Fear Sucks. Do It Anyway. | Lessons from the New York State Summer Writers Institute

Hello again!

I just returned home from two weeks at the New York State Summer Writers Institute at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, New York.  And what a time it was!  Imagine an alternate universe in which you are given a group of people who all share a common passion with you, and you can spend time with them all day long in a beautiful and calming environment.  And you also get to watch people who pursue your passion professionally do what they do best almost every day of the week.  Essentially, that’s what the Writers Institute was.  It was heaven for writers, complete with workshops, readings, Q & A’s, and more.  And I already miss it.

I learned so much from my time at Skidmore, and I’d love to share it with you!  So here are some of the lessons I learned at the Writers Institute:

1. Debating something means you care.

At Skidmore, I was in the Intermediate Fiction Workshop that met three times a week for two weeks.  During our workshop discussions, it could get pretty heated.  But the important thing to take away from an in-class argument is that if someone is willing to argue over your work (or vice versa), then the piece of writing is worth caring about, worth saving.  It’s actually a pretty awesome feeling when people care enough about your work to debate it.  And when the debate is over, you can put your differences aside, grab dinner with your class, and let the air clear on its own.

2. Listening makes you better at what you do.

Whether it’s in the classroom or in everyday life, listening will lead you to where you need to be.  I learned so much about my own writing strengths and weaknesses from listening to my classmates discuss my work.  And when it comes to inspiration, it’s everywhere if you keep your ears open to it.

3. Getting up early isn’t as terrible as you think it is.

I got up for the dining hall’s breakfast almost every day for the past two weeks, and it left me with so much more time to get done what I needed to.  Does getting up before 9 AM and going to bed before 1 AM make me an adult now?

4. Don’t ever put your wallet down in a store.

Because you will lose it.  And the ladies who work at the Celtic Treasures store will think you’re a moron.

5. Bring enthusiasm to everything you do.

I swear, my Intermediate Fiction class and I were straight-up high on life for two weeks.  We were constantly laughing, swapping stories, and being our strange selves, and I’ve never felt less stressed out.  When you enter a situation with a hopeful and enthusiastic attitude, then you can really make the most of it.

6. Passion can bring anyone together.

Our class was completely diverse, with writers from all over the country with different majors and interests.  But, as I learned at Wroxton last semester, you can find common ground with just about anyone.  And when you share a common passion, it’s even better.  I got to know people who I never would have met if it weren’t for our mutual love of writing.  It was so empowering to be surrounded by people who shared my passion and who were willing to support me in pursuing it.  Especially since we were almost all young adults, I noted how driven our generation really is.  Give young people a common purpose, and they’re ready to take over the world.

7. Give yourself some credit.

Nearly every writer wants validation; it just comes with the territory.  But I often forget to give myself credit for my talents and achievements.  I went into this workshop thinking that I was a mediocre writer and that I had lost my passion for writing.  But all it took was someone to remind me that I’m good at what I do and that I’m only going to get better for me to have the confidence to keep doing what I love to do.

8. Fear sucks.  Do it anyway.

I was so scared to go to Skidmore (What if no one likes me?  What if my writing is terrible?  What if I wasted all this time and money on an experience I’m going to hate?) that I was thisclose to emailing the heads of the Institute saying I couldn’t come anymore.  I dreaded the day when I would leave for New York because I was afraid I wasn’t good enough and that I would come out of the experience knowing that I didn’t want to be a writer anymore.  But surprise, surprise, I don’t suck at everything!  I got to know some of the most passionate and extraordinary people I’ve ever met, and I have a renewed love of writing that can only grow.  Where would I be if I had sent that email?  Probably miserable and watching Netflix all day.  Instead, I’m ready to make some magic.

Have you ever gone to a writing workshop?  What did you think of it?  What kind of communities are you a part of?  Let me know in the comments!

As always, thanks for reading.

 

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Cheers, England | Some Lessons from a Semester Abroad

Hi, there!

So it’s been a while, as usual, but I’ve found that I feel the most comfortable blogging when I feel like I have something pretty valuable to say.  And this time I think I do.

One week ago, I returned home after three and a half months studying abroad in England.  It was the experience of a lifetime, but there are no words to express how happy I am to be home with my family and friends.  But instead of talking about the places I saw or the things I did (You really just have to see for yourself), I want to share some things I learned.  After all, that is the whole point of this blog anyway.  So here are a few things I learned while studying abroad:

1. Flexibility and structure are not mutually exclusive.

When I first arrived at the college where I would be studying in England, I was really concerned by the lack of routine I would have there; class schedules varied week to week depending on student trips.  For the first couple weeks I wondered helplessly if I could handle that lack of structure.  I’ve always loved routine–thrived on it, really– and up until this point, it had been essential to getting all of my work done on time.  But the funny thing is, I didn’t have much control over the changing schedule, so once I learned to accept that, I was able to feel myself gain some flexibility.  I learned to feel comfortable with not knowing exactly what is happening and when.  It turns out, you can be flexible and organized at the same time, and it’s way less stressful to live that way.

