Author: ajswain22

I'm a full-time physician and mother, though not always in that order. I aspire to be an author and exercise lover. Drinking my first cup of coffee is one of the highlights of my day.

#amwriting

This whole writing a book thing didn’t just start last week. I’m taking a class this semester called Novel Writing in which we have to produce a 50,000 word “craptastic” (in the words of my prof) novel. I had my basic novel plot ready to go at the start of the semester, so at least I didn’t have to spend time figuring out where to start. For those interested, I am using Save The Cat! Writes a Novel by Jessica Brody as a way to keep somewhat organized as I churn out my weekly word count.

My challenge was not where to start, it’s how to hack my way through the dark jungle that is most of the novel. I know approximately where I want to end up, but how to get my characters there is challenging and at times overwhelming. One of my favorite writing quotes is from E.L. Doctorow: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” I try to remind myself not to focus on the next chapter, the next subplot, the larger goal. Instead, what I have to do is just keep moving forward in small increments and trust that I will eventually have a first draft with a beginning, middle, and end.

This post is essentially a morning pep talk to myself. I want to get least 1000 words written today, which is very doable, but as I sit here in my home office, sipping my second cup of coffee, surrounded by wonderful books that other people have written, it seems very far away. But if I can write one sentence, another will follow, and, like the headlights, I only have to see that far in front of me to get a whole page. Wish me luck.

A “writer” becomes a Writer

It’s really hard to call myself a writer. This despite the fact that I have had a few essays and op-eds published. There is part of me that still struggles with feeling like an imposter, as with so many of my female contemporaries in various fields. It begs the question: what will make me feel less like a “writer” (the quotes suggest the need to qualify this is some way, explaining it’s not my actual job, I’ve only written x and y, etc.) and more like a Writer.

One goal I have is to write a book. I tell myself that if I do this, if I manage to complete so large and ambitious a project, find outside validation in the form of an agent and publisher (not to mention readers), I will fully embrace the title of Writer.

This is a tall order, however. Many, many people attempt this and do not cross the finish line. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle, so even if I write a book there is no guarantee it will be deemed “marketable” enough to be published. So, why do I embark on this process? Because it is just that, a process, one that I think I will learn a lot from even if I don’t end up with the kind of product that I can hold in my hands.

I am going to post about the process of writing a book, without too much focus on the goal of one day sitting in a Barnes and Noble signing autographs as displays of my many books surround me (daydream much?). It’s a leap of faith or an exercise in frustration. Likely both. It means I will have to be a bit vulnerable, as the process of writing is never smooth and emotions tend to run high. If nothing else, I might find others in these same trenches who are looking for support and encouragement and are happy to send some right back to me.

Onwards!

Go ahead, ignore Halloween

Halloween this year felt different for many reasons. We are no longer in the darkest hours of a worldwide pandemic. My children are now tweens and want us at least 50 paces behind them (or completely absent) while trick or treating. And last but not least, it was a Sunday night, which is just ridiculous. Can we all just agree that Halloween should be the last Saturday of October, regardless of the date?

But it felt different this year for another reason: it occurred to me that Halloween has now become an event just as much for parents as their children. Forgive me, I may start channeling Andy Rooney here (and there’s nothing wrong with that, though my eyebrows are groomed). When did Halloween become something for adults to do alongside their kids? I’m not talking about parents helping with costumes, some of us more intensely (and craftily) than others. And it seems completely reasonable to supervise your children approaching stranger’s houses to ask them for a “treat”. What I’m talking about is the full parental investment in Halloween that many parents in my social milieu seem to embrace. The decorating of the house, typically starting in the first week of October and with no small expense. The massive effort expended on the parent’s costume, often coordinated with the co-parent (witty references to old movies, clever puns on current-day social media phenomenon, etc.). The coordination may even involve the entire family and pet (insert mental picture of a family dressed as characters in Star Wars, etc.).

