On this day five years ago, I was preparing to return to Seattle from a two-month residency in Italy. It was a time of many firsts: the first time I had taken an extended leave from work since I was sixteen and the first time I had lived outside of the United States and spoken a language other than English in day-to-day life. It was the first time I had found the inspiration to write a book-length work and the first time that I had actually written anything long enough to be called a book.

At 36, it was also the first time that I felt I had created something with artistic integrity.

That last note is what made the day’s transition more bitter than sweet. As I packed my belongings, I was surprised to realize how deeply I dreaded returning home. In two sun-drenched months of finding my creative way, doing what I wanted to do in the time I wanted to do it –telling the stories that I felt I was born to tell– the idea of my once-beloved Seattle had become the opposite of home. It was no longer a nest but a cage full of soul-quashing rules. At that moment, I knew I couldn’t go back to living the way I had, and yet, my old life awaited for me to resume it — empty apartment, workplace duties and all.

Amidst this, I could feel the strains of a new self being birthed; here it was, the beginnings of the creative life I had always wanted crowning in Italy, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Excited as I was for its arrival, I wondered how this newborn outlook would survive back in the chilly, gray daylight back home. As I rolled my clothes like crepes and tucked them inside my tattered-but-trusty purple suitcase, I fought the call of the clattering din and lively chatter from Campo dei Fiori below. The sounds drifted up through the large open windows, promising fun and delight if only I’d stray from my task for a moment. That, I realized, is what I had become afraid of in my grown-up life back home: letting go and having fun.

I don’t use the word fun trivially. Growing up, fun did not merely represent enjoyment; to my parents, fun was equivalent to goofing off, meaning that having fun or playing was a waste of time. Fun came with a heavy hint of disapproval. Who knows whether it was America’s Puritanical roots, the pressures of the modern workplace, my mother’s immigrant family’s dream of New World success, my father’s Germanic blood (work makes worth), or even my membership in gloomy Gen-X, but the idea that fun was actually valuable and necessary to life and art, had been bred out of me. That ideology is what I didn’t want to return to.

For someone who has always wanted to be a writer, you’d think doing what I love would be easy, but early in my childhood, my parents categorized writing as fun. This label and its shadow definition affected both the way I saw writing but also how I viewed work. I intuited that fun and writing were not as valuable as work and, consequently, that work was serious and, in order to be taken seriously, one’s work could not include fun.

Last night at dinner, a friend told a story about her artistic sibling who, at a very young age, regularly called the family into his room to view his newest paintings. After allowing them a moment to absorb the work, he would fold his arms and urge them to, “Praise me!” We all laughed at the retelling of his bald demand, but it got me thinking about the agency he was creating for himself by demanding recognition, deserved or not. Somewhere, somehow, between the ages of birth and eight, he had exerted his will as a creator and leveraged the tacit and implicit support of his family to help further his craft. What he did was fun but it was also work. It is no surprise that this man has grown up to be a professional artist.

This is why I sometimes wonder if I’ve joined the creative path too late. What happens when a person only begins to discover the power of fun in her work (and her life), or the capacity and freedom she has to create art, in her fourth decade? Is there enough time to assimilate the education I’ve missed out on as a youngster? How do I maintain fortitude against constant acknowledgement at my workplace for being organized and “linear” rather than creative? The phrase “If only I had started earlier…” is a spiderweb I brush away at every day.

Today, when I talk with MFA grads, I kick myself for not knowing in my twenties how grad school might have opened up a more fulfilling career path and writing practice for me. Similarly, when I read Joan Didion or Richard Hugo and realize that the kind of writing I do has historic precedents (hello, Civita di Bagnoregio, you Triggering Town), I wonder what else I’m unaware of. Am I simply an unwitting product of their work, which I can and do absorb by merely living in the current day? Would it make a difference in my work if I was formally educated in established movements that I could draw energy from, or collectives that might help me understand what kind of writer I am and want to be? Is it better to stumble onto all of this by myself, however slowly, however messily, without someone pointing the way? I go through cycles of discovery, delight and frustration as I happen upon theories and writers who are new to me, whose work lends insight into my practice, which I didn’t know how to ask for or seek out. I am thrilled to find clues that resonate, then afraid of what else I am missing or will never discover, and then thrilled again that the world is full of so many things to know and never know.

In spite of the self-initiated art projects and the work I’ve written since returning from Italy, I don’t yet know how to make the leap between what I do for a few hours a week (also known as fun) and the bulk of my life experience. Creativity is not a race –I know this– but it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel a sense of loss for the time I’ve spent dutifully carrying out someone else’s notion of success. Perhaps more critical is that I’m not sure how to stop doing it, day and again, try as though I might. It’s what I’m programmed to do and I do it well. This rubs me raw.

When I returned home in October 2010, I discovered that the path I had bushwhacked to find my creativity had simultaneously jeopardized my job. My employer at the time hadn’t taken kindly to me leaving for two months but, more to the point, the new outlook that I returned with shattered my previously-held definition of what was really important. Success was no longer about job titles or rank, things that others could grant to me, but about freedom, agency and voice — things I could only achieve on my own. And I knew, with a sense of profound joy and sadness, that once I had eaten this apple I could never return to the land of not-knowing. That is why I say, with deep affection and gratitude, that living in Civita for two months ultimately ruined my life.

This morning when I sat down to write, it occurred to me that I am in another time of creative transition, only I can’t point to a residency or singular experience as the catalyst. There are several, I think. The Tin House Summer Workshop in Portland. BinderCon in Los Angeles. The AROHO retreat in New Mexico and our class’s pilgrimage in search of red. A writing workshop on shame by Alyssa Nutting at Hugo House. Elizabeth Gilbert’s lecture on creativity. Writing a novel last November in Seattle Central Library. Writing and recording poems on ugliness and self-worth at Jack Straw. A long-distance friendship and correspondence with my writerly friend, Jen.

There are books, too —All the Light We Cannot See, The Triggering Town, Fun Home, Excavation, The Faraway Nearby— and two volumes on how to celebrate Jewish holidays. By happenstance, I’ve recently paired The Beauty, a book of poems by Jane Hirshfield (thanks, Jen!) with Can’t and Won’t by Lydia Davis as my nightly reading these days. When read together, the length and cadence of the short works play off of each other in surprising ways, yielding some of those aforementioned juicy clues about writing. Davis’s dream accounts and seemingly simple two-line stories play off of Hirshfield’s finely wrought poems in a companionable dialogue that enriches both works — and, together, teach me things that I wouldn’t have arrived at on my own.

