Battling Mother-Nature

I am currently teaching the novel Uncle Tom's Cabin to a group of high school students.  One of the themes that emerges in the story is the natural affection a mother has for her children and how often this natural affection is associated with pain. This has gotten me thinking about the fact that as mothers, we live in a constant state of paradoxical tension. We are regularly called upon to suppress our natural instincts to shelter, comfort, and protect and instead subject our children to varying degrees of discomfort and even pain.

 My own experience with this has run the gamut from the tragic to the absurd.

When my oldest son was little, he was frequently hospitalized. Again and again, I had to sit and watch nurses poke him with needles to draw blood and thread him with tubes to administer anesthesia or nourishment. My maternal instincts longed to slap the nurse's hand and snatch my baby out of harm's way. I had to force myself to conjure up the deeper instinct to allow him to suffer temporarily in order to serve a greater good.

When my youngest daughter started kindergarten, getting her to leave my side each morning was her own personal trauma. She would gladly have snuggled me day and night for the first ten years of her life if I had let her, but I knew that wasn't what she needed. I'd pull up in front of the school, give her a squeeze and assure her that she'd be fine. Then I'd open the door and literally shove her out. Her older sister would hold onto her while I drove away to keep her from chasing the van.  I'd avoid looking in the rear view mirror because I knew what I would see: her tiny arms straining toward me and a look of sheer misery on her face. I'd remind myself that when she got home at the end of her half-day, she'd be all laughs and smiles – the pain of this parting forgotten until tomorrow when it happened all over again.

But perhaps the most unnatural of these maternal moments happened last Sunday when I brought my son to the airport so he could head back to Camp Lejeune. In a few weeks he will be on a transport to Afghanistan. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and pressed my hands against his back. I froze that moment in my memory – the feel of his leather jacket under my hands, the warmth of his neck against my cheek, the pressure of his arms as they squeezed me tightly – and I stored it away in my heart. Then I did what so many other mothers have done throughout the ages. I let go. I drew back, eyes dry, smile confident, and said goodbye.

It would have been natural to cling to him and sob, but for his sake I had to do what was against nature. We tend to vilify the Spartan mothers for their stoic benediction to their husbands and sons, Come back with your shield or on it. But having bid farewell to both a husband and now a son, I think they had the right idea. They understood what their men needed from them. To do less would have been something like selfishness.

Mothering is full of such moments, and it never gets any easier.

As Christmas approaches, I find myself thinking less of mangers and shepherds and more of Mary, the young mother of Christ. The words of the Christmas story that echo in my mind are not, "Peace on earth, good will to men," but rather the words of Simeon as he stood before Mary and her baby in the temple. After prophesying a life of pain and conflict for her infant Son he added, "… and a sword will pierce your own soul, too."

Surely in Mary's case, the suffering her Son endured during His lifetime served an immeasurably great purpose. I am thankful she didn't hide Him away in a cave and smother His life in peace and safety.  

So, from dentist appointments to deployments, we defy our maternal instincts and let our children out from under our sheltering wings to do what is good and necessary for them to do. And though it may be but a small comfort to us mothers, at least we know when we act thus, we are in the very best of company.

Little Boxes

I'm not sure where the boxes came from. Honestly, I think they've always been there. My earliest memories of them are not so much the story of their creation as their discovery.

I remember getting a demerit in kindergarten in the strict private school I attended. The teacher had blamed me for something I hadn't done. She was scowling sternly at me, looking at me with furrowed brows and glaring eyes, trying to convince me I was a bad little girl. I knew if I continued to defend myself, she'd add lying to my crimes. I also knew, at the tender age of four and one-half, that I was right and she was wrong. My instincts, being scarcely beyond babyhood, nudged me to cry. But something else in me, something too complicated to name, whispered No, don't cry. If you cry, she wins. Look here! Put her in the box! So I put her in a box labeled, "People who aren't worth trying to impress." From her place inside that box, she could not hurt my feelings. I made my face impassive. I took my demerit, knowing that I had shown her I no longer cared.

One day, still in kindergarten, a photographer came to take school pictures. I sat on the little stool in my yellow flowered dress and looked at the camera.

"Smile!" said the photographer.

There was something in his tone that I didn't like. He was a stranger, telling me what to do. I felt my stubborn-self prickling inside.

"Come on, Honey. You have to smile."

