New Year's Day

 It is almost a new year. I'm hopeful that 2024 will be the best year yet. I've pledged to work on my health, wellness and of course, finish another book.

My memoir took over a decade to write and more than fifteen years to publication. Once you've written one book, you realize how it becomes a routine and a second one is possible. It's never easy. Writing a book is a hard, arduous task that is about focus, determination and most of all, visualization. It's about belief and faith. 

Some people use belief and faith as synonyms. But I see them differently. Belief is, in my opinion, about knowing I can do it because I've done it before. I've proven I can do it. On the other hand, faith is a knowing that it's possible without any proof. See https://ethicsdefined.org/opinion/faith-vs-belief/. Faith is what kept me going the first time around and it keeps me going now because there are no certainties in life.

I spent the last few days in Vegas with my husband and the moms. It was pretty low key. We saw a movie, went to a show, had a nice dinner or two, and gambled and drank a little. It was a lot of fun. 

But I also had some time to think. To ruminate. To chill out and relax. And I realized something. Every day is a new day, and this new year offers 365 days of hope filled possibilities. You just have to reach out and grab them. Cheers!

Reconciliation

I'm on vacation and it's 530 am. I'm looking at my life. Is it because of the new year beginning? Is it me slipping into middle age? Is it a mid life crisis? I'm not sure.

It's been such a weird last few years. After the "pandemic", we were supposed to step back into our pre-pandemic life and I found that I couldn't. My health was shot, and I had to change things. So I basically created a lot of havoc in my work life. Now I know I had my reasons for trying to leave my practice. I had a lot of resentments, which were valid, but in the end, all I really did was cause a lot of chaos. 

What I learned from it all is that home is home. You can't run away from it. It's ironic that I first learned this with my real life family. I left the IE for years, but ended up back home. Similarly, I tried to leave my mental health law practice a couple of years back in order to try and transition to appellate work (but never left public defense to be clear, it was just a shift within our office for a short time) and then, of course, ended up right back where I began. It was such an uneven time for me. Things have evened out thankfully. 

Yet, through all of this, I learned that I can try to heal myself and my relationships. I can sit in the peace. I can be happy. And everything can be okay. 

Ohhh Christmas tree

It is 6 am and I have a weird rock in my chest. All I can see is the vacancies and empty spots. It's Christmas Eve and I feel the losses. I miss my dad, my dog Frodo and the children I've never had. I miss my father in law, my brother in law, and my uncles. 

My mom is usually here today but she's at my sister's house so I miss her too but will see her on Christmas Day. 

I don't know why I'm so melancholy. I need to take a bath in sage. I need to meditate on everything I have. I pray in my head for happy thoughts. 

I look at my Christmas tree. There's a picture of me and my mom on an ornament that my bestie made me. I look around the house. Five stockings. One for me and the others for my husband, the moms, and my shih tzu chewie. I see all the presents. My island of misfit toys collection lined up on the table. My own books piled up to bring to a reading next year. How did I write those? It seems impossible. 

I see myself in the mirror. The mirror is edged with rhinestones. I'm aging. There are lines. I'm plump. But I know who I am at least. I've realized the outside is meaningless, and it's the inside filling that counts. I also know I'm not my job. And I've realized my voice has value. That I'm a writer at heart and my pen is powerful. That I'm strong. 

So I breathe. And look at the Christmas tree and smile. Merry Christmas. 

Early to rise coffee time

I get up early. Too early. Yesterday at 4 am (to be fair I was on deadline at work so started work at 5 am) and today at 5 am. What do I do you ask? Why so early? What's the point?

It's simple. It's when I wake up because I go to bed at 8 pm most days. Five in the morning is also my favorite time of day. I sometimes work on this blog, or on my YA fiction novel in progress (meh, it's just so hard as a memoirist to make the switch but I'll get there) or read from the couple of books of essays I've been devouring by Ann Patchett. This morning, I entered my second book into a memoir contest.

In fifteen minutes, I'll go downstairs at 6 am to have coffee with my husband who has to leave for work by 7. It's always fun. We do it every weekday and weekends too.

Today is an unanticipated court day (someone got sick in our unit) so I have to leave by 745 am to be in court timely. I so don't mind going in today. I get to see everyone before Christmas and hand out a few holidays cards in person (not much mailing this year, I'm cutting back). 

Back to the early mornings. It's becoming a habit and one I adore. I'm with my thoughts with nothing to do for at least the first hour of my day. Then I get to spend quality time with my spouse sipping on espresso while he downs his black, lightly sugared coffee. I usually make us toast or breakfast tacos. It's so lovely in how ordinary it is.

It's life. Bitter at times like my espresso, but also invigorating. It is always a reminder to slow down and savor, one sip at a time. 

Blue Christmas

It's 4 am. I got up early because I couldn't sleep. I'm listening to the song Purple Rain by Prince. I love this song, it's hymn like, both joyful and sad. 

Christmas always fills me with melancholy. You see years ago, my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer around Christmas and died less than three weeks later. The time went so quick. Yet so slow. Like a movie you speed up then slow down. Frame by frame. That's how I remember it. I always wish I had moved home sooner. Before it was too late. Or maybe I wish I had never left in the first place? 

Christmas also reminds me of being a kid and watching the rainbow of lights twinkling on the tree and opening a mountain of presents every Christmas morning. No matter their financial situation, my parents always filled the space under the tree with gifts.

I also have fond memories of going to my Tio Roland's house, my mom's brother and my godfather. Tio would always gift me and my sisters something small but sweet, a lifesavers gift pack that looked like a book or chocolate covered cherries that I would savor one at a time. 

My Tio Roland passed years back as did my Tio Poncho and Tia Tilly. In fact, all of my mother's many siblings have passed away. They have gone to the heavens and I picture them all sitting in a room together reminiscing. 

My mom was the baby in her family. The youngest. She's the only one left and believe me I know how lucky I am to have her. 

I took Monday off this week and took a drive to Palm Springs to see my mom who was watching my twin sister's house while she was on vacation. I drove my mom and her friend Jan to lunch with my niece and then to the Brighton outlet in Cabazon. We had such a great time. And it made me realize something profound. 

We only have this. These moments. This time is more precious than all the silver and gold in the world. Just try and remember that this Christmas. I know I will.

The wind in the willows

The wind is whistling. It's shaking the trees this Sunday. I'm up early. Chewbacca woke me up this morning with his whining to go downstairs.

Everyone needs a room of their own and Adrian recently bought Chewie a playpen style crate and Chewie bounds downstairs and goes straight into it. He growls as he pummels his blanket and burrows into it. He's comfortable now and falls back asleep with a contented sigh.  

I think about how far my life has come along. I'm also in a very comfortable place. I have a YA novel and an adaptation of my memoir that I know I need to focus on, and I will, although with work and my other literary commitments, it's hard to find time. Maybe I am a bit complacent. There's not a lot of pressure on me except that I put on myself. I'm also focusing on time with my husband Adrian and being more present.

Even though it doesn't look like it, I'm just taking it kind of easy. And yes easy for me is working full-time, taking a class for my MFA, serving on a board and running a podcast. But I have pulled back on events and even withdrew from another board. I am also refining my podcast and streamlining it to make it more doable long term so I can continue to amplify voices yet also have time for my own writing.

My goal is to chill and not create chaos out of peace. There are times when I crave disorder. Turmoil feels more normal to me. But I am slowly learning to lean into the calm. The wind is nice at times. It clears the air. But it can also break you. 

So here's to the future and a new year. Cheers. 

The whisper

I wake up exactly at 4:44 am. It is an auspicious sign because the number 444 denotes positivity and is seen as a signal that one is on the right path.

Yet, am I on the right path? I almost feel as if I am waiting for something to happen as opposed to going out and aiming for my destiny. I've been in a kind of anti striving mode for a bit and I don't know whether it is working. 

My whole life, I've been seeking, yearning and focused on a goal. First, survival after the mess I made of my life after dropping out of high school. Then, an undergraduate degree which took forever as I started in junior college. Then law school, which went by quick. Than my law career and after leaving corporate law, public defense. Then writing. Then podcasting and writing some more.

Everything's come together. I know it has. Life is good. Stable. But there's something else over the horizon. I can't see it, but I can feel it. 

Has anyone else been feeling like this? It's almost as if something is waiting on the other side of a mountain and if I climb to see the view, then I will see what's over the mountain. But if I don't climb, and if I stay on the straight path, then I will never see it. I will miss it. It will pass me by. Or I will pass it by.  

The truth is, I don't want to miss my chance at something big, real and true. Call me a drama queen, a dreamer, a striver, an eternal optimist, or even delusional perhaps, but I know I'm meant to do one great thing that the whole world will see and whether it's a play, a film or another book, I'm not sure. It's hazy, almost like it's not fully realized yet. It might happen or it might not. 

Because right now, it's only a whisper. Just a whisper. 

Stephen King of the tales

The Queen is dead. The King is still alive, Stephen King that is. I just read one of his more recent books "Fairy Tale". Opening it, I fell into it, like into a well. Funnily enough, there's also a well in this dark fairy tale along with a portal to another world.

A bit compelled from the opening chapter, I read the book late at night. I even opened it up after a long day at work and then at 10 pm after an evening reading event. Most mornings this week, I read early morning instead of writing my own stories. You see, I needed to know what would happen. 

Finally, this morning, I woke up at 6 am (on a Saturday) to finish it. It is a somewhat long book, but luckily I'm a quick reader and when I finished, I exhaled an audible sigh. I closed my Kindle app with contentment. Awwwwww.

The narrator and protagonist is Charlie. He's young. He's dealt with more than most (but is similar to some of us) in his seventeen years. He's dealt with his mother's death, and his father's alcoholism. 

