Posted by Christine On November 30, 2016
Ever have one of those moments when you think, “What am I doing here?”
That was me recently at Sugar + Olives in Norwalk. I was invited to read to a packed house from my memoir-in-process alongside (from left) The New Yorker poet Charles Rafferty, novelist Chris Belden, Huffington Post writer, Amy Aves Challenger, and novelist Valerie Ann Leff.
Seriously. Each so very talented and generous, I’m still pinching myself.❤️
Posted by Christine On November 16, 2016
It’s been a week since the election and the thing I thought would never happen, happened: my candidate lost and I went down the wormhole of internet click bait. By clicking I felt as if I was taking action.
I signed online petitions, watched satirical videos, and became a member of Pantsuit Nation. I was angry and each click was a middle finger, a tap to close my bleeding heart. I found myself falling into the abyss of “what now?” and watched fear seep in. With fear, comes restriction and I have never found restriction to be a great initiator of creativity. Instead, restriction makes me want to turn away from writing and organize my closet.
A week ago, I took a stand against restriction, against misogyny, xenophobia, and for women, for inclusion. I voted last Tuesday and then I rode fifty miles on my bicycle with my “I voted today” sticker front and center on my helmet. Later in the day, I went to my parents’ house ready for election night victory wearing a “The future is female” t-shirt. And then I watched as the country turned red. My party’s cool blue only on the fringes.
Every altruistic thought, intention, and months of on-my-knees prayers in my bathroom under the skylight in view of the moon had resulted in…failure. I turned to Facebook and the wormhole sucked me in. I saw my feelings reflected in my friends’ horror and I entered the conversation. A fellow writer friend of mine posted a call to action, “…Grieve. Then dry your tears. Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights…” I responded:
Because of Trump I’ve already had several explicit conversations with my nearly sixteen-year old twin sons about ungentlemanly behavior.
Their father and I conduct ourselves with civility and kindness. Yet, the office of President of the United States is an automatic model for our youth. I am deeply concerned as a parent. As a woman, I am deeply concerned about healthcare and Planned Parenthood.
Two men responded.
Man #1: I don’t condone Trumps actions and he did apologize. I wonder did you have the same talk to your children about the husband of the Democratic nominee for president, a former president himself?
Me: Sir, I certainly have. Bad behavior by one does not excuse another’s. I wonder why you are concerning yourself with my mothering ability.
Man #1: Just curious if you were biased like most. Not concerned with your parenting at all. But as said wondered if it was a bias comment since you failed to mention the Clinton side but did mention the president selects behavior on a social media
Man #2: I was thinking the same thing as [man #1].
Me: As it happens, my oldest child was two and my twins not yet born when Clinton was impeached in 1998. Bias is unavoidable, as we view others from our own, unique lens of experience.
Conversations like this (which was actually quite civil) are happening all over the internet. But for me, it wasn’t satisfying- regardless that the two men responding to my comment seemed interested in a different point of view and man #2 confessed his assumptions about me, someone he doesn’t know.
Yes, I was happy to sign those petitions, got a much needed laugh or two from the videos, and was heartened by the stories on Pantsuit Nation. Also, it appears I am marching on Washington in January. But with all that click bait- I wasn’t writing very much. In fact, a significant decrease in my creative output occurred. Instead of my steadfast “write two hours a day and read two hours a day” I was scanning Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram three hours a day. It was twenty minutes here, ten minutes there- minute by minute I was giving my time and my voice away. I was mute, spinning in place.
There is significant danger in feeling futile. Futility leads to apathy and if that happens, why make art at all? Being an artist- a writer, is already hard enough. So many of us create regardless of financial reward, if we feel that our art doesn’t make a difference, why write at all?
I woke up today and decided to re-phrase Trump’s rhetorically offensive “Take the country back.” I’m taking my time back, my voice back- so that I can contribute to the feminist narrative. I have essays to write, a book to finish editing, a magazine to help get to print, and classes to teach. Not to mention children to feed, bills to pay, and a dog to walk. A bike to ride.
For those artists among us, our art is our action.
Now go make something.
Posted by Christine On August 6, 2016
those who don’t believe in magic will never find it- Roald Dahl
We’ve all seen movies with the scene of a bereaved family in an attorney’s office. The widow wears black while the extended family eye each other over who gets the bigger piece of financial pie. For dramatic effect, an attorney reads a letter penned by the deceased just before their death and the family discovers that the deceased has left everything to a distant cousin or a baby or the trophy wife.
