The Chronology of Water Part 9

Ask me about writing, well, that's a fierce private. Writing, she is the fire of me. Where stories get born from that place where life and death happened in me. She carries me and will be the death of me.

So when I tell you this, a little bit it makes me want to bite you.

Really hard.

Some people say that words can't "happen" to you. I say they can.

One of my last nights with Devin I got all hopped up on mushrooms and went for a walk by the train tracks. We lived next to the tracks in Eugene-in a neighborhood where you would find needles in the alley but also yuppies trying to buy and restore their way to better. I was supposed to be writing a dissertation. That night we sat down on the ground. We drank Chivas from a flask. Then a train slow rolled by, and I jumped up and chased it laughing, and then I hopped it. I have no idea why. I looked back at the image of husband getting smaller and smaller until I couldn't see him. I loved that receding him. Maybe it was our last good night. The wind felt excellent. The motion of a self riding to nowhere for all she was worth took my breath away.

Of course somewhere around five minutes later I snapped out of it and thought AHHHH what am I doing and thought JUMP IDIOT and so I did, I jumped off, and military rolled through some ground gravel until I came to a sc.r.a.ped to s.h.i.+t stop, laughing and laughing the high of organics and free. I walked home. Devin was exactly where I'd left him, kind of pa.s.sed out like a giant drunk Caucasian Buddha.

The night after my gravel roll I sat at my computer with my fingers on the keys. My hands were all sc.r.a.ped up. My forearms and elbows, too. My chin and cheek. I was supposed to be writing my dissertation chapter on Kathy Acker, who by then I'd met. I stared at lines of hers I had typed and referenced as part of my critical discussion on the screen: Every time I talk to one of you, I feel like I'm taking layers of my own epidermis, which are layers of still freshly b.l.o.o.d.y scar tissue, black brown and red, and tearing each one of them off so more and more of my blood shoots in to your face. This is what writing is to me a woman (ES, 210).

When I went to write words over the top of hers, kind of I felt like I might throw up. Instead of the dissertation chapter, I began to write a story. The first line that came out of me was: "I am a woman who talks to herself and lies."

Please understand, I loved reading literary theory - I mean I devoured the primary texts as if they were romance novels - I dove into the discourse as if its waters were mine alone - my body song swam in between currents of language and thought. But trying to write critically, academically, hurt.

A lot.

Why would someone do that to novels? For what purpose, other than a s.a.d.i.s.tic impulse to hush, silence, incarcerate art? It seemed like a violence to me to write that way about literature. It seemed false at best and repugnant at worst - murderous even.

In my dissertation the novels I'd chosen were astonis.h.i.+ng pieces of noisy art. White Noise and Almanac of the Dead and Empire of the Senseless - a book which I promise you, if you've never read it, will sc.r.a.pe your eyeb.a.l.l.s. Books in which culture towered and collapsed, border ident.i.ties defied the cult of good citizens.h.i.+p and revolutionaries turned back on their liberators with fire for hair. Wars of militarization and wars of race and wars of gender and wars of fathers and language and power and wars of just the human heart played out page after page, taking my breath away.

When I set my hands to writing literary criticism - that act of writing so legitimized by white male knowledge - I felt like I was a torturer. A killer. A Betrayer. An abuser. I slept with three of my professors - two men and one woman - I think trying to get the body back into discourse. HEY! What about bodies? The noisy, wet, rule-breaking body that seemed erased by all that lofty thought. It didn't work.

OF COURSE I considered quitting graduate school. I paid my ticket, I rode the ride. Right? Half the people I started with quit. I did not have to continue toward scholar. But something wouldn't let me. Some deep wrestling match going on inside my rib house and gray matter. Some woman in me I'd never met. You know who she was? My intellect. When I opened the door and there she stood, with her sa.s.sy red reading gla.s.ses and fitted skirt and leather bookbag, I thought, who the h.e.l.l are you? Crouching into a defensive posture and looking at her warily out of the corner of my eye. Watch out, woman.

