December 31, 2014


Miami Beach, December 2014

Lucy diagnoses Charlie Brown’s seasonal depression as pantophobia, fear of everything. Wikipedia’s definition: “a vague and persistent dread of some unknown evil.”

A coworker my age died unexpectedly last month. What started as a cough turned out to be stage four breast cancer that had metastasized to her lungs. Soon after she was diagnosed, she was gone.

Every death recalls every other death.

A good friend in Miami. Arline’s best friend from high school. Our black lab, Pogo. An elderly woman who lived in our building.

Every death recalls every other death.

Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Eric Garner. Israel Hernandez, tasered to death by Miami police for painting graffiti. John T. Williams, a carver of the Nitinaht tribe, killed by Seattle police for brandishing a carving knife.

Unknown evil? White supremacy holds tight. I have to look hard to see it at work in the world, listen hard to hear it. The excuse for the ideology of white supremacy is my safety.

Vague and persistent dread. Paralysis. Wariness. Withdrawal.

The end of the year comes.

A wise friend says: Out of every death comes a birth.

What slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The daylight is lengthening, although it doesn’t seem to be lengthening. I pray for hope, a vague and persistent hope.

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New Publication: “At Fifty”

Cover of Outer Voices, Inner Lives

In this season of gratitude, I’m thankful for the editors, designers, publishers, and others who labor at making books. Reading and writing are what sustain me. You sustain me.

Thank you to Mark McNease and Stephen Dolainski for including me in this anthology, Outer Voices, Inner Lives: A Collection of LGBTQ Writers Over 50.

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Master of Fine Arts, 1991

The first words of the project that became The Ghosts Who Travel with Me were written in fall 2008. As the nights lengthened and darkness ate into my mornings and afternoons, I wrote free-form responses to chapters from Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America, a book I had read and loved thirty years before. I wrote everyday, but I had no idea if anything readable would come of it. I was enjoying myself. Memories led to memories; sentences in the old paperback inspired new sentences.

I wrote without destination and I wrote what pleased me, but it’s never been possible to completely let go of the expectation that what I’m working on will someday develop into something worth sharing. And that means there is always an underlying anxiety that once again I am writing something that few will read. There is pleasure in the writing, for sure. But ultimately the goal is to reach readers. When a piece doesn’t get good enough, it’s disappointing.

The work of revision began in the winter. My computer folder has multiple versions of what I was then calling Trout Frying in America. It has an extremely short version that I thought might make an essay. It has outlines, plans, alternative openings, sections for my writing group, and a file called “extra usable stuff.” During one revision, I wrote each chapter title on a post-it note and put it on the wall of my work space. When I finally took the notes down, they left dirty rectangular outlines on the wall.

And still I wasn’t sure the manuscript could be good enough. My writing group said it could. I wanted to believe them.

So it is a surprise to suddenly have my team at Ooligan Press telling me it is good. My project manager, Ariana Marquis, posts to a blog about the process of publishing the book and says the most flattering things. I am, of course, happy. But it’s also strange to see my words and ideas move from the privacy of my computer folders to that big World Wide Web. I panicked before I submitted a final revision to Ooligan and made sure a few people mentioned in the manuscript got a chance to read it. I honestly hadn’t thought to run it by them before. I hadn’t thought the manuscript would ever get good enough that anyone besides my writing group would read it.

And now the paragraphs and chapters have begun to take on a feeling of inevitability, as if they were destined to be written the way they were. I can’t remember how my first draft began; how could it have begun anywhere else but as we were getting our coffee before heading for Idaho? I can’t remember the chapters that were jettisoned or which ones were written late in the process and massaged in. By the time the words are printed on paper, the previous versions will be ghosts. These, too, are the ghosts who travel with me: the sentences, the essays, the projects that never fulfilled their promise. And the versions of me who produced them. But without them, all of them, this book would never have been written.

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Priest River bears

Bears like the Eagle’s Nest Motel in Priest River, Idaho. They lounge on the railings, shimmy up poles, and dangle from porch swings. We spent a couple of nights there this summer while attending a family reunion at nearby Diamond Lake, and all I could think was that someone with a knife – or chainsaw? – had had a really good time carving all those smiling bears. They made us laugh every time we came back to our room, even on the night when a storm had blown down trees, and we had to navigate the branch-strewn roads back to our motel in darkness.

