“We tell ourselves stories in order to live…We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the ‘ideas’ with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.” –Joan Didion, The White Album

I’ve been thinking about these words from Joan Didion a lot lately as I’ve been preparing to move to New York. While I’m incredibly excited to move into my new apartment in New York, the prospect of carving out an entirely new life for myself is a little overwhelming at times. I’m leaving behind the comforts of a job, health insurance, and my childhood home in search of new opportunities that I haven’t secured yet. At the same time, this is all incredibly exciting. I will be a resident of Manhattan, something I’ve only ever dreamed about. 

In order to maintain the excitement of possibility and to forget about the worries that surround moving to a new city with no job in tough economic times, I focus on the narrative. Instead of focusing on how I am plucking myself from a comfortable life and catapulting myself into a new city filled with unknowns, I tell myself stories about what my new life in New York could be like. It’s these little stories that get me through the day-to-day details of facilitating a move and the anxiety of not having a job or insurance two weeks from now. Here are some of the little stories I tell myself as I pack up my belongings and give away clothes I don’t need:

• You can work at the Gap and work your way into the fashion world. 
• You can nanny and be the next Mary Poppins for a family on the Upper East Side. 
• Moving to a new city is like that time you studied abroad, but without the hassle of going through customs or changing your currency. 
• Just fake it ‘til you make it. 
• Give it two years and if you have a terrible time, you can always move back to Wisconsin and live in the country. 
• All of the east coast is at your disposal: eat lobsters in Maine, visit old friends in Boston, eat clams on the shores of Rhode Island, pop down to Washington DC and say hello to your representative, check out North Carolina, gamble in Atlantic City.

Maybe none of these imagined stories about my new life in New York will ever come true, but telling them is enough to keep me plugging along on this new journey. Something will eventually pan out and when it does, I will be looking for a new narrative to keep me going.

While I’ve never really made formal New Year’s Resolutions, I have often made lists titled “Things I Must Do.” These lists functioned as big ideas that when completed would contribute to my overall quality of life. Tasks such as “be outside,” “go to new restaurants,” get my driver’s license,” “buy good photography to hang up,” “watch classic ’80s films, “read poetry suggested by my professor,” “buy a Mates of State album” were all examples of things that I felt compelled to do in order to bring myself to the next level of awesomeness -at-life.

Now that it is 2012 and many things still remain on my “Things I Must Do” list, I’ve opted for a slightly different approach at accomplishing these “big idea tasks.” Instead of debating back and forth and spending hours agonizing over  what to do next, I’ve simply picked something I’ve always wanted to do and made that my number one priority. For me, that something is moving to New York City. So instead of talking about taking action, I took action and will be moving there next month.  Though this change coincides a little with the start of a new year, the passing of another year has only signified to me that I don’t want any more time to pass without making a move.

So, here’s to 2012! I hope that before the year’s end, you can accomplish some of your “big idea tasks.” Whenever you feel so inclined, of course.

1) Fisher Price Roller Skates

These things were amazing because you didn’t even have to take off your shoes in order to enjoy the benefits of roller skating. Already wearing shoes? Just tighten the Velcro and you are all set to go skating around town. Or at the roller rink. Perfect for someone who doesn’t like to waste her time on mundane tasks such as taking off her shoes or tying shoelaces. Plus, they come with Velcro.

2) Jem & The Holograms Cassette Tape

Jem & The Holograms personified what it meant to be 80′s girl rockers. Their music, their makeup, Jem’s earrings that transformed her from a normal person into a superstar rocker; perfection. I want[ed] to be Jem. I would also love a pair of those earrings.

3) Fisher Price Walkie-Talkies

These should really replace cell phones. They are just as convenient, as long as your friend has one too. You don’t even have to communicate with real words, morse code will take care of that for you. Don’t know morse code? No problem, it’s printed on the front of your walkie-talkie. Roger that. Ten four.

4) Teddy Ruxpin

A talking bear. Is having a companion stuffed animal that talks too much to ask for? I didn’t think so.

5) This Volvo.

I’m about to get my driver’s license and this is the car I want. A 1985 Volvo 740 Turbo. I have so many fond memories from my family’s 1980 Volvo sitting in the backseat squished between my two siblings while swinging along the open road on various road trips, most memorably through the Smoky Mountains.

Though I won’t hold my breath for any of these items to appear under the Christmas tree or in my stocking, it was nice to take a little trip down memory lane. And that is a gift in and of itself.

“Will our tales of digital courtship capture the imaginations of our daughters? Will they be impressed when we tell them about that time the text message was misinterpreted, or how the cute boy re-tweeted our Vampire Weekend reference? Will they care?”–Charlotte Alter, “Guns, Ammo, Romance?” Published November 17th in the New York Times.

Romance in the digital age.

