Books were the magic of my youth. No matter how rocky the waters outside their pages, I could always find the solace of hope within them.
Books whispered to me, "What's to come needn't be a continuation of what is."
I grew up. I built a life so full of inspiration I didn't need it from stories anymore.
I read less and less.
[ read more & enter to win a copy of my first novel;
for still another chance to win, click here ]
I’m going to be a superhero.
I learned quickly that many adults didn’t consider this a valid answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
That didn’t mean I stopped dreaming about it, or planning the glory days to come with my just-younger sister. It only meant I stopped telling adults about it, and learned to throw them off the scent with an ever-changing sequence of what I thought might be good day jobs.
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This Christmas, Silver Star struck again!
Not his tricycle, but he tries riding it anyway
As a lover of words, I’m fascinated by my son’s growing ability to manipulate them.
Most of the time, new words and ideas trickle out of him. Sometimes, though, they come in a flood that bowls me right over.
This morning started out ordinary enough. Li’l D offered up one of his books and asked me to read it. He snuggled against me and messed with the book’s hidden text flaps while I read.
Afterward, he left his room and met “Daddy” in the hallway. “Whewhenade, Daddy!” he said, before taking a step toward the kitchen.
He’d barely finished speaking when he froze and whirled. “Stay here, Daddy!” he commanded.
Daddy stayed put, but that wasn’t good enough. Li’l D pushed him back toward the bedrooms and commanded even more loudly, “Stay here, Daddy!”
I made Li’l D a small breakfast, following which he emerged into the living room and gaped at the mess of toys strewn on its opposite side.
“Mommy, who took the toys out?!” he asked.
Daddy, now permitted in his proximity, answered, “You did, last night!” I echoed the sentiment, which Li’l D rejected.
“Who took the toys out?” he repeated.
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This Hanukkah will be my third as a mother and my second as a Jew.
Before I converted, I strove to observe Shabbat and the High Holy Days but pretty much ignored Hanukkah. It was just a minor folk holiday, after all!
Last year, my son, Li’l D, was barely a year old as Hanukkah approached. He was too young to appreciate it fully, but I found myself thinking about its celebration more and more as it approached.
I realized that “minor folk holiday” would be one he’d enjoy celebrating in his young years. By laying a joyous and loving foundation of Judaism for him throughout the year and including Hanukkah, I’d be helping instill in him the same passion that inspired me to embrace the faith.
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RAWR.
What is something that you did on Survivor that you thought you would never have the courage to do?
Get on the boat and do it. Seriously, I was aching to do it, but I didn’t know how scared out of my mind I’d be until I got on the boat in the middle of the Pacific and start paddling. And yes, it is something frightening in the back of your mind to think that you’re out in the middle of the ocean, no life vest, sharks and about 3 miles between you and land—and only a flimsy catamaran between you and the cold water. Yeah.
Oh, and what is the ONE item that you wish you had brought with you that you didn’t?
Oh, I brought it, I just didn’t get to use it: A journal and notebook. It was my luxury item, but my tribe didn’t win that challenge, so no go. It was too bad. I would have probably been a little more even keel if I’d had it. Or a camera. Yeah.
Looking for the menorah, it was the Christmas tree I found first.
My breath caught when I saw that Christmas tree again. My first year lighting my own menorah was my last year opening presents beside a Christmas tree in my mom’s house.
How could I have forgotten that convergence? Even for a second?
I stared at that Christmas tree and remembered the first time I saw it. One of my sisters had sent me a picture of it, newly decorated and standing alone in front of a window through which I’d spent countless hours gazing. Watching for Mom. Watching our garage sale. Watching the rain and wondering if I dared hope for sunnier days.
Our last tree there.
I cried. As I cried, the voice my brother refers to as my inner Spock whispered, “Your response is illogical. Because of your mom’s mental illness, it’s been years since you’ve sat beside a Christmas tree there. You’re Jewish now, besides. So what does this tree have to do with anything?”
It has to do with history.
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My brain is normally a hubbub of philosophical meanderings interrupted by errant to-do list items and real-world attention-grabbers.
The last week or so, contemplation has been displaced by straightforward compulsive thinking.
About my nephew. The one whose ETA was Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving was Thursday. It’s Sunday evening now. There is 100% less nephew-o’-Deb in this world than I’d like to see right now–or, better still, right three days ago.
OK, nephew. You've built up your suspense. Deliver already!