There is no lesson plan or structured output for any of this except the writing itself — no clear objective ahead but also, and for the first time, no obvious barriers, either. The work is the work and it is as big and fun as I can let it be. This is why I apply for residencies, grants and fellowships, so that I can make more room for art in my life. When people ask me how I carve out time and energy to write and to apply for all of these things, I struggle to explain. It is, in fact, not work for me but fun, and I lose time while doing it, like falling through the wardrobe into a new and fascinating world. I forget that what sounds like fun to me sounds like work to them.

This weekend, a friend commented that, during a recent vacation to Tuscany, she took time off of writing because her days were so busy with sightseeing, resting and eating. Someone commented that the break must have been welcome, perhaps even a time of creative recharge, especially given the beautiful setting.

In response, my friend wrinkled her nose, shrugged and said, “Any day that I don’t write I feel kind of angry and bunched up inside.” I know exactly how she feels.

This is totally, offensively, utterly, audaciously, fabulously, ugly me


In the fall of 2013, I was hanging out with Tammie when her daughter, Lissa, showed me a distortion camera app on her mother’s phone. She mugged for the camera, her ridiculous faces made even goofier by the camera’s distortion lenses, then passed it over to me, a moment I now equate with opening a can of juicy worms.

Normally, I run from cameras. I’ve long hated my own image and all the flaws I can detect in it; before then, I had never even used the feature on my own smartphone that would allow me to produce the selfies I saw popping up across social media. No way, no how. But, this was different. I made stretched alien heads with my own image, then blockheads, pinheads and swirlies. I was addicted. I downloaded the app and began trading images with Tammie and another friend, Kim — the more distorted and ugly, the better.

About a week later, it occurred to me that, for the first time since I could remember, I didn’t mind having my photograph taken. It was more than that, though — I didn’t mind having truly godawful ugly shots taken, and I actually reveled in sharing them. What was this about?

That fall, I began peeling the onion. Maybe it was about how I felt inside more so than how I looked outside. Yeah, it was about growing up feeling like an ugly nerd, something that had never left my sense of identity even after I transformed from a duckling into something swan-ish. I was pretty sure this was it, so I made a proposal to Jack Straw that October to create a multi-media installation called UGLY ME about beauty and self-worth that was based on distorted selfies. In March of 2014, my proposal was selected with one caveat: they asked me to compose original works rather than selecting works by other authors to read as the audio component of the installation. Okay, fine.

Since then, I’ve watched other artists stage installations on selfies and celebrities publish books about them. I’ve seen friends and strangers post their own selfies on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and blogs, but nowhere did I see people sharing on a personal level about the relationship of one’s self-image with her worth, identity and value the way that I wanted to. Still, I struggled to express myself in the poems I was writing. I felt like what I wanted to say was just out of reach; I just couldn’t get there on my own.

Seattle poet Jeanine Walker, who agreed to give me poetry counseling, caught on immediately. When we met to review my work, she said, “I like where you’re going conceptually, but –if you don’t mind me saying– I think you’re hiding behind these poems. These need to be personal; I want to see more of you in them.” She was right: even when I thought I was revealing everything, I was still hiding. After that, I started writing loud and embarrassing poems, poems that delved into my childhood, poems about the effects of the fashion industry on my sense of beauty, poems about being silenced, poems that touched on many reasons why I look at my own image today and feel shame and worthlessness. Reading them aloud, I realized that these were naked poems, and I became nervous then about recording them.

At the end of May 2015, I worked with Christine Brown, an actress who gave me voice coaching, and Tom Stiles of Jack Straw, the sound engineer who recorded and mixed my readings. It was scary and exciting to be in the recording booth again, sharing not on paper but out loud in front of two warm but professional acquaintances admissions that I would even hesitate to divulge to friends. At different points, Christine had tears in her eyes, as did I; I tried to hide my wavering voice as we recorded. A week later, Tom sent me the digital files: there they were, my naked poems that made me feel so shy I could barely listen to them.

Yet, in the weeks since, I have felt exhilarated — so empowered, in fact, that when I had to have my photograph taken for work, I channeled that feeling of being safe in the studio with Tom and Christine, and I didn’t flinch or cringe the way I normally do when sitting for a photo. And guess what: the picture actually turned out great.

I’ve been peeling this onion for decades, and only now can I see how I’ve been dragging myself down all these years. One thing I’ve concluded is that it starts young and words matter; children indeed live what they learn and what they hear — they process and internalize external feedback all the time. The self-image we create as children becomes a deeply entrenched basis of self-understanding as adults; it’s so ingrained that we can pick apart all the good of ourselves without knowing that we’re even doing it, until we know no other way to live. (Ever seen Amy Schumer’s video of women who can’t take a compliment?)

Next Friday, on July 10, UGLY ME opens at Jack Straw New Media Gallery at 7 pm. There will also be an artist talk on July 31 at 7 pm. This installation is two years in the making, but looking back, I think that time was necessary. I am trying not to have expectations — there are still many things to pull together — but I do have hopes.

I hope that you can join me for the opening or the artist talk.
I hope that you will bring your own selfies that you will pin to the wall.
I hope that you will laugh and get enjoyment out of what is intended to be silly.
I hope that you will take something away from this that softens your heart to yourself and those you love and care about.

Click Jack Straw for more info.

There Is Not a Tiger Chasing Me

Yesterday in yoga class, Claudette turned our attention to the band of midsection at the small of our backs (often called kidney loop) which people tend to squinch when feeling stressed. Under pressure, this area becomes screwed down and hardened; when asked to breathe into it, I was surprised how much tension I was holding, even at rest. One way of easing the strain is to look down the front of one’s body and “puff out” this section; it’s a way of assuring ourselves that we are not under attack or, as Claudette put it, “There is not a tiger chasing me.”

When she said this, we tittered —our day-to-day pressures seemed like nothing in comparison with the mortal dangers of our primordial tiger-fleeing ancestors— yet the idea of easing this sense of constant, radical pressure has stuck with me all weekend. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own reaction to stress.

In December, work was so hectic that my right eye began to twitch one Monday and didn’t stop until Friday — when my team and I completed yet another major deadline. In late January on the Thursday of a particularly brutal week, the worst in months, I felt a tightness strap across my chest, radiating just above my heart. Thankfully, it turned out to be a strained muscle. My massage therapist asked if I had been having tension headaches, too, as the scalene and trapezius were pulled tight from my back around to the front of my breast bone where I had been feeling tightness. My entire upper body was clenched over, like I was preparing for the impact of a head-on collision.

