In a reading mood…

Quick announcement! As of today I’m accepting new essays or memoir chapters or any sort of first-person non-fiction for consideration of my second season of Daring to Tell.

What sorts of stories am I looking for? Well, as you may have heard if you’ve listened to episode one of my first season… I talked about when I was 12 years old, and how I felt as if I knew every book on the shelves of the children’s section of our town library. I’d read almost every Judy Blume book (the sophisticated ones… you know, like Deenie and Starring Sally J Freedman as Herself… I was so beyond those Fudge ones, I hadn’t delved into Forever yet either) every Laura Ingalls Wilder book multiple times over, and I was hankering for something else. Something I wasn’t finding on those shelves. But I wasn’t exactly sure what. So I decided to write the book I was wanting to read. Something a little salacious, but not TOO salacious… something fictional because I (so boldly) decided I’d write a book about a girl who had the life I wished I had. Someone who was popular and rich with sisters and a boyfriend.

When I stumbled across it in adulthood and reread the familiar old onion skin typing paper pages, oh geez! How embarrassing! I really let my heart out on those pages, textured from the pressure of the clanking manual typewriter keys! (God, was typing on a typewriter fun!) But I guarded the story fiercely and shared it with no one.

No one.

Now I’d never dare to write fiction (although never say never I suppose)… Since adulthood I mostly look for inspiration in real life stories. That’s how Daring to Tell came into being. I met a batch of wonderful, brave souls, all nearly finished with or already shopping their memoirs. The works were (mostly) as of yet unpublished, and boy did they deserve to be heard. And voila! That’s season one, now available for your listening pleasure!

But still very much like my childhood self, not only have I now created a podcast filled with the sorts of stories that I love listening to, I can’t wait to check out some new ones too. So now, I’m looking for the next batch of writers to record for season two. Maybe you know one. Maybe you are one.

Check out the submission guidelines, be sure to listen first, and then please do submit your essay or memoir chapter. In particular I’m curious to hear people’s stories about grandmothers. As the first born of the first born of the first born I actually had five grandmothers through my childhood, plus a next door neighbor I called Nana. And the story that I read in season one was about two other grandmothers who died before I was born, but who I met through an unearthed autobiography. So yeah, I love hearing about grandmothers. But that could just be one of many possible topics. I don’t know what season two will look like until I’ve read all the submissions. Not sure how many episodes it will be yet, or when it will launch but I’m hoping for sometime in mid to late fall.

I can’t wait to hear from you! Thanks for reading all the way down, and for Daring to Listen!

Mothers and Memoirs

Funny how things can align… this week I read a new memoir written by Maya Shanbhag Lang called What We Carry in preparation for a class being taught by the author. It just so happens to be about mothers and daughters. (By the way it’s fantastic, an incredibly thoughtful, multidimensional story about the ongoing rediscovery of who our mothers are.) I’ve also been thinking about launching this newsletter in an effort to bring wider attention to my first season of Daring to Tell. In the course of reading the essays from each writer, then recording them, then producing the episode I get to do one of the things I love best—hear a story I love over and over again. Each time I might absorb a phrase in a new way, or realize with greater clarity what some moment must have been like for that writer. It allows me to pause, think, consider, and consider again; to hear the story in a deeper or different way as I continue to listen.

I listen to be transported to a new place, as I was in childhood, with a story. A story that I place myself in the middle of, trying on someone else’s experience. What is different here from my own life? What is the same? How did she react in this situation? What might I have done? Could I try that same thing she did? Maybe.

For example, when I talked with writer Nadine Kenney Johnstone (my own writing coach) about the time she was preparing for the publication of her memoir—Of This Much I’m Sure. Her’s was a memoir that told of a struggle with infertility, (hmm… not my story but ok, I’m curious); it was a telling of lifesaving emergency surgery (ok… I’ve got one of those… not exactly the same, but still… I want to hear about that); and it also included the push-pull of her relationship with her mom. Yup. I always want to hear about the mother daughter tussle. And so Nadine’s Daring to Tell episode was the story behind the story of when she handed her prepping-for-publication manuscript to her mother to read.