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Follow the link to read yesterday’s guest post:
My little man & “mama” me-a
No better time for books than bedtime!
After my weekend posts on bullying, I meant for my next post to be tomorrow’s sweet, uplifting guest post about a day in my life with Li’l D.
It was to the sounds of my tiny man’s morning stirrings that I stumbled upon this article about ten-year-old Jasmine McClain’s suicide last week.
My heart just about stopped at these words:
“I just lost it because she took her last breath in my arms.”
And I knew as I listened to my son’s sounds that I had one more thing left to say on the subject of abuse, of which bullying is a form:
IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT YOU ARE ABUSED.
It is okay to talk about. It should be talked about.
As I posted in a comment on Facebook:
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I do not understand how parents can see pictures of kids like Ashlynn Conner and still say “kids are just being kids.” How can any parent not imagine what it would be like to never hold their own child again, over something that could–and should–have been stopped a hundred times over?
Taunt. Bully. Beat. Molest.
Ugly words for uglier actions, all inspired by the same beast: want of power.
These words aren’t just words for me. They’re images and memories, heartbreak and resolve.
When I hear the word “bullying,” I think of the parents who told my mom she was a horrible mom, comfortably and confidently in the vicinity of me and their own children.
When their children taunted and belittled in turn, it was hardly surprising. Like parent, like child.
It was clear to me that it boiled down to power. “Power” was being able to do these horrible things and just call it the natural order of things.
Someday, I vowed, I would be so powerful no one would dare try establishing dominion over me by coercion or cruelty.
I was in sixth grade the last time I was bullied by anyone who knew me.
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Tori (The Ramblings) snared me immediately with her simultaneously exuberant and deeply considered posts. This combination of traits, only seldom seen traveling as such constant companions in the wilds of blogland, is enthralling enough, but do you suppose the magic stops there?
Not a chance! The fact she’s having her blog readers help plan her wedding is sure to have you wanting to know more, and be a part of that joy.
Recommended post: R & R (And R)
Take a Sip
“For myself I am an optimist – it does not seem to be much use being anything else.” - Sir Winston Churchill
I stood at the mouth of the ocean. The salt brushed loose from the breeze. Sand wrapped my toes. A baby babbled in the background. Just hushing wave, a child’s laughter, hushing wave, whirling winds, a child’s brilliant happiness. This is the best kind of lullaby, I thought. I love everything here.
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I started TMiYC as a writing blog, only to find I had little patience for writing such a thing. TMiYC thus became a writer’s blog.
I started TMiYC’s Facebook page as a place to post links to new blog entries. I did that for several weeks before From the Bungalow “pimped” me on his page one Wednesday, introducing me to a bunch of people who’d never have found TMiYC otherwise—and vice versa!
In both cases, I started with one purpose only to abandon that purpose to something more important: the joy of connecting with others at a level beyond that afforded by casual conversation.
Some of the sweetest connections have been with other bloggers. One such blogger read something I’d written as an 18-year-old and wrote words so sweet I barely knew how to reply:
I thought on those words for a little while. When I’d finally regained my ability to manipulate words, I replied with a new status:
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“I’m nothing if not a willpower machine.”
These adorable words appeared in my May entry “Accountability, activate!”
In that entry, I proclaimed that I was really, finally going to heed my doctor’s admonitions about eating right for my reflux problem. I’d made myself accountable to you, my dear readers, and that meant there was no going back.
For almost two entire weeks, I stuck to my plan like a boss.
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Elizabeth Wakefield, identical twin protagonist of a few hundred Sweet Valley books, is blonde, blue-eyed and size 6.
I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
Wait, you don’t think it’s because of what I wrote above, do you?
Of course it isn’t! Well, the absolutely splendiferous nature of her childhood was appealing, but there was something else about Elizabeth that evoked a yearning in me.
She wanted to be a writer.
My first author interview goes live at Literary Escapism tomorrow.
I’m excited.
I’m terrified.
But I’m definitely excited.
As well as terrified.
I think you get the picture.
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Kasey (Single Working Mom) writes about life exactly as she lives it, addressing maddening, depressing and uplifting matters alike with candor and grace. What gets written on her blog is only half the magic of following her blog, though; the remainder falls into the equally candid email exchanges we would never have begun but for her blog! I am always delighted to read her words, no matter which forum they reach me through.