The thing is, my stress is not so different from that of others. We’re all being pushed to the brink these days. If I had a dime for every friend and co-worker who has joked about trading their job for that of a barista, I could retire. What seems different for me though, both personally and at this moment in my life, is my inability to go further. Usually, I can take added fire to the flame, in fact, a younger version of me preferred pressure because conquering it made me feel like a rock star, but lately, I feel like a live wire stripped of its casing. My work is never finished per se, there is just more and more; it’s like Lucy’s conveyor belt of chocolates, only they are not sweet confections but live grenades with the pins pulled.

So, am I fleeing a tiger in hot pursuit—or is it just me? No one else but me is squinching my insides like a damp dish rag. No one but me takes everything I do with a bottomless chasm of solemn commitment and grasping perfection. No one but me can decide how to approach life, whatever it brings; since I’m able to weather other stressors like bad traffic just fine, who else can I look to but myself in managing my work stress?

In addition to puffing out my mid-section and repeating the mantra, There is not a tiger chasing me, two small but beautiful bits of freedom came together this weekend. Aside from pondering stress, inversions are something else that I’ve been considering, particularly since we were working on them with Claudette in the fall. Handstands, for one, have always scared me, though I was able to do them with a spotter (albeit shakily) in the past. I never had confidence in my form, though. After my shoulder injury two summers ago, I haven’t had the strength or confidence to kick up, even with help.

One day after class, when I was feeling a little low for chickening out of inversions, I got to thinking about the state of my core. We had been targeting those muscles in order to prepare for the inversions, which gave me plenty of new exercises to add to my daily regime. What was missing was not only strength, which builds with practice, but the muscle memory of what to do with it. Though I had probably heard it fifty times before, when Claudette spoke about the link between our core and our legs –and the fact that getting up and over (basically pulling off a pike pose) was the hardest part of kicking up– something clicked for me. I was afraid of offering myself up into the unknown.

I wholeheartedly believe in the link between one’s physical core muscles and one’s mental state of being — the confidence, equipoise and centered kindness that is possible when we’re strong and nurtured in body and spirit. Without this, life is painful chaos, full of mishaps, bad luck and tragedy, no matter what the physical actuality of our circumstances. When we’re not at peace inside, we’re not at peace outside. And so, I began to wonder: might there be a link between the strength necessary to complete an inversion and my inner fortitude? Could I reduce the inflammation of my resting state, by convincing myself that there was, in fact, not a tiger chasing me?

I began to work on inversions at home. I decided to start with headstands since they seemed less scary. At home, there is a spot in my bedroom with two walls relatively close; I figured that I could start by walking up the wall into the headstand so that I could get comfortable over time with the feeling my body inverted. Plus, I could work on building my back and core strength so that when it was time to kick up, I would feel better knowing where I was headed.  (Disclaimer: this took a while.)

But, see, there is this thing about faith. It’s the reason I hesitate when faced with downhill ski slopes (okay, I’ve skied three times, but still) or kicking up into inversions. It’s also the reason that the pressure at work is finally getting to me after all these years: the pain conjured from the fear of falling and failing has become big and powerful. After decades of battle, my approach is to survey the field for everything that might go wrong — an effective strategy in pre-planning and mitigating risk, but one that restricts creativity and freedom. This is why work has come to feel like work. My eye twitching and chest pulled tight, I’m questioning if this is how I want to continue approaching life. Considering the totality of all consequences and squinching my insides against them before they arrive is taking a physical toll on my body, yet what should be even more concerning is the effect on my mind.

After this Saturday’s class, with my midsection puffed-out, plump and full of ease (There is not a tiger chasing me), I walked into my bedroom and closed the door. I curled my right hand into a fist and wrapped my left around it, placing my forearms on the floor, then stretched up and back into dolphin pose. I walked my feet in, feeling my pelvis curl up into a pike and the column of shoulder blades, back muscles and core turn on. There is not a tiger chasing me, I thought, and realized that my top leg was going to work like a lever and the bottom kicking leg was going to give me power. I had to trust that the wall would be there to hold me and that my core would keep me from toppling over.

The lure of inversions, other than that they look cool, is that all the blood rushes to one’s head and a feeling of happy drunkenness ensures after the pose is over. The world feels like a good place, perhaps because you’ve changed the way that you look at it, if only for a few seconds.

My second little freedom of 2015 was pulling off a 17-mile bike ride up some very steep inclines from my apartment to Matthews Beach Park (also known as my fourth bikie since I started riding again after 20 years.) My first freedom was kicking up into headstands on my own, which I attempted again after the ride. My legs were tired, but I wanted to assure myself that my learning hadn’t disappeared. I stayed up for several seconds, long enough to feel my muscles remember, and thudded back to Earth. Satisfied, I flung myself on the couch to rest, making the mistake of glancing at work email in between tasks; upon reading one message in particular, I felt my insides wring tight. At that moment (Is there a tiger chasing me?) I knew I was at risk of losing the hard-won, physically exhaustive harmony of a two-and-a-half-hour bike ride.

Then, I made a choice: I remembered all the things that my body helped my mind to understand this weekend, and I began to write. Like everything, there’s muscle memory associated with letting go; practice and faith go hand-in-hand. For now, I’ve found my mantra, which I can apply when I feel the world begin to slip upside down. With practice, maybe someday, I’ll invite that big kitty inside for a saucer of milk.

