READ ALL ABOUT IT
Since 2012, I’ve been writing about books. And the act of reading. And the importance of story and narrative. But, mostly, the underlying theme of all I write is how taking a moment to stop and digest some longform text — instead of scrolling, instead of watching a video, instead of multitasking — can be one of the most grounding things we can do for ourselves. Here’s the one-stop online home for all this writing.
You can read more about me and my work by moseying over here. Want to peruse periodic “essay drops” — excerpts from my work-in-progress essay collection about Homesickness? Here ya go.
Motherlands
The Turkish-born novelist Elif Shafak wrote this in October 2020: “Motherlands are castles made of glass…”
Sleepless Nights
Just this morning, I explained to someone my “geographic trajectory” (let’s abbreviate it to “GT” to be cozy about it, although to be clear, I’m not referring to a cozy G&T), and it kind of blew her mind. Not because my GT — the “I’ve lived here” version of push-pins on a map — is so amazing or unique, but because she just had no idea. Basically: “How’d you end up here?” And further, “I’ve never been remotely near where you’re from.”
Banana Yoshimoto and E.B. White Are in Our Heads
In 2014, I wrote a blog post while on holiday in Portugal with my family. It was about a novel called The Lake by Japanese author Banana Yoshimoto, and I used it to explore the idea of “place” and how we both shed and attract certain elements of places where we live. It was my first time in the Algarve, yet I recall being so struck by this jumbled, yet vivid, fusion of places that I had already experienced: The fishing boats reminded me of the Pacific Northwest, the dry pine needles of central Oregon, the unique red rocks on the Algarve beaches of landlocked Sedona (that one was surprising), and the overall European seaside vibe of an Italian vacation when I was a teenager. And, really, doesn’t the smell of sunblock provide intense recollection for pretty much everyone?
Me and Jeff Bezos
The guttural cries shot into my heart via my clenched intestines like a squishy and hard-won fist. All I can think of is my mom taking a can of Whole Peeled Tomatoes (while thinking how weird it is that this is the official name of this product) and squeezing them into the sauce, like a water balloon that bursts stains instead of refreshing water. Convulse, cry. Convulse, cry. I don’t mean to be dramatic — but it felt dramatic.
The House Shelters Daydreaming
Here’s a text I received from my dad the other day. My parents are in the middle of a road trip to Northern California — a bit of a John Steinbeck pilgrimage. But they first travelled due west and stopped in Los Angeles, they city they moved to after they were married and also the city where I was born. They lived in a few rentals here and there before purchasing their first home, pictured. Yet I imagine each of the homes leading up to this house on stilts held daydreams…because daydreams don’t require ownership, just an imagination.
“I want to find a book that will give me hope.”
I’m rounding out my bi-monthly volunteer shift at my local Habitat ReStore, where I shelve books in the adjacent used bookstore/cafe. Those words stream quietly — and maybe even apologetically — from someone who, I could tell, has been treated very unkindly by this world.
Love and Trouble, Monsters, House Lessons, The American Idea of Home
I’ve been meaning to do a roundup of nonfiction I’ve read in the last few months. Some of these books were read with the intent of observing format and style for my own writing, but the subject matter is fascinating too. So, win-win. (I mean, could you have an interestingly written book about something boring? Of course. But it wouldn’t come across as boring. Therein lies the quandary…)
Obsessed With Home
Obsessions go hard, I guess. It’s not a shocker that I’m obsessed with the idea of home — and, specifically, that complex feeling of homesickness, which is its flipside I suppose. Matt and I are just about done emptying the house that will be undergoing a big ol’ renovation, and today I came across a box of all my old clips from the Tufts Observer. Here’s the first thing I ever wrote for the publication where I eventually creeped my way up to Editor-in-Chief. Color me surprised. (Not at all.) I didn’t know what I was writing, really; I just knew that my background and points of reference were a little different from the throngs of students mostly from NJ, NY, MA, and sometimes CT, so I guess I needed to get pen to paper to make sense of that somehow. The specter hanging over all this wondering via simplistic writing was my parents’ cross-country move to Washington, DC right before I wrote this. (ie Where is home?!?!)
