fixing what is broken.

To anyone who's read this blog for oh, more than a few posts, it's obvious I still have a strong interest in medicine/oncology. And believe me, if I were good at science, I'd be in med school or nursing school in a heartbeat (ahem, see spring 2010). But that is not the case. I still read Atul Gawande, Jerome Groopman, Perri Klass and Danielle Ofri, and whenever I go into a bookstore I usually go to the medical section first, to see if any doctor, nurse or student has written a new book I might like. If I'm completely honest, a tiny minuscule piece of me still would love to be a pediatric oncologist. So it's safe to say I have strong feelings about medicine and the kind of doctor I like, and would want to be.

My nephew and I were in the car today; I was driving us to meet my dad so we could go to my aunt's house to visit her. I had asked my nephew if he knew my aunt was sick and going to Heaven soon. I reassured him that he would not go to Heaven for a verrrrrrrry long time, and neither would his daddy, Aunt JJ or anyone else, and that my aunt was sick with something called cancer, that the doctors cannot always fix. There was a pause, and then this little voice from the back of my Jeep says, "But JJ, I thought doctors fix people and make them better. They can't make Aunt Edie better?" I explained that they want to make people with cancer better, but sometimes it is very hard. But geez, kids have a way of saying the most starkly important things in such a matter-of-fact, innocent way.....because isn't that what we all, at our most basic level, wonder when someone we love is ill? You're a doctor; doctors are supposed to make us better. And kids say it out loud, with no anger, embarassment or anything. There's something refreshing about that, and I think it's why I loved working in pediatrics.

I can understand the feeling, too. When my friends Erik and Sophia were sick in middle school from leukemia and a brain tumor, respectively, even at the age of 12 or 13, walking around CHOP, I realized that something wasn't right - why isn't everyone going home, I thought doctors could make kids better. When friends or family members get sick, we all have that first irrational thought of, why can't they FIX THIS NOW. And if they die, we think this wasn't supposed to happen. We rail against G-d, doctors, each other, ourselves.....because sometimes things break. Sometimes things fail. And even four years of college, four years of med school and subsequent years of internship, residency and fellowships cannot fix everything that is broken, no matter how much we wish it would.

Pura Vida

I posted a year or so ago about Kiel James Patrick bracelets, and how they provided actual, real customer service. Kiel is a great guy and has stood by his word and I love to buy his things when I can. It can be really hard to find companies that actually practice what they preach and stand by their values, but I found another one - Pura Vida bracelets. Pura vida means "pure life," meaning you should enjoy every moment and not take anything for granted. The company was founded by 2 friends who were in Costa Rica when they noticed a guy named Jorge selling handmade bracelets. They started talking with him, and found out he and his family were living in a single room.The friends asked him to make 400 bracelets to take back with them to the US, and when they did, they sold out like crazy. They were simple string bracelets, but the simplicity spoke for itself. They teamed up with Jorge, who finally had enough money to buy a house for his family, and to this day, the bracelets are handmade in Costa Rica, providing jobs for locals. A portion of all their sales go to the Surfrider Foundation, which helps keep beaches and oceans clean, and they also sell charity bracelets - $1 from each bracelet goes to the charity for which it is made. (The bracelets themselves are only $5 for regular ones). The charities range from March of Dimes to the Wounded Warrior project to numerous cancer funds.

Everyone with whom I have spoken there has been wonderful in replacing broken bracelets to making sure I got them in time, and I've been happy to support them.

obligatory end-of-year book list.

Columbia just sent us a new revised packet of course listings and master classes....and their line up this coming Spring is fantastic, I have to say. Eileen Myles, Sloane Crosley, Emily Fox Gordon, Elisa Albert....super excited. I would love to take ALL THE CLASSES. I just read Albert's book (I blogged about it in the last post), and would love to take her class. Myles is a poetry goddess superstar, Gordon's essays are great, and Crosley is awesome. sigh.

I'm seeing all these lists everywhere about the Best Books of 2011, and I feel like I should list some. I don't have specific rankings, but here are some books I read this year that I loved:

1. Blue Nights, by Joan Didion. Memoir of losing her daughter, Quintana, and thoughts about aging, death, life and mortality. Didion can do no wrong.

2. The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern. A beautiful, richly described, vibrant book about two illusionists who fall in love, despite being pitted against one another to be the best. I stayed up until the early morning hours reading this and finished my ARC of it in 2 days.

3. We Wanted to Be Writers: Life, Love and Literature at Iowa Writers' Workshop, by Eric Olsen and Glenn Schaeffer. A book filled with alumni rememberances about the Workshop, how they write, their thoughts on process, etc. Honest, engaging and insightful for any writer.

4. The Cure for Grief, by Nellie Hermann. Quietly devastating but cautiously optimistic, this is a book about a young girl whose family implodes, leaving her to deal with the loss of her father and two brothers to mental and physical illnesses.

5. Death is Not an Option, by Suzanne Rivecca. A wonderful short story collection about strength, life, survival and love.

6. The Vanishers, by Heidi Julavits (coming out in March 2012). I read this ARC back in November and wanted to skip class to finish it, it was that good. I didn't love her other books, but this one, about a young woman with psychic gifts who is caught in a web of deceit and magic, is brilliantly crafted.

7. Anthropology of an American Girl, by Hilary Thayer Hamann. Despite the 400+ pages, I finished this in 2 days this past summer. The book follows Eveline through her adolescence and young adulthood in the late 1970s and early 80s, and Hamann captures miniscule details perfectly, which transport the reader right into the richly written prose.

8. Best American Essays 2011, edited by Edwidge Danticat. Some years are a miss, this year's collection is a hit. Essays on family, illness, writing and more fill this book, with a few contributors who are alums of the Columbia MFA program, actually. There was not one essay in this collection (which includes Zadie Smith) that I did not like, which is amazing.

9. Hold Still, by Nina LaCour. This is a YA book that rivals "13 Reasons Why," and I actually think is a little bit better. After Caitlin's best friend Ingrid commits suicide, she finds Ingrid's journal in her room. While still struggling with grief, she begins reading the journal to find out why Ingrid killed herself, and in the process, finds out how to continue living.

10. The Homecoming of Samuel Lake, by Jenny Wingfield. A great Southern story about a family who returns to the father's hometown, where the daughter Swan (reminiscient of Harper Lee's Scout) befriends an abused little boy, with devastating yet ultimately positive results.

To read over break: new issues of Ecotone and Ploughshares; "Blue Blood:Duke vs Carolina;" Best Food Writing 2011; Best American Nonrequired Reading 2011; Narrative Medicine

read ALL the blogs!

There is a blog I love, called Hyperbole and a Half. I don't remember who told me about it or when I first started reading it, but it's great. I laugh out loud as I read it. AAAAAANNNNNDDD she has a book deal. So kinda jealous. But it's hilarious. And reading about cancer is not, so that's why she has the book deal. Below are some pictures from her blog.

I kind of want to be her.

lifecycles.

All that stands between me and winter break are two books, a paper, and workshop critiques. And 3 classes. I need this break. I need to read for pleasure, need to read brain candy YA books or sports books or US Weekly. I don't want to see a New Yorker or a Believer once over break. I'll make an exception for lit journals like Ecotone and Ploughshares. My brain is just wiped out. This week in particular has kind of kicked my ass. I just went through a whole bunch of bureaucratic/administrative red tape that did not end in my favor. So I can't do my Independent Study, which is like, the ONE thing I was really excited about for next semester. I never really got a firm reason why, but I think it's internal stuff. It was a whole week of stressful emails and conversations that never really met on the same common ground, ending in disappointment and, I admit, a very small feeling of defeat. But I hate feeling defeated, and after an afternoon of moping, got my scrappy self together and I know that somehow, I will pursue my interests in a really in-depth way. And when I am a famous writer, on panels with Atul Gawande and Jerome Groopman, I will say, "Let me tell you about this one time I wasn't allowed to do this Independent Study...."

A girl can dream, can't she?

Then I found out I didn't get the research fellowship for which I interviewed. I was really crushed, and honestly - without sounding like a total asshole - I do have more research experience than almost everyone in the program. I've done research at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, Memorial Sloan-Kettering, the UNC Schools of Public Health and Nursing, and the Cancer Institute of NJ. I don't think that's too shabby. But, I guess it wasn't what they were looking for. Which is a shame, because I genuinely enjoy research. Which may explain why I am blogging on a Friday night.