Habits, New and Old

Photo by Nick Spang

Photo by Nick Spang

While it is, apparently, a myth that habits take 21 days to form, I do feel a little bereft now that I’ve moved my furniture and my writing practice from the Central Library back to my own living room. I didn’t realize until today the many ways that this newly adopted theatrical sequence helped me become a better writer. Most days, I would travel up the escalator from Fourth Avenue, time that I used to get my head in the game. The ride to Level 3 was long enough to switch mental modes: I’m no longer at work. I’m here to write. I would check in with David in security, if he was on duty. I would stop to talk with Linda, Andrea, Misha or David at the information desk, if they were free — just a minute of banter before someone inevitably came by to ask about a book. I moved on, finding my key card in the zippered pocket of my purse. I swiped it across the red scanner to gain access to the back-of-house space where I stowed my coat and purse in a locker. Sometimes I ran a comb through my hair or ate a protein bar if I was in between meals — whatever was needed to be presentable or fortified for the task at hand. By the time I emerged from the black door and ducked under the stanchion rope onto the small stage, I was in character. My brain was ready to pick up where I had left off the day before. I took out my laptop and plugged in the power first, then the cord to the large monitor behind me. I booted up. I turned on music by Yo-Yo Ma, Tomo Nakayama or Todo Es to further clear the chatter from my head. These small rituals were like stations of the cross; I completed each of them, in order, before I began to write. Like all brief but intense experiences, spending a month as a novelist-in-residence at the library was transformative; it was difficult to quit cold turkey. For one, I miss my new librarian friends, but I also long for the accountability that came with showing up to write every day. (If you are ever looking for motivation, I recommend posting your writing schedule on a public calendar.) It also meant that my writing time was protected. For two or three –or sometimes six or seven– hours a day, my job was to focus only on writing. Yes, I can still write at home, and I can set daily word goals. Yes, NaNoWriMo is not a realistic pace that I can maintain long-term. My average daily word count in November was 2,600 words, which is a lot on top of a full-time job — or at least, it’s a lot for me. Still, of the many lessons I learned, one is that I am a slow writer in private practice. Typically, it takes me three to four weeks to write the first draft of a single short story (say, 5,000 to 10,000 words.) At the library, I was creating content in days that would have otherwise taken a month. When I write in normal life, I often edit as I go, which adds a drag coefficient that is not possible to sustain when you’re attempting to write 50,000 words in 30 days. Still, NaNoWriMo made me question whether I wish to continue working the same way. For, as painful as it was to lay down sentence after sentence without going back to smooth and polish them, I faced the reality that early editing is a means of procrastination for me. It also makes for uneven work. Some writers fear the blank page, but I fear the ugly first draft, so I take a long time to complete things (even blog posts like this) because I’m constantly refining the early parts before the piece is finished. I write as if I’m rolling out dough, starting over and over in the same place. Over-editing aside, I have spent the past week reveling in the ability to write without hesitation, since no one is watching me. A Novel Performance proved that the observer effect is indeed real (the act of observation changes the phenomenon or subject being observed.) I often froze up when writing romantic or emotionally complex scenes with a crowd of people standing three feet away, their eyes poised on the screen just about my head waiting… waiting… for something brilliant to appear. I found it difficult to experiment before an audience; I didn’t feel like I had the creative space to write something that I might not keep. When those moments arose, I channeled my inner Jo Ann Beard, composing, editing and re-composing sentences in my mind before typing them on screen. Slowly. Very slowly. This may be fine for Ms. Beard, but it turns out that I am the type of writer who thinks by writing rather than one who writes by thinking. For those who geek out on statistics, here’s a fun fact: it took me 20 days to write 50,000 words and only another 7 to reach 70,355 (the library was closed on Veterans Day and Thanksgiving; the final day of writing took place on November 29.) That means I was averaging 2,500 words a day in the first three weeks of the installation, but I actually increased my productivity in the last week to 2,905 words a day. Everyone kept asking if I was tired or ready to be finished, and I suppose that I said yes, but I would follow that with a disclaimer: even in the thick of it, I had not run out of ideas, and I was always eager to return to the couch. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write, and the more ideas for other stories kept bursting into mind. Kamikaze writing (my term for this approach) was like learning a new sport: the first few weeks, your body is fatigued and full of fits and starts as it begins to understand how to work in a new way, however you soon get in a groove that somehow creates new energy from the effort. After that, you can go farther faster (or stronger longer) seemingly without end. During NaNoWriMo, I didn’t stop to plot or track my daily word average, but seeing the numbers after the fact substantiates the consistent flow of energy I felt, despite my creativity coming under unusual, intense and ongoing demand. No breaks. Just write. And I did. Since finishing, many people have asked questions I can’t answer fully: what happens next with the book? When will they see it in print? What am I working on now? Will I do NaNoWriMo again? An easy response to the first is that the book goes into a drawer for an indeterminate amount of time. My main squeeze, who stayed up late last night to finish it, gave “The Year of the Tiger” a thumbs-up as worthy for more work, so it passed an early test. It also means a hell of a lot more time and effort, and a residency or two in order to complete it. Only now do I begin to see the licking hell fires that my novelist friends have resigned themselves to; they are the ones who answer this question with, Well, I just finished my fourth revision… Their plight, now my own, makes me shudder. Yet, I must acknowledge that this is my second attempt to turn these ideas into a book. Part of my proposal for A Novel Performance was to examine the role of failure in literary art, as this current draft is actually the result of failure. The story was vastly different in 2012 when it was fodder for a memoir, so I have effectively written it over from the beginning two times — and much more work is needed. (I took what I learned from the first version as fuel for a completely fictitious cast of characters.) While I don’t imagine that my third draft will be a complete re-write, my hesitance in answering this question comes from knowing how much I’ll have to revise, which is a lot. Most novelists I know spend five to ten years on a novel; I’m still in year three — or year one, depending upon how you look at it. So, when will you see it in print? When (and if) it’s ever ready. This summer at the Tin House summer workshop, I asked literary agent Meredith Kaffel about the right time to approach an agent with a manuscript. I should add that I didn’t just ask this question, I asked tentatively. Meredith has an incredible presence — she appears seasoned beyond her years and presents the assured beauty of an Orange is the New Black-era Laura Prepon, her dark brown hair drawn to a long side braid, thick-framed glasses that make her eyes appear large and wise, bold red lipstick that contrasts with her pale skin. I posed the question and she immediately responded, “You’ll know when it’s ready.” She’s correct. The more I write, the more I know when my work is ready — and if I have to ask, it’s not. When you’re starting out as a writer, you look for validation, and so you send things to editors and agents before they should be sent, and they are summarily rejected. I’m still shopping a piece that I completed years ago when I had just returned to writing; it’s an essay about my father that I totally believe in, but I can’t seem to place it. In 2009, I submitted it to one magazine —The Sun— which was very optimistic. After waiting six months only to receive a hard-copy rejection, I didn’t do anything with it until 2013 when I gave it a spit-shine and started sending it out in earnest. It’s still looking for a home. If I rewrote that essay today as a more mature artist, it would turn out differently; this may be what I have to do if I really want to get it published. And thus begins my answer to the question of what I’m working on now. One major initiative is adapting NaNo lessons into my daily writing practice. For starters, I will take writing as seriously as I take my job and defend my writing time. I will show up ready to write and not wait until the mood strikes. I will not fear or attempt to avoid the messy work; I will get the first draft down sentence by sentence and edit later. I will not save up ideas in my mind, as if obsessively replaying their potential will somehow make them better. I will write outlines (perish the thought!) and perhaps even organize and rearrange the order of a piece before writing it. I will not fear that my creativity will dry up from overuse. Post-novel, I’m digging into several short pieces: an essay about my experience in the library, a short story about a wrongly-fired woman seeking revenge, a flash fiction piece about love and regret, and a series of linked prose poems about beauty and self-image. This last effort is part of a multi-media installation titled “Ugly Me,” which will open in July 2015 at the Jack Straw Cultural Center in the U-District. I’m also part of Project Home Poem, a temporary literary art installation led by artist Perri Howard for the new Northgate Sound Transit Station. Then, there is the matter of this novel. I’m applying for grants and residencies… we’ll see how it goes. As for NaNoWriMo, it depends on what’s cooking next fall. It is no easy thing to write 50,000 words in a month, whether you’re doing it in public or not. In fact, the latter is more difficult, I think, as the joys and pains are private, and so is the motivation. I feel unbelievably fortunate to come away from NaNoWriMo with not only the first draft of a novel, but new friendships, a keener sense of the role that our library and librarians play in the community, and many newly-formed habits –and a more confident artistic voice– that I hope will grow stronger with time. Finally, my deepest gratitude to the library staff who made me feel inspired, welcome and safe every day; to 4Culture for their support of this project; Paul Constant of The Stranger and Rachel Belle of KIRO FM for their thoughtful coverage of A Novel Performance; Seattle Public Library for hosting me as a novelist-in-residence so that I could create this work; Nick Spang for his beautiful documentation; Jeff Sandler, whose assistance in relocating my living room was invaluable — and to my friends who supported me in countless ways over the past five months, especially those who took time to show up at the library. THANK YOU.

