A World of Pure Imagination

“But that’s impossible!” said little Charlie, staring at his grandfather.

“Of course it’s impossible!” cried Grandpa Joe. “It’s completely absurd! But Mr. Willy Wonka has done it!”

I work as a writer for a web company. I also write on my own, sometimes on this blog, and sometimes in a journal (but my journal entries are often like unpolished essays). Very occasionally, I write fiction. It is something I want to do more.

For me, fiction is the hardest to write.

Creativity with constraints is so much easier. Blog posts are constrained by reality. I try to relay events, or memories or emotions in a way that evokes feeling, but that is still based on my true experience. And reality has its limits.

But fiction has no constraints. Letting go of those constraints can be liberating, but it is also overwhelming. When the possibility of writing something becomes the possibility of writing anything, how do you even start? But it is only when you let go of those constraints, when you are no longer governed by the rules of what is possible, that you can invent gum that is actually a three course meal. Or an elevator that goes in every direction, including up and out of a building. Or a little boy who finds a golden ticket and enters a “world of pure imagination.”

Pure imagination.

I have worked in Silicon Valley for a long time, and seen a lot of creative ideas. As part of a design team, I think a lot about creativity. How do you evoke new ideas? How do you nurture a creative environment? But even the most entrepreneurial tend to think with constraints: business constraints or computing constraints (maybe even legal constraints). It is very hard for someone to come up with a truly original idea, to think freely without the limits of what is possible.

But when we write, we don’t need to worry about those constraints. Don’t have the computing power? Write it down, and now you do. Can’t figure out how your character is going to be in two places at once? Just write it down - you’ll figure it out later. In fiction, your characters can fly, be invisible or go days without eating. They can be everything and nothing, and things we haven’t even thought of yet.

It is hard to free your mind in such a way. But when done right, amazing things can happen.

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This post was inspired by the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. To celebrate, Penguin Young Readers Group, in partnership with Dylan’s Candy Bar, the world-famous candy emporium, and First Book, a nonprofit social enterprise that provides books for children from low-income families, is launching a year-long international celebration.

Head over to From Left to Write to learn how you and your child can have a chance to win the Golden Ticket Sweepstakes where the grand prize is a magical trip to New York City plus much more! For every entry submitted, Penguin Young Readers Group will make a donation to First Book. Then, join From Left to Write on July 24 as we discuss Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a book club member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Heart

"You were strangers in the land of Egypt."

Passover was just a couple weeks ago, and I am always struck by the way we celebrate the exodus from Egypt. During the seder, we eat foods that remind us of the hardships suffered when the Jews were slaves under Pharoah. We do this not just as a recreation, but because we too were slaves. Not our ancestors, not people thousands of years ago, but us. We were there.

It is like this when you have children. I've heard it said that being a mother is like having your heart walk around outside of your body. When Jelly goes to school, she takes a piece of me with her. I am only whole again when she returns.

Jelly wears her heart on her sleeve. When she cries, or is frustrated, when she talks about her friends and what she's doing at school, my emotions go with her. As she grows, and faces the trials and tribulations of childhood, I will ache and rejoice with her; not only because I've felt those same things before but because I am her, and she is me.

When Moe is frustrated or anxious, when he is unable to communicate, I am frustrated too. I feel his struggle as if it were my own. When he smiles at me, or holds my hand, my heart is lifted. When Moe needed stitches, I felt his fear. I felt his pain as the needle pierced his skin. I knew I couldn't take the pain from him, but I could share it.

But with Moe, it is complicated. I don't really know how he experiences the world. When he flicks his fingers in front of his eyes, what does he see? What is it like when he struggles to speak? How does he feel when he is so unable to regulate his body that he slams himself into the wall, or comes full force at me while biting a pillow?

How does the world look to him? Sound to him?

I may never know.

Even though our brains are wired differently, he is still my son, a part of me.

He is my heart.

