Twin fair

This picture is why I love writing memoir. 

The truth is always quirkier and stranger than fiction.

When we were kids, me and my twin sister entered a twin fair contest at the Pomona fair. It might have happened more than once. It was not by choice. 

You had to be twins, you had to dress alike and you had to have a talent. All twin contestants were judged on how much they looked alike as twins. And we were pretty similar. As far as talent, we did not the play piano. So I think we were pretending for the camera. 

As an aside, I did play the clarinet for one school year then gave it up. I'd always wanted to play drums or guitar, like Leather Tuscadero on Happy Days, not blow into a reed instrument.

I don't remember the details of that twin fair day, one forever memorialized in a newspaper clipping my mom still has. I'm the twin on the right who's closest to the frame. 

There's a mesmerizing glint in my eye. I'm sure I was planning my revenge in my head against my mom for making us show up in those head caps. 

As a kid, I was always telling myself stories in my head. Now you know why. For surely, it was to escape the doom and outright creepiness of my Inland Empire world. 

Then again, maybe I've just always been a ham. Side of pineapple please. And a coffee, a cig and a lighter to burn this picture up. 

Or maybe, just maybe, I love it all. The picture, the way we look like demented prairie girls pretending to play a (toy?) organ. 

It's truth. It's weird. It's life. 

Slouching toward grief

It is after midnight, and the beginning hours of Christmas Eve. The sky is crying. Rain is pouring down. 

It's a deluge. It makes sense. Joan Didion died yesterday. Her work was, and is, a huge inspiration for my essay writing. 

It was my wedding anniversary yesterday. My husband Adrian and I spent it with our moms. Adrian made a smoked pork roast. After I ate, I thought of my dad who always loved him a roast. When my dad passed so many years ago, I must have read Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking" at least three or four times. It was my touchstone and helped me to process and grieve. 

The first story in my YA memoir novel is about the day my dad died, the day I had to let him go. It took me years to write that story. It went through so many versions. Some surreal. Fragmented. Poetic. The final version is more scene based. 

One day, probably many years in the future, I'll write an essay about grief. About how it manifests. How it changes. How we mutate from it. And I'll have Didion to thank.

When I think back to the writers who inspired me the most, Didion is up there with James Joyce and Sandra Cisneros. Didion taught me how to write an essay just by reading her prose. Didion taught me how to break rules and how to get a point of view across. That thing called voice was something she had in droves. 

Didion was a voice for the ages. Her writing was her. She was her writing. 

So thank you Joan Didion. May you Rest In Peace dear scribe, with a typewriter by your side. 

Happiness is a warm cup of coffee

It's Christmas time. I've decorated. Finally. Threw my back out wrapping presents. Medicated with a cold beer, my first in weeks. 

Coffee is my go to now. I love it. I've realized that alcohol has to be limited for me to the occasional indulgence or not at all. I might fall off the cliff otherwise. 

Truth is, I'm happier without it. Healthier. Clear headed. Even last night, after singing a few songs, I wanted the buzz to wear off so I drank a Diet Coke and a water and went to bed. 

I woke up at 2 am. Fully awake. I didn't fall back asleep until 4 am. 

I got up again at 6 am. I relished my cup of coffee listening to John Lennon croon. "Love is old, love is new..."

Talked to my twin. My mom called me. I fed the dogs and sanitized the counters. Thought to myself, I'll have another. Cup of coffee that is. Half and half, two sugar cubes. 

Whole lotta lumps. 

Merry Christmas friends.

Miracle Street

Growing up in Ontario, California, Christmas was an occasion to celebrate. 

My dad loved Christmas and would decorate the house with multi-colored bulbs. He would put Christmas movies on all week. Santa Clause Conquers the Martians, Rudolph and A Christmas Carol, of course, but Miracle on 34th Street was always my favorite. The black and white version with Natalie Wood as Susan, the little girl who doesn't believe.

There was always something magical in the way my dad celebrated Christmas. With homemade Pillsbury donuts covered in sugar. And eggnog which us girls refused to drink. Candy canes and fudge. Christmas music on the stereo. Dad clearly believed in Christmas and the power of intention. He even somehow, someway, opened a bar, a tavern called "The Big O", that he always dreamed of owning. It was all his while it lasted.

In Miracle on 34th Street, there is also something magical when Susan hears Kris Kringle speak Dutch to a little girl. Susan starts to believe and when Kris refuses to disavow Christmas to Susan's mom, she almost fires him. She changes her mind when Mister Macy praises the "new" Santa.

Kris tells her, "Christmas isn't just a day, it's a frame of mind." Kris also believes in the magic of "imagination". 

Most adults refuse to believe in magic. Kids believe. Kids know that they can be anything and anyone if only they believe. 

It took me fifty years to believe in the magic. I don't have kids, couldn't have kids, so I have to find and rekindle the magic in myself. 

And now, at fifty, I finally believe. I believe I can be anything and do anything. If only I believe. So I do.

Rain

There is rain falling outside. I can hear it splashing against the house. It has been raining for hours. It is hard rain. Fast rain. I light my meditation candle. 

Rain has always made me want to stay home. To cuddle under a blanket and drink coffee all day. 

Rain makes me think of how, as a kid, it rained much more than it does now. I remember walking to school with an umbrella in elementary school. The rain sloshing my feet. Jumping in puddles. 

Rain makes me remember our house growing up. The one with the pool that the bank took out from under us. I remember swimming in the pool when it rained. My parents yelling at us later that we could have been hit by lightening. 

Rain makes me think of grief. Of funerals. 

Rain makes me melancholy and it makes me shiver. Kinda like life at times.

Today

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I'm gonna be present and enjoy it. 

I usually have a "to do" list an arm long. I'm efficient. Task orientated. On track. Responsive. My job as a deputy public defender demands it. 

But I'm throwing that away today. I'm gonna live, be and do. 

Yesterday, I got home from work and fell asleep at 6 o'clock! I just fell into bed exhausted. My day starts early you see. I was up at 5 am doing a final edit on my book. 

So by the time I got to work at what some still consider "early", I was wide awake and ready. I was so busy I didn't even take a break. I worked through lunch eating my cheese and crackers box at my desk. 

Suffice to say, when I got home last night, I was beat.

No more. Every day is precious. I'm gonna take a breath. Many breaths. Every day. There is no hurry and no need to stress and "rush" through life. 

Your work will get done. It will. You are a doer but you are not a robot. Just live. Every day. Live with the wonder of life in your eyes, as if today is your first day here. Make it matter. 

Let me repeat that: Make it matter. 

Visualization

It's 6:30 am. I'm writing this after doing my early AM social media posts for my new book which is available for preorder. My book/novel/memoir, "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl" took over a decade to write, almost 15 years in fact.

I remember visualizing it in a class at a summer writing workshop called VONA many moons ago in the Bay Area. It was after my dad had passed, in my first or second VONA. 

The writing teacher had us make miniature books, almost like tiny dollhouse recreations. We put a picture on the front and the title of our book and wrote some words inside.

More than a decade later, my book has the same picture of me and my sisters that I visualized so many years ago. The title changed many times (I think back then the working title was "Stories from a dysfunctional IE childhood") but the substance has always remained the same. 

I always knew I wanted to write a memoir/novel (what should I call it? A rose by any other name...) about my childhood in the Inland Empire. 

I wanted it to be full of love of family, and filled with adventures along with some comedy and tragedy. And I wanted to capture my father's character. 

Also, I wanted it to be a collection of short stories. I wanted it to also be about "place" and memorialize the Inland Empire the way James Joyce did with Dublin. Why not aim high?

I wanted it to be in YA/child voice, in present tense mostly and scene driven, and dialogue heavy with echoes from all my favorite writers growing up, especially Judy Blume and SE Hinton. It is all that. It is what I imagined and more. It went through so many iterations. 

I never imagined it would take this long, but that's the way it goes. The point is, it's here. Finally. 

And I'm over the moon my friends. Over the moon. Dreams come true, they do. If you wish hard enough and visualize and do the work. Promise.

Dramarama

When I was 20, I took a writing class at Chaffey College, and a teacher told me my fiction writing was too romantic and melodramatic. 

His comment destroyed me. I didn't write another piece for years. 

At 50, looking back, I wish I knew then, what I know now. 

Everyone's voice has value. If you're dramatic, be dramatic, it's who I was and who I am. I grew up reading Harlequins.

As a kid, I would always imagine writing sequels to my favorite books. I imagined myself into stories. As a young adult, I wrote poems full of angst.

That younger voice is what I try to recapture now. Of course, I temper the drama with comedy and tragedy. But that romantic and dramatic side is still in me. It's what makes me who I am. 

My husband will sometimes say I'm a ham or a drama queen, and I am. But I'm also a writer and it was merging my writing and my performance side that really helped me elevate my readings and feel comfortable on stage and doing a video podcast and public speaking.

So my end thought is this, be you. Do you. I am romantic. And dramatic. Always. That's where the magic is friends.

5 am again

It's 5 am. Again. Every day, the sun rises and every day, I try and write.