That was a story I really wanted to hear.

It had been a story I’ve stopped to consider many times. How do we write what we have to say, if Mom might read it. Mom. The omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent force of our childhood (though not for everyone… I also realize…) peering over our shoulder? Into our thoughts? Offering her guardrails of direction… go this way… not that. Molding us into ourselves. And sometimes, shaping us to become someone she herself may no longer see. Becoming an independent entity just like her, and yet not at all like her. How can we be the same but so different?

Every time I sit down to read a memoir that’s what I’m seeking. Connection. How are we different? How are we the same? Can we pause, take a breath, consider and listen?

Ok… I know I’m getting all didactic and philosophical here (kind of like my own mother does! The point when I usually interject ok, ok, enough already!)

Here are my messages for you today though… and they are rather instructive (ha! Again, like mom?)

1)   Hit pause at some point in your day to listen. Mothers and Memoirs is the opening of Daring to Tell Season One.

And, 2) for anyone who finds the Mother of All Holidays a challenging time…check out a 90 minute workshop I’ll be emcee-ing with three writer friends. We are declaring the Saturday before Mother’s Day to be, Mother (Yourself) Day— it’ll be fun in a serious, contemplative, writerly sort of way for anyone interested in some nurturing self-care pre-Mother’s Day activities.

The First Tick

“I’m just gonna plan on the fact that I will have a tick on me this summer.”

I declared this aloud to my husband Phil as it became apparent that spring had arrived, our first spring living in Maine after leaving a life in Boston. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon or in the way that it did. A mere two weeks later, I was doing my early morning writing. I got up to pad from the living room couch to the bathroom, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There was a small dark spot on the side of my face. A little scab I hadn’t noticed? Did I scratch myself and bleed? I wondered. I reached up to feel it, and there in my fingers was a tick. It actually felt sort of soft. Those unmistakable little legs, like a small, slow, hardy spider, getting ready to attach itself to me for a nice meal.

All my life I’ve been irrationally terrified of rather common minor ailments or travails; of things that have happened to those around me, but not to me. Especially beginning in childhood. For example, I never got poison ivy. I recall walking to school with my friend Wendy who had a weepy itchy rash that she warned me to stay away from. Other kids too, came to school in late spring with a thick pink paste covering their arms or hands; it was some magical goo that fended off the itch and the spread (why I wasn’t familiar with calamine lotion is a whole other story). I grew up in a “townie” central Massachusetts town, and there were plenty of places to encounter the infamous shiny leaves of three, but honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what it looked like, and since I preferred to play indoors, away from the possibility of brushing up against this strange threatening plant, I never had to endure the rash, the itch, the spreading mess. The same was true of ever having a tick.

I had a cousin who lived in rural Connecticut and during one summer visit we were playing badminton in her backyard. As we took a break and lounged in the grass my cousin discovered a tick on her cat Spunky. It was creepy looking as ticks are, and I remember her working at pulling it off Spunky and then flipping off her footware to brace the tick against the sole of her sandal, trying to crush with her thumbnail.

“It’s really hard to kill them.” She told me. I was aghast at the whole thing. Finding a tick. Touching a tick. Trying to kill a tick. She executed the whole take-down like a trained professional though, with finesse and bravery. Bravery that I did not have.

It was convenient that by avoiding the outdoors (aside from a random badminton game) I also diminished any likelihood of encountering a tick or any other insects that still make me, dodge, flail and shriek to this day. My lack of tick experience remains a stubborn, irrational fear… something that I’ve been so successful at avoiding that avoidance has become my modus operandi. On any woods-adjacent vacations I’d slather on the Deep-Woods Off… fear of carcinogens so distant in comparison to the immediate fear of making the acquaintance of my first tick.