But honestly, all of that is small in the grand scheme of things. My aunt is on hospice and if she lives through the year, I will be pleasantly surprised. She looked almost ghoulish at Thanksgiving, with her skin stretched across her face and greyish skin; not the aunt I know. Cancer is relentless, it is fucking relentless - especially ovarian cancer. I never really found cancer "scary" before, like the "civilians" who don't do cancer research (that's how I thought of it). But since I've stopped reading oncology textbooks in my spare time, I better understand those feelings. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I've been thinking a lot about death, terminal illness, and what we think of as a "good" death, and dying with dignity. I've also been thinking a lot about grief. I have been a lucky girl. Although I have had my hardships and lost people I've loved, my life has been relatively spared from serious grief. I am lucky enough to still have 3 grandparents who are feisty and alive (although one is slipping into Alzheimer's - the other two have more active social lives than me), I have two parents who are well, a brother and nephew, and a cousin/his wife/their baby. I haven't wanted for much, and for the most part, haven't really struggled in school. I know I am lucky, and I am very thankful for this. But death and dying bring grief to everyone. And I guess maybe I am highly attuned to it now because I'm writing/reading constantly and have opened myself up more. But grief has a particular quality to it. It's sort of like a shadow or a mist that lays itself on you and is absorbed, and then expands until there is no room for anything else. It is constantly tumbling, like an ocean before a storm - sometimes it is fiercely violent, other times there's just rolling waves. But always there. I felt something similar to grief but not exactly, when Lambee had breast cancer. I would sit on the bus back to my neighborhood after classes and look out the window and think, there is so much sadness in the world. Because everything became tinged with fear and a sort of grief those first few weeks.

And of course, me being me, I've turned to books. I'd probably have a binder full of research on hospice/grief if I weren't drowning in schoolwork, just like I had bags full of research/peer-reviewed journal articles when Lambee had cancer. So I've mostly been reading fiction and some nonfiction. The Book of Dahlia. She's actually a graduate of Columbia's MFA program. Blue Nights. It's Joan Didion; no explanation needed. The Cure for Grief. This was written by one of my professors (also a graduate of the program). I've read it several times before, but each time there's a different nuance; I find different things. It's funny though; not many people want to ever talk about death/dying/grief, even in the abstract. You ask people for book recommendations and they stare blankly at you, or offer up religious texts. (Which, hey, I'm not knocking "When Bad Things Happen to Good People" or "Blue Like Jazz" - I've read both. I just don't want that right now).

I'm just rambling now. Not enough sleep, too much caffeine.

Listening: The Like, "Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?"

Reading: too much stuff.

Snacking: Twizzlers, Haribo gummy bears

Thirty one.

I am 31 today. So much has happened in the last year, for which I am very thankful. In some ways I look back and I cannot believe how much has changed. I read what I wrote last year and I think so far, I've done what I said I was going to do. I hope I have. This time last year I wanted to make choices based on hope, not fear. Making the choice to go to Columbia and move to NY was definitely not made out of fear - I wanted to move back to NC - now that would have been my fear talking. And though I miss Carolina every single day, sometimes to the point of tears, I'm glad, in the end, that I made the choice to come to NY. Last year I said that I wanted my thirties to be about abundance and not restriction - and I think that's an ongoing process. I want to take up space and be heard, not just sit there and go with the crowd and be a pretty face. I want to DO something. Hopefully I will.

This time last year I could have never have imagined I would be here now. I didn't think I'd get in to Columbia - it was a total reach. I wasn't sure what my life path was, and whether I was truly good at anything. When I got into Columbia, even after several times of me deciding not to go, I somehow made it here....and am finding out that maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

I was kind of sad the other day, because last year was the best birthday I've ever had. I was in Chapel Hill, I spent the night doing quintessentially Chapel Hill things - dinner at Top of the Hill, cupcakes at Sugarland and drinks at Spanky's. I was with friends I loved and was very happy. This year.....yes, while I am happy to be at Columbia, sometimes it is honestly very hard to be happy in NY. Sometimes the sadness is so overwhelming that it steals my speech; I can't even construct the words to hold a conversation. But my friend from undergrad A came to NY from Chicago, and we went to go see Avenue Q with her brothers - amazing show - and then we went to dinner at Zen Palate and had a drink at a NOLA-themed bar/lounge. It was a good night. Today we're going for brunch and then exploring Central Park...and maybe I will go to my favorite indie bookstore in the city, McNally Jackson. I wanted to work there but never got a reply email. Sad face.

At 31, maybe it's a bit late to finally figure out what you want to do with your life. I'd be lying if I said I didn't envy my friends with stable jobs, who have a mortgage and are settled into family life. I do wish I could be like them, going on vacations and not stressing over every little bill or rent payment or student loan. But I'll get there. And honestly, although I am STILL in school and am swamped with work and sometimes wonder if it really is or will be worth it......there's a part of me that knows that I'm doing what I love, what I've always loved and yet never really ran with it. I'm reading and writing. A ton. My success isn't how I always pictured it would be. But maybe it's enough that I'm doing something I truly love - how many people can really say that?

Not enough people, in my opinion.

the end is in sight.....

In less than two weeks my first semester of art school will be done, and three semesters of coursework will remain. I'm not sure I've ever been so busy in my life. Now, reading 3 books a week seems normal. I've accepted being constantly tired, my eyes overworked from reading for hours. Coffee has replaced much of the blood in my veins, and yet it never seems to be enough. I had an interview for a fellowship this morning (not the major one that covers all your costs - didn't even make the interview round for that one). It's a research fellowship, which actually fits with my interests/abilities better, I think. Crossing my fingers. Workshop has greatly improved since the first one. Now I'm actually getting really great feedback from the professor and my peers. The changes they suggest are sometimes obvious ones, and other times totally brilliant ones that I never would have thought of. But that's what 11 new pairs of eyes on your writing gives you, I guess. I'm definitely more confident in my writing, which I feel has grown stronger.

It's been interesting, this journey from medical-oriented study to art school. I'm not sure I see myself as creative or as an artist yet, and I always feel like I'm "pretending" to be an artist when I say I go to art school or the School of the Arts. I haven't yet totally embraced that aspect of myself into my identity. I've managed to incorporate my medical knowledge/research into personal essays and plan on taking Narrative Medicine classes, so I think it's turned out to be a good match. Sometimes I still have that rush of overwhelming fear and panic - what the hell was I thinking, actually believing I could be a writer and make a living out of this - but I try to push that away with being in the here and now. I just have to believe it will work out in the end, that doing something I love - have loved forever - will be enough of a safety net to keep me afloat.

Limited time only.

What would you do if you were told you had weeks to live? We've all thought about this at one point or another in our lives - "If I had 6 months to live," "If I had a month to live..." But what happens if you find yourself in a situation where you are faced with exactly that? My aunt will be going home on hospice sometime this week, after living with ovarian cancer for two years. Her oncologist said she has weeks. I keep thinking about hearing those words, and how scary it must be, late at night, lost in your own thoughts knowing your time is limited. Granted, all of us have limited time here, but to be told a quantifiable number is beyond comprehension. Because realistically, she is weak. On a feeding tube. Sick. Forget all those things you'd think you'd do - go here and there, eat this and that - what if you can't do that in the time you have left?

We like to talk about a "good death," or "dying with dignity." And I'm all for that. I am all for palliative medicine and not using extreme measures at the end of life that are only going to cause pain and suffering. I am all for dying at home, with loved ones by your side, being lucid enough to be able to tell everyone how you feel. But really, when you think about it, when it comes, it is really good? Is there such a thing as a good death? I don't know. Maybe it's something personal for each person, and only you can be the judge of what is "good."

And as schmaltzy as it sounds, why wait until you hear that from a doctor? By that point, there are good odds you might not be able to do all those things on your "Bucket List." One of the many reasons I chose to follow my passion and write is because I realized that life is short. Why waste the time I have on earth doing something I'm not crazy about? I think lots of people put things off until they "have time," or "when the time is right," or whatever. And planning and responsibility is a good thing - but some people, myself included - tend to get so busy in the planning and worrying and waiting that we miss our chance.

Last year on my birthday, I vowed that my thirties would be about abundance, about making choices based in love and hope instead of fear. So far, it has been a struggle, but the choices I have made from those places have paid off exponentially. I don't want to turn 40 and say "I wish I'd done that." G-d forbid I get sick and am told I have limited time, I don't want to lay in the hospital and fiercely wish I'd done certain things.

Thanksgiving is coming up, and lots of people take the time to think about what they're thankful for. An "attitude of gratitude," if you will. Because when you are filled with gratitude, it's hard to feel anything like emptiness or sadness. This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my entire family, my new friends in NY, supportive people, my health and my life.

What more is there?

Online Dating Tales, part 2.

Ah yes. What has come to be a rite of passage for my generation: the lovely world of online dating. Or searching for dates. After a conversation with my friend Alex tonight, I decided to hop online to the site I'm on and peruse some options. All week long there's been this deafening clanging in the apartment, and I finally realized that it was just my biological clock. So. I put in some advanced search criteria: male, Jewish, ages 27-37, doesn't smoke/drugs, rarely drinks and has at least gone to graduate school. There were a few really good ones that I emailed one from Tel Aviv who seemed smart and funny, and another who got his PhD at MIT and listed books I liked and was pretty funny in his responses. But then....then, there were those special ones.