Today, I am working on this blog and on a long project about my trip to France to see my long lost cousin a few years back. I always have a few writing pans in the fire.

My book took so long because of my process. Typically, I write stand alone pieces. It's just my thing. The last few years of my life were putting my child and YA pieces together and synthesizing them into one long work. It was so fucking hard. It was probably the most difficult thing I've ever done. At times, I didn't think I could get it done. 

So instead, during Covid, I started a monthly podcast interviewing other writers which was actually a good thing. It inspired me and was more productive creatively then just cleaning my house to distract myself from the arduous task at hand and my fear of failure. 

This summer, with health issues looming and anxiety about my own mortality, I would chant, "I'm the little writer who could." Then I would hum the ant song about perseverance to myself (one that I first heard on Laverne & Shirley as a kid) and sit down every weekend, butt in chair, and work. It took a few months, but not as long as I thought once I focused. I just did it. 

In August/September, I edited it one last time, took out more repetition, wrote an afterword and threw in my poetry at the end for good measure. My editor/publisher was happy I was done. He'd been waiting so long. He's a good person, a fantastic editor and writer, and most importantly, patient as a saint.

That book, Tales of an Inland Empire Girl, comes out in January. It was finished through a combination of real fear that I would not ever "finish", coupled with the realization that I had just published a chapbook about public defense without over working it. 

What seemed so hard at first, was just me standing in my own way. Over a decade, I'd written the pieces. And edited them over and over. Workshopped them. Agonized. So the hard work was done. I just needed to let it sing. 

Fear is like that. Fear of success is a real thing. As long as you're still "workin" on something, no one can criticize it. "It's still a draft," I would always laugh. "My albatross."

Well, it's no longer my albatross. 

It's real, it's finished (after a final proof) and it's lovely. Nothing is perfect you see. But this book, I know this, this book is as good as it gets for me. I am satisfied. And I realized that, in the end, that's all that fucking matters.

Awake

I feel as if I'm finally awake. These last weeks recovering have made me see life differently. I appreciate the moments.

Something has also happened with my relationships. They feel truer and deeper. 

Perhaps, showing my own vulnerability has made me more human to my family and friends. At times, I can be a bit much. I know this.

And sometimes, I get stuck. Last night, or I guess this morning technically because it was 2 am, I awoke and crawled out of bed. I've had issues in the middle of the night since my surgery. I sat in the guest room thinking, which is always dangerous.

Chewbacca licked my face and so I kissed his head. Then I thought to myself, get outta your head girl. Just start the doing again. Be in the moment and be free from anxiety. Write, work, love and live. That's your goal. Your mantra.

What I've awakened to is the realization that life is now. It's everything. Even now, writing this, I'm here. I'm doing. I'm being. And as long as I'm me, and true to who I am, nothing else matters. 

The body is our form, but our soul, our consciousness, that's who we are and why we're here. So I'm just gonna be here. Right now. 

Can you "see" me? I hope you do because I see you. 

Bright life big world

It's amazing what feeling better health wise can do to one's mood. I'm feeling hopeful, excited and eager to get my life back.

Before my surgery, I don't think I realized how much pain had ruled my life. Every day had been a struggle for so long that I was accustomed to the pain. I had acclimated to it in a way. Then one day, everything fell apart. My surgery was the result. 

For weeks after surgery, the pain was even worse. It was the hardest physical test I've ever gone through. I fought to get on the right pain medications and once I was properly medicated, I began to heal. 

That healing process is still ongoing but I'm beginning to see the light. I'm chomping at the bit to move on and start my life again. I'm missing it all. My job, my friends, my family and my artistic endeavors.

Yet, I have to tell myself, take it easy and slow down. Because whenever I do try and push, I take a few steps back. 

This will be all better soon, I tell myself. You're almost ready, you're so close, but you need to give yourself a little space. Time. Just heal. Breathe. Rest. You're almost there.

When my life resumes, I have decided to pull back on some things. Before, I was doing too much. Way too much. Running myself ragged really. So I've decided that when I do finally go out into the sun again, I'm not gonna do so much. No more striving. 

Instead, I will focus on my family, my career as a deputy public defender and my books. And maybe do a podcast or two. But less. Quality not quantity. That's a lot, so everything else may have to go. The radio show was a dream come true for me. And it did come true if only for a few episodes. But I'm pulling back.

Now don't go thinking I'm going into a shell. I'm not. I'll be out and about doing my job and my art. I'm going back into the world full-time in a couple weeks. My second book drops in January.

But this "new" life, I say new because it feels that way, will be different. It will be full and colorful, all in technicolor. Yes it will be. But it will also be a long film with a focused narrator who knows her worth and who gives full energy to all she does and who knows how to pull back.

What's most important is that I've realized that I love my life. I have so much. I'm lucky. This experience has made me realize that. I don't want to be stuck in bed. Plus, I've watched everything on Netflix and Hulu (including rewatching numerous seasons of Top Chef). 

Truth is, I want to live. I want to live big. 

What I know now is that I want to live a bright and beautiful life my friends. And I will. Promise.

Warming

I'm warm. Snuggled in bed. Relaxing. Healing. Breathing.

It's been an interesting year. So much has happened and I've been forced to look at myself and my life and think, why am I here?

I know why. To write. To live. To love my husband, my family and my dogs (of course). 

Soup helps. Especially the one I get delivered, butternut squash. It's soothing. The taste reminds me that simplicity is best. 

When I'm fully healed, my goal is to do less. To focus on the writing rather than the running. To see the world. But to be me. Just be me. 

And stay warm. Happy. Content. Always.

Being

To be or not to be. The choice is to be. You see, I've spent my entire life doing. Now I want to live on the narrow path of being (paraphrasing Eckhart Tolle here).

Meditation has helped me conquer my overactive mind. It still runs in circles at times. But when that happens, I breathe and focus on my body and it dissipates.

Pain has actually helped me to conquer some of my restlessness. Being forced to breathe and just lay, and relax, has been helpful. 

Creativity, at least for me, has always stemmed from somewhere deep in my soul. It always emerges and if I can capture it, and sit and write, it just comes out, almost fully formed. Why writing is my medium, I do not know, it just is.

I spent most of my life doing. Trying to get to this place or that place, figuratively and literally, for fifty years. But now, the thing I've realized, my epiphany for today, is that I am right where I need to be. 

That's not to say that goals are meaningless. They're important. But what I'm saying is that the striving, and the reaching and yearning always for more more more, that has gone away. I'm just happy to be. Right here and right now. Doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. 

Being me. Just me.

3 am October 2022

It's 3 am. I lay in our guest room listening to Chewbacca the shih tzu snore. I came in here to avoid waking Adrian up. I'm in so much pain, But breathing through it. Inhale in. Exhale out.

Pain is a hard thing to write about it. Adjectives do not suffice. Agonizing. Brain numbing. Unbearable. But I'm bearing it. 

Verbs capture it better. Shivering. Clenching. Writhing. Weeping.

Or maybe add some nouns too. 

Wet towel. Crumpled blankets. Curled up body.

This form of mine will get better. I know that. Pain is real but it too will pass. 

I urge myself to remember. Remember. Even this moment, lying on my side in bed writing these words, squinting at my phone, is precious.

Every moment matters. The big, the small, the adjectives, the verbs and the nouns.

Here are more nouns. 

Family and friends. Cards. Flowers. Well wishes. A back rub.

With some adjectives. 

A hot cup of tea. A warm compress. A golden light.

With a verb.

Sleeping. 

Let's put this all together now. We will get there eventually. I promise. This is not wishful thinking. This is wish filled thinking.

Here goes: 

She lies in bed writing, dog by her side, warm and comfortable, and puts down her phone, finally managing to drift away into slumber. 

Good night. 

A lightness of being

Lately, my posts have been dark. Yet, there is so much light. So right now, I have decided to focus on the light.

There's a warm glow upstairs. My dog sleeps next to me and I'm snuggled in a warm house, in a warm bed. 

Since my surgery, my husband has been caretaking. I've been unable to do much, it hurts to move, yet I'm well tended to. He's even putting up with me rewatching old seasons of Top Chef. He's so good at cooking for me (though right now my diet consists mostly of fruit) and watching over me. He's worried and attentive and I'm thankful that most of my major issues have happened when he's asleep. 

I have everything a girl needs, including, thank god, medications to ease the pain which is admittedly intense. 

My mind is clear. So clear. It's as if I'm seeing everything in sharp focus for the first time. I've thought about the stress over the last two years and have realized that the best thing to happen to me was this surgery. It forced me to slow down and take a much needed break from it all. 

Covid has made many of us question why we do what we do and the cost of it all. It has made us realize what is important and has shown us there is a light at the end of all of this.

That light is everything. It illuminates your character. It's the soft glow from a lamp that will show you the way home. Because in the end, home is what matters more than anything.  In some ways, it's all that matters my friends. 

2:35

It's 2:35 in the morning. It's watching the clock. It's wondering if this night ever will end. 

It's the longest of nights. 

