How Julie Saved My Life (or at least my sanity)

Julie Powell, author ot Julia/Julia, has died of cardiac arrest. She was an enormous influence on my life and writing, and I’m just bereft.

 

      In the early 2000’s, I was struggling through a divorce, drinking too much, wallowing in my own sadness and the fact that I was probably now too old to ever have a happy life ever again. Every day felt like the same exhausting struggle. I tried to cheer myself up— I moved my desk into an alcove off the living room and painted the wall bright red; I bought a new couch without consulting a singe other person. I traveled to Scotland with someone I didn’t like very much. Frankly, I made a lot of bad choices in all kinds of ways that surprised me. I’d always been the flexible, adaptable, unbreakable one. 

        Divorce almost broke me. It seemed to me that a person could actually die of a broken heart. 

        One night, wandering through the wilderness of the Internet, I found the Julie/Julia blog. It was written by a young woman, unhappy in her office job, who decided to cook one recipe from Julia Child’s Mastering The Art of French Cooking every night until she made her  her way through the entire book. She lived in a tiny apartment with a tinier kitchen, and something about the quixotic quest caught my attention. 

        In the Before Times, I’d liked cooking. I mean, no one loves workaday meals for a family on a budget, which was the main thrust of my life, but I’d won prizes for sourdough breads and my delicate jams. My ex was a showy cook, Sunday breakfast for dozens, barbecues in the backyard for all of our friends. Everyone marveled at his cooking. I devoted myself to perfecting corn chowder, tacos on soft corn tortillas, the local pork green chile. 

        Post-divorce, I was lucky to gobble down a scrambled egg or crackers with cheese. 

        It was one of those lonely evenings I found Julie. Her writing was bold and funny and earthy, connecting me to parts of myself I didn’t always claim. I recognized something in her need to make something, to have something in her life that mattered. 

       Starting at the beginning of her journey, I allowed myself to read a handful of blog posts each day. By Thanksgiving, I started to imagine that maybe I wouldn’t die of divorce, and a whispering voice insisted it might feel good to make a loaf of bread to take to the family dinner. I still hated sitting around that giant table where everyone else was married and I wasn’t, but the bread was good and I lived through the day. 

       As the season passed, I dug into the the story of Julia Child and her adoration of French cooking and wondered if it might be something I’d enjoy. At the library, I found M.F.K Fisher’s collected works and read a few of her essays sitting in a chair by a long window as a storm rolled in. I read about her eating a meal she cooked for herself on a single burner in a crummy room she’d rented at the end of a long ordeal, and how nourishing it was to eat the simple meal she’d cooked for herself. 

        For nearly two decades, I’d been cooking for other people. Solid, workaday meals for two growing boys and a man who worked a physical job and needed a lot of calories at the end of his day. I started to wonder what I might like to eat, what I might cook if it was for me.  

       My mother gave me Mastering the Art of French Cooking for Christmas. I didn’t think anyone had noticed my obsession with the Julie/Julia project, but clearly, I’d been talking about it. At night, I sat on my new couch and read the recipes, and read along with Julie to see how she’d managed the challenge of beef marrow soup or rack of lamb. I didn’t think I could manage those, but I thought I could probably bake a quiche. The fragrance of it filled my kitchen. I turned on some music and sang along. I set the table with good cloth napkins and linens, arranged a few greens on the plate with a healthy slice of quiche lorraine, and a crisp glass of wine. It was simple. It was mine.  

      I sat down and fed myself good food. 

      Turned out, I cooked and fed myself right out of that broken heart. I wrote more novels about women and their connection to food, and to each other. One of them was This Place of Wonder, which features a young woman who becomes obsessed with Julie/Julia and it leads to a career. Julie Powell read the book and gave me a quote, which shows remarkable things can happen if you keep showing up and maybe cook yourself something once in awhile.  

      Thanks, Julie, ever so much. 

Wandering In

My cat is sitting on my feet as I type from my cozy bed, where I’ve retreated because it’s cold as heck, today.  Not even 15 degrees at nearly 11 am, and the sun is shining. In self defense, I wrapped up in sweater and quilts.