2. If you go the wrong way, just turn around and try a different route.

It really is that simple.  Without access to data or wifi, there were a lot of confused moments in cities I’d never been to before when someone asked, “Wait, are we going the right direction?”  I used to be filled with panic when asking that question, but sometimes when you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll stumble upon a cool place you never planned to go.

3. Every place you go to has something different to offer.

I want to apply this to places near my hometown, too.  Even the smallest of places can have spectacular sights, whimsical shops, or striking landmarks.  A little research and wandering goes a long way.

4. With travel comes trial.

Despite the fancy Instagram photos that people post when they’re abroad, not everything is always sunshine and roses when you travel.  Anything can go wrong, from sickness to lost belongings to nasty encounters on the street.  Some days, you’re so tired and your body aches so much from walking that you just don’t know if you can get out of bed.  Sometimes places don’t live up to your expectations.  But these are all just part of the bargain that comes with travelling.  No matter where you go, something is bound to go wrong, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it to begin with.

5. You can find common ground with just about any person you meet.

I studied abroad with just over 50 other students from my university, many of whom I never would have met or spoken to if it weren’t for studying abroad.  Our group had such a wide variety of people– athletes, members of Greek organizations, artists, jokesters, you name it– and I feel as though I could have a decent conversation with every one of them.  I used to be really hesitant to talk to people who I perceived as very different from me, but I’ve realized that no matter who I’m talking to, we can find something in common or at least something to talk about.  Chances are, if you’re kind and throw in some humor, you’ll have a new friend, or at the very least, a pleasant conversation.

6. Gossip just really isn’t cool anymore.

I’m no saint, but this semester I really came to understand how hurtful gossip really is.  When you’re living and going to class in the same building with only fifty or so people every day, word travels fast.  The easiest and best way to go is to try to be kind to people’s faces and behind their backs.  And this is something I have to work on every day.  Because really, gossiping and spreading rumors doesn’t make anyone happy, and it only serves to ruin reputations–those of the people you talk about and your own.

7. Missing people is powerful.

This past semester, I missed people in a way I never had before.  I’ve missed relatives who have died, experiences I once had, friends who I wasn’t with but could visit if I wanted to.  I’ve never felt the ache of an ocean between me and the ones I love before.  I missed my friends and family so much this semester that sometimes I could feel the ache in my chest, my body heavy.  At the beginning, I was so homesick.  I felt like I could never adjust to living in a new country, and I missed the familiarity of the U.S. and of my loved ones.  But after a couple weeks, I started to really like it there, which made it just a little easier to cope with missing home.  But the real beauty of missing people is that you feel how much you love each other. Because when someone tells you they miss you when you are thousands of miles away from them, you know that they mean it.  Because you, too, feel how they feel.  It is so sad but also so beautiful to know that someone out there has a hole in their life that only you can fill and vice versa.  It’s hard to explain, but missing people this semester has made me cry as many tears of happiness as it has of sadness.

8. A sense of belonging is all you need to feel comfortable anywhere.

For the first time in a few years, I felt like I really belonged in a community.  I felt that if any person in our group, including myself, hadn’t been there, our experience studying abroad wouldn’t have been the same.  When you let your guard down and let people see you for who you are, all you can hope is that they accept you.  And when they do, it’s one of the greatest feelings in the world.  Feeling like I belonged made saying goodbye that much harder, but it also made my experience much more meaningful.  It meant that I had a new home, one that I’ll carry with me from now on.

Have you traveled abroad?  What did you learn from it?  Where do you want to go next?  Let me know in the comments!

As always, thanks for reading.

Leaving What You Love: Body of a Dancer by Renee E. D’Aoust

A dancer is more than a performer.  A dancer lives and breathes movement with the knowledge that one day, their body will no longer let them dance.  But they do it anyway.

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A few weeks ago I finished reading Renée E. D’Aoust’s memoir, Body of a Dancer.  I won the book from Etruscan Press at an event at the AWP conference back in March/April, and I’ve been looking forward to reading it since then.  I picked this particular book as my prize because I identified with the description of D’Aoust as a former dancer.

