I started doing morning pages earlier this year, and it’s been fascinating to see what comes up in those stream-of-consciousness writings. New book ideas, memories from childhood, philosophical questions, worries about the state of the country and the world, jokes - I’ve even done some illustrations, which if you’ve ever seen me attempt to draw is a joke in itself, but I’ve enjoyed it.
At first I was my usual Type A, rule-following, “I can’t do anything until I’ve written three pages every morning” self. But I’ve now learned to forgive myself if I have to skip a day or I only write one or two pages. Giving myself that hall pass has allowed me to continue instead of feeling frustrated and resentful when my mind is too full of all the things I have to do that day and I don’t want to make another to-do list. I have a bullet journal for those.
One of the things that came up yesterday as I was watching the Queen’s funeral and recognizing all the familiar places from when I lived in London from the ages of 7-12, was a recognition of the parts of myself that I left behind when we moved back to the United States at that formative time in my life. I was preparing for my Bat Mitzvah the following year. I had just been accepted to a weekend program for young people at a prestigious music college - at the time I played both piano and cello. I had a wide range of friends in both school and Hebrew school. I was about to start learning Latin as my fourth language, after English, French, and Hebrew. (WORD NERD ALERT 🚨).
I wasn’t happy about our move back to the US, because I loved my life in England. After a difficult beginning, where other girls would sing “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” to me in the cloakroom, I’d learned to become an English schoolgirl - to blend in.
When we moved back to America, I had to start over again. This time, because I’d acquired an English accent, other students at my middle school would ask me to say “Peaches and cream with strawberries” (WHY?) so they could hear the funny way I spoke. So I lost the accent and learned how to blend in again.
When I graduated college, I got a job on Wall Street. I remember when my dad took me to buy my interview suit - blue, at the knee skirt, floppy bow (it was the 80’s) and so conservative that I looked at myself in the mirror and cried when I tried it on.
But I’d been told over and over “You’ll never make a living as an English major” so I not only majored in something different, I went on to get a MBA in Finance. And there, again, I learned to blend in.
When I met my first husband, I moved from Manhattan to a rural village of less than 300 people in Dorset, England, and had to recreate myself again. Working in a family business. Being THAT AMERICAN WITH NEWFANGLED IDEAS, with all the prejudice and resistance that entailed. I remember the farm manager’s wife teaching me how to iron shirts, because that, apparently, was supposed to be part of my job. Heaven forbid my husband should have to learn to iron his own shirts…
It was there that the little voice inside reminded me that I wanted to write. Other than taking one creative writing class in the decade I lived in Dorset, I ignored that voice. Stuffed it down in a box and locked that thing away. I was a wife and mother and financial person and ….not a writer.
It took being hospitalized for a breakdown at age 38 for me to finally listen to that voice again. Journaling was part of the therapeutic program in the hospital, and as I wrote, it felt like I was reclaiming a vital part of me. I vowed that I would get a book contract for my 40th birthday present to myself, and got the offer for my first novel, Confessions of a Closet Catholic, two months after my 40th birthday. My 19th novel (12 in my own name, 7 work-for-hire) Some Kind of Hate, comes out on November 1st.
I turn 60 next year, and part of my reintegration process is finally becoming a Bat Mitzvah. I have so much empathy for 12 year-olds trying to learn trope for their haftorah reading - especially the ones who have long portions, like I do. After immersing myself in antisemitic hate to write SKOH, proudly standing up and saying “I am a Jewish woman” feels particularly important. I can’t guarantee that we’re going to play Coke and Pepsi or sneak some Manischewitz Concord Grape from the kiddush table and get drunk on a thimbleful in the cloakroom, but we’re definitely going to celebrate.
And now…I want to reintegrate music. Back in July on the first night of a writing retreat, we had a wonderful surprise - a ukulele evening! It was so much fun, as you can see by the big ole smile on my face.
I’m trying to decide now if I should try to teach myself guitar or ukulele. I don’t want to go back to piano, because I get too frustrated that I’ve forgotten so much - knowing my Type A self, I’d rather start with a new instrument where I have an excuse to be terrible. Any suggestions/advice/good value brands I should be looking for?
It feels good to weave the missing parts of myself back together - especially if I can sing while I do it!