Like the one wearing a hat with deer antlers, made out of aluminum foil. Or the one wearing a clown hat and nose. Or the shirtless one wearing a tie, whose screen name was "iwantsexmeow." Or the lawyer whose profile picture was a picture of him, arguing in court. (douchebag much?). Then there was one who admitted he used to be a sex addict. Another one spelled "licorice" as "liquorish," and one who listed Lolita as his fave book - guys, even if it IS your fave book, DON'T list it. Then...this one takes the cake. For the part that says "I spend a lot of time thinking about", he wrote, "What do boogers smell like? I mean, they're in your nose all the time, but why can't we smell them?" YEAH. And these were some of the results I got with the *advanced* search.

Is it so much to ask for an educated, intelligent, somewhat mature, nonsmoker guy who is well read and has good playlists on his iPod? Is it so much to ask for a guy who wants kids sooner rather than later, who hates crowded bars and likes wasting hours in bookstores? Or a guy who will bring me flowers for no good reason? (Although my dad may have spoiled me in that respect - my future guy has a lot to live up to!). Where is the guy who wants to move back to Chapel Hill with me, the guy who likes his independence and knows I need mine, too? The one who likes watching college basketball, who can shit-talk with me about teams?

Many women my age are finding it hard to meet a good guy. And until you've been here, you have no idea how slim the pickings are. You'd be shocked as to how many smoke pot still, or drink frequently (too frequently for my tastes). It's rough out there.

Baby Mine.

I went to the New York Public Library today, since there's one 2 blocks from my apt, to get a library card. They opened at 10, and since I had to sell back some books to the indie bookstore, I got there early. I walked around the 'hood, got a soda....and was still 10 minutes early. So I waited outside the library, which normally would be fine.

Except Tuesdays are storytime. And, like everything else child-related in Manhattan, it's competitive as hell. Apparently you need tickets to go to storytime, and it's first come first serve. So here I am, in the middle of all these strollers - Bugaboos, Maclarens, Quinny Buzz, B.O.Bs (yes, it's sad I know all the stroller brands) - hoping my ankles don't get clipped during the mass rush to the circulation desk. But as I was standing there amongst all the babies, nannies and mothers (no dads in the crowd, I noticed), I felt a little pang of lacking. Lacking in the sense that these mothers are probably around my age, but their lives are completely different. And granted, maybe the fact that I would rip my hair out if I were a stay-at-home mom says something about where I am in life right now, but the thought caught me off-guard. In high school, 30 seems so "old". I'm sure I thought I'd be married with kids by THIRTY. But now, it seems kind of young, to me. I feel like I have so much time to live still ahead of me. In fact, a friend of mine in her late 40s had a baby over the weekend and sent me the picture of her newborn daughter today. But in that moment, I missed Trey, my heart kind of ached for a baby, and I thought, yes, I've been fairly sucessful in academia and am getting a wonderful degree and following my dreams for the first real time ever and it's scary as hell but thrilling at the same time and I'm letting wonder wash over me daily......but they still have the baby. And I'm not sure what to make of that thought. Maybe it's the biological clock on which I keep hitting snooze. Maybe it was just all that nice baby cuteness surrounding me (although the ear-splitting screaming, not so much). I mean, don't get me wrong - I can throw down with the best of them when it comes to childcare. Boppys, tummy time, Exersaucers, Gyminis, Bumbos, Sleep Sacks, Bugaboos, Maclarens, butt paste, Ferber Method, sibling rivalry, good diaper bags, Pack n Plays -- been there, done it all. I've been around so much of that that I already know which styles I'd want for my own kid. Which pacis are good, which bottles cause less gas, good swaddling techniques and how to comfortably carry a kid in a Baby Bjorn? Yup, know all that too. Stayed up much of the night to lay my hand on a baby's chest to make sure he's still breathing, or just to watch him sleep because he's the most peaceful, beautiful thing you've ever seen? Yup, done that. Know that there's got to be a G-d somewhere because the newborn in front of you is healthy and perfect and it's amazing how human life works? Uh-huh. Had a baby/toddler fall asleep on you or in your arms and just sat there for a while, enjoying their warm weight on you and their hand resting on your arm? Yup. See G-d in the smile of a baby or hear it in his toddler laughter? Definitely. Had a toddler spit food in your face while trying to feed his twin sisters? Er, yes. Stayed up all night with said twin sisters because they keep waking up throughout the night at separate times? Oh yeah. I've also had a baby have explosive diarrhea and have to strip him down in the mall bathroom, only to find out there were no baby wipes in the baby bag, and have baby crap all down the front of me (THANKS, BRAD!). So I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that parenting is not easy, glamorous or always fun. But I'm good at it. And I love it. And maybe that's the loss I felt this morning.

But it's something to look forward to.

real life:NY

The readjustment to being back in NY hasn't been the easiest. Every time I'm walking down the sidewalk and another person is walking in the opposite direction, or walking their dog, I always glance up at their face, hopeful that we'll say hi to each other, acknowledging the other's existence. But it never, ever happens. Ever. In NC, this would be considered rude. In Southern Village, even children would say hi if they passed you on the trails or in the neighborhood. I miss that. Such a thin, seemingly insignificant thread, but it ties us to one another. And sometimes, when you're barely hanging on, a tug on the thread reminds you that hope exists, that connection is still there.

In NY, they'd probably take scissors and cut you loose.

Things have definitely more stressful. Applying for two types of fellowships and for spots to get into an amazing class, reading book after book after book (this week I have Nabokov and Styron...uplifting, huh?), and papers looming on the horizon. And, of course, writing Something Brilliant for workshop and critiquing classmates' work. I love the books, for the most part, but I've been distracted and my productivity hasn't been as much as I'd like. I found a professor I've connected with; she's in fiction, though -- and I get the feeling that the genres don't really mix that much, despite what they say here. I know departments are very territorial, which is disconcerting. I'm still trying to figure out where me and my writing fit in, where my niche is. I'm stressed about finances, stressed about classes, missing Carolina and hoping I get that summer internship at Algonquin. There just never seems to be enough time to do everything I need to.

November already....

So. It's November. Last weekend I went back to Chapel Hill, and it was wonderful. I didn't want to come back. The people were nicer, the atmosphere was nicer......it felt like home. I felt like I had "my people" there. But here I am, back in the city. And it's not as bad as before. I've found a great sushi place that's pretty affordable, and my friend M and I go at least once a week. Last night after workshop, M, J and I went for dinner there. I'm never disappointed with the food. I've settled in a bit more to my 'hood, and have a basic routine. The cost of things still gets me, especially because I haven't been able to write any articles for over a month and a half now. No articles = no money coming in. Which was NOT part of the plan. But in some weird way, things have evened out, because I am swamped with schoolwork, fellowship applications, etc. So the time I would have written articles is now devoted to schoolwork.

It's going to be a long stretch to the end of the semester. Tons of reading, papers, etc. I basically have no life, I have so much work. But I do love it. When else am I going to have nothing else to do but read and write? When else am I going to be around such talented peers and instructors?

blah.

Wow. I can't believe October is more than halfway over. The semester is definitely in full swing. We're all a bit overwhelmed with reading (this week I had 4 books to read.....I still have one book to read for Thursday). It's intense, I have to say. And as our professor mentioned tonight (and he's an editor at a major publishing house here in the city), the program has certain expectations of you once you're done.....like going downtown to a publishing house and publishing your damn book. And the program attracts a certain kind of ambition. (or masochism, the two might be interchangeable in this instance). But although the pressure is building, I have to say I do love this environment. I am the type of person who, when I'm busy, I take on MORE things because having a lot to do gives me structure, it lays out expectations and I have clear directions on where to go, what to do and what needs to be produced. I'm applying to be on the editorial staff/reading board of Columbia's lit mag, and Friday is an info session on becoming an Undergraduate Writing Fellow, which is when grad students teach parttime and take classes parttime, so it takes you an extra year to finish the program, but your tuition and health insurance are paid for, and you get a nice little stipend. I think 22k. Of course, EVERYONE wants this. So that will be some competition. Everyone is so smart and talented here, so it will be a tough situation.

Living in NY is getting better, I have to say. Do I love it as much as I did when I was younger? Nope, not at all. But do I hate it with the fervor I had a month or two ago? No. I admit, having restaurants and places open 24/7 is nice, and the falafel here can't be beat.....except in Israel. And Zadie Smith is coming to Columbia Thursday, which I am SUPER excited about. (I have to get a book of hers for her to sign). I am looking forward to going to Chapel Hill next week, though. I need that, I need to get back to familiar people, familiar places.....a slower pace for a few days. A friendlier atmosphere.

