#Why I March–A Triptych





I march for My Past:

My mother was a true badass.

  • First American woman to play on the University of Edinburgh’s field hockey team; when there weren’t enough women’s cricket teams around to scrimmage with, they just played the men’s
  • Earned her master’s degree in Education in 1962, when many women weren’t expected to attend college at all
  • Gave up teaching to stay at home and raise her four kids on a 50-acre farm
  • After divorcing my dad, returned to teaching so she could continue raising her four kids as a single mom
  • At various points in her life, coached high school volleyball, wrote poetry, and sang tenor with the guys in the church choir
  • Won teaching awards and created an outstanding environmental education program at the Boone County Conservation District
  • After retirement, was teaching herself the Lakota language; she died in 1996, before she was fluent, but left for me and my sisters a Lakota song reminding us that we would never be alone, because she would always be with us
  • Gave me a copy of Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

I never read it. Like many children do, I rebelled against my parent’s teachings. In my case, that meant soundly rejecting my mother’s fire-breathing, chest-thumping, who-needs-a-man brand of feminism. I realize now how that must’ve felt like a rejection of her, of all she was, and all she’d hoped for me. I wish I’d read it then.

I march for My Present:

Though the divorce made the early part of my life tougher (needing donations from the food pantry to get by that week; going to work at age fourteen, cleaning my mom’s friends’ homes for extra money; wearing hand-me-down clothes that my mom’s kind teacher friends brought for us in black garbage bags; having to choose between clean laundry or a shower because they both drained directly into the ground beneath our house and would flood the basement if you did both; graduating from college thousands of dollars in debt from my student loans), compared to millions of other people in this country, I would say that, on the whole, since then, I’ve had, by many folks’ objective benchmarks, a pretty great fucking life.

  • Graduated from college and found teaching jobs right away
  • Got married and stayed married to a wonderful, hardworking, good man whom I love and who loves me right back
  • Bought a house
  • Got a dog
  • Had kids, quit work (because childcare would’ve cost more than my salary could cover) to be a stay-at-home mom
  • Moved a few times, bought bigger houses, got another dog, bought an even bigger house
  • Went back to school to earn my master’s degree in writing


It wasn’t always easy, but after that initial rough start, my family and I have been blessed for decades with steady employment; nice, roomy houses in safe communities with good schools; outstanding corporate health benefits; and enough financial security to be able to absorb emergencies, save for our children’s college educations, and prepare ourselves for a comfortable retirement. We are, in fact, living the American dream.

If you didn’t know me and know what my childhood was like, you’d think I’d always lived this life overflowing with a disgusting amount of privilege. You’d think it’d be easy for me, then, to sit back and say, “Hey, our family’s good to go. Now we can relax. To hell with everybody else.”

But it’s not easy. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t look around me and remember where my life started, how hard my husband and I had to work to get to where we are today, not to mention how much support and downright luck we’ve enjoyed along the way. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t feel an obligation to pay that forward, in any way I can, to people who have never, in their wildest dreams, had a single day as easy as one of my hardest ones.














Yes, I’ve had a great fucking life. But for all those out there who life is just fucking—the jobless; the homeless; those lacking a decent education to prepare them for changing workforce needs, safe neighborhoods in which to live, or affordable access to quality medical care; those suffering discrimination, denial of civil rights, or outright persecution because of their race, religion, gender, country of origin, or sexual orientation—

I see you.

I hear you.

I want to help you.

I march for Her Future:

My badass mother did not live to see me become a mother myself; she died before my daughter was born. But where I may not have been my mother’s idea of a woman who runs with the wolves, my daughter, however, was born howling.

From her earliest days, when her first word was “no” and she refused to wear pink or sing the alphabet song on command or stop biting her little brother on the ass, she showed herself to be a proper little savage, full of spirit and fire and fight, a spirit we never, ever tried to squelch.

She has, in fact, been raised as a child of great privilege, but she has not been raised to be blind to injustice and suffering. On the contrary: as she has grown and matured and learned about the world around her, she has begun bringing her spirit of fire and fight to bear on those injustices she sees around her, the large and the small, learning to stand up and speak her mind, to channel her passions and energies into pushing back, hard, at bullies and bigots.

But speaking up alone isn’t enough, clearly. I have occasionally sensed in her, over the last couple of years, a hint of frustration with her too-submissive, too-conventional mother, a hint of sadness, even, that I seemed (at least in her mind) content to just keep baking cookies and writing my books and cleaning the bathrooms and doing the grocery shopping. Didn’t I want to do something more?

My girl—she wants to run with the wolves, and I know that she wants me to run with them, too. Her grandmother would’ve loved that.

So we will march this weekend, howling together at the top of our lungs.

We will march for our past—for her grandmother, my mother, who was a total badass right to her last breath.

We will march for our present—for the life of privilege and access that is in such stark contrast to the lives so many of our fellow citizens are living today, the life that COMPELS us, that REQUIRES us, to find ways to help and protect others.

And, because I know I will not live forever, we will march together for the future I want to see for her: a future where she, personally, not only has the freedom to do anything with her life that she wants to, but also a future where she and all her fellow Americans can live together in peace, in freedom, with equal opportunities for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, no matter their race, religion, gender, ethnicity, or orientation.

We can do better for each other, and we must.

This is #why I march.