That’s not the way it happened for me because my grandfather died when I was six and instead of a financial windfall there was an army pension. My grandmother went from being the wife of a baker, helping to run a business, to being a clerk at Kmart. As far as any letters written by my grandfather, my mother has some only because she swiped them from a blanket chest when she was a kid. The everything that was left when my grandfather died wasn’t a lot.
This is where the story could dissolve into rampant nostalgia and coat your teeth like saccharine because me grandfather left me his bakery mixer.
Well, not exactly. He didn’t plan on dying of a heart attack so he didn’t say what he would say in my grandfather fairy tale: “Christine should have my favorite mixer, the one I made frosting with, the one I made her parents’ wedding cake with, my best and most special mixer of all. And when she uses it all her cakes will come out spongy and light.”
Instead my mother gave it to me when I was 37. She surprised me with it and since I wrote an essay about that already, for PAGE magazine, I’ll pick up where that story left off- with me hoping to move to my forever house one day and hoping to have a designated place for the mixer, my magical behemoth of non-residential kitchen equipment. And surprisingly, I did and I do.
After a decade of storing the mixer in my basement, I’ve finally done it. I took my inheritance, my unusable 1950s commercial baking mixer, to get repaired. Mice have chewed the cord and the paint is crazed and peeling. It weighs seventy-five pounds and is unwieldy as hell. But I picked it up like I was hugging it and got it off its wood and metal stand. I got it outside to the car by dragging it on a moving blanket. I drove it forty miles, took it out of my trunk and gave it to a man named David, AKA Mr. Fix-It. He gave me a receipt that fit in my change purse.
I bake. Not like my grandfather baked, first as a teenage apprentice in someone else’s bakery, then his own, and then someone else’s again- but in my own kitchen. And I don’t NEED a commercial mixer that weighs 75 pounds with its own stand that takes up as much floor space as a statue to bake chocolate chip cookies and banana bread. I already have a countertop KitchenAid mixer. It’s 23 years old and works great.
I don’t need a commercial mixer at all. What I need is magic.
This is the thing about things: they have a life. My grandfather’s mixer had a long relationship with him, much longer than the relationship I had with him. So this mixer owes me. It owes me frosting lessons, because I suck at applying frosting. It owes me more stories about my grandfather’s childhood in Baltimore because he only had time to tell me a few. The one I remember best is about him jumping over blood in the street from the pig slaughter houses. Now, how can we just leave it there? My grandfather could tell great stories, and I want more.
Of course, I won’t be getting everything I want. My grandfather won’t be here when the mixer is re-installed to teach me how to frost like a pro or tell me more stories. If I want magic, I’ll have to bake it and write the rest of the story myself.
This morning I came downstairs and was almost surprised to see the mixer stand without its partner. Mr. Fix-It will have my magical inheritance for a few weeks. I looked at the stand while I drank my tea.
I’ve begun making a list of desserts I will bake when the mixer returns. Complicated things, with ingredients like super-fine sugar, real whipped cream, and chocolate glazes. I imagine my counter covered in lightly whipped desserts.
The longing for a lost grandparent is like a nostalgia craving, both are delicate and sweet and coat my teeth.
And I let them.
Posted by Christine On July 10, 2016
Mistakes are part of the dues one pays for a full life. – Sophia Loren
The flaws, the mistakes I make- that’s the real me. -Nas
When things go wrong, eat chocolate. – Me
Sometimes, (most of the time) the image I have in my head isn’t what plays out in reality. This goes for my career, my house, parenting skills, my body, OK- everything. I am fortunate to have been blessed with an optimistic attitude but it gets me in trouble. I make strange leaps of courage only to have them dashed- often. Cases-in-point: dining room color choice and career choice. The paint choice is obviously low-risk. Selling a book upon which rests your career: high risk. Not, perhaps as high a risk as extreme skiing, and yet it feels like it.
So you’re only a paragraph in, and you’re on to me: I’m not just writing about a design choice gone astray, something easily fixed, but the fear of having made a risky career choice. Something much harder to correct.
