Write On

Chapter 3 I got first oboe, which means I sit at the head of the row and pretty much lead the section.  There are only four oboists in the whole orchestra, so it isn’t that big of a deal, really, but I practiced super hard, and I’m relieved.  I would have been mortified to be beaten by a seventh grader. When we were in fifth grade, Mrs. Gallagher, the middle school music teacher, gave a presentation about all the different band and orchestra instruments kids could learn the next year.  One after another, she held them up, and then she played the chorus of that sappy song about hearts going on from the movie Titanic so we could hear how they sounded different from one another.  In the middle of the assembly, I realized that one single lady knew how to play all those instruments—from brass to woodwinds to strings.  Watching her, I felt like twenty different languages were floating around in her head all at once.  She knew how to speak trombone and viola and ...

 Here's a link . I try not to make my essays too long, not only because it's exhausting to write them, but also out of consideration for my reader's time. In this essay, I didn't have a lot to say about the novel, other than I liked it, but the book made me think about other ways that stories of migration have captured my imagination. I also wanted to pair all that with my evolving relationship with Mexico. (I leave out one related chapter about that, because to include it would make this a super long piece, and I am not sure it works as it is.) 

  My son Alex is 11 years old. He has no friends.   He has never had any friends.  Well, he has his older brother, and his older brother’s friends have often been kind and sometimes even inclusive when they were all young enough to still have some reasonably overlapping interests and abilities. But the developmental age gap widened mercilessly each year.  Then we had to move in with my parents, across the country,  in California because Alex was just too sick for me to care for him properly while holding down a job.  We lost our New York City tribe of supportive families; those loving beings and their children who had embraced and included Alex from the time of his infancy.  And so, Alex is left behind.  Alex is left out.  Alex is left alone.  With me.  His only friend.  And in a lot of ways, I don’t count. Because I’m a 45 year old woman. And because I’m his mother. And I’m simply not a satisfactory sole playma...

 Here is the link  

May 15, 2021 Hi fellow women writers, I'm currently in Phonix with my family. What was supposed to be the long awaited post-vax reunion turned into a family emergency when my Mom received a completely-out-of-the-blue cancer diagnosis the day before my flight out of JFK. As I'm helping my family navigate this, I am filled with thoughts and zero ability to translate it into words. But, it is important that I stay tethered in anyway possible and continuing with this group is something I can make room for emotionally. I recently took a 4 week songwriting workshop with singer songwriter, Jill Sobule. She is as good a teacher as she is an artist. Jill is a lovely positive human. Her class brings together all ranges of experience and ages. I enthusiastically recommend it as a creative jumpstart. I've never used those creative muscles before and it was such a low stakes, warm, and welcoming environment. Complete other end of the spectrum of the art group critiques I had to weather ...

  “Not haunted, huh?” Christine released her grip on my arm. “Not even a little bit.” Becca flipped a light switch, and a dusty bare bulb in the ceiling gave off a dim glow.  She nodded toward the staircase.  “Upstairs is still a jumble, but let’s see if Mama’s got that wall down.” We followed Becca through a living room plastered with gaudy, floral wallpaper.  The frizzy halo of broken hairs atop her head brushed low wooden beams, catching the light and waving like sea anemones in underwater movies.  Despite the pastel 1980’s vibe, the room had an old built-in corner cupboard and a huge fireplace surrounded by more of that painted wood.  My mom is a nut for “original period details,” and from the looks of it, the Jesse house was jam packed with them.  Paneling crawled into the dining room, framing another fireplace big enough for two Santas to come down at once. A cheesy brass chandelier threw off just enough light to keep us from running into the fur...

 I am hoping you can access this " secret draft."