There is no second hand of old. Don't we all yearn for those days? When we could watch the seconds pass. 

Now everything moves so fast.

Yet slow. Shivering in a warm shower, beefy legs barely hold you up. Your knees would buckle but for your hand on the wall.

Shoring you up.

Praying. Swearing. How fragile you are. How fragile life is. How precious. 

Like the morning. Like the sun. 

You picture your morning cup of coffee. The bitterness of your coffee cut by one sugar cube, okay two. 

You wobble into bed, curl up. Towel in mouth.

Your husband snores. The neighbors blast sad Spanish songs, the music echoing into the sky. The vibrations travel across the landscape. 

What used to be a quarry feels like a graveyard.

Is this what you needed to wake you up? Pain so deep it rocks you to your bones. Biting down on the towel you think, this is how your dad must have felt before he let go. 

But you won't let go. 

You can't. Life won't let you. There's too much left. Too much left you think, as you bite down again. 

Change on the horizon

The last few days have been hard. A struggle. I just had surgery and the pain is very intense. At some point yesterday I thought, I can't do this. But I did. It made me realize I can get through anything. 

And I also realized something. Change is on the horizon. I always feel it when it's imminent. It's in the air. The energy in my life has shifted. Will the change be good? Who knows but it's change.

"Some changes look negative on the surface but you will soon realize that space is being created in your life for something new to emerge."~ Eckhart Tolle

Change has always been good for me. Always. But as the Tolle quote points out above, you don't always know it at the time.  Change is an increase of the volume of your life. It's a shift in place and in your body. It's space. It's time. Time to think and to reconsider, and readjust.

I have always felt a higher power in my life, some call it God, and some call it the divine, but what it really means is the universe's consciousness.

My goal, even through the painful healing process I'm going through, is to be conscious. In the moment. Without allowing my mind to go in circles. 

Pain helps me to focus, believe it or not. It's why it's easier to write when I'm sad. Because the suffering creates space, like change, to think. We get caught up in the minutiae of life and that's what we focus on. But life is greater and bigger than minutiae and for me, I'm here to reach my life's purpose.

Wherever the road takes me, I'll go. I'll go. I will accept each moment as if I had chosen it (as Tolle suggests). 

Because I'm here. And ready. 

My ass has a timer

Chewbacca is whining. Again and again. I'm awaiting surgery in a week so I am taking a break from work. I don't have to get up early. Chewbacca doesn't care.

I'm side sleeping and I tell him, "Be good, I don't feel well," and he whines again. "Please?" 

"Stop! It's 5 am!"

Bathroom time. More pain. Bath. Shower. Twice. I go back to bed in a towel. Mediate the pain away, breathe.

My husband says, "Your ass has a timer". I laugh even though it hurts to giggle and tell him, "I'm stealing that line." It's true. Plus, that's a good line. Don't we all have timers?

Life is short.

My pain heightens. 

Chewbacca whines again. With a moan, I get up gingerly, carefully, slowly (I know I'm overusing the adverbs here but it's purposefully ha!) and pad downstairs with him behind me. 

He needs to go out. Now Frodo wakes up. He sleeps downstairs because with his bad back, he can't climb the stairs. Everyone in this house has issues. 

Bark. Bark. Growl. They fight. Like hobbits in the shire, they wrestle. 

The dogs are unrelenting. I picture the bowl of homemade beans I'll eat later with a tortilla. My diet is bland right now, mostly vegetarian. I love toast with butter. Tea. Steaming hot, one sugar cube. Those treats get me through the day right now.

I'm laying off all the sauces. Hot sauces. Alcohol. 

I make my one cuppa black coffee. It tastes like heaven. 

As I Lay...

As I lay here, not much I can do but think. Watch television, read, sleep and dream.

It's an odd time. I have a couple weeks to ready for my surgery. I alternate between terrified and hopeful. My anxiety is such that I must manage it. I can't get lost in my head. I might sink into it. Into that deep abyss. No thank you.

I watched my dog Frodo go outside this morning. He wants to run so badly. His back is bad, his leg gives out. Yet, he still wants to trot 

Like me, he's resisting his body failing. 

Failure is not always a bad thing. At times, failing, or something failing, can give one perspective. Maybe I have too much perspective right now.

It's as I'm looking down at the world of my life and seeing it all clearly for the first time. I'm a memoirist so part of this melancholy gaze of mine might be connected to recently finishing my 15 plus year book YA memoir project that's coming out in January (we pushed the release date so I can promote it healthy). 

The good news, because you know I'm always about a silver lining, is that my husband and I are in the throes of a honeymoon period. It's like we're both seeing each truly as we saw each other so so long ago. We have always had a great relationship, one based on love, friendship and trust. And music of course.

But this new vigor is different. I looked at his face the other night as we readied for bed and was so in love that it hurt my heart to think of one of us leaving this earth.

But then I thought. Stop. We have this, only this now, this present moment, so I held his hand as I fell asleep. 

Never mind

Hello. They say physical suffering creates a deeper consciousness. Now my suffering is relative friends. I realize this. And everyone suffers alone. 

Suffering can be a state of mind. Pain is there but you must learn to not focus on it. Music helps.

I slept almost all day the last couple of days. It's as if my body gave up on me. 

Now that I'm awake, I am conscious. Laying on my stomach, I stretch as I write this. The swelling has abated. I'm more "normal". 

My normal self is always in pain, but the me of last week is gone. The one who was scared and in so much pain she couldn't breathe. This me is the real me. I can handle the chronic pain even though it has worsened lately. But I'm hopeful with surgery, it will get better. It has to. 

I want to live my best life. Changing the world one client at a time. Traveling, writing and performing on the side. I'm leaving my self open to the universe. To whatever comes my way. To readings, teachings, and opportunities to spread my message of resilience and hope.

By writing a book about being a deputy public defender, I have somewhat defined myself that way. Yet, that's only one facet. I am many things, and none. I am a writer. A performer. A lawyer. An idealist. An optimist. I am multitudes.

So never mind, all of the bullshit and struggles in life. I am just gonna be me.

Wake up

It's 4 am. I went to bed in pain, but woke up feeling better physically, but stuck in a nightmare.

I had nightmares a lot when I was a little kid. There was one with a guy with huge yellow big bird glasses who would chase me. One with a Jesus statute that used to talk to me. One where I'd be in a car and the car would fly off a mountain. And one with a dark magic witch who would haunt me.

It was constant and terrifying. I would fight off sleep.

For many years, I used to be somewhat scared of the dark, but my husband who needs darkness to sleep, cured me of it and of leaving the TV on.

The dark became comforting and peaceful next to him. I hadn't had nightmares in years. 

Last night, a witch had me trapped in a painting in my dream. Stuck in a room. She would disappear then return. It reminded me a bit of a Netflix show called "Nightbooks" we started watching started recently. Maybe that's where it came from. Movies can do that to me and it's why I rarely watch scary movies at night.

Or maybe, this nightmare was caused by something else. The bad dream could be a manifestation of my anxiety. The unease I feel. The stress I'm under at work. At home. In my writing. The upcoming surgery.

This week I'll work on centering myself. Having pure thoughts and intentions. Letting go of resentments and petty concerns. You see, I know what's going on. Much of my suffering, especially anxiety related, is caused by my overactive brain. It's a blessing and a curse. 

So I will focus on what I can control, which is really only my presence. The now. And just keep going. 

Remembering, always, that I'm blessed. Grateful. Here. Very content. Joyful. Full of light.

If this sounds like a mantra, and a prayer, it kinda is. 

Destination unknown

This morning, I'm listening to Eckhart Tolle. His voice calms me.

I'll be out of pocket soon having surgery. It's not fun or convenient but a necessity. For me, it's a struggle. To take the time to do this when everything is moving and all is going well, is not easy to say the least.

What it has created, however, is a reminder to myself that I can't fight this and consciousness is everything. I can't control this. Or make it go away. It is meant to be. I have to surrender. This too will pass. 

I'm hopeful that after the surgery, my life will be easier. The pain struggles I've had will be lessened and I can live my best life.

As the Buddha said, don't mistake the finger for the moon. My goal is to reach my destiny, whatever that is. I am just here for the ride. And the journey matters just as much as the destination. 

Boundaries

I learned something this week. Boundaries are hard. People like to cross them.

I've never been good at boundaries. I wish I had learned how to set them years ago. The problem with setting a boundary is that once someone crosses the boundary you've set, you have to speak up or your boundary means nothing.

This may seem vague, but it's not. It crosses over every aspect of my life. Family, friendships, as well as professional relationships. This week tested all of my relationships.

For years, I've let others cross lines, in all sorts of ways. I like being liked. It makes me happy when someone thinks I'm a hard worker and/or a good daughter and/or a loyal friend.

Yet, being liked and being respected and honored are very different things. Being liked really means nothing if people like you only because you'll do anything for them, no matter the cost to your own well being.

I've been working on myself this last couple of months. Trying to let go of my ego to reach true creative consciousness in my work and art. I'm trying to be present.

