This beautiful young man is my nephew, a child growing up on the outskirts of London. He is buoyant, instantly generous, loving, and a fine host at his own party. I like how he smiles. I like how he plays, how he relaxes with the hour. I like how his job, right now, is happiness.
I thought of this happy kid as I read the
New York Times Op/Ed piece (penned by Tim Kreider) on busyness, and its many bedevil-ments. "If you live in American in the 21st century you've probably had to listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they are," Kreider begins. "It's become the default response when you ask anyone how they're doing: 'Busy!' '
So busy.' '
Crazy busy.' It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a complaint. And the stock response is a kind of congratulation: 'That's a good problem to have,' or 'Better than the opposite.'"
Kreider was, of course, aiming his pen at me. (Hey, as
a memoirist/narcissist it's a conclusion I'm bound to draw.)
Crazy busy was my theme song.
Overwhelmed was my word
du every
jour.
I'd like to, but I can't. Yes, folks. That was me. A lot of it was circumstance, pressures and responsibilities I had not actively chosen for myself. But much of it stemmed from choices I had made—to endlessly shore up family finances, to write (again), to volunteer (some more), to chase spider webs at midnight that no one but yours truly can see.
Not long ago, I declared my desire for
a lesser life—one less crammed with to-do lists, less amenable to busy boasts. I wanted to, needed to, sleep more. I wanted to live more. I wanted to have more time away from the computer, more time in gardens, more time with books, more time to experiment in the kitchen. I wanted, frankly, more time for walks with my son, more time to scheme up art projects with my husband, more time alone. I bought close to three dozen books—recent classics I had missed—and set out to read them. I made time for walks with long-time friends. I sat and looked at photographs—not in a hurry, and for no applicable reason.
And when client work arrived, as client work must and will arrive, I didn't promise a next-day delivery. I did the work, best as I could, same high standards in place. But I didn't do it in a breathless rush when the rest of my timezone was sleeping.
I'm liking me better this way, but I know how hard it will be to avoid relapsing into BusyNess. I am keeping Kreider's article close, therefore, for when I'm tempted to fall off the wagon. I share this Kreider paragraph, with the hope that you'll read the whole:
Busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against emptiness; obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or trivial or meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every hour of the day. I once knew a woman who interned at a magazine where she wasn’t allowed to take lunch hours out, lest she be urgently needed for some reason. This was an entertainment magazine whose raison d’être was obviated when “menu” buttons appeared on remotes, so it’s hard to see this pretense of indispensability as anything other than a form of institutional self-delusion. More and more
Two years ago now I started a novel for adults, a book that I thought I'd finished last March, until I started it all over again. Almost every single thing about this book has changed, but my protagonist's first name has not. She is and she always will be Becca, a name I love, a name I feel particularly close to, thanks to my friendship with Becca of the hugely wise and always calming book blog known as Bookstack. Becca reads fine books and she tells us what she thinks—honestly, without rancor. Many, many of my own book purchases have been made in the wake of a Bookstack review.
Today I am blessed to be featured on Becca's Bookstack, with a truly generous review of
You Are My Only. The odd thing about this is that I had planned to write about Becca here today. Planned to release this small excerpt from the novel that bears her name. I am but 26,000 words into this utterly redesigned book. I am writing slow, letting the story find me. But here is Becca, a snatch of fiction, surely, but written with the sense of an angel close behind me as I write.
In Siena she drank the Chianti Vin ordered. She walked beside him, down the crowded streets, in the shuffle between shops and bicycles and flower vendors, rounds of cheese, painted porcelain, trays of marbled paper. She walked among the bright silk flags that marked out each contrade—Unicorn, Snail, Caterpillar, Goose, Tortoise, Dragon, Eagle, Ram, Owl, Shell, Porcupine, Giraffe, Wave, Wolf, Panther, Forest, Tower—each with its own emblem and history of pride. The colored silks hung from poles and windows. They were draped across the shoulders of women and wrapped around the heads of men, and in every contrade, Vin bought Becca a scarf and knotted it around her waist until she wore a skirt of all Siena, and when the wind blew the colors flew up into her frames.
She photographed second hands and steeples.
She photographed herds of butterflies.
She photographed Vin asleep, Vin in the window, framed by the quivering moon.