Narya Marcille











Here in the Middle Now Available!

now-available-on-amazon-sidebarBook Launch Today: Three of the most exciting words a writer can hear, and boy, am I excited!

Here in the Middle–Stories of Love, Loss and Connection from the Ones Sandwiched in Between is being published today, and I am absolutely thrilled–and terrified, but more on that in a moment–to be included in this collection. When I first learned about this anthology from one of its two amazing editors, Julie Jo Severson, I knew right away that 1) this book would be something special, something desperately needed; and 2) I wanted to be a part of it.

I had a story to tell,  but, honestly, I wasn’t sure if it would be a good fit–maybe my experience wasn’t universal enough, maybe it was too different from what other families were experiencing. But as it turns out, that worry, that “maybe I’m the only one” sentiment, is precisely what’s at the heart of this lovely anthology.

So many of us today, as we enter (ick-ack-can’t say it-must say it) middle age, find that we’re not only still raising our own kids, but are also increasingly faced with the additional challenges of caring for our aging parents, even grandparents–and so many of us, while blessed with the bounty of extra time with our parents and the precious opportunities that time presents for us, also find ourselves struggling mightily at the constant pulling on our resources in every direction.

The worst part of this struggle is that we believe, quite mistakenly, that no one else could possibly understand what we’re going through; as Here in the Middle proves in such a moving, inspiring, and achingly tender fashion, that belief couldn’t be farther from the truth.

We are not alone.

So I took a chance and submitted my piece, “Stars I Will Find,” which I wrote as a way to processgrandma-wheelchair a tremendously difficult experience my family went through with my elderly dad last year. As I so often do when I’m struggling to make sense of something going on in my world, I wrote about it. Often, those types of writing are more my “therapy” than anything I would ever intend to see the light of a public day–they’re just too personal. Writing about what happened was the easy part, the cathartic part; making the decision to share it publicly was downright terrifying. I’m a fiction writer, after all; making up stories about fictional characters is what I do, so sharing something so real about people I love so much feels incredibly frightening to me. But because I feel so strongly about the positive impact sharing our stories could have on other people facing many of these same issues, I knew that I wanted to share mine as a part of this incredible book.

I suspect that many of my fellow contributors underwent similar experiences–writing to understand, to learn, and to heal, but now, sharing, to help others. I give my heartfelt thanks and appreciation to our amazing editors, Christine Organ and Julie Jo Severson, for their inspiration, dedication, their tireless work to bring this book to fruition, and their faith in my story, as well as to my fellow contributors for their courage, humor, and generosity in sharing their stories.

No matter what stage of life you are in at the moment, I hope that you will pick up a copy of Here in the Middle, if only as a loving, compassionate reminder that some experiences are, in fact, more universal than we let ourselves believe, and that there is strength, hope, inspiration, and joy to be found in sharing those experiences with others. I would humbly ask, if you find the book helpful, as I believe people will, please be sure to let others know about it by sharing a review on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Goodreads. Thanks.

Happy Launch Day, everyone! #hereinthemiddlebook



Yes, We Can Make America Great Again–But Only Together

It’s been several days since it rained here, but this morning, November 9, 2016, it is raining and gloomy, which suits my frame of mind.

The pundits this morning are all wondering what they missed, how they didn’t see a Trump victory coming. That’s sort of the point of a “secret vote,” though, and more significant in this election, perhaps, than in any other. I believe the people who won this election for Trump were not the ones screaming at his rallies, wearing his Make America Great Again hats, or posting signs in their front yards.  Yesterday, the people who won this election for Trump weren’t using an “ImWithHim” hashtag or wearing pantsuits for unity; they weren’t even sharing photos of their I Voted stickers.

No, they were virtually silent, trying desperately to fly under the radar of their friends, families, and neighbors. I believe that’s because, unlike Trump’s louder, hate-spewing, proud-to-be-cjones091120161visible core “basket of deplorables” (his white supremacist, misogynistic, anti-immigrant, shit heap of a base), the folks who pushed Trump over the finish line were deeply ashamed of voting for him, but saw no other viable option. (Come on, HRC voters—did all of you feel you saw one, truly?)

But why didn’t that shame translate into a vote against him? That’s a question that will keep historians busy for generations to come. Obviously, in the minds of these silent voters, Secretary Clinton seemed an equally terrible choice.

I get it—I do. Back in the primaries, when we had a baker’s dozen and then some of Republican candidates to choose from, I, too, pushed the idea of “Don’t just elect a woman president; elect the right one.” I am no Clinton fan. But as the field of options shrank throughout the primary process, finally leading to this previously unthinkable contest between two wretched candidates, I, like so many of my fellow Americans, cast my vote feeling like I had no choice.

It’d be easy to lump these quiet Trump folks into the same basket with the rest of his cretins, but that would be ignoring the message we should be trying to understand from their silent support of this terrible man.

These secret voters of his, I believe in my heart, feel quite anxious this morning, too. They’ve been just as appalled by this man’s rhetoric, just as disgusted by his actual behavior, as the rest of us, but these folks, these “forgotten men and women” Trump referenced in his speech last night, they’re in trouble, and they know it. Their schools, their government, and their economy have left them desperate in the dust, scrabbling for basic survival. You know what desperate people do? Well, last night, they voted, and this morning, I believe, they’re hoping and praying that, now that the bluster of the election is over, Trump will settle down, stop being such an asshat, and start delivering on some of the promises he made to them during his campaign.