To which she replied, I'm Lidia. I have a desire toward language and knowledge that will blow your mind. And I'm here to write a dissertation.

Yeah. Right. Whatever. And anyway, where did you even come from?

Oh, I think you know. I'm from your father. Now open the G.o.dd.a.m.ned door.

My father. Whose mind curled around art and architecture and cla.s.sical music and film. Whose intellect I carried in my blood rivers. That's when my two mes had it out. The me I'd forged to leave a family and body batter my way into the world, and the me I'd never met, or even knew existed, except perhaps hidden in my hands, hiding like the crouch of dreams in my fingers. My father's daughter.

"I am a woman who talks to herself and lies."

The night after I jumped from the train of things, at the computer my heart raced. My first book came out of me in a great gus.h.i.+ng return of the repressed. Like a blood clot had loosened. My hands frenzied. Words from my whole body, my entire life, or the lives of women and girls whose stories got stuck in their throats came gus.h.i.+ng out. Nothing could have stopped the stories coming out of me. Even though my hands and arms and face hurt - bruised and cut from falling from a train - or a marriage - or a self in the night - I wrote story after story. There was no inside out. There were words and there was my body, and I could see through my own skin. I wrote my guts out. Until it was a book.

Until my very skin made screamsong.

Short Story SO MY FIRST BOOK OF STORIES BEAT MY DISSERTATION to print. I got published by an independent press. One that did not care about how far I'd paddled outside the mainstream. I called the book Her Other Mouths. In every story, intense things happen to a body. Because, well, they do. Did. And I knew how to tell it. Words the body of me.

I did finish my dissertation though. It felt like walking through fire. A crucible. I called it Allegories of Violence. By some bizzaro twist of fate it got published too. I still think it happened to someone else. But something weirdly good came from it. The two mes? We began to get to know each other. Intellectual me and blood bodied me began to hang out. Brush each other's hair. Take bubble baths and draw soap pictures on each other's backs and clink gla.s.ses late into the night.

But there was a cost.

I was in my eleventh year of marriage with the Devin. I was a teacher of things, having achieved a doctorate and publications. But that woman I'd let into the house ravaged who I had been. Her zany brain force would not go. I didn't want to f.u.c.k. I wanted to read. I didn't want to go numb every night. I wanted to travel the country of ideas and feel thoughts and blast open the top of my head. I didn't want to drink until I dropped. I wanted to write. A whole other book. My husband became like a willful unruly child to me. A submerged one. And though my love did not leave, it went down into deeper darker places.

Devin's life moved bedward, fueled by alcohol and woman need. On one of his travels to another country for the first time without me, he found a foreign bed. While he was in Vietnam I waited for the word "husband" to come back. Days and nights. Then weeks. Then one morning I didn't get out of bed. Days and nights. When I had to pee, I did. When I was hungry, I cried. When I was awake, a white nothing. At night I ate small white sleeping pills. Something I learned well from my mother. More and more of them. When I slept, I hoped to die.

Finally a gentle friend broke into my house because he was worried about me. He and a bull d.y.k.e named Laurel broke down the front door of my house when I stopped showing up at work. He put me in the shower. Then he wrapped me in blankets. Then he fed me. Literally. Then we watched old movies for three days until I looked at him and said, OK.

I thought of Brody and his clarinet and beautiful black kid hands. I thought of my best friend in Florida, the one my mother had outed out of my life. Of my arch angel, Michael and how we both left the Lubbock and made up lives. There are many ways to love boys and men. Or to let them love you.

Devin did come back, but we were never again together.

He drank himself ever womanward. I entered my female family lineage - a suffering that once I again claimed it, felt as familiar as a mother. Daughter. Sister. Home. Her name, depression.