Recommended post: A Visit with Dad
Seven Days
All week long I was living in the town of Anxiety. Stressed to the gills about taking my daughter, Maycee, down to Grandma’s for the rest of the week, while she was sick, for a “vacation” we had planned long ago before summer began. She had a myriad of illnesses hit her at one time, two emergency room visits; I had already missed two days of work, preparing myself to miss more if her fever didn’t subside. After a follow-up visit with the pediatrician, ear infection was gone, her fever was denounced as not much to worry about, and the cold, well, it was just a cold. With the game plan in place to proceed with grandma’s visit if the doc said all systems go, we were in the car, bags packed with Blanky, Bluey, and Crystal Kitty, heading south to meet her dad for pickup and transport. Maycee was excited to be going, ready to have some change of scenery after four days couch-ridden at home, but within a short amount of minutes she was crashing out in the back seat, tired and plainly spent.
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Dear newly-30-year-old Deb, writer of the letter just below this one,
My, were you cute! Not as cute as on your first birthday, of course, but you had at least one adorable misconception in your 30th birthday letter.
You’d finished editing your first novel? Really? I love you, but it’s a good thing your slightly-older self has more sense than enthusiasm!
Well, once in a while, anyway.
Most of the other stuff stands as written. In fact, you’ll be delighted to learn that the thanks and love you wrote about below will not only grow but redouble. You’ll meet new people, offline and online, reacquaint yourself with lost friends and create a whole new human being who will show you just how completely and deeply you can love, no matter how broken you felt in the past.
You will also, by the way, actually finish editing your first novel. You’ll publish it because you feel that doing so is an important part of honoring your mom, and you’ll be right.
You’ll write another novel, which will be much better than anything that preceded it on account of your lack of desire to spend another 6,000 hours editing entire chapters that shouldn’t have been written in the first place.
You will still get stuff wrong, but you’ll get some stuff right, too.
You’ll lose to cancer the mom who used to call you her “best birthday present ever,” and you’ll struggle for a long time after her death to make peace both with yourself and the hardships of her life.
Ultimately, you’ll come to understand that your mom’s presence is most strongly with you when you remember her with laughter instead of sorrow. You’ll hold your own baby and understand death is no reason to stop celebrating life.
I should’ve prefaced this all with a spoiler alert, huh? My bad!
You probably won’t read this anyway.
But you know what? I still love you.
And it just keeps getting better.
Love,
You, three years after your 30th birthday email
—– Original Message —-
From: Deborah Lea
To: Deborah Lea
Sent: Thursday, October 30, 2008 1:25:25 AM
Subject: Birthday #30
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Byron MacLymont (The Byronic Man) has a gift for making people laugh. I base this not only on an official survey of millions–specifically, myself and my S.O., Ba.D.–but also other peoples’ comments on his blog.
As if inspiring laughter weren’t enough, Byron i’s also a brain surgeon, a former Olympic kick-boxer and bench-presser-of-adult-bulls. He modestly claims in his bio that he can bench-press only one, but I see right through this artifice, mostly because he bestowed upon his subscribers the gift of seeing through artifice.
Sadly, his other superpowers are non-transerable.
Byron’s greatest power of all is his ability to take time out from his busy schedule of crime-fighting and penning Cyrano de Bergerac to share beautiful, heartfelt truths in ways that fill a reader’s eyes with tears and heart with wonder. Like most awesome superpowers, this is one best used sparingly to emphasize just how powerful it is, and Byron uses it accordingly.
I am honored he has chosen, this time, to use it at TMiYC.
Recommended post: Life: The Yelp Reviews
A Moment of Clarity
Yesterday, October 27th, was my 10-year wedding anniversary. It’s a little difficult to even comprehend that that is true. In part because it doesn’t seem possible that it’s been 10 whole years, in part because it doesn’t seem possible that there was a time before her, and in part because nothing – I mean nothing – in my previous track record suggests that this would be a possibility.
The longest relationship I had before this one was six months. I had several that lasted six months, but they all ended at that point, like clockwork. I won’t go so far to say that I am totally responsible for the end of all of them, but I wouldn’t scoff or get immediately indignant at the suggestion, either. I didn’t know much, but I knew I liked being the white knight; being adored. I also, like many young men, loved the chase. I also think that I was so unsure of who I was that I kind of panicked when someone was getting to know the actual me, instead of the version of me I tried to put forward. The guy underneath the glistening armor, if you’ll pardon the hackneyed metaphor. Whatever the impetus, it involved either bad choices, or choices handled badly.
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I was sold before I’d read a single word of Shannon‘s blog.