I've always loved young adult narrators. There's so much we don't know when we're young, but so much we do know and forget with age. There's a naïveté to young narrators, but also a bravery and wisdom. Plus, he has a dog he loves. I'm a book lover and a dog lover, so the two go together for me like butter on toast.

We find out toward the end of the novel that Charlie is writing this later, when he's fully grown, and some of the book has a slightly older adult perspective or voice, but for the most part, we are in Charlie's head during his adventures as a young adult. 

Those who know me, know that I'm all about adventures. I love writing about my youthful adventures, indiscretions and escapades, and I wouldn't be the writer I am without them. Perhaps that's why I was so drawn to Charlie's story. 

I loved how the book ends, although I won't give it away. This is a quest novel and also a twisted fairy tale. But there is a happy ending. Don't we all need and deserve one?

I have all the time in the world

Recently, I saw Depeche Mode in Vegas. It was a beautiful show but they didn't go on until 9 pm and we got to the venue at 6 pm. My bedtime is 830 pm most nights so by the time they went on, I was exhausted, my back hurt and I was drinking water and Diet Coke.

I'm slowly realizing some things. First, I may have time left and lots of things I want to do with it. But I don't want to spend my time doing things I don't love. Or things that annoy me. And I don't want to spend time with people who don't appreciate me. Or be in places that make me anxious. All I want really is to be happy.

Happiness is an elusive concept I know. Yet I also think it's simple. Happiness is simplicity. It's about making your life purposeful, but not complicated. Really it's about not caring what others think about what you do and going with your gut and not seeking approval. 

I've always been a people pleaser and no more I say. I'm sick of worrying what others think of me. Maybe I'm getting old and ornery. Truth is, all I can think is forget it. Forget what the world thinks of you. Just do you. Just be you. 

Sometimes

Sometimes, all you can do is listen to your dog snore. As you listen to his labored breathing, you wonder how much time he has left. We are all terminal. I know this. They say dogs, with a much shorter life span, teach us how to grieve. After my oldest dog Frodo passed last year, the thing that kept me going was my dog Chewbacca. He is a weird, neurotic, almost human eyed shih tzu. When he looks deep into my eyes, we see each other. 

Truth is, I always get a bit melancholy around this time. I miss my dad. It's been almost 17 years, yet it feels like yesterday. I changed so much after my dad passed. My entire life came into sharp focus. When he died, I took a big leap off a cliff and came back home to the Inland Empire. And yes, I still stagnated for a year at a big firm, but eventually I found myself and my career as a deputy public defender and later, as a writer.

The writing is calling me. All you can do sometimes is listen to the call. It's telling me to jump again. To take a big risk. To understand that sometimes, today is all we have. If my dad was here I know what he would say. He would say, "You're a smart girl Jenny. You'll make it happen."

We only have what we make of it. This life. The now. It's why we're all here. To catch our dreams and live them fully. And truly.

If you would like to support my many endeavors all of which I fund from my personal day job, click here. Anything helps. https://www.buymeacoffee.com/jemmantz4

Thanksgiving thanks

Gratitude is important. It's what this holiday should really be about. It's about seeing your family and appreciating them, as well as about appreciating life.

I've kinda been in a funk. I don't always talk about it, but the weather along with the state of the world has gotten me down. I've been sleeping a lot. I wake up early so the earlier I go to bed, the earlier I rise which creates a vicious circle. I woke up early to start working yesterday, as we were ending early, and went to bed at 730 pm. I'm writing this at 330 am.

Is it a mild depression? It could be. I still have my anxiety but it's been pretty manageable. I work on not letting my "thoughts" get the best of me. And I'm not letting myself get overextended. I've realized that my way of managing my anxiety is to do so so much that I have no time to "think" which causes more anxiety, and another vicious cycle. 

What am I most thankful for? I'd have to say I'm most grateful that my mom is still here, along with Chewbacca, the shih tzu. And yes, of course I'm grateful for my husband, although he's the one I take for granted and I'm trying to show my love for him more overtly. I'm not good at being lovey dovey but I'm trying because I still have stars in my eyes for him. 

I'm also grateful for my mother in law and my sisters and nieces. Would I love to have my own kid? Sure, but it wasn't in the cards and the ache of that loss is getting easier, though there was a time I didn't think I would bounce back from it, but I did. 

You see, I have also found that gratitude is not just being grateful for getting everything you asked for. Sometimes gratitude is thankfulness for what you got instead. And the universe has gifted me a lot. I know this. I do. I love my writing "career", if I dare call it that. It's a dream come true. 

So thank you universe, I'm grateful for what I have received. 

Romance stories

I love me a good romance. Anyone who knows me well knows that I am a sucker for a romance. In fact, I read hundreds of harlequin romance novels as a kid and it either sustained or ruined me for life depending on your perspective.

I have a poem that speaks to my view of romance. For me, it is "the ordinary rote routine" and I find beauty in banality. Having coffee with my husband every day at 6 am with Chewbacca at my feet is my favorite thing in my life. And while I still tend to do too much, and overextend myself, Covid times taught me to find joy in home. I love cuddling up in a blanket on a cold, rainy day like today, watching Hallmark movies and eating my husband's delicious culinary creations. 

So for me, like I said, romance is in the little things. It's seeing my husband across a casino and realizing how handsome I think he is even thirty years in. It's my husband saying I'm his favorite artist and creative. It's going to the grocery store together. And he is my favorite person. He drives me crazy yes. Those peccadillos that  make us human, they can sure get on one's nerves. It makes him bonkers that I crack my knuckles. It makes me irritated when he channel surfs for a half hour trying to find something to watch on television. 

But there's a symmetry and a synergy between us after all this time. He can tell what I'm thinking just by a glance. He knows when I'm off. Sometimes before I do. And he knows when I need him most. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that don't underrate a good romance because it's what life is made of. It's what life is for. Love, love, love, a great band once repeated in a song, it's all we really need.

Why I love 5 am

It's 5 am. This time is all mine. I listen to the dog snore. My husband breathe. I read an article about a band I like. I post a graphic about my good friend's book party. I snuggle under my Ralph Lauren comforter.

I think about a few of my clients from yesterday and my amazing public defense colleagues. They're warriors and they all work so hard for a needy population. My best day is when I get someone out of custody and I did. But still, it was a wicked busy day. I wasn't perfect. I was a bit overwhelmed at times. Not always patient. I just did my best. By the end of the day, I was wrecked and of course, there was yet another fire to put out in the late afternoon. 

When I got home, I went to bed early after watching re runs of The West Wing (I'm on my fourth or fifth viewing of the totality of the series, it's my thing).

Then I woke up. And it was an entirely new day. That's why I love 5 am. It's a burgeoning day full of possibilities. And yes, I forgot to charge my phone, and I have stuff to get done today, yet still, the time feels magical. It's as if I can accomplish anything today. At 5 am.

Holidaze

This year, we are meeting for brunch for Thanksgiving. I think it's just easier. Plus, as my sister Jackie pointed out recently to me, and which I just kind of realized myself, it's never been the same since my dad died years and years ago.

Dad was always the one who loved Thanksgiving. I never realized until I was in my late thirties, and he was long gone, how much he was the sun we all revolved around on the Thanksgiving holiday. 

I remember with fondness how he would bellow at me to eat.  "Eat some veggie tray Jenny! And I made deviled eggs for you!"

I write a lot about my struggles as a kid and a young adult, but I never was neglected. My dad and mom were always there. My mom sometimes had to work the holidays because the Chinese restaurant she worked at was open, but she always ate with us, choosing to work the night dinner shift so she could spend time with all of us. 

My family was and is a motley crew. From blue collar to white collar, and most all of the women are former waitresses, but are now composed of teachers, a lawyer, medical professionals and all readers along with a few part-time writers both realized and unrealized. I hope that we are also all truth tellers, and memory savers.

This holiday, I hope that we all remember my dad, grandpa to some, who started it all with my mom. Thank god she is still here. I simply don't know what I would do without her.  My mom, aka the Judy my dad was referencing when he sang Hey Jude" to her in a country twang, is my life raft to my family and to the memory of my dad and to many of my remembrances of who I was and a reminder of who I aim to be.  

Yesterday

Yesterday, the Beatles released "Now and Then", a new song. It went to number one in the UK. It was the band's first number one in sixty years. A record breaking feat. 

I watched the official video and in it, all the members play a part. It's so beautiful, sad, poignant and nostalgic, especially since John Lennon's voice is so prominent on the song. I wept seeing them all together again. 

My twin sister and I chose sides years back. She's team Paul. I'm team John. But I've always loved their combination most of all. 

Now I know that there are some people that don't like the Beatles. Other than "Hey Jude", which was my late dad's song to my mom Judy, my mom is not a big fan. But most of us are. 

And this latest reminds us, it's never too late to come together now. 

Today and Tomorrow

It is 4 am. I went to bed at 7 pm last night. The night before, my dog had an attack at 3 in the morning and I couldn't go back to bed. I was wrecked all day. I felt sluggish. Slow. Tired. I said, "I wish I could just sleep ten hours and wake up tomorrow".  

So I did. Well I slept nine hours. Close enough if you add in the nap I took in the afternoon.

Sleep is everything to me. The older I get, the more I need it to function, especially to write. I don't always sleep well. When we travel, I barely sleep at all. I have a tough time without my own bed and my dog snoring in his bed by me. There's a comfort in it. I cuddle up in my Ralph Lauren cotton comforter. It's thick and warm.

I've been thinking a lot about what I need. Not what I want. What do you need to be content? I mean really need? I think I often confuse want with need and I'm starting to realize that I don't need much to be happy. 