In that long thick underwater I lived the life of a devalued woman. Not a wife. Not a mother. No one's lover. No job or book gave me value to myself. I felt like a pointless woman sack. I lost pounds of flesh having no one to share a body with. My clothes began to hang off of my body as if I were someone else. Other women would compliment me on my supposed intentional feminine metamorphoses, and I'd smile, but I felt like an insect. In the morning I'd lose interest in was.h.i.+ng my hair or brus.h.i.+ng my teeth partway through, and find myself standing naked dripping in the bathroom staring at the floor or holding my toothbrush in the air, foam dripping from my mouth.

When I wasn't teaching or driving to and from teaching, I was at home. No, not home. An empty woman in a house. I'd sit in my living room alone grading student papers and stare out the large window onto the street. There were always more papers. I could picture a forever like this. Thoughtless and small and requiring me only to perform tasks with a pen. I'd drink only enough to not feel. Every day. About a bottle a day, roughly. Evenly. Sometimes wine, sometimes vodka. At night I'd watch T.V. until sleep saved me. Or didn't. This is my life is what I felt. It is slow like still water. There is a dull hum in the ear and a softheadedness best used for napping or making coffee. There is a neighborhood and a house and a refrigerator. The comfort of appliances and going to the gas station. There is a car in which I ride to work and then come home. There is a linear and accessible story to follow. You don't have to do anything. Or be.

But then there was another woman on the other side of the gla.s.s.

Staring numbly out the sanct.i.ty of the living room plate gla.s.s window one day I saw a woman with ashen skin and dirty blond hair walk by in denim cut-offs and a tube top and cowboy boots. Her arms looked like maps. The circles under her eyes weren't s.h.i.+ners but could fool you. She had a jerk to her right shoulder every third step or so. Walking by woman. Then I saw an emaciated man in jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-s.h.i.+rt walk after her. He hunched. He had darty eyes. He smoked. His hair hung down in a rat tail to the middle of his back.

The thing is, I'd seen them before. Lots of times. For about two years. She was a hooker. He was her pimp. This was their beat. The alleyway behind my house. We'd been living this way - me on the inside with my ever safening bouge life. Them on the outside with some trace of my past in their skin and hair.

This time when I saw her though, I felt something in my chest that hurt. It felt good to feel something for someone else. Even pain. Maybe especially pain. Sitting there as they went out of view I tasted something warm in my mouth. Then I realized I'd bitten the inside of my cheek.

I didn't do anything but grade papers, that day. My chest and cheek aching. That night I threw up for no particular reason. Which was not eventful for that time.

But the next time I saw her, something very small and specific caught my eye. An important detail. A bruise at the bridge of her nose. It wasn't the bruise. It was the bruise that let me see ... her eyes, were blue. Like mine. I let the papers I was grading slide to the floor. I watched her walk by and wondered how much she weighed. I wondered her age - impossible to guess. I wondered what jobs she'd tried and failed, this walking woman in cut-offs with dangling maps for arms and a bruise and blue eyes. I tried to picture how much money I had in my wallet in my bookbag by the front door. I watched her a.s.s hanging out of her shorts - it hung limply - two little flesh commas. Then she was around the corner. I waited for her dance partner to come into view. Without thinking I knocked on the window. Without thinking I got up and walked to my front door and opened it and walked outside and walked up to him and said " How much."

In the short story I wrote about what happened next I ask her in. I tell her to sit down. She sits down. In the story she smokes and bobbing machines her left knee. Her hand shakes. In the story I say this is what it feels like to be me a woman who teaches English looking down at a woman who sucks d.i.c.ks all day and all night every night as she sits on my couch smoking. This is what me an addict upwardly mobile given something infinitesimally small to believe in called words thinks looking at her: she looks like Mary. This is what Mary must have looked like after jesus. No way for the body to bear the miracle, the burden, the unbelievable history that moves the world without her body. When I see an image of christ I picture a Mary so drawn and gaunt and tired and angry to the point of emaciation that she can barely wear her own face.