Now he'd done it. I have to smile? Oh, really? I settled my face into the most serious expression I could muster – eyes blank, mouth relaxed into a delicate frown. 

The photographer proceeded to empty his whole bag of tricks upon me. Funny voices, stuffed animals, puppets -- the works. A few times I felt myself wavering, my mouth twitching towards a smile. 

But then I remembered the boxes. 

I traveled down to the place where I kept them, deep in my mind. I found one labeled, "Bad things that have happened to me." I opened it and conjured up a vivid memory of an accident I'd had with the clown swing at the park. A boy had been pushing the empty swing. I had walked within range. The seat of the swing had slashed my cheek, leaving me with a thin scar still visible to that day. I called up the memory of the fear, the pain, my mother's alarm. I thought of the fact that the scar would show on my face in this picture – and that was nothing to smile about. My face relaxed easily back into the frown. The photographer gave up and snapped the picture in defeat.

Weeks later, when I brought the pictures home, my mother said, "These are pretty, honey, but why didn't you smile?"

"Because I didn't want to," I said.

Throughout elementary school, I added to the boxes. I filed away troublesome teachers and unkind classmates. I filed away confusing feelings and nameless fears. Having a place to put such things, out of sight and out of my conscious mind, allowed me to be a happy, often care-free child. That's the way I liked it.

In junior high, my boxes failed me briefly. There was one teacher that I really liked, and I wanted him to like me. I got good grades in his classes, but that wasn't enough to make me stand out. He scarcely paid any attention to me at all. To make matters worse, he frequently spoke fondly of my older sister, who was in both his science class and his home room. His obvious preference for her stung like lemon juice on paper cuts. I tried to shove him into my "People I don't care to impress" box, but he just didn't fit. He left the school after my eighth grade year. I moved him to my "People who don't matter anymore" box and was able to close the lid. I rarely thought of him again.

In high school, things got out of control. There weren't enough boxes to stuff away all the messes I was making of my life, so I shoved myself in a box. I labeled it "This isn't really me," and hid there for two or three years.

I emerged just in time to get married. I found a big box and labeled it, "Things not to let get on my nerves." That one filled up quickly and probably saved my young marriage.

Then, in the seventh month of my first pregnancy, the doctor expressed concerns that there might be something wrong with the baby I was carrying. Tests were inconclusive. They wouldn't know until he was born. I had a choice: spend the next two months in a state of constant tears and panic, or carry this down deep into the vaults and put it in a box. It was at this moment that I found the box that would serve me best for all of my parenting years. I labeled it, "I'll think about this when I have to – and not a minute before."

As it turned out, there was something wrong with my baby. After a major operation and three weeks in intensive care, we were told that he could go home but would need to return to the hospital in three months for more surgery. With a smile on my face, I brought my baby home. I enjoyed those three months as if nothing were wrong, fears of the pending surgery hidden safely away in Tomorrow's box. For the next fourteen years, there was always something waiting in that box – something unseen and unspoken looming in my firstborn's future. Something else to face – but not until I had to. In the meantime I would be happy.

More recently, there was the news of my husband's deployment: one year in the deserts of Kuwait. I didn't take that reality out of the box until the first night he was gone, when an earthquake shook our house and no one answered when I cried out, "What was that?"

Now there's something else in the box. My second son is in the Marine Corps. Very soon, his daily text messages and frequent calls will stop. For seven months, he'll be on the other side of the world in a place no one wants to think about – most of all, me. Soon, but not now. When the moment comes, I'll face it. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy celebrating an early Christmas with our family complete -- all seven of us safely under one roof.

People who know about my boxes have mixed opinions of them. Some call them coping mechanisms. Others hint that I have denial issues. I am not sure who's more right. Maybe I'm like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone with the Wind, chanting her mantra, "I'll think about that… tomorrow." Or maybe I'm following the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount where He said, "Do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." I'd prefer to think the latter, but I can't be completely sure. Sometimes the boxes feel like faith, but other times they feel a lot like pretending.

Sometimes I wonder if the boxes are hereditary. When my youngest daughter was three or four, I was trying to get her to apologize for something she had done. I prompted her with the words, "What do you need to say to your sister?" I had in mind something along the lines of, "I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?" What came out of her mouth was, "Not my problem. Not my fault." 

