Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Writing Alzheimer's: Tanya Ward Goodman & B. Lynn Goodwin

Alzheimer's and other forms of dementia have affected innumerable lives, including my own. My mom, a writer and a nurse, wrote about her dementia as her capacities diminished. And I wrote about my caregiving experiences in my journals, in innumerable emails to loved ones, on this blog--and ultimately in my memoir.

What is it about the intersection of illness, caregiving, and writing?
I recently read two books that address the creative fire's role in grieving, loving, and healing. I also spoke to both authors.

Tanya Ward Goodman writes in Leaving Tinkertown about the simultaneous decline into dementia of her father and grandmother. Astonishingly, the book isn't dreary. It's permeated with love and resilience.  As Tanya said, "Alzheimer’s disease is a huge tragedy, but my family emerged intact. We continue to love and create and connect and that is not a downer."

In the book, the portrait of her father made me wish I'd known him. Ross Ward was a "consistently creative person," said Tanya, a man whose "curiosity and enthusiasm about the world was contagious."

He was a unique thinker and a free spirit who built Tinkertown Museum, a roadside attraction outside Albuquerque, New Mexico.

In the book, Tanya explores the awful losses associated with dementia--but she also addresses how some of the changes can be surprisingly positive. Her father's "sense of wonder and excitement was in some ways deepened," and she describes the disease as "loosening" her grandmother. I found this to be true for my mom, too. As she lost her language, I was able to massage her and hold her in ways she might not have enjoyed before. We developed a new kind of closeness.

Tanya said that spending time with her dad and grandmother encouraged her "to slow down. At the beginning, this was incredibly hard" because of all that caregiving requires. "Eventually, though, I let myself go along with Dad and Gran as much as I could. They relaxed because we weren’t always correcting them or trying to force them to remember and we benefited from the intimacy."

Tanya Ward Goodman (photo by Doug Piburn)
She added that with her father, "it was fun to gather rocks or watch the dogs sleeping in the sun. We spent a lot of time going over his scrapbooks. He’d tell me the same story again and again, but it was comforting to us both. As his disease progressed, my operating mantra became, 'why not?' I indulged him. It wasn’t going to kill him to eat a pint of ice cream for dinner. It wasn’t going to break the bank to buy a roll of sparkle stickers. Sure, we didn’t need more art books, but they made him happy, so why not?"

I was especially struck by her take-away: "I try to continue to live this way. Life is short. Spend real time with the people you love. If you want to do something or go somewhere and you can figure out a way to make it happen, why not?"
Tanya didn't set out to write a book. At first she wrote essays to sort through her feelings. She also kept a sporadic journal and wrote long emails to her boyfriend. Later, she sorted through all of that and the book emerged. 

"I kept asking myself 'what is the story? What is my story?' To that end, my biggest advice to memoir writers, or any writers for that matter, is to keep writing. Write everything you can think to write and then pare it down. Getting lost is, for me, a way to find a true path."
Whether or not you are going to write a book, B. Lynn Goodwin--author of You Want Me to Do What?: Journaling for Caregivers--encourages caregivers to write because "writing relieves stress rather than creating it. It allows a caregiver, or anyone, to vent without hurting someone's feelings." Writing, said Lynn, can help us see that we are not alone. It allows us "to process, dig deeper, get to the truth, plan strategies, and find solutions." Lynn pointed out that caregivers are not the only ones who can benefit. Her book could easily be titled, Journaling for Everyone.

B. Lynn Goodwin
I like the book's evocative prompts, such as: "Today I hope...", "I can barely remember...", "I lust after...", "Chocolate always...", "My life changed when...", and "At the edge of my heart..."

"If you start with a prompt, you never have to face a blank page," said Lynn. You can "finish the sentence and let the writing take you wherever you want to go or need to go."

Writing helps us grapple all that it means to be human. And in the very act of writing, we feel the power of its generative force. It is life giving.

Tanya Ward Goodman writes for The Next Family and lives in Los Angeles. She is working on a novel about becoming a mother. Visit her website.

