Hello. It's so good to see you.

Exactly three weeks after I took a tumble and smashed my face into concrete (see previous post) I had to have a new author head shot taken for pre-publicity for my new book (shameless self-promotion: Love Water Memory, out April 2, 2013). Yes, in August I needed a photo of ME for a book not coming out until April.


I'd been postponing with the photographer all three weeks as bruises turned purple, green, then yellow, as road rash scabbed and flaked, as skin beneath came red and angry to the surface. As swelling subsided. As my wounded self regained confidence.


When I was a tiny kid, two, three-ish, I became desperately frightened of cameras, of the flash bulbs, particularly. All photos of me from that era show me screaming and red-faced, teary eyed and snot nosed, holding my arms over my face as though the camera is going to explode in it.


By five I seemed to have recovered and marched joyously to the little seat in front of the big standing camera for my kindergarten shot. I was wearing a dress I loved, blue with white and red polka dots, and at the last minute I decided my pixie bangs would look far more stylish swept to the side. The photo turned out darn cute, but my mom was not happy with my impromptu hairstyling.


I became increasingly self conscious in school photos, as adolescents do, but by the time it was senior picture time, I was determined to look sexy and serious, grown up. All things I was not. Unbeknownst to me, I'd eaten tainted chicken at a friend's house the week before and was in the beginning throes of salmonella, which accounts for the sweaty pale face, but even that was okay because I was wearing my denim halter dress. Or rather my sister's denim halter dress. I mostly filled it out.


When we got the proofs (which took about as long back then as it did for the salmonella to have its evil way with me before retreating), I chose the one I loved: me, sitting in the grass, leaning back on one elbow, nostrils flared, not smiling, but dead sexy. My pasty complexion was camouflaged by the filtered light of tree leaves.

My mother hated it. "This one looks like you," she said, indicating the goofiest of the bunch, me with a big toothy smile, full face, my hair all weird, the sexiness of the dress cropped out. "You can have the one you want for the yearbook, but I'm ordering this one to hang on the wall."

Of course, when the yearbook came out, guess which photo appeared. I was crushed. I'd so desperately wanted to look like someone I was not. Thus began an adulthood of hating photos of myself, of being too critical, of stiffening up so much in front of them that I did that weird snarl-smile thing that Chandler did on Friends in the episode about his not being photogenic.

And now I need to have photos taken regularly, because that is what authors do, for book jackets and websites. I had to figure out how to smile in front of a camera, just a natural smile, just a friendly face for readers to connect with. And this is what occurred to me, finally. We are beautiful to those we love (as they are to us). So I started looking into camera lenses as though I was looking into the eyes of someone I loved, smiling at them they way I would upon seeing them for the first time in a long time.

Hello, I think, looking into the lens. I love you. It's so good to see you.

When a Wheel Comes Off

Sister S and I woke at dawn on Friday to catch our flight with sister C to visit our youngest sister, T. But before we even left for the airport, C called, sounding cruddy. "I've been up all night," she moaned. "I'm sick. I can't go." We tried but couldn't book a later flight for her; everything was full. And after six months of planning! So S and I went anyway, but it felt all wrong.

We were a little red wagon with one wheel missing. The four of us have been together in life for over 50 years now, and were heading to Florida to celebrate that fact, it being the year of T's 50th birthday. But without C, we wobbled. 

When S, T and I met up at the hotel, we collectively fretted. Should we have rescheduled? When we canceled her flight, should we have kept the return flight, in case she could make it later? We walked on the beach, had drinks by the pool, went out for dinner, but it felt as if we were cheating on her, somehow. "C would love this," we said at the beach drum circle, at the warm turquoise rise of the sea. C has always been our Sister of the Outrageous, in word and adventure, our party starter. Without her, we were a little on the quiet side.

Like most sisters, we have our issues and grievances, old wounds and irritations. We've had fights and riffs and snits, but even so, that's how we are together and we seem to have found a way to be ourselves now, inside of all that, and to accept each other. Ours may be an imperfect container with a few cracks and bumps, a little plastering over in spots, but still, we it's ours. We're as familiar with each other's pet peeves and needs and quirks as we are our own. We know that S will need naps and T will have difficulty making decisions, and I will be bossy, among many other annoying behaviors I've accumulated in life, but without C's off-color language in, say, a restaurant, it just wouldn't be right.

Within hours, she'd booked a flight for the next day, hoping she'd feel well enough to make it. She would arrive at 9 pm or so. "Don't wait for dinner," she said, though we wanted to. So, after our dinner out, the three of us went shopping, procuring C's favorite beer—Corona with lime—then headed back to the hotel to wait for her. As her arrival time drew closer, we called room service.