In her laughing blue eyes, I saw reflections of my own. Already, she is protecting herself – sometimes in good ways, sometimes not so good. But perhaps, with guidance, her little boxes will serve her as mine did me. Perhaps they will let her keep smiling right up to the brink of her sorrows and then emerge quickly -- ready to smile again.

Considering the alternatives, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Zobelgrahams: The REAL Zombie Apocalypse (by Graham)

Zobelgrahams: The REAL Zombie Apocalypse (by Graham): Somewhere deep in the UNDERWORLD: President :      Are we on schedule? Everything going according to plan? Field Marshall:         Yes,...

Becoming Nancy Drew

Between the ages of seven and ten, I read at least fifty Nancy Drew mysteries. By my fifth or sixth book, I had decided that I wanted to be just like Nancy Drew.

It wasn't her titian colored hair (or even the fact that she used words like titian).  I had never been partial to red hair of any shade. It certainly wasn't her wardrobe. I wouldn't have been caught dead in a smart beige suit or a green lawn dress. Her blue convertible was pretty cool, but I wasn't all that into cars. I admired the fact that she was dating an older boy (even if he did have a silly name like Ned Nickerson), and I liked that she kept stringing him along book after book and never let him tie her down. These things were interesting and made Nancy who she was -- but they didn't make me want to be her.

The thing that enthralled me about Nancy was one line that was repeated, book after book:

"Nancy stood there, lost in thought."

I used to read that sentence as a kid and think, "What would it be like to be 'lost in thought'?"

I pictured Nancy's mind as a labyrinth of filing cabinets, filled with knowledge, observations, and information. I pictured Nancy wandering the halls of her own mind leafing through those files, remembering, organizing, devising, and theorizing, literally lost in the sheer massiveness of her own brain.

Other times, I pictured Nancy, sitting in a plush armchair in a vast library, the walls of her mind lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. She sat there quietly, her hand stroking her chin, thinking deep thoughts about  --  I didn't know what. And this is what inspired me.

I was desperate to understand how one could think at such a depth and to such a degree that one could become oblivious to the outside world. I just had to learn this secret and, if at all possible, become "lost in thought" myself.

I made some attempts at becoming lost in thought by simply assuming the pose. I'd stand with a finger on my lips, stare off into space, and ignore people on purpose when they called my name. Then I'd say, "I'm sorry. Were you talking to me? I didn't hear you." But I wasn't fooling anyone -- least of all myself. I knew my mind was a shameful blank. One could not get lost in a forest with only one tree.

Years went by. Nancy Drew slipped into my subconscious and camped there. As a teenager, I no longer idolized Nancy Drew per se; but the idea of her never left me entirely. Always I was propelled to read more, write more, think more, in hope that one day I might find myself lost in thought.

After high school, I kept reading and writing, but I also got married and had five babies in rapid succession. ("Rapid succession" is another phrase I learned from Nancy Drew books.) My days were full of highchairs and carseats, diaper bags and strollers, bottles and teething rings. I had little sleep and less recreation.

The one thing I did for myself in those early years of motherhood was take a non-fiction writing class. It was just a snail-mail correspondence class, not even for college credit. But it gave my mind something to do during countless hours of washing dishes, folding laundry, nursing babies, and driving carpool. I'd plan and outline essays in my head while my hands were busy with these "mindless" tasks. Then, during nap times or Sesame Street, I'd put pen to paper and write the essays down.

One day, as I was stirring something on the stove, I was suddenly aware of a little voice at my knee.

"Mummy, can I?"

"What?"

"Mummy, can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Have some juice. I just asked you and you weren't listening to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sweetie. Mummy was just..."

A feeling of profound satisfaction washed over me in that instant. I was wearing sweatpants instead of a smart beige suit, and I drove a grey station wagon instead of a blue convertible. But in the only way that mattered, I was Nancy Drew. I had been really and truly lost in thought over a pot of simmering chili.

During the years that have followed that moment, I'm afraid I've taken my inner Nancy Drew to the brink of dementia. My thoughts are so talkative, that I can sit in a room or a car full of people for hours and be unaware of the fact that I haven't spoken a single word out loud. My mind frequently abandons conversations with other people, leaving my mouth to cover for it, while it wanders off to do more interesting things. When I arrive home from a long drive, I often make a bee line for a notebook so I can record strings of sentences invisibly composed during the trip before I forget them. I get lost in thought so easily these days that I have to make a conscious effort to re-engage with the physical world around me.

