Who is gone, finally. I wish you well. You were my inspiration. Because of you I wanted to be a professional woman, first a doctor, then a writer. Because of you, I knew that women could do whatever they wanted and were equal or often vastly superior to their male colleagues. You were a force to be reckoned with, often unintentionally. You had a sharp temper, and a way of speaking your mind that could have used a little editing. Still, you were incredible. I am who I am because of you. I love you very much. And always will.
I will leave the memories for the memorial service; that's the best place for the long funny and touching stories. But I'll think of you whenever I go out and admire my overly abundant lily, tulip and daffodil displays, that is if I can ward off the deer this year. You loved to garden. It's where I get my love of gardening from. A little thing, but one that remains constant. The truth is, I'll think of you often.
This book Surviving Amelia was written with you always in mind. It's about strong women, about sisters, and best friends. I wanted most of all to write about what it means to grow up and grow into yourself, to learn how to be an independent woman. You were my inspiration for that. You showed me how to live and how to be assured about my own abilities. I'm glad you got to see how that worked out, and that you lived a long, full life.
I'll miss you.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Do not go gentle into that good night
When do we accept death? When do we deny its claim? What is death? What would we be without it? Human beings are born knowing they will die, and it informs pretty much every waking decision of our lives. It gives us that sense of urgency that leads to much of what is good in us. My mother is dying, imminently it would seem. Yesterday, I brought my younger son to say goodbye. The person is there, but their body has failed them. She's had a long, good life. Yes, there are regrets I'm sure, but on the whole she's done much of what she wanted. She's lived her way. Was it the way that was easiest or best for me, or for my siblings? No. I think that's safe to say. She was an admirable woman, a role model for me, but she wasn't a great mother. She was alternately kind and cruel, needy and generous. Yet I love her, and I loved her as she was.
What I don't love is what it's meant to watch her die. It seems wrong that this is what our end is. That we're left to suffer, to linger, to have no quality of life at all. She's lain on her couch in the living room of her house for months now, obviously ferociously attached to life even when she hates the minutes she's living it. I can't bear to think that someone so full of life has been reduced to this. But that's what's come of her life, this is its end. She has no control, someone who tried to control literally everything and everyone around her. I suppose that it's a form of poetic justice, but it's also horribly unfair. And she's unfortunately managed to reap what she sowed, a dysfunctional family. We siblings do our best but we aren't exactly close and our communication skills are wanting. Her end would have been so much easier if that wasn't the case.
When my father got sick and died it was different. The intimacy my brother and sister felt with him created a different kind of war zone. They fought over him in death as they had in life. I gave up trying. He and I never really got along, so what was the point? With my mother, it's different. I was the one who she was closest to growing up. Over time my sister seems to have taken on that role, or at least imagines herself my mother's fierce protector. My brother does what he can, given that he and my mother fought bitterly. And my sister in law does so much, it's as if my mother is a stand in for the one she left behind and visited once a year. Today I call hospice, and who knows, will she live out the weekend? Will she surprise us and continue to hang on to what isn't life as anyone should live it? Or will she finally die and be done with it? For her sake, I hope she does die, because then we can grieve and remember her in our own ways and she can find relief.
What I wish for is a better way. I wish our culture embraced death the way it does life. I wish it gave us more support and more options, and I wish we talked about it more freely before it became an issue. I wish it wasn't a topic for self help but something we came to understand long before it was thrust upon us.
What I don't love is what it's meant to watch her die. It seems wrong that this is what our end is. That we're left to suffer, to linger, to have no quality of life at all. She's lain on her couch in the living room of her house for months now, obviously ferociously attached to life even when she hates the minutes she's living it. I can't bear to think that someone so full of life has been reduced to this. But that's what's come of her life, this is its end. She has no control, someone who tried to control literally everything and everyone around her. I suppose that it's a form of poetic justice, but it's also horribly unfair. And she's unfortunately managed to reap what she sowed, a dysfunctional family. We siblings do our best but we aren't exactly close and our communication skills are wanting. Her end would have been so much easier if that wasn't the case.
When my father got sick and died it was different. The intimacy my brother and sister felt with him created a different kind of war zone. They fought over him in death as they had in life. I gave up trying. He and I never really got along, so what was the point? With my mother, it's different. I was the one who she was closest to growing up. Over time my sister seems to have taken on that role, or at least imagines herself my mother's fierce protector. My brother does what he can, given that he and my mother fought bitterly. And my sister in law does so much, it's as if my mother is a stand in for the one she left behind and visited once a year. Today I call hospice, and who knows, will she live out the weekend? Will she surprise us and continue to hang on to what isn't life as anyone should live it? Or will she finally die and be done with it? For her sake, I hope she does die, because then we can grieve and remember her in our own ways and she can find relief.
What I wish for is a better way. I wish our culture embraced death the way it does life. I wish it gave us more support and more options, and I wish we talked about it more freely before it became an issue. I wish it wasn't a topic for self help but something we came to understand long before it was thrust upon us.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Doing something you love; even when it makes you sick?