Something unexpected IS happening though. I'm finally realizing that I'm an adult. I know, I'm 30, I should have realized this ages ago, right? But I often feel like I look 15 and feel like I'm still that awkward high school girl. Except I'm not. And being here, among 22, 23, 24 year olds, I realize that I really am an adult. This week's New York magazine had an article about the new generation of young adults......and I'm not in it. I am the verrrrrry tail end of Generation X. I have more in common with them then the generation after me. It was very, very odd to read this and feel so disconnected. And this morning, brushing my teeth, I realized that the white and silver hairs on my head have exponentially multiplied. As in, my bangs and the hair around my face definitely show a shock of white. That was sobering. As was last week, after going out with some classmates and having a few drinks, and waking up the next morning, feeling like complete shit. 5, 10 years ago, four beers would have been a WARM-UP. Now, it's enough to cause a massive hangover and wish I never drank at all. The whole thing is just really......odd. I mean, I've been paying bills and rent for years, so it's not like I was living at home and being babied....but this feels different, somehow.

ramblings.

Today I am missing Chapel Hill and North Carolina so much it takes the breath from my lungs. The longing comes on so fierce that it actually stuns me for a second. Maybe because we've reached that point in the semester where the momentum from the beginning is starting to wane, and we need to just keep pushing til the end. The intensity of this program is no joke. I can see why I was told that many people don't work during the program. Which leads me to another stressor.....the website I typically write for is undergoing some changes, and I haven't been able to write anything for 3 weeks - it was originally supposed to be 3-4 days. I've emailed people about nanny jobs and have been looking online for other writing jobs, but no luck, especially part-time or freelance. Ideally, I'd like freelance, to work around my schedule and work. The bookstore near me isn't hiring, and they're actually not so friendly, so I'm not sure I'd be happy there. So, yeah. Combine not working with NY cost of living and paying bills/loans, and you've got some homesickness for NC.

fear and loathing in NY.

"I am not afraid. I was born to do this." I recently saw this quote on a bracelet and I loved it. It was said by Joan of Arc. The more I thought about it, though, I wondered whether the two had to be mutually exclusive -- not being afraid, and doing what you were born to do. My thinking is that even if you're meant to do something, you can still be scared shitless. Following your heart and dreams and destiny is scary. It's normal to be afraid. Personally, I think if you're not even the tiniest bit afraid, you don't have much invested in whatever you're doing.

School is going well. Very, very busy. My eyeballs are about to fall out of my head, we have so much reading all the time. But when else in my life am I going to HAVE to read 3-4 books a week? When will I ever have this time again? I won't. So I'm enjoying it now. Sometimes I'll be like, shouldn't I be doing something else instead of sitting here, reading? Nope, I have to read! Very thankful for this. I think about this every time I go on campus - how close I came to not coming here, how many times I turned them down....but it was meant to be. And aside from not loving NYC and the nerves about coming here, I don't regret it. The professors are amazing, they really love what they do and care about us and our success, and though the students are competitive, they're nice, overall. I would definitely recommend Columbia to people thinking about the MFA......is there debt? Most definitely. All of my friends here are on federal loans, but that's most people at this school. And you never know what fellowships or aid can open up.

I never really think of writing as an "art", but it is, obviously - it's housed in the School of the Arts. It's odd, being an art school student. Very different than the sciences. The license to pursue creativity in every way is new to me. I've found that I need to approach books and stuff with a different mindset than I had for psych and public health. It's hard to get back into that after NOT doing it for so long. And I don't know how it is for fiction or poetry folks, but for us nonfictioners, we're constantly being told to delve deep into our stories, say things that haven't been said, to write where there's heat.....sometimes it feels a little like group therapy. Which I guess I should have expected a little bit. I mean, a bunch of writers? I don't know what will happen in the winter, when seasonal affective disorder kicks in and we all become tortured, depressed artists.

Living in NY? Expensive. Sometimes I still get sticker shock over the most basic things. I have to remind myself that not only am I back up North, but I'm in one of the most expensive cities in the country. I miss Chapel Hill every day. I miss the people, I miss the landscape, I miss my work, I miss it all. I'm beginning to fall into a routine and developing the habits I had as a New Yorker before, but there's something different, something a little softer and nicer about me this time around. I do still miss the everyday human connections. Sometimes I find them here, when a thug-looking kid gives an elderly person their seat on the subway, or when someone holds the door for me. I try to wish cashiers a nice day when I buy things. Kindness means so much more to me now.

workshop blues.

Well. Things are going better here. I don't actively hate NYC every minute of every day; sometimes I even enjoy walking around my Upper West Side neighborhood. I like getting exercise without meaning to, and a falafel place nearby, and Pinkberry.....but it still, in my heart of hearts, doesn't beat Carolina.

I had my first workshopping experience this past Wednesday. I gave two pieces to my workshop group the week before, and they critique it. How we usually do it is this: we talk about what we liked first, then give our criticisms. Well, she asked about my pieces.....and no one said a thing. NO ONE. Really? You mean to tell me no one liked parts of it, or my voice, or a line or two? It was like pulling fucking teeth. It was excruciating to sit through. It was good to hear the criticisms and read them - too general, need more detail, etc etc - they're right. But it was the way it was handled that completely destroyed my morale. I came home, never wanting to write again. Somewhere deep in my heart I knew I couldn't suck completely; Columbia wouldn't have given me all this money if I were really terrible. But it was just so disheartening and demoralizing. I haven't written anything since then, and am gripped with anxiety every time I sit down to write. I don't even want to write anything personal or dear to my heart for next workshop, for fear it will be torn to shreds. And now I'm paralyzed when I go to write, thinking I'm not doing it right, that I suck, etc.

I know I need to push through this, that MFA programs are meant to weed people out. And if your writing doesn't hurt you when ripped apart, it's probably a piece of shit to begin with. But I guess I wasn't prepared for it.

They say revision is the best revenge...

still in NY.

My second week of classes is over. I love them. Like everyone has said, this is an academically rigorous program. Not only do they emphasize writing, but they heavily emphasize reading. It is a little overwhelming, I admit, but I think I can do it. I'm just struggling to find that balance of school/work/relax. Walking onto campus, I am always struck at just how beautiful it is. And how lucky I am to be there.

That being said, I'm still very homesick for NC. I was in Butler Library today, which is the main undergrad library here - it's one of the main buildings on campus, right in the middle, with gigantic Grecian columns. Inside it is a distinguished mix of marble and chrome and tile, with glazed wooden desks in book-lined study rooms. Very "Dead Poets Society." I used to love Butler. And to some extent, I still do. I've always found comfort in books. But today, a gray and dreary day, I could not find a book. The stacks - floors and floors and floors of endless rows of books - were overwhelming, and my eyes filled up with tears so fast I couldn't stop it. I felt completely lost. Even books brought me no solace. Then I went to the coffee shop in the library to get a ginger ale, and paid with my debit card. After the transaction was done, I thought she'd give me my receipt, so I stood there. She looked up and was like, WHAT? I patiently asked for a receipt and she rolled her eyes, gave a big sigh, and made a big deal of straightening up her register before giving me my receipt. I just felt like saying, "There's no need to be so mean."

I was in the school store the other day, which is a B&N store, and went over to the sports section, thinking I'd browse through a Carolina basketball book. None. There were NO Carolina basketball books. Not even the classic Duke-NC rivalry book "To Hate Like This is to be Happy Forever." (Which I originally bought in NJ, not down South). I was shocked. Like, seriously. I stood there, dumbfounded that not a single Carolina basketball book was there. I mean, Carolina IS college basketball.

So yeah...it will be 3 weeks tomorrow that I'm in NY (not that I'm counting or anything), and still having a major adjustment. I still can't get over the cost of living here. It's absurd. I don't even know if I took enough money out for each semester to live on. I don't know how people do it anymore.

leavin' on a jet plane.

For the first time since moving here, I'm really happy. Why? Because I just booked my ticket to North Carolina for October. *sigh*.

I love my classes. I love school. Why aren't I loving NY? Why is this such an adjustment this time? I'm not sure, and it's something I think about daily. I mean, it's in front of me every day.

Anyway. Now I have something to look forward to.

stranger in a strange land.

I started my classes this week, and I love them. Love, love, love. Columbia's program is different than most MFAs, because it requires you to complete 60 credits, whereas many other programs have as little as 36 or so. The program is known for being academically rigorous, and it hasn't disappointed. I am taking one workshop, 2 seminars and 1 lecture, with a book to read each week for the seminars and lecture. So basically, 3 books a week, plus workshopping, plus any writing assignments. Kind of overwhelming, but I like an academic challenge. My cohort is really great, and I think it's going to be an interesting semester and I will learn a lot.

That being said, still not loving NY. I was lying awake in my bed last night up until 3 am - and around 2 am there was a lovely car alarm that went off for a good 8-10 minutes. Which is a really long time, actually. I just.....can't get used to living like this. I'm constantly hyped up, because everyone moves fast. If I have one more rude cashier that ignores my hello, I think I'm going to snap. If I were having a bad day in Carolina and went out for the day, it would be impossible not to take note of some kindness from the general community. Having a bad day here? It likely gets worse when I leave the apt. Down South, if you were waiting for your Starbucks drink, or in an elevator, conversations would be started, and usually you'd end up laughing and wishing the person a good day. My first day of classes, I was in the elevator with 2 people (not Writing people) and I joked about the torrential rains and being soaking wet as a first impression. Nothing. I wished both of them a good day as I left the elevator, nothing. I never, ever expected this. I used to love NY. I knew it would be a change, but I never expected to feel like I don't belong in this city. But that's how I feel. I feel like I belong in the program, but not in the city. And that's really hard every day.