The dining room the day after I moved in last October. Before I took the grungy drapes down I had to remove the chandelier: Early American Apple.
So- the career thing. Before I embarked on my relatively new career as a writer and writing teacher I had a pretty great career as a soft-furnishings seamstress. I worked hard at my craft, got to work with the finest fabrics and materials, installed work in some gorgeous homes, and had loyal clients. But something was missing. The simplest way to put it is that I said all I could with fabric and I wanted to say something else.
I jokingly said to a friend that I wanted my new old house to be like a “sexy farmhouse.” I suppose this meant A sparkly chandelier and a farm table.
I’d like to tell you that I have it all figured out. That I knew when I closed my sewing business and embarked on an MFA (hello student debt), wrote a memoir that I still must query to an agent (and may never be published), and throwing myself into impassioned readings of my work, that I knew I’d be a success. Of course I can’t say that, because it hasn’t happened. I really want to say that I put all my money on a long shot and it paid off. I want to show my children how they should go after their dreams but in my peripheral vision is a mini me saying “What the F have you done? Are you INSANE?
Home remodeling is like life: expensive, often irritating, and unbelievably messy.
There is the high possibility (when does a possibility tip toward probability?) that I am nuts. That I have drunk the NewAgeOptimismOprah Kool-Aid and now believe I can do anything.
When the ceiling has water damage because one of my sons left the bathroom faucet running or the chandelier came in a thousand no-extra pieces (and I broke three), and when I picked a gray for the walls and it dried purple, and I went on painting anyway… yeah, I went on painting anyway, as if more of a bad choice would somehow turn it around- it isn’t a big leap for me to start looking for parallels.
sometimes it’s just better to quit when you’re so far ahead you’re behind
I know what you’re thinking: it’s just paint. Except it isn’t just paint. It’s time and while I’m not elderly, I’m not a spring chicken either. I’m kind of set in my ways. There’s only one thing to do, really, for a woman like me. I have to keep drinking the Kool-Aid. I’ve developed a taste for it. And when I make a mistake, obvious or not, I need to repeat the optimistic mantra that it will all work out.
I fell in love with writing like i fell in love with this wallpaper.
So it’s all or nothing. I re-painted the damn dining room in the color I really wanted. I even changed the hinges on the door and re-hung it by myself. I ordered replacement parts for the chandelier. And the book-in-progress, the thing that I have hinged my new career on? I’m going to send it out into the world and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll do what I’ve always done: try again.
Posted by Christine On April 17, 2016
The house shelters daydreaming,
the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.
-Gaston Bachelard, from The Poetics of Space
I find that I am home more than I am away. Even though I travel to both teach and perform my work, and although I engage in no small number of social events, for me, like so many of you, everything begins and ends at home.
Besides creating a nurturing environment to live in, for myself as well as my family, I try to create a nurturing environment to write in.
As a writer, daydreaming is not an indulgence but a necessity. Just as necessary as cooking dinner, dusting the bookshelves, organizing the pantry, and paying the electric bill.
I freely admit to sometimes feeling that daydreaming is indulgent. How unproductive it can seem to be reading something poignant and put the book down for what I believed to be a few seconds only to discover I have been staring at a wall for ten minutes. But I know this: I am a better writer when I daydream, when I slip out of measurable time and into something else. I don’t know what that someplace is called, only that I need it. Like dinner, like dust-free books, like a stocked pantry, and especially like electricity.
Despite my determination it can be all too easy to abandon the practice of daydreaming and make lists in my head. Cut back the dead wood on the lilacs and forsythia, buy olive oil, breakdown that cardboard to fit in the recycling bin. It’s no surprise I am distracted now, in spring- the season of action.
So with my propensity for action but with the necessity of a good daydreaming practice in mind, I set out to quiet down the sitting room in my house. I quieted it by making roman shades.
This is not the place to look for a tutorial on roman shades and I am not going to tell you how to make the best sitting room for daydreaming. Hardly. Your house is distinctly yours- and I believe that your house has a personality and will tell you what is necessary. You just have to listen.
Instead, this is the place where I show my daydream place. Even if it just looks like a designer’s visual work, it’s also a writer’s interior work to somehow explain the transference of energy in a lived-in space- one that had full light in the daytime and windows of black holes at night to one that encourages the filtering of light for interior reflection- of all kinds.