When she arrived, you'd have thought she'd come back from the dead. "C's here!" we exclaimed, rushing out into the hallway. "We have beer! And a cheeseburger and fries!" Paltry offerings for her first night in Florida, but C didn't care that she'd missed anything. She just seemed happy to be squished into our hotel room, the three of us watching her eat and talking about what we'd seen and done that day, what we could see and do the next. 

We clinked beers and breathed a collective sigh of relief, all of us. Now we could get this party started.

Heaven for Women Writers

As posted today by the good folks at Open Road Media Group, publisher of Hotel Angeline: A Novel in 36 Voices, a collaborative novel by the members of Seattle7Writers (my peeps).

 Hedgebrook, a Women’s Writing 

Community—Advantage, Female

Editor’s Note: Author Jennie Shortridge (When She Flew and other novels) speaks out on behalf of Women’s History Month. Jennie is a co-curator and contributor behind the epic, inventive novel Hotel Angeline: A Novel in 36 Voicesand a co-founder of the Seattle7Writers.

The conversation over wine in our seriously awesome (and mixed gender) Seattle7Writers group might go like this:

Female writer: “I just got back from Hedgebrook and it was incredible.”
Male writer: “Oh god, here we go . . .”

Another female writer: “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go! I need to apply next year.”

A third female writer: “It was the best writing experience of my life!” Male writer: “Why do women get a whole writers’ retreat to themselves? It’s 2012, for crying out loud.”

Yes, he’s jealous. Hedgebrook on nearby Whidbey Island is indeed a writing retreat and community for women only. It opened in 1987 under the direction and vision of Nancy Nordhoff and Sheryl Feldman. Hedgebrook provides six sweet, small, well-appointed cabins; forty acres of forest and farmland to wander; a rugged beach nearby; and a farmhouse kitchen for delectable family-style suppers using local Northwest ingredients. Each participant shares all this with five other women and can talk about writing together. In a word? It’s heaven. And to those female residents from around the world who are chosen from the ever-growing pool of applicants, it’s free.

Why women only? While the founders and staff feel a personal passion for supporting women writers in this very generous way, I know that others think our society should be beyond that by now. Women in 2012, after all, have taken their place alongside men in the working world (um, still for less pay), in the political world (in numbers still slim), and in the arts (again, still for less pay in most cases, and in terms of reviews and attention, nowhere near equal).

But that’s only part of the conundrum facing women in the creative arts. Forget that we don’t get the reviews and attention, the larger advances. We’re used to all that, as much as we continue to work to change it. What we don’t get in life (as many women will agree) is a wife! What we don’t get is someone who anticipates our needs well enough to leave our minds open to creative pursuit (though well-meaning partners often try). We still nurture and nourish our loved ones, fitting in our writing around them, and often a job to boot. It’s not in our biological makeup to ignore the needs of others, thus making it only our fault that we put our creative endeavors aside to help.

And that, Virginia, is why I believe in Hedgebrook.

At Hedgebrook, your small cabin has just enough of everything to maximize comfort and minimize housework: one plate, one bowl, one coffee mug, one wine glass, one pan . . . and yet the resident writers are also challenged to use a small wood stove for heat (with supplemental heat available), to visit a bathhouse for bathing (heated tile floors, two roomy showers, a clawfoot tub—it’s hardly a challenge), and to integrate with the natural world in so doing, walking from cabin through thick forest along old animal trails, often in complete darkness. And when it gets dark on Whidbey Island, it can feel like being in the center of a black hole for city slickers. (Yes, flashlights are provided, as are toilets and sinks in each cabin.) In the journals that record each resident’s experience, found in each cabin, the stories are rife with newbie anxieties and missteps, but more so, the final reflective thoughts on these writers’ last days at Hedgebrook. Even experienced and famous writers discover what it was they came for, whether they knew they were looking for it or not. In real life, women rarely get the time and space to even think in those  terms.

For me, the thing I didn’t know I went looking for was myself—my own authentic voice in my work, after nearly seventeen years of working in the world of “what it takes to get published.” It wasn’t that it wasn’t there, but my trust in it had grown shaky. The publishing world is a tough place to maintain your own creative vision, but if you don’t, why write? It came to me in so many small details at Hedgebrook: the way light broke through tall trees to spill across my desk, a cold wind-snapping walk on the beach in search of sand dollars, the laughter and wisdom of the other women in the room at supper. And finally, the two does who stood outside my cabin on the snowy morning I had to leave, just watching me with big deer eyes, saying, “Pay attention. Take this with you.”

It’s a gift everyone should receive, regardless of gender, of course. But I’ll revel in the fact that because I’m a woman who takes my writing seriously, Hedgebrook gave it to me.