This week, I lost that presence for a moment. Forgot who I am, and who I try to be. I was resentful, angry even and I had to breathe and pull back and think what is my goal here?

My goal is to do the right thing. To do good work. To work hard and be present in everything I do. I'm not perfect. Nor do I try to be. But I need space and time to do my good work and I will demand that from now on. 

The pandemic made me realize the power of presence and intention. In speaking your mind and being brave and being true to who you are. And I will not compromise my own self or my ideals any longer. 

I am who I am. I am me. I am here. Right now. Writing this. Telling you, I'm here to stay. 

Finding myself (spoiler alert, I wasn't lost)

Yesterday, I spoke to a group of students about resilience. They seemed into it. 

They had so many questions about my trajectory from punk rock high school dropout to USC Law.

I used my own story, the first story in my book, as a springboard. I told them how I dropped out of high school 5 credits short my senior year of high school. I shared how I made it to USC Law and that my story was my magic wand in my job as a deputy public defender.

It's a story I hid for years. When I was a corporate lawyer, I told almost no one that I was a drop out. No one knew how hard I had worked to get to the ivory tower of corporate litigation in Houston, Texas. I was all alone there. My lil town of Ontario, California seemed so far far away. 

I wanted to remake myself but what I didn't realize, until years later through writing, was that I was fine just as I was. 

What I didn't realize back then was the power of claiming one's narrative. In being authentic. By denying or hiding my story, I was denying my own self.

My short book with a long title, "Portrait of a Deputy Public Defender, or how I became a punk rock lawyer", (available on the Bamboo Dart Press website and on Amazon, Target and B & N and other booksellers) is a reclaiming of my narrative. My second book is also a reclaiming and it's a YA Memoir coming out later this year titled "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl."

I am no longer scared of what people will think. I want them to think. To hear my story and see who I am. Who I became. Who I still want to be.

In the end, I'm a writer. Writers write their stories. So I did.

Constellation

Early this morning, I stepped outside to look up at the dark sky contrasting against the stars. The constellations twinkled. I blinked.

I blinked again. The air conditioner hummed. 

Back inside, I made an espresso and drank a glass of water. My dogs growled. I opened up the back door and let them out.

Time to give the dogs their meds. 

My feet felt swollen. Everything feels swollen. My heart. My head. My eyes. 

I think back to the day the towers fell. My dad was still alive. My dad called me as I watched the news coverage in my high rise apartment in LA. I was in law school at USC and lived on 4th and Spring.

He said, "Are you watching Jenny?" 

I can almost hear his voice in my head. And if there's one silver piece of memory I want to remember from that awful day, it's his gentle voice. 

Checking on me. Making sure I was okay. Telling me to come home.

Days to remember

Years ago, what seems like a lifetime, I lived in San Francisco. 

Adrian was in dental school and we lived near Twin Peaks at the top of a hill. The fog was so thick at night, you had to squint to see through it. 

We lived there, in the student housing's 500 square foot apartment, for almost a year. I could barely fit in the bathroom. I used to have to squeeze past the door. 

Then, we moved to an 800 plus square foot apartment in the Inner Sunset by Golden Gate Park, on 9th and Irving. We had a back yard and shared a washer and dryer with the second and third floors.

On Fridays, we would order in food and watch TV. On Saturdays, when Adrian didn't have to study or I didn't have to go into my corporate law job, we went to Sonoma, or Marin. We had lunch and drank wine. I used to love driving over the Golden Gate Bridge. When we would get home, I would hold my two black cats in my lap and listen to them purr.

Every Sunday morning, we used to walk to get the best scones (ever!) at the co-op bakery Arazmendi's. After, we would walk the lake at the park listening to Johnny Cash. 

Some Sunday afternoons, I would go to church at a small little Catholic parish down the street.

When my dad died suddenly, I moved back home, but those days I will remember always. 

Always. 

Beautiful day

Yes, it's a beautiful day. 

I am alive. Here, typing this out, the keys click clacking my thoughts into the universe. 

You dear reader, wait patiently for the words to post.

You've waited so so long. It took me years to believe in my voice, but I finally do. I know this is my destiny, my life, my work. Before, meaning before I knew this, I thought work was hard, but this work is easy.

Easy in the sense that when it's right, it flows, it just is.

When I was in junior college, almost 30 years ago, I remember reading James Joyce's "Dubliners" for the first time. I remember thinking, how did he do that? How did he turn words into a magic carpet that swept and flew me away into the clouds? How did he paint a picture that way? 

Now I know, writing is not just from the head, it's from the heart, from the universe. And it is magic. It is spiritual. It is God, and it is me. 

So as Patti Smith reminded me the other night as I listened to her sing under the stars in the desert, keep walking barefoot in the sand and grass, dancing. Arms in the air. 

Twirling. Spinning. Breathing. 

  

Curveballs

Life is what happens when you're making plans. I just received some news. I'm having a very invasive surgery soon. It's not life threatening or anything but is necessary to help with my chronic pain issue. 

Truth is, I'm terrified.

I keep thinking, what if I don't wake up? What would Adrian do? My dogs? My sisters? My best friends? What would happen to my second book?

Then I think, don't worry, you'll wake up. God is kind. 

Your life is just beginning. You're just starting to realize your dreams. Your second book is soon to be published. You have a radio show. You have 18 episodes of your podcast. You just saw Patti Smith sing under the stars. You and your twin are getting along well. 

You're almost 50, but finally happy, content and joyful most days. I keep telling myself, it will be ok.

Lately, I've been a bit fatalistic, questioning my life. I keep thinking, why am I so stressed out at work? Then, I recently realized that it's not my management of the stress, I just have a very stressful job. 

Something must change. It must. I have to find a way to make it all manageable. I want to live to be 100. My life has been a series of acts. And this act. Right here and now is it. There is just this really. Just this now.

Morning

This morning, I realized I hadn't written for almost 2 weeks. How did time fly by? My writing practice is such a part of me, of my life. How did I let it go?

The problem is life. Life gets in the way. Family. Work. Health. School. All the projects on my plate. 

I want to be the me I'm meant to be. The person I see in my mind's eye. The future me. The writer.

I know, I'm already a writer, but I want more. I see more for myself. 

Yet, I am also happy that no matter what life brings, I have my first book published and the second one on the way. I'm documenting my life. Memorializing it all. That's what matters. That I was here. 

Right here.

Transmission

Yesterday afternoon, on a Sunday, I drove out to Boyle Heights in Los Angeles to start my own radio show. It was a program through the city's arts conservatory that I had applied for. 

The week before, I had went in to train on the boards. It was somewhat of a disaster, in the way that learning something completely new can be. 

I am by nature uncoordinated, and on that first try, I fumbled. I scripted it out, but everything moved too fast. Squinting at my script, words escaped me. 

Trying to coordinate the movements, and the "running" of the radio board, flustered me. Move this up, turn that down, turn mic on, then off. It was frigging hard. So hard. But also weirdly exhilarating and terrifying.

On that demo, I wasn't myself on air, with lots of vocalized pauses and no flow. Oh and the death knell for any broadcast, dead air. Then more dead air. Oh and I learned, the hard way, not to introduce a song unless I was sure that I could cue up the right song. 

To sum it all up, I belly flopped the demo. 

Yet still, the producer was encouraging especially about my theme of musical choices and the intersection with legal injustices. My vocal amplification was great. Along with articulation. Regarding the boards, he told me, "You'll suck till you don't. You'll get it. The boards, it's like a dance."

I thought of learning the tango with my husband Adrian and how I stepped on his feet and winced thinking of it. Dancing (unless it's pogo dancing) is not my forte.

Then, this Sunday on the show, something clicked. I relaxed. And I breathed. No script, and instead I just went with it and made notes through the show. Suddenly, I could say what I played and even wax on about a song choice or two. I even moved around the songs without incident and at the end, I was able to say why I chose the set I did. And illustrate the intersections with public defense. 

This was going to be okay. Let's do this.

Breathless

This last Saturday, we saw X in Orange County. 

It was a show that words can't do justice. I screamed myself hoarse. Danced like a maniac. Jumping up and down fist pumping in the air to the beat. 

We were near the end of the row almost center about 12 rows back and I must admit, I went a little cuckoo. I was "that girl", but I didn't care. Adrian acted as my buffer and put up with me screaming lyrics into his ear. 

What got me there?  It was being at a concert, after all this time, for one of my favorite bands. It was seeing the Blasters rock it. And Los Lobos.

Most of all, it was X's performance. They were perfect in the most punk rock of ways. The set list was awesome with a couple of new songs from their latest, the great Alphabetland. And then everything from Los Angeles to New World to Because I Do to Breathless to We're Desperate, to White Girl. So many of these songs hit me in the gut. Instead of bowling over, I rolled over. Into the music. Wave after wave. I rode it. 

You see, I write with their music in my head and in my ears. Their lyrics are everything. Poetry really.

Yet as always, it was also the emotion of it all. It was hearing Exene sing "Come Back to Me" (remembering all those who passed during Covid) under the deepening night sky, her voice carrying over the rows into the breezy air. It was what felt like an entire eight thousand crowd sing the song "Los Angeles" in time together. Dancing to the beat.