For ten years of my early life, I considered myself a dancer.  I took ballet from the time I was three until I was thirteen and tap from age nine through thirteen.  I danced on pointe for about four years.  At the peak of my time dancing, I was taking dance classes four times a week: ballet on Monday and Wednesday and tap on Thursdays after school, and ballet with all ages on Saturday mornings and afternoons.  I sweated it out during my classes and tried to perform the perfect tour jeté in ballet or wing in tap.  Every Christmas, my dance studio performed the Nutcracker, and I worked my way through the age groups: first in Chinese, then as Clara (though I was more of an understudy because I was too afraid to do a solo), as a flower, a toy soldier, and finally in reeds, while also learning the choreography to Spanish.  Every spring we performed a themed recital; I performed as Doc in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, the duck in Peter and the Wolf, and the wicked stepmother in Cinderella.  As a company, my dance friends and I performed to Canon in D at Lincoln Center and the Kennedy Center.

The dance studio was a place I could go when I was tired of the work and girl drama of school.  It was a place I could work hard at something and get better.  It was a place where my friends thought I was funny.  But in the end, it was a hobby for me, and not my entire life.  I knew when I went to high school that I was going to be involved with musical theatre, and from witnessing my older brother’s rigorous rehearsal schedule, I knew that I wouldn’t have time for dance anymore.  I knew that I had to leave the dance studio that I had performed with for six years.  And it was very, very hard to leave.

Since then, I’ve also had to leave musical theatre behind when I went to college.  Leaving an activity you love–and the people you performed with–is one of the hardest and most disheartening things I’ve had to do.  Looking back on memories of silly dances we did in ballet classes and inside jokes at rehearsals for musicals helps ease the pain, but there’s always going to be a part of me, a little chunk of my heart that says, “But why aren’t I singing?  Why aren’t I dancing?”

This is what drew me to D’Aoust’s memoir.  Though she went much farther than I did with dance– she was trained as a professional modern dancer at the Martha Graham Center and danced with many professional companies–I knew that we had something in common.  D’Aoust also had to leave dance behind and find other pursuits that fulfilled her as much as dance did.  I think that no matter how long you danced, all former dancers are haunted by “what could have been.”

Each essay that D’Aoust writes combines people with performance.  She shares stories of dance teachers and choreographers: some harsh and unimpressed, their studio floors covered with spots of blood from the dancers’ bare feet; and others kind and down-to-earth, their dancers filled with life rather than the probability of an early death.  She recounts tales of dancers who “couldn’t take it,” who quit, committed suicide, or jumped out of a window because they wanted to feel like a bird.  She describes fellow dancers who are flawed and yet dance flawlessly, who have spunk and grace.

D’Aoust ultimately leaves dance after an injury, but it is a long time coming.  A sense of numbness overwhelms her life as she is constantly working her body–and mind– to its breaking point.  In the world of dance, there is constant rejection, a feeling of never being good enough, especially for dancers like D’Aoust who never become household names, yet still dedicate their whole lives to dance.

The numbness she feels in her body flows into her relationships, including one with a longtime boyfriend.  She frames her relationships with stories of weddings, one at which she was a caterer for extra money (another struggle of living a life dedicated to dance), and one of a former fellow dancer.  She describes the strictly physical relationships of some of her fellow dancers and the odd combination of insensitivity and ferocity that bleeds from the dancers’ bodies into their minds and emotional lives.  This is one major theme in D’Aoust’s memoir: the body is inextricably linked to the mind.  Anymore, I find this to be a hard lesson for me to learn, especially in a culture that often forces people to choose between perfect bodies and a sense of mental well-being.

I also identified with D’Aoust’s final chapters in which she describes going to see dance performances and seeing old dance friends at a wedding.  The going back is often just as hard–if not harder– than the leaving.  When you go back and see people you used to dance with perform, there is often an overwhelming sense that life–dance– has gone on without you, that you were not necessarily an integral part of that world.  Though the memories are strong, the yearning to go back can be stronger.  But where you want to go back to no longer exists because it was a time, not a place.  Places–people– change.  Memories do not.

The light in this realization is that there are so many people who face the same struggle of leaving behind places, people, and activities that they love.  Though the reasons vary from education to family, from relationships to religion, so many people have felt the pain of leaving something.  And that is something that can bring people together: the stories that, once shared, help other people rather than hurt ourselves.  Leaving is a unifying aspect of human nature, something we can all understand.

I enjoyed Body of a Dancer mostly due to my personal connections with the subject matter.  Sometimes it could be difficult to follow, especially considering I am not familiar with the popular modern dance choreographers of New York City in the 1990s.  The essays were sometimes organized poorly so that I didn’t know in what time frame the story was taking place and couldn’t always follow the development of the “I” character.  Still, I think that Body of a Dancer is an insightful behind-the-scenes look at the world of professional modern dance and a message to all those who have left something they love to do: that you are not alone.

Have you read Body of a Dancer?  What did you think of it?  What other memoirs have you identified with? Let me know in the comments!

Thanks for reading!

Finding the Spiritual in the Mundane | The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

A strong story has beauty, curiosity, and… bees?