What Is She Doing?

Day one of "A Novel Performance" at the Central Library in downtown Seattle

Day one of “A Novel Performance” at the Central Library in downtown Seattle

The title question is perhaps best answered when accompanied by another: “Are writers really introverts — or do we seek to shroud our craft in mystique?” And perhaps a third redux version: “What the #$%^ am I doing?”

In addition to providing a rich palette of human diversity, the first day of writing a novel in the Central Library surely tested my inner introvert. In the hours after building a stage upon which rests a scene from my living room –yes, in the middle of the library– I was finally faced with answering a question I’ve been dodging for months: Can I actually do this? As a first-time WriMo (someone who attempts the NaNoWriMo challenge) had I had bitten off more than I could chew?

Over the last few months, I’ve studied all the NaNoWriMo tips, deciding that I was somewhere in between a Planner and a Pantser. In reality, I skew more towards the latter, despite my planner nature in all things non-literary. Two weeks ago, under great duress, I wrote a chapter outline and composed half-hearted character sketches for only two principal characters. The whole set-up process felt false to me — how am I supposed to know who these characters are and exactly what they’ll do until I start writing them? My framework for this novel rests lightly on several trips I’ve made in the past few years, so I have a general sense of where my characters are headed… but trying to nail everything down ahead of time — I just couldn’t do it. After all, I was the young woman in design school who filled in her sketch book at the end of the quarter, the night before it was due.

Besides, the physical component of A Novel Performance and all of its moving parts, from van rental and signage design and production to approvals and installation, has kept me sufficiently distracted since July. For someone avoiding the moment where she has to face the task she’s taken on, this was convenient.

For those first few minutes, I sat, waiting. My fingers trembled as I started with the easy parts: title and chapter heading. I knew that the story would open in New Zealand, so I pictured what the beaches are like in November — blustery, wild, pristine. A few words trickled out. Starting with the first chapter, my heroine immediately departed from the script that I had given her. This was exciting if not a little terrifying. How was I -er, she- doing this? I realized that we were deepening the opening of the story together far beyond the initial framework I had set, but it was a good departure. I kept working. Slowly. At several points, people stopped to read the screen behind me; they observed sentence by sentence form (nothing like having a small crowd of people watch you misspell the word privilege three times…) Over the course of the afternoon, I tried to tap into the flow that always feels so easy at home, but it didn’t happen, not exactly. In between paragraphs, I kept asking myself: can I return day after day to do this?

This morning, I used our extra fall-back hour to document yesterday’s work. The prose isn’t beautiful yet, but I can see a portal, albeit a small one, opening up into a new world. This is encouraging. It is hard not to edit, something that I enjoy far more than banging out rough drafts, but that’s also part of the NaNoWriMo challenge: if you’re going to hit 50,000 words in a month, you can’t go back — only forward.

As I prepare to head back to the library today, I continue to ask myself why I’m doing this. Underneath the obvious –I want to produce a novel– there is something else: as artists, we need community. Writer Richard Hugo, for whom Seattle’s beloved Richard Hugo House is named, put it best: Writing is hard and writers need help. Within the word help, I see the words connection, relationships and support.

Sometimes, watching someone do something a little crazy is all a person needs to feel emboldened to take on a challenge in her own life. This week, Tina Hoggatt at 4Culture invited me to write a blog post about A Novel Performance which allowed me to revisit this question –why am I doing this?– and reaffirm my quest. Indeed, writing is hard, but thanks to everyone who has already voiced support, be it on Twitter or in person, I can feel the strength of the writing community behind me. Support is what writers of all levels need. My profound thanks to 4Culture and Seattle Public Library for supporting A Novel Performance — and to everyone who I will meet along the way.

For more on the origins of A Novel Performance, read the 4Culture blog post here.

A Room of One’s Own

While it’s been many years since I’ve shared the cost of rent with someone, this isn’t to say that I haven’t lived with other people.

Years ago, after my ex-husband and I separated, I rented a condo in downtown Seattle, thrilled with the prospect of re-discovering city life. The architect who designed the building, a crusty old gent known for his stylish spectacles as much as his cantankerous wit, referred to my new abode as “one of the bread-and-butter units.” (He still resides in the penthouse today.) He croaked this observation before sweeping out for dinner with his wife, leaving me agape and blinking at the community mailboxes, unsure whether I should be insulted since the condo wasn’t actually mine.

Like all of the multi-family buildings I’ve lived in, we tenants didn’t interact much, at least not directly. The guy below me, whose third-floor unit had an expansive private outdoor space, loved to host parties during the crystal blue summer months, blasting Madonna til two in the morning while his guests guzzled Cosmopolitans. (Sex and the City was still big back then.) Instead of knocking on his door in my jammies, I called to concierge to ask him to quiet down.

Over many sleepless summer months, I grew to despise my fun-loving neighbor, though I didn’t even know his name. At that time in my life, I probably would have enjoyed his shindigs if he had invited me, but instead, I continued to call the concierge every time he partied past midnight. Instead of a relationship, we lived in a kind of denial that either of us existed. He didn’t think that he was disturbing anyone, and I would listen while he informed his disappointed guests that they had to tone it down, as if the edict came from someone else because, technically, it did.

After a few years in gritty Belltown, the economy took a downturn, and my employer cut our salaries. Twice. I broke up with my then-boyfriend. Twice. I was feeling thin in all sorts of ways –spiritually, economically– so I decided to move into a classic brick building (read: more affordable than a condo tower) on the south-facing slope of Queen Anne. So much for the bread-and-butter life.

