My good friend and fellow writer Liz recently interviewed Nina Garcia. You know, the judge on a little TV show called Project Runway. Her interview resulted in not one, but two stellar articles:

“Nina Garcia’s 5 Quick Fashion Fixes for Moms”

“Nina Garcia’s Six Sophisticated Staples No Woman Should Live Without”

I know. My friends are pretty darn cool.

A while back, my best friend Lizzi gave me a tough-love speech about my writing.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she told me. “So many people don’t know what they want to do with their lives. You do. You do, and you’re not doing it.”

She had (has) a point.

My other friends express the occasional interest/concern, too. Just this past week, my friend Adam asked me about The Book.

I attempted to dodge him, mumbling something about if I wanted to work on it I would and when the time is right and I’ll get to it eventually. Sensing my neuroses, he said, “I’m not sure whether or not to ask about it. It’s probably annoying, huh?”

But the truth is, it wasn’t (isn’t). No, I told him. It’s good for me to be reminded of That Gift I’ve Been Given That I Haven’t Been Doing Shit With. My squandered talent. The thing that I supposedly love to do and yet don’t. Good to be reminded, because I spend a lot of time trying not to think about it. Because when I do think about it, I can’t come up with a good reason why. Why I continue to squander and ignore and waste and dodge.

Theories abound. I’m afraid? Maybe. I don’t think I’m talented, good enough, interesting enough, enough enough enough to “make it?” Probably. I’m lazy and just want to watch TV for the rest of my life? Perhaps. I write marketing copy all day and can’t muster any more creativity in my spare time? Could be. The Book and the issue of what the fuck to do with it and how the fuck to re-write it have so mentally constipated me that I’m literally unable to work on anything else? A good guess. I’m not really excited about my life and haven’t had sex in a very long time or been in a relationship since Bush’s first term? Okay. A combination of all of these things and more? Sure, why not?

My point being: I have no fucking clue why I’d rather write about not writing than write something of actual substance. And without understanding the why, I’m not quite sure how to overcome the problem, other than just telling myself to get off my ass and goddammit do something already. But that hasn’t really been working out so well for me.

Own worst enemy? Yep, that would be me.

My only consolation is that I’m not alone. Other writers experience the same damn issues. In her post on writeforyourlife.net, a site about writing that I read in lieu of writing myself, Manuela Boyle breaks it down:

There are lots of us writers who make their living doing the thing they love; and yet as a result, don’t make their living in the way they’d really love.

What I’m trying to say is that the writing skillset is like France: much bigger than you thought when you get there, and that if you’ve got talent, then hell, make like Simon Cowell and put it to work.

But let’s pause and think about the writer’s gentle soul awhile. Some of the copywriters I know have literary or non-fiction ambitions; others quite simply, don’t.

Some are lazy when it comes to that magnus opus, some think they’ll eventually get round to it, and others know their own creative practice is good for them, like greens are, but don’t want to participate.

A handful—and here’s the type that impresses me most—do both. They write copy in the day, and create worlds of their own by night.

What of the writer who is (g) all of the above? What will light a fire under her ass? Though a better question might be: If the fire isn’t already lit, is it even worth hunting around for those matches?

In middle school, I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to write, and this seemed like the most “practical” approach. I envisioned myself interviewing people, writing under tight deadlines, and working in a frantic office where everyone had had too much coffee. Neither one of my parents drank coffee, so I envisioned it as something that other, more exciting adults did. Something that professional journalists did.

When I entered high school, I signed up to write for the school paper. I was assigned to the features section, and for a while, this suited me just fine. News could be boring, I reasoned. Feature articles would allow me to flex my creative muscles and write about real people and the things that were important to them. I am and always have been a human-interest kind of girl.

Every month, my editor would assign a topic, and at first, I loved it. I wrote about the “fun” stuff, wrote the articles that people would actually read—about Valentine’s Day and beloved childhood toys and the reasons that teenagers spent so much time on the phone.

But after a year or so, I was bored. I wrote my articles during my lunch period, an hour before they were due. I had mastered the features formula: catchy lede, set-up, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, cute full-circle concluding sentence. And my assigned topics got dumber and more ridiculous. One of the last articles I wrote was about PDA. Public displays of affection. During a free period, I had wandered the halls of my school, interrupting couples mid-grope to ask them why. Why are you touching your girlfriend’s breast in the library?

So, when the newspaper advisor offered me an opportunity to write an op-ed, I jumped at the chance. Maybe this was my true calling! I thought. I would use my words to take a stand, to convince people that I was right and that they were wrong. My articles would have substance!