It felt incredible. I was transported. 

We swayed. We stayed. We danced. We gave ourselves up to the night. And I lost myself in the music. 

We were desperate. And breathless always. True love. Truly.

Changed

This morning, I sat in my back yard at 5 am in a Bowie shirt and a pair of my husband's boxers. 

When I was a teen, I used to buy plaid Hanes boxers to wear over red thermals like shorts. I would pair this ensemble with a concert tee and a used thrift store men's vest or blazer. 

Nowadays, the boxers are more laziness as they're clean and folded in the laundry room downstairs. Still, I haven't changed much in 35 years.

My dogs whine, they growl like Ewok shih tzus. "Shhhh," I plead.  

Turning on Pandora, I listen to "Paint It Black" by the Stones. Jagger's voice echoes. "I have to turn my head until the darkness goes."

Ain't that the truth. I feel like I'm naturally dark. My thoughts are melancholy naturally, but lately it's been more light. A golden light. 

It's almost as if a dark cloud that was over me is gone. All I can see is the sun. And it's so damn bright. It's shining all over me. Dancing in the warmth of its rays, I want this to last forever.

Maybe because I finally found and accept my destiny. It's nothing fancy. Just a writer of words. A blue collar scribe. That's me. 

In my mind's eye, I see my father standing over my shoulder smiling, smoking a Kent cigarette.

As he blows smoke rings like puffy white clouds into the air, he says "Finally Jenny, you got it. You got it my girl."

Watching speaking learning

I've been working on speaking my truth. Not just in my writing. In my everyday life. Observing more. Saying less. And when I do speak up, I'm cognizant how much words matter.

I often talk to fill the space. Especially on my podcast or when I'm interviewed myself, that's often good, and to be truthful, it's just me, I get on a roll and I'm off. That's my personality.

It's important to keep a show moving. No dead air.

But what I'm also realizing is that I need to pause. Take a breath. Observe. Listen. 

Especially in life, versus on air. Observe. Listen. Don't react. Ask a question. Listen. 

Just watch.

It sounds simple. But for many of us who live in this 2 minute sound bite of a world it is not. I'm also learning to listen to my intuition, and that I have good instincts when they come from a pure place, and to act on them.

Reminder, writing itself for me is an act of breathing. I've always said I lose myself when I write, and I think I know what that means now. It means I lose my ego, I'm all consciousness when I write, in the act of being and in the moment. 

That's why it usually feels so easy to me, just to be. It's my purpose. My inner purpose. The act of writing itself is it you see, the joy in that. The results are cool, but secondary because it's the writing itself. That's what matters.

So I'll continue to work on watching the signs, on stillness, and silence, and quieting my mind even in the most chaotic places, such as my work environment in criminal court. 

Interestingly, I also feel at home there, even more so than at the office, because I crave chaos at times, it feels like home, normal. 

Yet I know I need to work on not being so reactive to it. That way I can be a more effective, present and calming presence.

Quiet my mind, breathe, watch, listen, learn. And write. Always.

Enough

I am listening to Eckhart Tolle's podcast with Oprah about "A New Earth", his masterpiece about finding yourself, your soul. He quotes Jesus,

"I want you to have the fullness of life."

This is about abundance. The universe wants us to have abundance. If we have, we shall receive. It is a state of mind. An abundant state of mind.

It's about staying positive. About being grateful. About realizing we have abundance. We are full.

It is about the joy of being. This is not about success or striving. It is about consciousness. From inside ourselves. Possessions and money are irrelevant. It is about reaching a higher plane of consciousness, the vertical plane as Tolle calls it, so you can reach true creativity and consciousness and figure out who you are.

One of my epiphanies this morning was that my last poem I wrote in my book is called "who am I?" But what it should be is "who I am". That is the goal of all of this. 

A statement, not a question. And, I'll keep questioning and searching. Keep observing. Being present in the now.

Knowing I have enough and am enough. Always.

Stressing/just messing

Yesterday, I just couldn't handle the office environment. 

Being in court was preferable, which is where I spent most of my morning on a consult. 

Then back to the office I went. Like lil Red Riding Hood. Holding her basket of Del Taco. Where's the big bad wolf?

Wait, they're down the street at the prettier county building. Well aesthetically prettier on the outside but inside here, we are diamonds. Or maybe cubics. But we are real. True believers.

Maybe because I've been writing and thinking so much, I felt uneasy. 

Stressed. I perseverated. Leaving the house that morning, I had double checked that I locked the front door twice. Am I turning into Jack Nicholson's character in "As Good As It Gets"?

Is this as good as it gets? Will it get better? Will things change? Will my life change? I'm trying so hard not to strive. To just let the universe take me on a ride.

Yet, still, this ride, I wonder. Where will I go? Sunday, at least, I'll be at the X show. Now you know.

Radio daze

Yesterday, I was on a radio show to promote my book. The host is Gina Duran, a friend of mine who's a community activist and hosts The Collective radio show on KQBH 101.5. 

My best friend Tracy and I drove out to Boyle Heights in LA for the show. The show went live at 3 pm. We had yelped a restaurant named Paramount in the same studio as the radio station building. If we had time after lunch, we planned on finding a local record store to hit up.

Things got complicated. On the way to pick Tracy up, my tire indicator light flashed on. I had to find a tire place. On a Sunday. Fuck. Thank goodness I'm perpetually early. It was only 10:30 am. I had 30 minutes to spare.

I turned around and headed back toward Rialto off the 210 and pulled into a tire place. The rockabilly sleeved dude was cool and checked all my tires, refilled them and within ten minutes I was back on the road, Bowie and Buzzcocks blaring. 

I picked up Tracy a little after 11 am. We both wore black and white band tees, Joy Division for me and The Descendants for her.

When we got to Boyle Heights, it turned out to be a very cool latinx community. I skimmed past tons of family owned business, taquerias and there it was Paramount, a gastronomic pub. But there was no there there. It had closed over the Pandemic. 

Thankfully, next door was a very cool pizza pub that played Mexican music yet served beer mimosas and craft ales. Tracy and I shared a gluten free margarita pizza. After downing a glass bottle Diet Coke and chair dancing to some music, I looked at my watch. Plenty of time to hit up a local record store and we found Record Jungle, all used vinyl in Montebello, a 15 minute drive. 

Driving through the streets of LA and heading back on the 60 east, we arrived at Record Jungle in 13 minutes. A Starbucks a mere block away for caffeine after. Was this Nirvana? Yes it was. We flipped through bins in the rock and new arrival sections. No punk left. The guy who ran the store told us it goes quickly. 

That said, we found some cool stuff. Tracy found a Wire album and I found an Elvis Costello, my favorite old Alarm album, along with a Roxy Music, a Screaming Blue Messiahs, Charlie Sexton and a rare, uber cool compilation and more. Turns out, flipping though those stacks of old records paid off. 

Hopping back in the car, we made our way back to Boyle Heights. Trying to park, I got distracted and almost merged over into another's car's lane. Crisis averted, just a honk and a mean glare later, we were in studio. 

The studio was a real radio studio. I felt so elated as I walked through and sat at the microphone. Tracy took some pictures of us and after plugging in my headphones, we were live on air!

I gabbed with the host Gina for an hour about my book, public defense and punk rock. Talking is easy for me. Gina was great and played an epic mix of songs to weave in while we spoke. Patti Smith, The Smiths, The Replacements, and Siouxsie.

After the show ended, Art, a host of his own radio show on music and astrology (Arturo Guzman's Astro Projection show on 101.5 KQBH, it's epic!), showed us the punk rock murals from the days when this space was VEX, a punk venue. It was kismet. I thought, this is what I want to do. Music and writing is my Life. Capital L.

To wind down, we munched on fries after at the pizza place and then, another Diet Coke later, we headed home. 

When I got home, I thought wow, this is happening. This was real. My book was real. See https://www.bamboodartpress.com/store/juanita_e_mantz-portrait_of_a_deputy_public_defender.html.

Leather and me

I'm a little girl watching Happy Days with my dad. It's one of the Leather Tuscadero episodes. I'm standing up dancing and pretending to play a guitar. 

I'm fascinated by the image of Leather Tuscadero, a girl, wearing all leather, scarf around her neck, playing a bass guitar. Her hair is layered. She is hard and soft, masculine and feminine. She is rocking it. She goes high, low. 

Even her name is cool. 

On Happy Days, she plays a relative of Fonzie's girlfriend Pinky Tuscadero, who is an all pink, red haired, female sex bomb of a girl. But I want to be Leather Tuscadero. 

That night I dream myself into her. I'm standing in a 50's style cafe playing a bass guitar and screaming into a microphone. Everyone's dancing.

I wake up groggy. It's time for school. Bells to hear ring. Books to read. 

But no guitars to play. 

I put on my baby blue Dittos instead of leather pants, but that day walking to school, I have a little more swagger in my step.

