Nevertheless We Persisted

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Weeks ago, there was a call for submissions to a special audiobook-first publication of essays and poems. The project was called Nevertheless We Persisted, and I submitted my work for consideration.

I am proud to say that my essay, “The Myth of 15 Minutes,” was selected to be part of that anthology, and the incredibly talented Lauren Ezzo narrated my piece to perfection, catching every nuance and infusing it with humor and warmth.

Blunderwoman Productions described the process and the project on their website:

BlunderWoman Productions collected thoughts on love and loss, on struggle, or how you’ve overcome hardship. These are poems, stories and essays from writers across the country and in India and Britain. Some are funny. Some are sad. All them have heart and a deep truth. 

Each piece has been paired with a talented narrator (or performed by the author themselves) to bring their story to life. 

Original music provided by Jennie Knaggs and Nick Shillace of Lac La Belle.

Original cover design provided by Kim Hindman of 10 Digit Press. 

We hope this piece will encourage and inspire others to fight the good fight, keep on keeping on, and celebrate a little more of the joys in life. 

 25% of the proceeds (after publication costs) will be donated to Planned Parenthood.

Nevertheless We Persisted is now available to hear (the project may eventually also be available as a book).

Here is a sample of one of the pieces, a poem written by Kass Hillard and read by Janina Edwards, “Women Rise Up.”

You can now purchase the anthology on Audiobooks, Audible, or borrow it via Hooplah.

Month in Review — Probably Shouldn’t Have Woken Me Up When September Ended

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Usually, I type up the Month In Review posts either the last day of the month or the first of the next month. And here I was all fired up about Hugh Hefner and the hero treatment the man is receiving …

then Las Vegas.

So. Here we are again. My words on this topic won’t matter. We’ve shot people every day. We’ve not stopped it. Not after it happened in a club, in a church, or in a classroom.

I am in perpetual mourning. For victims of hate, victims of catastrophe, victims of senseless violence. Victims of ideologies. Victims of climate change deniers. Victims of the NRA.

My sorrow is deep and the reactions are predictable.

I will act, and I will donate, and I will put my feet to the pavement.

…And I will share what helped make September bearable, or at least escapable for bursts:

 

Maybe this is the only instruction guide we need to be happy, even at times like this.

I’m a big ol’ nerdball when it comes to documentaries. Makes sense, I guess, as I also tend to gravitate towards nonfiction writing. But it’s the weaving in of storytelling craft that makes for an outstanding piece of nonfiction, and Ken Burns is the master. I was riveted from moment one. I’m only on Episode Five, but this is not a series to binge watch so much as to take in and digest before moving on to the next part.

Oof. Why it’s so important that we study history. It is because of this that I hope we can scrub all the faux news and the equivocating and the creative silent editing and the “butwhatabouts” from the record. Not an easy essay to swallow, but there’s some pretty disgusting stuff in world history and it would be nice to not have to repeat it. Unfortunately, we are a stubborn species, determined to live repeat rather than shuffle.

Sometimes, especially when life gets mired in ugly small indignities – a turned back, a cruel word, an untruth, a passive-aggression – or just the daily grind, it can be hard for me to access creativity. I will be turning to these strategies as needed. Hopefully, they won’t be needed often!

Maybe this is just the answer to it all. 

I wish you good friends, a nice cup of something warm, hugs, a sense of history, a creative spark, and dessert.

An Act of Courage

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One of my children has been saying he’s a “bad writer” and that he doesn’t like writing. Writing is complex and so emotional that the act can feel like we’re ripping our skin off in public, so I tread carefully on this. Because, really, sometimes I tell myself I’m a bad writer, and often I don’t like writing (particularly the rewriting part, which is about 80% of the writing I do).

He told me yesterday, in an impromptu conversation held at the beach (as most potentially life-altering conversations are) that he wants to write his truths, his story, because that’s the assignment at school, but he doesn’t want to write his whole truth, his deep truth, because it’s going to be judged on some level, and possibly shared. So he picks the stories of his life that aren’t the most profound, most revealing, most forefront. Meaning he doesn’t pick the ripest fruits from the most fertile ground.

And I get it. I said that writing is making yourself vulnerable, and it’s ok to not share those stories yet if he’s not ready. And he may never be. But he should write them somewhere.

He wants to write them. He wants to share, but what’s forefront in his mind are those stories in his young life where he has felt different, excluded, raw, or torn between difficult choices. These are the things that make for real and wonderful writing, and the things that can make for painful moments in childhood (and beyond). These are not the things one necessarily chooses to stand in front of one’s peers and read.

Fortunately, he’s not isolated, he has friends, and he can slough off many difficult situations with more grace than any child should have to muster. He also has perspective and a good heart, and some real skills. I gave him some suggestions on different ways to handle these types of situations. He can choose how he wishes to proceed as he continues on. He will have to write in school. That’s just how it is. He will have to write narratives probably at least through middle school. That’s also just how it is. But he has choices and strategies now.

As a former English teacher and also as a mother, it’s made me wonder about writing and how we teach it, what we expect from our youngest, most vulnerable artists. It also explains why teachers get a glut of “narrative” essays (one of the big three we are required to teach – narrative, expository, and persuasive) – about scoring winning goals or small traumas and pains or issues that scratch the surface or highly formulaic pieces that don’t usually take a big risk.

And it reminds me what an act of courage it is to ask children to go to school every day and write and interact and take risks. To be bad at something. Or, scarier, to be good at something.

Every. Day.