Joan Didion and NY

I've always loved Joan Didion's writing. It started when I got her book The Year of Magical Thinking, years ago. I loved her style of writing - crisp, honest, sarcastic at times - so much that I sought out her other books, and eventually got her book of collected nonfiction, We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live. I was pretty happy to see this book on one of my class reading lists this semester. Didion has written lines like, "...All I knew then was what I couldn't do. All I knew then was what I wasn't, and it took me some years to discover what I was. Which was a writer. By which I mean not a 'good' writer or 'bad' writer, but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on a piece of paper...." One of her more well-known essays is one called "Goodbye to All That." It is an essay about falling in and then out of love with New York. Although she must have fallen back in love with it at some point, because she lives here now. I wish I could reprint the whole thing for you. I have been reading and rereading it. This adjustment period to NY is hard. It is hard to love a place that seems very desperate, very lonely. Human connection is not so readily available on the streets here as it is in other places. When I was coming back from the store, a woman was walking her dog. I looked up at her and smiled, because that's what you did in NC, waiting for her to say hi, and it turned out she wasn't even looking at me, she was staring at the concrete. At the store, the cashiers can't get you out fast enough. Not a response to my "Hello," not a smile as you leave, nothing. How did this happen to us? When did this become the norm here?

Here is some of Didion's essay:

"It is easy to see the beginning of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she once was....All I mean is that I was very young in New York, and that at some point the golden rhythm was broken, and I am not that young anymore...."

It's funny, 3 years ago when I lived here, I didn't sense this unease with the city. Was it because I knew I was going back to Chapel Hill in 8 weeks? Was it because I was younger, and had only lived in Carolina for a year? I don't know. Maybe a combination of all of those things. I don't know how long it will take me to become acclimated here once again. Even something as simple as browsing the Craigslist ads for nannies; how different the two experiences were. Here, you can practically hear the entitlement coming off the screen in the posts. Maybe I'm cranky because of lack of sleep. Every night and every morning, I am kept awake or woken up by outside noise. At night, it's blaring music and people shouting; in the morning it is the trash truck, car alarms or some other large truck coming down the street. And because I have no a/c, my window is open. Good times. I can't wait for cold weather.

At any rate, I'm here, and need to learn some way to live in this city.

(dis)Orientation

So. The first two days of the MFA program are done. These 2 days were orientation; yesterday was the Writing Program orientation, and today was a School of the Arts-wide orientation. Yesterday, I met my cohort, all of whom seem really nice. There's about 22 or 23 CNFers. The professors all seem warm, engaging, approchable, and like they really want to help us. I can't describe it, but it's something you can feel when you're in the department. It was kind of amazing, sitting in Low Library, with most of the professors sitting in front of you, each one getting up and telling you what they did on their summer vacations. It was like, oh yeah, that's Sam Lipsyte. Read his book this summer. Oh, look, Stacey D'Erasmo. Read one of her books too. Oh, hi, Lauren Grodstein. Yup, read yours as well. Oh, Rivka Galchen, one of the New Yorker's 20 Under 40. Hello there. It was just amazing. Blew my mind. But they were all real people. They admitted to not having written over the summer, or admitted that they wrote shitty pieces over the summer, and knew it. It was refreshing to hear.

I have to be honest, I wasn't giddy with excitement beforehand. Grad school kind of loses its novelty after the first time around. But afterwards, I was excited. I felt like....I was doing what I was born to do, as crazy as that might sound. It's different than the feeling of doing something you like, or even love. It's unexplainable. At least right now.

Today, at the SoA orientation, they really emphasized getting to know each other across disciplines, because this will help us network in the future. Actors need directors who need producers who need writers, and so forth. They really, really emphasized the connections piece. And expressed that they were committed to helping us all succeed at making a living in the arts.

It's been an overwhelming 2 days. I'm exhausted. I got my books, and I will be reading 3 books a week, plus whatever I have to read for workshop. Thinking about that is kind of crazy. How will I find the time to do this?

I still am not in love with NY. It's not winning me over, not by far. I miss Chapel Hill so much, I miss NC. I miss my coworkers. I don't like feeling hyped up all the time like I am here. I don't like the noise and the brusqueness and the sensory over-stimulation. It's all too much. Going outside and getting out of my apartment, even for a few hours, knocks me over with its intensity, and I feel like I have to recharge and stay at home, in silence, reading or writing. Maybe I just need to adjust more. But I don't like the lack of community I feel here. I'm not talking about Columbia - there is a strong feeling of community at SoA, in my opinion - I'm talking about NY. Maybe this will change as 9/11 gets closer, but it's a completely different feeling here. The lack of connection irks me. People don't have time for it. We're all these bouncy balls, each of us our own sphere, just ricocheting off each other. With all the armor people wear up here, it's hard to truly touch another person.

Do I believe the program will be worth the money that I am taking out? Without a doubt. Yesterday showed me that. I have opportunities here that I don't think I would have anywhere else. Do I believe I made the right choice, deciding to go to Columbia? Yes. I am so incredibly grateful that I have this opportunity, and so thankful that I got here, despite my refusing multiple times. The opportunity to do nothing but read and write for the next 2 years blows my mind. It doesn't feel real.

I just need to find my place in NY, to find my routine and make my (temporary) home.

that day.

Everyone mentions the weather when they talk about 9/11. Try to find a piece that doesn't mention the Indian Summer September day, or the clear blue skies, or the fact that it was the kind of September day that epitomizes back-to-school and fall. I know I'll write about 9/11 closer to the anniversary day, but living in NY 10 years later is kind of surreal. Magazines, lit mags and newspapers are all talking about the 10 year marker. I lived here on the 2nd anniversary of the attacks, and remember the city stopping and the church bells ringing at the time each plane hit. Now, 8 years later, here I am again.

I went to Ground Zero back in 2003 or 2004 when I lived here, and it was odd. I couldn't get over the fact that I was, essentially, staring at a mass grave. The enormity of it hit me that day, and it was impossible not to cry; it was still so fresh. The "Missing" posters were still up at St.Vincent's. Now, everyone is familiar with the pictures of people jumping from the buildings, the fact that death by jumping was preferable to whatever they were facing in the building, is horrifying. Everyone's seen pictures of the fallen and twisted steel and beams, the rubble and the remains.

I'm not sure what to expect on that day this September. Last year I was doped up on painkillers at a hotel, recovering from foot surgery. I didn't leave the hotel room and was sleeping most of the day, so I don't remember news coverage of it. The effects of that day a decade ago linger for all of us, albeit in different ways.

But in the end, I bet everyone remembers what a gorgeous day it happened to be.

Below is an excerpt from NY magazine. The story is heartbreaking. Beverly Eckert's husband Sean was on the 105th floor, and couldn't get out because the impact was below him. Here's part of the story: "...By now we had stopped talking about escape routes. I wanted to use the precious few minutes we had left just to talk....At one point, when I could tell it was getting harder for him to breathe, I asked if it hurt. He paused for a moment, and then said 'No.' He loved me enough to lie. In the end, as the smoke got thicker, he just kept whispering, 'I love you', over and over. Then I suddenly heard this loud explosion through the phone. It reverberated for several seconds. We held our breath; I knew we both realized what was about to happen. Then I heard a sharp crack, followed by the sound of an avalanche. I heard Sean gasp once as the floor fell out from underneath him. I called his name into the phone over and over. Then I just sat there huddled on the floor holding the phone to my heart." In 2009, Beverly died in a plane crash, when Continental 3407 crashed in Buffalo.

remembering the wonder.

Anyone who knows me knows it's been a struggle, this move back North to NY. To everyone's surprise, including my own, I loved North Carolina. I loved it so much I stayed after grad school, and didn't want to leave. Sometimes it's hard to get perspective on the long haul, when all we see is what is right in front of us.

I was washing my hair tonight when my eye caught sight of my wrist, and it made me think. On the inside of my right wrist is the word "wonder," inked in black script. I got it months ago, because this time last year, when I was making the decision to pursue writing seriously, I kept listening to "bring on the wonder" by Susan Enan. I wanted the whole lyric, "Bring on the wonder" on my forearm, but was told it would be too big, so I opted for that one word. I chose it because the lyrics to the song reminded me that I'd pushed down wonder and joy for so long, and making the choice to be a writer opened up that exuberance once again. It gave me permission to be excited about my life again, to see and feel the possibilities that awaited me. It gave me the chance to dream. When I look at my wrist, it reminds me of those initial days of making the decision, those terrifying yet exhilarating days of thinking, what the fuck did I just do to my life and holy crap, I'm going to be a writer! Those nights where I lay in bed, unable to sleep because I wasn't doing something "practical" and wasn't sure if I'd have enough money to pay my bills. Those days that stretched into weeks of not knowing if I'd get accepted anywhere.