Every December, I go through the accomplishments and failures and recognitions of the year. As I do so now, I see that it’s been a challenging year in many ways, marked by the loss of a friend, a dearly loved relative, and….at last, and as we knew was coming, my beloved Jack on the last day of summer.  His death was as good as one could ask for a 14 year old dog–he had a stroke at lunchtime and it was plain I had to let him go. I was able to hold him and tell him I loved him as he departed, which is the great blessing we have with pets.  It was less kind for my uncle, but he, too, traveled with grace and peace to the other side.  It was sudden, which means it takes a bit to encompass, but I know he wouldn’t want me wallowing, so I won’t.  In time, I hope I can write something that does his life and influence in my life the justice it deserves. In the meantime, I’ll focus on joy.

The joy is in writing, and in teaching; the joy is in granddaughters, and the joy is in the anticipation of a big trip coming up in the spring. The joy is in you, in painting and in the art in the world.  Joy is in the first snowfall and the last leaf falling on my head.  The joy is in this photo of Jo and I at Uluru seven or eight years ago. 11334232_880057308751526_7369459254625975255_o

The joy is in many things, if only we look.

Where’s the joy in your life?

Flexibility and Growth as an Artist

Hiromi Masuda: Let's play the Glass 2I am a fan of Gretchen Rubin, whose books on happiness and habits offer a lot of insight into how we can live the best life for ourselves. (She doesn’t get the Rebel personality, but I forgive her for that.) This morning, her Facebook post let me to this blog:

The Dangers of Typecasting

As most of you know, I made a choice a couple of years ago to explore the world of New Adult romance. I had written straight romances, contemporary and historical, in the past, but hadn’t done if for nearly ten years when I was mobbed by a new idea. By a character, Jess Donovan, age 19, poor and struggling and trying to make her way.  She awakened me one morning in mud season in Breckenridge and by the end of the day, I had mapped out the entire book.  In my world, we call that a “gift book” and foolish indeed is the writer who ignores such an offering from the gods.

However, It was a risky choice, and I knew it–women’s fiction readers don’t like to be lumped with romance readers (although many are both) and my romance readers might not want to go with me into this much younger world. To keep things branded cleanly, I knew I would have to take a pen name, and that meant starting from ground zero–not always the easiest thing for a writer with an audience gained over ten years.

That’s the visible stuff.

The Quiet Middle Week

Here it is, that week between Christmas and New Year. This is when many businesses are shut down or only operating on half-staff. There’s nothing much to take care of, all the shopping is done. As a girl, out of school and often stuck inside because of snow and cold, I would read and read and read.  As I got older, I often started planning the upcoming year–things I wanted to do, see, accomplish.

This year, I’m in San Antonio with my son and daughter-in-law and the mighty Amara. We are waiting for the New Baby, due in six days. I’m here to help the family with practical things like cooking, picking up, smoothing the transition when baby sister actually arrives. I’m here to spend time with my darling girl, too, of course. I’m so relieved to realize that last year, I was afraid our relationship would become frayed with distance, and it turns out it has not.  I’m lucky enough to be able to have the resources to fly down here regularly, a job that is flexible enough that I can take the time off, and an agreeable son & DIL.

I’m thinking about the new year and what I’d like to accomplish. I have an ambitious schedule of writing for both Barbara and Lark (I know my Barbara readers have been sad about the long delay between titles) and some other things brewing.  I’ve made some changes in my work life to give myself more time to exercise and see IRL friends now and then, but mainly, this year is focused on the writing.  SO many exciting things are happening, including the really fun project I’m doing with Serial Box publishing. (More as I know actual release dates.)