Unlike his basket of core deplorables, Trump’s silent voters last night, I believe, are not out for the blood of our vulnerable brothers and sisters—the minorities, women, LGBTQ, immigrants, Muslims, and others whose rights will likely now be in jeopardy under a Trump presidency. I believe that those stealth voters voted in silence because they actually disagree with many of Trump’s positions, but that, out of their own desperation, they were willing to set those concerns aside and vote for the candidate they thought more likely to help them and their families. Their silence last night, even as their vote count climbed, was deafening. That silence, a reflection of their collective shame, should send a huge message to those of us who voted differently, a message that, on the other side of this divide, there are people suffering, just as there are on this side. The fact that they hid their votes should shed a bright light for all of us not just on the freshly re-exposed hatred and misogyny and bigotry of the mouthpieces at the front of Trump’s vaunted “national [bowel] movement,” but also on the fact that there are desperate people in our country who need our help, and they are desperately unprepared to come up with any better solution than electing this equally unprepared demagogue. They will need all the help we can give them.

Having said all of this has not lessened my own anger, anxiety, disgust, distress—even fear—this morning at the thought of what the Trump presidency will mean for our legitimately now more-vulnerable brothers and sisters. While I am trying hard to understand and have some empathy for Trump’s silent, shamed supporters, the results of my efforts pale in comparison to what I fear lies ahead for the list of people Trump and his basket of core deplorables now must feel completely within their rights to intimidate, mock, threaten, and persecute.

quote-robert-green-ingersoll-tolerance-is-giving-to-every-other-human-91584So what do we do now, with all this desperation on both sides? Can we find a way to turn to each other and say, I know you’re suffering, brother, what can I do to help? Can we find a way, sister, that will lift us all up? Not only to build up those who feel the firm ground of American potential has crumbled beneath their feet, but also, to build an unbreakable wall (YES! I said build a damned wall!) of loving service and tolerance and compassion, not at any of our borders, but between our vulnerable, terrified brothers and sisters—women, minorities, immigrants, LGBTQ, Muslims—and the hateful agenda of Trump’s reprehensible base? I believe that we can. What’s more, I believe that now, we must.

But words are no longer enough. Trump will be president now, and we need to join together as a country to protect and serve in all of the areas his presidency now puts in jeopardy, so below, I’ve compiled a list of organizations that already exist. Check them out, choose one, donate, volunteer, repeat as necessary.








I get it. It’s upsetting and terrifying to wake up this morning to the reality of a Trump presidency, so take a day. Cry a little. Curse a little. Then dust off your pantsuit, roll up those sleeves, and get to work—we’ve got a country to make great again, and it will only happen if we all work together to stop the bigoted, xenophobic, misogynistic, ignorant base that started this crazy train rolling to begin with.

After all, we’ve only got four more years. hindsight-2020-election-t-shirt

So You Think You’re Ready For An Agent

brian-kLast week, I attended my second Chesapeake Writing Workshop in Arlington, VA. Our speaker was Brian A. Klems, Online Editor for Writer’s Digest. The workshop covered some of the basic nuts and bolts of publishing and offered the opportunity to not only pitch (for a fee) some of the agents on hand, but also to have the first page of your work read aloud and critiqued live by a panel of four agents–sort of like The Voice, but for writing.

The “Writers Got Talent” portion of the day didn’t really hold any surprises for me, but a handful of some of the more seasoned attendees noticed that the mood in the room, as page after page was rejected by the agents (some after just a line or two, not even making it to the end of the page), grew increasingly hostile. Some of these aspiring writers in the audience were really angry at the agents, who were, I’m sorry to say, just doing their jobs, the same ones they do every single day, at a pace that can drop hundreds of submissions a day into their inboxes. agent

I’ll be honest, I felt bad for the agents on hand, because I’m sure they could hear the grumblings and see the glares (though they’re agents, so they are unbelievably tough), so I took a lot of notes on the comments the agents were making, because as writers, folks, these are the kinds of things we ignore at our peril. Think you’re ready to submit to an agent? Read through my notes first–you just might thank me someday. Not sure what some of these things mean? Well, that right there’s a red flag for you, but send me a message–I’m happy to clarify.


  • Not to an agent’s taste (means you didn’t research your agent thoroughly enough)
  • Cliches
  • Opening with a time or a date
  • Opening with a line of dialogue with no sense of character, context, or setting
  • Beginning in media res
  • Voice issues
  • Overwhelming words/”Purple Writing“/Overwriting
  • Predicability
  • Clunky, too many descriptors
  • Unoriginal
  • Too much passive voice/telling, not showing
  • Using Film/TV storytelling techniques, like prologues or infodumps, that don’t work in written fiction
  • Switching narrators w/out contest
  • Abuse of reader trust
  • Too much exposition, not enough scene
  • Directly addressing the reader
  • Flat or dated humor
  • Out-of-context breaking of the 4th wall
  • Lack of world-building in dystopian genre
  • Dialogue that’s for the benefit of the reader and not organic to the characters
  • Writing not polished enough
  • Delaying investment in character
  • Heavily covered topics, like funerals, covered in the same old way
  • Starting with backstory or dialogue or character’s inner thoughts rather than scene–does not mean lines of dialogue
  • Lack of familiarity with the intended genre of your work

I could go on, but that’s a pretty long list as it is. The bottom line is, you only get a minute or two to make that good strong impression on an agent, so your query letter and your submission better be outstanding. Good luck, and keep writing!