This post was inspired by the novel Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton. After witnessing her children's school set ablaze, Grace attempts to find the arsonist as her teenage daughter lies in a coma. Join From Left to Write on April 11 as we discuss Afterwards. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

A Life of Choice

"She hadn't made her life happen; it had happened to her."

-Kate, The Expats

So much of life is about the choices we make. One decision leads to another and another, figurative (or sometimes literal) forks in the road.

I've never lived abroad. There are relationships I should have ended sooner, and others I should have fought harder for. I might have chosen to live in New York City after graduate school, rather than come back to California. I've never lived in the heart of a big city, though I've always wanted to. 

I've had interesting jobs, married a good man, had children. I left my career to raise my kids.

There are smaller decisions too: bought this car instead of that, ordered the chicken instead of the fish. Some decisions are more important than others, of course. I've made some good choices and some bad ones. Some I wish I could do over and others I wouldn't change. But for the most part, these choices were mine to make freely.

I sat down to write this, thinking it was going to be a post about what happens when the choice is no longer yours. Because although I chose to be a mother, I didn't choose to be the mother a special needs child. I didn't choose to have a child with autism. And while I can tell myself that I can choose how I deal with the situation, sometimes I feel like my emotions are not truly under my control. While I aim to stay positive and hopeful, sometimes I am overwhelmed with despair, fear, and most of all, frustration.

But it struck me that the hardest part about parenting Moe is not the lack of choice. It is quite the opposite. Jeff and I have so many choices to make. What therapies do we try? Do we send Moe to school? If so, do we fight for a private placement? Do we try medications? What AAC device are we going to choose? Who do we trust to guide us through  all of this? Most of the time we are on our own and flying blind.

Of course we have to make many decisions for Jelly, but the right ones always seem to be a bit clearer. And the smaller ones seem to matter less. I don't mean to sound flippant about parenting her, but I am more confident in my instincts there - or at least that we will figure out pretty quickly if we've made the wrong ones.

I am thankful we live in a time when we have options for Moe. But sometimes the decisions become overwhelming. There I days I really wish my most difficult decision was "grande or venti?"  

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This post was inspired by mystery thriller novel The Expats, by Chris Pavone. Kate Moore sheds her old live to become a stay at home mom when her husband takes a job in Europe. As she attempts to reinvent herself, she ends up chasing her evasive husband's secrets. Join From Left to Write on January 22 as we discuss The Expats. As a member, I received a review copy of the book.

To Friends

In the three years I've been writing this blog, I've connected online with many parents of autistic or other special needs children and adults. Through Facebook, I'm able to have conversations with some of the smartest, funniest, kindest people all over the world, from Australia to New York, North Carolina to Berkeley. These are people who get it, who know what to say to each other when we're hurting, who prop each other up when we're down, and make each other laugh when it seems the world will come crashing down.

Sometimes one of these people will lament the loss of a friend or family member. Someone who didn't want to be around "all this autism." Or someone who got a little too judgmental about the parenting of a special needs child, even though she doesn't have one of her own. Who had an negative opinion about  their decision to medicate, or how they discipline, or what the kids will eat, or any other of the things we delicately balance every day. Sometimes these friendships end abruptly, and other times simply disintegrate from disuse, lifestyles no longer compatible. It happens.

But I am lucky. I have not lost one single friend or family member since Moe's diagnosis. In fact, I have some really great friends who have shown how great they really are. They make an effort to connect. They understand that I have to say no more often than not and continue to invite me anyway. They ask me about Moe and his school and they care about my answers. And when I don't want to talk about autism anymore, we talk about other things.

The other day, one of these friends said, "we miss Moe." I don't know if she realized it, but that was, to me, a remarkable thing to say. Because while Moe is still running around like our kids did when they were toddlers, their kids are in kindergarten, and riding bikes and scooters, and playing and making mischief of one kind and another. I am not as close to many of these friends as I was when I saw them every week, and I am sometimes a little bit jealous of how much they see each other and involved they are in each others' lives, but they always welcome me in, on whatever terms I need.

