Happy New Year

Today, I am overwhelmed by peaceful love. Indeed, it could have a bit to do with the fact that I went to bed at 11:20pm last night, minus any alcohol pulsing through my veins, and woke up completely clear headed and well rested at 8am on New Year's Day.

(Don't judge; I don't plan on making it a lifelong habit. My husband Andre and I are saving for something HUGELY EXCITING. Another truly magical blessing that defines our lives, for which we're both outstandingly grateful. (And no, it's not a pony.)

So, here, in the quiet of my cozy home, as the rest of the world sleeps off their hangover, (like my drunk dialing, 12:30am girlfriend to end all girlfriends, deep in the heart of Texas) or their ulcers, I've been engaged in my annual tradition of prepping my hot pink, patent leather, Kate Spade planner for another year of service.

Out with the old. In with the new.

Someday (maybe) I'll stop dreading what I initially view as a completely clerical task of transferring appointments from their sad paperstock cards to a more proper calendar form, and embrace it as a beautiful exercise that it always becomes. 

Because, once again, as I flip through the pages of 2013, I'm able to see not only the highlight reel of the year (EARLY morning college tour with my mentee, D'Angelo, Rebirth, Jose James and Ms. Emily King all killing it live, the wine and truffle tasting in some dude's basement, a vacation to paradise), but also the major defining moments of my life.

And 2013, you had many....

Some crowning moments that completely changed me as a person: I learned how to dance salsa, the beautiful start of not only symbolically dancing through life, but also courageously and systematically killing off the first of many long standing falsehoods about myself that really had nothing to do with me.

Boo-yah.

I celebrated with my favorite non-paying client, yeah, that'd be Andre, trust, I've got more than one, whose year of photography sales included, among others, a piece featured on the Boston WGBH PBS Fine Arts Auction. (Mystery buyer. You got good taste.) 

And last, but certainly not least, our diet overhaul, of completely cutting out the processed, helped us shed, drum roll please, SEVENTY POUNDS, which today is currently split right down the middle at 34.5 lbs each. (How did that work? Dunno. Guess we're equal partners like that.) 

So what's on tap for 2014? Hopefully more beauty, light, love and growth. (And a published book would work out a-ok too.) And while we'll have to wait another year, to see the whole picture properly flush out, I leave you with the (perhaps wine-soaked) wise words of my best friend Shelly, slurred, I mean, spoken, to a year only a half hour old: "The end of 2013 went out with a bang; I hope we just continue to trend." 

Amen.

xo

Guest Post: There's Only One You

Ms. Jenna Z., my cousin's daughter and, gulp, one of my flower girls, is graduating from high school this year.

​Holla'!

Growing up, Jen wasn't having any of that kids' table bullshit. She was much more interested in what was going on with the adults.​

And it shows.

She's one deep cat.

Now that I've sufficiently embarrassed her, this is how she wrote her way into college, Hamline University, Saint Paul, Minnesota, where she hopes to study public relations, then eventually work for Disney.

They'd be lucky to have her:

When I think of an artist or work of art that has impacted my life, the one artist who flashes into my mind is Vincent van Gogh.

I remember the day we watched the film in seventh grade art class.  I was sitting at my paint stained table staring at the blank screen. When my art teacher said, "Today we are watching a movie on Vincent van Gogh."

He popped in the disk and pressed play. We all sat on our art stools staring at the screen, as the film unfolded his life. The students in the class laughed when he began going insane. They giggled at the thought of him sending half of his ear to his one, true love.

Then there was me; I sat there feeling sorry for him, wishing I were able to tell him how influential his work will be in the future.

Once the movie was over, our teacher asked us our thoughts regarding him. There was a girl in my grade who sat at my table, her hand shot up and she whined, "I think he was weird. Like he cut off his own ear. You don’t do that. No one liked him because he was weird."

My teacher said, "Well, I guessed some of you would think that."

Then, I looked at him and nervously said, "I just really wish I could have seen the world through his eyes. I wish I could see the night sky the way he did, the flowers, everything."

I saw his eyes glow as he stated, "That’s exactly what I wished I was able to do. I’m glad you understand."

To this day this conversation runs through my mind so clearly. This was the first time I had ever really fell in love with an artist's work. It made me understand that no matter how hard I try; I will never be like everyone else. 