One biographer writes that Amelia had ongoing issues with her sinuses and that flying always made her feel worse. She goes on to say that she was always quite sick after a long flight. It isn't something that others have claimed, although it could well be true. Is it important? What if the thing you love to do most, makes you feel horrible? Would you keep on doing it? I think the answer for many of us is yes. My husband blew out his knee playing basketball. He'd come home and ice it down and go back the next day. I've played myself and I hate to admit it, but basketball is addictive. You can't get enough of it. It's that kind of game, the intensity, the way you can lose yourself so completely in the competitive and physical aspects, and of course the skill set you need to be good at it. All are compelling. We're only human after all, and by human I mean that we want this feeling of exhilaration, it's what makes us feel alive. So what is a little physical discomfort compared to the exhilaration of flying, the thrill of breaking records, breaking barriers.
I say hats off to Amelia and to the rest of us who have chosen to fight through the pain and get to the pleasure, or as she wrote, the ones of us who've lived fully, who have chosen to do whatever we've chosen to do for "the fun of it."
I say hats off to Amelia and to the rest of us who have chosen to fight through the pain and get to the pleasure, or as she wrote, the ones of us who've lived fully, who have chosen to do whatever we've chosen to do for "the fun of it."
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I miss Amelia or why writing is so incredibly satisfying, and why I hate to say goodbye to anyone
Yes, the time has come. I miss Amelia. I miss thinking about her, and thinking about what she might say or do. I very much miss her and all my characters. Has it only been a few weeks? Still, they were my life for so long and now they're out and about in the world. Not just those characters but literally everything I've worked on for the last three and a half years, a novella also out, an article just accepted. That's a novel, a novella, an article, all gone into my send box and sent . . . whoosh.
Here's why writing is so satisfying, at least writing something you care about. It's the one thing I do that occupies me wholly. There are other things I experience that engage me in the same way; I love conversation, or just hanging out with those I love the most; I can't get enough of travel, and I even count lying on the beach as an activity that can be as completely engaging, but writing is different. I am a relentless writer, (and for those old Firesign Theatre fans, I'm also ruthless). I used to write poetry, then stories, and then I settled on the long form. I didn't want the pleasure to end and I so didn't want it to be over. I didn't want to have to say goodbye.
Yet saying goodbye is the human condition. When I dropped my older son off at college I cried the whole way home, I knew I'd see him again, and of course I have. But I also knew that what I'd had, what I'd loved having was over. This is what it means to grow up and grow older, time passes and we change because we have to change. So onwards, whether to work on the book a little more, or to write here about how it goes when I do my best to sell it, (via an agent), and hopefully the process of beginning something new as well. Because really going back is not an option. It never is.
Here's why writing is so satisfying, at least writing something you care about. It's the one thing I do that occupies me wholly. There are other things I experience that engage me in the same way; I love conversation, or just hanging out with those I love the most; I can't get enough of travel, and I even count lying on the beach as an activity that can be as completely engaging, but writing is different. I am a relentless writer, (and for those old Firesign Theatre fans, I'm also ruthless). I used to write poetry, then stories, and then I settled on the long form. I didn't want the pleasure to end and I so didn't want it to be over. I didn't want to have to say goodbye.
Yet saying goodbye is the human condition. When I dropped my older son off at college I cried the whole way home, I knew I'd see him again, and of course I have. But I also knew that what I'd had, what I'd loved having was over. This is what it means to grow up and grow older, time passes and we change because we have to change. So onwards, whether to work on the book a little more, or to write here about how it goes when I do my best to sell it, (via an agent), and hopefully the process of beginning something new as well. Because really going back is not an option. It never is.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Fame and its Attendant Embarrassment; or what Amelia Earhart might have had to endure
I've been thinking about fame. About what it means to the rest of us. And what it must be like for that famous person who's just trying to go on about their business and live their life. I've been thinking about it because it's a theme of my novel. I write about Amelia, about what fame brought for her. It brought her the ability to be the person she most wanted to be and do the things she most wanted to do. It also made it impossible for her to have a private life. It's something that's much talked about, how you have to give up privacy and how hard it is, but also how little we, your public care. We want you to admit that losing privacy is worth it. I'm sure for much of the time it is. Who wouldn't want to be rich, or successful or admired. Who wouldn't want to be recognized for doing the thing one loved the most. And how wonderful to have that be financially rewarding. But there are downsides for sure.
Example numero uno; John Lennon. His murder was one of those moments that's seared into my consciousness. It was the end of innocence for me.I'd lived through all sorts of other horrible events, the King assassination, Bobby Kennedy, John Kennedy, yet I'd still managed to retain a bit of that belief in the good of humanity. Perhaps I was at an age when senseless loss hit me hardest, more likely it was just my visceral connection to Lennon, to his music and then his desire to seek privacy in the city I loved so much.