Today I will focus on today and not the future. I am trying to live in the present. I try to no longer live in the past or focus too much, because we all must in some ways, on the future. 

Today is today. The sun will set today. The sun will rise tomorrow. Dream big dreams while you sleep and when you wake up, live. Just live.

Burrowing

Yesterday, I spoke to a group of middle schoolers. That's not usually my age range. I tend to speak to high schoolers or college students. But the kids surprised me. They were so energetic and passionate about writing. And so engaged. 

Youth is definitely not wasted on these youngsters. Their depth of interest surprised me. It reminded me of how I used to live for books. I still do but life gets in the way. Work. Bills. Shit I gotta do. 

I wish I could spend every Saturday at the library. I would burrow in the stacks and read every book I could. I would fall asleep book in hand and wake up magically transported to the land between the pages. Now that's a good dream.

Over the rainbow

I am obsessed with the idea of how one gets somewhere. I don't mean it literally, such as whether you walk or drive, but figuratively. How does someone get to a destination in their life they've been seeking?

When I think of how I became a lawyer, I've realized that it was out of survival and a yearning for legitimacy. To this day, I'm not sure it was the right choice for my mental health. Law is stressful. It can be negative. There's a lot of pressure.

When I left corporate litigation and big firm life, I was seeking something more rewarding and a career more in line with my ideals. I found it as a deputy public defender. Yet, I wonder, am I stagnating by staying? My philosophy has radically changed. I no longer believe in this system of so called justice, but I do believe in people and the power of redemption. So I stay. 

But I've realized that I work best without extreme pressure and stress. I get things done, but negativity tends to stymie me. Lately, in my day job, there's been much negativity. I try to always stay positive and engaged but it's difficult when others are not. 

So I just keep telling myself, this too shall pass. I wrote my books and created my writing career out of thin air. And I can create another avenue for myself for the future me. This job is one I've done for many years. It will not last forever. So I will just do my best while I'm here and try to stay positive. 

That's all I can do, that's all everyone can do. Just move forward and visualize what's next over the rainbow.

The sound of the wind

They turned off the power yesterday afternoon due to the winds. One minute I was working on a motion listening to the television hum in the background, and then poof, it was eerily quiet. 

I rushed to the Dollar Tree to get ice for the freezers and then to Target to get flashlights and a cordless charger. I found our lanterns. Only one was charged. Always prepared, I sent the revision homework I had done over the weekend for my online MFA class with the internet at Starbucks.

My husband came home early and brought McDonald's. We played Yahtzee when it got dark by candlelight. He turned on the fireplace because it was a bit chilly. I went upstairs to read by lantern light and almost finished a book.

By 8 pm, I was asleep. I woke up at 230 am when the lights came back on. I cheered in my head. Halloween was back.

It's 3 am and the winds are still blowing. My mind is frayed. I think about Matthew Perry's death. He was only 54. I am 52. You can go anytime. They say he was doing well and that he was working on a screenplay project called Mattman.

I have so many dreams left. Will I get to them? I always thought I would live to at least 80. But you never know. You just never know. The power can go out in your life, in your house, and in your heart. 

And sometimes, it happens suddenly, without any warning at all. 

A choice

It's almost 4 am. I'm writing. My husband and the dog are both snoring.

My brain is spinning. Everything is so packed in. Thoughts swirl from yesterday. Work had me in a tizzy. I've realized that I pick up energies very easily. 

But this morning I breathe. And breathe. My life is good. I'm good. A good friend of mine that asked me to be in a literary anthology sends me a complimentary email about my story. It's a new story. Not overworked to death. It's hybrid as far as genre, memoir and poetry. My MFA class wasn't sure about the hybrid form but I liked it and left it as is. 

It's satisfying when people get my work. Especially when it's people I admire.

I guess that's what I get from writing that I don't get elsewhere. Public defense is a mostly thankless job. The stress is enormous, and when you do well, no one really acknowledges it. That's okay. But I need acknowledgement and appreciation and I get that from writing. 

Days like today, when I'm up at 4 am contemplating my life, are important. I think to myself, asking internally, why do I still practice law when creative writing is what I love and probably what I'm best at? 

The answer: It's because I choose to. 

I lay in bed and tell myself that in my head, over and over. It's a choice. I'm not trapped there. It's a choice. A choice.

Day off

I have the day off and I plan on keeping busy. British baking show at 5 am. Breakfast with my mom at 8 am and I need to help her set up her television with Hulu. Then I'll read for my podcast Wednesday. Then a lunch meeting with a writer friend. Then pick up Chewbacca's medicine, and then go home and chill.

It sounds like a lot. And there's more I might do. I bought a cowgirl dress and it's a little snug on the top so I might ship it back. I have to return my cable boxes to UPS. But maybe I will do that Wednesday at lunch. And I have to get ready for Disneyland on Tuesday. 

I've just realized I've written my to do list via my blog. It's pedantic perhaps and tedious but this is my blog so just deal. I'm kidding. For those of you who read this, I suppose I do like to have an idea, or a thought that is the theme of my posts. Gratitude. Creativity. Love. Loss. Fear. Hope. 

But today, I'm saying forget all that. The rain is pounding on my roof and it's 5:55 am and I want another espresso. 

Perhaps that's the theme of all this. The moments fleet. They pass. Do as I say not as I do. Don't let time pass you by in a flurry. Just sit and relax and drink that espresso while holding the hand (or for me this AM, petting my dog's head) of the one you love.

Doing

Often, I am asked how I do so much. And I don't really have an answer. 

I think the only way I accomplish everything I want to do creative wise is that it doesn't feel like work. Unlike my day job as a deputy public defender, where I know my duties to my client must be met, and I feel the stress and pressure, with my side gigs there's no pressure. Everything is done because I want to do it.  

I've recently realized I write best without an end goal in mind. I do well on assignment so taking a class helps. And I'm a quick writer. I've learned not to overthink it and to trust my own editing and reader gut about whether it works. I know when it's good usually. And my best pieces story wise come out close to fully formed. Essays on the other hand take more revision. 

Another example is my podcast. I really enjoy reading the books and interviewing people. Also, I truly love doing the promotion and creating the graphics. Thankfully, I have been able to cut down on the prep after more than fifty interviews and so I read the books and just go with the flow conversation wise. I try to be present and listen.

The exception to the "no pressure" creative wise is when I plan events. I've cut down on them because I know my tendency to over aim for perfection. And I hate disappointing myself and others and there is no perfection with curating literary readings. You never know how many will show up and how it will go. And I do get very stressed out. Very very stressed out. That said, I love literary events and every single one has been a joy the day of. The stress is in the lead up.  

So for now, I am focusing on the writing, the podcasting and my own performing while leaving the event side for when I retire perhaps. I also love applying for big events like AWP where they do the infrastructure and this year, I'm on two panels. 

I guess that the ultimate answer to how I do everything I do is that I'm a hard worker and very obsessive at times and often work at 4 am on projects. When I focus on something, I lose myself. I disappear. It's a blessing and a curse. But I'm a lucky person to be able to do what I do. I adore being friends with the writers I admire. 

Ultimately, it's a gift to be part of a community I so love rather than just a reader fan girl. Writers are the best people in the universe. And they make great friends for life.

Powerlessness

The thing I've been thinking about recently is how little power we have over what's happening in the world. Horrible things are happening. I feel like they can take over. The images and thoughts just keep running through my head.

Then, I listened to a podcast interview of Judas Priest's Rob Halford, a heavy metal god, and he talked about how he prays every day. He said it makes him feel peaceful. I agree. I love to pray. To lose myself in it. To focus on something other than all of this sadness in the world is a gift and it reminds me that all we have sometimes is our prayer and intention.

Intention is everything. How do you approach your day? How do you approach other people? Are you approaching life with love? Are you approaching others with love? 

How I approach my day makes all the difference. I often notice that my energy is a superpower, for good or for bad. Stephen King's novel "Carrie" shows the power negative energy carries and while exaggerated, it is too true in a metaphorical way. So I know I have to use my thoughts, energy and power for good. I have to. 

This morning, I'm just going to pray, meditate and approach today with kindness and with the intention to raise the vibration of the universe with my intentions to do so. This is the season of the witch after all. 

Up and Away

Today will be a good day I tell myself. I had a great weekend. Saturday, I saw my friend liz gonzález read at the San Bernardino library. She read stories about the city of San Bernardino and about her and her family and it was so inspiring. It reminded me of how much writing matters.  You see, this is important work that moves us. It's nostalgic yes, but also resonant and emotional.

We memoirists are not just writers, we are historians, and we memorialize moments of time and place.

Speaking of time, it's 7 am and because it's Monday, I gotta get to work. My day job as a public defender in Riverside is one I still love. I'm good at it. I enjoy it. It makes me happy to see my clients doing well. Yet. Yet. Yet. It's no longer my identity. I'm changing and evolving on the weekends and early mornings, just waiting for the time when I can fully spread my wings full-time as a writer. And fly. 

Dammit, one day I will fly. Up, up and away, high into the clouds to see the world and write about it. 

One day. 

Just let go

Recently, I read an essay on Substack by Junot Diaz. In it, he talked about the pressure we all put on ourselves as creatives, and how it is important to just have fun in our writing and go easy on ourselves.

I realized soon thereafter, that I do my best work when I'm not putting myself "under pressure". I have had a good run recently of writing that I really like. I've written some essays and stories for my MFA program as assignments for workshopping. I just let it flow. 

I must say that because I'm 52, I take all workshopping with a grain of salt. If I like something as is, I might not even revise at all. But I've been lucky to have a great teacher and fellow students that are very supportive. Their comments are helpful. 

Yet, still I remind myself daily that I know who I am as a writer. Not every writer will like my style. And that's okay.