B. Lynn Goodman is the owner of Writer Advice. She conducts workshops and writes reviews for Story Circle Network. Her young adult novel, Talent, will be out November 1, and she is currently working on a memoir about getting married for the first time at age 62.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

"Fruit is so sexy": Writing and the Body.

As part of my series on Books That Inspire, I had a chat with the inspirational--dare I say, luscious goddess?--Gayle Brandeis. Read on for some inspiring words about how to love your body and jump-start your writing.

Me: Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write is such a juicy, gorgeous book. It inspires us to write and live with our senses wide open. You start the book with a revelation you had in high school that involves a strawberry. And one of your novels, Delta Girls, features a fruit-picking character and begins with a discussion of pears. I call myself a "fruit bat" because I love fruit so much. What is it with fruit? What makes it such an important element (literally and metaphorically) in life and writing?

Gayle: Thank you so much, Kate—always nice to find a fellow fruit bat! I’ve loved fruit all my life, and it’s long felt connected to language for me. When I was in third grade, my teacher gave our class “succulent” as a vocabulary word; I had a pear for a snack after school that day, and told my mom “My, what a succulent pear”. It made me very happy to use my new word, and not just because it made my mom gasp; the word felt just as juicy in my mouth as the pear. Fruit is so sexy, its seeds so full of potential—the perfect metaphor for both writing and our bodies. 

Fruitflesh is filled with wonderful--and often surprising--writing activities. Have you done every writing activity in this book? Which one or two are your favorites? And if you took your own advice and wrote on your body, what did you write?

I did indeed test drive every single exercise in the book. The ones that have had the most staying power for me are all the sensory-based prompts. I use them often in my workshops, asking my students to write so the reader can feel/taste/see/smell/hear the words on the page. And Dictionary Poems: crack open a dictionary at random, close your eyes and point to a word, then write a poem around that word. It’s still something I turn to if I’m not sure what to write. If I recall correctly—it’s been a while—I wrote just one word on my body: YES.

You write, "There are many ways of knowing. Our bodies have great imaginations." How can we hear what our bodies are "imagining" or telling us? How does that translate to the page?

I find that our bodies’ imaginations come into play the most when we’re writing fiction, or accessing memory in our work. I do an exercise with my fiction students where I have them close their eyes and check in to their own bodies; once they’re really grounded inside their own skin, we start to morph into all sorts of other bodies—we imagine ourselves as a three year old boy, a 90-year-old woman, a 400 pound man, a dolphin, a hummingbird, etc.—and then we write about the experience. It’s our bodies’ sense of kinesthetic empathy that allows us to imagine what it’s like to live in other bodies, that allows us to access the “other” in our work—it’s the same sense that allows us to feel what it must be like to be running when we watch the Olympics, or that makes us cringe when someone falls down, as if we can feel it in our own body. When we tap into the body’s intelligence and imagination, we become more compassionate--since the root of the word means “to suffer with,” and when we fully can imagine being in another person’s skin, we can more deeply connect with their suffering. And yes, if we just get quiet and listen to our own bodies, we can learn so much about our own stories.

The book is geared toward women. Have you ever talked with a man who read it? What was his reaction?

Several men have told me they’ve gotten a lot out of Fruitflesh, which makes me happy; they said they just skipped over the parts they felt didn’t apply to them. When I first envisioned this project, I wasn’t planning to gear it toward women—the book was originally titled Writing From the Body, and I thought I had this great, fresh approach to writing, but then a book called Writing From the Body written by John Lee came out when I was about halfway through the first draft, and I was devastated; I felt as if my life’s work had been taken from me. Eventually I realized there was still room for my voice, and I decided to distinguish my project by focusing on women writers. I was very happy to do this; I thought the book offered a great opportunity to help break through the damaging messages we receive about our bodies as women, to help us appreciate our bodies and the stories they can tell.

You write, "Being a person can be embarrassing." I once heard memoirist Joe Loya say, "In order to write a memoir, we have to be willing to be embarrassed." How do you allow yourself to be vulnerable on the page?