I looked at my wrist, the beautiful script lettering (he truly did an amazing job), and am reminded of why I pursued this. I am reminded of what drove me to tell my family I couldn't do science classes anymore and maybe I would have better luck writing. I remember how I loved writing as a child and teenager, and now I am having this amazing chance to refine my craft and learn from some of the best writers around. I am reminded to remember the wonder of last summer, of how I started seeing butterflies and dragonflies everywhere - symbols of transformation - after making my decision. Looking at my tattoo, it gives me hope. Hope that although things may seem dark now, the morning always comes. My next trip to Chapel Hill will come up sooner than I can imagine, and it will always be somewhere to which I can return. It gives me hope that I will love my classes, because I will be around authors whom I've only previously read about. Sort of like when I interned at Sloan-Kettering....everyday my mind would be blown by my coworkers whose research I'd studied for years....the fact that these people actually EXISTED and that I was TALKING with them stunned me daily.

So long story short, tonight I was reminded of why I am here in NY in the first place, and what my goal is. I worked my whole life - whether I knew it or not - to get to this point. I finally took that leap of faith and decided to take myself seriously as a writer and decided I was worth it to invest time and lots of money into this path. I cracked open and let in the wonder.

the move to NY.

Well. I am in NY, awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Irene. What a metaphor for my life lately and my journey to get here, huh? Up until the night before I came here, I honestly wasn't sure I'd come. The sheer cost started to seem wasteful, even though I have a sizeable fellowship, for which I am very thankful. And, I guess I am more of a Southerner than I thought - every fiber of my body resisted coming here. I'm still not loving the city. Not at all. The noise, the crowds, the attitude - nothankyou. Oh, and did I mention that 2 small bags of groceries - cereal, bread, peanut butter, soda, granola bars, pasta, sauce, etc, cost 64 dollars? What. the. hell. At any rate, I'm here for the forseable time being. Orientation is next week, and classes start the 6th. I didn't get the workshop I wanted, nor did I get the one class I really, really wanted.....but the classes and workshop I did get are fine. My apartment....it's school-owned, so it's bigger than anything I could have gotten for the same amount of money. It's a 4 bedroom apt for two of us; one of the bedrooms is a study room. We also have a living space and a decent sized kitchen. Hardwood floors, pre-war building. My room is tiny. Very tiny. And we have no air conditioning, so I am DYING. It's okay overall. It's a block over from where I used to live here, and the next block over has a very cool indie bookstore called BookCulture, which was Labyrinth Books when I lived here last.

Honestly, I am missing Carolina so much it hurts. Physically hurts - every time I let myself think about it and *feel* about it, it feels like my chest is caving in on itself and the tears come, hot and fast. I miss my coworkers, I miss my friends who are still there, I miss work, I miss Chapel Hill and Franklin St, I miss Southern Village, I miss my running buddies....I built a life there, I became attached to a place and put down roots. I'm seeing this as very temporary, my stay in NY. It is 2 years of my life. And then I can go back.

umm....

So much has happened this week....the day after I last posted, I got a phone call with some financial aid news that stunned me, and not in a good way. For most people, I think it would be a game-changer. I can't even. My brain is still processing and analyzing to see if this is doable, worth it....I just don't know. I was completely unprepared for that.

Part of me thinks, um, HELLO, if this isn't a sign to go back to NC, what is?; another part of me thinks it's okay, this will still work out and be great and you will love it. This is just a minor snag. I'm completely wiped out by the last 48 hours.

I heard this song today and have been obsessed with it:

short. maybe not so sweet.

I drove up to NJ. I move to NY next week. I miss North Carolina and have been looking excessively at UNCW's webpage. That is all.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

My 28th Birthday

Last night I ran to B&N to get some coffee, and as I crossed 15-501, I remembered the day I drove down to NC for the first time. I remember only getting directions to Chapel Hill in general, NOT where I needed to be, and we stopped in this car dealership (now a bike place) to ask where the University was. Not our finest moment, I'll admit. I remember going to the mall with Morgan, one of the first friends I made here, to get a pot to make pasta because I hadn't remembered to pack any pots. Every muscle in my body, every fiber of my being, is resisting leaving this place. This is my home, this has become my home. I'm not sure I have ever felt this way about a place. It hasn't always been smooth sailing here - I've struggled a lot here, academically and personally; I got into a major car accident and my Jeep was smashed here not-so-long ago; and my life has done a 180 that I could never have imagined. But what I've learned makes it all worth it.

I've learned that sometimes, your friends are the people you least expected them to be - in both good and bad ways. I learned that "Bless your heart" is NOT a good thing. I learned that people actually still wear Croakies with their sunglasses, and that down here, people pop their collars unironically - preppy heaven, if you will. I finally gave in to saying "y'all" and have found it to be sort of an all-purpose word. I've learned that getting over life's hurdles doesn't have to be neat or pretty or graceful, you just need to get over them. I've learned that foot surgery is not easier the second, nor the third time around. I appreciate Chacos more than ever. I've come to love a good plate of hush puppies or a nice ice cream cone from Maple View. I've given up on having a comfortable Carolina summer, temperature-wise. I've learned that running in the woods can be a holy, magical experience. I know that seeing Oreo cows can make even the worst day good again. I learned that even though I love science and medicine, it does not love me back, and that's okay. I learned to appreciate that our experiences make us who we are, even though when my pcp from Student Health told me that 2 years ago, the PhD rejections were still stinging hard enough that I wasn't sure I entirely believed her. By joining the multisport club, I made new friends and learned that I could try new things at any age, even if I was intimidated. I learned more about unconditional love from the children I babysat - all of them - and from the families that welcomed me into their homes, especially when I had just moved down here and needed a "homey" place. I learned just how fanatical basketball fans can be, especially when I found myself screaming at a tv during NCAA championships. I learned about perseverence and tenacity from school and from not getting into those PhD programs - at the time, I thought they were "failures," and it shook my confidence and my identity to the core for a long time; but they were necessary to set me on the path I was supposed to take. I get it now, the intense loyalty to your school team and strong dislike for your archrival (cough, DUKE, cough). I learned not to take life for granted and to realize life is short from my friend David, who passed away in November. I learned that you can never really have enough Carolina blue in your wardrobe. I learned that turning 30 can be wonderful from my friends who celebrated with me last December. The kindness of strangers, the evolution of strangers to friends, and the Carolina blue sky have all shown me how much wonder life holds, and to not forget that along the way.

Tonight is my last night here in Chapel Hill, at least for a while......and I just can't deal with that. I refuse to believe it. Not happening. Nope. Nope. Nope. Refuse. I will miss all the pink and green, the pearls, the Vineyard Vines, the Topsiders worn year round (which, come hell or high water, I will continue to do in NYC), and even the game-day traffic that reminds me I am living in a major college town. I will miss the conversations with another person that inevitably lead to finding out we know some of the same people, which often happens, especially if the person has grown up here or lived here for some time. In many ways, Chapel Hill is a small town, especially when the students leave. I will miss running into my professors or doctor at the market, or at movies on the green; I will miss random chance meetings on Franklin St or at the bus stop. If you've never lived here, this may all sound......not real, or the specialness may not really shine through. It's kind of hard to explain, but I'm so glad I've lived here the past 4 years. And hopefully, in 2 years, I'll be back.

I'm gonna live forever.

Sometimes, when I realize I'm going to the School of the Arts, I like to imagine it'll be a little bit like the 80's tv show/movie "Fame." I'm not sure whether I should be horrified or excited about that.

Leaving Carolina.

This is it. T-5 days, sort of. I leave Chapel Hill Monday afternoon to go to my dad's, and then leave Carolina early Wednesday morning. I honestly do not know how I'm going to do it. Seriously, I cannot see myself leaving Chapel Hill, knowing I won't be back for a while, much less getting on 95N and driving North. I have a fear that I will turn around in Virginia, and just come back. I've tried to put into words the reasons I love Chapel Hill and North Carolina so much, but words fail me. They're just not adequate. Chapel Hill is one of those towns that, when you try to explain it to someone else, it doesn't sound the way you want it to. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine, almost exactly 4 years ago, that I would stay here. I definitely wanted to BE here - Chapel Hill was almost mythical to me - but I never thought it would evolve into my home, with people I cared about and places I became part of. I could not have imagined the amount of people that would touch my life, touch my heart, and make me a better person for it. I never expected to learn so much about myself and about life. I think I have grown more here than I have anywhere else, and that is something that will always stay with me.