It's also okay that my YA novel has stalled a bit. I love the idea. The characters speak to me. I feel that it will come when it comes. So until then? Just letting go. Breathing and writing. Always.

Write On

I continue to write. And write. And write. 

I am much better when on task. I've submitted two essays I wrote for my MFA program to places and they were both accepted. One went fast track on the radio and another is coming out in an anthology.

What people don't tell you about writing when you're starting out is three fold. 

First, it's addicting. The highs are higher than anything you've ever felt. Writing a good story is better than any drug. You'll want to do it more and more. You'll lose yourself in it while concurrently finding yourself.

Second, you get out what you put in community wise. That's because writers are very supportive of one another. We know the job (or passion) is thankless monetary wise most times. Yet, everything you give out to support others in their writing will be given back to you ten times. I can't tell you how many gifts of opportunity I've been gifted by other writers. 

When I was first starting out, I remember my teacher, Writer Jo Scott Coe, inviting me to read with her in San Bernardino and I even got paid! It was such an act of generosity as I hadn't published much, just a couple of stories in journals. And I recall my friend, Writer liz gonzález, having me read at her book party. Those opportunities boosted my confidence. They made me realize my voice mattered. They were everything. 

Finally, you'll start to define yourself as a writer. Everything else will start to fade away. No longer will you tell people, in a booming voice, that, "I'm a lawyer!" Instead, you'll say softly, as if you can't fully believe it yourself, "I'm a writer." 

Eventually, you'll peel back your own skin via your pen and find a new human. You will find that you have evolved and changed and you'll never ever be the same.

But most importantly, you'll never want it to end. 

Family and rummy time

My big sis Roberta is flying down from Kansas City, Missouri today. I'm picking her up from the airport at 11 am. The last few days have been a flurry of activity. I've cleaned the house from top to bottom except my podcast studio which is a bedroom that is also my closet, and right now it's a twilight zone area where one might get swallowed by the piles of dresses I'm organizing (theoretically). 

Even though I have not seen Roberta in person for a few years, we talk often on the phone. I always call her when I need someone to cheer me up while calming me down. She's chill like that and super nurturing. 

If my dad was here, he would be so excited. My sister Roberta visiting is like my dad visiting in a way. She reminds me of him, mostly in the way she plays rummy, i.e., ruthlessly and callously. Being as nice as she is, it's amazing that she has no mercy when it comes to cards. I'm stopping by the dollar tree to get a deck (which I'll bless for luck) and when I say there's gonna be a lot of shit talking, I'm not exaggerating.

So Daddy, if you're looking down. Send me some aces along with a joker or two.

Halloween daze

It's almost October which is my favorite time of year. I'm a self professed Halloween fanatic. A goth girl and a dark wave enthusiast. For Pete's sake, I have a six foot Zombie punker animatron in my living room. 

Halloween is spooky. It's fun. It's make believe. It's costumes and makeup, all things I love. 

Halloween is the smell of pumpkins and the taste of my favorite fall flavored coffee, a savory blend with rosemary called twig and tree. It's also "It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" time. It's Halloween Town and Halloween Wars. It's my husband making me pumpkin and squash filled raviolis with sage butter sauce. 

Halloween is rainy days and hot coffee by a fire.

Plus, October is my birthday month. I always say Libras rule and others drool. 

My goal this month and my 52nd birthday life goal is to let my anxiety go. I want to be carefree and happy. I what to let go of what others think. I want to stop constantly over thinking everything. I want to be present and confident in who I am. 

Whether that be a witch or a writer, or maybe both. So if you see me, pointy hat, wand in one hand, pen in the other, just give me a wave. I promise to wave back.

This blog and most of my projects, including my podcast, is self funded. If you'd like to show your appreciation, you can donate! All funds go to financing my blog and podcast. https://www.buymeacoffee.com/jemmantz4

Stories

I curse the two story house we live in as I traipse up and down the stairs during my lunch to do laundry and clean the guest bedroom and bathroom.

"My feet hurt," I tell my husband. I've been cleaning all day. We're having company and I must get the house in order. This was after a full day of work. I forgot the way mopping hurts my back. 

I'm actually pretty lazy most of the time. I work hard and then I read or watch television. I don't cook much and although I pick up the house a lot, especially early morning after a couple of espressos, deep cleaning our whole house this week was not something I was looking forward to.

Yet, there's something satisfying in scrubbing a floor and a bathtub. I love how the shiny marble counters look after a nice wipe down. 

Yet, I must also admit that I am the opposite of a domestic goddess. I always say, I don't cook, I order. And I'm a writer, not a cleaner. I know I'm privileged. I have a good job with a nice income and a husband who pitches in a lot.  And we have a large five bedroom house, a house way too big for us. But we still find a way to fill it up. 

Actually, I think that's the problem. We have so much stuff. I have way too many clothes. They're in containers. I wear the same black dresses, pants, shirts and cardigans to work and after work, it's a t-shirt and sweats. So why am I holding on to all of this stuff? Because I can't let go? Because I think I'll fit into my size 12 dresses again? Because I can I suppose. Because I can. 

The unknowing

I often start writing these blogs not knowing what I will write. After years of writing these, I sometimes wonder, do I have anything else to say? Yes, I do.

People may say that memoir can be a self absorbed endeavor, and at times it can be. But why is that a bad thing? An excavation of the self is always warranted. Why did we do this and why didn't we do that? At times, it can be both healing and reflective and writing has allowed many writers to heal their trauma and fight their demons. 

I have too many inner demons to fight I think. I've been so irritable lately. There's something waging a war in my brain. It could be because my shih tzu Chewbacca is struggling health wise and I wake up most days at 4 am to comfort and watch over him. Truth is, I don't know what I'll do without him. Recently, I was reminded of how fleeting our time here is. How important life is, and how we must treasure that gift. And use it. 

It's too easy and trite to just say smell the roses. Plus, I've smelled enough damn roses. I've danced my ass off. I've drank enough from the flask of hedonism. I don't want to be a party girl anymore. I want to have fun yes, but in an intentional way. The definition of fun is perhaps changing for me. For me, fun was working all day Saturday on one story, and I just felt so full after. Is that happiness? 

I'm not really sure I suppose. I'm still trying to figure this out, because, ultimately, I don't know shit.

Purposefully

Yesterday, I had the day off for a presentation at CSUSB. It was virtual. I took the day off because I wanted to be centered and present. I wanted time to get dressed and feel myself outside of my job. 

The topic was on race and policing. The CSUSB series I spoke at was started as a reaction to the murder of George Floyd as was my own first book, so it seemed fitting. And it was. 

I felt like myself up there reading and then answering questions. I felt as if I could speak my truth. And that everyone heard me. 

Presenting virtually is an art. I have learned through my podcasting that the best way to be present is through preparation. I'm always prepared. Always. Yet you can't lean too much on a script. It has to be a truth telling performance. You have to be able to just be you up there in Zoom land. 

Feeling good is also a big part. I washed and towel dried my hair to curly perfection. I did my makeup twice after my eyeliner bled from my sweat. I wore a black dress and a cardigan, gold hoops and my course, my gold Bowie bolt necklace. 

It's all about the intention for me. I'm there to let the kids (I'm clearly old because to me, 20 is a kid now) know that I wrote the book for them. Especially my longer YA memoir (my second book to be published but it was started many moons ago). It's for anyone who felt like an outcast and for anyone who's made a mistake they had to fight back from. Really, and truly, all I'm here to say is that I'm me, you're you, let's connect. And read my books, pretty please. I wrote them to be read. Because I had, and certainly still do have, something to say.

Another bad dream

I was trying to go to bed early last night while my husband watched an evening soccer game. I took a shot of Benadryl and my eyes started to close almost immediately. The next thing I know, I am being suffocated by a blanket, and someone or something is pressing down on my face. I can't scream. Or breathe even. I kick and struggle under the blanket. 

I wake up with a start to my husband and his mom cheering downstairs. "Goal!" 

I'm breathing heavy, disoriented and discombobulated. I realize I'd been having a nightmare. I am covered in sweat. Deep breaths in and out quell my panic. I cross myself and say a prayer. 

The room is dark. I'm scared. Turning on a light, I lay back down. 

What's brought this on? Then I realize my mortality is pressing down on me. I'm a month and a few days away from turning fifty-two. What will the next decade bring? I don't have kids. But I have my family, my husband, my mom and my sisters and nieces. And of course, Chewbacca and my close friends. And then there's my books, and my blossoming writing and performing career and the community of writers I've built as friends who continually inspire me. 

Yet . . . 

Look, I know I should be grateful but there's times, times like these, in a moonlit room where I lie staring at a dark ceiling wishing that I had a daughter that I could hug and talk to, mentor and love. 

Tears welling up in my eyes, I shake my head and sigh aloud and silently remind myself that I must be grateful for what I have. Be grateful. Be grateful. I repeat it in my head like a mantra. Plus, I'm a pragmatist who knows there's no use in wishing for something you can't have. It's an exercise in futility. I tell myself again, be grateful.

And I go back to bed and try to dream.  

The sounds

I wrote this from a prompt in my MFA class by my brilliant professor Juyanne James 

It's seven am. I've been up all night. My eyes close. Then I hear my dog Frodo wheezing again. No! Jumping up from the couch, I see he's seizing again. His jaws clenching. His black eyes rolled back. I scream silently in my head. 

Breathe, I tell myself and I copy what Adrian did earlier. I pry Frodo's mouth open. Dearest Frodo. My hobbit named shih tzu of fifteen years who has soothed me so often. I blow and blow into his tiny mouth and press my hands to his furry black and white spotted chest. I press over and over like Adrian said to do if it happened again. His brother Chewbaca whines, watching.