That hasn’t been easy for me. Even around the time I wrote Fruitflesh, I was less willing to embarrass myself on the page than I probably would have admitted. I think it’s helped to get older and not care so much what other people think. It’s helped to feel as if I can own my own story, including my bad decisions and deeply human flaws. It’s helped to not need to be seen as “perfect” I am a recovered perfectionist, and as Anne Lamott says, “perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.” Also, reading other writers who are able to be vulnerable on the page has given me courage to lay my own life bare. 

You write, "Writing involves listening. Deep listening. We need to quiet ourselves so we can hear the world around us in a true, clear way." In such a busy, noisy world, how do you focus on deep listening? What advice can you give to other writers?

This is not easy to do—I definitely have more trouble doing it now than when I wrote the book 15 years ago; the constant lure of social media has dramatically affected my ability to slow down and listen deeply. But it’s so necessary—for my sanity and my writing—to take time to just breathe, and check in with my body and feel really grounded in the moment. This can happen while going for a walk through the forest, or just sitting and closing my eyes for a few minutes, or dancing like a wild woman and feeling as if my body is taking me exactly where it needs to go—anything that gets me to that place of receptivity only enriches my writing (and my experience as a person!)

It seems that in your ruminations, the body, sexuality/the libido, and creativity/writing are all intertwined. Why do you think this is? Why is it important for women writers to tap into these interconnections?

Our culture teaches us as women to see ourselves at war with our bodies, to feel as if we’re somehow lacking or “wrong” if we don’t fit the airbrushed media ideal. When I wrote Fruitflesh, I think I was reminding myself, and hoping I could remind other women, that we don’t need to listen to our culture’s damaging messages, that we can start to love and accept our bodies as they are and tap into our physicality as a source of creativity and wisdom and power, that we can remove shame from our narratives of desire and sex, that we can claim our full experience, let desire fuel us in the world and on the page.  I wish I could say that writing the book led me to love and accept my body all the time, that I never fall prey to body insecurities, but that wouldn’t be honest; I still struggle at times with body image, still measure myself negatively against that ridiculous ideal. Fruitflesh continues to help me, though. I read my own words and find myself teaching myself what I need to learn all over again. The book helps remind me to forget about how I look and focus on how I feel inside my skin, to write from that juicy, painful, experiential place.

You are the author of Fruitflesh, four novels, and a poetry chapbook--as well as stories, poems, and essays that have appeared in an impressive array of journals. You are currently finishing up a memoir and are co-editing an anthology about suicide loss. And on top of it all, you have children, a husband, and you teach for three programs: Sierra Nevada College, the Incarcerated Student Program through Lake Tahoe Community College, and the low residency MFA program at Antioch in L.A. How is this humanly possible? Ha. What I really want to know is: How do you structure your life so you have time to write?

I don't! I am kind of structure averse, actually--I'm much more of a go with the flow kind of person. Of course I need to stick to schedules for class times, etc., but in terms of fitting everything in, somehow I have an intuitive sense of what needs to get done when and I try to give my attention as fully as possible to whatever task is at hand and not get too overwhelmed by everything else that needs to get done. I fit the writing in whenever and wherever I can--I don't have a set writing schedule; I just take advantage of little windows in my day, and those windows can feel spacious even if they're small. Sometimes 15 minutes of furious writing can be more productive than a full day of staring at the screen.
Gayle Brandeis has been awarded the Bellwether Prize and a Silver Nautilus Book Award. She served as Inlandia Literary Laureate from 2012-2014. She lives in Tahoe. Check out her website:

Monday, August 10, 2015

Chicago Life

We had barely landed in Chicago, when a cousin I had met only through Facebook asked if I wanted to get together for brunch.

Anne-Marie brought her two sisters and her mom, who was my father's cousin--the woman I was named after. I hadn't seen her since I was a child.

Janet, Anne-Marie, the Kathleeens, Elaine
It was a sweet way to begin our adventure. Well, actually our orientation started a few days before when we first met Mike and Joanne, the people who picked us off a housesitting website. We spent a day together. They showed us around their Hyde Park neighborhood which features lots of brick, flowers, mature trees, and gorgeous architecture. We walked to the Lake Michigan waterfront and through the gothic architecture of the University of Chicago campus.