Stolen moments

I'm starting to realize much of my writing time is stolen moments. Time seized when no one is looking. 5 am. At lunch. In the middle of the night. On a summer workshop one week retreat. 

My memoir YA book took 15 years because of this, amongst other things like fear and anxiety. 

Yet, as I sit here at 5:11 am, I don't know if it's a bad thing. I'm an efficient writer. Plus, I read a lot. Tons of essays, memoir, not as much fiction, but I read and read. 

My dogs are whining as I write this. They want my attention. I ignore them. My brain is focused when I write. It drowns out all else. Writing centers me. It calms me.

And one day, sooner than later I hope, that calming influence with be at the center and not the periphery of my life.

So for now, I will grab these stolen moments where I can and may, creating a paragraph typed out on an iPhone as two shih tzus bark and finally, I put the phone down. After saving, of course.

Smashing

As a deputy public defender, I have good and bad days. Today was a bad day. Nothing especially bad happened. Court was uneventful. I did my usual three day prep and it went smooth.

But I'm pissed off. I'm mad that so many are incarcerated. That so many people in society are apathetic or close their eyes to the plain truth. We're incarcerating black and brown people at alarming rates. 

It's so obvious to me how racist and harmful the criminal system is. There is no true justice right now because pre trial incarceration is all based on economics, the lack thereof. Bail is the most ridiculous thing in the world. It's destructive, inhumane and cruel. It just makes no sense.

It only makes sense if you think caging people should be your first resort and not the last. If you think money rules and not a higher moral code. Think about it. 

Please. 

Happy fracking Friday.

Slashing

This has been a hectic week at home and work. At work, things are busier than ever. My boss and work buddy in court are on vacation so I'm handling a very heavy calendar. 

Tomorrow night, I am being interviewed on a criminal injustice themed podcast talking about social justice issues and promoting my book. It's exciting but stress inducing. I'd much rather be interviewer than interviewee but I'm hopeful it will go well. The podcast hosts are amazing.

Maybe that's why it's 3 am and I can't sleep. I'm also working on edits for my second book, the YA memoir that's being released in November. I'm old school. I'm using hard red pen. Slashing! 

Yes, I know Google docs, track changes and other ways to edit, but for me, especially since we're getting close to finished, you can't beat an eye on a hard copy, red felt pen in hand.

I put a red check mark on the top of every page to confirm it's been reviewed. Check. Check. Check.

Close your eyes. Resist going downstairs to manuscript. Turn off your brain. Headphones and meditation if you have to. 

Charley horse. Ouch. Awake again. Meditate. Sleep.

Check.

Scrolling

I'm watching Atypical on Netflix. It's all about a kid on the spectrum who wants to live his dreams. He wants to defy expectations. 

It made me think, why does society try to block us dreamers?

Dreaming saved me. As a kid, I would sit on the roof and dream of being a writer. Of writing my own stories. Like those in the books I loved so very much.

Later, I would stare out the window in class at junior college and picture myself graduating from a four year university. Late nights on the junior college newspaper, I would wait for someone to pick me up and I would dream of having my own reliable car.

Then much later, while at UCR, a four year university, I dreamt of walking the stage at USC Law to get my diploma. Years later, walking that stage, I would remember my dreams. They had come true. I had the degree. The car would come.

Then as a corporate lawyer, I would dream of a way out. Suffice to say, that dream came true. The writing came true. It all did.

Yesterday, I went over my twin sister's house, and she gave me an intention bracelet. Handing it to me, she said I had to write my dreams on a tiny scroll. In tiny script, I wrote many big dreams. I rolled the scroll carefully.

I placed the scroll inside the bracelet and closed my eyes and prayed to the universe to help me.

Despite not wanting to jinx it, I will say a couple of them aloud. I intend to write a third book. And to find a professorship position. These are just two of my many dreams. 

I'm excited to see what the next stage of my life will bring.

Because you see, dreams are just the beginning. The journey to them is the key.

Fireworks

Last night, my shih tzu Chewbacca shivered in my arms as fireworks echoed in the air. He wouldn't calm down, and I was worried that, with his heart condition, he might pass out.

I hugged him. Kissed him. Rubbed his chest.

It made me think of all the times in my life when I'd been terrified. When I couldn't figure out what was going on. When life seemed unmanageable. And overwhelming. When my head was not in the game. But I always had heart, always.

Even when I dropped out of high school, I knew it wasn't over. Then, while working my way through junior college, I couldn't pass my Algebra  2 class. Somehow, someway I muddled through. Then my car blew up and I lost my job and my apartment. 

You'll have to read my memoir to hear the story, but I made it through that time by moving into my parents' trailer with them, taking it step by step. 

Flash forward to after UCR and USC Law School, when I was a desperately unhappy civil lawyer. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare. Was this success? It couldn't be. Not for me. 

After my dad died, I realized I had to do something else. Becoming a writer and then a deputy public defender. Finding and believing in my voice. Doubts persisted in my writing. 

Years later, trying to have a baby and visualizing it happening over and over. Then realizing it wasn't going to happen after failed in vitro and a horrific traumatizing miscarriage.

Crying in the shower for a year. Waking up one day and seeing, finally, that my purpose is to write my stories. To publish them. To reach people's hearts. To hear my father's voice in my stories. 

To merge law, writing and music is a dream come true. Two books coming out in the same year. It's a dream. A dream realized. I am so grateful to the universe.

So here I am my friends. Here I am. Listening to fireworks in the dark, thankful for everything I've been given. My life, my family, my dogs but especially for my voice and heart.

Deadlines

This morning, I read an article in the New Yorker called "What Deadlines Do to Lifetimes".  I already use one of the tricks, which sets an earlier fake deadline, in my legal/law motions practice.

But in the creative writing realm, like most, I struggle with them. I appreciate deadlines, they give me something to aim for, and trust, this was a very productive and on deadline kinda year. 

For me, like most things, the key is communication. I always try to give myself a reasonable amount of time but if it takes a bit longer that's okay too, if and only if, you communicate that you need more time. 

Yes, this can get hazy if your "more time" is 6 months, because creativity is often on its own timeframe. The reality is, I can't make a story happen, they come to me organically. 

So while the long YA memoir took 15 years, that's how much time I needed to finish the project. Ultimately and ironically, I think what motivated me most was covid and an impending sense of doom about my own mortality.

Truth was, I wasn't gonna pass with a partial manuscript in a drawer.

Lost and found

Is the other shoe going to drop? This has been the most unexpected year of my life.

First, what a strange year, with the damn pandemic, dragging on and on. I have somewhat memorialized it here. It was a terrifying ride. In some ways, both a lost and a found year. 

Unable to see anyone but my husband, my mother in law and my mom, we stayed at home. We stopped traveling. I worked from home. On the weekends, I worked on my writing and kept up with my one MFA class. 

While I worked harder and longer at work than ever, in my personal life, I stopped running myself ragged. In some ways, it was a much needed respite from it all. 

With the pandemic, also began my new writing journey. 

About a a year and four months ago, I finally wrote honestly about my job, without using figurative language. I started to tell my true tales of being a deputy public defender on the front lines of covid. 

That decision, to merge my writing and law, and to exist at the intersection of my criminal defense practice and my writing practice, started a chain of events. I spoke up at the rally for George Floyd. Poetry poured out of me. I'd always been insecure about my poetry, and had called myself a prose writer, never a poet. 

More opportunities came fourth. A podcast. Then, I wrote a law and literature hybrid genre chapbook (which will actually be my first "published" book this August) and finally, yes finally (drop the F Bomb and not a mic) finished the YA memoir which will come out later this year, right after my fiftieth birthday.

And so here I am. In uncomfortable territory. In pants that are way too tight. Trying to get it and keep it all together. Moderating many things, or trying. Promise and trust, I'm really trying.

It's hard not to be terrified. The last months have been magical in some ways, but I can feel another big change on the horizon. 

Change is scary. So so scary. It's hard to not want to numb myself so that my anxiety doesn't take over. But I have to stay lucid. Present. Here. In the now. 

A little voice in my head tells me, this is what you always wanted, what you've worked so hard for, don't F it up. So I'll try not to.

Not So Sleepy Daze

I took a week off from work because I need a break. The pandemic was exhausting (even saying those words, I'm still just hoping it's over, and I don't jinx it). 

This morning, I woke up at 5 am and shouted, "One day, I would love to just sleep until 9 am!"

Really, I just need a couple days to breathe. To sleep. To dream. To think and visualize what comes next.

Yet of course, never one to stay idle. I'm filling up the days with projects and a few meetings for opportunities to promote my book along with a mini vacation. 

There's a lot to do on the writing and promotions/podcasting front. Really I have a lot to do for my own peace of mind. You may have seen, I'm an early planner. My goal is to make it all look easy, but as you know, it's not. Though I must add that sometimes I do things the hard way, like feeding my dogs by hand this morning while listening to John Lennon.

I'm also a perfectionist which may not seem obvious, but it's also just my standard of perfection which I'm working on. Meaning, my closet may be a mess and I haven't cooked dinner for 2 weeks, but the writing and other work gets done.