My assigned topic: homophobia. Was homophobia a problem in our school? The year was 1995: of course homophobia was a problem. I got to work, discussing the topic at length with my friends and teachers. And I listened. I listened as boys called one another “faggots” and passed judgment with “that’s so gay.” I asked my fellow students why they used these expressions and received some interesting answers. I poured my heart into that article, believing that it could open a dialogue and, in some very small way, actually make a difference.

But all of my hard work was for nothing. My advisor had wanted an op-ed that expressed her opinion, one that wouldn’t ruffle any feathers or include the “f” word. Re-write it, she told me, and argue the other side. In other words, my advisor wanted me to lie. Worse, she wanted me to compromise my entire belief system, the very core of my being, the kind of person I aspired to be.

I was enraged. I told her that I quit, and marched into my guidance counselor’s office, demanding that he drop me from the newspaper. I fought back tears as I explained what had happened.

“This is absolutely no problem,” he assured me. “You’re doing the right thing.”

As it so happened, my guidance counselor, in addition to being sympathetic and understanding, was gay.

That night, I told my mom that I had quit the newspaper. She had just walked through the door, and was distracted, sifting through the mail.

“What?” she said, whipping her head up to look at me. “Why?” She knew how important my journalistic aspirations were to me.

I broke down then. I had never quit anything in my life, and this had been my dream. More than anything, though, I was so disappointed. So disillusioned. How could the world work like this? How did people who cared as much as I did even stand a chance?

I cried and cried, and when I stopped, my mom told me that she was proud of me. For quitting? I asked. No, she said. For standing up for what you believe in.

Today is my 31st birthday. It’s much calmer, much more relaxed than 30 was. One might call it anticlimactic, but that implies a let-down of some kind, unfulfilled expectations, and I don’t feel that way. The nice thing about relaxed is that it allows you to contemplate your age, your life, and your accomplishments in a productive way.

I was reminded of the above story this past weekend, and thought that it was a fitting 31st birthday tale. People who have lived through their 30s often tell me that it’s the best decade, that you know yourself so much better and subsequently have an easier time of it, enjoy it more.

I may have given up on a childhood dream when I was 16, but at 31, I am thankful for that experience—and where it led me. I am thankful for the people who have shaped me, shaped my life, made it better.

As I move further and further into adulthood, I hope for many things. But mostly, I hope that I continue to be the kind of person who makes her mother proud.

[This time of year, every blogger writes the obligatory, heartfelt giving-thanks post, listing the things that he or she is thankful for. I think it’s, like, a law in the blogger handbook, to of course be followed by the reflections on the past year/new year’s resolutions post.]

Many years ago—twelve years, to be precise—my family hosted Thanksgiving. Our dining room table was stretched thin (the extensions had come out), chockfull of close extended family members and friends of friends. Some of the people there I had only met once or twice.

For the first time in Bogart family history, someone suggested that we go around the table and each say what we were thankful for. (Typically, and ever since, we just shovel food into our faces, competing with one another for the Who Can Eat the Most and Say the Least title.) My turn came last, and I supplied a doozy:

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m not really thankful for anything this year.”

“Nothing?” my mom said. She stared at me as if I’d just slapped her.

“Nope. Not really.” I shrugged.

“Well, okay then,” she said, trying to cut the brief tension with some humor. “I guess Julie has absolutely nothing to be thankful for. Her life is horrible. Let’s eat.”

I should explain. At the time, I was a freshman in college. A few weeks earlier, doctors had discovered a tumor on my boyfriend’s brain. He was spending the holiday by himself in a hospital in Philadelphia, far away from my hometown of St. Louis, recovering from brain surgery.

My euphoria at having found love for the first time in my life had been quickly followed by hospital visits, anxiety-induced bed-wetting, and the contemplation of death. In other words, in the span of three months, I had experienced my highest high (true happiness) and my lowest low (gut-wrenching agony). In other, other words, I was kind of fucked. I was also 18 and prone to the melodramatic.

Thanksgiving that year had come at the worst possible time in the worst possible way, and I flipped the holiday off with both middle fingers.

Flash-forward twelve years to the present day, and the present holiday. Four weeks ago, my dad was diagnosed with stage II colon cancer. He had surgery to remove the tumor, and in the upcoming weeks, he will most likely undergo chemotherapy. I’m not going to lie and say that, because I’m older and wiser, I’m fine. Because I’m not. I’m sad and I’m scared and I’m dealing.

But, and here’s the part where older and wiser do come into play, I know now that whatever happens, I will survive it. This year, I have many, many things to be thankful for. My dad’s cancer was caught early, and it hasn’t spread, for starters. But also at the top of my list are the people who have seen me through this. They are the people who will be there for me always, no matter the highs or lows, the people who bring joy to my life every single day, even when there’s cancer.