The Obamas' house is just a few blocks away, surrounded by Secret Service barriers. Down the street is a plaque that commemorates their first date.

They made us dinner that night and breakfast the next morning. Before they took off on their own adventure, we went with them to a moving service at their Unitarian church. It didn't take long before we were encamped in their home with their two dogs. The nomads know how to adapt.

Bear on the chair, Jake on the floor.
Some days we hang out at home, walking the dogs, doing yoga, and taking care of business (me, writing and editing; Dave, working on the development of a new company).

Other days, we explore, or visit the farmer's market, or walk across the street for the free music in the park.

Near the train entrance.

On the days we venture downtown, there is so much to see. The art and architecture are mind-blowing. As are the food and music.
Chagall at the Art Institute of Chicago

Blues at Buddy Guy's Legends.

It's a very walkable city, even in the heat and humidity. Fortunately, this has been a milder summer than most. Still, it feels strange for this native Californian to feel like the air is a thing.

Navy Pier
We launched into full-speed tourist mode when our friends Paul and Mari Carmen arrived from Mexico City. At the same time, our friend Kate has been here as well, serendipitously coming through the area more than three months into her "Big Adventure" road trip.

Kate, Paul, Mari Carmen, Dave, and me reflected in the Bean.
Our tour guide and hostess par excellence has been Pam, a long-time friend who lives in Oak Park, a Chicago suburb famous as the home of Frank Lloyd Wright. Pam took us around the neighborhood to see a bunch of his remarkable homes.

My favorite Frank Lloyd Wright.

The crew with Frank.

The whirlwind of activities included a picnic and free jazz in Millennium Park...

The Kates do headstands before the music starts. architectural boat tour down the Chicago River, where we learned a lot about the history of the stunning array of buildings...
Architecture boat tour down the Chicago River.
...dinner (and a Doors cover band) at an open air restaurant at Montrose beach....
So warm at night it felt like a Mexico beach. 
... and a baseball game at Wriggly Field. Even though our Giants lost (damn), I was glad to have experienced this park that has hosted the MLB for more than 100 seasons. The visibility is really good--and the bratwurst rocks. It was charming to see someone behind the scoreboard manually updating the score!

In our last two weeks here, we plan to kayak down the river, experience more music and perhaps see some of the famous Chicago theater. Even though living full-time in an urban world is not my bag, Chicago reminds me how enjoyable time in a city can be--and how astonishing is its scope.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Creating the Life You Want

When I heard about this woman who dropped everything to live on the road--then traveled all over the world and wrote a book about it--two words came to mind:

Soul Sister!

Margaret "Meps" Schulte

I knew I had to talk to her. She has a fascinating life...and great advice for living the life of your dreams.

The title of your book is Strangers Have the Best Candy. Why do strangers have the best candy?

By "candy," I mean a positive encounter, which might range from a smile to a home-cooked meal to a conversation that starts a lifelong friendship. When we encounter a person we know, we have some idea what to expect from them. The good things we get from strangers are always a surprise, and they can have life-changing consequences.

You hit the road as a young woman. How long have you been living a traveling life? How do you balance the joys of the road and a yearning for "home"?

I've left the corporate world for an open-ended adventure twice. The first time was in my twenties, when my husband and I put our stuff in storage and traveled in a Honda Civic and on bicycles for a couple of years. When it stopped being fun, we settled in Seattle, got jobs, and started saving as much money as we could.

After eight years, in 2003, we took off a second time. We moved aboard a sailboat in New Orleans for five months, then sailed across the Gulf of Mexico and up the eastern seaboard. After we left the boat, we drove 6500 miles in our van, the Squid Wagon, from Florida to Newfoundland to Seattle with our cat. That was just the first year -- I haven't stopped traveling since!

I don't yearn for "home" in a traditional sense. I have friends all over the world, and I'm on a nonstop circuit of visiting them and making new friends out of strangers. Sometimes, I wish I could settle down long enough to take a class or unpack my Christmas ornaments, but when an opportunity for adventure comes up, I forget all about that.