When I was small, I never imagined that my heart would palpitate at the sight of an instant message from my real life crush’s screenname, an unexpected text message from a beau, or a retweet. Sometimes it creeps me out how much of a thrill I get from connections in the digital world while ignoring what is lacking in the actual world. A retweet? That’s all I get? No handwritten letter? No surprise visit? No stroll down the lane? No reading sonnets aloud by the fire? No fortepiano duets? No froggy went a-courtin’? Sometimes, I think I was born in the wrong era.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think any of this is any one particular person’s fault, it’s just a sign of our times. Things progress as they always do, but I’m just a little disappointed that my stories of romance will never rival the ones my grandma told. I can just picture the tales of romance I’ll recount to my grandchildren some day:

“Hey kids, you want to hear about romance? Let me show you my gchat history! You’ll read some very romantic exchanges in there!”
“Grandma, why is there a 30 minute time-lapse between responses?”
“Oh never you mind. Want to read some of my old text messages? See there was this boy and he texted me to ask me how my day was going and…”
“Let it rest, Grandma.”
“I think I have one love letter somewhere…”
“We’ll take your word for it.”

No, I imagined my stories of romance would be more like my grandma’s. Tales of being escorted home from school by a handsome boy; letters from the WWII front; a man who demanded to paint her portrait, a portrait which hung in her house for 50 years; the man she met at a church fair who later became my grandpa.

While all of these things are all still possible, technology has taken away the urgency of face-to-face contact. As an obsessed avid iPhone user, I definitely enjoy a surprise text or tweet, but it doesn’t really make for a great story. I don’t quite know what the answer is, except that I want stories that could at least be in the same category as those tales of romance my grandma once told me.  In the meantime, I guess I’ll settle for a retweet.

Excerpt #1–Jocelyn, the maid of the main character Laurel Cornwallis, is getting ready for work.

Crying is for babies, and a woman who escaped from El Salvador at fifteen years old to give her six month old son a better life was not a baby. A woman who reared two children all on her own while working three jobs and living in government subsidized housing alongside scores of other families who were simply trying to make it, was not a baby. Still, she thought of her mother and what her mother would think about this apartment and the fact that she had no control over her two children. And it broke her. Jocelyn was half tempted to pour herself a vodka cranberry, or a Cape Codder as the local folks called it, and lay flat on her couch until she fell asleep, but that’s not what she was raised to do. Besides, it was her day to clean the Cornwallis home on Beacon Hill.

Excerpt #2–At the Cornwallis home in Beacon Hill, Jocelyn starts her work.

Jocelyn always started with the dusting of the shelves in the bedroom. She liked to take her time and examine the photographs and the book titles of the musty books that sat on the shelves frozen in times. Some of the words in the titles were hard for her to pronounce, but sometimes she practiced saying the unfamiliar words out loud as she dusted and mopped. Prejudice. Ecstasy. Persuasion. Wuthering. What was a wuthering, she often wondered. She’d have to remember to ask Mrs. Cornwallis one of these days.

Excerpt #3–Laurel (Nee McIntyre) is vacationing in the South of France on a school holiday with her parents at their summer home, during her university days.

It was to be expected that both Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre were already gone from the flat when Laurel awoke that morning. Some family vacation this was. She had stopped relying on her parents for companionship from pretty much the beginning of her conscious life, but since she had taken the time to allot time for them during her break from university, she expected them to make it worth her while. She probably should have just gone to Barcelona with the girls like they had begged her, but she wanted to attempt to create some positive family memories before it was a completely lost cause.

Excerpt #4–Laurel and French friend Nathalie are having a snack out in town and this man comes up to eat at the table next to him. They hardly pay attention to him.

Meanwhile, the gentleman sat at the table pondering over what to order. His French was pretty much non-existent, with the exception of a few medical terms he had picked up along the way, so it was difficult for him to decide what to order. He lacked the basic French vocabulary that most people pick up in grammar school. Un croque monsieur was not even something he could recall. He settled upon a cheese plate, because he recognized words like “brie” and “gouda” and everyone knew what fromage was. Given his stature, you’d assume someone like Anthony Newell Cornwallis the third would speak impeccable French, but actually he was fluent in Latin and Italian. French had not been on the menu at his exquisite prep school in Massachusetts.

When the waitress came to take his order, he was unable to decipher the classic French phrases that any beginner level French speaker could understand and then assume that had mastered the language simply because they knew how to speak to a waitress at a French restaurant. The old “vous avez choissiez?” followed with a “c’est tout? Parfait.” And if she was feeling hospitable, maybe a little, “Encore de l’eau, monsieur?” He bumbled through his order and she smiled and poured him more water and then brought him a glass of wine.

Excerpt #5–Anthony Cornwallis is reflecting upon the last night he spent with his girlfriend, Melanie, before leaving for his trip to France with the boys.

