Publications

I’d been divorced twice and had a child out-of-wedlock. I was in no mood for marriage. I did want to date though. I fantasized I’d meet a man who wanted a long-term arrangement, without any formal commitment. This way, I reasoned to myself, I could avoid failure. I could avoid exposing my 8-year-old son to yet another disaster of a relationship. I had it all figured out. Still, I was picky. I had “The List” of qualities I wanted in this fictional no-marriage mystery man. The

I think of that day as the day I began to lose myself. To lose my body. In hindsight though, I must have been well-practiced in letting myself slip away by then, given all that had happened before, when my father was still around. But that was then, and this was now. And now, here I was diffusing myself, disappearing again. It was the day my mind joined my body in its departure, when my nine-year-old self thought: “I’m going to leave now, because this feels creepy.” I remembe

My son took his first breath. “It’s a boy!” the doctor and nurses shouted, laughing and smiling. They handed his premature, wriggling body to me. “Hello there,” I said, stroking his tiny face. I began to apologize, and promise. I apologized for the unusual circumstances surrounding his arrival. Lying there as I was, sans husband or partner, I hadn’t done pregnancy—and wouldn’t be doing parenthood—anywhere near what might be considered “traditionally.” In fact, his biological

We hadn’t performed together in over 35 years, but were about to go onstage. The 1979 Encina High School Madrigal Choir would sing again. The show had been in the works for months when Joe, a Madrigal tenor, had an idea. He’d been struggling after losing his wife to cancer and, as therapy, he’d been rummaging through cartons of memorabilia. Among the ticket stubs and photographs he found a 1980s-era boom box with an old cassette tape of a Madrigal concert. He pressed play. “I

One summer vacation, a stranger appeared at my family’s front door. It was 1960, the year before I was born, so I wasn’t there to see the puzzled look on my mother’s face as she absently ambled toward the rickety screen door. Dishtowel in hand, pushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead, she found herself face-to-face with a petite, disheveled young woman. She looked to be in her mid-20s. Behind her stood her equally rumpled husband, and four weary-looking, fidgety, and

Over the last year, as I’ve been crafting (and re-crafting) The Penny Book (as I am currently calling it), I’ve had the opportunity to travel.

Yes, I was young and impressionable when taking in lessons from my parents and early life. Viewing Penny's life through the lens of adulthood, with the perks of perspective and a greater sense of control, allows me to see more of the good.

As I lay there, listening to its groans, a sense of peace washes over me, even as my guts churn and tangle, knotting themselves into a gnarl. My hollow cavern of abdomen feels good, even if it doesn’t feel right. It feels good to overcome the emptiness, knowing I can’t fill it.

My father taught me how to drink. I was eight or nine. By then, I’d learned to detach from the physical me and send my soul hovering against the ceiling above us, a wispy cobweb of consciousness. It looked on, no matter how desperately I urged my curious soul to avert its gaze. The soul watched; the soul knew.

I ran across a quote from James Baldwin recently that caught my eye. Here it is: “Not everything that is faced can be changed; but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” I’ve been thinking a lot about this concept, considering my own history, the things I have looked at head-on, and, as a result, what has (or hasn’t!) changed.

While our son is on vacation, my husband and I are watching his dog, Sassy. She’s been through a lot in her eight years on this earth: multiple litters of puppies in a puppy mill, a couple of surgeries, many teeth pulled…and who knows what else? As a result, she’s a little slow to trust, just like our Penny was when she first came to us.

I’ve got opinions and beliefs – about myself and others – that no longer have a place in my soul.

I’m just about to start Chapter 7 of The Penny Book, as I am affectionately calling it. What’s interesting is how I am discovering what the book is about and what each chapter really means…as I write it... about begging for love.

Is it any easier or harder to reconcile the loss of a person through their choices and their behavior, rather than their physical death?

My words feel inadequate. Even as a type them, I feel shame lodging in my throat. I know it’s misplaced.

I've been trying to recall what traditions my family had when I was growing up, and wondering if "traditions" are the stuff of only the privileged few.

When I can really stop and feel the remaining vestiges of his abuse, I can also feel compassion for myself. When I can feel compassion for myself, I can extend that to others. When I feel compassion and empathy for others, I’m a better person. The world is a slightly better place.

I wondered what Penny would think of Sassy, whom we immediately saw as her much smaller doppelganger.

A “runaway” with a checkered past of multiple rejections, Penny showed clear signs of trauma. As you might imagine, I could relate and felt a connection to her right away.

Some of my favorite moments of writing Wreckage really have nothing to do with the writing process itself. What stands out most is the unexpected connections with and reactions of others who have heard certain essays.