In my head, I flash back to watching the paramedics working on my father's chest, seventeen years ago.

But Frodo comes back. I am so relieved that I cheer and cuddle him, tears running down my face. Kissing him while Bowie plays in the background. My other shih tzu Chewbacca licks Frodo's ears while whining some more. Frodo wheezes softly still. Shhhhh. Shhhh.  It almost sounds like he's whispering to me. 

I try to slow down time. To see if I can get God to let me spend more time with him. But everything speeds up. Like a movie on fast forward. 

I'm on the phone with the emergency vet. Frantic, I throw on a sweater and flip flops. I text my court team for coverage. I turn my head. A louder wheeze. Another seize. I repeat my efforts. He comes back again. I hug him and put him in the car. Chewbacca whines as we walk out the door. 

The whole car ride Frodo wheezes. Softly still. Shhhhhh. 

Within twenty minutes, I am at the emergency vet. More wheezing. Seizing. A wheeze. Another seize. Within an hour, Frodo will be gone. They will wrap him in a dark brown velvet blanket, fitting for a hobbit and I hold him, telling him how much I adored him. How he saved me. How I am so sorry I couldn't save him. 

Kissing his small black nose, I rock him and sing him a little lullaby, like a whisper, a song for him, and for my dad, and for all who are gone. Shhhhh. Shhhhh. 

Staying the path

This morning, I'm drinking my espresso and giving some gratitude to the universe. This month has started off grand. School is starting and although I am only taking one class (a workshop with Professor Juyanne James), I know it will be both fun and low key. I also just received a grant and had a panel accepted with a bunch of my favorite writers for AWP in Kansas City. 

Now I am not a Pollyanna at all, but everything is going so well. It's a little scary. They say when you find your purpose, life is easy. And right now it is. Even my work as a deputy public defender, which everyone knows can be challenging at best, has been particularly rewarding. It's as if I found my mojo.

The trick, at least in my opinion, is finding your groove and just going with the flow. I've pulled back on events a bit. I am trying not to overwhelm myself, which is what I tend to do, and staying true to me and my mission. 

Just a few years ago, I was in crisis, plagued by health issues and feeling like I would never finish my longer book which I'd been laboring over for a decade. I had to take a medical leave from work and have a very invasive surgery. Thankfully, my publisher Frank was very supportive and gave me more time, and then I re-edited the book (working backwards) and at the last minute I included some older poetry (from a collection I'd put together and stuck in a drawer), making both of my books hybrid. It was as if a higher power intervened to help me over the finish line and poof, it all came together! 

I suppose what I'm saying is don't give up. It may be a cliche, but it really is always darkest before the dawn. The sun will rise and throw big golden hues your way if you persevere. Just stay on the path and I promise you'll get there. You will get there. You will.

The fixer upper

So yesterday, I found the term a "fix up" novel. What it refers to is a book, an example is "The Martian Chronicles" by Ray Bradbury, that is written in stand alone pieces that are published separately and then turned into a novel through revision and expansion. It is a term most common in science fiction circles. But writers like Anne Tyler also have books that have been referred to as fix up novels as well as a book I love called "A Visit from the Goon Squad". 

What I realized after finding this definition is that my memoir was written in that same way. I wrote most of the stories in "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl" as stand alone pieces over more than a decade and published them in a number of literary journals. Turning those pieces into a book took me two years and I added a few pieces and an afterword/epilogue. I also had to take out a lot of repetition and find the narrative threads. It wasn't easy. 

Realizing that many writers write their books this way was a relief. My memoir is meant to read like fiction and while I know I did it the hard way, I think that it is just my process. And now, the YA fiction book I'm currently working on seems a lot less daunting because I think that I was getting stuck by trying to write the novel in sequential chapters. It's like a lightbulb went off. I just need to just write the stories when they come to me.

So I guess what I'm saying here is that we should all do what works for us and our own process. 

There is a method to my madness. And if being a fix up kind of writer works for me, that's what I'm leaning into. From now on, I'm going to to trust myself and the writer I've become. So I'm taking the term as a compliment I suppose and as inspiration to finish my next book. Let's do this.

Let Us Eat Cake

So I'm up early. But I went to bed early. Was it eight pm? Hubby was watching a soccer game. I was upstairs. I just wanted to sleep. Perchance to dream. 

It's Saturday today and I have a reading and book signing, but lest you think I'm bragging let me finish my sentence, at a senior center. I'm only 52 so I do not technically qualify to go there, yet... 

In a mere three years, by 55, I might.

And I'm not making fun of the senior center locale. I'm not. I love older people (of which I'm surely becoming one). Older folk make the best audiences. They love history and memoir, they have longer attention spans, and aside from a few elders like my mom who refuses to get a hearing aid (god love her), they listen intently. 

Youth is truly wasted on the young. I learned this in my thirties while living in San Francisco. My church at the time had an average age of sixty-five and mostly consisted of caring individuals who did death bed counseling at the local hospital. St. John of God was also the church where I took my classes to make my confirmation and attended church every Sunday. After, I would sit with everyone in the day room and eat cake that they had baked. Scones, muffins, pastry. All home made. I would sip cup after cup of hard black coffee and give thanks for my beautiful Sundays. 

So today I will read my stories, sign my books and hopefully eat cake. 

The hours

Today is a good day. Yesterday was a good day. It's been a good week. A bunch of good things have happened recently.

The fog that had me these last months has lifted. That anxiety that sometimes overwhelms me has abated.

And the shoe never dropped. Weird right? To think something bad will happen when all is good is like letting Voldemort into your life by speaking his name. Not a good idea. 

I'm trying to stop being fatalistic. The thing is, I had put so much pressure on myself this last year. There's so much I want to do. But I also need to realize how much I'm already doing. And I need to be happy and content where I am and with what the universe has gifted me with. 

The rain is falling outside. I listen to the pitter patter on the roof. I hear a faucet drip. I watch my dog sleep by my feet as I drink my coffee. His breathing calms me. 

I'm sitting here in the hours (as my friend Hannah would say) and it feels good. Damn good. 

People Are People (and more)

I had an epiphany today. Institutions, schools, and structures can't take care of people. People have to take care of people. 

What I mean by this is that our "systems" are just that. They're structures and they all have failings. Of course, some with more failings than most. But ultimately, what saves people from these system and their inequities and injustices are people. 

Today, one of my favorite clients is graduating my program. I was thinking about it this morning and got all teary eyed. I have my soft side and I'm so happy. Also, I know that it is because of people. It's because of a good judge, a fair prosecutor, and an amazingly hard working team of mental health professionals. And most of all it's because of my client's hard work and his family support. Everyone deserves a second chance. 

People don't do this kind of work for money. There's much more money to be made in the private sector. They do it because they want to, have to, make the world a better and kinder place. 

The only way you can do my job long term is to have an overwhelming and optimistic belief in redemption. I believe in people you see, and on days like today, I see why.

A good day I say

Today is a good day. My podcast is live on Apple Podcasts. It's something I had been working on all summer. And while you would think conversion from video to audio is simple, it's not. I had to find a producer (who is fabulous) and ultimately, it does translate amazingly well and I'm over the moon. I've interviewed over forty writers. Can you believe that? 

(You can listen on apple just search Life of JEM.)

I love interviewing writers on writing. A big time reader, there's nothing I love more than cuddling with my favorite books in bed. To be allowed the opportunity to talk to some of my favorite writers about my favorite books is a gift. 

Speaking of gifts, last night we went to my niece Selena's birthday party at my sister house. It was so mellow and fun. My sister Annie put out a good spread. I'm so proud of Selena who's an elementary school teacher and she's only 24. I remember when she was a little girl. She was always so wicked smart, and a voracious reader like myself.

It's funny. Life goes by fast. It moves past you if you're not present. It's the small moments that matter. That stay with you. So I suppose all I want to say today is that we should all gather our rosebuds, put them in a basket and then throw them over ourselves and dance. 

Hello

I think "hello day" when my eyes pop open at 430 am. I wish I could back to sleep, but I can't. So I'm here with you, writing. Hello page. 

Yesterday, I had an overwhelming sense of anxiety. Like the walls were closing in. I forced myself out of it by working on my podcast for this Wednesday. 

This morning, I wondered, was my off kilter mood due to the heat, or perhaps my back which was bothering me, or maybe that I hadn't exercised. I'd swam two days this week, I am aiming for three on average, and I noticed that on the days I did swim, my mood was better.

What I'm trying to figure out I suppose is how to be happy. How to be content with the day. How to not just get lost in tasks, but how to get connected with people. How to be connected and content with myself. 

It's easiest for me to connect on a literary or music level. I love getting up early and writing while drinking my first or second coffee of the day with music in the background.

Maybe I just need to start out small. Go for happiness in small batches. An hour. Take my mom to breakfast then to the grocery store. Find joy in picking out produce and replenishing my Diet Coke supply. 

It's the little things that matter most perhaps. That's it. I think, focus on the little things, on the day to day. It will all be okay.

Funny girl

So I consider myself a funny girl. At times, maybe too funny. I sometimes ask myself, am I a clown? The reason I wonder is that at times I feel like I'm not taken seriously. And for those who know me well, they know I'm a super serious person a lot of the time and passionate about the issues I care about.

Now some of you all may be thinking, she is a joker, or no she's not, but I know it's an issue I've had my whole life. People often don't see the sadness and seriousness beneath my humor. Humor is a way to deflect. I know this. 

Yet, I so want to be taken seriously. But not too seriously. Is that a hard line to walk? Definitely. 

And as some know, I also have a spine of steel. Truth is, I don't get scared anymore. I lived too much of my life that way, so I've said screw it and try to live life with fearlessness. 