One morning, Arline and I took a walk through Priest River and discovered a book sale at the town’s library. There were some good books there, but the one I chose was from 1981: Why Can’t a Woman Be More Like a Man? The 20 Questions Men Ask Most Frequently about Women by Celia Halas, Ph.D. Those twenty questions included some beauties: “Why does she act so helpless?” “Why can’t she handle her emotions better?” But once I started reading the book, I discovered that the questions were a marketing gimmick; at the heart of the book was a plea for feminism: “Stop seeing ‘women’s liberation’ as a dirty word. Recognize that the women’s movement is not ‘out to get’ men. It’s purpose is to equalize power between the sexes to the benefit of the human race.”

I looked up Halas and found that in 1972, at age 50, she went back to school to earn her doctorate in counseling psychology. She joined the women’s movement and focused on counseling women. In a small Idaho town, in a small library, in a small room, I found a book, and in that book was the voice of a foremother.

Ancestral voices spoke throughout that weekend. I heard the calm, kind voice of my grandfather, who had built the family cabin, in the roof-beams and plank floors. I heard my grandmother’s easy conversation in the quilts and tole paintings hanging on the walls. Sunday morning, we gathered in a neighbor’s garage to remember them and the others who were not here to eat blueberry pancakes with us: uncles, an aunt, a cousin. For each of the departed, someone stood and told stories, and the tissue boxes were passed up and down the tables. And then we hugged and sang, and it seemed as if all our voices together made a song that every one of us had always sung and would always be singing, and the ones we could no longer see and touch were singing with us, and that was how we would hear them now, and that was okay; that was good. And then we got to those blueberry pancakes.

The night before, the storm had hit. My uncle had got word that a bad one was coming, and the neighbors offered their garage for our dinner, and just as fifty members of my family sat down to eat barbecue, the lights went out, and a fierce wind whipped up. Lanterns were lit. We heard a crash like glass breaking. The children were oblivious, digging into mac-and-cheese, but the adults shared worried looks and picked at their dinners. And then the wind was easing, we realized, and within an hour it was over. As soon as someone went outside, we discovered that a huge Douglas fir on our property had fallen – away from the cabin, away from the garage, and into the only empty space between nearby structures, missing even a small shed. It was a tremendous sight that Douglas fir with its branches heaved from the ground.

That night, Arline and I drove back to our motel and our cheerful bears. The clerk gave us an electric candle, and we poured wine. The electric candle was tiny, about the size of a stack of three quarters, and its light didn’t flicker like a real candle’s. But in the almost complete darkness of that small town, it was what we had. Our little light.

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A Fairy Tale

Writing Retreat

Once upon a time, four writers went to Fort Worden for a writing retreat: Waverly, Donna, Jennifer, and Allison. They spent a week working on short stories, essays, memoirs, novels, and proposals. They compared submission spreadsheets. One night, they read their work out loud.

During the week, they took turns making dinner. They ate pasta, tacos, sandwiches, and salads. One of them surprised the others by baking parchment-wrapped cod that she had dusted with pollen from fennel growing outside one of their cottages.

During the week, they drank coffee, tea, champagne, wine, beer, and juice. One of them infused vodka with lavender and made lavender vodka tonics. Guess which one. Surprisingly, they did not ever appear to get drunk.

One of them went running every morning. A couple of them took long walks. One drove them into town whenever they needed strong coffee and good wi-fi.

They tweeted, posted on Facebook, emailed children in far-off countries, and talked to family members at home. They listened to classical music, read the newspaper online, and, of course, read books. They played Scrabble three times. One of them felt kind of pouty when she lost, but she tried not to let it show.

They watched deer sleep in the nearby shade, picked blackberries for their oatmeal, and toured the lighthouse. One talked to the Alfa Romeo-driving man staying in Alexander’s Castle and spun gothic mystery stories that might take place there.

Mostly, they wrote. And wrote and wrote. This made them feel, at times, that it might be possible to live happily ever after.


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Needs Improvement

Texas coast
Before report cards

My parents are cleaning out. Dad tells me he’s got a stack of cookbooks going to Goodwill and do I want to pick through them? Mom stops by to drop off an envelope. It’s got my report cards from elementary through high school, my ninth grade school photos, and a high school creative writing magazine with two of my angsty poems in it (“Seems paradise was just a mirage/covering the streets of a city….”).

I spend an afternoon in nostalgic reflection.