It bears repeating: Agents are NOT the enemy.

Just so we’re clear: Agents are NOT the enemy.

Thesis Emesis

thesis-cover-imageWell, it’s official: I’ve submitted the first draft of my thesis for review, and the process was just as much of a pain in the ass as I’d heard it would be.

From a body of program work comprising more than thirty pieces, I needed to select a maximum of sixty pages. In preparation, I spent weeks revisiting all of them, trying to identify which pieces felt strongest, and ultimately narrowed it down to five.

I’d been contemplating doing a collection of linked stories, but initially, I worried that the five pieces I thought were my strongest didn’t have a readily apparent link. The more time I spent with them, however, the clearer their connection became. Once I understood that, the rest of the process suddenly seemed like a piece of cake:


If my rough draft were a cake.

But you don’t sacrifice this much time, blood and sweat and tears and coffee addiction, working on something, only to stop at the finish line–even if you are ready to vomit.

Needless to say, after several days more of revising; six hours of formatting (Can we just all agree that the phrase “Should adhere to official university and program format and style” is code for “You are now entering the ninth circle of Hell”?); one wasted hour of tracking down ink for the new printer; one hour of printing; one hour of reprinting; one hour of obsessively line-checking each page; one hour of driving into D.C. to hand-deliver the draft; ten minutes of arguing with the parking garage attendant that yes, I LITERALLY* ONLY NEED TEN MINUTES BECAUSE I’M JUST DROPPING SOMETHING OFF SO PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LET ME PARK HERE AND I’LL GIVE YOU ALL THE CASH IN MY WALLET; five minutes of hyperventilating in front of the locked door to a clearly empty office; two minutes of grateful weeping on the shoulder of the office staffer who promised to get my thesis to my advisor; thirty seconds of sprinting back to the garage to make my ten-minute window; and one hour of driving home from D.C. (my sincerest apologies to all the motorists I passed on the way, who clearly did not appreciate the volume of my music), the job was done: I could finally relax…

Me, at every stoplight.

Me, at every stoplight.

…at least until the revision process with my faculty advisor begins.

*Acceptable usage in this case–and ONLY in this case.

The Beginning of the End

Thesis funnyYes, dear readers, it’s been a while since I posted–no excuses, just ordinary busy. I am, however, getting ready to be even busier, as I will, at last, be starting my thesis class later this month. When the class ends in December, I will (I hope) be awarded my M.A. in Fiction Writing, something I’ve been working steadily towards since 2005, when I entered my first M.A. program at DePaul University.

Big changes usually require a bit of looking back, and this one is no different. Many of you over the years have asked me what one actually does in an M.A. in Writing program, so I thought I’d share a few of the pieces I’ve written over the course of the program. I won’t share any fiction (that can bar it from being published by others later, and I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot). Instead, I’m just going to pass along a few of the academic papers I had to write that you might find illuminating, at least on the topic of what the hell I’ve been doing for the last eleven years.

The first one I’m sharing was the culminating paper for my Contemporary Authors course, the second course I took at Johns Hopkins. It’s part imitation of those authors’ styles, part general impressions of the course, and part analysis of what effect studying those authors might have had on my own writing. The original layout does not translate perfectly into a blog page, as it was intended to be read as a hard copy; I apologize in advance for that.

I won’t say “Enjoy,” even though I secretly hope you do. Be sure to read the footnotes; they matter.

Julia Tagliere

Contemporary Authors—Fall 2014

Paper 3


Who Do I Think I Am (as a Writer), Now?

All in.

Go big or go home.

Balls to the wall.

“Don’t be afraid to risk failure.”

Well, I’m here, aren’t I?



The fluorescent lights flutter pleasantly surprised eyelashes when we begin our Shit and Nonshit lists.


“Oh, yes! PynchonWallaceUpdikeMailer!”

Round-robin to me. “Well…I always liked Fun with Dick and Jane?”

Disgruntled Easter Island Heads dismiss me.


Prof. B. glows in the blue light of the projector that projects nothing. “I am the Great and Powerful Oz,” he says, impishly waiting for the rest of us to get it.

“But what about the curtain?” I ask.

“There is no curtain,” Easter Island Heads chant.


“So the mimesisaporiatexturearc fulfills our kinesis subtextually, no?” Prof B. grins.

“Exactly,” the Easter Island heads coo in chorus, anticipating the question crouching ashamed in my throat.

The 8:15 alarm gnashes its little fangs again. No one is glowing anymore but especially me. My minutes in this class are numbered.

[Johnson, Wolff]

And now for a little background music:

When MD[1] was a very little girl, she thought she could unzip the scar on the back of her head[2] in order to retrieve the stories hidden therein. Her mother told her that Dr. Manno[3] inserted a piece of Saran Wrap inside her skull to prevent “future ossification of the fibrous sutures,” but MD, clever little girl that she was, recognized a gross oversimplification when she heard one. She chose instead to believe that all the possible stories of the universe had been imprinted on an infinite scroll inside her head. Thus began MD’s lifelong obsession: The Retrieval Project. [Appendix 1, MD’s “Johns Hopkins Purpose Statement,” available upon request. Please send an SASE.]