On Wednesday, I had a big motion I had to argue in court. I had spent weeks researching it and writing it. As I argued it, I got very emotional because I cared so much about how it went. It was a constitutional issue that's important to me in the work I do. I tried to show how much the decision mattered to both my clients and the broken criminal system I work within. 

That night, I realized that it's okay to be vulnerable in your argument. To show you care so much. And I used the case law to make my argument and I know it resonated at least a little. 

Maybe what I'm trying to say is that yes, I'm a funny girl, but don't forget that I'm also a fighter, and a warrior and a passionate person. Always and forever. 

Nurture

It has been so hot. Yesterday it was 104 and for some in Southern California, it was even higher.

After laying out for ten minutes, I jumped in the pool in Oak Hills. It felt so refreshing, I had to jump in over and over. We only stayed in the pool for an hour. I could tell that my arms were turning red even with sunscreen. But the water, it felt like an icy cool healing. (Of course, I got water in my ears and spent the rest of the night jiggling my earlobes.)

It was soul sustaining that water. That's what writing is for me. Like jumping into cool water and when I come up after diving in, I can finally breathe. 

I have always had an ability to completely engross myself in something. For good and for bad. Television, music, writing. Yesterday afternoon, I spent hours watching a new Netflix chef competition show. My husband commented, "For someone who doesn't cook, you sure watch a lot of cooking shows."

I did no writing. I drank coffee, and about one pm, we ate desserts we had picked up instead of lunch. For dinner, I went and grabbed us a pizza to go so my husband wouldn't feel pressure to cook outside on the  grill in the heat.

I am starting to realize that not every day has to a writing day. Some days are just days when I want to drink my coffee and read or watch television. I never want writing to become another chore. Yes, it sustains me, and I need to stay on track with it, but it's also my joy, and life is hard enough without corrupting my passion. 

I've learned that my best stories come out after percolating for a bit and I'm just a vessel. They almost write themselves and it's more about the intention and putting myself in a place to receive, than about making myself do anything. I just want to have fun with it. So here's to finding your joy and nurturing it, while taking care of yourself too. 

And now it's my coffee time.

Cat person

Growing up, I would have considered myself a cat person. We each had a cat of our own. My cat was a white Persian with gorgeous, fluffy fur and emerald green eyes. Fittingly, her name was Whitey. My twin sister Jackie's cat was her brother, a Himalayan named Greyie. He was brown. They were both the kittens of my mom's cat who was named, again fittingly, Mama Cat. And our little sister Annie later got a grey tabby cat that we named Snuggles. 

I loved Whitey. She would jump on my bed when I got home from school. I would sleep with her at my feet. My best friend Melinda, who was not a cat person at all, would sometimes tell me on the walk to school with a disdainful eyebrow raise, "Did you know your shirt is covered in white cat fur?"

After law school, I stumbled upon a black cat named Leopold at a cat adoption fair at the mall next door to the corporate law firm where I worked. He mewed at me and I was in love. He was a snuggler and kept me company all through my Houston lonely days. My dad even watched Leopold for me for a time while I was moving to San Francisco to be with Adrian who was in dental school. Dad always said he was allergic to cats but my mom would catch him holding Leopold on his lap. 

When my mom and dad drove Leopoldo Bloom (that was his full name) to San Francisco, he got out at the rest stop and almost gave my mom a fit. When we moved back to the Inland Empire, Leopold was killed (by a bobcat I believe) when I was at the fair. I've told the story before, but I had the most blinding headache when I was leaving the fair and that was probably when he was howling for me. I dreamed about Leopold for weeks after he passed. It was a hard, deep depression and was all mixed up with the grief I still achingly felt for my dad passing the year prior. It was only when I saw Frodo, my black and white shih tzu, and adopted him that I felt a ray of sun back in my life. 

Losing Frodo this year, so suddenly from a brain tumor, felt like a knife was being pressed into my side over and over again. I couldn't breathe most days. Chewbacca and I would both lay in bed and sigh. Chewbacca usually comforts me when I'm sad, but he was so sad, I had to snap out of it to comfort him. That helped me through it. I made him eat. I changed his schedule. I would whisper to him and maybe to myself, "It's okay, Frodo is in a better place". 

Looking back, I still think I am naturally a cat person. But love doesn't know species and my cat affection is now reserved for my Chewbacca, a brown eyed shih tzu with golden fur who follows me around like a duck. 

So meow meow, ruff ruff and quack quack everyone. Happy Friday. 

Stories to find

As I sit here at 5 am thinking of where to go next with my writing, I think to myself that I still have so many stories that I haven't written. So so many. 

You see, my two books cover very specific periods of my life. My childhood mostly and my dad's death and some of my public defense career. What I haven't written about is my 20s when I was working my way through college. And I also haven't detailed much of my 30s and law firm life and my 40s which include my infertility struggles which I've only written a couple of pieces about. (As an aside, I had been working on a series of infertility essays. Then I put it aside. Maybe I'm just not ready. It's a hard, triggering topic to write about in my 50s staring at my life.)

The true beauty of writing memoir is that there's always more to cover. In my opinion, the very best essay pieces and full length memoirs are specific to a theme. They're not biographies. On the contrary, they're literary exercises in excavation. It's about the digging. The finding. The realizations. It's about figuring stuff out. Memoir is about growth. 

So I have decided that I will continue to dig and dig and then dig some more because my life is full of stories to write about. The everyday rote routine of life never ceases to amaze me. Plus, if a person can write a magnum opus of a novel about one day in Leopold Bloom's life like James Joyce did, then I can write a series of books about all of the highs and lows and joys and sadness inherent in my life. Can't I? Can't you?

I think so.

Hey baby it's the Fourth of July

There's a song X sings called "The Fourth of July". It's one of my favorites by them even though it's written by Dave Alvin of the Blasters. The chorus reads,

"On the stairs I smoke a
 cigarette alone
. Mexican kids are shooting
 fireworks below. And hey, baby, it's the Fourth of July. Hey, baby, it's the Fourth of July."

Yesterday was the Fourth of July. Maybe I shoulda started with that. It was uneventful. My husband and I woke up and went to the pet store and then to the dollar tree. 

When we got home, I made a potato salad and some elote to go with my husband's ribs. We listened to music on the patio. Ate chips and salsa. I called my sister Roberta in Kansas City. I watched a movie on Netflix with my mother-in-law. Then I read my moon cards. They were auspicious.

By seven pm, I was spent. My husband watched a soccer game downstairs while Chewbacca and I trotted upstairs. I jumped under the covers and patted the side of the bed and cuddled Chewbacca as he shivered at the loud bangs in the distance. 

Right before I tumbled into sleep, the lyric whispered in my head again, "Hey baby, it's the Fourth of July."

On Writing

Writing is, at times, a frustrating thing. I wake up early. I sit. I stare at the screen, my fingers still. What the heck am I going to write about? No one cares what I have to say. That's the sabotaging voice in my head. It's imaginary but also very real.

So I stop. 

The next morning I start again and draft a decent paragraph of a novel never to be written. I'm not good at fiction, says the voice in my head today. 

Then another early morning and it all comes out. A start of a piece. I ignore the voices telling me not to bother. I down two espressos and just write. I lose myself in it. It's almost unconscious writing. My fingers flying furiously like birds pecking at bits on the ground. My digits can barely keep up with the thoughts in my brain. I'm exhausted after and I have to get ready for work which I am almost relieved to be doing. It's something I know I can do. That I'm good at. That if I prepare for, I can accomplish something more than a few pages.

Then, it's a weekend day. I open my computer and ignore the urge to write and lose myself in Gilmore Girls which I've watched straight through five times at this point. The show makes me happy. My outline of my pilot mocks me from my computer which is open on my lap. I refuse to start that mammoth of a project. 

Now it's Sunday. And I sleep. I sleep most of the day. It feels like a relief. A relief from it all. I have no urge to write today. None at all. Or at the very least, none I will acknowledge. 

Feeling it

So I'm starting to realize some things about myself. My feelings get hurt easily and I often react immediately. I can be overly emotional and even snappy. I don't want to be like that anymore.

This I know, I'm too intense at times and bossy and obsessive. Lest you think I am too hard my myself, I also know my strengths. I'm caring, empathetic, organized, prepared, and I try to be kind. But what I want to be is laid back and easy. 

How do I make myself more relaxed? I want to be able to let things go.

What am I so anxious? What am I looking for? What am I really yearning for? My purpose? It's not at work. My job is my job. I do love the work, yet it is not how I define myself any longer. That leaves a question: how do I define myself? Truth be told, I'm not really sure, but I feel most like the "real" me in literary and academic spaces. I feel as if I can be my natural, organic self there. 

I think the point of all of this blathering on is that I'm really talking to myself. My goal this week is to not over focus or obsess over petty things. I need to be kind to others and even kinder to myself. 

Life is too short. It goes by quick, so quick that you can miss the important moments if you aren't present. Thus, I'm going to be there in the moment just being me. Feeling it. Taking it in.

Write it

It appears that I have gotten my writing mojo back at least a little. I woke up at 5 am today and just had the urge to write. To let it flow. To let it soar on the page.

Then I started thinking about life (which can be bad but this was good), and that there's just so many things I want to do in my fifties. I want to learn to play bass (already tried guitar which I couldn't do). I want to finish my screenplay and write and publish a third book. I want to see my work on a stage in a real theater as a play. I want to act.

Truth is, I want to do it all. I'm always craving something different. Something exciting. Something new. Yet, this life I've created is one I am very content with. 

Does that make sense? My husband and I are lucky. We occasionally bicker and annoy one another, but we love each other as friends and life partners. We both love music. Yes, true, he may not blast it in the car like I do (it kinda drives him crazy how loud I can handle my music while driving) but we're simpatico with the tunes. 