Sometimes Things Go Wrong

Sometimes, they go terribly wrong. The worst thing happens. And it's the holidays, which somehow weights bad news with heavier lead than in, say, summer, or spring. Maybe it's because we know we will think forevermore, "Thanksgiving = Mom dying," or "Christmas was when that drunk driver ruined our lives."

My mom died 21 years ago, not on any holiday. I've not been in a horrific car accident this month, nor has anyone I know. But something has gone wrong, terribly wrong, and it's private. The thing that was never supposed to happen did, as happens in life, and I'm old enough to know that, well, shit happens. To all of us. At any moment. In spite of holidays.

This isn't a plea for sympathy or prayers. This is a statement of fact, and I say it only because I know that sometimes things go wrong for you, too. At the worst possible time. The thing that was never going to happen didn't care that you ate green leafy vegetables or sprinkled salt on the icy sidewalk or sent your son to the best doctor in the city. It happened anyway.

So let us just stand together silently, those of us with these wrong things happening, and be solid in our conviction: This is a part of my life, just as happiness and good events are. It does not change who I am even though it makes me horribly sad or angry or frightened. I'll curse and cry and mope and wallow, and I'll get through it. I will still find joy in life, take breaks from awfulness, and ask for help and support and love and talking and forgetting when I need to.

And I'll notice all the things going right all around me. Every day.

Thankful

For long slow mornings, for words on the page, for the tiny hands of yellow red maple leaves in my office window, for the smell of coffee lingering in the rest of the house. For time spent chatting with friends about very little, for important talks and hard discussions, for quiet solitude and rain hitting the skylight late at night. For all the love that has come and gone, for the love that remains, and the love to come. For crisp cold air and the smell of apples, the crunch of leaves, the early streetlights, the bright moon, the fog that obscures it. For friends who make me laugh, who lift me, who save me from myself, who understand, who don't understand but try to. For songs that make me sad, because they remind me what is important. For songs that make me happy, because joy is always available. For you, and for you, and for you, and did I say, you? And yes, for you, too. Thank you.

Hey 19

Yes, I know that if you're reading this you're more likely to be the parent of a 19-year-old than 19 yourself. But then you also know of the wisdom I'm about to impart. Pass it on to all the pre-olds you know, the pre-wrinkled and pre-arthritic, the pre-age-spotted and yet-to-be-disappointed-by-their-lives.

Because some of this stuff doesn't have to happen. The age spots? Preventable. The chronic aching back? Preventable. If we could turn back the clock and take better care of ourselves, we would. And yet we can't (and would our young selves listen, anyway?) Will these pre-olds listen? Perhaps if we showed them photos of our lined and freckled decolletages, our spotty hands. Our monthly output for Advil and massage appointments, laser appointments to remove the age spots, therapy to deal with not dealing with problems when we were young.

Perhaps not. But we can try. Here are my suggestions for aging a bit more gracefully and happily than the rest of your friends. (Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments.)

1. You know that dumb spoken song about using sunscreen? It's not dumb. It's so fucking true. Slather it not only on your face every day, but on the tops of your hands, your neck, your chest. Anywhere you don't want to be spotty and leathery one day.

2. In fact, any skin care you do for your face, do for those exact same areas, for they are exposed to the sun and elements the most, and end up looking the oldest. Thinking I'm being alarmist? Look at any old person naked. You will find that the parts of their body that have always been protected by clothing look young and supple, while their hands, necks, faces, shoulders, chests, look old. It's freaky.

So how awesome would it be if you protected your face with a hat (hey, they're fashionable!) and your chest with a scarf when in direct sunlight? You can still wear low-cut slut clothes (they are fun, I know) but just cover up a little when no one's actually looking.

3. Working out is good for you to a point, and I'm not talking to the couch potatoes, here, I'm talking to the gym rats, like me, who pound away in step classes and on machines, and with kettel bells and all of that high impact stuff, because you're young enough to get away with it, for now. And I'm here to say: STOP. Think twice about putting that much pressure and impact on joints and ligaments and body parts that have to last a lifetime.

Sure, you look great now, but you are going to hurt, all the time, later. Instead of waiting until you're fifty to stretch or do yoga, do it now. Try swimming instead of kick-boxing, biking instead of running, or at least running on grass instead of pavement. (A good walk is a good thing.) Do more reps with lighter weights instead of fewer reps with heavy weights. Long lean muscle is beautiful. Short bunchy muscle turns to flab when you get lazy, later. Truly. And you WILL get lazy later. Or too busy, or too stressed, to work out. Poll everyone you know over 30. Do they still work out religiously? Um . . . no. But they're going to, just as soon as they get less busy, less stressed out . . .