Surgery 1

[MD, post-surgery.]                                                     




Surgery 2

[MD awakens, plotting.][4]




Fruitless attempts followed, beginning at age eleven with a ghastly poem[5] about her mother’s impending death sixteen years later, but more often than not, life [see Timeline 1] rather than writing intruded.[6]

Timeline 1




Timeline 2

[Timeline 1, In honorem Carson]

But finally, one day she published an article in a national writing magazine, and then a short story, and then a novel, and then a second novel, and then she was featured in another magazine, and thus captured the attention of a Very Important Agent who blessed her work and decreed that all MD had to do for the rest of her life was keep unzipping that zipper.[7]

Or, maybe MD did give up, and for very long periods of time.

It’s also possible that what really happened was that she never gave up on resuming the quest.

[Johnson, Galchen, Wolff, Carson, Foster Wallace]


Whew. I’m glad that’s over.

What I attempted to do with the preceding pages is not only provide a sense of the writer persona I brought to class, but also to demonstrate that I can at least imitate some of the stylistic and structural techniques employed by the authors we’ve been studying this semester. I did this to show that I recognize how those techniques can heighten the experience of even humdrum and ordinary narratives (such as mine), as well as impose upon the reader a very contemporary-feeling level of interactivity.

But while I am able to mimic some of those techniques, and hopefully some of their desired effects, I don’t necessarily feel that they are my way, either as a writer or as a reader. You see, while I fully appreciate that these authors we’ve studied are bringing a new set of tools to my toolbox, I don’t know how many of them apply to the works to which I am drawn, either as a reader or as a writer.

You said in class this week that there are people who “luxuriate in the possibility of multiple meanings” and there are people who don’t. As a reader, I definitely fall into the latter category. I have a conventional taste, a taste for works that don’t leave me hanging, that don’t force me to read a line a dozen times over and still not understand what happened. I prefer works that are more plot- and character-driven to those that play games of time and consciousness on the reader, and find myself incredibly frustrated by unresolved endings. I don’t believe in a consistently happy ending (how dull) but I do believe in an ending, not the feeling that the author has deliberately stopped the story short of resolution and left the rest up to me. Because I prefer reading those works, I also end up writing those types of works myself.

When we first started reading Wolff, I disliked him, because I didn’t know “what happened” at the end of his stories. Our in-class discussions about why we don’t know with any certainty (that what happened is not necessarily the point) definitely helped alleviate my discomfort and led to a greater appreciation, but still, I would not choose to go back and read Wolff for enjoyment—it’s not to my taste to go without some stronger sense of resolution.

I don’t feel I need to dwell much more on Wallace and Johnson’s works, given that I wrote my first two papers on them, except to say that I think it’s obvious that I greatly prefer Johnson’s nonfiction to his fiction. While I appreciated the fiction techniques he used, I didn’t find them enjoyable—the sensation of never quite understanding what’s going on, of never quite being sure what is real and what is imagined, is discomfiting for me.

You can imagine then, that I found Atmospheric Disturbances unpleasant and perhaps even irritating (and you would not be mistaken, for reasons I have already mentioned in class but which include her “smashing the fourth wall” and messing around with confusing and alternate realities); and while I was prepared to be thoroughly aggravated by Nox, to be honest, I found myself (unwillingly, maybe) pleasantly compelled.  I’m still not sure how I feel about a work of this nature being mass-produced[8] but found myself drawn into her attempts to solve the mystery of her brother, occasionally amused by unexpected glimpses of humor, and moved by her lovely language. But am I chomping at the bit to go read more of her work? Absolutely not.

So to recap, of the authors we’ve read, to this point, I have not fully engaged with any one of them other than Foster Wallace and (very grudgingly) Johnson’s Seek.

Then I start reading Stoner.

Right from the first page, I connect with the characters, the setting, the plot—it feels like coming home to a warm blanket and a cup of cocoa after fighting my way through the storms of all those other “challenging” works. Williams is not throwing obstacles of time and place and character mindfucks[9] at me left and right à la Johnson (fiction); he’s not inserting himself in the story in a distracting and irritating fashion à la Galchen; he’s not giving me a blank page and assuming that I will enjoy being asked as a reader to imagine what’s on it à la Carson. He does none of the things that I found so challenging about the other authors, and that very inaction, for lack of a better word, produces in me a profound contentment as I read. And I know, from Williams’ own words, exactly why: It’s contained in the interview at the beginning of Stoner, where Williams addresses the (apparently contemporary) movement of turning stories into “something to be studied and understood rather than experienced…as if [they] were a kind of puzzle.” His quote, “My God, to read without joy is stupid,” (xiii) sums up my whole disconnect perfectly.

These other authors we’ve read produced a number of effects on me as a reader, but I can honestly say I would not describe any of them as joy, and that is The Big Barrier standing between not just me and these authors, but also between me and the moniker of “Contemporary Author,” if the term is to be defined by works such as these.

Many of the pieces we read (in particular, Atmospheric Disturbances and Jesus’ Son) struck me as more about reader manipulation than about producing joy in the reader by the telling of a good story, and the sense I was getting in class that some out there may consider Williams overly conventional, dull, and worthy of fading away, saddens me.

Perhaps the joy I felt was magnified by Williams’ juxtaposition with those other, “more-challenging” authors. Would I have found Stoner as enjoyable if I hadn’t just fought my way through Galchen and Carson? There’s no way of knowing for sure, but I think the answer, based on past experiences, may well be yes.