It turns out that this beautifully restored apartment was exactly what I needed. It was too small to host the gatherings that my condo held, and there was no balcony or view save for the peek-a-boo of the top of the Space Needle from my living room, but it was peaceful and dignified. More than that, it was really, truly mine. During my tenure, I’ve rarely entertained, save for one or two friends or the occasional date, none of which lasted into the throes of boyfriend-dom and the requisite detritus that comes with having a man squatting part-time in one’s apartment. If I was at home, I was generally alone, and it was exactly what I needed.

My one-bedroom aerie was also perfect for writing, which I began to do quite a lot of after I moved in. With the sun streaming through the wood-framed windows on Sunday mornings, church bells pealing in the blissfully silent air, I put my feet up on the ottoman and formed a weekend ritual that has fueled this blog, and many other pieces of writing, for the last five years.

That is, until he moved in. Our tumultuous relationship began as many do, born of misconceptions, pride and a twist of fate that brought us together on a stormy November evening last year.

I had been through many neighbors by then, both above and below, all of whom stayed about a year. By sound alone, I came to learn their habits, hobbies and relationships over the last five years, thanks to the thin ceiling and floor membranes that comprise this 1930s building. There was the couple who had a baby shortly after I moved in; for months, all four of us woke in the dark for 2 a.m. feedings. There was the Seattle Pacific University student who hailed from eastern Washington, joined on weekends by her Spokane-based boyfriend who came to argue and make love with her in alternating shifts. Most recently, a diminutive thirty-something techie lived above me; meek and shy, he fancied playing electric guitar occasionally in the evenings and on weekends, about the same times I liked to write.

I drew upon my network of musician friends, all of whom independently agreed that I should ask him to plug into headphones during his practice. When I did, he thought for moment as I shifted uncomfortably on the other side of his door. “I’ll turn it down, no problem, but I don’t like headphones. The sound isn’t right.” He paused. “Maybe you can just come tell me when it’s too loud.”

His offer was not acceptable, but what could I do? He was always pleasant and responded immediately to my requests. Defeated, I shuffled downstairs to my apartment and rested back against the tall wooden door of my unit. Begrudgingly, I noted that he had turned down the speaker volume; in fact, I could barely hear him playing. It was almost pleasant, except that I could hear it, thin as ghost music, and the very fact that I could hear it was irritating. I flounced onto my couch with a frown, drawing my warm laptop on top of my thighs, the notes of his guitar distracting me like sirens through the single-pane windows. I said out loud to no one, “But I don’t want to have a relationship with you.”

Wasn’t that it? I didn’t want to tell anyone what I needed, especially if it meant admitting displeasure or asking for something that could be declined. It was easier to be independent, to rely only on myself to make or cease things from happening. I didn’t want a relationship with my upstairs neighbor or anyone else, not really. Wasn’t that why I was alone in this otherwise quiet space where no one asked or was invited to visit? He was disturbing the pact that I had unknowingly created by settling down with Peace and Quiet once and for all, ready to live happily ever after — alone. While I went out almost every night with friends for drinks and dinner, or to shows and art openings, when it came time to leave, I secretly loved coming home to absolutely no one.

My sequestered private life was, of course, in diametric opposition to my oft-advertised and seemingly earnest search for love. Over the years, I went on many dates, some of them bad or at least memorably uncomfortable, which fueled my get-togethers with florid stories of the horrifyingly ridiculous man-creatures I met both online and in person. With enough knee-slapping stories to fill a chapbook, it’s no wonder I didn’t find love. I wasn’t really looking for it, and if it had found me, I wouldn’t have been able to ask for what I needed anyway. While I hate to assign him too much credit, my new upstairs neighbor has had a hand in changing this.

The weekend before I was to leave for Austin to visit friends at Thanksgiving, I spied several young men gathered around a moving truck in the back parking lot. The dull pounding of dropped boxes and hard-soled-shoe-wearing twenty-somethings clodding on the wooden floors above heralded the departure of my reasonable, guitar-playing neighbor. It was then I realized that, other than the notes from his guitar, I had never actually heard him or his girlfriend inhabiting the space above. I suddenly regretted my vitriol-infused tweet strings about him that began, Dear Neighbor… He might not have been reading or heeding them, but the universe had, and it was going to afford me with a new perspective.

Impossibly loud noises –heavy thunks, galumphing steps– rained down from above until midnight. It was Sunday and I had to wake up at five for the gym, followed by work. This whippersnapper was going to learn a lesson, and I was going to teach it to him. I zipped up my sweatshirt and flew upstairs, fueled by righteous indignation. When I rapped on his door, expecting to cow a college boy into respectful submission, I was greeted by a fifty-something man who appeared intoxicated. When I tried to explain in an apologetic, tit-mouse voice that he was keeping me awake, he suggested it was the locksmith who had been there earlier.

“Well, actually… I heard you just now… You know, this is an old building, so sound travels. If you take your shoes off inside, it might help a lot.”

“I’m not wearing shoes,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

We stood there for a moment silently, facing each other like two gunslingers, he in his stained T-shirt and boxes strewn down the hallway, me in my wonderment of how this arrangement was going to work. The next night, drunken and cavorting with what looked like a barely legal girl at two a.m., my query would be sealed with an answer: it wasn’t going to work. After being asked to quiet down, he threw a fit, slamming the door and absconding with his nymphette down the staircase, which ran along the north side of my unit. “No f’n bitch is gonna tell me what to do!” he boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. “I pay thirteen hundred god-damned dollars a month in rent – no bitch is going to tell me what I can do in my place!”

After another late-night incident a week later, which left me curled up in bed, heart racing with anxiety, I notified the landlady. Our building does not have an after-hours monitoring service, and there was no way I was going up there to talk with him again. Ever. She promised to speak with my new neighbor, which prompted him to leave an ugly flower basket on my doormat one afternoon. It was the kind that men with no taste buy for women they don’t know. The card was addressed: “To Better Future Encounters.” Inside, he wrote, I will do my best, within reason, to accommodate you. My intentions are good.

In the seven months since, his words have proven untrue. It is even more ironic that these words were written by an English teacher who works at a private Seattle school. An English teacher?! As a writer who holds her own English teachers in the highest regard, my neighbor feels like an insult to the profession. That, plus the fact that he regularly smokes pot and gets drunk with young people who can only be former (and hopefully not current) students, adds further insult to the archetype of the Insightful, Caring, Sensitive English Teacher Who Can Be Trusted. On the other hand, how many literary men and women have drinking and substance abuse problems? Maybe his behavior isn’t so surprising or far out there as it is incredibly annoying to put up with.