They are my friends. And even on Thanksgiving, I can’t thank them enough.

I have a new article up at Sirens Magazine: “Doing the (Post-Divorce) Deed.”

Again, I think the title sums it up quite nicely. It’s never too late to get some action.

[Update 12.1.09: AlterNet re-printed (posted) my article.]

One of the challenges of writing memoir is that there are so many ways to tell a single story. So many different points of view (who will be the narrator?), so many slight variations on memory. I remember it one way, she remembers it a different way. Who’s to say which one is true?

All you can do is remain true to your own memory, and to tell the story, your story, the story of your family or friends, as truthfully as you remember it. As truthfully as you feel it.

In her novel, No One You Know, Michelle Richmond writes:

Every story is flawed, every story is subject to change. Even after it is set down in print, between the covers of a book, a story is not immune to alteration. People can go on telling it in their own way, remembering it the way they want. And in each telling the ending may change, or even the beginning. Inevitably, in some cases it will be worse, and in others it just might be better. A story, after all, does not only belong to the one who is telling it. It belongs, in equal measure, to the one who is listening.

As I begin to re-write my own memoir (soon? One day? Years from now? This week?), as I start over from the beginning, though the characters and setting and events will remain the same, the story could change. Hopefully (please? Pretty please?) for the better.

[Today I’m participating in a mass blogging. WOW! Women On Writing has gathered a group of blogging buddies to write about family relationships. Why family relationships? We’re celebrating the release of Therese Walsh’s debut novel today. The Last Will of Moira Leahy (Random House, October 13, 2009), is about a mysterious journey that helps a woman learn more about herself and her twin, whom she lost when they were teenagers. Visit The Muffin to read what Therese has to say about family relationships, and view the list of all my blogging buddies. And make sure you visit Therese’s website to find out more about the author.]

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A few years ago, my mom asked me if I thought we talked enough.

“Should we be talking more than we do?” she asked. “Ruth talks to Lisa almost every day,” she added, referring to her best friend and her best friend’s daughter.

“What?” I said, buying myself some time. Then, “No. I think we talk just the right amount, Mom.”

“You do?”

Though the content of our conversation was new, the feelings it provoked in me were not. When my mom asked questions like this, questions like, “Do you love your English teacher more than me?” she didn’t want honesty. She wanted me to tell her that I loved her most of all. That she was doing everything right. That she was a good mother.

She wanted reassurance.

“Yes,” I said. “If we wanted to talk more, we would.”

“We would?”

The dialogue continued in this vein until my mom concluded that Lisa had started talking to Ruth more when she became a mother herself. I made a mental note to expect this same conversation after the birth of my first child.

During a recent trip to St. Louis to see my parents, my mom and I attended a reading (ironically organized by my dad, who works for the library). I happened to be in town with Sue Monk Kidd and her daughter Ann Kidd Taylor, who, after co-authoring a travel memoir together, spoke at length about the mother/daughter relationship.

Though their relationship is on the ideal end of the mother/daughter spectrum, their talk was excellent. Kidd pronounced the relationship one of the most complex, citing the Greek myth of Persephone, and discussing the cyclical pattern of loss, search, and return intrinsic to the mother/daughter bond. Like Demeter, the mother is continually losing her daughter; she searches and searches for her, until finally, her daughter is returned to her, only to be lost once again.

What’s interesting to me about this myth, and about Kidd’s use of the myth to structure the book, is that the story is told from the mother’s point of view. Persephone isn’t an active participant in the tale, or the relationship. She’s stolen from her mother by Hades; her mother searches; and Persephone is returned to Demeter for a finite period of time (spring and summer).

What would the story look like from Persephone’s perspective? Perhaps her mother’s need for her is too great. Or maybe Persephone wants someone to know her, really know her, for the adult she has become. Could it be possible that she chooses to leave? That the brief period she spends with her mother every spring and summer is enough for her? That too much time, the addition of fall and winter, would only damage the relationship they both want to preserve?

Many years ago, my mom and I went alone to buy the family Christmas tree, sans dad and brother. We looked at tree after tree; my mom would point them out; I would veto them. It’s too tall, I’d say. Or, it’s too big; it won’t fit; it’ll make a mess. When we finally decided on a Douglas Fir, the man who helped us load the tree into the car laughed at us.

“It’s like a role reversal,” he said. “She’s like the mom.” He jerked his thumb in my direction. I couldn’t have been more than 13. My mom and I exchanged uncomfortable glances and feigned polite laughter.