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A couple weeks ago I finished reading Sue Monk Kidd’s debut novel, The Secret Life of Bees.  Though I’ve never seen it, it was made into a movie starring Queen Latifah, Alicia Keys, Jennifer Hudson, and Dakota Fanning in 2008.  I picked up the book at a garage sale last summer and finally decided to read it.  It was a great beach read for me and one of my favorites I’ve read so far this summer.

The Secret Life of Bees is set in the summer of 1964 in Tiburon, South Carolina during the peak of the Civil Rights movement.  The book follows the journey of 14-year-old Lily Owens, a white girl trying to escape her abusive father in search of answers about her mother’s death.  She travels with her caretaker, Rosaleen, a black woman with even amounts of stubbornness and kindness.  By following clues left behind in her mother’s belongings, Lily, along with Rosaleen, happens upon the Boatwright sisters, honey-selling bee-keepers who have more connections with Lily’s past than she initially thinks.

(A few spoilers are to follow!)

I think that the beauty of this book lies in its characters.  Each character is well developed and has an engaging journey for the reader to follow.  August, the eldest sister, serves as a stand-in mother for Lily and has all of the wisdom of Mother Willow from Pocahontas.  She seems to always know the truth in her heart before anyone can tell it to her.  June, the middle sister, resents Lily’s staying with her and her boyfriend Neil’s repeated proposals, not because she doesn’t care about those around her, but because of her dedication to her family.

May, the youngest, is the most poignant character in The Secret Life of Bees.  May lost her twin sister April to suicide; April had grown increasingly depressed due to the harsh backlash toward the Civil Rights movement.  Without her other half, May goes through life fighting off fits of weeping by praying at her wailing wall, in which she places bits of paper with prayer intentions written on them.  She is innocent and kind, but ultimately fragile because not only does she feel her own pain, but she feels everyone else’s, also.  I identified with this aspect of May’s character; as the world starts to seem darker and darker with the growing awareness of suffering, hatred, violence, and injustice, I often find myself feeling the pain of others as my own.  May’s pain, right now, is the world’s pain.

Though Rosaleen is distressed about the circumstances of her and Lily’s arrival at the Boatwright residence (It involves being a fugitive from a jail, a hospital, and Lily’s father’s peach orchard), her bitterness turns sweet as she finds a sisterhood for herself among the Boatwright women.  She is as much a mother to Lily as August is, but the kind who often won’t tell her what she wants to hear.

Though the book does mention bits of the Civil Rights movement–Rosaleen is beaten by a group of white men while in jail for retaliation, and toward the end of the book she is finally able to register to vote–the primary focus is Lily’s journey.  I found this to be a fault in the novel; it seems as though a period of time such as the 1960s South is rich with the stories of the struggles of black men and women against racism.  Yet, racism mostly bleeds into the story through subtext and in Lily’s maturing thoughts and attitudes.  Having grown up in a racist society, Lily shocks the surrounding community–and herself– by staying with a trio of black sisters.  As she spends more time with them, she realizes that these women are not very different from white people; rather, the racist culture surrounding them is what separates them from each other.  Perhaps this is why Kidd seems not to emphasize the Civil Rights movement in her book– to show the similarities of black and white women.  However, it still seems slightly wrong for the white young woman’s journey to usurp the significant historical events that are taking place at the same time.

Still, Kidd does focus on the overt racism of the setting when Lily starts to have feelings for Zach, a black teenage boy who helps the Boatwright sisters with their beekeeping.  The two realize that in that time and place, a relationship between the two of them would be not just frowned upon, but an excuse for violence.  Even so, Zach grows just as the other characters do; though at first, he is a mild-mannered, hard worker, he eventually finds himself in jail unjustly and comes home with the resolve to further integration and to combat racism.  He is filled with more anger than he has been in all his life.

As the story goes on, Lily peels away the layers of racism that her culture has placed upon her, especially in discovering her romantic feelings for Zach and forming a love for the Boatwright sisters.  Yet the real driving force of her actions is her complicated relationship with her father, who has told her that not only did Lily accidentally kill her mother with a gun as a child, but also that her mother was attempting to leave her and her father when Lily did it.  Lily’s father is abusive, cruel, and hot-tempered; to avoid feeling trapped by him, she finds respite in imagining a perfect mother who loved her unconditionally and would never leave her family.

As she stays longer at the sisters’ house, she learns more and more about her mother.  But it isn’t until the fateful day when her father discovers her at the house that she finally sees his humanity, recognizes his pain and reasons for treating her so cruelly, and moves forward with love rather than fear.  The climax brings together her father’s and her journeys to emphasize that they have both felt pain caused by the same woman, but that their differing means of overcoming that pain will separate them forever.