I'd like to say that this is because I am the most interesting woman in the world, and that they are just happy to have whatever time with me they can. But really it is a testimony to them. To their openness and intelligence and all around loveliness. And I got to spend last weekend with several of them in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

They are also funny as hell. And they catch me when I run to them.

Guilty

I had two majors in college: Sociology and Communications. One of the best classes I took was Sociology of Religion. In it, we discussed how the tenets of various religions guide the behavior of their followers.

For example (and I am greatly simplifying here), the Calvinists believed that their ultimate salvation was pre-destined by God alone. From a sociological perspective, what would this mean for people's behavior? Because people care what others think of them, and because no one wants to think they aren't one of the chosen ones, a lot of emphasis was attached to the values of thriftiness and hard work. This "Protestant work ethic," was deemed to be a sign that one was "chosen."

Observant Jews believe that a messiah will one day come, bringing with him an idyllic messianic age. The messiah, however, will only come when we are good enough to deserve it. But life is complicated. How do we know how to behave? By following the rules, of course. Judaism is quite a rule-based religion. There are rules about what to eat, how to dress, how to celebrate holidays, even how and when to have sex within the confines of marriage.

Logically, then, if you don't follow the rules (and it is nearly impossible to follow all the rules) you are the reason that the messiah does not come.

Think about that. The messiah hasn't come because you aren't good enough. You drove a car or turned on a light on Saturday morning, and now the messiah will not come.

Oy. Talk about Jewish guilt.

Ah, guilt. Such an ugly, gut-wrenching feeling.

And parenting, like religion, is full of it. Did you breastfeed long enough? Let your child cry it out? Use a pacifier? Return to work too soon? Choose the right preschool?

And if you are the parent of a child with special needs, the guilt just keeps piling on. Did you vaccinate? Not vaccinate? Were you overweight during pregnancy? Is it somehow my fault that Moe has a disability? I'm so full of guilt over Moe's autism, I could write a book. Maybe I will.


I suppose guilt could be useful for some things. A healthy amount of guilt helps you keep a clean conscience. Maybe you snuck out of the house as a teenager and got away with it, but the guilt continued to plague you, and you decided it wasn't worth it. Good guilt. Call your mother kind of guilt.

But much like its cousin regret, guilt is a backward facing emotion. It forces you to dwell in the past and prevents you from moving forward. This is bad guilt. This is eat-away-at-your-soul, keep-you-up-at-night guilt. And it is entirely unhelpful.

We had Moe's IEP today, and though I can't say much, I will say that Moe has made very little progress toward his goals during the last two years. So a couple months ago, we had a full independent assessment done by a very well-respected psychologist. She observed him in school, and showed us why his current program isn't working for him. And while I am thankful that we have this information now, I can't help but ask myself why we didn't do this sooner. Have we just wasted two critical years of Moe's development?

As my dad and my best friend both told me, it doesn't much matter. We are here now, and all we can do is look forward, make new decisions based on the information we have today, and hope they are the right ones, ones that will help him reach his greatest potential.

But that is easier said than done. Especially with 5,000 years of Jewish guilt to contend with.


This post is inspired by I AM FORBIDDEN <http://amzn.to/AyvkEl> by Anouk Markovits. Though not sisters by blood but through their Hasidic faith, Mila and Atara views the rules and structure of their culture differently. Mila seeks comfort in the Torah while Atara searches for answers in secular literature she is forbidden to read. Ultimately each must make an irrevocable decision that will change their lives forever. Join From Left to Write <http://www.fromlefttowrite.com> on May 8 as we discuss I AM FORBIDDEN. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Theodora: Actress, Empress, Whore

It is not often that I get to use the word "whore" on my blog. It is hard to imagine another situation in which I will do so. But today I'm reviewing the book, Theodora: Actress, Empress, Whore: A Novel, by Stella Duffy. (My book club will also be quite smitten with the fact that there are two colons in the title.)