Second grade. I loved Mrs. Stern’s go-go boots and bouffants. The report card evaluated me for how well I was “developing a courteous manner” and whether I could “accept group decisions.” Apparently, I was doing these things well. I also was “developing better posture” and “practicing habits of cleanliness.” At the top of the chart, Mrs. Stern had the option of marking “needs improvement” or “does his best.” It’s still a surprise to be reminded that “his” was once supposed to mean “her” as well.

Fourth grade. We struggled, Mrs. Neitzel and I, over my penmanship. “She should strive,” Mrs. Neitzel wrote in the first quarterly report, “for neater papers and more legible handwriting.” By the fourth quarter, I had improved, but I still wrote sentences in the margins and drew loops and arrows to show where they went. Mrs. Neitzel did not approve. Mrs. Neitzel thought I should start over and re-write everything neatly. At least I was revising.

My worst evaluation in fourth grade came from the gym teacher: “Allison needs to think more about what she is doing.” I have never been good at thinking about what my body is doing. My wrist doesn’t connect with the volleyball; my racket doesn’t meet the birdie; my biceps don’t smoothly move the bat. So I just laugh and swing wildly and hope. And get marked down.

Sixth grade and I was still struggling in gym class. But there were new trouble spots. Mr. Hoffman said that while I was doing well academically, my “self-control” could use some work, and I didn’t always “play well with others.” In high school, Ms. Hardy, my algebra-trig teacher, said I seemed “to waste time.” I regret now that we called her “thunder thighs” and laughed as she spread chalk dust over her polyester pants.

Today my colleagues and administrators evaluate me every fifth year in post-tenure review. If they think I need to work on my self-control, they don’t say. It’s true that I don’t always feel like playing well with some of my colleagues, but I’ve learned in most cases to ignore them.            

I’m still no gym rat; my exercise of choice is walking because at least my feet can propel me forward. The computer fixed my penmanship and legibility. Do I accept group decisions? Not always, but for some reason I keep voting.

One thing I wish I could get back: wasting time. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t doing something productive, as pleasurable as many of my life’s activities can be. I can’t remember when I last spent an entire day doing nothing. Needs improvement, Allison. Needs improvement.



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A Sentence


“This, too, is America: two middle-aged women, one North American and one Central American, eating cheese and apples in campsite #4 of the Mountain View Campground on Little Redfish Lake.”

I wrote this sentence in a notebook six years ago as I began a writing project that would become the soon-to-be-published Trout Frying in America: A Literary Pilgrimage (Ooligan Press, spring 2015). The sentence did not make it to the final manuscript. It did not even make it into the first draft because, by the time I sat down to write the scene in which Arline and I picnicked in the campsite where Richard Brautigan and his wife and baby stayed in 1961, the idea I was trying to express no longer fit the scene.

Still, I like that sentence. It has echoes, for me, of Adrienne Rich’s poem “North American Time,” with its call to write about our lives even as we don’t know how our words might be used against us. Too, the sentence responds to a line in Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America in which the narrator describes his search for that elusive idea: America.

Arline and I, as my memoir describes, are not easy travelers in rural places. We worry about being women alone and women together. Arline worries about reactions to her “otherness”: immigrant, woman of color. So the sentence took shape in my mind as we were walking the hills around Redfish Lake (the big one, not the little one) after lunch. The glory of the Sawtooth Mountains, just two days’ drive from our home in Seattle, made me grateful for living in the Pacific Northwest, but my anxiety about how others might react to us tempered my joy. I wanted to shout a defiant: We, too, are America! Back in our hotel, I wrote the sentence in my notebook.

We returned to Seattle a week later, and I began to get up early every morning to write for an hour. By December, I had forty-four short pieces related to Brautigan, our trip, my Idaho ancestry, and trout. The years went by, and I wrote some more, solicited feedback, and re-wrote. The sentence, “This, too, is America…..” was marooned in my notebook. Until the folks at Ooligan Press told me they wanted to publish my manuscript.

This week, I pulled the notebook out of a closet; I wanted to re-read my first tentative ideas for the project. There was the sentence. And even though it is a singular sentence, a sentence disconnected from other sentences, not destined to be part of a paragraph, let alone a book, I wanted to honor it in some way. Because it reminds me that most of my work as a writer is making sentences. A sentence, like a breath, keeps me alive in this moment. It may seem like something small, but without it, I wouldn’t be. And, really, it’s a good, sturdy sentence. It still flares with the spark of my defiance that afternoon. It still breathes.



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