The hardest thing about traveling is saying goodbye too often. I have to console myself with a reminder that there is always a hello on the other side.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

Live overseas. Forget Russian -- learn as many foreign languages as you can that use the Latin alphabet. Play the harmonica instead of the accordion; it's a lot easier to carry. Don't stop painting. Always wear comfortable shoes, so you can walk for miles.

What advice would you give to people about living the life you really want to live?

Examine your choices every single day. Don't take anything for granted! For example, I didn't like celery yesterday, but I might like it today. I had a friend who hated jewelry on men. He went out and bought a gold necklace and never took it off. It was a reminder to him of the power of changing his mind. Change one small thing, and see how it feels. Then change a bigger thing, and a bigger thing, until you have created the life you want.
Also, don't say no when adventure knocks on the door. Be flexible, prepared, and self-sufficient, and everything will be OK.

Quitting a well-paying job was so scary, I called it "jumping off the cliff." Today, I have absolutely no regrets about saying yes to adventure, because my parachute opened on the way down. Now my life is measured in friends and awe-inspiring moments, not dollars and possessions. My security comes from being flexible and accepting reality.

Meps' next book, The Joyful Bear, will be released this fall. Co-authored with Frank Lloyd Bear, a large white teddy bear who has been traveling with her since 1993, the book features Frankie's unique wisdom and philosophy. To follow her adventures, check out Meps' website.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Year of Living Drinklessly: Update

Alcohol has always been part of my life...

...the allure of my parents drinking Manhattans with glistening cherries

...the priest drinking "the blood of Jesus"

...high school keg parties every weekend at the home of whoever's parents were out of town binge drinking (most weekends, someone from the dorms was hauled off to the ER for a stomach pump)

...Happy Hours after work (that began on Fridays, then extended to Thursdays, and eventually leaked over to Wednesdays) (England: pubs!, Hawaii: umbrella drinks!, Napa: wine tasting!)

...champagne for any celebration, beer for any beach adventure

...pouring a glass of wine, or grabbing a beer from the fridge, as the first ahhhhhhh after a long day...

One of my boyfriends took a cooler of beer with him wherever we went. He could open a bottle on the steering wheel.

My first husband home brewed beer.

My wife (marriage number 2) and I loved pubs. We drank wine and beer at home most nights. We decided multiple times to "take a break." We'd pour the wine and beer down the drain--or give it to someone--and in just a few days it would sneak back into our house like a child into her parents' bed.

Five years ago, I started dating Dave, who rarely drinks. I had never spent as much time around another person who didn't care for booze. It made him sleepy. He'd sometimes drink a Guinness or nurse a glass of red wine at dinner with friends. But generally, it wasn't his thing. He didn't care what, how, and if I drank.

When I underwent brain surgery two years ago, I didn't drink for two months. I thought of it as temporary. I longed for my cold glasses of chardonnay and frothy IPAs and was happy when I got them back.

But then something happened when we were living in Mexico. I suddenly became less tolerant of the next-day malaise that accompanied even just a drink or two. And the headaches. I'd always thought booze gave me a lift, but when I began to really look at it, I realized the lift lasted about half an hour--and then the only way to keep it going was to have another. Otherwise, like Dave, I'd get sleepy.

I wanted to do yoga, and write, and do my writing coaching work, and take long walks, and explore Baja feeling my best. I was curious if living without booze would improve my life. I mean, just truly erasing drinking as a possibility. What would it feel like? Who would I be without it? It seemed like an adventure to try.

It's been five months since I decided to embark on the Year of Living Drinklessly. As I've written elsewhere, it's been fascinating to sit in that space between wanting a drink and not having one. Perching in that margin between, "Ah, a beer sounds good" and taking a sip of sparkling water. I've become more and more aware of all the associations I've with booze:

that it makes me happy
that it's a celebratory thing
that only boring people don't drink
that it's the lifeblood of fun
that it helps me relax.

Also, it's sophisticated! Look at those Europeans and their elegant sidewalk cafes! (A friend said recently to us that the French don't trust anyone who doesn't drink.)