Until last year. After my husband Phil and I moved from Boston to Maine, we became permanently woods-adjacent. And twice last year I saw a tick. Both times it was in my territory, indoors. First, was a wood tick. It was walking across the dining room floor. I panicked, yelling for Phil to come get it and kill it while I kept my eye on its whereabouts before our cat Rocky might find it, and eat it (he’s incredibly skilled at catching then eating flies, which I find both thrilling and disgusting) or worse, decide to play with it. The second time I saw a tick it was the more dreaded, potentially lyme carrying deer tick and it was crawling in the folds of the sheet on our bed.

Can we all just pause for a moment to absorb that?

Ok.

So as bad as that was, at least I caught it. At least it was not on me.

Through all the raking of the fall I didn’t encounter one. Then winter came and I was reminded of why as a child winter was my favorite season. No bugs! There were no more wasps, very few spiders. An errant fly, which was strange and upsetting in an Amityville Horror sort of way (and of course, Rocky could catch and eat it). But basically, no bugs.

Now it’s spring. And as the snow has melted I see the leaves that didn’t get raked up before winter are still there (why did I think they’d magically decompose?) along with downed tree branches. I see neighbors out in their yards doing spring clean up, which tells me this is what we must do now too. And I’m reminded it’s tick season again by news reports and flyers that come to our mailbox with magnified pictures of these little monsters. I gave a lot of thought to getting a tick and mosquito lawn service. But I also didn’t like the idea of spraying toxic chemicals all over our lovely outdoors (which I’m now discovering just how much I love). Our backyard is like a park, with fruit trees and raspberry bushes and a Concord grape vine. There are families of bluebirds living in birdhouses. Our neighbors have chickens who visit from time to time, and they’re also building an organic garden (the neighbors, not the chickens). So I had a chance to speak with our neighbor Sam, who shared quite a few pest control options with us that are safer for the environment, people and pets.

He appreciated my concern for our adjacent land, and then he also gently suggested, since we do live in the country, perhaps I might accept that we live with these creatures. Even if we don’t like them. He’s familiar with my insect issues.

I took a deep breath and confessed, yes. I’ve been so adept at avoiding. It is the time for acceptance I agreed. Easier said than done.

I told Phil about the conversation with Sam. We agreed we didn’t want to do the pesticides. We weren’t even crazy about some of the descriptions of the environmentally safer options we read about. I decided to turn over a new leaf, fully accepting that the other side might reveal a tick.

So of course I recoiled as I saw that little bugger and pulled it off the side of my head. I set it down on the side of the sink, immediately called out to Phil, “A tick! A tick!! There’s a tick! I had a tick on me!! Come quick!”

It began making a slow getaway, now camouflaged on the spotted granite, crawling towards the edge of the countertop. Phil arrived, got a piece of toilet paper. Grabbed the tick. Flushed it. Placated me with a brief, “What’re ya gonna do… we live in the country.” I know! I know! I’m trying!

So now, as I prophesied, I’ve had a tick on me. Luckily, I went to the bathroom when I did. Luckily, it hadn’t attached itself to me yet. And now the threshold I’ve always dreaded has been crossed. Maybe next time (and I’m sure there’ll be a next time) I’ll even have the courage to squish it and flush it myself.

So, you may be wondering, does this have anything to do with the Daring to Tell podcast? Well, yes.

Last year I also began meeting some incredible writers who were brave enough, first, to spend time sitting with themselves and their stories, and beyond that, to re-inhabit those experiences by putting words to paper (digital… whatever). This is what I need… I thought, I need to hear people reading their words of survival, courage, tenacity, resilience… so that I might be inspired to emulate that bravery. Because I’ve always been so sacred about so much. Scared to stumble across a poisonous plant. Scared to have a tick attach itself to me. Scared to follow my instincts. Scared to write down what I really want to say.

My husband wrote a song called Make Me Brave. And while he wasn’t writing it for me or about me (really!) the message immediately spoke to me…

“Nothing’s gonna make me brave, except doing what makes me scared.”

So I created Daring to Tell, to help me find the courage I’m looking for within myself. I hope the stories and conversation, might also do the same for you.