Born Free

Remember last September when the boys "rescued" two box turtles who were "stuck together?"



Proof that pulling out (or being pulled out) is ineffective birth control:



We found this little tyke floating in a deep puddle made by hard rains last week. He seemed a bit peaked, and the temperatures dropped, so we've been keeping him inside, while the garden warms back up. Any suggestions how and when to reintroduce him to the backyard? I was thinking of writing "DON'T EAT ME" on his back with a Sharpie. We kind of like him.

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Pandora's Box

At the foot of our bed, there are three suitcases in which I keep my treasures: baby curls, pressed flowers, yellowed obituaries—the kinds of things a woman keeps and ponders in her heart.

I haven't opened the bottom one in a long, long time. It contains the story of how I came here.



I hope I can tell it well, and that no harm comes from the telling.

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And it burns.

There is, in every honest woman I know, a creature that cannot be domesticated. It prowls through our dreams, enters the house, casts cold eyes on our children, and holds us rapt in its terrible beauty.

That's as long an excerpt from my manuscript, Ring of Fire, as I dare publish and not breach my contract. It's going slow and hard, and lonely with no comments section below each page. But it's going. And I'm starting to think you're going to like it.

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Undone: The Death of a Marriage

One of the fiercest arguments I ever had with my late mother-in-law was while watching the funeral procession of Princess Diana. She thought the royal family was not displaying an appropriate measure of grief. I told her I thought their grief was their own business, and that the need to see it demonstrated was peculiarly American. All our arguments, in fact, could be summed up as her complaint that someone wasn't doing something the American way, and my rebuttal that the American way was not the only way. In retrospect, I think she may have been having quite a bit of fun with me. She was a lovely lady and I would have happily risen to the bait for another twenty or thirty years, but her own funeral was a year later.

I still think public people should be allowed to grieve in private. Commenting on the death of a celebrity is not something I would normally do. And yet, the passing last week of actress Natasha Richardson has touched me, and I feel the need to say something about it.

There's the obvious coincidence, which has prompted a few people to email me privately. The day we skied with the boys last month, we were on the Nansen run, the same beginner's slope on which Ms. Richardson fell while skiing with her two sons. So many times this past week, I've replayed that afternoon: every turn, every fall. The kids wore helmets, but neither Patrick nor I did. I thought helmets were in case you were going fast enough to hit a tree, not in case you fell over.

Mostly, I remember how happy we were as we came off that slope. As happy as we have ever been as a family. Exuberantly, utterly, alive.

And then I think, why are we given eggshells to hold all this life?

It makes me crazy.

The people who've gotten in touch do so shyly, almost sheepishly. None of understand why we should be so moved by the loss of someone we've never met—really, what have we lost? And yet. We feel.

I know part of it for me is the solidarity of motherhood. I fear leaving my children before they are through needing me. My hearts instinctively flies out to the children left behind.

But I think, mostly, I'm sad for the end of a marriage.

When a friend passed away a few years ago, in her mid-thirties, leaving behind three young children and a husband, I remember thinking how tragic it was, over and above everything else, to end a marriage like that, in mid-stream, with so much left to be worked out.

Because no matter how much you love each other, how deep the connection, how intense the passion, there's a hell of lot to be worked out during and after the raising of kids. Fifteen years together is just the crest of a hill from which the road behind and ahead can be seen. It's barely enough time to understand how much you have to forgive and be forgiven. There are fights to be had, boredom to be overcome, temptations to be worked through, shitty things to be said, apologies to be made, doors to be slammed, tears to be kissed away.

How unfair to be robbed of that while you're still in the middle, before you're done.

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Life After Clutter

So after the New York photography crew leaves, and the L.A. stylist (who, in all her childless, young loveliness, thought our family room could use a white, wool rug), real life moves back in.

Real life with real children and real schedules and sometimes, a real mess. Several times since our clutter-free story came out, I've found myself praying that none of our friends pop over for a look. Things sure can come apart in a hurry. Observe:



But what's amazing to me is how fast they come back together now. The kindergarten rule holds true: a place for everything, and everything in its place.

The published article was culled down to about 2,500 words. I turned in about 5,000. I learned so much about stuff, and how to manage it, in the course of those six weeks. I hate that we had to leave so much on the cutting room floor, but accepting the reality of limited space is one of the basic principles of getting organized.

But I have some really good leftovers to share. Check on Noteworthy next week for tips, gadgets and discoveries that we couldn't cram into those seven pages (I suggest you use the feedburner link on that blog to subscribe to updates).

And stay tuned here for the story of how de-cluttering our home un-clogged our lives.

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At Last, At Last, Clutter Free

Can you believe it's been almost a year since we moved? Remember my confession that the unpacking had stalled? It seemed entirely probable that we'd still be living among boxes a year out.

I can guarantee we would have, except for divine intervention in the form of a story assignment. You can read all about our six-week "clutter diet" in the current (April) issue of Good Housekeeping. There is an online version, but I really hope you'll spring for the issue (or better yet, subscription), not just because that's how writers and photographers get paid, but because the great photographs by Jane Colclasure and Mark Lund are really best appreciated in print.