But how could that be? Easy: I’d seen the blog’s title, “Mynewfavoriteday.“
Over the months I’ve followed Mynewfavoriteday, I’ve read about Shannon’s fears and anxieties parenting her two-year-old twins, whose arrival twelve weeks early has led to challenges she’s faced bravely and graciously. I’ve felt less alone for the unflinching way she addresses her life’s challenges and blessings alike in her determination to make each new day her favorite day.
It’s this kind of transparency that illuminates the strength in choosing joy.
The fact Shannon’s a fellow Oregon girl–and University of Oregon Duck!–once-lived in Japan and now-living in SoCal adds to this closet monster’s MNFD love. Quack quack!
Someday soon, Shannon will be writing an FTIAT entry. Today, she’s interviewed me for Mynewfavoriteday.
Want to know why I named my blog “The Monster in Your Closet”? Think you know what my greatest accomplishment is, in my eyes?
There’s no way to know for sure unless you follow this link!
Don’t be in too great a hurry to leave Mynewfavoriteday after you’ve read the interview, hey? There’s a lot of wonderful stuff to see, and feel, as you start down your own path to making today your new favorite day.
[Yesterday] my son, Li’l D, accompanied me on a visit to Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s “Sunnydale High” for a nerdy personal project. Gathering what I needed for the project only took me a couple of minutes, but I let Li’l D roam for a bit when we were done.
Crystal (Can you hear me now?) and I first exchanged tweets about author Sonya Sones, who was then very new to me but had long been dear to her. Our Twitter conversations continue, but they’re supplemented by blog and email discussions as well. Through these I have been given glimpses into a mind whose great–and utilized–capacities are equalled by its bearer’s heart.
I long believed that wisdom could only come with age. Crystal is an excellent reminder that the truth might perhaps be better stated as, “Greater wisdom may come with greater age.”
Recommended post: STARBURST.
What I Didn’t Realize
I know that TMiYC has a lot of parent readers and bloggers, so I’ve decided to share my parents with you.
My parents were of the “tiger mom” type. They immigrated here from Asia (I won’t say any more lest I get in trouble with my computer tech dad), so were brought up in very strict households. As such, they had many expectations of us. My brother and I were expected to become successful doctors, fluent in the three dialects of Chinese that our family knows, get our Grade 10 Piano certifications, be consistent honour students, get into university and maybe go for a second degree, learn the violin, become black belts in taekwondo, be good kids… just short of being child prodigies. On top of that, being the oldest meant that I was expected to be a role model for my little brother.
I resented all of that. [ read more ]
All rights to this (awesome) image adhere to
those involved in the making of
In my dreams, I’m most likely to be found leading humankind’s resistance against alien onslaught.
My sister Rache, on the other hand? Count her out. As she informed me in one such dream, “I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t study Old English.”
The last week I’ve found myself perplexed by dreams that involve no supernatural and/or ghastly element whatsoever. Are these mournful dreams mine? How could they possibly be? If I’m not a badass in my dreams, where the heck am I going to get to be one?
The source of these recent dreams hit me this morning.
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Dear Ms./Mr. Awesomesauce (a.k.a. “you”),
Every bullet in “A woman’s strength” reflected a strength I have either evidenced or witnessed. And yet, there’s only so much that can be fit into one bullet.
On Friday, I posted the story behind one of the bullets that didn’t make it onto the typed list. There are a lot of bullets I left off that list, both from my own life and from the lives of women who have inspired and continue to inspire me.
“Boo YOU, motherfucker.” is not about Halloween, despite the “boo” in the title. If you haven’t already read it, I hope you’ll do so now.
It turns out you can scare away your ghosts.
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I felt confident and sure as I strode down the hallway in my new pantsuit.
I knew the case. I enjoyed pushing my comfort boundaries. Best of all, on the other side of the mock trial, I’d be closer to finishing my hated first year of law school.
All was well as I set foot in the classroom setting of my mock trial.
Then I was in the room, and I remembered.
ten
I remembered being told, “No one is going to believe you. They’re especially not going to believe you if you’re angry. You need to cry. You need to show how much you hurt. That’s what jurors want to see.”
I remembered sitting in the children’s room of the courthouse, playing with toys not intended for an eleven-year-old. Terrified but trying to distract myself.