I can’t speak for any joy produced in others by my own writing, but I think it’s safe to say that overt reader manipulation usually[10] takes a pretty comfy back seat to plot and character—well, maybe not comfy, hardly more than a rumble seat, really. But it’s also safe to say that, having read these works and seen how highly acclaimed they are, as well as having something I enjoyed reading be dismissed by others in class, unnerves me, makes me question my own writing. A sample of what me, myself, and I are asking each other:


  • Am I too conventional, too prosaic, a throwback, a literary Luddite, because I dislike these authors and their works?
  • What tools from those we’ve studied can I, or would I, apply to my own writing that might help expand on deeper themes and meaning without veering into that deep space of blatant reader manipulation that I dislike so much myself as a reader?
  • If this is what the “literary world” (publishers, readers, agents, etc.) is looking for when they say things like “conceptually dazzling,” “original,” or “unique,” if I don’t adapt, is there, then, still a place for a writer like me? Or am I marked for obscurity, doomed to fade away as you seemed to predict Stoner will, before I ever truly begin?
  • If there isn’t a place in the world of Contemporary Authors for me, do I even give a rat’s ass? Or will I continue to read and attempt to write those things that give me, and hopefully my readers, joy?


Wow, that is some conversation we’re having. But don’t lose heart, for, after belching out all of these questions, the three of us decide to take a look at my bookshelves and we see not Carson, not Johnson, and certainly not Galchen, but Tan, Patchett, Gaiman, Martin (George R.R.), Hosseini, and others, and we realize that there are thousands of writers out there creating engaging, compelling stories—stories that are a joy to read; stories that one doesn’t have to solve like a puzzle in order to understand; stories that honor that vital contract[11] between writer and reader, the one that says, in part (at least in my version):


  • I will provide the transportation for this journey. All you have to do is fasten your seatbelt, put your head back against the seat, and relax. I am in charge, but I won’t abuse my awesome power.
  • I will try not to confuse you.
  • I will do my utmost to keep my personal shit to myself. You didn’t open this book to learn about me. If you did, you’re in the wrong section of the bookstore—biographies are in the back.
  • I will not ask you to provide the ending for me. That’s my job.
  • I will endeavor to keep you engaged and wanting to turn the next page and the next page and the next page until there are no more pages to turn, then I will write “The End” and I will mean it, because I know if I bore you, piss you off, or betray you, you will leave, never to return again.


So, this is my answer to the question “Who do I think I am, Now?” after finishing this class. Hopefully, it’s illuminated some of my thought and growth processes this semester, illustrated that I was paying attention in class, and etched another sloppy hash mark onto my timeline-in-progress.

On the other hand, maybe the preceding pages are just the Carsonesque artifacts of another graduate student who panicked at topic level and is just trying to bullshit her way through a paper in any way she can.


[Wolff, Carson, Galchen]

[1] “Middle Daughter” or “Motherless Daughter.” Abbreviating periods omitted to distinguish from Medical Doctor.

[2] May or may not have resulted from craniotomy, a treatment for craniosynostosis.

[3] MD’s pediatric neurosurgeon

[4] Two can play this game, Ms. Galchen.

[5] “Mommy:” “Mommy, will you bounce me on your leg? /Mommy, will you fry me an egg?”

[6] Timeline explained:  x (MD) wanted y (to release her stories) in the worst possible way and, in Wolff-like fashion, surmounted a number of obstacles on her quest to do so [Appendix 1], obstacles that ultimately result in her sitting in a Contemporary Authors class in Fall 2014, bashing her brains out against an impenetrable wall of challenging works and wondering if the scroll of stories beneath her zippered skull are truly stories that can ever be written—should be written—or if all along those “guided dreams” were just some propofol-soaked surgical waste that Dr. Manno bobbled, dropped, forgot, and zipped into her brain along with the scrap of plastic and perhaps a blood-soaked sponge.

[7] Some of these things actually happened.

[8] Okay, no, that’s a lie; I know exactly how I feel. Really? Blank pages? Dictionary entries? Photos so blurry you can’t make out an image at all? How is this worthy?

[9] A tiny nod here—(a chin bob, really) to Johnsonian profanity, as well as being one of my favorite and most precise Carlinisms.

[10] Okay, I’ll grant that there is some limited mindfucking that goes on in some of my pieces, but it tends to be around plot twists rather than around technique or skewed subjectivity. You might be surprised by a turn or a development, but in order to understand it, you won’t first have to do the literary equivalent of finding The One Correct Puzzle Piece in a Chinese puzzle box containing a thousand identical pieces while blindfolded in a dark room on a pitching ship on a horizonless sea without a compass and fighting the worst bout of seasickness you’ve ever had. (Yeah, that’s kind of how I felt while I was reading Galchen. I didn’t like it.)

[11] For works of fiction only; we require a completely different contract for nonfiction.


It’s Conference Time!

Well, so much for blogging more regularly (New Year’s Resolution #9). Who knew four months could fly by so quickly? In my defense, I have managed to keep some of my other resolutions: I have read 19 books already this year, putting me at 38% of my Goodreads Reading Challenge of 50; I did finish Ulysses (Why did Joyce put the best chapters last?); I am three weeks out from running in the Maryland Half Marathon (I can’t feel my legs anymore, so I feel like I’m close to ready); I’m still resolutely NOT Silver Fox; if the Post-It Notes stucPost it notesk all over my desk are any indicator, I’ve ditched my white board lists completely (sorry, all you fuchsia trees out there); and I’ve been pretty successful at that “live in the moment” attitude.