At each pivotal moment in the book, there is an element of ceremony.  The name for the Boatwright women’s honey is “Black Madonna Honey” after their devotion to the African depiction of the Blessed Mother Mary, especially represented as Our Lady of Chains.  The sisters and their friends join together once a week to pray the rosary and to remind themselves of Our Lady of Chains’ story of redemption.  When May commits suicide, there is ceremony amidst the pain; a days-long wake before the burial allows for healing and the expression of grief.  Even the process of honey making has a certain ceremonial quality to it in its repetition and respect for the bees themselves.  August teaches Lily to find the spiritual in the mundane through ceremony and most importantly to find the Blessed Mother inside her, rather than seek her in a mother that no longer exists.

Bees are the perfect frame for this book–Kidd includes a quote about bees at the beginning of each chapter–and they serve as a means to represent different themes.  The Queen Bee, the mother of all the bees in the hive, reflects the theme of motherhood–of lost mothers and non-blood mothers, of motherhood towards oneself.  There is a sense of complete community among bees, all working toward a common goal, not unlike the honey business at the Boatwright house.  Their community of worshipers and friends seeks to emulate the bee community in its harmony and selflessness.  Honey, in all of its different uses, serves as a symbol for healing, which is what each character in this story is searching for.

This book is an interesting counterpart to Kathryn Stockett’s popular novel, The Help that I read last summer; both books focus on white women and their changing attitudes about African Americans during the Civil Rights movement.  I cannot imagine writing a book from that perspective and walking the fine line between using historical context and racism.  Still, I enjoyed both stories immensely, while also recognizing this point.

Kidd is an excellent storyteller with gifts for character development and unique use of language.  The captivating world she created was unlike any I have ever read about or experienced.  I think that her messages of acceptance of one’s journey and the need to recognize the spiritual in all aspects of life was something I needed to understand at this time in my life.  For there is beauty in ceremony, in life, in bees.

Have you read The Secret Life of Bees?  What did you think of it?  What other books have inspired you?  Let me know in the comments, and as always, thanks for reading!

Love Conquers Hate and Writing the Sonnet Yourself | A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

A tale of time travel has never hit so close to home.

FullSizeRender (8)Last week, I finished reading Madeleine L’Engle’s classic children’s science fantasy novel, A Wrinkle in Time.  It was first published in 1963, won a Newberry Medal, and is the first book in the Time Quintet.  I’d wanted to read it since I saw previews for the TV movie version as a kid and was given it as a Christmas gift in recent years.  Even though I’m no longer a child, I found the book engaging and containing pertinent messages that apply to our world right now, especially in relation to current events.

A Wrinkle in Time follows the journey of misfit Meg Murray, her genius little brother Charles Wallace, and her friend Calvin O’Keefe as they try to rescue Mr. Murray from another dimension.  With the help of three mysterious witches–Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which–the kids leave the rest of their families behind for places they couldn’t even dream of and an evil force that no one can seem to defeat.

Fair warning: a few spoilers are to follow!

Despite being in the “and up” part of the age-range for this book, I recognized many merits to L’Engle’s story that apply to more than just children.  First, L’Engle presents a strong female protagonist–and we’re not talking the “strong female protagonist” of much of commercial fiction today that portrays young women in unrealistic and simplistic ways under the guise of “empowerment.”  Meg is a real character reminiscent of Meggie in Cornelia Funke’s classic, Inkheart.  She has both strengths and flaws; she is a loving sister to her brothers, especially Charles Wallace, but she is also impatient about the disappearance of her father.  She cries often but has a fierce temper, which the witches insist is one of her strengths.  She is a math wizard, though also a poor student and misjudged as unintelligent by her peers.  And despite her fear, she is the only one who can save her little brother from a life of hypnotized meaninglessness.

L’Engle also presents lessons that even adults still need to learn.  When Meg, Calvin, and Charles Wallace finally find Mr. Murray on the mind-numbing planet of Camazotz, Meg realizes that all along, this has been her only goal.  Find her father, and he will know what to do.  Find him, and he will save everyone and take them back home.  But upon discovering him, she learns that he,too, has no idea how to get back to Earth.  He has made the mistake of thinking he was knowledgeable enough about tesseracts (the mathematical concept that allows for time travel) to attempt it on his own.  But he cannot save them, which infuriates Meg and also causes her to lose some of her innocence.  She now understands that adults don’t always have all the answers.

Though at first this creates distance between her father and her, Meg eventually finds the resolve to save her brother from the horrible ruler of Camazotz, IT, which she discovers is a pulsing brain that dictates all of the thoughts and actions of the people of Camazotz.  By flattering Charles Wallace’s intelligence, IT takes over his mind, and Meg has to be the one to pull him from IT’s control while also resisting its hypnosis on herself.  Camazotz can be read as a symbol of communism or totalitarianism and is reminiscent of a 1984-esque society.  Conformity and blind acceptance is IT’s goal, but Meg knows that living in that kind of security is not living because it allows for no difference.  And in difference, she tells Charles Wallace, we find beauty.