Do we talk enough?

In the myth, the fact that Persephone is responsible for her mother’s happiness is presented as a given. A non-issue.

And yet the weight of this responsibility is enough to pull her below the earth’s surface.

It’s that heavy.

We talk just the right amount.

I have mixed feelings about fall. While most people declare it their favorite season, what with the pretty leaves and gorgeous weather, I approach fall with a conflicted mix of excitement and apprehension. For me, the arrival of this favored time of year is like running into an old flame, familiar yet foreign.

Historically, on the whole, fall has been good to me. (Unlike that manipulative bitch, spring, who plies me with false hope, only to knock me down and beat me with a rusty baseball bat.) No, fall has brought me all kinds of goodies over the years—my best friend, my first love, my favorite two-year-old, pumpkin-flavored everything—and yet, still, the apprehension.

This is due in part to the fact that fall stirs up memories and nostalgia like no other season. I step outside and suddenly it’s late September of 1997 and I’m falling in love for the first time, feeling light and giddy and excited and just so hopeful. I notice the changing leaves on my way into work and I’m back in Virginia, driving to a bed and breakfast with my ex, feeling, yes, happy and excited and hopeful. Or it’s October of 2001 and I’m in the apartment I shared with Lizzi in Alexandria, five miles from the Pentagon; she’s making cookies, and I feel safe and comforted despite the fact that there are men with guns on the street and the world is crumbling around us.

The memories are visceral. It’s as though fall removes the barriers of time, and I’m like a character in Lost, being yanked in and out of moments in my life. It makes me sad, reliving these moments, because I know how they end. I know that they end.

And yet, at the same time, with fall also comes anticipation. Another visceral feeling—something, anything might happen. Something good. Excitement, because despite the endings, when fall comes around yet again, I know that its those beginnings I’ll remember.

Note: Written while under the influence of alcohol. Unlike some writers, I do not write better with a few drinks in me, so please forgive any incoherence. In fact, you may want to skip this post altogether.

Next week, I’m vacationing with my closest friends (the ones whose pretty faces are plastered all over my site; the ones whom I’ve devoted an entire un-published book to). We do it every year, head down to Cape Cod and shack up in Cris’s family’s cottage (see homepage for photo of said cottage). It’s become a tradition, and I love that. I love our traditions.

I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. We all have. For some of us, it’ll be the first vacation we’ve taken all summer (or all year). But more than that, it’s the one time during the whole year that all eight of us are together, in one place.

Aside from the Cape, we’ve taken quite a few trips together as a group, though usually with one or two of us missing. And every trip is memorable and wonderful. Which is why I always, always forget how fucking stressful the week leading up to the vacation is. But then, this is true of most family vacations, right? The packing, the logistics, the preparations.

Of course, with my friends, there’s always more to it than that. In addition to the mundane pre-vacation to-do list, there’s the drama. Oh, the drama.

Let me explain. My best friend Lizzi, for those of you who don’t know her, loves to cook. She’s an awesome cook, in fact, and she cooks for all of us, often. Many years ago, we were over at Adam’s for the Super Bowl. It was 2004, come to think of it, because Janet Jackson’s nipple was also in attendance that night. Lizzi planned to make hoagies, a Super Bowl tradition. (Like I said, we love our traditions.) I remember her stepping out of the kitchen and running through our orders: Julie, no peppers. Adam, no pepperoni. Cris, no tomatoes. And so on. Now, any other person who cooks for her friends on a regular basis would just make a bunch of fucking sandwiches. But not Lizzi. She always caters to our specific dietary preferences. Not only that, but she also remembers all of them.

I don’t cook, so my role is a little different. Substitute emotional needs and well-being for dietary preferences and you’ve got Julie. By that I mean, I cater to everyone’s feelings. I assess and uncover and mitigate and assuage and negotiate and resolve and encourage and facilitate. So you can imagine what my week’s been like. When eight adults who love one another as much as we do are about to embark on a week of togetherness, you’ve got problems. Lots of them. And the goal, if you’re a people-pleaser to the five-billionth degree like I am, is to resolve all of those issues so that the trip can be as fun as we want/hope/need it to be. So, I take it all on: the recent pseudo-break-up and the bullshit excuses and the petty fights and the awkward exes and the time to buy the groceries and the she e-mailed him but he doesn’t want to do that and he’s taking a half-day but she’s watching the kid and he just started a new job and she’s pissed and I’ll pick him up at the airport so that no one has to suffer anything or experience any discomfort. Because god forbid we experience discomfort.