A marketing person said to me, “Sounds like your spirit social media is blogging,” and she was right, so that’s on agenda, too. I’m handing off some of the stuff I don’t like and spending more time here. I hope you’ll join me for talk about writing, books, life. Painting. Probably cats. Here is a cat for today:

Looking for a cuddle
Looking for a cuddle

Saying No to Say Yes

Ah, I’ve been in my writing cave again and haven’t been blogging here at A Writer Afoot.  I do keep trying! Meanwhile, I have my regular monthly gig at Writer Unboxed, the 4th Wednesday of the month. This is November’s column:

Colorful India India is on my mind this morning. Forgive me for dreaming a little of the faraway, but I am at the end of nearly two solid months of extreme writing. I’ve barely been to the grocery store, much less anywhere interesting.

For a couple of days, I considered writing about how I organized the writing marathon, but India has presented itself, alluring and exotic and beautiful, the place I’ve had on my travel bucket list for longer than any other, and it does have relevance to the marathon, to writing, to our writing lives.

I’ve been saying I wanted to visit India for a long, long time. Decades. The reasons I have not committed to a trip are myriad—it’s a long way, and no one in my circle is at all interested in going, and it will be expensive and it will not be like going to England or Spain. It will be way beyond my comfort zone sometimes. It frightens and calls to me in equal measure. Beauty, sacred sites, ancientness, elephants, color, history. Crowds, heat, poverty. What if I go and hate it? What if I don’t and keep this dream of India forever, pristine and lovely, like the woman in Staten Island who collected all things Tibetan and never went. I loved the museum, but felt such sadness for the woman herself. Why didn’t she go?

READ THE REST

Listening to the Prompts

All creative people devise ways to communicate with the mysterious place where ideas come from. A scientific person might call it the right side of the brain. A more mystical one (that would be me) probably calls it the universe or Spirit. Whatever the name, we all learn over time to trust the whispering prompts that nudge us into a particular direction.

Detail-from-JMW-Turners-B-007I’ve had some weird communications going on with the universe over painter JMW Turner, an Englishman I’d honestly never heard of until three months ago. I don’t know how I missed him now, since he is one of the most highly regarded of all English painters, and his style was a forerunner of the Impressionists, whom I adore with heart and soul, but there’s the truth. I had never heard of him or seen his work until I needed a painter for Brilliant. Jess gives Tyler a biography of a painter for Christmas, so I googled watercolorists and Turner came up. He was an eccentric who did things his own way and he fit the bill, so I ran with it. (Deadlines make a writer practical. Yep, works, toss it in there, move on.)

Afterward, Turner kept coming up—everywhere. At first, I put it down to simply awareness. You never notice how many cars of a certain model there are until you start driving one, then they are everywhere. Or you learn a new word and then see it in twenty places the next few weeks. I’m studying watercolors a bit, so reading in that world, and he’s a master. Of course I would see his name.

But it kept going and going. An article in a magazine I rarely read. A comment about the new movie. (Me: “There’s a movie?”)  

On the road

imageI promised blogs every week, but must say the Internet access was not great in many of our stops the past ten days. Here are a couple of photos to keep you company for a few days. We are on our way home and I’ll post later this week about foggy weather, venison stew, windows as studies, and my weird conversation with the universe about the English painter Turner.

Meanwhile, enjoy one of the windows, from a rambling country house in Devon on a cold winter morning.

 

What If You Are The Star?

Christmas Eve is one of the most magical nights in Western culture, a night that celebrates peace and light and new hope being born into the world. A star lights the way for magis to come and worship new life, to offer gifts and honors. Angels sing to celebrate the moment.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/zamb0ni/4103226307/in/photolist-9mm6Cw-nvybUQ-3oomWN-4kjshQ-gSp2MB-7fA7ea-8Ef12Q-64TsRU-5LGs11-nT88tP-8Zrr3A-dC3GGK-jCELhL-5TEPBK-78SnnM-8vHsw2-78WdFw-d3R6HG-ohkkKs-7qKF9f-nCpKto-an6R39-nojGNX-oUxBDt-516SXW-decZ5V-2TPUJP-dJkhFE-4bnKnc-7gDKD3-8hyqAV-fPMmTE-49PeFP-7951zX-7qKFdQ-obeCGH-2k93sw-9hHu62-vNLxE-7dy7Ms-e8VTaY-5HMaKr-JVnvq-7h7eNF-545t7x-bL9o76-cZkfgY-9vwF8A-54yNfz-54GckgIt is holy and luminous, this night, meant to remind us of the possibilities of our lives. It’s also a metaphorical jewel box, brimming with images we can use to inspire ourselves, to remember who we are, each of us, at the core of our being.