New York City is filled with famous people. Growing up, a true New Yorker knows what to do. When you see someone famous, you pretend you haven't. You give them space. You don't ask for an autograph. You don't make loud, rude comments. You let them live their lives. It's a good thing even if it's not particularly honest. It's not like we don't tell everyone we know who we saw, who we spotted on the street, or in a play, we just don't go up to them and embarrass them. To do that would be to embarrass ourselves.
Speaking of which, I did attend a play recently and a famous actress sat behind us. She was trying her best to hide, glasses, a hat. The couple nearby talked about her as if she was invisible. "That's that actress, you know, the one in that movie, you know the one with Bill Murray, see she's trying to hide but you know who she is." I wanted them to be quiet, I thought of turning around to tell them so, but I didn't. That seemed as rude as what they were doing. I wanted them to realize how horrible it was for her, because fame requires that you give up something vital. She was no longer just a person, she was a commodity.
Why does fame matter so much to the rest of us? I suppose it brightens our lives in some way. Look, we've seen, we've been, we matter. I've spent a great deal of time thinking about this and thinking about how Amelia takes it, when she comes back and no one recognizes her. It's unsettling, yet also liberating. She gets to just be herself again. We don't want to hear the famous complain about their lack of privacy, and yet as human beings we depend on it. We like to watch, to listen, to be anonymous. What if that was taken away from us for good? What then?
Example numero uno; John Lennon. His murder was one of those moments that's seared into my consciousness. It was the end of innocence for me.I'd lived through all sorts of other horrible events, the King assassination, Bobby Kennedy, John Kennedy, yet I'd still managed to retain a bit of that belief in the good of humanity. Perhaps I was at an age when senseless loss hit me hardest, more likely it was just my visceral connection to Lennon, to his music and then his desire to seek privacy in the city I loved so much.
New York City is filled with famous people. Growing up, a true New Yorker knows what to do. When you see someone famous, you pretend you haven't. You give them space. You don't ask for an autograph. You don't make loud, rude comments. You let them live their lives. It's a good thing even if it's not particularly honest. It's not like we don't tell everyone we know who we saw, who we spotted on the street, or in a play, we just don't go up to them and embarrass them. To do that would be to embarrass ourselves.
Speaking of which, I did attend a play recently and a famous actress sat behind us. She was trying her best to hide, glasses, a hat. The couple nearby talked about her as if she was invisible. "That's that actress, you know, the one in that movie, you know the one with Bill Murray, see she's trying to hide but you know who she is." I wanted them to be quiet, I thought of turning around to tell them so, but I didn't. That seemed as rude as what they were doing. I wanted them to realize how horrible it was for her, because fame requires that you give up something vital. She was no longer just a person, she was a commodity.
Why does fame matter so much to the rest of us? I suppose it brightens our lives in some way. Look, we've seen, we've been, we matter. I've spent a great deal of time thinking about this and thinking about how Amelia takes it, when she comes back and no one recognizes her. It's unsettling, yet also liberating. She gets to just be herself again. We don't want to hear the famous complain about their lack of privacy, and yet as human beings we depend on it. We like to watch, to listen, to be anonymous. What if that was taken away from us for good? What then?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
How to begin again, and is it fair that there are final chapters? Thinking of Amelia . . .
In the novel, I have a coda. In it Amelia is in the cockpit, flying towards Howland. I use her own words, spoken into the void. Not that the Itasca, the ship waiting to spot her, couldn't hear. It was that Amelia couldn't hear their response. There was one moment of contact, but that was it. I presume to channel what she was feeling and thinking. Anxiety. Exhaustion. Exhilaration. And ultimately, regret. When my own mother pulled me close to whisper that I was the one who got her, a few weeks back, I think she was counting up her own regrets. They are the things that stay with us, I suppose. And that haunt us.
But life is full of other things. I happen to believe that the more one risks, the more one gets from life. Granted, the risks I've taken are writ small. I've spoken my mind, often in an impolitic manner. As a writer, I've been rejected over and over and over. And I've fallen in love, and loved my friends wholeheartedly. It doesn't always work out in the end, or work out in the way I imagined. Yet I believe it's worth it. Without putting myself out there, without risking my heart and my live-lie-hood where would I be? And who would I be? No one I could recognize.
Anyhow, there it is. My Amelia moment for the day. All this time spent with her has made me think a great deal about taking chances. And how important they are. How they really make life worth living. So here's the question I pose. How does one live life to the fullest? What chances do we take? And what risks do we force ourselves to take?
But life is full of other things. I happen to believe that the more one risks, the more one gets from life. Granted, the risks I've taken are writ small. I've spoken my mind, often in an impolitic manner. As a writer, I've been rejected over and over and over. And I've fallen in love, and loved my friends wholeheartedly. It doesn't always work out in the end, or work out in the way I imagined. Yet I believe it's worth it. Without putting myself out there, without risking my heart and my live-lie-hood where would I be? And who would I be? No one I could recognize.
Anyhow, there it is. My Amelia moment for the day. All this time spent with her has made me think a great deal about taking chances. And how important they are. How they really make life worth living. So here's the question I pose. How does one live life to the fullest? What chances do we take? And what risks do we force ourselves to take?
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