Sometimes, I stare at A Starry Night and watch as the colors swirled together to form the night sky; colors that the average person would not think were in the sky as boldly as he showed them. They all swirled together to form the notion of wind swirling though the lands, the stars glowing brightly off the canvas. I had never seen a painting like that. 

The colors were not fully blended together and somehow, to me, this told more of a story than a normal painting. I decided that I too, could paint what I want. It seems to me that the oddest things have the strongest impact. So I began to paint. When I felt lonely or down, painting always made me feel better. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of how beautiful the world is. 

I always take the time to look at the sky now, just to look at all the colors that swirl around, because of Vincent van Gogh, I am able to appreciate the things around me and see their beauty.

The Business of Writing

Every Sunday, you'll find me curled up on my IKEA chaise lounge, coffee in hand, perusing the Providence Journal. 

Naturally, as I hail from the smallest state, there's a fair chance I'll spy someone I know. And for some reason lately, the familiar faces have been popping up in the Business section. This is where I discover fun facts like:  a kid who rode my school bus is now running a nursing home.

No envy here. 

In fact, I'm eternally grateful I've picked a career where headshots in sensible navy suits are not a requirement. I'm a writer. You know, a creative. Free of all stuffy constraints.

Or so I thought. Until I realized not only am I courting the business world, I am, gulp, at the mercy of it. 

Blame Settling Down. My finished, unagented manuscript.

The background, in case you're joining the story already in progress. I wrote a book. A good book. A funny, smart, intelligent, accessible read that I KNOW would entertain a woman or two, as well as make a difference in their lives.

When I first shopped it around in 2006, it wasn't a good book. Sure, it was a great first attempt. An okay book. But oddly enough, not only did I have a fair amount of interest in this okay book. I was actually offered representation. (Until the agent changed her mind. Note: She's no longer in the business.) 

Soul crushing? Yes. But also an amazing gift. Because the book needed work. And sending that out as my final product into the world would have reflected poorly on me. My literary career would have been one and done.

Round one of the agent search also left me with offers from multiple agents willing to take a second look at this okay book, if I opted for professional editing. So I did, eventually rewriting the book, then beginning round two of operation agent query. 

You know, because it's such an amazing way to pass the time.

So far, I've got a full and a partial out in the world. Not bad for the percentage of query letters I sent out, but my much improved book has not garnered anywhere near the amount of attention as the unedited version. 

In other words: Better product. Less interest.

Logically, it doesn't make a bit of sense. Today, I also have more writing clips. I've got a website. I tweet! So what gives?

I'm thinking it's just business, baby.

My latest epiphany came from this paragraph of a recently received rejection letter:

I'm sorry to say that the project just isn't a perfect fit with my current needs. This has less to do with your strengths as a writer and more to do with my goals as an agent and the trends of the current literary marketplace.

So, basically, if writing wasn't hard enough, now you've got to consider the market. Because while agents are certainly lovers of books and promoters of the written word, they're also fans of eating. And paying their bills.

Sure it may start with a book, but I believe their primary role lines up closer to sales, where they carefully try to balance their own passions with what the publishing houses think the public is going to buy next. My genre? Popularly thought to have peaked ten years ago, even though I respectfully, and vehemently, disagree.

Duh. And why did it take me so long to figure this out?

Also: IT IS NOT MY TALENT!! (Sorry. Little pep talk here that you walked into.)

I know this little ah-ha moment is going to power me through this marathon. I don't give up easily. Okay. At all.

And in the short run, I've ordered this, to aid with my focus. 

What I'll be drinking from it? My secret. Just know that eventually, I WILL use it to toast my publishing contract.

There Ain't No Fear Here: Boston Strong

Boston. My heart bleeds for you. 

And for all of us.

I'm from Providence. The Northeast. A bustling, busy part of the the country where the pace is fast. People are tough. Traditions are strong. And history runs deep.

Like Patriots Day. And the Boston Marathon. And neighborhoods like the Back Bay where people celebrate by lining Boyleston on the regular, waiting patiently for something wonderful to pass. Like the entire Red Sox team after winning the World Series or the Patriots after taking the Super Bowl.

I've been there.

Shouting congrats to Jacoby Ellsbury, with the Old South Church at Dartmouth and Boylston, to my back, only feet from the first blast site. I still remember the clock striking noon, with my most pressing concern being where to get lunch after the Duck boats had rolled by and hoping not to get caught in traffic on the ride home.

