Reading Diary: The Terror Dream

If you're a New Yorker reading Susan Faludi's The Terror Dream: Fear and Fantasy in Post-9/11 America, you can't help but relive those first few days. So my question while reading it so far is this: Where do we draw the line between private expression and public expectation, between personal, psychological response and national script?

I was among that "mob of idle Good Samaritans," as Faludi calls it, who was turned away for blood donation. The profound sense of impotence after the towers fell -- it wasn't just a narrative script, it was a deeply felt emotion. (And the firefighters, as I don't think Faludi would negate, were heroes. I was living below 14th Street at the time, and I'd burst into tears on my morning runs through the frozen zone when I'd see their white-dust-covered engines drive by. For weeks, you couldn't walk past a fire station, invariably flanked by a make-shift memorial of candles and wreaths, without weeping. It's just how it was.)

I was also one of those women who got engaged soon after 9/11 in part out of the carpe diem spirit that overcame both my partner and me. Did we take refuge in the domestic, or did we follow our hearts?

Six years later (and one husband down), I'm still not sure that I could write neutrally about 9/11. Faludi is one of my favorite cultural critics, and, as to be expected, she does it well. So I'm not sure if my lingering question comes as the question of someone who still feels too close, or if it's a larger critique. I'll let you know when I finish the book! For now, I'm feeling a little un-ironic. Then again, perhaps that's exactly her point.

Report from The Devil, the Lovers, and Me

Kimmi Auerbach's reading at Border's in Columbus Circle last night was packed--I've never been to a reading quite like it. Kimmi, author of The Devil, the Lovers, and Me: My Life in Tarot, picked three tarot cards from the deck and read the correlating chapters (each chapter's title is the title of a card). Her performance was stellar; her writing hilarious, poignant, alive.

During the Q&A, someone asked how her parents (who were sitting in the front row) felt about turning up as characters in her memoir, and I had flashbacks to all the times I got that question while on the road with Only Child earlier this year. Among other bits of wisdom the 30-something wise-beyond-her-years writer dispensed was this, a line adapted (I think) from Kimmi's friend and fellow funny girl Wendy Shanker, who was also in the house:

"The children who are loved the most are boldest on the page." Meaning, children who are well loved don't fear losing the love of their parents when they grow up and become writers who write about their past. I thought this was an interesting counter-sentiment to the words of the writers who told Daphne and me that they couldn't safely write about their parents until they were 6 feet under. Interesting litmus test, I say.

Only Child in the Country

Just back from a reading of Only Child upstate. Daph and I spoke to a group of 40 women in Chester, New York - the sisterhood of a synagogue out there on Sunday (thank you, Paula!). They were an incredibly warm and responsive audience. I kept looking out and seeing my mother, who, actually, was thousands of miles away in Istanbul that day. After reading out loud the part from my essay that paints her in a, well, somewhat critical light, I felt this overwhelming need to tell the sisters "I love my mother! I love my mother!"

Talk about Jewish guilt.

Fearless Friday

The enterprising, fearless ladies over at MotherTalk have invited me, along with hundreds of other women, to blog today about a fearless moment in my life, or a moment when I started becoming fearless. So here we go.

My father taught me if not to be fearless, then to die trying. He taught our golden retriever how to swim by throwing her off the pier, and he taught me how not to fear sailing by taking me out in a storm. I learned to love rain after my father dragged me outside to watch the lightning roll in over Lake Michigan and straight into our backyard. Together, we learned not to fear skiing by staying out during a mountain blizzard in Wyoming, yodeling fearlessly at the top of our lungs all the way down.

But none of this prepared me for the courage it took to leave a marriage at age thirty-five. I wanted kids of my own, and I knew that leaving the marriage -- corrupted as it was -- would postpone that dream, if not vanquish it. Up to that point, I had led a comfortable life. Leaving would leave me financially insecure. But I did it. I left. And I didn't die.

With that leave-taking began a new life -- one more thrilling than a sail in a storm, more charged than lightning, more exhilarating than a Wyoming blizzard. Leaving put me in touch with my truest instinct for self-preservation. And life will never be the same again.

In Response to Memoir Week on Slate...

The other week, Slate hosted “Memoir Week”, assessing the state of the modern memoir and posing the following question to a group of memoir writers:

How do you, as memoirists, choose to alert people who appear in your books that you are writing about them—or do you not alert them at all? If you do, do you discuss the book with family members and friends while the work is in progress? How do you deal with complaints from people who may remember events differently than you?

These are questions I get asked a lot as I travel around talking about our book, Only Child: Writers on the Singular Joys and Solitary Sorrows of Growing Up Solo. When Daphne and I were inviting writers to contribute to our anthology, some told us they wouldn’t be able to write anything about their parents until they were safely 6 feet under. But not me. In fact, the things I wrote about my mother in my essay for the book were things I had already told her. Or rather, wrote to her. I started writing her letters when I was still living under her roof, at age 16. They were love letters with an ultimatum: “If you want to continue to have a relationship with me, pay attention,” they’d generally begin. My mother still has these letters tucked away somewhere in her nightstand drawer.

But still, people who read my essay in Only Child generally to want to know how my mother “took” my essay. And then there’s that other question: “What did your ex-husband think?”

In answer to both: As I finished writing the piece, I decided that ongoing relationships with both Mom and ex were more important to me than any piece of writing. So I made the decision to show them both the draft and give them the opportunity to ask me to make changes before I went to print. Writer friends thought I was nuts to open up my draft to editorial input from the leading characters in my drama. Granted, I was not prepared to completely revise, nor was I willing to let certain details or particular turns of phrases go. But each (Mom and ex) asked for one or two emendations around details that were important to them to mask. I honored their requests.

My mother—like Sean Wilsey’s—agreed that I had the right to tell the truth, and she actually, bravely, agreed with my version of truth when it came to my characterization of her, and of our earlier and often painful dynamic. My ex, for whom wounds were perhaps more fresh, may have told the story a different way, but he, too, told me he saw the veracity in my account. I give these two characters in my drama extreme kudos. They each proved big enough to let me own my experience, my tale. Mom remains my biggest fan (love ya!), and yes, to many people’s surprise, my ex and I wish each other nothing but deep happiness and are still, if at a remove, in touch.

I'd be eager to hear how other contributors to our book have experienced the aftermath of writing about their families -- or how anyone who writes personally has dealt with these particular challenges.

Generative Women, Exciting New Ventures

What a generative few weeks it's been for the girls here in NYC! Just bursting to share news of my friend Rebecca Segall's new venture here on the Upper West Side:

Writopia is a new afterschool writing center offering community and creative writing workshops for young writers, ages 12-18. Rebecca (left) -- who is herself a brilliant writer and from whom I've learned a great deal about writing nonacademically -- launched the site last week, and if you know people with kids who are into writing, please please pass it on. My Marco designed the cool logo.

And attention women writing books about women's lives: I may be a bit late in the discovery, but because I just learned about this, I just have to pass it on:

MotherTalk is a place where readers and writers connect through literary salons, blog tours, podcasts, radio, writer's community, and more. What an ingenuous idea. I already adore these people and hope to learn more later today.