It doesn’t stop there, the pictures of all of the above then have to be posted on social media, #happyhalloween, #spookyseason, #october. It appears to take up many man/woman/adult hours of thought, manual labor, not to mention money to put all of this together. And for what? How exactly does this change the child’s experience of Halloween? I can’t help but wonder what difference it makes for kids to have a traditionally “kids only” experience so carefully crafted by the adults in their lives?

Perhaps, most obviously, it adds to their enjoyment of it all! What may previously have been a week or two of anticipation (a kind way to describe children badgering their adult to take them to the store to buy a costume), becomes a family effort to spread Halloween spirit and give everyone something to look forward to as the days become darker and colder. Perhaps it is a fun and creative bonding ritual. Kids finally get to see their parents having fun on their same level, dressing up and being silly, truly being able to “play”, an activity which we parents so often deprive ourselves. I can’t help but wonder what that might have been like as a child and I suspect it would have been magical.

However, the curmudgeon in me wonders if parental management of Halloween structures one more thing that used to (at least in my childhood) be fairly relaxed and free reign. Aside from helping to procure costumes (and hosting trick-or-treaters), I’m hard pressed to say what else my parents did for Halloween. I fully acknowledge that my childhood experience is just that, mine alone. Even now, in the age of Amazon, what it means for parents to help prep a costume is another thing entirely. My point is that Halloween was for kids; we talked about it amongst ourselves, enjoyed it with each other, and brought home stories about it to our parents. Nowadays, as with so much of childhood, it feels like parents are uber-involved in creating an “experience”, which of course then has to match others (on social media no less).

I suppose this essay is my attempt to make myself feel better for how little interest I have in managing yet another aspect of my children’s lives. For those of you who enjoy the holiday as a way to return to costume-wearing, being scared of things other than climate change and who’s in the White House, go for it! Celebrate Halloween for its own sake and don’t apologize for it. But for those of you who, like me, seem at best confused and at worse annoyed by the wholesale parental embrace of Halloween, let’s all give ourselves permission to sit this holiday out. Kids can dress up, traipse around the neighborhood, and scare themselves silly. I’ll be on my couch with a glass of wine, waiting until I can start being kvetching about the next holiday to “celebrate”.

The role of books in surviving a pandemic

“Mom, are you ok?” asked my 11-year-old son.

No, I was not okay. Earlier that day, I received an email with bad news. As a result of the coronavirus pandemic, the kids’ school was closing for two weeks, effective the next day and, worst of all, our local library, was too. Some people immediately went out to hoard toilet paper, canned goods, and milk. I went to the library.

Books have been my lifelong companions; I cannot remember a time without a book by my side. Like marriage vows, they have been with me through sickness and health, in good times and bad. Books never push me away, demand more from me than I am willing to give, or make me feel guilty for ignoring them. They can disappoint, but this just means I am free to move on to the next. Even when depressed or at the peak of anxiety, a good book can pull me in, make me forget, allow me to escape. My relationship with books is one of the most consistent, engaging, and fulfilling relationships of my life.

I came home from the library that night with three bags filled with books. There were some cozy mysteries, easy to digest and mostly forgettable, what better to soothe in a time of crisis? I also picked up some fantasy novels. Escaping our world sounded ideal, I would let books transport me out. Last but not least, I picked up some books by authors on my “must read eventually” list. Like so many, I foolishly thought the quarantine would inspire me to attend to my neglected tasks. This turned out to be sadly misguided. Left behind on the stacks were the thrillers, too much intensity in this time of uncertainty. I also ignored the non-fiction, I had more than enough day-to-day realities to manage.

Needless to say, I own hundreds (thousands?) of my own books. They are in every room of our house, often shelved in a double row. I love knowing that when the mood strikes, I can reach for a Sue Grafton alphabet mystery, or a Kate Atkinson favorite, or a beloved classic like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Or, well, you get the idea. But as every book lover knows, there are never enough. For as much as I love reading (and re-reading) my own books, it is the hunt for a new one that drives me to the library.