My shih tzu Frodo passed, and the grief still hits me hard, but I try and appreciate my remaining years with his brother Chewbacca.  My space I live in is wonderful. We may downsize in a few years but I love our house and my goal is to make a podcast studio that looks like a real studio and not just podcast in my room of rock tees and rockabilly dresses (most don't fit) that I use a screen to cover. 

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm so very grateful. And I'm working on being even more grateful on a day to day level, saying it aloud rather than always complaining.  

You see, for all of my positivity, often I can get stuck ranting about stuff that irks me. My perfectionist streak can result in me holding others to an impossible level. And what's funny about that is that I'm kind of a mess at times. My podcast area was a disaster until recently and just yesterday, I wore my shirt inside out to court all day. So really, I shouldn't be judging anyone.

So I am just here to remember via this writing exercise to smell the tulips (my favorite flower), to find my miracles and blessings in the ordinary rote routine of life, and to write it all down. Just write it.

Monday mooring

Lately I've been thinking that I have to get back on track. I need to focus but I can't. I feel so unmoored. I think it's because I don't know where to go from here. I have so many ideas, but no real direction.

Where do I go with this? I'm a writer. I know this. Yet, I'm lost. How do you write when you don't know where you are in life? And you have a full-time job. 

Plus, I had a really busy couple of years and so maybe I'm just burnt out, and flipping tired. In a few months, I turn fifty-two and I feel it. The years are starting to weigh on me. They say you can tell the age of a tree by counting its rings, but with me, you can tell how old I am by all of my stomach issues.

Maybe it's all of the coffee. I had it under control and now I am on a binge. I am an obsessive person and coffee is my latest thing. Too much coffee. Way too much.

This blog has no focus either but maybe that's the point. Sometimes we are meant to be unmoored. And floating. Until we find the shore.

Watching clouds

Watching the space

Between curtains

In the guest room

Where I'm laying 

Not sleeping 

One eye squinting

Watching clouds

Stand still

In bright sky

Puffy pillows 

White patches 

A ceiling painting 

Looks fake 

But this feeling 

That everything ends

Seems real-true 

I don't know 

Been here before 

You see these clouds 

They won't move

My speck of sky

It's too static 

And I'm just stuck 

Watching the clouds 

The Sage

Last night, I had a horrible dream. In it, a king cobra chased me around my house. I woke up terrified. This morning, I cleansed the bedroom. I lit sage and put the smoke in every corner whispering a prayer to bring light to the room. 

After reading up on the imagery of dreams, I realized that a snake is the symbol of change. Cobras can symbolize many things, both positive and negative. Clearly, my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Maybe I'm torn, between two worlds, the literary and the logical, between writing and the pragmatic life, and it's hard to change. It is easier to remain static.

But what if my purpose is passing me by? What if I miss my moment? If I had mere moments left, or days or a year, what would I want? I know this all seems a bit dramatic, all from a dream you might say with a head shake, but I believe in signs. 

There are times when I was writing my longer memoir when I wanted to give up. Then something would happen to remind me what I was working for. I would hear my father's voice in my head, urging me on. "You can do it Jenny..."

And I know I can. I'm a girl who can move mountains with a pen, and a flick in the air of her hand, and the furrow on her brow as she wishes change into being.

Simplicity

It's Sunday. I have to take Chewbacca to the groomer. But first, expresso. I make it with a simple, small machine that I saw in our hotel in France years back. It takes expresso pods only. The thing is, the more complicated the machine, the more likely it is to break.

Life is like that too. Simplicity is best. Too much is too much. My life had been too much for too long. So much that I couldn't write. I felt depleted. Recently, I've pulled back and slowly, and surely, the urge and zest to write is returning. 

I'm trying not to say yes to everything like I would before, but it's hard. Saying yes resulted in so many great opportunities and experiences. Life changing and affirming events. But I started to realize that because I was saying "yes" to everything and everyone, I couldn't truly ever be present at the key events. I was too tired.

Now, I try and keep focused on what is really important to me. The podcast for example is important, but it needs to change and grow. I need time for that and for school. I want to finish this century so I'm taking two MFA classes next semester. I have one big event I'm planning in September at Beyond Baroque, and one small appearance this summer at a good friend's book party. 

That's it. With work, it's more than enough. My goal is to restart my writing at 5 am. That's my best time. One expresso and I go. Fingers to keys. No one to stop me but me. 

Life and love

Life is beautiful. Life is hard. Life is joyful. Life is sad. Today, at least for today, life is just life. 

I'm in Vegas. It's 1 am. And I'm not partying. I fell asleep after a huge Italian multi course meal. Anyone who has had dinner with me knows that I don't eat much at one sitting. But this night, I made an exception. I ate bread. I ate stuffed mushrooms. I ate pasta. I had stopped drinking and was only drinking water because I wanted to eat as much as possible. Then espresso. Hubby ordered cannoli which I resisted. (Drink the espresso, leave the cannoli). Then heartburn.

It was my bestie's birthday so I wanted to stay up and party. But I decided to take a catnap when we got back about 730 pm and poof, I fell asleep and woke up at midnight. Like Cinderella reversed. At least I still had both of my shoes. 

So laying here, with my headphones on listening to the Shins, damn the lead singer's voice is so sublime, I am thinking about life and what really matters. What really matters are moments. Memories. Good times. Best friends. Being present and real. Listening to someone. Connections. Sisters. Family, with dog included of course. Perhaps I am homesick and missing the moms and my dog Chewie although maybe not in that order. I miss my late Frodo's shih tzu black eyes. And I always miss my dad. I can still hear his voice in my mind. 

I can't really say if I know much, but I know this. You won't ever regret taking time to relax. To recharge. I'm always on task and my day job can be exhausting and my side writing gig can be all consuming, so rarely do I just relax and not multi-task. 

I suppose what I am trying to do now is to take some time to breathe. To listen to music in the sun. To decide where I want to go and do without expectations for myself. As you know, I am always striving, yet right now I just want to breathe without effort or anxiety. Keep breathing deep I tell myself. Over and over. Until I can hear my heartbeat. Until I can see what's next on the horizon. Not a mirage or a vision. It will just be a feeling. 

Maybe a feeling like love. 

Just create

I've been thinking a lot about art. About creation. What compels one to be a creative? What makes art? A story? A song? I would argue it's the intention to birth something true.

Recently, I read an oral history of one of my favorite albums, Dramarama's Cinéma Vérité.

In the article, the band discusses how they worked at a record store that the bassist Chris Carter owned, they all loved music, and so they wanted to make a record and did. Heavily influenced by both the Velvet Underground and Bowie, both of whom they covered on the album, the record to me is pretty much perfect. It made me think that not every artistic endeavor has to take more than a decade like my memoir did. Maybe some things just happen because you make them happen.

Perhaps all one needs is time and focus, which is usually the providence of youth. Once you have that full-time job, with its full-time demands, it's hard to have time. But after reading this article, I've decided to just do it. I will just write my third book, out of whole cloth and I'll put it together with staples and glue if I have to. Because the whole act of making something real and authentic is the point to it all. That's it. Just create.

Cruel Cruel Beautiful World Part 3

We were back at the Rose Bowl after a day of relaxing poolside in our beautiful room at the Langham, finally here for Cruel World part two. We arrived early to be safe and after waiting in line for thirty minutes we were in, rushing to our place in the Clubhouse viewing area to see Gary Numan. Numam put on a fantastic set. His music was so dark and his stage performance theatrical and mesmerizing. His voice was captivating. You could feel his love for it. 

Next up was Iggy Pop. A rock powerhouse in his seventies. He rocked that stage and held us in the palm of his hands. Iggy did a lot of Stooges and I pogo danced, singing along with my husband. Of course, one highlight was him doing The Passsenger, which is more of a poem than a song really. 

By the time Siouxsie came on, it was nighttime and the moon was out, a fitting environment for a dark wave queen. The crowd was packed and people were screaming her name. We separated and my husband went side middle, because being over six feet tall, he has that luxury. I went side front, about five from the side of the stage. I was sad because the night before I had been second from the stage. But it would have to do. To say I was into it is an understatement. 

When Dear Prudence came on, I moved to the back and danced in circles to the rest of her set. From Cities in Dust to Happy House to Christine to Spellbound, I danced and danced, for almost an hour, all by myself, hands in the air, in my very own world. I lost myself and found myself. 

It was magic. It was surreal and real. I was sixteen again. A high school kid who needed to escape the chaos and sadness and who found Siouxsie's music to escape into. I time traveled. 

And landed right back in Pasadena.

Cruel Cruel Beautiful World Part 2

So Cruel World was canceled. We were devastated. The parking lot was full of disappointed dark wave fans. Wails of "No Siouxsie!" echoed through the parking lot and many heavily lined eyes were ruined by tears of disappointment (including my own).  

How could this happen? It wasn't even raining (there were lightning strikes so I understand in retrospect, but that night it was baffling). After our friends found us, we went and ate barbecue at a restaurant in Pasadena and commiserated. We had a nice talk and each said with disappointment occasionally with a sigh, "No Siouxsie..."  

You see, to dark wave music fans like us, getting to see Siouxsie was like seeing a goddess, a dark wave super star and we were sad. We also knew she might never return to the States.

After dinner, at the hotel, I crashed and woke up like I always do at 4 am. Then I went to my social media and found out that Cruel World was back on! They had added a second night. What? Was this for real? Siouxsie was playing along with Iggy and Gary Numan. Wow. 

I woke Adrian up who said, "No way, I'm tired." From four to seven am, I stressed. Did he really mean he didn't want to go? I knew we both worked Monday, so I understood. But man, I wanted to stay. You only live once and this is Siouxsie. When he woke up, I anxiously posed the query again. And he said immediately with no hesitation, "Babe of course! It's Siouxsie. Let's do it." 