In some aspects, it really doesn't seem like it's REALLY happening. My head cannot wrap itself around the fact that my time here is seriously limited. My heart hurts even writing this. The tears are inching out the corners of my eyes as I blink them back - it's too soon to cry, I just won't do it. I can't even listen to James Taylor right now because the waterworks start.

So what am I doing? Planning my last dinner out here - I think I'm going for a similar thing as my 30th birthday, a quintessential Chapel Hill theme. Dinner at Top of the Hill, then cupcakes at Sugarland or a walk down Franklin St. See the Old Well one last time for a bit. Breathe in the Carolina night air. Take snapshots of memory up and down Franklin St, at Pepper's, Spanky's, Yogurt Pump, etc. I'm also trying to distract myself with work, and thinking about going running, although the heat is pretty oppressive at this point. I'm also stress eating my way through a bag of Doritos. Good times indeed.

Chapel Hill, I love you.

I have a little more than a week left here. Holy fucking shit. Writing it made it real. And I don't want it to be. I was talking to an author today at the store who teaches in the UNCW MFA program, and yet again, thought to myself, why did I not apply there? They have the #2 program in creative nonfiction. To the best of my recollection, it was because I was already spending so much on application fees, GRE fees, trancript and score fees. And I thought I'd surely get into UNC-CH. Well. Weren't we all in for a surprise. sigh. But what's done is done.

The past 4 years.....have been wonderful. A friend from the MPH program and I went to dinner on Franklin St the other night, and it was great. Afterward, we walked around, went to Yogurt Pump and then walked around UNC's campus, and I took a picture of the Old Well. I remember the day I moved to NC, and I drove down Franklin St. I'd never really been on a college campus with such a picturesque "main street." Shops advertising Carolina blue apparel, Tar Heels everywhere, little restaurants and the ubiquitous Starbucks. This is the street of the huge annual Halloween party, and the place where students went after winning NCAA basketball championships. It is the stuff that movies are made of, really. I've studied with friends at Starbucks, celebrated my 30th birthday at Sugarland and Top of the Hill, had drinks at Spanky's, celebrated my 27th birthday at Tallulah's and eaten huge plates of hush puppies at Carolina Brewery. It is where I had my graduation dinner at 411 West, eaten bowls of Cold Stone Creamery while walking down the street, and just off Franklin St, gone to Fridays on the Front Porch with my old roommate.

I remember wanting to be a Tar Heel in high school, but in an abstract way. All sports kids liked Carolina, the powerhouse of athletics. When I finally got in, I was ecstatic. I couldn't wait to live in Chapel Hill. Where even the fire trucks are Carolina blue. I cannot describe the small-town feel of it, especially after the students leave. I have never lived in a place like this before, and I really dread leaving.

But it is the people I will miss most. Many of my friends have already left, but I have friends still here that are amazing. I have made wonderful friends at work, and when my boss asked me how excited I was to be moving, I started tearing up and couldn't talk about it. When my coworkers tell me they are simply refusing to believe I am moving, it makes me sad. When my running group talks about running races in the fall, or being in denial that I'm going, it tears at me. Thinking about not seeing all these familiar places - Southpoint, Estes Community Park, the Chapel Hill library, Caribou.....makes me sad.

I know I need to go to NY, because this is where I need to go to get where I want to be. I just wish I could have done it in NC.

On a brighter note, I've received some swag from Kiel James Patrick and will be giving it away soon to a blog reader. :) Stay tuned.

you can't curl up with a Kindle.

Before deciding to apply to MFA programs and doing all my research, despite all of my reading and English/lit classes, I hadn't heard of many great writers, both past and present. Sure, I read some of the classics, and of course Joan Didion, but I'd never heard of Wallace Stegner. Or Dan Chaon. Or Aimee Bender. Of course I knew about the Iowa Writers' Workshop, but the Stegner Fellowship? Nope. Never heard of the Pushcart Prize or the literary magazines Tin House or Ploughshares. I vaguely knew of Glimmer Train, but had never really picked it up. Did I really know how cutthroat MFA admissions were? Not a clue. If I'd known, I would have probably been a lot more nervous than I was. And I was pretty damn nervous.

So, now, as I prepare for my new program, I've read Aimee Bender, Wells Tower (Columbia alum), Alice Munro, will be reading Dan Chaon soon, and this summer, I discovered the amazing writer that is Wallace Stegner. I read his book "Crossing to Safety," and loved it. I wanted to savor it, so I read it in small pieces. I can't explain how crisp and cool his writing is, almost like you're running through a waterfall. That sounds ridiculous, but that's how reading "Crossing to Safety" felt like for me. I just got his Pulitzer Prize-winning book "Angle of Repose." Several regular customers have recommended it to me, and while it's not typically the kind of story I go for, I'm excited to start it. I will never get a Kindle or NOOK for this reason: the tactile experience of reading. I've picked up the book multiple times, felt its weight in my hands, sturdy, reassuring, and stable. Gazed at the beautiful cover and read the back several times over. Looked at the spine, at the name "Wallace Stegner" and thought about the man who wrote these important pieces of literature. Flipped through the pages and inhaled the smell of freshly printed pages. You book lovers know what I'm talking about. There is just something about a book......writers don't dream about the day they can download their books; we dream of holding our book in our hands, knowing how much labor and love has gone into several hundred pages. A book is tangible proof of hard work and effort.

I'm not really sure what the point of this is; I just had to write about this. Maybe it's working at an indie bookstore, maybe it's because of the internet MFA groups I've joined - I've become a bit of a booksnob, almost. :) There's just so much great writing out there that isn't commercially popular - because that's not the point. But I'd bet there's a lot more people who've read Dan Brown and consider him a great writer, than there are who've read Dostoyevsky or Nabokov or Michael Chabon. I have so much to learn about writing and literature and this world, that I really think this program will be wonderful. I can't wait.

witness to your life.

I was thinking about the twists and turns my life has taken in the past 10 years, and I'm struck by a common thread that I didn't really notice before. Everything I've done has to do with connecting with people. Psychology - obviously, working with a client and bearing witness to their stories, etc; public health/cancer; and writing - when someone reads a book, it's a very personal experience. At least, it is for me. I've emailed numerous authors to tell them how much I loved their books, or how much it impacted me. In the words of E.M. Forster, "Only connect."

I'm just thinking about this because I downloaded some new songs, including Lori McKenna's "Witness to Your Life." Because in the end, isn't that really what we want? Another person to acknowledge we were here?

for real.

Holy shit. It's finally really starting to sink in. And anytime this happens, when I make a major decision or whatnot about Columbia, it's like my body suddenly has an attack of Crohn's disease. Not pretty. I've paid my housing deposit, applied for all the necessary loans, signed the promissary notes, sent in my class preferences and am signing up for health insurance. This is really happening.

It's mid-July. Where did the time go? Some days I am excited about New York, other days I'm sick to my stomach about it. I know it's just nerves. Once I get a routine and know what is expected of me, I will be fine. The start of any program is nerve-wracking. I can feel myself starting to pull away from Chapel Hill and the people here, and I don't want to do that. I want to be present for the entire time I'm here, to soak up every last morsel of Carolina. This will be a good exercise for staying in the moment.

Signing up for preferred classes was a trip. We had to rank our preferences for seminars, lectures and workshops.....here I am, ranking workshops with Philip Lopate and Pulitzer-prize winning Margo Jefferson...what. the. hell. I will actually have the opportunity to sit in a classroom with these people and learn from them and with them. It blows my mind. I felt this way at MSKCC, too. It's like, they actually do exist, and aren't some nebulous literary geniuses floating around out there. I have to admit, while I was ranking the classes, all I could think was, you have got to be kidding me. But in a good way. There were so many amazing classes from which to choose.

This is real. It seems like a whirlwind. But on the other hand, it's been a long time coming, in a lot of ways. So many things in my life have been leading me up to this. So many peoples' encouragement and enthusiasm about my writing that have helped nurture it. Other people taking my writing seriously, and demanding I do the same.

I'm going to really enjoy this.

independence day.

Sometimes we forget how lucky we are. We forget that not everyone has the luxury to go to the food store whenever they need something. We forget that many people are very close to losing their homes. We forget to be thankful for our families, or our educations, or our friends. When we have had things for so long, that are so ingrained in our daily living and our world, it can be very easy to forget, or choose to forget, that not everyone is so lucky.

Yesterday at the bookstore, a couple came in with a child of a different race than them, so I assume (maybe wrongly) that he was adopted, and I think the child had cerebral palsy. His arms and legs, so thin it was painful to look at them, were twisted in a spastic manner, his knees bent inward and his gait halting yet bouncing at the same time. His mother held him by the hand, gently pulling him along, and he was working hard to keep up with her pace. The degrees to which his legs were twisted seems almost impossible and inhuman, and yet he found a way to walk. He greeted everyone with a garbled "Hi, how are you doing today?", and I could hear him laughing with his parents in the children's room.