I'm not sure that being like Nancy Drew is all I imagined it would be when I was seven. I am beginning to understand why Nancy only had two friends, never bought new clothes, and was unable to make a lasting commitment to poor Ned. Still, as my own children read volumes 35, 40, and 45 of Nancy Drew's mysteries, I find myself watching them eagerly for signs of absent-mindedness. I wouldn't mind if a few of them grew up to have minds that have a mind of their own.

At the very least, maybe one of them will own a blue convertible someday. I think I would be OK with that too.

The Artist and his Principles: A Metaphor

What follows is an essay I wrote for my graduate class. I share it here because writing it was not just an academic exercise for me. This essay addresses the tension that I feel as a writer striving to balance the marketability of my work with the need to be true to my own deeply held beliefs. In reading Anna Karenina recently, I found myself identifying with Tolstoy, whose work has been criticized (and even despised) by some who did not share or respect his religious convictions. I can't help but believe Tolstoy wrote himself metaphorically into the chapters discussed below. In these chapters I found practical advice and encouragement reaching out to me across centuries and continents -- from one writer to another. That in itself was an experience worth blogging about!



Embedded in the center of Leo Tolstoy's novel Anna Karenina is a detailed metaphor of the writer's life.  Through a string of brief scenes in Part V, chapters 10-13, Tolstoy uses a character referred to as "Mikhaylov, the artist" to illuminate the tension the artist (or writer) feels by being forced to simultaneously occupy two realms. These realms could be labeled as the spiritual and the material, or simply as the creative and the pragmatic.  It is in the vast region between the places where his mind and his body dwell that the artist must reconcile matters such as inspiration and execution, criticism and appreciation, conviction and necessity.  This tension both frustrates and fuels the artist.

In these brief pages, Mikhaylov first appears in an argument with his wife over money. He shouts at her and calls her names, then shuts himself into his studio to work. Tolstoy writes, "He never worked with such ardour or so successfully as when things were going badly with him, and especially after a quarrel with his wife. 'Oh dear! If only I could escape somewhere!' he thought as he worked." (p. 467) Mikhaylov then finds a discarded sketch which his young daughter had smudged and in the smudge finds inspiration for a new and much-improved drawing. These details illustrate the dual world of the artist – a world in which the chaos of money troubles and messy children actually cultivates rather than stifles his creative energy. We see that though part of him longs for a solitary life in a painter's loft, the true artist in him knows that his inspiration depends on the very things from which he longs to escape.

Mikhaylov the artist cannot create without inspiration. Inspiration is the key to executing his art successfully. It is clear that Mikhaylov will not paint just anything. This perhaps explains why he is poor. He can paint only what he sees and feels through the eyes of his soul. That is why he is so irritated by Vronsky's use of the word "technique." Tolstoy writes, "[Mikhaylov] often heard the word technique mentioned, and he did not at all understand what was meant by it. He knew it meant mechanical capacity to paint and draw, quite independent of the subject matter. He had often noticed…that technique was contrasted with inner quality, as if it were possible to paint well something that was bad." (p. 472) In his opinion, "the most experienced and technical painter could never paint anything by means of mechanical skill alone, if the outline of the subject matter did not first reveal itself to his mind." (p. 472) Mikhaylov had not just to see something but to see into it before he would even consider painting it.  That is why he was so eager to paint Anna. He didn't just see her beauty and long to capture it. He saw something of her soul, and that was what he wanted to reproduce on canvas. Not being a true artist, Vronsky did not have this second sight.
Thus, when Vronsky sees Mikhaylov's portrait of Anna he sees her "sweetest spiritual expression" (p. 475) for the first time on the canvas, even though it has been apparent in her face all along.

Mikhaylov the artist is at the mercy of, though not defined by, other's criticism. When Mikhaylov enters his studio and views his own paintings, particularly Pilate's Admonition, he is quite satisfied with his work. It seems perfect to him. Then, as he anticipates strangers coming in to view it, he becomes agitated. When Golenishchev, Anna, and Vronsky enter, he knows they are not qualified to judge his art, yet he is filled with self-doubt as they scrutinize his work. Then Golenishchev makes an observation about the figure of Pilate, rightly discerning the character traits Mikhaylov had attempted to portray. This thrills the artist, but not as much as Anna's comment about Christ's expression: "One sees he is sorry for Pilate," she observes. The irony in her statement is the reason she makes it. Far from discerning the deep spiritual truth about Christ which the artist has deliberately communicated, Anna merely "felt that it was the centre of the picture, and that therefore praise of it would be agreeable to the artist." (p. 471) Still, Mikhaylov devours the praise eagerly and allows it to nourish his artistic soul.