Sadly, some of my other resolutions have fallen by the wayside: I wrote one entry in a journal, but misplaced it the next day and haven’t tried it since; my hour-long attempts at working on anything have blown up to 2-4 hours instead; and my dog can legitimately now be called, if not a true coffee table, then at least a fuzzy gray pouf, though I’m still working on that one.

Part of what’s been keeping me so busy (other than doing my best impression of a Gump groupie) has been my classes this year; they’ve been cool and challenging and the work load has been tough (duh, it is graduate-level, I know). One of the really cool things going on in my current class has been visits from different authors whose books we’ve studied this semester. We’ve had Michele Brafman, author of Washing the Dead; Leslie Pietrzyk, of This Angel on my Chest; Ellen Bryson, author of The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno; and tonight, Keith Donohue (The Stolen Child) will be visiting (but I’ll miss it, because of parenting stuff I just can’t miss, because those things matter, too, and many times, they matter more).

Hearing these authors talk about their inspiration, their very different processes, their experiences with and without agents, their paths to publication, their highs and lows and how they’ve handled them, has been incredibly interesting and illuminating. Each talk has been unique, each Q&A has yielded more insights and tips, and I feel very fortunate for having had these opportunities.

However, not everyone has access to grad-level writing classes and visiting authors; that’s precisely why writing conferences and other literary events are so very important–how else can you find answers to those questions, connect with other writers, find inspiration or comfort in the experiences of more experienced authors?

Photo Credit: http://firstdraftwriters.blogspot.com/

Photo Credit: http://firstdraftwriters.blogspot.com/

I’m very excited that the next couple of months hold several different events for me: First up is this weekend’s Conversations & Connections event, hosted by Barrelhouse magazine. I attended this one two years ago, and it was fantastic. The readings, the networking, the panelists, the speed-dating (with editors, don’t worry) were all outstanding. I hear it’s going to be sold out again this year, so if you didn’t get your ticket yet, better luck next time! The weekend after that, I’ll be attending the Washington Writer’s Conference: Books Alive 2016, for the first time, and I’m pretty excited by the lineup (Don’t believe me? Check it out here. ). It’s always exciting to try a new conference for the first time.

Speaking of trying things for the first time, that brings me to the last writers’ event I’ll be participating in this spring: the Johns Hopkins University Conference on Craft, a week-long residential writing experience, with this year’s theme of “Writing the Sea.” I love to write, I love the sea–what’s not to love?

I’ve been attending different writing events for a decade now, in multiple states, and I can honestly say that each one of them has brought value to me as a writer, whether it’s learning about the business side of writing, making connections with agents, or finding new friends within the big, wide world of the Writing Community. If you’ve never tried a conference before, I heartily recommend doing so. There are so many out there to choose from, it’s easy to find one that’s a good fit for you–and that’s good for you, too (here are just a few reasons why you should consider attending one).

Julia BW

In case you’ve forgotten what I look like. 🙂

Maybe I’ll even see you at one of these–be sure and say hi.

Cheers! 🙂



Resolutions, Shmesolutions

It’s January 2016, and all I can think is “Where the hell did 2007 go?” Mind like a steel trap, I know–prone to rusting in damp weather.

But that rusty state of mind is precisely why I feel compelled to jump on the New Year’s resolution bandwagon: If I don’t write down a few goals in a fashion that makes me nominally accountable for achieving them, by the time December 2016 rolls around, I will forget what the hell it was I meant to do this year.

So, my list, in no particular order:

  1. Meet my 2016 Goodreads Reading Challenge goal of 50 books this year. Think that’s funny? Last year, I pledged to read 100. Yeah, that didn’t happen, mostly because of Resolution 2:
  2. Finish reading Ulysses. It’s been on my list for two years running now; I figure if I actually do that this year, that counts for at least 20 normal books.
  3. Mayyyybe…just maybe, I might be the tiniest bit interested in trying a half marathon. This runnerone might be more along the lines of a fantasy, rather than a resolution, but I’m listing it anyway because as we all know, NYR’s are all about optimism (and laughter; lots of laughter).
  4. Walk my dog more often–we’re both suffering from post-holiday bingeing (but at least my doctor didn’t tell me I’m starting to look like a coffee table).
  5. Postpone going all Silver Fox for my hair color another year. Sorry, just can’t do it.
  6. Apply the 1-Hour Rule more often. This is my new rule for time management: I will split my day up into 1-hour segments, allowing an hour for each activity on my to-do list. This should allow me to be more efficient, so I should be able to finish everything on my list by 2019, give or take a year.
  7. Switch back to writing my to-do list on paper instead of my white board, first, so I feel a greater sense of accomplishment, and second, once I erase it, I can’t remember what I did.
  8. Start keeping a journal. This blog is, i suppose, a journal of sorts, but I’m pretty restrictive on the more personal details of my life online–after all, we wouldn’t want anyone to post pirated video of me
    Photo credit: http://thatswhatlisathinks.com/2013/10/

    Photo credit: http://thatswhatlisathinks.com/2013/10/

    and my chubby Weimaraner waddling off our New Year’s Resolution wagon, now would we?

