— Frank O’Hara

With the passing of author J.D. Salinger on Wednesday, I’ve spent some time reading lengthy obits and stories about him. I’ve probably read The Catcher in The Rye at least four times in my adolescence and I think it’s safe to say that it’s definitely made an impression on my life.

In April 1972, the New York Times Magazine published an article called “An 18-Year-Old Looks Back On Life,” by Joyce Maynard. That article got her a lot of fan mail, including mail from Salinger, which developed into a long correspondence and eventually, a romantic relationship. I think it takes a good writer to make an great writer go “wow” so I looked up the article and man, was I totally into it. First of all, you read the title and think “an 18-year-old looks back on life? How much experience can an 18-year-old really have?” But her article was just so well written and defines an era which I think makes it a really important piece. I was completely entertained, and with beautiful sentences such as “…we were torn — wanting to run for shelter but tempted, also, to sing in the rain,” who wouldn’t be? It’s quite lengthy and I hate reading articles and long posts online because I find it annoying that I can’t hold it, bring closer, make marks in the margins and be able to feel the pages between my fingertips, but this article kept me scrolling. I actually copied and pasted the article into a word document and considered printing it out until I realized it would use up a dozen sheets of my precious printer paper. I don’t think I could ever jump into the virtual book craze for these very reasons but then again I thought it was completely insane when TV shows were starting to be released on DVDs and that people would actually spend their hard-earned money on them. I mean c’mon! You can watch them on TV! But yeah, we’re now owners of more TV series on DVDs than I’d like to admit. My first purchase was the box set of My So-Called Life…and I justified that because you actually couldn’t watch it on TV anymore.

So without further adieu, if you have some spare time, I suggest reading Maynard’s article: http://www.nytimes.com/specials/magazine/seventies1.html If anything, I think it will prompt you to reflect on trends and important milestones and news events that happened while you were growing up…and that’s always fun.

A new acquaintance of mine wrote that “admitting your insecurities isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength.” And though it makes much sense, it’s sometimes hard to be strong when you know you’re weak.

I’ve been struggling greatly with self-doubt lately, mostly in the business areas of my life. I think I really felt it at the writer’s conference when I was among all of these seriously accomplished writers which I probably should’ve seen as inspiration but instead let it make me feel insecure. I have a degree in journalism but a passion for photography. Though the two definitely go hand-in-hand, I’m terribly worried about becoming a Jane of two trades and master of neither.

I picked up a book many moons ago called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles. It was in the Self-Help section which I never thought I’d find myself perusing. Never really gave it a chance but definitely felt the need to pick it up recently. It’s nicely set up in that it’s almost like a devotional…most of the suggestions/realizations fit on a page so it doesn’t have to be read chapters at a time for you to get anything out of it. As the one line review that is quoted on the cover suggests, it really is “a vital gem…a kick in the ass.”–Esquire.

Despite my self-deprication and nervousness which left my palms sweaty all day, my class (the one that I co-taught) at the conference went really well. They even applauded us at the end (out of pity, perhaps) but I’m sure the students could tell that I was terribly nervous off the bat. I’ve always thought that I wanted to teach, and still think that I do, but maybe next time to a group of students who are younger than me…I think the bulk of my nervousness was from standing in front of a group that was older which made me feel less authoritative. Also, I’m short. And sometimes that translates into making me feel small in other ways too.

There were a few notes that I jotted down from the keynote speaker, radio essayist, Janis Jaquith, not as writing tips but more of things to help you stay positive and realize that it’s ok if the majority don’t get what is that you’re trying to put out there. She spoke about “brain zaps,” which unofficially refers to what happens when you “get” what someone is trying to say…from the mind of the author to your mind, you get it. It zaps. And you re-read it, underline it, copy it into your Moleskine so that you can refer to it again later. Often times I have been afraid to write because really, who cares what I think. But Janice reassured me by simply saying:

“We write to connect to another mind,” and how as a writer (or really, any kind of artist) you amazingly “have a shot at life after death because your audience may not have been born yet…sometimes you’re just waiting for the right reader to come around at the right moment.”

Ironically I’ve recently been seeing a surge in posts/links/articles about self-doubt, tips to get you going (in photography) and I’m hoping these will help me get over this rut. In all honesty, I miss Brooklyn and the experiences it presented, but I think that had a lot to do with my amazing group of friends. It’s hard living miles away from your loved ones who inspire and push you and I have to admit I haven’t found anyone here that has lived up to the great friends that I have in NYC (my husband doesn’t count–he totally inspires me but I need my girlfriends here to talk about stickers and jelly beans too). As I wrap up this post though, I have received an email out of the blue from one of my bestest friends from the city asking if she could come visit me. I think she knew that I needed her even though we hadn’t really corresponded for a few weeks. I love it when you put something out there and just say it to yourself or say out loud to the world…and then all of the sudden you get a response. That happens to me a lot. And Jeff keeps telling me to say that I wish we had a million dollars. If only it really worked like that…

Roanoke Regional Writer’s Conference III — JANUARY 2010

So without further adieu, visit Dan’s blog (that’s my editor) to read a blurb on the class we’ll be conducting. And if you’re interested, check out the entire list of classes and presenters. While I was reading the bios of the presenters to see who I wanted to meet and take classes from I kind of jumped when I saw a photo of myself. This was a last minute addition to the schedule and I didn’t realize they’d have the chance to add me to the list. Or feel I was even important to mention. Surprise!