And did I mention the pain? All those little injuries you incur now come back to haunt you later, and there isn't enough ibuprofen in the world to make you feel the way you did pre-injury, pre-impact, pre-torn-cartilage and herniated disk.

4. Wear the most awesome revealing clothing you can, right now. Wear it all the time. Take lots of photos of yourself. Even if you think you look horrid now, save them. Do not delete! Tuck them away for a rainy day when you're 40 or 50 or 60, when you will realize how incredibly hot and gorgeous you were then.

5. Do not look at older people and think, "I'll never be like that." You will be like that. EXACTLY like that. No one gets out of this thing not getting old and decrepit unless they die young. And that sucks more.

6. Do not look at older people and think that they wish they were like you. They don't. They look at you and think, "Oh god, I remember being that young and dumb, and making really stupid mistakes, and not appreciating my youth, and thinking I knew everything." I'm not making this up. We are not saying it as sour grapes. We mean it. We like most of being old, just as you like most of being young.

7. Appreciate everything. Be thankful for the job you're fired from, because you will discover much better things down the road. Be thankful your parents and siblings and friends are still alive and with you, every day. Be thankful that some of your dreams crash and burn, because out of them, your real life emerges. Be thankful you have such a long lovely road in front of you to dream about. All of a sudden—after 20, 30, 40 years have passed—it will have all felt so fast.

8. Do what makes you happy. Whether it's a job, the place you live, the person you mate with, the group of friends you keep, make decisions based on what you love, not what you should do. The hardest thing to reconcile when you are no longer young are the years you let yourself be unhappy.

How to Eat

Food manifestos are not new. I love Michael Pollan’s simple rules for eating only those things that come to us from the earth, not from packaging. I love the phrase “Life is short; eat dessert first.” Food means so many things to we humans that the “rules” are often conflicting. In my second novel, Eating Heaven, the main character Ellie is a food writer with food issues. By the end of a story fraught with figuring out her past, her present, and her unhealthy relationship to food, she figures a few things out. See if Ellie’s 7 simple rules for eating make sense to you, too.

How to Eat

by Eleanor Samuels

Why do most women in our country have an obsession with food, the eating as well as the not eating of it? We gladly feed others, yet we struggle with our own hunger. Is food a panacea to fill our empty souls? Have we lost touch with something vital—say, self-fulfillment, or even just self-acceptance—and all we can do is medicate ourselves with the pleasure of fat and calories (or heaven forbid, carbohydrates)? On the other hand, if we don’t eat and lose weight, might someone love us more? If we’re hungry and our stomachs growl, are we more virtuous than if we’re full and satisfied?

I’m just one woman, with my own variations on the female love-hate relationship with food, but I say, let’s start a revolution. Let’s make food simply food again, sustenance and nourishment, and fun when the occasion calls for it. From here on out, I will try my best to live by these seven secrets of the sane and happily well fed:

1. Eat when you’re hungry, and don’t when you’re not.

2. Eat food that tastes good. Period. No exceptions.

3. Eat food that leaves you sated instead of waiting for the next allotment.

4. Eat food that nourishes your soul as well as your body. Consider it a spiritual quest.

5. Savor every bite. Enjoy every meal. If you’re not fully aware and appreciative of what you’re eating, you’re just wasting it.

6. Eat with friends, with people you love, or with your own good company—anyone who appreciates food, drink, and good conversation as much as you do. (This would not include a TV set.)

7. If you start worrying about eating, stop it. Be happy you can eat.

Face Time

Today I will drive three hours south from Seattle (in autumn-leaf colored fog) to Portland, where tonight I'll hang out at Rain City Coffee. The owner, Karen, is having a community book group there to chat about my book, When She Flew. The important word in that sentence is "community."

This is what books do in the 21st century: they create community. This is what coffee shops—and bookstores, and libraries, and theatres, and galleries—do. We are a society yearning for connection, and we seem to be finding it mostly online these days. Even though I'm telling you this online, what I'm really saying is: come out. Come out of your office, your house, and walk your neighborhood. Have coffee with a friend. Talk about something other than how busy you are.

People ask me why I still visit book groups when I could just as well call in with Skype (which was what I was going to do for this one). Skype has, indeed, been a wonderful way to communicate with readers and friends all over the country (and world, as half of my relatives are Australian). But when it comes to community, there's nothing like being there.

Today I'm going out into the world, to feel the fog envelope me, and to watch trees whizzing by on the highway, to park on the damp streets of Portland in the early dark of late October, and to enter a light-filled shop with espresso machines hissing, people chattering and laughing, a sense of all being in one place for an hour or two to do something meaningful together.