Thankfully, I won’t have to bear it much longer.

My upstairs neighbor isn’t the only reason I’m moving, but his never-ending blunderbuss did wake me up to a few things. The regular panic I began to experience at hearing his booming voice from above brought me back to my childhood. I realized that, in the face of angry confrontation, I was still thinking and acting like a vulnerable child when, in fact, I am not. I didn’t have to be scared into silent acceptance anymore. I began calling my landlady in the wee hours when he kept me up. After a period of halting improvement followed by relapse, I wrote a formal letter addressing the round-the-clock noise problem. As soon as I began to stand up for myself, at least in my own eyes, I stopped having anxiety attacks at the sound of his thudding feet.

And, when it became clear that my landlady was delivering lip-service rather than actual assistance, I took matters into my own hands and decided to move. It was satisfying to hear her sputter apologies when she received my termination notice, pointing out what a good tenant I had been all these years. “I should have served him with a ten-day notice long ago,” she lamented.

I murmured my agreement and feigned regret, assuring her that there was no way that I could stay, as I had already put down a deposit on a fabulous new place with an in-unit washer/dryer to boot (“But we have a top-floor unit coming available… I guess I should have told you that last month…”) The truth is, I am ready to leave. Nothing she could have promised or said would have changed my mind.

In my complaint letter, I cited the fact that I can even hear my upstairs neighbor urinating, he does it so loudly, not to mention the fact that his tromping footsteps wake me up almost every night and make it generally impossible for me to exercise the quiet enjoyment of my space. In disrupting my sanctuary, the lughead gave me a reason to face and voice what was hurting me, and from that, I was driven to communicate what I needed to others, and ultimately, myself.

However distasteful and thoughtless, we sometimes need these catalysts in life, especially in the face of immense changes like moving… and turning forty. An expensive transition lies ahead this week, but one that I have been building up to, yet not ready to exercise until now. My very private and [mostly] serene apartment was meant to heal me, a Fortress of Solitude where I could quietly pen my memoirs as I figured things out. Subconsciously, I chose it because it reminded me of the cliff houses in the Cinque Terre; halfway up the steep incline of Queen Anne hill, it was protected and remote, two words that describe my lifestyle over the past decade, despite my sanguine personality. It catered to my hidden desire to get away from it all, from everyone.

As I approach my fortieth birthday, my friends continue to assure me that I will come into myself, feel more comfortable in my own skin than I ever have, and I believe them. For me, the past decade has been about piecing together things that were rendered asunder for most of my life — the kind of stuff that a person does by herself in an apartment like this. From what I sense about the coming decade, more light and space are necessary; this new decade of growth is not done alone in the dark but in partnership and with witnesses.

I cannot help but chuckle (and rankle, just a bit), as my upstairs neighbor thuds back and forth across my ceiling like Frankenstein as I write this post. The sun is shining through my living room window, and he’s blabbing so loud I can almost make out the words as he paces back and forth. Then, his voice quiets uncharacteristically and the disturbance shifts into rhythmic thuds and bedspring squeaks that can mean only one thing: it’s definitely time to move.

With only a week left here, my hallway is starting to become full of boxes, just as his was when he moved in. I’d like to think that, even in my transition, I won’t disturb the woman who lives below me, who I’ve never met, who has never come upstairs to ask me to be quiet. She and I are strangers, as most of my fellow tenants are, all of us together pretending that we are living alone.

That premise won’t characterize my life for much longer. The other twist to the new home awaiting me is that I’ve decided to share it with my main squeeze. The timing of his career and life circumstances came together with mine as unexpectedly as our relationship, and everything that we’ve both learned from each other in the last year. I’ve concluded that, as with all major boons, you must to be willing to enter the contest, present to win and open to accepting the gift when it comes along, which is often not at a time of your planning or preparedness. That’s why I simply said yes and continue to be surprised at how not-terrifying it is to pass through this great window of change, which once seemed gargantuan and impossible to navigate.

In the end, it’s not my bonehead upstairs neighbor who I credit for spurring me into action, but the universal forces that brought him into my life. They provided the circumstances for me to realize that it’s time to go, that there’s another life waiting for me — a relationship that I am, after all this time, finally ready to engage in. Mere days away, our new life is located on the top floor of a brand-new building that faces onto a green courtyard with a fountain. We’ll have a private balcony and even a rooftop terrace where a group of friends can come gather, outside, together, all of us collectively at once in the light.


It’s taken me twelve years in Seattle to swim in an indoor pool. Or, more accurately, it has taken me thirty-five years to return to one.

In Arizona, where I grew up, no one had indoor pools. In the desert, the primary point of water is cooling more so than sport or recreation, though they follow closely behind. The only rightful place for pools in Phoenix is outdoors. The 300-plus days of sunshine and fair weather ensure they will be used virtually year-round whereas in Seattle, ninety days of traditionally defined summer is a tenuous proposition hardly worth the expense.

While I shuddered to imagine daring an outdoor swim here on a frigid, rainy December night, I also balked at the idea of swimming indoors. It was simply unnatural. Each time I longed for the water, I conjured the acidic stink of chlorine held captive by a cavernous brick building rather than set free into the sunny blue sky. No thank you.

My first indoor pool experience happened in Michigan where my mother took me for swimming lessons as a toddler, determined that I would learn things she never did. While I didn’t mind being in the water, I refused to put my cherubic face under. For weeks, my mother and swim teacher cajoled and begged with no success. I would wade and dog paddle, but not submerge. I was plenty nice about it, no fussing or crying, but there was no way I was going under. Then someone brilliantly suggested bribery. One flip of a shiny quarter into the water, followed by a guttural glug! as it submerged, and down I went.

In my defense, twenty-five cents was a worth a lot more back then.

After we moved to Arizona, I was thankful that mom sprang for those lessons, since most of my friends had pools. I went to so many birthday pool parties growing up that my fingers are still pruny. Those of us who didn’t have our own pools gathered frequently at neighborhood pools in our master planned community. They weren’t quite public pools –they were only for residents and guests, and were well maintained– but they weren’t luxurious, either. The metal gates and restroom cabanas had been painted beige far too many times, and the palm trees that provided scant shade had seen enough seasons as to be gangly. There were always too many kids splashing around to do anything useful, like swimming laps; mostly, we went to get tan or flirt with boys, or practice underwater tricks like handstands.