Mikhaylov the artist must paint out of his convictions, not to please the consumer. In spite of the fact that he needs to earn money to provide for his family, Mikhaylov must paint what he believes in. To him, interpreting Christ as both deity and humanity is "the highest theme open to art," (p. 473) therefore he paints it. However, this theme does not resonate with every viewer. In fact, some (like Golenishchev) find it repugnant. Fortunately, Mikhaylov also has a gift for portraying lofty truth in the most mundane contexts. It is not Pilate's Admonition that fills his visitors with delight, but a painting of two boys fishing by a stream. Yet even in this simple painting, Mikhaylov has managed to display the duality of matter and spirit, as one boy is preoccupied with the act of fishing while the other has abandoned his pole to gaze dreamily at the water. Though they were turned off by this theme in an overtly religious painting, Anna and Vronsky are irresistibly drawn to it in this relatable context. They decide they must purchase the painting – and thus the artist survives, true to his principles yet palatable to his market.

Through these chapters on Mikhaylov and his painting, Tolstoy gives the reader a glimpse at what was certainly his own experience as a writer. First, Tolstoy's work bears witness to the fact that he did not attempt to write without inspiration. He saw humanity with a second sight that penetrated to the matters of soul and spirit, and it is the spiritual condition of men and women that he lays bare in his characters. Tolstoy also wrote without undue regard to criticism, though he took it to heart. Through Mikhaylov, Tolstoy reveals that it is far more painful to have one's work misinterpreted than merely disliked. Liking or not liking is a matter of taste, but if misunderstanding is possible then the writer feels he has failed in his work. Finally, in the same spirit as Mikhaylov, Tolstoy wrote from his conscience and convictions, with an aim to tell the truth – not to please his market. His writing was laced with religious themes and the spiritual principles in which he firmly believed. Surely it was Tolstoy, the artist, speaking through Mikhaylov when he said, "I could not paint a Christ whom I had not in my soul." (p. 472

Books and Promises

In the summer of 1985, when I was fourteen years old, I caught a terrible cold. It was the week of our family vacation at Long Beach Island, New Jersey. Stuck in a rented house with neither television nor radio, I had literally nothing to do but lie there feeling miserable while everyone else was on the beach having a wonderful time.

After a few days, my father came up to my room carrying a white paper bag from the corner drug store. In it, he promised, was something that would make me feel better.

I reached into the bag expecting to find medicine. Instead, to my surprise, I pulled out a book. It was a fat paperback, maybe three inches thick, with the homeliest boy I'd ever seen painted on the front cover. David Copperfield, it said, by Charles Dickens. I flipped through the pages, letting them fan rapidly off my thumb. There were no pictures. And the print was very small.

"It's a classic," my dad said, as if that meant anything to me.

If my father had given me that book in any other setting, I would probably never have read it. But given nothing but the peeling paint on the ceiling to compete for my attention, I decided to read. And I kept reading day after day, week after week, until I came to the end.

I remember the moment vividly. It was 2:00 a.m., and I was babysitting for some friends of my parents. As I read the final pages, tears poured down my cheeks, and my nose ran shamelessly. I couldn’t bear that I was alone. Such words, such happenings were meant to be shared. I decided to call my mother.

My mother answered the phone and was instantly thrown into a panic. The combination of the late hour and my sobs filled her imagination with horrors. Oblivious to this, I started to read her Dora's deathbed scene, in which she entrusts her young husband to the care of dear Agnes – the woman who had loved David in secret all along. Agnes descended the stairs, hand upraised to heaven, indicating Dora's death.  It was simply the most beautiful thing I had ever read.

Through reading David Copperfield, I became fascinated with people. The characters in the story consumed me and knit themselves into my heart. They became the archetypes for all the other people I would meet in my life. Through the novel, I came to understand that there were weak but well-intentioned people, like Clara and Mr. Micawber; selfish, manipulative people, like the Murdstones and Steerforth; unimpressive but good people, like Daniel and Ham; trapped people fighting their own hearts, like Annie; people who create their own problems, like Mrs. Gummidge and Em'ly; strong, redemptive people like Betsey, Peggotty, and Agnes. As I read (and re-read) David Copperfield, I formulated an idea in my mind of the kinds of people I could respect – and the kind of person I wanted to become.