Even though this article was published months ago, it’s still a good read now. I’ve recently become a fan of the Opinionator Blog over at nytimes.com, and stumbled upon this lovely little piece while browsing the interwebs. Content and subject matter on the blog is all over the place since not only does everyone have an opinion, but everything gets an opinion, and rightfully so. Every now and then there are a few article gems that are just about life and lessons learned. Those are the ones that I like.

Click to read “The Joy of Less” by Pico Iyer: http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/07/the-joy-of-less

Edit: it’s actually the Happy Days portion of the Opinionator Blog that I adore which for some reason hasn’t been updated since November. I knew there was an easier way to sift through all of the other opinions and just realized it as a separate section of the blog.

From Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life, a book about getting a second chance at life the first time around:

I don’t wonder anymore what I’ll tell God when I go to heaven, when we sit in the chairs under the tree, outside the city.  I’ll tell him about Mike Barrow riding his bike into the Atlantic Ocean, and about Bob Goff and his family jumping off the dock, waving good-bye to world leaders as they left the lodge.  I’ll ask God if he remembers when I fell apart in the hotel room in Los Angeles, and he’ll look comfortingly at me and tell me he was there.  I’ll tell him about Jason and his family, about breaking ground on the orphanage in Mexico, and about my friends drilling wells in Africa.  I’ll tell him about The Mentoring Project, how quiet the kids are when they meet their mentors, and how we can’t get them to stop talking only a month later.  I’ll tell these things to God, and he’ll laugh, I think, and he’ll remind me of the parts I forgot, the parts that were his favorites.  We’ll sit and remember my story together and then he’ll stand and put his arms around me and say, “Well done,” and that he liked my story.  And my soul won’t be thirsty anymore.

Finally, he’ll turn, and we’ll walk toward the city, a city he will have spoken into existence, a city built in a place where once there’d been nothing.

Ah, spectator games. I never thought you’d get me. But this time you win. Even though my team didn’t.

Damn Yankees.

The Things I’ve Lost by Brian Arundel

Fleece hat and gloves: in the backseat of a Boston cab in 2002, before driving back to Maine. Round, purple sunglasses: in an Atlanta pool hall over drinks with Ashby, whose wife was determined to save their marriage by having a baby. A measurable dose of self-skepticism: at about 14, when I realized I was very good at both playing violin and baseball, while not necessarily everyone else was. A school-wide presidential election in sixth grade, after I was drafted to run by Mrs. Sticoiu, the most frightening teacher in the school, while I was out of town. A copy of The Little Prince, in Mrs. Sticoiu’s class the previous year. A floppy disk that contained my paper on ideological subversion in Wendell Berry, the first essay I’d written after returning to graduate school following a four-year respite. A black scarf from Pigalle: somewhere in Maine before moving west.

The chance to kiss Leslie Wertmann, and, later, that redhead in seventh grade with a smile that could buckle steel—Kim, Christine, or Kathleen maybe—and the blonde at the freshman dance because I couldn’t recognize flirtations, even when told that I looked like Bruce Springsteen. My virginity: in 1980, a couple weeks short of 16, in a ritual so brief, awkward and forgettable that I have, in fact, forgotten it. My heart, or so I thought, in 1985, when Susie dumped me; my naivete, three months later, when I learned that she’d slept with at least three other guys I knew while we’d been dating.

Belief that my mother was somehow more than human: in 1972, the first time I saw her fall down after getting drunk. Belief that my father was more than human: a few months beforehand, after learning that he’d had an affair and was being thrown out of the house. The belief that my sister was stable: 1976, when she began pointing at random objects and saying their names, a few months before getting arrested, the first of many times, for disturbing the peace by refusing to leave a Western Union office until they gave her a job. A ten-dollar bill on a DC subway in 1985, on my way home to my friend Tommy’s, where I was staying after leaving my father’s house—after he’d moved back in, once my mother remarried and moved south.

The chance, in 1986, to meet Raymond Carver: the only person invited to sit in on an interview, I instead drank all night with friends and overslept. A quarter-inch off the tip of my left thumb, in 1987, while slicing Muenster cheese on an electric Hobart slicer. My shit, figuratively, that same summer when Bob Weir sang “Looks Like Rain” just as my acid trip was peaking at a two-night Dead stand in Roanoke, Va. The Buick a friend had given me as a tax write-off in 1996, which I let someone take for a test drive without holding collateral.

The thought that officials were somehow more evolved than those who elect them: in 1972, listening to my father explain the Watergate burglary. Faith in politics—particularly a two-party system relegated to fundraising contests perpetuated by shallow sound bites, mudslinging and outright lies for the Mindless American Voter so that each party can pursue a majority with which to repress the other, with complete disregard for actually trying to improve the lives of citizens: gradually over time, culminating in 2000. Fundamental hope that Americans really would overcome their vacuity, fear and greed to evolve beyond sheep determined to re-elect George W. Bush: 2004.

The ability to drink until late at night and go to work the next day without feeling like I need to be zipped inside a body bag: sometime in my early thirties. General insecurity and inadequacy: during the past seven years, as I’ve tried to allow myself to be loved without guilt or judgment. Self-pity and -importance, at least most days, while striving to look beyond the borders of my own desires in a steady ascent that some might refer to as maturation. The desire to remain in this country: since 2004. A black beret: in a Minneapolis bar, just a few days before relocating to Georgia in 1993. A taste for soy sausage patties: inexplicably, sometime in the past six months, leading up to a Saturday brunch three weeks ago.