The gentle baking sensation of the sun drying beaded water from my skin goes hand-in-hand with swimming, even today; without the sun to warm me, it seems daft to swim inside. It’s a lunacy akin to driving to the gym in order to walk on a treadmill. Each morning, I think, Really? but it’s 5:30 am and dark and rainy and cold, so I do it, just like I drive myself to the community pool at night, bundled up in fleece. As soon as I arrive, I head for the dry sauna rather than shiver on the sidelines as they pull the lane markers across the water.

Not only has my swim venue shifted in adulthood; so have the outfit and accessories. In Arizona, I wore an off-the-shelf suit where today most one-pieces are designed to be alluring rather than functional. Nothing like noticing parts of oneself floating by to send a girl to the Speedo department pronto. Back then, no one bothered with shoes, which were usually left outside someone’s back door. Our hair flowed free, growing more brittle and light each summer as our eyes reddened from whatever hazardous chemical cocktail they shocked pools with.

Today, I wear a swim cap, which is essentially required in a public pool. What a hilarious dance it is to get my shoulder-length mane inside the tight black cap, something I attempted for the first time ever in December. After minutes of desperate tucking, I looked like Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman at the end of Batman Returns, frizzy strands poking out every which way from shreds of black rubber hugging my face. Somehow, she managed to appear crazy-sexy while I looked deranged and old, the cap pushing down my forehead into a stack of Shar Pei wrinkles above my eyes. I snapped a selfie only to realize later that I looked like aged elephant seal. (To be fair, Michelle had lipstick and eyeliner working for her in the movie.)

Then, there are the goggles. No one wore them when I was a kid, except for Olympic athletes on TV. We wore cheap, leaky plastic masks for a few seconds in order to explore the bottom of the pool, then quickly ditched them to play Marco Polo. Wearing contact lenses as an adult, there is no way to swim without goggles. At least I don’t stand out, since everyone wears them in Seattle, even kids. We look like a hive of near-sighted soggy bees buzzing back and forth to the hive.

To top this off, I can’t forget the hot pink Croc flip-flops with massaging soles. While I cringe at wearing anything by Croc, I really cringe at contracting ringworm and foot fungus. I stand on top of my Crocs even while changing, fearing diseases that friends have caught in gym locker rooms from going without footwear. In Arizona, we ran barefoot across the Kooldeck with abandon, but here, I won’t step on the concrete floor until the last minute when I am forced to leave my shoes next to my towel before dashing into the water. Admittedly, I live by a bizarre and wholly unscientific five-second rule by which I am safe if I madly tiptoe-dance across the surface because surely ringworm takes at least ten seconds of full-foot contact to set in.

This is a lot of effort for the actual amount of swimming I do, which is about forty minutes. Of course, when I say forty minutes, it’s closer to twenty-five, given all the panting and pausing between laps. In the last few months, my friend Amie and I have given a new definition to the SLOW lane, urging the septuagenarian who had clearly claimed it for his own to join the MEDIUM lane next door. On our first night, grandpa lapped us several times over; on our second, he tried to pass me on the inside, only to face a near head-on collision with the portly side-stroke floater going the opposite direction. Frustrated, he splashed under the lane marker to the MEDIUM lane, which is where he now remains, shaking his head when he looks over at us.

Our strokes are another matter entirely. The teenage staff guffaw as we slap our hands into the water like geese downed by jet engines. On our first swim night, the sixteen-year-old lifeguard suggested that I not lift my head out of the water so much during my crawl stroke; I nodded and thanked her, thinking, When was I doing the crawl? Had I inadvertently mastered a new stroke? At home, Google told me that the crawl and freestyle, which is what I thought I was doing, are the same. I studied the diagrams, not sure that I had been doing anything that resembled any of the images.

The next time I swam I wanted to explain to her, Just so you know, I keep my head up too long because I am close to dying each time I gasp for breath between strokes. It turns out that swimming is much more of a workout than I imagined. As a kid, I remembered being pleasantly tired coming out of the pool before gorging on hot dogs, hamburgers, chips and soda served by someone’s mom after hours of play. Swimming laps back and forth as an adult is altogether exhausting, and quickly so. I can barely catch my breath at the deep end before turning around. With each lap, and I use that term loosely, I alternate strokes –breast stroke or freestyle, er, crawl– so that I can make it back to rest on the shallow end. Sometimes, I use a kick board for alternating laps, my tired thighs becoming slabs of veal, smooth and creamy, without an ounce of short-twitch muscle in them.

Anyone who shares our lane is thoroughly confused, wondering why Amie and I spend so much time huddled up against the wall at the shallow end, panting. We seem awfully polite, smiling and nodding, Oh no, you go ahead, as the other swimmers splash forward with their fluid strokes and fancy kick turns, going back and forth across the water like skates. Last week, the eight-year-old Chinese girl who swims under her parents’ watchful eyes paused and tilted her head at us, close to asking why we never take our turns as often as we could. I wanted to say, Hey kid, it’s not that we’re all that nice, we’re just old and tired, but I think that my outfit gives that away already. At least Amie has a pink cap so she looks like a cute water ballerina next to my tar baby seal head.

When you start out swimming, your body is inefficient. Without synchronous mastery of the strokes, you’re working harder than you need to, working against yourself to go the same distance that an efficient swimmer like my auntie can cover in shorter time with less effort. Watching the Seattle Pacific University men’s swim team in the FAST lanes reminds me of this, their lean Michael Phelps frames gliding gracefully back and forth across the water like mer-men — zip, zoom, paddle, kick-turn, zip, zoom, paddle, kick-turn, zip, zoom, paddle, and so on, like it was nothing. Conversely, my moves consist of push-off, ka-blam, ka-blam, gasp, pause, ka-blam, ka-blam, spit, gasp, pause, ka-blam, ka-blam, sputter-spit, gasp, ka-blam, ka-blam, oh-thank-god-I-made-it-to-the-deep-end. Occasionally, Amie and I look over at the boys in their Speedo briefs, not an extra ounce of flesh on them, and feel like Mrs. Robinson.

There is no sweeter moment than when we call time, high-fiving each other for showing up, tossing our kick boards onto the pile before huddling into the hot box to warm up, our reward before we hit the showers. After listening to us discuss our struggling performance, one denizen suggested that we practice our kick turns, insisting that they would be game-changers. After he left, we laughed, agreeing that we first needed to be able to swim back-to-back laps before kick turns would be of any use. I pictured us executing perfect kick-turns before sinking to the bottom, out of breath. On the plus side, maybe the SPU students would give us mouth-to-mouth.

It’s a nice idea, though, that some day this might be easier. Some day, Amie and I will be the old ladies making a big splash, ducking under the floating markers to the MEDIUM lane. I bet you’ll marvel at our kick turns.