Thanks to David Copperfield, I also became enamored with words – so much so, that it has ruined all other forms of art for me. It was with words, not pictures, that Dickens breathed life into his characters and made them living souls. For example, one cannot read these words without conjuring not just a mental picture but a kindred sympathy with young David, face to face with the Aunt who had rejected him at birth – his sole fault being his gender:

Not having as yet finished my own breakfast, I attempted to hide my confusion by proceeding with it; but my knife tumbled over my fork, my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped bits of bacon a surprising height into the air instead of cutting them for my own eating, and choked myself with my tea, which persisted in going the wrong way instead of the right one, until I gave in altogether, and sat blushing under my aunt's close scrutiny.

It is that connection with souls through words that has stayed with me. To this day, when I visit a museum, I wander around feeling restless and bored until I happen to find a glass case in which are displayed journals or letters. Then I pore over the faded strokes of ink or lead in a tireless attempt to decipher meaning. Here, in their words, I find a connection with the people of the past -- not in their clothing, tools, or trinkets.

Young Copperfield's aunt once told him, "It's in vain to recall the past, unless it works some influence upon the present." That is why today that tattered copy of David Copperfield is preserved in a glass shadow box in my office. Like a framed muse, it hangs over the desk where I hammer away at my first attempt at a book – which is, ironically, a memoir. As I begin writing my life story, I hear the echo of Dickens' young narrator: "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." I relate to this statement on a whole new level now. On the days I find myself blocked, unable to string five words together, I fondly recall Mr. Dick, brought to a standstill in the writing of his Memorial by the unwelcome intrusion of Charles the First's head, which "had been constantly getting into it, and was there now."

To this day, when I pass out copies of David Copperfield to my high school students and hear their groans as they eyeball the cover, binding, and typeface, I make them a promise. I tell them that if they will bear with me to the end of this book, they will never be the same. So far, no student has proved me wrong.

A Glimpse at my Memoir -- and How I'm Writing It

I am writing a memoir for my MFA thesis. This memoir (mentors permitting -- and barring a radical change of mind on my part) is going to be written in two parts. Part one will cover early childhood through my 18th birthday and part two will cover ages 18-41. Part one will focus on my father who began to raise me when he was little more than a kid himself. Part two will focus on my own adulthood, which began very suddenly when I got married and started my own family at 18.

Two time lines were necessary to my planning because I wanted to notice and draw out connections between my father's life and mine – ways in which our stories are eerily similar and ways in which they are conspicuously the opposite of each other.

For anyone interested, here is the method behind my writing madness.

Making the Timeline

Step 1: Get a very long piece of paper.

Step 2: Using colored masking tape (sold with art supplies, scrapbooking stuff), mark off two parallel lines in two different colors. This could also be done with highlighters, but the tape can be peeled off and moved – a definite plus!!

Step 3: My two lines ARE NOT to scale. I marked my ages (and dates) on each line separately, spreading them out proportionately because my second line covers fewer years than my first. If they covered the same time period, I would have made them to scale – two inches per year, for example.

Step 4: I used different colored tape to block off significant life markers – like the four houses we lived in each in a different color running parallel to the timeline. I find that many of my memories are "tagged" chronologically by location, so this helps me organize my memories. I also marked the birth of each of my five children on the timeline.

Step 5: I wrote in the chapter titles (or tentative titles) for chapters I have already written and those that I am planning IN PENCIL in the order that I envision they will appear. For chapters still in the planning phase, I used the large amount of white space to jot "notes to self" on what will be in those chapters.

Step 6: I used bright yellow tape to "connect the dots" between the two timelines, noting events and themes in my father's story and mine that I want to develop or explore. These don't line up neatly chronologically, so these lines criss-cross all over the place. But as I get deeper into writing part 2, these connections will keep me focused so I don't lose my theme in a jumble of anecdotes.

Basically, what this project has accomplished is helping me to orient myself in time and organize my chapters in an order that makes the most sense. It has also helped me to identify and visualize connections between the two stories – which will allow me to tell my story in a way that is (I hope) satisfying to the reader in a "coming-full-circle" sort of way.

Remember:  Leave lots of white space for jotting notes and always, always, always use pencil!!