In the story I say, what do I think I'm going to do, teach her?

People are often asking me if the things in my short stories really happened to me. I always think this is the same question to ask of a life - did this really happen to me? The body doesn't lie. But when we bring language to the body, isn't it always already an act of fiction? With its delightfully designed composition and color saturations and graphic patterns? Its style and vantage point? Its insistence on the mind's powerful force of recollection in the face of the raw and brutal fact that the only witness was the body?

An exchange happened. Woman to woman. If she is still alive, she can back me up on this.

Was it possible I had something to give? Out of the nothingness that was my life? Really, what the f.u.c.k did I have to give? Woman with too many holes in her. And yet there was something.

Words.

With this woman in me I went to my teaching job and talked to students about ideas. The ideas got into my heart some. And then my heart began to pump. The talking with students about ideas had a pulse. Some of them cared, some of them could care less, but it didn't matter. I was so happy to get to stand in a room with words and ideas I would have talked to myself alone in a cla.s.sroom. But I was not alone. I was with what youth should be. I was with artists and writers and scholars and bartenders and musicians and nurses and strippers and lawyers and mothers and some of them would become rich and famous and some of them would go to jail and some of them would become accountants and some would join the Peace Corps or move to France and some of them would fall in love and some of them would kill themselves and everyone who'd wronged us and everyone we'd been and everyone we would be all meeting in books. All touching the skin of words. What is a family.

Whatever it was or was not, there were words. Not just my own. I wrote stories, I wrote books, but the more I wrote the more I saw a door opening behind me, and I saw that if I jammed my motherf.u.c.king foot in it, more of us could get through. And that we could make things. Together. What we could make, was art. How that mattered. With other people I made paintings. With other people I made performances. With other people I made stories and readings and strange outsider art events like filling the trees with bras and little raw narratives or unbooting booted cars or hooking up free cable for poor people with a friend who worked for Bell or putting haikus about earthworms and c.u.n.ts on the winds.h.i.+elds of cars in corporate parking lots.

And I wrote my second book of stories.

The book that came out after the death of my marriage was called Liberty's Excess. If you pick it up, you will recognize the stories. They are the stories of people trying to perform the relations.h.i.+ps we've been handed as scripts. Daughter. Mother. Husband. Wife. Marriage. They are the stories of women and men who try to love and fail. And fail. And they are the stories of people who live at the margins of this thing we call culture, mostly f.u.c.king up, but some of us, aren't we still here? For the ones who aren't? I wonder, is it us that f.u.c.ks up? Or the stories we've been given?

It is not easy to leave one self and embrace another. Your freedoms will scar you. Maybe even kill you. Or one of your yous. It's OK though. There are more.

How many times do we die?

Words, like selves, are worth it.

Gray Matter I MAY HAVE BEEN A BIG FAT FAILURE AT MAKING A HOME, but I made up how to make something else in its place. Out of the sad sack of sad s.h.i.+t that was my life, I made a wordhouse.

The first wordhouse I built was a literary journal. Now usually when someone says the words "literary journal," you picture something small and white and pristine like Virginia Quarterly Review. Not that. The thing we made was huge. Nine-by-twelve perfect bound four color in your face. Counterculture. Every issue had a theme meant to deconstruct - my favorite thing I ever learned as a scholar - the "literary journal." Themes like Obscenitydivinity. Blow. Varieties of Violence. Alien. At the helm were me and my smart as c.r.a.p talented as f.u.c.k friends, exactly like a garage band except with paper and computers. We taught ourselves everything - editing, design, layout, typesetting - and then we took what we had learned and made every single page an event horizon. Image and text warred or danced with each other. Poems interrupted stories and giant photos of t.i.ts interrupted the white s.p.a.ce and lyric line of poems. High art got under the sheets with low art - Yusef Komunyakaa's words right next to the words of some homeless woman, or a graffiti artist, or an unwed mom you never heard of before. The page made it possible to kill the distance. Writing, we decided, was everywhere. It was whatever we wanted it to be.