Recreating
I’m enjoying a Thai rice and tofu salad by myself. I think Matt would probably like it, but he is traveling so I see this as an opportunity to experiment with recipes from The Happy Pear, a pint-sized vegan restaurant in Greystones, Co Wicklow where I would often stop with my “hill walking” friends. “A lifetime ago,” we like to say. Meanwhile, Spotify’s Natalie Merchant playlist streams through the speaker. From recalling my “discovery” of 10,000 Maniacs in middle school to easing into the softer melodies of her solo career, my mind’s eye looks through a make-believe pinhole and sees a different me. But still the same…you know what I mean. It’s hard to hold hands with a 10- or 20- (or, yikes, 30-)-years-earlier version of oneself, much less give her a high five. But I’ll always try!
Just the Thing
It might come to pass that you are sitting in the Nordstrom Café in Bellevue Square on a Friday afternoon at 3 pm, eating a Green Goddess salad and reading a novel. You may be there because you just got off a plane but need to buy something before you attend a funeral the next day. It may also come to pass that you can’t focus on your book. At first you wonder if it’s because you feel awkward sitting by yourself in a restaurant, but then you realize that, no, that’s probably not the case because you’ve engaged in some iteration of this ever since grad school, but you had more props — notebooks, textbooks, highlighters. Then again, that probably looked more purposeful and this looks like a random woman sitting by herself at a non-traditional meal hour fumbling with both an overflowing salad and a paperback.
I Love LA
Recent headline in the NYT: “Why the LA Public Library Acquired a Book Publisher.” The owners of Angel City Press — a small, 32-year-old shop dedicated to LA-specific books that are “drenched in nostalgia but undeniably cool” (yessssss!) — were ready to retire so offered up the whole shebang to the local library system.
I’m an Alum!
I ran by this guy the other day who was wearing a Tufts shirt. I was wearing a “Bowdoin Mom” shirt. (Yup, I am 100% that dork who wears “Mom” shirts from my kids’ schools.) This is likely meaningless to you if you’re not familiar with a certain subset (or “milieu,” because let’s face it, “milieu” is probably an apt word choice in this case) of small colleges. As I approached this young guy, he smiled really big, pointed at his shirt, and then pointed at mine. I knew exactly what he meant: One way or another, there was a tacit agreement that we A) understood a certain culture and were both part of it, and B) were currently situated outside that culture. Then I made it more confusing because right as we passed each other I took my ear bud out (why?) and pointed more aggressively at his shirt and said, “I’m an alum!” probably way too loud. (Let’s also spend a minute envisioning the other people who may have been around who all of a sudden heard only “I‘m an alum!” punctuating the relative silence.)
The Library at Home
As we prepare to leave this house — and as we let prospective buyers through if they’ve heard about its future availability — Matt and I have spent many weekends organizing, purging, donating, scrubbing. Which of course included a massive tidy of some bookshelves. I know it’s likely I’ll be asked to “stage” them better — fewer books, more #decorativevases. Because as we all know (due to pox-on-society HGTV), the goal is to “remove” traces of oneself and one’s family from a home when it’s for sale. And since, in many ways, the books on our shelves tell my life’s story…out they go. But I can’t live like that in real life.
Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl
We’ve got another snowy day today, and I’ve been thinking about how snow is often romanticized. Don’t get me wrong: There is something so satisfying about “tucking in” and feeling unburdened by the rigmarole of daily life. Especially if it’s over a weekend; today is Saturday. Somehow Laura Ingalls Wilder even managed — in the rose-colored, made-for-publishing view of her childhood — to make The Long Winter seem dreamy.
What a Reader Wants
“That’s all a reader really wants — to know the author better. Even if it’s a novel, they want to know the author.” – the novelist Cecil Dawkins to Natalie Goldberg.
Seven Empty Houses
First book of 2023: FIN. (To be fair, I had literally 3 pages left when I put it down yesterday. What is my problem.) Seven Empty Houses, by Samanta Schweblin, translated by Megan McDowell.
Grey Bees
I first learned about Grey Bees by the Ukranian writer Andrey Kurkov back in June. (You can check out my post from June 27, which was inspired by an interview with Kurkov, in which he said, “They think you cannot mix culture and politics. I said, maybe *you* cannot. I can!”)
Broken Horses
When a book makes you homesick…
You Never Get it Back
You Never Get It Back by Cara Blue Adams is a stunning collection of interwoven short stories that was recommended to me by my friend Bethany. She texted, “I think you’d like this.” She was correct.
Scorpionfish
I’ll just cut to the chase: Scorpionfish by Natalie Bakopoulos is so, so good. Dear Reese and Jenna, THIS is a perfect book to add to your respective “book clubs.”