My heart bleeds. For so many reasons.

Because while life as we know it surely changed on September 11, 2001, clearly, this was not the end, but merely the beginning. And as Americans, we've been sadly naive, clinging to our innocence, freedoms and independence, while sickos continue to plot from the shadows.

I don't believe that we've forgotten. But it's easy to let our guard down. To believe our city isn't a target. That these things happen in more dangerous urban centers. Places we don't call home.

This, I am guilty.

Until Monday, I naively believed, or maybe hoped is the better word, there was some uniform, countrywide standard of safety. A mandate by Homeland security to remove all trash cans during large scale events. And mailboxes. And ban large bags. And create a zone where people had to pass through security to get close to the action.

Even though I walked directly to the barricade for the Sox parade in 2007. 

Even though my city's signature Waterfire has never functioned under such high security, and I can't even imagine how it could.

Even though I act like this has been my experience in New York City all of the time, but that's far from true. In 2011, when my girlfriend, casually rolled her carry-on, into a high profile, live televised event in NYC, I expected, "Sorry, miss. You can't bring that it in here". But those words never came. 

I realize that I've been lying to myself, holding onto this smallest sense of security to allow myself not just to continue functioning, but to explore. To live. Without being afraid.

The day of the Boston bombings, someone told me that it was better to stay small. As in keep close to home. And I can't stop thinking about that. Because there's absolutely no richness in fear.

And that's not the kind of life I want to lead.

Or leave. 

I know life comes with no guarantees, even close to home. I got that lesson loud and clear when I was ten, and my older cousin Billy was in a horrible car crash that killed five of his high school buddies, and his West Point dreams. And while he technically survived for many years afterwards, he never was able to live. 

It was again reinforced for me on September 11, as I watched the towers fall on a perfect late summer day from Providence. Two weeks before, in a hotel room in Tribeca, with the tips of the towers in view, I was regretful we couldn't squeeze in a visit before heading home. My husband replied, "Don't worry. They'll always be there."

No guarantees.

These moments have defined me.

The truth is just being alive is a risk. With or without terrorists. My neighborhood? Historic. Funky. Beautiful. Artsy. A-ma-zing. But the reality is that it borders gang territory. And if I'm completely honestly, the probability of getting taken out by a stray bullet in a drive-by, is statistically higher than getting wiped out by a bomber.

But still, I love it here. And I'm not quite ready to pull the covers up over my head or watch the world go by on TV, from my recliner.

The only thing that I know with a fair amount of certainty is that no one who came out to watch the true ritual of human endurance that is the Boston Marathon, on a Monday afternoon, considered for a second that their own bodies could be attacked, while simply cheering on the sidelines. 

They were not afraid.

And I vow not to be either.

I'm Writing Towards The New World

It's official. I'm going to start channeling the spirit of Christopher Columbus. 

No doubt. We are homies for sure. (Well, beyond that pesky issue of enslaving the indigenous people of Hispaniola. I'm so not hip with that.)

It's being true to his passion that I can get with.

Behold: Sailing. Otherwise known as today's metaphor for life.

Cue the Christopher Cross music. Well, if Cross had written a ballad about being attacked by French privateers on his first voyage into the Atlantic in 1476, where his ship got torched and he had to swim to shore.

Meet passion.

Without it, there'd be no confidence to throw out the crazytown idea of a shorter, safer way to India and volunteer to be the dude to find it. Passion is the difference between giving up, putting your tail between your legs and going home, when someone says, thanks, but no thanks. (Hello Portugal). 

Passion is what gives you the strength to keep knocking, until someone gives you a boat. Or three. Passion guides you in the wide, open, unpredictable water, when there's no dolphin pod whistling sounds of encouragement, no sign that says "Bahamas. Ten miles ahead" or no idea of how long it's going to take you to get to where you think you're going in the first place.

Passion keeps you on track during those days when you're tired of bobbing in the ocean, can't imagine eating another meal of salted sardines and dry ass sea biscuits and you just want to go home to your straw bed.

It's passion that steps up and takes command when there's no concrete assurance, other than the maps you've lightly sketched out and the vague feeling that you're on the right track.

That ticket to the New World?

Only one currency accepted.