The hardest part of all of this for me, if I'm gonna confide a little here, is not to sabotage myself. There's that reckless side of me who just wants to celebrate and party the next few months away. But that's not how I got here. I got here by staying home every weekend for a year and working my butt off on my writing. I didn't get here by drinking anything but coffee. 

Well, I better go, I got a lot to do. 

Persistence

There's a quote by the famous author Octavia Butler:  

"You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it. That's why I say, one of the most valuable traits is persistence.”

It's all about persistence and dedication. Butler also said, 

"First forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable. Habit will sustain you whether you’re inspired or not. Habit will help you finish and polish your stories. Inspiration won’t.”

Habit and persistence is everything in writing. It's getting your butt up every day at 5 am to write for years and years. It's persevering and writing every day. Editing. Making yourself do it, until it becomes part of your routine, part of your life and an integral part of your character and soul. Until it's your identity.

It's also knowing that writing will eventually get easier and you'll be more confident and stronger a decade and a half in. Fifteen years ago, I could not have told you that I would have two books done by fifty. Yes, the universe had a plan. But it was my job, my role, to institute it by the "doing" of the writing. The proof is in the pudding. So go make pudding.

It's knowing, looking back, that somehow, some of your first stories are still your favorites. That you always had it in you since you were a kid. It just needed your dedication to come out! Your pen (now MAC book) will become your sword, your words, your mantras and power, and your books, your babies.

Concert days

Sometimes, I wonder, what the hell am I thinking? My job is so stressful, and yet, I push myself to do more. More at work, more with my writing and now concerts are back! 

What's a girl to do?

I'm convinced that my books are coming out because of the pandemic. I used to say, I'll sleep when I'm dead, but the pandemic taught me to relax. I stayed home almost every weekend for more than a year. No concerts, and little or no traveling.

I thought, wean yourself back into concerts... 

Starting out slow, I bought tickets to Morrissey in Vegas. Then X added an OC show, on a damn Sunday, but I decided okay, I can do those 2 shows, and still keep juggling all my balls in the air. 

Then, in a stroke of cruel luck, Cruel World sent me an early access invite for tickets. Bauhaus, Devo, 45 Grave, Blondie, Morrissey and more! Who could resist? So I bought VIP festival tickets rationalizing that it's in 2022. 

But then Patti Smith decided to play Pappy and Harriet's in Joshua Tree on a Tuesday this summer. How could I say no and still keep my punk/post punk credentials? Her album "Horses" was like honey on a biscuit to me in high school. Or maybe now, she's cream cheese on a well toasted NYC everything bagel with tomato, avacado and red onion. She's perfection.

I've only seen her live once before and that was at an opening gig at a Staples' Morrissey show. This show will be outdoor and intimate. Acoustic! But it's a Tuesday. And in Pioneertown. Not an easy trek. Swallowing my misgivings, I bought the tickets and was glad after they promptly sold out. 

Hmmmm, I thought, who can I convince to do this adventure. Husband works Wednesday... hmmm wonder twin! Of course, my twin Jackie said yes. She's always up for an adventure and doesn't drink which will motivate me not to. 

So here I am. More shows are popping up in my phone. Madness, OMD in 2022 and more. For now, I'm not buying tickets to more shows. I'm gonna pace myself. 

I hope...

Staying true

It's eleven pm. I can't sleep. Today was a shit day in court. It was traumatizing and sad. 

Yet, I also know that I'm lucky. Privileged. I'm not the one in custody. But to bear witness is hard. 

Maybe it was harder because I haven't had a day like this for a year. Court has been less real during covid. It was shocking to have a day like today and then remember, I've had many of these days.

So many. Too many. 

Perhaps, my eyes are finally wide open to the horror of it all. To work within this system as a deputy public defender, in this broken down clunker of a criminal system, is hard. It should be. 

All good work is difficult. If this job is too easy and if seeing our clients in chains and suffering isn't horrifying, then there's something wrong. You're desensitized to the point where your soul is at risk. 

Still, we all have a job to do. We must be professionals. And be able to make cogent arguments and advise our clients without tears in our eyes. 

But today, I couldn't put up that wall, the one I've learned to build around my heart brick by brick. Today, I couldn't pretend it wasn't awful. 

When I got home, I felt a weight lift. I played with my dogs and sat outside and breathed in the air and sighed. 

Then tonight I wrote this essay, so I never forget what today felt like.

Library girl

Looking at a photo of the new Riverside library, I get all teary eyed.  

I grew up going to the Ontario (California) city library, a library that writer Beverly Cleary once worked at. My mom would let me max out my library card. It never seemed to be enough. 

Wandering through the kid and adult sections, I would lose myself in their spines. It was there I discovered all of my favorite writers. I read all of the Wizard of Oz books, Judy Blume, the Hobbit, even F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Leaving the library, I would feel joyful. Carrying home my armful of books, a huge smile on my face, I would throw them on my bed. Falling into worlds away. As a kid, I would read books all weekend. I would savor their pages. Caress them. Read the same books over and over.

My allowance sometimes went to paying for late fees for books I couldn't let go.

Libraries are everything. They are havens and children and adults need a refuge and gathering place. 

Libraries are where I became a reader and a writer. Because, ultimately, books, and libraries that house them by extension, are where dreams are imagined and sometimes made. 

Office space

I am having a hard time. Look, I know I'm lucky to have a job. But this whole "return to the office thing" is difficult. My routines have now completely changed. I can't sleep because I get home from work and fall exhausted into bed right after dinner at 6 pm then wake up at 2 am. Maybe it's too much interaction, too much stimulation, and not enough focus. I'm struggling big time.

This last year was productive for me because of its solitude. I've realized, after much reflection, that I can let others' opinions of me block me. But in the end, I am the one and only person who really has the power to achieve what they want. And while people may find me too assertive or vocal at times, I don't really care.

This is a conundrum. My solution is to just take it day by day. Shut my door and get my work done. Go home and decompress. Try to not be angry and bitter. Try to be happy and positive. Change is on the horizon. I can feel it's vibration. I just meet to make it until then.

Office day

Today is D day. Back in the office day. Despite the last year, I usually like being in the office. It's been time to get back for a while. Plus, I want my home office back which used to be my studio and my creative space before covid.

The other thing is that I want to see faces. I love seeing people. I'm very social. It's been a hard isolation of a year. It's been productive in many ways, but lonely. 

I've also decided to put better boundaries. I will not bring my work computer home (unless I'm in trial). My hours at work will be reasonable. Not back breaking. I will try and take my vacations.

But still, I will miss the flexibility. I loved spending my days working with my dogs at my feet. Along with the ability to make dinner on my lunch hour. The ease of working on a motion and just finishing it no matter what time it was. Visiting with clients via video and answering emails at 630 am. As a morning dove, I appreciated the early start.

Yes. That is over, but what I've learned from the pandemic is that I am a homebody. I am able to work from home if needed. That will come in handy one day I'm sure.

But until then, here I am. An office body once again. I got half as much work done but went to a happy hour outside at El Torito after work. So there's that.

Epiphanies and coffee

I need coffee so bad. It's early morning as usual, and I can't sleep. I wish I could sleep all day. Today, I want to sleep and dream my day away. 

My eyes are tired from looking at a screen all week and my body aches. Middle age sucks as far as the body goes but the mind... that gets better I think. And what's weird is that I wouldn't go back to being young again. If given the option perhaps, I might go back in time to see my father, but that's another essay.

My teenage years were chaotic, although filled with precious adventures. Insecurity plagued me through my twenties and thirties. I did so much, college and law school, then a career, but never felt enough. Then, in my mid thirties, I lost my father and that changed my life. Well really, I decided to change my life and I moved back home and started pursuing my passions of criminal justice and writing. 

In my forties, I dealt with infertility and had to reconcile my grief regarding my inability to have a child. Most importantly, I had to reconcile the life I had with what I wanted. And I had to learn to be grateful for everything the universe gave me. I did a lot of therapy and worked on myself.

Now at almost fifty, I am finally able to be me. I know I'm loud. I can take over a room. I need to listen more. Yes, I can be anxious and stressed out. But I'm also positive, supportive and authentic. I am me. Just me. 

There is no other way to be and have it work long term. For years, I tried to be someone else. But now, I'm just me. Call me by whatever name. Juanita, JEM, Jenny, are a few of my monikers, but most of all, I'm just me. 

Now, time for coffee!

Late night

It's almost midnight. The husband is snoring. So is Chewbacca.

Last night, our dog Chewbacca had a reverse sneeze attack at midnight. Maybe that's why I woke up right now. Last night, I jumped out of bed and rushed to him. Chewbacca's reverse sneezes are scary due to his chronic heart condition. He coughed. And coughed again. I held him. Close. He trembled in my arms. 

His eyes searched mine. They are so human like. At times, I feel his soul. I consoled him. Calmed him to slow his fast beating heart. His tongue licked my face. 

Tonight, I lay here, knowing I have to be up in six hours to get ready for court, and pray myself to sleep. I ask God to keep everyone close to me safe. And warm. Healthy. 