As an avowed atheist, the library is my own kind of holy space, a congregation of sorts, full of people who would rather be reading than socializing. In the months since that email from our school system, I have not missed the mindless chatter at work, seeing casual acquaintances at the grocery store or the park, or (I will guiltily admit) school functions. I have, however, mourned the time lost quietly browsing through the library. Not always knowing what I am looking for, my slow, lazy strolls through the stacks are meditative. Maybe around the next corner I will find a new author, a new genre; I never enter the library knowing exactly what will leave with me.

With the library, closed I’ve taken refuge in the digital library online. At the press of a button, I can download thousands of books for free through the public library system. I have not been starved for reading material, assuming I know exactly what I am looking for. I think my children have now gone over to the dark side and actually prefer to read books on a screen, no surprise for this digital generation.

Another previously underutilized resource is my local bookshop. The staff have been attentive to my requests, not only commiserating on delivery dates and backorders, but offering to drop off on my doorstep! I’m embarrassed to admit that it has taken a worldwide pandemic to make me appreciate the role I must play in keeping local independent bookstores alive and well.

The pandemic has been destabilizing in too many ways to count, leaving our lives upended. Even as restrictions have eased in my state of Pennsylvania, I anticipate the next round of stay-at-home orders. While others worry about getting food, it is my emotional health that feels shaky. I have stored extra rolls of toilet paper, stocked up on canned soup and flour, and frozen packets of yeast but one thing I can’t find any replacement for is the library.

For me, a stack of books waiting to be read is a symbol of hope, of hours of enjoyment, of time well spent. The physical act of opening a book is allowing myself to be transported, investing myself in the emotional lives of fictional characters thus escaping my own. Especially in a time of uncertainty, a book is a way to be somewhere else, with no responsibility other than to follow the story.

 

 

The Journey Begins

This blog will be a collection of personal essays on a variety of topics, each and every entry beautifully crafted and perfectly edited. Now you know what my sarcasm sounds like. In reality, I am just starting this whole writing thing. Well, that’s not entirely true, I’ve been writing since I was a kid. In fact, my first published work was a widely circulated (over a two-block radius) newspaper (Xeroxed and collated by yours truly) called the Central Avenue News. If you lived in Greenport, New York in 1985 I’m sure you remember my Op-Ed on the construction at the end of our block. No? Not enough of a resume? I did keep multiple journals from the time I was seven through eighteen but those got washed away in the Great Basement Flood of 2005. So, I don’t have much street cred. But if you like my “voice” so far, or, more likely, if you know me in real life and feel like doing me a favor, I hope you will keep reading.

Dinty Moore writes in his excellent book Crafting the Personal Essay that an essay “invites extreme playfulness and almost endless flexibility”. This just about captures my approach. I’m a doctor and a mother, which means a lot of people look to me for guidance, support, and answers to hard questions (spoiler alert: I don’t always have them). I like the idea of pushing myself to puzzle through certain topics and ideas that stay with me, that I can’t quite shake and keep coming back to, looking for a conclusion of sorts. Why do I find certain topics particularly funny, or poignant, or strange? What is it about certain details that lodge themselves in my brain, irritating me like a stone in my shoe? Do other people see the world like I do? The answer to that last question is a resounding no. Or, rather, not necessarily.

The books that I most enjoy reading make me see the world differently, make me question my own conclusions, push me to view things in a different light. When an author captures in words an idea or feeling I too have had it’s a revelation! That’s quite a lofty goal for my humble blog, however, and will ensure I never attempt to write anything. Instead, I’m approaching this blog as a kind of exercise in thinking through my reactions and conclusions and, perhaps, finding new ones. A bit of mental stretching. In making all of this public I am inviting others to comment and quite possibly disagree with me, which I think I feel okay about, though the jury is still out. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. If you choose to subscribe, or just check in periodically, thank you even more.

Thanks for joining me!

When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained. -Mark Twain