(Thank you, Reference Librarian. Thank you, Susan Tekulve.)
For those of you who didn't know me when I was actually younger than I am today—that is my second memoir, Into the Tangle of Friendship, as well as my fourth, Seeing Past Z: Nurturing the Imagination in a Fast-Forward World, nested in with Handling the Truth.
I eagerly anticipate my time with Converse students and the Converse community—not to mention friends, old and new.
This beautiful young man is my nephew, a child growing up on the outskirts of London. He is buoyant, instantly generous, loving, and a fine host at his own party. I like how he smiles. I like how he plays, how he relaxes with the hour. I like how his job, right now, is happiness.
I thought of this happy kid as I read the
New York Times Op/Ed piece (penned by Tim Kreider) on busyness, and its many bedevil-ments. "If you live in American in the 21st century you've probably had to listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they are," Kreider begins. "It's become the default response when you ask anyone how they're doing: 'Busy!' '
So busy.' '
Crazy busy.' It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a complaint. And the stock response is a kind of congratulation: 'That's a good problem to have,' or 'Better than the opposite.'"
Kreider was, of course, aiming his pen at me. (Hey, as
a memoirist/narcissist it's a conclusion I'm bound to draw.)
Crazy busy was my theme song.
Overwhelmed was my word
du every
jour.
I'd like to, but I can't. Yes, folks. That was me. A lot of it was circumstance, pressures and responsibilities I had not actively chosen for myself. But much of it stemmed from choices I had made—to endlessly shore up family finances, to write (again), to volunteer (some more), to chase spider webs at midnight that no one but yours truly can see.
Not long ago, I declared my desire for
a lesser life—one less crammed with to-do lists, less amenable to busy boasts. I wanted to, needed to, sleep more. I wanted to live more. I wanted to have more time away from the computer, more time in gardens, more time with books, more time to experiment in the kitchen. I wanted, frankly, more time for walks with my son, more time to scheme up art projects with my husband, more time alone. I bought close to three dozen books—recent classics I had missed—and set out to read them. I made time for walks with long-time friends. I sat and looked at photographs—not in a hurry, and for no applicable reason.
And when client work arrived, as client work must and will arrive, I didn't promise a next-day delivery. I did the work, best as I could, same high standards in place. But I didn't do it in a breathless rush when the rest of my timezone was sleeping.
I'm liking me better this way, but I know how hard it will be to avoid relapsing into BusyNess. I am keeping Kreider's article close, therefore, for when I'm tempted to fall off the wagon. I share this Kreider paragraph, with the hope that you'll read the whole:
Busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against emptiness; obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or trivial or meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every hour of the day. I once knew a woman who interned at a magazine where she wasn’t allowed to take lunch hours out, lest she be urgently needed for some reason. This was an entertainment magazine whose raison d’être was obviated when “menu” buttons appeared on remotes, so it’s hard to see this pretense of indispensability as anything other than a form of institutional self-delusion. More and more
As many of you know, I submitted the first full draft of
Handling the Truth to the Gotham team yesterday. Slipped the pages toward Lauren Marino who will, I know, bring her great mind to the work, to the ideas.
Just as I was in the process of doing that, I received a beautiful email from a mother, prayerful soul, and blogger about
Seeing Past Z, a memoir I published years ago.
Seeing Past Z was motivated by my hope, as a mother, that we might yield to our children more time to imagine, more time to be. It was inspired by the years I spent reading and writing with my son and, ultimately, with the children who began to come to my home to explore stories and their making.
It was, I'm saying, my first book about words, and Missy K was delivering it back to me on a blog she calls A Daily Portion.
Her ruminations on this book, and her careful reporting on my own life since it was published, are so quietly, so compellingly rendered. They touch me deeply.
I share them with you today, with the hope that you will make A Daily Portion part of your daily habit. It will be worth your time.
In Seeing Past Z: Nurturing the Imagination in a Fast-Forward World, my memoir about the years I spent learning from a group of young writers, I made it clear that I do not believe in writing as a competitive sport.
I felt, therefore, as if I'd stepped onto hypocritical grounds these past two days as I tried to sort through the many glorious submissions to the Undercover poetry contest. The bloggers who visit here and the bloggers whom I visit are putting art out into the world. Thoughtful, provocative, introspective, original poems and prose that make me stop, over and again. How could I ever choose a slate of bests?
In the end, I narrowed the list of submissions into two semi-finalist slates—one for authors 21 and under, and one for all the others. Jill Santopolo, senior editor at HarperTeen, then spent part of her Monday morning narrowing the field even more. "This will be hard," she said, after seeing the work, but within a few hours she'd made her choices, saying: "What fun to spend the morning reading poetry! In all that I chose, I felt the universality of the experiences written about—I instantly connected with the poem and the narrator and the emotions evoked."
The winners of the 21 and under series are Cuileann, "My Letter to My Astronaut Sister" and The Curly Q, "Self-Contradiction." Runners up in this series are Erin ("Standing") and Maya ("Napwrimo-25"). Cuileann and Q will both receive signed Undercover paperbacks. Erin and Maya will receive (in two months, when they are available) galleys of my fourth YA novel, The Heart is Not a Size, due out next March. Please leave your email addresses in the comments box of this blog so that we can correspond and I can get your snail mail.
The winner of the second category is Susan for her poem that begins, "Searching for the boy." Susan, I'd love to have your email address as well.
Thanks to all of you who took the time to share with me your best work. There wasn't a poem in the bunch that did not move me. I have promised to write a poem with some of your best lines. Look for that in a coming post.
Finally, the writer Sherrie Petersen kindly interviewed me on her always interesting blog. She asked great questions, and I encourage you to take a look. Also today, on the HarperTeen site, I am guest blogging about beginnings. Finally, on David Tabler's lovely Appalachian History blog, I am writing about Horace Kephart's personal legacy, sharing photographs that I have not previously posted.
Yes, our minds do travel the same path so often.
Like you, I get so caught up in busyness sometimes that I can’t see straight. When I have a day like yesterday, I’m reminded of what makes me truly happy, and how I should honor that more often.
I’m happy there is a grass roots movement to celebrate the ordinary, and happy to be in such wonderful company while doing so :)
I'm so glad that you are taking time to slow down. I appreciate that!
Reading all these words leads to the deep sigh of relief and community.
Everyone in New York City is very proud of their busyness. It's an exhausting and lonely place to live.