This small thirteen year old shih tzu is my purpose at times. I will wake up at six am and give him his meds and feed him and his brother Frodo. I'm lucky to have them. 

So so lucky. 

I need you to love me

There's that song "Leather and Lace" and the lyrics by Stevie Nicks go, "I need you to love me/I need you today." The song sounds country in its earnestness. That's because it is; it was written by Stevie Nicks for Waylon Jennings.

I loved that song when I was a young girl. It reminds me of how my whole life has been dedicated to searching for love of one kind or another.

Love from my parents, love and admiration from friends, and teachers, and then finding Adrian, my true romantic love. And then searching for admiration as a lawyer and then searching to show maternal love in my unsuccessful quest to have a child, and now finally, looking for love as a writer. 

It has to be said, I never started writing for money or fame. I am blessed to say I have enough money. Of course, I will take more. But I really just want my words to be read. Writing has always been my solace. My way of reconciling my life. 

I've always tried to write truthfully from my heart. Over the years, my perspective on my craft has changed. As a writer, I still go into a trance when I write a good story, it happens easy in those stories. But there's also a benefit to the harder stories. The ones I have to think about at length and research and write out drip by drip. Word by word. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that writing is hard for me. Editing even harder. Putting it all together in a manuscript was arduous. I thought at times, that I couldn't do it. That there was no way I could piece it all together. The memoir took 15 years. And in the meantime, life happened. I wrote a second book, a social justice essay/memoir/poetry hybrid chapbook, that will ironically come out in August before the young adult memoir later in the year. 

I hope so much that people get it. That they understand what I'm trying to do and love it. 

But regardless, I did it. Finally. 

Yet another song by Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac comes to mind,  "Say That You Love Me":

"Have mercy, baby on a poor girl like me

You know I'm falling, falling at your feet..."

"And say that you love me...." 

Headache

 Last night, I had the worst splitting headache. My head felt as if it would burst into jagged pieces. I'd been working all afternoon on a motion that somehow got deleted. How I don't know. "Arrrrrrrrrrrr shit!" I screamed into the air in my home office. The good thing is that I have no office mates to react.

Then, with perfect timing, my husband came home and I snapped. He never brings the trash cans inside all the way. He leaves them at our locked gate which means I have to get the key to bring them in when I want to take out the trash. But it wasn't him. Or the trash cans. 

It was me.

Despite myself, and my inner voice saying it's not his fault you deleted the motion, I yelled about the trash, stomped my foot and slammed the screen door as I walked into the backyard. I lit a cigarette outside, puffing away. My shih tzu Chewie looked at me with his big brown eyes (probably) thinking, "What's wrong with you mom?"

The nicotine calmed me. I apologized. Sheepish, I made small talk. We ate dinner. I went upstairs to my office and magically the motion reappeared. "I found it," I yelled. I made sure to save the motion again, just in case.

I slipped into bed and the sheets felt comforting. A tear rolled out of my eye. I'd had anxiety all day. Doing too much as usual. I never stop.

But then I thought of my creative writing and how my books would be out in the world soon. I don't care if no one reads them. Well maybe I kinda do. 

But still, my point is that I just need something permanent. Something lasting. To show the world.

I was here dammit. I was here. 

Just Breathe

Two years ago today, I was in France with my husband.

We were visiting my 1st cousin Pascale and her son Xavier who I had never met. We hit it off and it was the time of our lives. The town they lived in was quaint. Lovely.

My cousin Pascale and I would spend hours, chatting, drinking espresso. We would just sit and talk. Bonding. 

We would start talking early afternoon until the sun set (sunset was at 830 pm or so in France that time of year). Then we would drink a couple bottles of wine and eat crackers and cheese. Talking more. 

It forced me to slow down and be in the moment. We took walks, canvassed through Rouen. Strolled Dieppe. 

I tried to chillax and listen. Patience has never been my forte. I'm always doing something, always on freaking task.

This feels like so so long ago. Yet, not. Similar to our trip to France, the pandemic changed me. It, too, forced me to slow down. I stopped traveling. I worked hard but also made dinner many nights. Started a podcast and took a MFA class. Finally, yes finally, spent the weekends finishing my memoir and then writing a new book. 

Then the last couple weeks at work have been so insanely busy and stressful that I started back into my old habit of just doing. Going hard. At a cost. A cost to me.

Today, I'm taking the day off, and will be reflecting on who I am and the kind of person I want to be. Do I want to be the most efficient person? 

Or do I, perhaps, just perhaps, want to be at ease in life, letting go, and just be me. Fun JEM. Cool JEM. And yes, busy and organized but also just in the moment. No more anxiety or stress energy. Just there to be me and let my self shine. At work and at home.

Last night, I realized that I had my work computer but that I forgot my laptop cord when I was at court and the office. 

How was I going to check email? Then I realized, it's 6 pm, why are you worried? Of course I soon realized I could use my other cord to charge but still, let it go, I told myself. You are not tethered to a computer or to your phone. 

You are tethered to your husband, family and dogs. To your art. That's what sustains you.

Then I took a deep breath and sat and listened to others perform for two hours. I laughed so hard at one piece that my stomach hurt. Wiped tears from my eyes. Breathed.

Life was good.

Zen Pen

 It's 10:30 pm. I can't sleep. Everyone is asleep but me. Chewbacca, my spoiled shih tzu, is snoring. So is Adrian. Frodo is downstairs because he can't do stairs.

I love my blog. It's where I capture the day to day. During the pandemic, it became my lifeline, my diary and my solace.

Writing is very solitary. For the last three months, I've been working on my latest project almost every weekend. I've been in a kind of isolation. Just me and my keyboard. Working on some footnotes on Wednesday evening about did me in. My eyes burned after as if I'd been in a fire. 

But blogging is different, at least usually. It's more laid back. I write these blogs quick and on my phone. I post and edit and re-edit. Then I let them go into the universe. It's a freeing form of writing in a way. Not so formal. Plus, it's great practice writing like this. Making your brain find the words quick and then, putting it all together. Zen.

The thing I realized over these last ten or eleven years of blogging is that writing is a muscle. You must do it everyday. And all weekend if you can. It's something that needs to be flexed often. 

Over the years, by writing this blog, I've become disciplined. People often ask how I do it all: the full time job, writing, and podcasting. Truth is, I'm always working either at my job or at my writing or podcasting. Always. And I rest by reading. The thing is that I enjoy the writing. I really do. But what I really like is reaching out to the world with this blog.

So here's my proverbial writing hand reaching out to you. Let me know what you practice at: yoga, cooking, watching movies, or maybe reading? Everything is fair game! 

Whirlwind

I've been writing a lot lately. Editing. Creating. 

Yet, my writing was not predestined. It was a choice to focus on my writing. A choice to start a creative writing Masters program. A conscious decision to finish my books. It is late nights. Early mornings. Lots of coffee, less beer.

My career as a deputy public defender was also a choice. A choice to follow my passion. My heart. My quest for a better world.

We all live with constraints. Some of these constrains are those society imposes on us, but there are those we put on ourselves. We think we "need" all of these possessions. We think that our worth is valued monetarily rather than creatively.

For me, art defies commerce. If I make money from my art great, but if not, that's OK too. It's not that I don't want to get paid, I do and think it's crucial that creatives demand to be paid. But I also am just grateful that I have the economic privilege to have support for my art through my lawyering day job.

The older I get, the more the veil falls. I see the man behind the curtain. This is all an illusion in a way and intentions matter. Just the imagining of a creative endeavor helps and urges the universe to create it.

There are times it is magical. I believe one can make things happen with visualization and hard work. This is not delusion. I'm the evidence. Exhibit one. I've been a dreamer my whole life. I've imagined myself as a lawyer, a writer and a performer.

And here I am. I'm all of those and more. A whirlwind is coming. We're all in it. Create. Create. And create some more. 

Remembering

This morning, I thought to myself, I'm lucky. So so lucky. I have a home I love, my husband, my sisters and mom, my spoiled shih tzus and a good job. I have my education, my writing, my school and my podcast.

What I don't have that I have wanted: a child, my books published and contentment. The books being published will happen, the child is unattainable at this point age wise, but contentment, now that's the tricky one.

Contentment has always been the hardest thing for me. I am never ever content. It's part of what drives me. "Slow down!" my husband says. "No," I retort back in my no nonsense voice adding, "Never."

What are we here for? That's a question that may be rolling around in your head too. Especially after this roller coaster ride of a year. The pandemic has made many question their lives, including those truly. Inching my way toward middle age has also made me think. What is truly important in life? 

Is it accomplishments? That car you drive? The way you look? The house you own? 

No. 

I would argue that we are a sum of what we create in the world. The family and relationships we have, the  lives we touch, the people we help and the creative endeavors we engage in. 

In short, who we are is what we are. But it's more ephemeral than that. How you will be remembered is who you are. We are memories.

And because I write memoir, and love spinning gold out of the dust of my own memories, I'm remembering who I am and who I was. But most of all, my writing allows me to keep reminding myself of who I want to be.