When I took this story, I thought it sounded like a fun and light follow-up to my last article. Writing that one just about wrecked me. I was ready for some fluff.

As it turned out, de-cluttering our home was fun. Really. But it was also unexpectedly deep.

Here's the deal. You go read the clutter article, let me know here, and ask any questions you might have in the comments section. Later this week, I'll fill you in on the aftermath of our "diet": how much we lost, and more importantly, how much we gained.

---

Photos used with kind permission of Mark Lund, gentleman photographer, vanquisher of tummy rolls, and DJ extraordinaire.

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Keeping Me Real

When life is changing faster than you can hope to comfortably—or gracefully—keep up with, it's good to know that if you are ever at a cocktail party and are heard to complain, "Well, we'd been standing around in our ski boots all morning, and it was exhausting," a good, true friend will smile and repeat your words back to you s-l-o-w-l-y and dramatically with a twinkle in his eye.

And as you double over laughing, you will know that the people you love have your back, and you're going to be okay.

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How Dark is the Light of Day

From my mother's blog, yesterday, March 12,2009:

"We live on an island in the Atlantic. At times the sea looks like this photo. Tonight the wind is howling, it's stormy and cold. My heart aches to think there could be survivors afloat in the cold Atlantic and my heart breaks to think there may be none."



If you grew up on the North Atlantic, and you owe your existence to people who made a living from that cruel and beautiful sea, tragedies like this are grieved not just in your heart and soul, but in your DNA. Spare a prayer today for the one who survived, the ones who are lost, and all their families.

Atlantic Blue

What colour is a heartache from a love lost at sea?
What kind of memory never fades
but lingers to eternity?
How dark is the light of day
these sleepless eyes of mine survey?
Is that you, Atlantic Blue?
My heart is as cold as you.

How is one heart chosen to never lie at peace?
What kind of moment remains?
Is there not one sweet release?
And who's the stranger at my door,
To haunt my dreams forever more?
Is that you, Atlantic Blue?
My heart is as cold as you.

I lie awake in the morning, as the waves wash on the sand,
I hold my hurt at bay, I hold the lives of his children in my hands.

And who's plea will receive no answer?
Who's cry is lost upon the wind?
Who's the voice so familiar,
Whispers my name as the night comes in?
And who's wish never fails to find
my broken heart on Valentine's?
Is that you Atlantic Blue?
My heart is as cold as you.

Ron Hynes (Cryer's Paradise, 1993) ©1990, 1995, Blue Murder/ Sold For A Song: TMP SOCAN

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Advice for a Teenage Daughter I Will Never Have

Even if you have just been shot with a tranquilizer dart for elephants, don't sleep in your makeup. Or contact lenses.

What separates a professional eyebrow arch from the amateurs is scissor-trimming. This is the least important item on this list, but It took me 38 years to find out, and I have to pass it onto somebody.

Wear the bikini every chance you can, and use the sunscreen.

Every year you can possibly delay having sex will ultimately make sex that much better. Think of it as the difference between spending every allowance on cheap shoes that don't last, or saving up for some really fabulous Jimmy Choos. Not that you have to go without even touching a pair of shoes in the meantime. Or marry your first pair of Jimmy Choos. Don't tell your mom I said that.

As long as you are in your teens, avoid dating anyone more than three years older than you. At your age, a romantic relationship with an older man is actually neither romantic or a relationship.

You look ugly when you gossip.

Throwing up drunk is not a good look for you.

Save this for later: the person you are now is not the way you behaved then.

Someday, a girl who is horrible to you now will request to be your Facebook friend. And though your cursor will linger a long and delicious moment above the "ignore" button, you will click on "accept" instead, and know that you have grown up.

Go to your prom. Wear the corsage. Stand under the arch. Get the pictures. Really.

Don't waste youth and resiliency. Have adventures. It will never be more appropriate for you to be inappropriate, and society will never be more forgiving. But avoid risks that will narrow your future. Skinny-dipping: yes. Filmed skinny-dipping: no.

Most importantly, hang around for womanhood. I promise, the best is yet to come.

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Before blogs, we had to transmit wisdom using the inside cover of our algebra books.

"I must learn to love the fool in me--the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool." -- Theodore I. Rubin, MD

Provenance: Maggie Mason's post, begat by Joanna Goddard's post, begat by Creature Comforts post. Thanks to all for passing these words intact to me. Never break the chain.

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Under the Gun

When I sat down at my desk the other morning, this greeted me. Like I'm not under enough pressure.

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Playground Friends

Somebody who loves me seated me next to Katherine Center at the speaker's dinner in Houston last month. Remember the wine that landed me in Guy Kawasaki's bushes last summer? They served that at the welcome reception at Mom 2.0. I blame it if I talked her ear off. It's a weak defense, but at least I kept my pants on.

A copy of her just-released novel, Everyone Is Beautiful,
was given to all the speakers, and I took mine with me to New York and Quebec. I read it in three flights, and was thoroughly charmed by it. More than that, I was—and this is what you want fiction to do— affected by it. The main character, Lanie, became my friend. I got to know her. And she is still with me.