  9. Blog more regularly. Well, here I am, so I can check that one off the list. Wait–I have to do this again?
  10. Be more present in the moment–deeper conversations, better listening, longer hugs, and much more gratitude. Life is short; drink it in.

Well, there you have it. I could probably go on, but since I’m already four minutes late to write in my journal and seventeen minutes late to walk my coffee table, I’ve gotta run. Happy New Year!

2015 William Faulkner Literary Competition

FaulknerBlowing one’s own horn is something I think many writers struggle with; that’s why it feels so good when someone else decides to do the honors for you:

I’m beyond pleased to announce that my story, “Te Absolvo,” has won Best Short Story in the 2015 William Faulkner Literary Awards, sponsored by the Tallahatchie Riverfest Literary Association.

I wasn’t able to attend the awards luncheon (logistics stink sometimes), but if you’re interested, The New Albany Gazette printed up a sweet article about the awards ceremony; it even rated a bit of local TV coverage (woohoo!).

Ask any writer (myself included), and they’ll probably tell you they don’t write for awards or publication–they write because they love to write. But ask any one of those same writers that same question after they’ve received an award or been published, and they’ll tell you those things sure don’t suck.

Many thanks to the Tallahatchie Riverfest Literary Association and the Union County Heritage Museum in New Albany for selecting my story; I’m honored. To read “Te Absolvo,” click here.

Thanks for a Great Summer, Boredom!

For the first time in over a decade, this summer, I did not sign my kids up for a single damned thing. No sports clinics. No camps. No lessons. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Nuthin’. And let me tell you, the first day of summer break this year was one of the most terrifying days I’ve ever experienced as a parent. What was I thinking? What in the heck was I going to do with them all summer? How many days left until school starts?

Well, today is their first day back to school, and somehow, we survived. How’d it go? Well, I think now, with (of course) perfect hindsight, this may well have been one of the best summers we’ve ever had, because boredom, as it turns out, is a very good thing:

  • It motivates: My daughter cleaned out her closet voluntarily, which was inconceivable; until this summer, we all thought Kids Choosing to Clean Closets signaled the End of Days.
  • It stimulates: This is her copy of Moby Dick, her summer reading assignment. Annotated and cross-referenced. Take that, SparkNotes.MD
  • It inspires: We started watching Jeopardy as a family this summer, leading to some amazing conversations about history, culture, books, etc. (Of course, we also started watching Family Feud with Steve Harvey, which sparked some amazing conversations with our adolescent sons about how many different words there are for boobs and sex. You can’t win ‘em all.)
  • It incentivizes: All three kids now know how to use the oven and clean their own bathrooms. ‘nuff said.
  • It educates: With no camps, clinics, or lessons to eat up the day (or our budget), we were free to spend time each week at different museums and zoos. We “swam” at an indoor beach; stumbled upon DC’s beautiful memorial to fallen police officers; learned about real-life spies; petted jellyfish and rays, watched sharks eat, and made the acquaintance of the astonishing mantis shrimp.

    Mantis Shrimp at the National Aquarium in Baltimore


    The Beach Exhibit at the National Building Museum

    National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial

  • It liberates: We all know how to use the DC Metro now, myself included; they no longer have to worry about Mom forgetting how to get home.
  • It makes the old feel new again: Let’s just say, I am no longer the Queen of Monopoly; my eldest son, the Slum King, now rules the land (once we let him out of jail). mono+jail
  • It permits, among other things: sleeping in; quiet time; binge-watching and binge-gaming (Seriously: my sons both declared they were, at long last, bored of video games); conversations, both silly and deep; silliest face and grossest belching contests (judges were split on whether that last one deserved a space in the Summer Debriefing); and staying up late to watch the ends of movies we know so well we can all quote them in chorus (“No more rhymes now, I mean it. Anybody want a peanut?”).PRINCESSBRIDE

I don’t want you to think for a minute that every day of this long, hot summer was a perfect idyll; that would be a bald-faced lie. While boredom allows for a lot of cool things to take place, it also allows for a fair share of unpleasantness (*inspired by actual events):

  •  It irritates: “How many damned times are you going to watch that same episode of Modern Family before you shower?”
  • It aggravates: “You’re sitting in my spot!” “I took the dog out last time!” “How do three people manage to use twenty-nine glasses in four hours?”
  • It peeves: “He’s putting his feet on me.” “She threw her wrapper at me.” “He’s kicking my chair, on purpose.”

And, inevitably:

  • It bores. “Oh, my God…how many days left ‘til school starts?” (*uttered by each one of us at least once during the past three months).

But the side effect of all that boredom this year, something that had been missing from all our past, scheduled-to-the-nanosecond summers without my even noticing it, is that (when it wasn’t suffocating us), boredom actually inspired a lot of creativity in my kids. It restored their interest in the world around them (they watch the news now, probably because they tired of watching everything else). It fostered a renewed camaraderie with their siblings (because when “someone” leaves the fridge open and the milk spoils, or “someone” spills crap all over the couch, United We Stand is the best defense). Boredom, in the end, can take a lot of the credit for us all feeling ready for the school year to begin again at last–because we didn’t have anything else left to do (and the fridge and pantry were just about empty, anyway).

So yeah—this first day, maybe people will ask our kids “What’d you do this summer?” and maybe they’ll say “Nuthin’.” But I already know, that along with all that “nuthin’’” we did this summer, we also found the time for a whole lot of something special, and we have boredom to thank for it.