The main lesson that L’Engle presents in A Wrinkle in Time could not be more applicable to life in the U.S. right now: the triumph of love over evil and hatred.  In the multi-verse where the kids are searching for Mr. Murray, an evil being called the Darkness, or the Black Thing, has been conquering different planets.  There is a dark shadow over the earth that threatens to control it, and many planets have already succumbed to its power.  The Darkness can be understood as evil or hatred taking over the lives of people and their societies.  Heroic beings across the galaxies have been fighting it, including Mrs. Whatsit, who once gave up her life as a star to fight it.  Light is the only thing that can conquer Darkness.  Love is the only thing that can conquer Hate.

What pulls Charles Wallace from his spell on Camazotz is Meg’s love for him.  Once she realizes that IT has anger, fear, and hatred but not love, she pronounces her love for her brother until he is finally free of IT’s control and back in his own mind with his own thoughts.  She realizes on her own that love conquers all and that evil cannot be fought with mere pride or ambition.

This couldn’t be a truer lesson in light of the violent events that have shaken the United States in recent weeks, from the Orlando shooting to the unjust killings of Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and five Dallas police officers.  In a world that is wrought with anger, fear, and gun violence, I hear L’Engle’s message loud and clear: that love, above all else, is the only thing that can create unity and peace.

L’Engle’s beliefs were an apparent contradiction to many.  She was a faithful Episcopalian who believed in universal salvation while also an advocate for modern science.  Elements of both are strongly present in A Wrinkle in Time, and her views cause some to view her work as too religious, while others view it as too secular.  Still, she recognizes that belief in God and belief in science are not mutually exclusive.  Similarly, The Daily Show‘s Trevor Noah rightly claims that “You can be pro-cop and pro-black, which is what we should all be.”  Like L’Engle’s belief in religion and science, Noah points out that supporting those whose job it is to protect American citizens and supporting the victims of their systemic problems, especially African Americans, are also not mutually exclusive actions.

Finally, I’d like to acknowledge a scene in the last chapter of A Wrinkle in Time that reveals another important lesson.  Meg is about to go back to Camazotz to save Charles Wallace from IT, and Mrs. Whatsit explains the beauty of choosing who we are and not having our lives planned out for us.  She says that a sonnet has fourteen lines with strict rhyme and iambic pentameter.  She tells Meg,

You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.  What you say is completely up to you.

We as people are given only a certain amount of time on Earth, and we get to choose what we do with it (a lesson I learned from Marina Keegan’s The Opposite of Loneliness)  We can stand idly by while the world turns and injustice occurs and discoveries are made, or we can be active participants in fighting for our beliefs, for ourselves, and for those who are oppressed.  We have to write the sonnets ourselves.

Have you read A Wrinkle in Time?  What did you think of it?  What other books have lessons that relate to issues we face today?

Thanks for reading!

The Power of a Woman’s Story | Waitress: A New Musical

Harmonies.  Laughter.  Pie.  What more could you ask for in a musical?

The weekend before last, I went to a Saturday matinee of the new Broadway musical, Waitress, at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre in New York City for my friend’s birthday.  I’ve been following the show since the announcement that the music and lyrics would be written by one of my favorite musicians of all time, Sara Bareilles.

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Last November, Sara Bareilles released an album called What’s Inside: Songs from Waitress, a selection of songs from the musical (though not in its completed stages) sung by Bareilles herself.  I immediately fell in love with the album; it’s the perfect blend of two of my favorite things: Sara Bareilles and show tunes.

I was eager to see the show right from the get-go, and my excitement increased with each performance I saw from it: Jessie Mueller singing the heart-wrenching anthem, She Used to Be Mine for Broadway.com, the medley of opening and closing numbers on Good Morning America, and the cast’s performance at the 70th annual Tony Awards, featuring Sara Bareilles, as well.  From what I could tell, the musical was going to blow me away.

And it did.

The show began with a sweet yet sassy recorded audio introduction by Sara Bareilles; to the tune of her song “Cassiopeia,” she sang about how not turning off your cell phone during the performance will basically make everybody there hate you.  I laughed at her cleverness but also agreed with her point.  Classic Sara move.

Oh, and did I mention that the theater smells like pie when you walk in, and you can buy little pies in a jar from the ushers?  We’ll get to that.