Melanie, ever the decorous one, had already returned to her slip and had her hair pinned up into a perfect bun. Anthony, wrapped in the sheets so as not to offend Melanie and her bun, opted instead for a cigarette. He took the liberty of putting some whiskey into their matching snifters and let them sit on the nightstand as he inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. He preferred to smoke something stronger, but there were ladies present. As Anthony was basking in the comfort of his silk sheets against his raw skin and the rhythm of inhaling his cigarette, Melanie sat with her back straight up like a cat’s leaning against the bedpost. She was so stiff, that Anthony was pretty certain she didn’t even need the bedpost to keep her upright. He wanted to reach out to her, to put his hand against her cheek, to run it through the back of her hair, but her hair was already tied into a rigid bun. He knew this wasn’t the woman for him, but she would make a dutiful wife and an effective mother. Wasn’t that all he needed? He was a medical student, after all, and he would be bringing home all of the bacon and some more to grow on.

Don't worry, I'm not writing THIS novel by hand.

It’s that time of year again. Time for NaNoWrimo. For those of you that don’t know about NaNoWrimo (and didn’t read last year’s blog post about it), it is a “contest” where participants spend the month of November writing at 50,000 word novel. The focus of writing a novel in such a short period of time is on quantity over quality.

I’ve flirted with the idea of participating in NaNoWrimo ever since I learned about the competition back in my early college days. I’ve had many attempts, but zero completions (which would, incidentally, make me a terrible quarterback). Writing a novel has always been on my list of things to do ever since I started making lists of things to do. (So is getting a driver’s license, but I’ll save that story for a different post). I wrote one novel in the seventh grade, but that lone novel is getting pretty lonely. Plus, I lost it. It’s time to add another novel to my repertoire.

But, I say that every year. And just like every other year, my dance card is nearly full for the month of November. And am I really going to write on Thanksgiving? During a Green Bay Packers game? Maybe not, but something feels different about this year’s challenge.

So what’s so different about this year? For starters, I actually like my storyline. The words are just flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. The story practically writes itself. I’d love to tell you all about the plot, but I do have a superstition about giving away a story before I write it. Because that alleviates the need to tell the story!

Another reason I’m going to finish this year is that I’m not getting any younger. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. So now is as good of a time as any other to write it. As my good friend always says to me, “Don’t talk about it, be about it!” So, I’m going to be about it and write this darn novel if it’s the last thing I do. I realize that finishing will take serious Dedication! Sacrifice! and Beer! But, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I WILL FINISH THIS NOVEL!

Finally, this time around, I’m chronicling my NaNoWriMo writing adventures in a series of articles in the book section of the Huffington Post. I volunteered to answer questions about the writing process and the progress of my novel. Each week, my answers will be posted along with the answers of six other writers. That will keep me in check and on track. After all, I don’t want to look like more of a buffoon on the interwebs.

That all being said, I have a lot of work to do. 6046 words down, 43,954 to go. Please excuse me while I go work on my novel.

I have always been a sucker for letters. There is something so personal about someone expressing their thoughts to you in writing. If it weren’t for the advent of email, I’d still be writing letters. I spent a large portion of my childhood writing and receiving letters from various pen pals around the country. Summer afternoons, I’d stake out a spot in the living room and wait in great anticipation for the mailman. A good day meant receiving three letters at a time, a bad day meant no letters. I’d pretend not to be disappointed, but really I yearned to tear open envelopes and gush over juicy letters.

Although email and AOL instant messenger ended my serious letter writing days, I did keep all of the letters that I received. I could never bring myself to throw anything away that was handwritten. Letters were sacred texts.

I’m not sure if many (or any) of my letters could be deemed noteworthy or worthy of a larger audience, however, I did receive a letter back from my favorite author Anne Lindbergh, daughter of the famous Charles Lindbergh. I wrote her a letter when I was in the fourth grade and had just finished her book, The People of Pineapple Place. I read the book as a part of a Battle of the Books competition I was participating in and I wanted to tell her how much I enjoyed her book. She wrote me the following letter which I taped up in my bedroom and kept on the wall forever:

Barnet, Vermont
February 17th, 1993

Dear Sonja,
How nice of you to write and say that you liked The People of Pineapple Place enough to get a friend to read it too. Authors are happy to get letters like yours, because it proves that here are readers out there. Sometimes we wonder! If you think about it, writing is kind of a puzzle: we do it in order to communicate with our readers, but the harder we work, the more we shut ourselves away from them.

Your Battle of the Books sounds like fun. I bet you discovered some good stories that way! I’m not at school anymore, but I have an ongoing, friendly battle of books with my cousin Faith to see who can list the most good “rereads” for the other. Lots of Faith’s favorites are out of print so I have to hunt them down in libraries or even used book stores. The used books often cost only a dollar or two, so I usually buy them and now have quite a collection. You should keep a list of your own favorites so that if you want to reread them in the future, you’ll remember the titles and authors.

