own devices, we will do anything to avoid it.  Even though we know that we’ll feel better if we just sit down and get to work.

It ain’t for sissies? Amen. Avoidance? Sounds familiar. Getting in my own way? Me? Never. Ha. And over at Grin and Tonic, Dan Bergstein shares with his seven tips on How to Write. The second is my absolute favorite:

Your lack of seltzer is no doubt what’s holding you back from greatness. If only you had seltzer, then the words would pour out of you…like seltzer out of a seltzer bottle and maybe just as bubbly… If you’re out of seltzer and/or limes, consider taking a trip to the store and procuring some. You should buy a few bottles in case your writing hits a hot streak. It’s strange that the store is never out of seltzer. Does seltzer go bad? It’s probably a recession-proof industry. Talk to your financial manager about this. If a runner is one who runs and a camper is one who camps, is a seltzer one who seltzes? Look this up when you get back home; it may be just the thing your first paragraph needs.

One who seltzes? Are you laughing as hard as I am or does this breed of humor really only work for fiercely-determined-writer-types at 5:46am? Anyway, the point is that there is no magic formula, no perfect setting or circumstances within which to write, no silver bullet, magic formula… {insert cliche of your choice.}

So, no. There is no secret to great and plentiful writing. It’s not seltzer. It’s not pickles. It’s not pudding. (Read the rest of Bergstein’s masterpiece for context here.)

Wait, I lied. There is a secret!

The Secret to great writing is writing. It cannot be great if it does not exist.

Okay, time to sign off and sip some Aztec sweet chili tea (cleanse is over next week and then back to coffee!) and face my day. But today if anyone asks me that question, oh and they invariably will, I will puff up my chest and go a different route.

How’s my writing going? It’s going! I’m writing! And just writing is, I have concluded, the secret to great writing!

Faced with this effusive and odd reply, I might get some bewildered, concerned looks. And then people might stop asking altogether. That would be fine too. Then I would have even a bit more time to pop open that bottle of seltzer, fray some nerves, and get down to business.

_____________________________

Do you ever get in your own way when trying to write or accomplish something else? Why do you think writing is so hard? When faced with The Question about your writing or professional progress, how do you reply? Are you a fan of seltzer? Aztec sweet chili tea?

On Saturday morning, I checked my email. I checked my email and I saw a message from my friend. I opened the message and learned that her husband’s father had died just an hour before she wrote the message. He was sick, but being treated, and his death was sudden. My friend and her husband were skiing with their kids and did not make it home before he passed.

I read the email and I felt a rush of sadness. Sadness for him, this guy I know and like very much. Because I know what it feels like, and what it means, to lose a father. I am three-plus years out from losing Dad and my grief is still here, hovering, lingering, shaping me. It is more subtle in its presence, more quiet in its questions, more wily in its ways, but it is here. And Saturday, I felt it. I did. I was brought back to the day Dad died, a day that was surreal and slippery and just plain sad. I remember what my Big Girl wore that day. She was eighteen months. Basically bald.

She wore a gray tutu. I remember how she ran around twirling as we all sat there at my parents’ kitchen table bleary-eyed and stunned. My girl’s twirling saved me a bit that day. It did.

Saturday shaped up to be a good, sturdy day. Standard weekend fare. We spent hours in pajamas. There were juice boxes and art projects and cartoons. There was a trip to the playground. There were tears and laughs and snuggles. There was love. In the evening, Little Girl was fussy and I gave her a bath in hopes of soothing her before bed. I plopped her in the water and soaped her up and rinsed her. And then I watched. I watched her splash and squeal. I watched her study the tiny soap bubbles on the surface of the water. I watched as she poked these bubbles with her little fingers. I watched as her eyes grew wide and wild when she saw a little pink object pop up from below. Her own toe.

I watched. It was something I’ve seen so many times. But it was also brand new. I smiled.

Grief is a terrible and tricky beast. But there is something to be said for grief and what it can do. If we let it bloom, if we let it in, grief can make the little mundane moments that pepper our days absolutely magical. It can make those little snippets of ordinary life glisten and glow.

Like tiny little soap bubbles in a baby’s bath.

G – I am so sorry. There are no words.

You know just how much I love baby name posts. (Here’s the post where I asked you to help me name Little Girl. It’s the all-time most popular post on this blog!) And I know just how much you love baby name posts. So let’s get down to business…

As many of you know, Sister C is expecting her second child (yes, a girl!) in early March. She’s actually due on Little Girl’s birthday which is pretty cool, I think. Anyway, she’s getting close. A mere six weeks away. And she and her husband are still without a name for this little chickadee.

That’s where we all come in.

Okay, a little information to get our baby name radars pointed in the right direction. Sister C’s two-year-old son, known affectionately as Baby Bulldog on this blog, has a wonderful and unique name in real life. I will not disclose his name, but I will tell you that it is a three-syllable Irish surname that is quite obscure when used as a first name. (Think: Garrity, Gulliver, Callahan.) Their last name is two syllables, ends in an “y” sound. (Like: Rowley, Donnelley, Terry.)

I asked C to describe the kind of name they are looking for. And she said they are looking for a name that fits the following three criteria:

1. A name that is either unusual or not very popular;

2. A name that is two or three syllables; and

3. A name that is both strong and feminine.

I know this is still somewhat confusing and cryptic. How much simpler this would be if I just told you their son’s name and their last name? Alas. Not going to happen. But I will list a few names they like very much, and have considered, but have decided at this point not to use for one reason or another: Georgiana, Annabel, Henrietta, Bridget, Petra, Genevieve.

Okay, it’s your turn. Our turn. Oh yes, I plan to brainstorm today and post my suggestions too. Any ideas? I’m sure you’re full of them… Particularly you, my friend Abby Sandel of the fabulous baby name blog Appellation Mountain (where I stumbled upon Little Girl’s name last December!)

Ready, set, go! Let’s name my sister’s baby girl! If the above confuses you (it kind of confuses me) just throw out some unique baby girl names you love.