After the musical introduction, the show began.  Based on the 2007 film starring Keri Russell and Nathan Fillion, the story follows the life of waitress and expert pie-maker Jenna Hunterson, played by the inimitable Jessie Mueller, who won a Tony for her performance as Carole King in Beautiful in 2014.  Jenna is trapped in an unhappy marriage with an abusive husband and now is expecting a baby with him.  Her fellow waitresses, shy Dawn (Orange Is the New Black‘s Kimiko Glenn) and loud-mouthed Becky (the powerhouse Keala Settle) help Jenna throughout her pregnancy, while also battling their own romantic problems.  The three of them are a force to be reckoned with, a diverse version of the Andrews Sisters.  Or a Southern-diner-fied Destiny’s Child.

Jenna really gets into trouble when her new gynecologist turns out to be the attractive yet endearingly awkward Dr. Pomatter, played by the hilarious and talented Drew Gehling.  Their relationship quickly becomes romantic and… complicated.  As they sing to each other in “Bad Idea” (hands-down one of the best songs in the show), “You have a wife / You have a husband / You’re my doctor / You’ve got a baby coming / It’s a bad idea, me and you.”

Throughout the show, as new and strange things happen in Jenna’s life, the spotlight switches to her as she instantly thinks of a new pie recipe; think: the manual voice-overs and spotlights on Finch in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.  The pie motif reappears at defining moments in the show, especially in the lyrics “Sugar, butter, flour.”

I wish I could make this blog post an in-depth analysis of each of the delightful and beautiful songs from Waitress, but it would be 10,000 words long.  So I’ll keep it a bit shorter: each song is full of melodic and rhythmic twists, characteristic of Bareilles’ music.  The opening number, “Opening Up” is the perfect wake-up-in-the-morning-and-ring-in-the-new-day-song, and the harmonies fill you up like a warm cup of coffee.  The three waitresses shine in the funny-but-not-really “The Negative” about finally taking that pregnancy test and the gentle lullaby-esque “A Soft Place to Land”, while a different trio–this time of pregnant women–welcomes Jenna to the gynecologist’s office in “Club Knocked Up.”  Dawn and Becky both get their time in the spotlight; Dawn’s endearing and sincere “When He Sees Me” about being afraid of men and falling in love might be one of my favorite Broadway songs ever (I’ll have to update my list from last summer); and Becky sings her heart out about the struggles of decision-making in relationships in “I Didn’t Plan It.”

The men in the show shine, too; Dr. Pomatter wiggles his way into Jenna’s heart in the lighthearted “It Only Takes a Taste,” while Jenna’s wretched husband Earl keeps her heart for ransom in the rock-style”You Will Still Be Mine.”  The owner of the diner where Jenna works, played by Dakin Matthews (also known as Headmaster Charleston from Gilmore Girls) even has his own sweet song of advice to Jenna, “Take It From an Old Man”.  Not to mention Dawn’s new love interest, Ogie, belts out his love for her in the hysterical “Never Ever Getting Rid of Me” and “I Love You Like a Table,” which got Christopher Fitzgerald nominated for a Tony award this year.

What really made the show incredible for me was the second act.  Jenna and Dr. Pomatter sing a song called “You Matter to Me,” which is one of the most beautiful love songs I’ve ever heard, not only for it’s lyricism but also in the way it’s not made up of simple harmonies, but rather two unique melodies that flow together seamlessly.  From the first chord, I was crying already.

And when Jessie Mueller sang, “She Used to Be Mine,” a desperate plea to her past self and an apology to her not-yet-born baby, I was a complete mess.  Mueller does a perfect job of capturing that part of each audience member’s heart that knows the strains of loneliness and the pain of helplessness.

But not to worry, the musical has a happy ending, which left me in just as much a state of emotional disarray as the saddest parts.  Want to feel inspired?  Listen to “Everything Changes.”  It might spoil a bit of the plot, but trust me, it’s worth it.  You kind of know it’s coming anyway.

Overall, the music is phenomenal; the script is poignant, serious, and funny all rolled into one; and the actors– the actors!!!  All are fantastic singers and capture their characters fully and realistically.  I even saw the understudy for Cal, the owner of the diner (Thay Floyd), and he was just as funny and honest as every other cast member.  I saw Dakin Matthews and Kimiko Glenn after the show at the stage door, and they were positively delightful.

I think the main thing I left Waitress with was an understanding of the power of telling a woman’s story.  Waitress is the first Broadway musical to have an all-female creative team: choreographer Lorin Lattaro, book writer Jessie Nelson, director Diane Paulus, and of course, composer Sara Bareilles.  These women came together to tell a story about women–about what they struggle with behind the scenes, the complications of relationships (marital or otherwise), and the strength that comes with becoming a mother.  It’s a story only women could tell, and it comes across as touching and truthful.  The success of Waitress has shown me the power women can find in creating things and the beautiful and amazing results of women working together.