I woke up yesterday thinking the day would be like most others—a scramble of corporate work, some exercise, laundry folded on the fly, an hour or two spent with a novel-in-progress, some texting with my son, Wednesday night salsa at MIXX. It started out that way, that's for sure, but the pattern got broken mid-way through. Things started to show up on my Facebook wall.
You-better-take-a-look-at....-emails were coming through.
What's going on? people were asking.
I don't know, I said. Because for a long time I didn't.
I'm still mystified, to be honest, by
all the kindness that came my way during the course of yesterday—all the kindness that exists in this world. I'm mystified, and I'm eternally grateful. I am also feeling desperately inadequate because I have failed to capture it all. I had planned, yesterday, to thank some very special people who have been supporting me and my work for years. In the shuffle and shift and bewilderment of my day, I did not do that.
Today is the day that I stop and thank the readers and writers who have quietly written to me of their support. Today is the day I thank those who read this book early and posted their thoughts. I never want this blog to be all about me. It is my privilege, here, to write about others, their books, their dreams; to write about my city; to write about people doing good. In cross posting these early blogger reviews of
You Are My Only, I am celebrating those who took the time—those who care. I am telling them what I hope they already feel and know: That I am hugely grateful. If I have not captured your voice here, it is only because I don't know. Because years ago I stopped googling my own name—the only solution for one as naturally obsessive and easily worried as me.
And so then please find below the excerpts from some recent blog posts that I hope you will read in their entirety. Posts from bloggers whom you should visit daily. Caribousmom is here—that exquistely smart reviewer with whom I first connected over
The Elegance of the Hedgehog and whom I later met in person in New York; I've loved her ever since. Becca of Bookstack, an indelible presence and so-smart reviewer and long time blog world friend is here. There's a Book and My Friend Amy are here—their support so entirely unspeakable. Hippies Beauty and Books. Oh my, is here, as is The Reading Zone. These join the rocking surprise gonzo
You Are My Only promotion featured here, on
Chick Loves Lit and on
Bookalicious, the equally stealthy and gonzo Melissa Sarno of This Too
giveaway, Florinda,
Kay's Bookshelf, and
Books, Thoughts, and a Few Adventures. Thank you. All. I'm about to start reading a new book called
Child Wonder. I hope to write of that soon here—to return to the universe some of the what has been sent my way.
2 Comments on You Are My Only—the kindness of bloggers continues, last added: 9/8/2011
Ahem, the note begins,
An official announcement: Nothing But Ghosts
was picked by the postergirlz to be a recommended read in the newest issue of readergirlz, to accompany this month's featured title, Absolutely Maybe
, by Lisa Yee. Being chosen by the postergirlz is like coming home to a place that embraced me more than a year ago, challenged me to become the first readergirlz author in residence, and continues to bring enduring friendship into my life. Thank you, then, to all of you, for this and more.
Elsewhere.... It is because Becca at
Bookstack writes such incredibly intelligent and thorough reviews (and because her site is so gorgeous to look at) that I am so often there, learning from her. Today I tuned in only to discover this moving
review of The Heart is Not a Size. Becca, thank you so much.
Thank you, Miss Em, for naming House of Dance one of your top ten reads of the year. I know how much you read. I know how graced that recommendation feels.
Mari, thank you for naming House of Dance as one of your favorite books of the year. I am in such tremendous company in your list. I'm ... astonished!
To Becca, who writes one of the smartest book blogs in cyberspace—her idea of a review being my idea of a review, her tastes often mirroring mine—thank you for giving me a set of butterfly wings in your latest post. To Lilly for so sweetly acknowledging me in her own blog, and for entering this community so gracefully. To Tapestry100, for being such a kind supporter of Into the Tangle of Friendship, and for naming it one of his favorite books of the year.
To Sherry, who not only raised the remarkable Miss Erin we all love, but who also leaves exquisite comments on this blog—thoughtful comments.
And thank you, Lenore, for your rocking yesterday honor. You are your own tour de force in this wide web world. I'm honored to count you as a friend.
Yes, our minds do travel the same path so often.
Like you, I get so caught up in busyness sometimes that I can’t see straight. When I have a day like yesterday, I’m reminded of what makes me truly happy, and how I should honor that more often.
I’m happy there is a grass roots movement to celebrate the ordinary, and happy to be in such wonderful company while doing so :)
I'm so glad that you are taking time to slow down. I appreciate that!
Reading all these words leads to the deep sigh of relief and community.
Everyone in New York City is very proud of their busyness. It's an exhausting and lonely place to live.