catching up.

It's been a while since I last blogged, partly because I got really sick with a cold that morphed into a stomach virus and still is lingering a little bit, and then Spring Break happened, and now things are just super busy with school. We have about 4 weeks left in the semester, which is just unfathomable to me. The first year cannot be over yet. It just can't. And we are definitely all feeling the crunch. This semester in general has been a real ass-kicker, but lately most of my cohort is in a caffeine-fueled state of disarray, myself included. So much writing and reading, so little time.

I have loved my Narrative Medicine class, though. Even the people in it are just so great. I sent an article out from the NYT on talk therapy waning and writing workshops on the rise, and multiple people emailed me to thank me and share their own thoughts on it - some of whom are counselors who are feeling burnt out themselves and needed the boost. I had one woman who told me I could stay at her house, in her daughter's room since she's away at college, when I shared that I had a mouse in my apt (yes, I had a mouse...haven't seen him since last week, thank goodness). Whenever I've come to class perturbed by a meeting about workshop submissions, they always say the right things. It's a great group of like-minded individuals. We see the therapeutic value of writing, and acknowledge that the simply act itself can be therapeutic. We appreciate the emotional texture of the writing while noting the craft. It's hard to explain, it's just a good group of people. It's usually the bright spot of my week.

I can't believe next semester I have my Thesis Workshop. Most people don't turn in their thesis at the end of second year; they take at least one year of Research Arts, which just gives you time to write and allots you a certain number of meetings with an advisor (I think).

I'm probably going to NC for the summer, hoping I still have my job at the bookstore....I need to get out of the city. In today's workshop, someone had written an essay on suburbia, etc, and we talked about those communities where there are communal spaces, and I shared about my neighborhood in Chapel Hill, Southern Village...and they started laughing when I explained that the houses had porches to facilitate communication with neighbors, and there's a Village Green and communal meeting areas. They said it sounded horrible. I loved it. I still do. Give me that over the cold, impersonal, high-strung city life any day. Southern Village DOES sound like Stepford when you describe it to people, or like some idyllic fantasy suburb - but that's why I loved it so much. It was (is) idyllic but real. I've really been missing North Carolina. My stomach is all messed up, I think from nerves/stress, and I know that when I go down South, it will get better. I just know this. But then it will be really, really hard to come back to NY.

I'm excited, because for the first time since he turned one, I will be able to go to my sweet nephew's birthday party! When he said to me, "JJ? Are you coming to my birthday?" I was able to tell him YES! Of course, I will also be writing my customary annual birthday letter to him. I am so thankful for this - he is growing up so fast, and needs all the support he can get. I cannot believe he will be five. It is hard to remember life without him. It seems very empty.

Listening: Birdy, "Fire and Rain," "Skinny Love"

Snacking: Twizzlers, Airheads, Tootsie Rolls

Reading (aside from schoolwork): "Wild," by Cheryl Strayed; "This Lullaby," by Sarah Dessen, the new issue of The Paris Review

staking claim.

I was going to write more over the weekend and the past few days, but have been wicked sick with a cold that has now morphed into a stomach virus-y kind of thing. Apparently it's going around. March 4 was one year exactly that I got the call from Stephen O'Connor at Columbia, asking me to join their program. So much has changed in a year....and it's been rough, no doubt about that. I will be the first to admit I miss North Carolina every day. I miss the people, my friends, the weather, the community, my gym community/tri team - I miss who I am down there. I'm more relaxed, healthier and less stressed. But I am very glad I moved here. I have met some amazing people in my program and look forward to sharing the rest of my writing life with them, even after the program ends. I have met wonderful professors and read more than I ever imagined I'd be capable of. And then read some more. I remember reading Nellie's book last summer and hoping I'd get into her class, and now I'm in a second class with her and consider her an inspiring role model for my writing. These people, whom I've only been familiar with through a book, are now part of my real, everyday life. And that's been so worth it. Funny what a year can bring. Of course, that's also bittersweet - in the days leading up to that phone call, my aunt had sent me a card reminding me not to give up hope, because she knew I was getting anxious at not hearing from anywhere. And now, a year later, she's not here. A lot has changed.

March 5 was the four year anniversary of Eve Carson's murder. I've posted every year about it, but this year felt different. Maybe because I'm not in Chapel Hill, it feels a little more removed.

And of course, this weekend, Duke got an asswhoopin' from UNC. 88-70. On their home court. On Senior Night. HA!!! We lost before, and we weren't gonna lose again. Yeah Heels!!! (It's so funny to try to explain this rivalry to people up here....it's impossible, really. Let's see how they react to March Madness - somehow I doubt I'll find a bracket group going on in the School of the Arts).

Today I went downtown to Soho - it was a beautiful day, and everyone in the city seemed a little more cheerful. You know, in that surly, aloof, Manhattan kind of way. But cheerful nonetheless. Before I felt too sick (with this stomach thing, I feel sicker as the day goes on), I decided to go and walk around. Namely, I wanted to go to McNally Jackson to look at their great stash of lit mags - which was sadly less than lustrous today. McJ is a super cute bookstore on Prince St. It's an indie, and cozy, with a cafe that serves yummy coffee. Today it actually was the least crowded I've ever seen it. (Note to self:come here on a weekday morning to get a table and some work done). I wanted a job there when I moved to NY, but after email-tag, it never worked out. Sadness. I miss working at an indie bookstore SO much. Anyway, I ended up picking up a book for spring break, by Anne Roiphe, called "Art and Madness," a memoir of her writing coming-of-age. The guy who rang me up made a funny comment about it, and said, "Are you an artist?" And you know what? For the first time, without even thinking about it, I said, "I'm a writer." He replied, "Well, writers are artists!" I'm a writer. That may have been the first time I've stated that to a total stranger, without hesitating or thinking.

And damn, it felt good.

food for thought.

When I first lived in NY, back in 2003-04, I would carry around granola bars in my bag. On the subway or street, if someone asked me for money for food, I would offer the granola bars. Sometimes they took them, other times they walked away. My reasoning was, if you're hungry, you're going to take the food. This time, I've stopped carrying bars in my bag, but I might start again. On the way to the school store this morning to pick up printer ink and paper, a man stepped in front of me and said he was so hungry and could he have some money. Now, those of you who know me, know I walk at a pretty decent clip. I wasn't wearing my headphones, but instinctively I shook my head and kept walking. And immediately I was slapped with the thought Jesus Christ. Have I really become that indifferent? It's true that in NY, you need to acquire some sort of shell to protect yourself -- because if you don't, you become a sucker. People are asking for things every where you turn. Some legitimately have a need; others may not. For some reason, this just really bothered me today.