If you ever get the chance to see Waitress, do it.  Or listen to the cast album.  Or Sara Bareilles’ album.  Because I truly think that had the revolutionary Hamilton: An American Musical not been considered in this Broadway season, Waitress would have taken home the Tony for Best Musical.  The Founding Fathers can rap, but these women sure can tell a good story.

Have you seen Waitress?  What did you think of it?  What other good musicals have you seen?  Let me know in the comments!

As always, thanks for reading!

Time Is of the Essence and Nothing Makes Sense | The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan

FullSizeRender (4)I recently finished reading the collection of essays and stories, The Opposite of Loneliness by the late Marina Keegan.  It was one of those books that just came into my life at the right time.  About a year ago, I picked it up in Barnes & Noble–just literally picked it up–and thought about buying it, but for some reason I didn’t.  Later, I read headlines of glowing reviews about it and felt like an idiot for not getting it.  But the first time wasn’t the right time for me to read it.  When I bought it a couple weeks ago, I felt as though I needed to read it this time.  And I was right.

The essays and stories in The Opposite of Loneliness were written by Keegan from the ages of about seventeen through twenty-two.  Five days after her graduation from Yale, she died in a car crash on the way to Cape Cod.  The book was published posthumously.

What matters, though, is not the traumatic circumstances but the perspective.  Because of Keegan’s sudden death, the book carries with it two perspectives: one of the vibrant, passionate, intellectual student, and one provided by the audience who knows that the author is no longer alive due to what seems to be a glitch in the flow of the universe.

The first half of the book is a collection of short stories.  After reading each one, I found myself angry.  But a good kind of angry.  Angry because I hadn’t written what she did, angry because at twenty-two, she could write better than I probably ever will.  Each story is so complex, so real.  They engage with the quiet struggles of dysfunctional families, the twisted emotions of romance, the panic and the aftermath of death.

The first story, “Cold Pastoral,” sucked me in like a vortex.  It focuses on the impact of the death of a college student, while following a girl who knew him, who was in the all-too-common romantic place of having a “thing” with him.  She wasn’t his girlfriend, yet feels like she’s expected to fill that role.  The ending left my mind stuttering, reeling.  Keegan made me think, which I think is the goal that all literary writers hope to achieve.  The rest of the stories followed suit, each with a unique twist at the end that ignited surprise and frustration fueled by my own egotism.

The second half of the book is a series of essays– stories and observations from Keegan’s own life.  The second essay, “Why We Care About Whales,” recounts the story of fifty pilot whales that became stranded on the beach next to her Cape Cod summer home.  She wonders why we spend so much money to save a whale, yet eat fish all the time.  She says, “I worry sometimes that humans are afraid of helping humans” (153).  She says that the reason the whales get stuck there and die is not through any fault of their own; rather, the culprit is the moon that pulls the tide in and out.

The day I read that essay I found out that I had lost a cousin, suddenly, without warning.  A relatively young person.  One who lived far away, but was nonetheless family.  To me, it made no sense.  It still doesn’t.  And it probably never will.

I couldn’t help but draw the connection to the book I was reading, one written by a girl who died in a car accident.  Two lives cut short.  Two women no longer physically present in our reality.  It all connects.

Over the next couple days, I finished reading Keegan’s essays.  I noticed how often death came up not only in her stories but in her essays as well.  Especially in the short “Putting the ‘Fun’ Back in Eschatology,” Keegan talks about the Big Death– the death of the human race.  She begins, “If you didn’t already know this, the sun is going to die” (169).  She mentions the same thing in her poem, “Bygones,” which I found on YouTube when I wanted to know what her voice sounded like.  She says in a way what Robert Frost says: “Nothing gold can stay.”  Yet she does so without demeaning the merit of the gold we create every day.

Her thoughts on life and ambition and gluten allergies and bug-killing humor are filled with a keen urgency.  Despite the fact that she had no way of knowing she was going to die at twenty-two, she knew the value of time.  And she did not intend to waste it.

And now there is a published book with her name on it.

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The Opposite of Loneliness opens with the title essay which was published in the graduation issue of the Yale Daily News.  In it, Keegan writes:

There’s this sentiment I sometimes sense, creeping in our collective conscious […] that it is somehow too late.  That others are somehow ahead […] That it’s too late now to BEGIN a beginning and we must settle for continuance, for commencement[…] What we have to remember is that we can still do anything[…] We’re so young.  We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have” (2-3).

What I learned from Marina Keegan is that time is of the essence.  Ambition is worthwhile.  Nothing is ever going to make sense, and I will never know everything there is to know about anything.  The sun is going to die one day, but we’re here now.  We’re here.  Now.

Let me know if you have any thoughts on The Opposite of Loneliness or this blog post in the comments, and as always, thanks for reading!