This taught me two things. First, don't ask people important questions when they're half asleep. And two, we are soul mates for a reason.

To be continued...

Cruel cruel beautiful world part 1

This has been a chaotic but soul sustaining week. Music is my inspiration and it's what keeps me going and living. We started out Thursday night at the famous western saloon style venue, Pappy's & Harriet's in Joshua Tree. We were there for Adam Ant who cancelled. 

We couldn't cancel the room next door so drove over anyway and had barbecue. We lounged in the tiny motel room cracking up that it reminded us of our first apartment together in San Francisco. It made me realize that Adrian and I really don't need much to be happy. Good food, a bed to sleep in, and some beer. That's about it. In the morning, we visited the living desert in Palm Desert and marveled at the giraffes, a rhinoceros and big cat jaguars. The walk was nice and it wasn't too hot, until it was. 

Saturday was Cruel World and we got to our hotel early trading the western blue collar life for an upscale room at the Langham in Pasadena. We headed right over to the concert festival venue at the Rose Bowl and Adrian (trying to be fancy) sprung for an Uber XL which was hysterically more of a Disney ride than an Uber, complete with stuffed animals and NFL stickers. I was surprised they let the van drive in. 

The driver was a kind, older guy from LA and we told him he should add mocktails and a table to the mini van. 

Once we got to Cruel World, we waited in line then pretty quickly, we were in. 

We made our way to the Clubhouse which was pretty frigging awesome with lots of comfy seating, a vegan buffet line and all you can drink beer and cocktails. Dangerous, yes, but fun. We sat outside in the patio in lounge chairs and listened to the opening acts. 

I was anxious and smoked a few cigarettes and saw a friend, then drank a few too many beers too quickly. They just kept offering. Another? Another? Sure. 

The day just passed. We ate. Saw Gary Numan. Then I ran by myself to see Squeeze who was subbing in for Adam Ant. It was definitely worth it. They sounded great. I drank some water and danced in the sun to "Annie Get Your Gun" while Adrian watched Echo & the Bunnymen from the Clubhouse patio, a band who refused to be filmed on the jumbo screen.

After Squeeze, I ran back to Adrian and we rocked out to Love and Rockets who put on a great set. Then it was time for Iggy Pop and I knew I had to get up there in front. I was second to the rail and I marveled as Iggy sang "The Passenger" and tapped my feet waiting for Siouxsie Sioux. 

Then boom, it was over. Lightening in the sky cancelled the concert. It was abrupt. Scary. Chaotic. They pushed me out to the exit, but Adrian was still inside. I knew we had to get to our locker. I couldn't lose my merch! I begged, pleaded and weaseled my way back in. Suddenly, I found Adrian and it was like a light went on in my head and heart when I saw him. Then our friends called us. Did we need a ride? "Yes!" I shouted. "Yes!" "Yes!"

Under pressure

Lately, I've been lacking writing motivation. I think I'm spent. Tired of it all. Work is hectic and that is taking a lot of my focus and I think that's okay. You can't do everything or have everything or be everything to everyone.

What is it in me that makes me strive to always please everyone? I've been saying I'm going to pull back, do less, but it's really hard. I'm naturally social and a yes person. But I have said no to some summer events. I just need a few months where I am not so impacted. 

So where am I going now? What will I be doing? Well I got work, and my podcast till mid June (we're on a month hiatus in July) and I have to finish my screenplay because my coach gave me a deadline. I think that is enough. Enough already. 

The pressure I put on myself is more than anyone could understand. I'm already asking myself, where's the next book, the next project, the next "something"?

And the answer is, I don't know.

Breathing room

It's been quite a whoosh of a last couple of years. It's been a doozie. I keep saying that. But it has. I've been so lucky to have a lot of things come together. I've performed so many times this year. I've blurbed books. I've curated events. I've even done seminars and found that more reflective voice where I'm me and not the performer. Well, I'm always kind of a ham, but I am trying to find the balance and still not take myself too seriously.

What I haven't had recently is time to breathe. I work full-time yet still write. I write for my MFA workshop which just ended where I wrote a couple of long form essays for an eventual collection. I started a script. And I write this blog of course too. Yet everything's always a rush, and I'm always time constrained because what I haven't had time for is to sit, chill, relax and write. That place, when I have room to breathe, is my best space. 

So soon, I'm taking a hiatus from the events, and all of the performing and podcasting to do me. I have a concert week lined up because that always inspires me to no end. We're hoping to go on vacation. I'll put the phone away because I'm gonna write, and write then write some more. 

And live baby. I'm gonna just live.

Why Write

I have probably tried to answer the question of why I write before. Yet, let me ask myself again, why do I write? 

I write because I must. I write because it feels real and true. I write because I have to see myself on the page to understand myself.

This has been a rough week. Work stuff had me all wrecked and stressed. I could feel my blood pressure rising. My temples pounded, so I took a deep breath. Then another and another.

It is all about how you look at it. I know I'm a hard worker and a good lawyer. I try to be kind, and helpful. But sometimes, you have to put boundaries. It's okay not to be liked. I'd rather be respected at this point and heard.

My people pleasing days are over. I am learning the art of not giving a whit about what others think of me. 

So yesterday, after a chaotic, very long work day, I meditated. I prayed. I visualized. My blood pressure went down to normal, 120 over 70. Then, this morning I wrote. 

And that my friends, is why I write. It may seem like I'm writing about nothing. But really, seriously, it's everything. 

Whirlwind

I am on my third performing event this week. Let me tell ya, it's been a whirlwind.

On Wednesday, I had the time of my life at UCR. It was such an honor to present at the Tomás Rivera Conference. I read for over thirty minutes (which for me is a long read as ten to fifteen minutes is my usual sweet spot). Then I was on a panel moderated by one of my idols, IE writer Susan Straight (buy her latest book Mecca, it's so beautifully done) with epic UCR Professor Alex Espinoza (get his amazing books Still Water Saints and Cruising) and the poet Gabriel Ibarra, winner of the Alta California Chapbook Prize for On Display, a must read.

Not only is Susan a warm, supportive writer and professor, but she's so down to earth that she made me feel right at home. Plus, she had the best questions. She went deep. I got emotional toward the end thinking of my dad. Wishing he was still here to see all this. But at least I know what he would say. "I'm proud of you Jenny..."

Then Thursday, another jaw dropping evening at the Riverside Library. I was on an Inlandia panel moderated by Cati Porter with UCR Professor Richard Rodriguez who wrote one of my favorite books about music ever, "A Kiss Across the Ocean", it's a post punk masterpiece. It was a dream come true to talk post punk music and memoir with Richard.

Today, I will read with 15 other writers at the Culver Center for the Arts celebrating the 10 year anniversary of the Inlandia Literary Journey column in the Press Enterprise. It's the last event for a while and I find it fitting to end on a journalistic note. 

Everything is so wonderful now writing and performing wise. Something feels right, like I'm in the zone. It's been a whirlwind, and a wonderful week.

Crisis

I've had some crisis of faith, namely, a lack of faith in myself lately. I've been questioning my self, my performing and my writing skills. Wondering if I'm doing too much, reaching too high, over extending myself. Then I took a breath and let myself settle in. What am I looking for? External validation?

The reality is, not everyone will see me or you or any of us. You really just have to believe in what you're doing. And I promise that if you keep on working at it, miracles happen.

For example, take the screenwriting. It's not easy. I'm on draft 5 of my outline for my pilot. And I'm just starting to understand the genre. 

The thing I realized is that I just have to let myself get to that secret place of mine where all my stories, truth or fiction, live, and write. The genre and format may be different, but my process is the same. Truth is, I have never been an organized writer. I'm a "writing by the seat of my pants writer" as a writing professor friend of mine would say.

Sometimes, I also realize that I need too much validation and I need to let that go. I just need to do me, be me, and let the ego go. 

The one thing I know for sure is who I am. And I like me. I like my life. I love the performing and writing life I've built out a mix of of thin air, hope, dreams, my words and some pieces of paper stapled together. 

In the end, I may not be the perfect package. But I'm me. 

Reading

I'm wide awake. It's 2:41 am. 

It was a wild ride this week. Wednesday, I had to rush home after work to do my podcast. My account got hacked, my computer crashed and everything went wrong that could go wrong until showtime. Then, it all worked out. 

The next day, on Thursday after work, I drove to Venice. I left about 4:30 pm, thinking I would be early, but the drive took over two and a half hours. That damn LA traffic. 

The performance was at Beyond Baroque and I was reading with a legendary NYC writer and musician Peter Cherches and a Southern Californian writer, musician and one of my publishers, the awesome Dennis Callaci. It was intimidating to be performing alongside such great talent. And so I felt I had to step it up.

For the show, I focused on being present in my performance. On letting go. One of the pieces I read was a story called The Big O. It requires a lot of changing of voices. My YA voice, my mom's voice and my dad's, and there's a lot of dialogue. It's hard to keep my breath but I decided to try to do it the way I've been wanting to. I didn't practice because that messes me up. I just tried to be there, in the now.

I don't think I'm ever satisfied with my performances, but I did disappear while reading it. Meaning, I wasn't overdoing it, and I was present, in the moment, and just going with the flow and the story. 

My dad's voice is the one I so ache to hear. Yet, I never get his voice quite right. The tender side of it. My presentation of him sounds wrong to my ear perhaps because it's not him. It's me trying to capture him. On the page, I see and hear it. But when I try to perform it, I always fall short in my head.

Maybe one day, my dream of recreating my dad on the stage and/or screen will come to fruition. 

Until then, I'll just keep on reading.