I blame no one but myself for all of this. Like I said, I take it on. But then there’s my job and my other job and trying to finish everything before I leave and seeing my ex-non-boyfriend on the street and having to spend money I don’t have on new tires. And suddenly I’m screaming fuck you motherfucking fucker to some old man on the highway who’s driving ten miles below the speed limit. It ain’t pretty.

What I’m not-so-eloquently getting at is this: There’s currently a pimple on my chin the size of Canada. I’m calling it the Scooby pimple, because, well, the Scooby Gang put it there. My friends put it there. I put it there.

But the thing is, I know that by the time this horrid week is over, it will shrink. When I’m on the road, cruising down to the Cape, my pimple will be a distant memory. Because when all is said and done, unlike the family vacations of my youth, unlike most family vacations with everyone everywhere, this family, my friend family, actually enjoys one another’s company. We have fun together. We have more fun together than we do apart, and that’s why I sprout this pimple time and time again. Because once we get there, once we get past all the silliness and all the craziness, it’s worth it. Hell, it’s worth a thousand pimples.

Since starting my new job in February, I’ve spent a lot of time in the car. A lot.

I don’t really like all the driving and sitting, especially after taking public transportation for three years, but my brother has made my commute more bearable by giving me a cord to connect my iPod to my radio. (I know this is not a new thing to most people, but it has revolutionized my life.)

Every morning and every evening, 45 minutes there and one hour back, I shuffle. I have almost 2,000 songs on my iPod, and I cruise through all of them, bypassing the ones I don’t really like or don’t feel in the mood for. Sometimes I’m tired and I want something peppy, something to sing along to. Other times I’m contemplative and need some middle-ground music: not peppy, but not slow, either. Sometimes I’m feeling gushy and happy about life and want love songs. Other times I want to hang myself in my closet and need an appropriate suicide-inducing soundtrack. Crying, singing, zoning out—the music I choose to listen to in my car is dependent upon my mood on that given day in that given moment.

There are, however, a few exceptions. A few songs on my iPod that make the cut, no matter what I’m feeling. Happy, sad, I never skip them, and I never tire of them.

“Missing You” – John Waite
I actually have two versions of this song—the original, and one that he sings with Alison Krauss. (Both are excellent.) What I like about this song is that it can fit a variety of moods. It covers the full range of post-break-up emotions: denial, anger, heartache, acceptance, peace. No matter what stage of a break-up you’re in, this song has got you covered. At the same time, if you’re not sad or heartbroken, the beauty of “Missing You” is that it won’t bring you down. The tune is just upbeat enough that you can still sing along, all the while thinking, Man, I’m glad I’m not that guy.

“Sway” – Bic Runga
This song makes me feel all misty inside. That doesn’t really make sense, but it’s the best way I can describe it. I heard this song for the first time while watching American Pie back in college; it’s played at the end, when the boys are finally doing the deed with their respective women. The second time I heard it was in the room of a friend whom I later fell semi-in-love with. Despite the fact that he didn’t reciprocate my feelings, I’ve always loved this song. For me it’s all about longing and not being able to convey everything you’re feeling about someone. And I suppose I’m always feeling that longing, for something or someone. My head is battling with my heart / My logic’s all been torn apart / I say it’s all because of you.

“After All” – Cher and Peter Cetera
Yes, this is the cheesiest song on this list (though, c’mon, it’s me. They’re all cheesy). When we were kids, my brother Peter and I would find a movie we liked and watch it over and over and over and over again until the tape wore out—our obsessive natures revealing themselves. One of these movies was the 1989 classic, Chances Are, starring Robert Downey Jr. and Cybil Shepherd. And the theme song for the movie was, you guessed it, “After All.” (The song won an Oscar. Go figure.) Even though it’s not the most appropriate song to share with one’s brother, to this day I still consider it our song (just substitute “kiss” with “punch to the head”). My brother is, after all (ha), the one man who has always been and will always be there for me. Now that was cheesy.

“Bleed to Love Her” – Fleetwood Mac
This song just fucking rocks. And I’m not saying that because I have the hots for Lindsey Buckingham (which I do). I loved this song the first time I heard it, but it was actually my best friend Lizzi who sealed the deal for me. Not only did she adopt the song and play it on repeat while at the office and in our apartment, but she also once said to me, “This song always makes me think of you, because it describes how I want the man you end up with to feel about you.” Sniff.

“In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel
This is hands down my favorite song of all time. (Though Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” is a close second.) Aside from the John Cusack/Lloyd Dobler-ness of it all (“I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen”), this song expresses how I feel about love. What love is and what it means to me. Without a noise / Without my pride / I reach out from the inside.

How about you? Which songs do you never tire of? Which songs fit all of your moods?