We put Annie Sprinkle and Andres Serrano and Kathy Acker and Andrei Codrescu and Joel-Peter Witkin on those big white pages. We put ex-cons and recovering addicts and drunks right next to them. And we destroyed the sanct.i.ty of the literary page while liberating the noise and heat of art. Everybody had day jobs. Everybody stayed up too late making the big books. Everybody spent way too much time cursing out the blue-ap.r.o.ned nerds at Kinko's. I spent my food and rent money on our big irreverent mouth. We won awards. We got grants. It really was something, though I don't know what, and that seems right, even today. It was a fast burning supernova.

I f.u.c.king loved it.

Why?

It was the first thing in my life I ever loved that I didn't spread my legs for. Maybe you believe that. Maybe you think it's a line. Either way it's true.

Something else happened through the wordhouse. Through the wordhouse I met writers who had somehow or other read my writing. Through the wordhouse I found voices and bloodsong exactly how it felt to me on the inside where I thought I was the only one. There were others like me. Um, lots of them. Breaking writing rules. Reaching for writing impossibilities. Taking their newly-found intellects into alien territories. Making things up. Maybe even a life. A self.

I'd meet these people at conferences and readings and performances and art shows. We'd huddle in corners and drink and laugh and plot our art secrets. We'd communicate like underground societies of people who read the outsider books, stared at the taboo art until we pa.s.sed out, mouth watered in the presence of writing that tore your face to shreds even as it might never see the light of day. You wanna know what the two words are that describe what these people meant and still mean to me are?

Tribe.

Sacred.

I don't need anyone to explain to me why people join gangs or develop prison societies or only trust others of their rule breaking kind. I don't have any problem understanding why people flunk out of college or quit their jobs or cheat on each other or break the law or spray-paint walls. A little bit outside of things is where some people feel each other. We do it to replace the frame of family. We do it to erase and remake our origins in their own images. To say, I too was here.

And guess what? Turns out, I had a twin.

Did I mention I'm a Gemini?

When I say "twin," I don't mean biologically ... though who knows, the way genetics travel the superhighways of blood and cells. My twin in the tribe has blonde hair. Blue eyes. Unusual relations.h.i.+ps with sentences. Weird views on culture and storytelling. Fire in his fingers and shooting out the top of his head.

I met my twin when I was miraculously invited to give a literary reading at San Diego State University. He had been invited as well. We had been invited together because our writing was, well, weird. There's never been a good word for it as far as I'm concerned. "Experimental" sounds dumb, and "Innovative" sounds strangely snooty. Whatever the word is for taking everything you ever learned about making characters, plots, and storylines and blowing them up like putting firecrackers in the heads of Barbies as I did as a kid, well, that's what we do. Whatever the word is for being more in love with words than with conventions and rules about words, that's us.

Lance Olsen and me, we are, and I say this with some authority, language bandits.

If you don't have a twin in a tribe I'm telling you - drop whatever you are doing in your life and go look for them. The twin and the tribe. I'm serious. Because having a bloodword tie and a tribe pretty much saved me from myself. If I had tried to live one more year trying to be like the people around me I wouldn't have lasted long.

If you Google Lance Olsen you will find that he's kind of a rock star within the tribal sphere we move through. But that isn't why I love him or why I have his back forever. It's this: his words make my words more possible. In his language my brain stops blow up and new ideas shoot out. In his books the moment of a kiss on Nietzsche's lips, or the seconds before a film begins in a theater in the Mall of America, or the instant before a blast that atomizes the very differences between warring hearts makes you forget the beginning, the middle, and the end as you knew it.

And you will find that he is a Fiction Collective Two author and editor. Like me. If you Google FC2, you will find their mission statement: " FC2 is among the few alternative presses in America devoted to publis.h.i.+ng fiction considered by America's largest publishers too challenging, innovative, or heterodox for the commercial milieu."