Now I can see that:

* nothing external makes me happy (it's an inside job).

* the rollercoaster of using booze to bring me up always involves a coming down.

* celebrating is fun because of the new job/baby/marriage/experience/people/music/dancing...not the booze.

* the French generally drink only at meals...and, of course, there are French people who don't drink. Drinking or abstaining has nothing to with moral character.

* partying does not have to equate to "drinking"! (I still can't believe it took me 52 years to come to this one!)

* it's not booze that makes people fun, it's their spirit, their sense of humor, their willingness to dance on the table! And no, you don't need to be drunk for that.

* that initial morphine quality of a sip of wine can be lovely, but so is knowing how to calm and soothe myself without a substance (through meditation, breathing, thinking a better thought, laughing, petting a dog, taking a walk). And there is no agitation-backlash, headache, or malaise involved.

Four months into my drink-free adventure, I decided to consciously, mindfully partake in some drinking. Over the course of two weeks, I went wine tasting, drank champagne to celebrate the release of my book, and sucked down some draft IPA. Each one of these was a social occasion, with friends. Everyone else (even Dave) imbibed.

I never had what you could characterize as a hangover, but each time, I felt less "sparkly" for a few days. It was like I was wearing a long dress, and someone was stepping on the train.

That's when I realized: I prefer not drinking. I feel better. I'm happier. I'm calmer.

Who'da thunk.

Now I'm not counting the days or months. I'm just living booze-free. "Free" being a key word, because I do feel free. I don't spend time thinking about if/when/where/how I will or won't have a drink. I don't wonder if a hangover is coming tomorrow. I also don't care what anyone else does. We all have our reasons to drink or not drink. I spent 52 years one way. Now I'm living another.

Today, this eternal now (which all we really have), I'm happily a non-drinker. That may change. If it does or it doesn't, it's okay--because I am the one in charge of my life.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

"Where do you live?" the question we get asked most often, along with its cousin, "Where are you from?"

"We were living in Santa Cruz before we became nomads," we sometimes say.

"Half the year in Mexico, half traveling."

In a way, wherever we are at the moment is where we live.

When we set out two years ago to live this version of life, we weren't totally sure what it would look like. That's still the case. We make some plans, the days unfold, and eventually the dark road ahead gets illuminated with our headlights.

Since we left our little casita in Mexico in April, we've spent the night in about twenty different beds, living wherever we are.

When I look at what we've been focusing on, I can see what our priorities are.

Family and friends

Meeting Miles for the first time, in L.A.

The boys help Uncle Dave blow out his birthday candles.

Visiting my 91-year-old piano playing Aunt Ruby.

Lunch with my cousins in the Bay Area, cooked by my chef cousin Clay.
Hiking in Tahoe with Candis, Rob, and Holly.
Sister Sue and bro-in-law Dan.

My niece Hailey's 8th grade graduation.
A few days with Lee in Sebastopol.

Kari, shocked by my book.

We met up with a lot of Dave's buddies, like Sango, at High Sierra Music Festival.

Music festival clan!


Watching Dave's college buddy's son playing first base, in Nor Cal.

Hiking in San Francisco's McLaren Park.

Tahoe, on a friend's boat.

Rafting on the American River with Candis and Laura as our guides.


Run, Lola, Run! Lee's pup.

A little love from Marge, our charge in Santa Cruz during a housesit.

Maya. We took care of her during a Berkeley housesit.

My cousin Jennifer's cat, Posey, named after the SF Giants' gem of a catcher.

Dave captured these pelicans in Santa Cruz.



Bonnie Raitt in Santa Cruz

Ike & Martin, Tahoe
Roseville Moose Lodge...these young women did a killer "Me & Bobby McGee"!
Hot Buttered Rum in Santa Cruz

The Nibblers at High Sierra Music Festival, Quincy, California.

Robert Randolph

String Cheese highlight.
The Waifs
California Honeydrops

And best of all: making our own music around the fire pit in So Cal.


How about not "Where do you live" but "What do you love?"