Imagine the story of a young girl, born to an animal trainer, living a modest but comfortable life. When her father is killed by one of his bears, she is reduced to living just off the street, sold into a life of stage acting and prostitution. She is good at both jobs, performs for many wealthy and influential men, and quickly becomes well-known in the fashionable city. But this girl is also smart and quick-witted, and although her mouth can get her into trouble, she learns a lot about human nature, and rises well above her natural born station, finding God and power along the way.

Sounds like the typical American rags to riches Hollywood movie, but this is no Pretty Woman. This is the story of Theodora, Byzantine empress and wife of Justinian I. Duffy's novel is entertaining and made me want to learn more about this time and Theodora's fascinating life. I'm sure I could go to the library for that, but seems that HBO has optioned the rights to Theodora. Although a series may not be historically accurate, I'm sure it will be wildly entertaining.

This was a paid review for BlogHer Book Club. All opinions expressed are my own. Be sure to head over to BlogHer for some discussions on Theodora and look for the #BHBC and #Theodora hashtags on Twitter!

For Better or Worse

For better or for worse.

I said it.

I meant it.

It's easy when things are better.

It's hard when they're worse.

My parents have been married almost 43 years. I have been married 6.

It is a short time but we've had to face a lot. I won't lie and say things are perfect. But they are good.

But every marriage has a breaking point. Even mine. Even yours.

Will it be the day to day annoyances that break you down until you just can't stand each other? Will it be the stress of having a special needs child, or maybe just children at all? Will it be infidelity? Financial stress? Simply growing in different directions? Abuse?

We haven't hit ours. I hope we never will.

But every marriage has a breaking point.

What's yours?

This post was inspired by Lost Edens, by Jamie Patterson. Struggling to save her marriage, she attempts to mold herself into the wife her husband wants her to be. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book for review. You can read other members' posts inspired by Lost Edens on book club day, October 27, at From Left to Write.

The Soundtrack of Your Life

What is the soundtrack of your life?

Is it a thumping bass, moving you forward with rhythmic precision? Do you dance through life with the rise and fall of a waltz? Or are your days filled with the hectic unpredictability of a jazz improvisation?

Like many of us, I formed my musical taste during adolescence. I preferred dark, sensual singers and bands like Morrissey, Depeche Mode and The Cure. Although I could dress the part for the occasional concert, my personality was never quite so dark, so my collection of records, tapes, and eventually CDs, also included plenty of livelier bands like Duran Duran and Erasure.

My iPod is now filled with those same sounds, as well as some newer additions I've discovered along the way. My kids have their influence there as well, with Music Together as likely as Ben Folds to come on when I'm shuffling songs in the car. I used to obsess on whatever album I was into at the time, especially if it was new, playing it over and over. Lately I always shuffle songs, but with one hand on the next track button in case the selected tune doesn't fit my mood (or meets with disapproval from a small person in the back seat).

I've read that smells have a powerful way of transporting people back to a certain place and time. But isn't it the same way with songs? A certain song comes on, and I'm instantly lying on the floor in my pink room, making mix tapes from the radio, playing and replaying my favorite songs so I can learn every word.

This post was inspired by Deborah Reed's debut novel, Carry Yourself Back to Me. The story follows 
heartbroken singer-songwriter Annie Walsh as she digs into the past after her brother is accused of murder. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book for review. You can read other members posts inspired by Carry Yourself Back to Me on book club day, October 3, at From Left To Write.

Understanding the Rules of Civility

"She had changed into high heels and a tangerine-colored blouse 

that clashed with all her best intentions." 

I love witty writing.

I love smart female characters.

I especially love smart female characters who are a little bit sassy and a little bit ahead of their time. They make me want to be witty and sassy and a little bit ahead of my time.

Katy Kontent is that character. Rules of Civility is that book. And I got to read it for the BlogHer book club!

Read my review for Rules Of Civility on BlogHer today. Then go read the book!