Thanks for writing!

Sincerely,
Anne Lindbergh

As an aspiring writer, I was especially pleased to get such a personal response from my favorite author. In the years after I had received her letter, I often thought about what she had said about how we write to communicate with our readers but the solitary act of writing shuts us away from them. I even contemplated writing to her as an adult, but sadly I found out that Anne Lindbergh died of cancer ten months after I had received her letter. I’ll always remember the excitement I felt from receiving such a letter and for that reason, I will always hold on to it.

Letter from Anne Lindbergh. February 17th, 1993.

“Wisconsin. That’s in Michigan, right?”

Once, on my family’s annual family vacation to New Hampshire, a kid asked me where I was from. I of course responded with, Wisconsin. Without skipping a beat, he responded, that’s in Michigan, right? I never forgot the disgust I felt that someone my age (11) had no idea where Wisconsin was located. Didn’t they have social studies classes in New England? Aren’t you required to locate all the fifty states on a map at least once in your childhood? Have you not watched a single episode of Schoolhouse Rock?

They don't even serve this where you're from.

Fast forward 17 years and I’m sure that boy now has a clear idea of where Wisconsin is located. I doubt he’s ever visited, because after all, what coastie would be caught dead hanging out in a flyover state?

Consider this article, “Just Tossing Around the Old Bag of Corn” that appeared in the New York Times a few weeks ago. The article goes into detail about how New Yorkers are really getting into a game that we’ve been playing around these parts for decades. It’s how I imagine Columbus’s reports of the New World would have sounded to the people that he “discovered.” Dude, we’ve been saying the same thing for centuries. You didn’t discover cornhole, we did.

This is still "the beach."

My favorite is a recent post written by Wisconsin to New York transplant Megan L. Wood in The Awl called, “It’s Cute That New York is Catching Up to Wisconsin.” It expresses similar thoughts on how people in New York are now just discovering “new trends” that Wisconsinites have been setting for years.

It’s time to set the record straight. Wisconsin ain’t no flyover state, it is the real deal. You know you love us and secretly wish that you could be more like us. It’s time to put an end to that ridiculous nickname and realize that things that happen in Wisconsin are as relevant as things that happen on the coasts. Sometimes, even more so.

Since 1844!

If you still need convincing that Wisconsin ain’t all that, then I’d like to ask you a few questions. First of all, has your state been brewing Pabst Blue Ribbon since before it was an official state? Did Laura Ingalls Wilder grow up in a log cabin deep in the woods of your state which served as the inspiration for her Little House on the Prairie series which later became a hit television series starring Michael Landon? Were duck boat tours started in your state? Is America’s Largest Water Park in your neck of the woods? How many publicly owned sports teams does your state have? Can you buy alcohol on Sundays? Was America’s first kindergarten in your home state? Does your state deep fry everything and then serve it with a side of cheese? Can you host a tailgate party at all of your local sports venues? Does your state have this many breweries? When President Obama wishes us all a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays this year from the White House, will he do so against the backdrop of the White House Christmas tree, cut from the forests of your state?

Oh and did your state do this?

Wisconsin “Budget Repair Bill” Protest from Matt Wisniewski on Vimeo.

There are 2 errors on this sweatshirt.

It was there in the parking lot of Alpine Valley while munching on gluten-free pasta and sipping on white wine that it occurred to me: I’ve actually liked something, the same thing, continually, for 20 years. I can’t believe I’ve actually liked something for that amount of time. Not only have I liked the same band for 20 years, but I actually still like the same kind of music as I did when I was 8. I certainly don’t like the same clothes or TV shows that I did at age 8, but music tastes are pretty similar (gave or take a few bands).

Then I thought to myself, I can’t believe Pearl Jam’s been around for 20 years. Where did all of that time go? I mean, I still think of Pearl Jam as that cool band who like wore flannel and sang rockin’ tunes that I could like relate to and were sometimes like political. How has it been 20 years already? Twenty years? I guess the ’90s weren’t just a few years ago and I’m really not  a “recent college grad” anymore. It crazy because sometimes I still feel like that girl clad in overalls and a flannel shirt listening to Pearl Jam on the radio hoping that I won’t fall asleep in the middle of my homework with all the lights on. I don’t feel so far from those days.

Tailgate food.

On the other hand, we were sitting in the parking lot sipping white wine and eating a variety cured meats from an Italian specialty shop and salads prepared from the leftover of a shared farm basket. That’s a far cry from my college days when I probably would have taken food from the dining hall for the tailgate and warm cans of beer that didn’t fit in the tiny dorm refrigerator. Though I mostly feel as youthful as I always have, it’s nice to be able to bring cured meats to the table instead of having to scrap together enough laundry coins to buy a six-pack.