I remembered being led to the stand, and coming to sit fewer than a dozen feet away from an unspeakably evil man. Wanting to leap over the low wall separating me from him, dive across the table, and strangle him. I wanted to eat his studiously sad face straight off of him so everyone would know he was a monster. Then, too, I would have a “real” reason for feeling so sick to my stomach.
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I knew Stupendous long before I knew Terrific.
“Stu” and I? We took martial arts together a dozen years ago. “Terri,” on the other hand, came into my life five years ago. Just barely.
The evening we met concluded such a miserable day of work-related travel, I very nearly turned my rental car back toward my hotel and skipped our planned meeting. As I drove darkened rural roads on the outskirts of Cupertino, I cursed and swore but ultimately believed Stu’s assurances I was almost there. I really would find them, if I stayed the course.
I did find them. And though I could not see it then, finding them in person was an intrinsic piece of my finding my way to the beautiful, blessed life I live now.
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This post's inspiration, as found on the Straight People for Gay Marriage Facebook page
Rusty Fischer (Zombies Don’t Blog) first caught my attention with his free YA author’s guide to social media. The care he took to help others avoid pitfalls to which he’s fallen prey touched me not only as a writer, but also as hippie, kindness-loving Deb.
While Rusty runs on the busy side, that busyness hasn’t once yet stopped him from offering his thoughtful, enthusiastic voice of encouragement. For this I am deeply and personally grateful.
Recommended post: The Limits of Advice, Or: Giving Yourself Permission to Forge Your Own Path
The Thankful Writer: A Guest Blog About Gratitude by Rusty Fischer
I joined a new forum recently and one of the posters was asking for advice in advance of her first ever author interview. Having just done a few of my own and, of course, written a blog AND FREE Ebook about it (‘cause that’s how I roll) I posted a dozen or so tips on the forum and wished her luck and went about my day.
Never thought twice about it. Then, since I had joined this forum to find book reviewers in the first place, I hopped back on the site an hour or two later to check my messages and, wow. Just… wow.
A fellow author had weighed in on my earlier post to dispute several of my things “to do” for a great YA interview. Most of those things had to do with, you know, making it easier for the interviewer.
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Once upon a time, there was a rebellious girl who could do little right by her parents. This girl watched the adoration showered upon her younger sister and vowed that she would someday love each of her children equally, be they rowdy or be they respectful.
When she became a parent, she lived true to her vow. There were many things she didn’t do perfectly or could have done better, but each of her three sons knew how truly they were loved.
As they grew, she would look upon them fondly and reflect aloud on her old age to come. “When I am elderly,” she would say, “Middle, you will be the one to take care of me. You will be here in body and in spirit. Oldest, you will be here in spirit, but not in body. Youngest, you will be here in body, but not in spirit.”
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Also posted:
Just kidding! For once, I’m coming to you live from somewhere that is . . . not your closet. (No, I’m not changing my blog title while I’m out. Even the closet monster deserves a vacation.)
In The Next Big Thing: GOGP’s Video Blogging Craze!, Julie has issued a challenge. I rose to the challenge, which rising (monster uprising! noooo!) is documented here:
[ watch here! ]
Two years ago this minute, your daddy tearfully told me we had a little boy. All my fears that I’d perpetuate bygone generations’ wrongs dissipated the moment you were placed in my arms.
Since the moment I met you, this is all I've wanted to do
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At least I’ve got killer calves!
For many years, I struggled to find a single thing I liked about myself. Eventually I’d land on my calves, which garnered compliments long before I understood why the heck anyone would care about what was below the knees—or above them, for that matter!
When I became eligible to give blood on my 17th birthday, I seized that opportunity. Some years before, my godfather had died while waiting for a transplant. I couldn’t give a liver, an eye or a heart, yet, but I could help someone live by donating a pint of blood and an hour of my time.
Did I mention I hate the sight of my blood, or even the thought of it outside my body? I almost passed out every time I gave blood, not because the blood loss itself was substantial—it’s not!—but because mybloodisleavingmybodyomgnonononono.
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On Thursday, my post “A title to end all titles. Like, obliterate them” was Freshly Pressed. I’d already done the wildly ecstatic response to being Freshly Pressed in May, so my response this time was much more subdued–or, in other words, not worth writing an entry about.
Come now, little one! Nothin' to fear here!
What is worth writing an entry about is my delight to see your comments and subscriptions. I’m grateful you stopped by, shared your thoughts on titles and then stuck around to read even more. I’ve written about some tough things, so it thrills me to see certain entries dusted off and revisited. Thank you for that.
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