I don't know about you , but "heterodox" sounds kinda brainy to me. So I will say this. I am a wrecker and maker of wordhouses. Me and my twin have each other's backs. And we're coming for your women and children.

Secular Miracle NOT ALL MIRACLES COME FROM G.o.d OR LOOKING UP.

To say that what happened to me in the winter of my early thirties was a miracle is puny compared to what transpired. It started so small. In my hands. In that winter, I sent a short story out as a writing sample. The short story was called "The Chronology of Water." I sent the story four places: to the Admissions Committee for the M FA in writing at Columbia University; to the hiring committee for a tenure track teaching position; to Oregon Literary Arts as a writing sample for a grant; to Poets and Writers as a writing sample for something called the Writer's Exchange grant.

In the s.p.a.ce of one month my mailbox presented me with letters exactly like the ones that had come to my home in Florida when I longed to swim to college. Only this time I was the only one who would read these letters, an adult woman who had put something of her busted up self straight no chaser into the world. They came one at a time -white and geometric and smelling of something like what if.

I was accepted into Columbia University.

I was offered the teaching job.

I was awarded a $3,000 grant for my story.

And I won the Writer's Exchange prize.

All in the same month.

NOTHING in my life had ever happened to me like that. And most likely never will. Like the sea of my life waters had opened up. Like my wounds had something in them besides hurt.

Me being me, I chose the job over the MFA. This is important - the MFA was what I wanted more than anything. You have no idea. With all my broken little heart. But I couldn't choose it. I had to survive, is what I chose. I had to take care of myself. No one else would. And so I swallowed the desire to name myself as a writer who would go to Columbia. Like the swimmer who couldn't go to Columbia, either.

I took the grant money and bought a car. I wanted to go to Paris but I bought a car instead. A reliable car to get to and from work. I didn't take myself out to dinner, I didn't buy myself champagne, I didn't eat chocolate.

Thank G.o.d the go to New York Writer's Exchange prize didn't have a practical alternative for self destructive people or I would have let that go, too. Almost in spite of myself then, I went to New York. Where the writers are.

The "prize" of winning a Writer's Exchange grant from Poets and Writers is that you go from one state to another - in my case, Oregon to NYC. You get to choose writers you'd most like to meet and the Poets and Writers folks try very hard to arrange meetings. You get to give a reading at the National Poetry Club, you get to stay at the Gramercy Park Hotel and drink scotch into the night with smart cool people as if you are one too, you get to meet editors and publishers and writers and agents at very fancy lunches and dinners. How fancy? I kept the napkins and receipt sc.r.a.ps. From 1996.

The person who judged the contest on the fiction side of things was Carol Maso. I only entered because of her. Her writing was considered "experimental." "Innovative." "Heterodox." All I know is that her weird made my weird feel better. The writers I wanted to meet were Lynn Tillman, Peggy Phelan, and Eurydice. I don't know if you know them like I do, but to me they were the intellectual s.h.i.+t. I didn't actually think it would happen, I just got drunk, wrote the names down on the form they sent, laughed, farted, and mailed it back to them. I remember thinking, fat chance. My a.s.s. But Frazier Russell collected them all. This is how four of the most humble happy nights of my entire life happened to me. Dinners that cost more than my rent. Food that tasted so good I thought I might faint. Wine that made your teeth melt. And women so intelligent, so creative, so gorgeous and present in their own minds and bodies ... I mean I nearly barfed, piddled, and o.r.g.a.s.med all at the same time. f.u.c.k heaven. Puny cloud lie. These women were the loves of my brain life.

These four women wrote unconventionally. Intentionally unconventionally. Wildly, pa.s.sionately, blood-bodied, unapologetically blowing up the house of language from the inside out, unconventionally. And all four of them insisted on the body as content. They were not mainstream writers. They were carving out astonis.h.i.+ng paths of their own quite to the side of mainstream, quite in spite of the stupid mainstream, maybe the way water cut the grand canyon. I wanted my writing to go like theirs. Follow it. I felt like their writing had parted the seas for people like me.