And yet. And yet....I could not help but think to myself as he walked by me, there but for the grace of G-d go I. We forget that not everyone can do something as simple as walk "normally." It is easy to forget, even for a graduate of a maternal-child health MPH program, that not every pregnancy is healthy, that even when all the tests show normal results, something could still be awry. I hesitate to use the word "wrong", because I think if it were my child, I would never call anything "wrong" about him or her. But it is so easy not to think about things like this. We take for granted having a healthy child. When my nephew was born, I was so grateful that he was healthy, and I am forever thankful. And yesterday, after seeing this child, I could not help but thank G-d for my nephew's health.

We forget how miraculous, how wondrous, a healthy pregnancy and child are. We forget to be thankful for the littlest things.

There but for the grace of G-d go I.

the written word.

I've been reading a lot lately, trying to prepare myself for the 2-3 books per week that I will have at Columbia. I used to be able to read a book in one day, but I got out of practice, and have worked slowly toward that. Not there yet with all of them, but some of them. :) I recently read Anthropology of an American Girl, by Hilary Thayer Hamann. At 500+ pages, it's not a beach read. But I loved it. It was originally self-published and caught the eye of Random House. It kind of reminds me of a female Holden Caulfield, during the late 1970s and early 80s. I'm currently reading Heat, by Bill Buford, about his experience as a writer, learning how to cook with Mario Batali. The writing is so good that it makes me want to eat my body weight in tortellini every time I read it. I have piles of ARCs next to my bed. ARCs are Advance Reader Copies. Bookstores, editors and other writers get these from publishers so they can see what they want to order, tell their customers about, blah blah blah. It is also the best perk of my job - and I love my job. I'm also reading Girl in Translation, by Jean Kwok. Kwok is a Columbia MFA alum. I've been trying to read lots of books by professors and alums before I get there. Let me tell you, I get a strange thrill every time I look at one of the displays we have at the bookstore, because it has both Kwok and the book of another alum, Wells Tower, on the display. And that's not counting Lipsyte's The Ask or Maureen Johnson's YA books that are out on display. Or Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story and Oliver Sacks' new book - both profs at the school. It makes me catch my breath, that hopefully I will follow in their footsteps.

I don't think I realized it, or let myself realize it, that I really, really want to go to this program. I don't think I let myself get excited before. The cost was overwhelming and I didn't think it would work out. But now that a huge portion of that is off my plate, this is really happening. I still can't believe it.

Annie Dillard once told her students that, whenever they are in a bookstore, go to where your books would be shelved, and make a little space there with your finger. I do that.

I can only hope.

I (heart) North Carolina.

When I first applied to UNC for my MPH, I honestly never thought I would get in. I was working full-time as a medical assistant in an ob/gyn office that I'd worked at off and on during grad school since 2001, and was debating doing a post-bac pre-med program, or an MPH. I applied to a variety of places for public health, mostly up North, with the exceptions of USF, Emory and UNC. Once I found out that UNC was ranked #2 for public health, I actually ripped up all the information and threw it out, because I didn't think I'd have a shot. When I came to Chapel Hill to interview, I flew down and back in one day, but I knew that I loved it here. The street signs on campus were Carolina blue, it was a beautiful spring day......in short, the day I interviewed here was a perfect Southern day. I ended up getting into GW and was waitlisted here, and DREADED going to DC. I could not see myself living in DC, and just wanted to be in Chapel Hill so badly. And the day after my nephew was born, I got the call that I was in, if I was still interested. I'm pretty sure I told Yvette, the Student Services person, that I loved her, when she called with the news. I was so excited. I could not believe I was going to be a Tar Heel. Looking back, I don't remember being nervous. You'd think I would be nervous, moving down South, away from everyone I knew.....I had moved to FL before, but at least I knew people then. But I don't remember being nervous. Instead, I remember being very excited, like I knew this was going to be the right thing.

I remember moving here, and though I was homesick a little, I loved it. True, the slowness of it got to me at first, but as the months went by, I really started to feel at home. And slowly, it began to feel like this was the place for me. Did I miss NY? Of course. And when I interned in the city, I loved it - but I also missed Carolina.

I have less than 2 months here, and I miss it more every day, even though I haven't even left yet. New Jersey, where I grew up, does not feel like home as often as it used to. There are very few places in the world that feel like home to me, and they include Israel, NY, and NC. I have built a life here. I have built connections and forged bonds and become part of the community. Right now, my goal is to come back here in 2 years, when I am done at Columbia.

Some of my favorite memories are here, studying at Weaver Street in Carrboro, or eating homemade ice cream in rocking chairs under the stars at Maple View Ice Cream, or the Belted cows at Fearrington, or music on the green on Sunday nights at Southern Village.......and so many more. Late night shakes at CookOut. Walks on Franklin Street. Wandering around A Southern Season. Getting my nose pierced at Blue Flame, in Raleigh. Brunch at Crook's Corner. Birthday dinner at Penang. Watching the final March Madness game on the deck at the bar. Walking Izzi on the paths through the park in Southern Village. Sugarland cupcakes. Running the trails in the Estes Community Park. I love how I can see people around town that I know, or that so many people know each other. I've grown to love hush puppies, although they irritate my stomach. And ironically, though I've held out for 4 years, all of a sudden I find myself saying "y'all" and sometimes drawing some vowels out with a Southern-like lilt.

I never got the "big school" experience - I went to a small, private, liberal-arts college that barely anyone has heard of, unless they're pre-med, theater or dance. We were Division III. Being at UNC has given me that big school feel in a way, and living in a college town that everyone in the country has heard of has been quite the experience.

When I moved down here, I was subscribing to the New Yorker, New York magazine and Time Out New York. I was stubbornly holding onto my Yankee-ness. And when I move back up North? I'll probably start subscribing to Our State magazine and Chapel Hill magazine.

I moved down here a cynical, jaded, hard Northerner. And I'm now....well, still cynical, still jaded, but somewhat softer. I'll always be a Northerner, but I love Carolina and am proud to call it home.

work of the heart.

When you ask my nephew to spell his name, he bursts out exuberantly with T! R! E! Y!, each letter with its own exclamation point. His smile, full of trust and childish belief, has tattooed itself on my heart, and I am a better person for it. When we cross the street, his small hand curls inside mine, our palms touching, my grasp tight, to keep him from falling behind or running away into the unknown or a space of danger.

Sometimes it feels dangerous to love him. Dangerous because the terror of losing him, G-d forbid, or of something bad happening, inhabits the flip side of a love that great. He has carved out a space in all our lives that can only be filled by his laugh and his excited speech. Children bring out the best in ourselves, they help us remember who we once were and maybe who we wanted to be. They bring us back to a pure space inside, and crowd out any cynicism and sadness.

I approach this from the point of view of an aunt. I do not pretend to know what it is like to be a mother. But I do know this: I would die for that boy. I would do anything in my power to make his life a little easier, to ease his way through this difficult world. And so would almost everyone in his life. He is helpless to take care of himself; he depends completely on others. The choice to have a child is a choice to give yourself over to this person for the rest of your life, to some extent. Your life will never be the same, and it is said that the decision to have a child is the decision to have your heart walk outside your body for the rest of your life, which is a pretty apt description.

I realize not everyone feels this way about parenting, and I will never understand that. It is not your right to be a parent; it is a privilege. And those who don't realize what a gift it is.....well, I feel sorry for you.

leaving the ground.

Women are taught, from an early age, to be agreeable. To smile, be sweet - sugar and spice and everything nice. We absorb messages to not be too aggressive, too assertive (lest we be called bitches); we don't want to intimidate others with our wants, needs and ambitions. Things have changed a little bit, but there is still that glass ceiling - believe me; my friends and I have seen this firsthand, when guys on dating sites are less likely to contact a woman with more education than them. (which narrows the pool considerably for many of us, just sayin'). It can be hard for us to admit we want more. More of everything.

Which makes me wonder how this will be taken, because sometimes ambition can be seen as a bad thing....which is sad, since I believe the newer generations are lacking ambition, actually.

I want to be great. I don't want to be "good" at writing, I want to be excellent. I want to write books that people read, that changes people's lives and makes a difference. I want to go into a bookstore and see my books on the shelf, I want to work with other writers to help us all realize each others' dreams. I want to do author readings and meet and greets. I want to make enough money to pay back all my student loans and provide for my family and give them back everything they have given me, and then some.

Don't get me wrong. That's not the sole reason why I'm doing this. I am doing this because I love it. Writing is when I am most honest, most free. But I want to refine my craft, to actually get instruction and polish my writing, and take it to levels I never dreamed of.

When I read about an author with which I am having dinner on Tuesday getting a million dollar advance for her debut novel, or Tea Obreht winning the Orange Prize at the age of 25 and being the youngest of the New Yorker's "20 Under 40" list.....I admit, I am envious. But I am also inspired. I have 10 years left to make that list, and I will try my heart out. Long shot? Maybe. But I'd rather aim high and land a little low than never get off the ground.