We tend to think we are small, the donkey looking on, or the sheep chewing hay in the manger. What if, in fact, we are each born to be a star that lights the night, lights the way for others? What if each of us has a corner of the world to illuminate–
perhaps the neighborhood in which you were born, or a battlefield that haunts you, or the magical worlds of some faraway, unknown land? What if your essay, that singular particular manifestation of your observations, your need to speak, is the kernel of truth that changes a person forever, even in the tiniest ways? This is how the world is saved, by each of us taking on the mantle of our vocation and giving it the very best we can give it.

You are a writer, or perhaps a creator of another sort. You have been born with this pressing desire to make things, express yourself, offer observations on the world, make things up—however it shows up in your life is the way it is meant to show up. We do it imperfectly at times, and often we fail at the vision we hoped to transfer to the page, to the hearts of readers, but the pursuit is the thing. In pursuit, sometimes also called practice, as in the practice of prayer or the practice of yoga or the practice of piano, we serve the work, and in doing so, serve that unnamable something that is holy, opposed to evil, that thing that brings light, stars, singing angels into the world.

This Christmas Eve, give yourself the gift of loving the desire to write, the desire to be better. Celebrate your own holy star-ness, and shine, shine, shine.

 

 

At last! More blogs.

I had a letter this morning from a reader of this blog, wondering if it had been discontinued. In fact, the exact opposite is true–I’ve given up blogging elsewhere (except for Writer Unboxed once a month) to bring my focus back here. My web mistress is busy behind the scenes doing a facelift and I’ve made a promise to myself to write at minimum 52 blogs here this year. For me, it’s a pleasure and a discipline. I love sharing my everyday observations on writing, books, food, and life with you. I hope we’ll be able to start the conversations up again.

Today I am forced to decorate my Christmas tree, so I have only this to share, a photo of some satsumas I shot this morning. In fact, I saw them in their little bag at Whole Foods yesterday and knew how pretty they would be in this very bowl, and that was the whole reason for buying them.

IMG_6080

Come back soon!

Love,
Barbara

Boot Camp For Writers

NWC-300x250Writer’s Digest Novel Writing Conference, August 15 – 17, 2014, Los Angeles, CA Plot Your Novel’s Course

Move closer to your goal of completing a tightly crafted novel that will capture and keep the attention of publishers and readers. Learn from industry-savvy speakers and deepen your knowledge in focused sessions.

All this is brought to you by the editors of the industry’s most trusted source for writing advice and insight for more than 90 years—Writer’s Digest.

FOCUS ON THE NOVEL

Experience start-to-finish instruction in the art of crafting a well-written, saleable novel. Many of publishing’s most respected and knowledgeable writers, agents and editors will be on hand to guide you. Hone your craft fundamentals, explore the future of publishing and get the tools you need to advance your career as a writer.

GROW YOUR NETWORK

From the numerous opportunities each session offers to connect with its speakers, to the workshopping with other novelists, the Writer’s Digest Novel Writing Conference is your chance to establish real connections with both your fellow writers and industry insiders.

BOOT CAMP:  Romantic Fiction with Barbara O’Neal 
Join me for a three hour intensive on all aspects of writing the romantic novel for a leg up on finding the exact right place for your novels. Strengthen your weak areas and shine in your strong ones with this in-depth, hands-on workshop.

 

There is a $50 discount to the conference when you register with the promotional code WDSPEAKER.

Who Attends Writer’s Digest Novel Writing Conference?

Writer’s Digest’s reputation attracts a uniquely dedicated group of writers to the Conference. Most have been writing for years and many have already published. They want and expect relevant information to further their writing careers— whether in the educational sessions or through exposure to valuable products and services.

 Questions? Email me at awriterafoot  @  gmail.com, or ask away in the comments section.  Hope to see you there!