I can't tell you how many times I choked up talking to each of these women. Looking into their eyes. Trying to see an I. I don't think I said much. It's possible I went mute. It's hard to remember anything about me. Though I remember nearly every word each of them said. Of this I am sure: I was never as ... happy.

More magic happened on that trip - there was a poet guy who traveled with me from Oregon. He'd won the poet side of the prize. Turns out, I knew him from the Eugene days. Incredibly wonderful man stunning poet named John Campbell. Among the poets he requested was Gerald Stern, who I will never forget eating and talking with because he'd dislocated his shoulder and wore this sling thing all evening - only able to gesticulate with one arm. Still, he was something. We also lunched with Billy Collins and Alfred Corn. The latter I adored. The former talked to my t.i.ts. But my poet friend also requested to go to a jazz club in place of one of his writer choices. So I got to sit about 15 feet from Hamiet Bluiett at one club and about five feet from McCoy Tyner at another. I'm pretty sure when I got back to the hotel that night my underwear was soaked to s.h.i.+t from glee. Thank you forever, John Campbell.

What an opportunity, huh? Oregon writers in the big city. Still makes me smile and get a p.i.s.s s.h.i.+ver remembering it.

But there is a bittersweet in my throat too. A small stone I carry there. The small stone of sad that came from my inability to say yes. I was taken to meet an editor at Farrar, Strauss and Giroux. He talked to me about my life as a swimmer, and he suggested I had a nonfiction book in me about my swimmer's life. I don't know, say, like a memoir. I stood there like a numb idiot smiling and shaking my head with my arms crossed over my t.i.ts. He waited for me to jump at his suggestion. Nothing nothing nothing came out of my throat. He shook my hand and wished me luck. He gave me some free books.

I sat at dinner between Lynn Tillman and the beloved W. W. Norton Editor Carol Houck Smith - who sadly has since died - while Lynne tried to convince Carol to publish me at Norton. Carol Houck Smith, who leaned over and said well then send me something. Her bright fierce little eyes staring right through my know nothing skull. Most people would have stepped off the plane back in Oregon and run to the post office. It took me over a decade to even imagine putting something in an envelope and licking it.

After the reading at the National Poetry Club, the agent Katherine Kidde from then Kidde, Hoyt and Piccard came up to me and asked me if I'd like representation. On the spot. My small sad throat stone. I went deaf and smiled and shook her hand. I thought I might cry in front of all the dressed up people. All that came out of my mouth was "I don't know."

She said, "OK then."

All those open hands held out to me.

You see it is important to understand how damaged people don't always know how to say yes, or to choose the big thing, even when it is right in front of them. It's a shame we carry. The shame of wanting something good. The shame of feeling something good. The shame of not believing we deserve to stand in the same room in the same way as all those we admire. Big red As on our chests.

I never thought to myself growing up, be a lawyer. An astronaut. The President. A scientist. A doctor. An architect.

I didn't even think, be a writer.

Aspiration gets stuck in some people. It's difficult to think yes. Or up. When all you feel is fight or run.

If I could go back, I'd coach myself. I'd be the woman who taught me how to stand up, how to want things, how to ask for them. I'd be the woman who says, your mind, you imagination, they are everything. Look how beautiful. You deserve to sit at the table. The radiance falls on all of us.

I knew even on the plane back to the west as the evergreens and rivers came back into view through the perfect drizzle of home that if I was a woman writer, then I was a broken kind of woman writer. I drank many tiny bottles of airplane feel sorry for yourself. I flew back to Oregon without a book deal, without an agent, with only a head and heartful of beautiful memories about what it would be like to be a writer, since I'd eaten with them and shared such perfect company. It was the only prize I allowed myself.