A lot of other people are going to get to know Lanie. "Everyone" got a very positive review in People magazine this week, accompanied by a photograph of Katherine's smiling face. It's all happening for her. I love when good things happen to good people.

Recently, a lot of people have been asking me for advice about writing and publishing, and I'm at a bit of a loss to offer any, except ignore most advice. The kind that is sweeping and general, anyway, where "always" or "never" is implicit or explicit. If I had heeded the always and nevers, I wouldn't have gotten very far. Conventional wisdom, as I've said before, is an oxymoron.

I don't have advice. I have a little experience, that is unique to me, and may or may not be helpful to you. Reading of Katherine's latest success today, and genuinely cheering it, reminded me of something essential I've learned: creative jealousy is poison I can't afford to drink.

During the years I was not writing, I couldn't bear to hear of other writers winning prizes and accolades. Somewhere deep down, I believed that they were using up all the talent and success, and there wouldn't be any leftover for me.

Sitting down to the keyboard and beginning this blog didn't cure my scarcity mentally overnight. But my focus began to shift as I rediscovered the pleasure of creating.

Chelation is a slow process. When I had something accepted for publication, I was happy for every single author to ever populate the bestseller list. When I was staring at another rejection, they could all go to hell.

Then I realized something. Successful creative people are surrounded by other successful creative people. They are seated at dinners with them. They attended launches and openings and award ceremonies with them. They collaborate on creative endeavors with them. Becoming successful in a creative life -- in anything-- means necessarily being around more and more people who are experiencing success. If I ever wanted to be there, I needed to practice being comfortable with it.

And believe me, I practiced. I applied the principle of "fake it till you make it." I forced myself to be happy for other people's dreams coming true until I actually felt it. It was some difficult soul yoga sometimes.

Today, it was no stretch at all.

I used to think success was a seesaw. If someone else was up, I must be down. I didn't realize I was the only person on the teeter totter all along. No wonder my end seemed to stay down. Now, I think of success as a carousel. It comes around, and goes around. Always room for one more.

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Souled: The Ethics of Product Reviews

I'm so happy to be home. Home, back in Little Rock, and home, back on Notes. Don't get me wrong. I love to travel. I enjoyed every minute of Houston, New York, Quebec and New Orleans. To the hilt, and then some.

And I've enjoyed posting on my new review blog, Noteworthy. I think it will be a fun place for me to play show-and-tell with owls, books, and accent pillows, without interrupting the narrative here. It's a nice place to visit, as the saying goes. But on the internet, I live here.

The panel I sat on at the Mom 2.0 marketing summit in Houston was described as "Building Communities: The future of success building relationships and engaging communities as you grow your business, image and reputation online." I was joined by Susan Getgood of Marketing Roadmaps and Nelly Yusupova of WebGrrls, and I'm grateful to both of them for letting me coast in the wake of their considerable knowledge and expertise. They were the actual experts. I was the Kumbaya chorus, offering up vague and earnest statements about the "sacred trust" between a blog writer and her readers.

I don't know if my presence added anything or not, but I passionately believe in that trust, in that relationship. I spent my entire Sunday morning yesterday, reading and responding to reader email because I believe in, and value it.

So I'm very interested in the conversation that's taking place on Mom101 and Suburban Turmoil about where the line is between the business side of blogging (we are, after all, in publishing) and selling out. I'd love to hear what you think about it.

I've turned down many an offer to use this space to mention someone's product. Our trip to Quebec was the first time I said yes. Obviously, it was a great gig, that fairly compensated me for having to stay up past midnight every night blogging. Nobody (but Patrick) heard me complain. But there were other factors that made it easy to accept. For one, when I get to do it, travel is something I blog about anyway. This blog was germinated from a family vacation travelogue. As a writing prompt, it fit. Secondly, I have a lot of respect and trust in the integrity of my ad network, Blogher, who set it up. Nobody was asking me to bury the details of the sponsorship. In fact, it was mandated that I set up a separate blog to publish the review. Transparency, I wrote in Mom101's comments section, is key.

So is authenticity. There's a clear difference between sharing my latest etsy obsession, and writing sponsored testimonials for disinfectant wipes. I'm a woman, and a mom, and I love pretty things, helpful gadgets and interesting places. But if I wouldn't drop it into a face-to-face conversation, I'm not going to drop it into this one.

The distinction is less clear when the product is suggested by a marketer, but is something I'm genuinely interested in. That's where the third criteria, relevance, comes in. For example, I have an offer in my inbox for a household gadget I've heard about and was already curious about. If I reviewed it on Noteworthy, I'd naturally disclose its provenance. So transparency and authenticity are covered. But I don't think it's relevant to anything I normally write about, nor is it an especially interesting writing prompt, so I'll probably pass.

I've got a book to write, after all. I don't see posting anything to Noteworthy more than once a week, and I won't ordinarily link to it, except as a sidebar item. If accent pillows, good books and owls are your cuppa, that's where they'll be. Above all, I want you to know that I respect your attention, the time and energy you bring here.

Kumbaya.

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