“Write what you want to read.” I think of these words staring at my reflection in the window opposite my desk. My red Ikea lamp makes my eyes look glassy and I feel like I look ghostly and beautiful in a destroyed, panicked sort of way. It was late at night when Vi told me to stop trying so hard and just write what I want. We were laying in the dark on another of our Ikea purchases talking in confused snatches as I fell in and out of sleep. Holding hands under the covers we get as much connection as we can. With our schedules at odds, this has been how we spend our brief time together as Vi works nights and I am unable to stay awake passed 11pm.

“Ask yourself what you like to read and write that.” I was embarrassed to find that the answer to this statement is not literary at all. Besides poetry, which I find to delight a core in me I am both relieved and frustrated to know I have, what I really like to read are information books on animals and sentimental stories injected with love and forgiveness. And especially if there is the very Christian word redemption and growth, I am all about it. Sentimentality, I read somewhere once, is the worst. Blah, boo, lame. My brain has held fast to this statement as truth. However, the idea of it sticks to me like a bad smell and try as I might my heart is infested with the stuff.

“Who cares what other people think is good.” This is the last thing I remember hearing Vi say before I patted her arm and said, “Time for sleep.”

“Goodnight, Jellybean.”

“Goodnight, Vitrans.”

After, I assume, the night followed a pattern. Vi gets up quietly and goes to the living room. I sleep a sleep filled with dreams of despair and loss, waking up a few hours later covered in sweat, confused, and sad. Vi brings me water. “Jellybean, you’re soaked.” Back to sleep until morning, probably another dream but nothing I can remember too clearly.

Since this conversation I have not been able to stop thinking about writing and voice and what it means to write what you want to read. I believe there are many ways to travel to your writing, your stories, your style, but I have a sinking feeling Vi is right. Instead of being some literary genius (which is my desire) changing the world one letter at a time, I am going to rely on my heart and emotions to tell the stories which are coming for me. It scares and inspires me to think that my writing career is going to continue to be filled with, as wise Vi says, stories I like to read.

It has come to my attention that I am not where my brain would like me to be intellectually. To punish myself and alleviate the problem I have enrolled in college and am reading through a list of books I ‘should’ have read by now. I picked my list out of a small moldy volume from my parent’s house; The Well-Stocked Bookcase: Sixty Enduring Novels by Americans Published Between 1926 – 1986 (the year of my birth). The first page is a letter from The-Book-of-The-Month-Club explaining that the titles represented in TWSB were chosen by the Editorial board and that in its total “is a love story” which contains “enduring novels…that have changed how we Americans talk, think, write, feel and see ourselves.” Apparently, this slim purple, and with time yellowed, volume was gifted to members as an appreciation of their loyalty to The-Book-of-The-Month Club. At the time my parents received this present I was about six years old and as a family we had just moved into the house in El Paso, Texas where I spent the remainder of my childhood and adolescence. I remember seeing this book float around our bookshelves and coffee-tables in what seemed like an attempt at prominence and seriousness. “Here I am,” it seemed to say, “an authority on literary knowledge. I have come to mock you in your ignorance.” Somehow during its 20 year journey it ended up in my room where I discovered it during my most recent visit. As I skimmed through its pages I heard my brain say, “Wow, out of the 63 titles you have only fully read 5. Don’t lie, you never finished Catch-22.” Lately I have begun poo-pooing my brain when it whispers things in this way as rude and unnecessary. Like listening to an undercutting Aunt, I roll my eyes, let it rattle on until tea time and make a silent promise to visit less often. But, since deciding that a career in something associated with writing/animals/art /therapy is the way I would like to make my living, my brain has convinced me that I am very behind and very handicapped in regards to education and knowledge. This brings up a whole myriad of fears and self loathing, which I refuse to give voice to here, but which waste no time in bringing me to tears. I stuffed the book into my over packed suitcase and got to work reading once I got back to New York.

One of the many initial issues I had with this particular list is its lack of female writers. Given the time period we are covering and the fact that there was only one female on the board of editors at the time of TWSB’s publication I decided to put this aside as something shitty and let it stink there for the time being. The second thing I noticed and which bothered me more was the prominence among the authors chosen of well-off pompous white men. There is nothing wrong with being a white male writer, but I have an issue caring about white male characters squandering every opportunity and destroying whatever love they have been gifted in their lives just because they are bored or they find life hard, which is what I find most of the titles chosen by these white male authors to be about. Life can be boring and hard, and I have spent a fair amount of time mucking it up for both reasons, so why would I want to read a 400 page novel about doing so? I did think to myself, “So why don’t you chose another list?” Well, because frankly, I think my judgments are narrow and unfair, just like I would find judgments that books by white female lesbians are only about having sex with the wife next door while finishing the laundry narrow and unfair. I haven’t read these books so how can I know what truths and troubles they contain? Also, in my experience where there is a negative there is also a positive. Unless I give it a try I might miss out on something magical or insightful or inspirational. And there is something valuable about taking a moment to investigate something you are against/not sure about before writing it off. I might still come away feeling the way I felt when I finished The Catcher in The Rye (which was “QUIT YOUR WHINNING!”), but I then again I might not.

So, here’s to taking chances, literary and otherwise, and to diving into something judgments aside! I have attached a link to the list below if you are interested. I am starting with Eudora Welty’s Delta Wedding.

http://sonic.net/~rteeter/grtbomc.html

I am having a moment. My soul feels restless and my foot shakes with anxiety. My focus is low and the ability to absorb emotional subjects is in the negative. For example, watching a video about a blind puppy who is saved from a early death on a trash heap reduces me to a sobbing mess. Even the stupid song playing in the background seems perfect.

Similarly, I cannot bring myself to read certain things. War Horse, Wild Blue, Woman On The Edge of Time, and anything other than Veggie Tales shoots deep into my soul and sinks it. I didn’t always feel this way. As a child I would turn to my sobbing mother and coldly say (in a way only children can), “Don’t cry Mommy. It is only a movie.” I was embarrassed that she couldn’t hold it together. I mean, wasn’t she suppose to be British? Stiff-upper-lip and all that? When we went to go see one of the Michael Keaton Batman movies in the theater she insisted we leave thirty minutes in. I was so mad.

But now I get it. When my exes would turn on the L Word I would either leave the room while the going was good or leave as soon as the drama started. Which if you haven’t seen the show, is every 3 minutes or so. I watched Get Low and cried all night. Just balled these peepers until sleep came. Hearing news of possible change in a friend’s life I sat up in salt water, phlegmy, sadness the whole night.

I am sensitive. Really, really sensitive. Always have been, but as I get older it gets worse. When my mom and I talk about it she says the same thing happened to her. The smallest sight of blood would make her weak when she became a nurse in her mid-thirties. None-the-less, she moved to the US and was a nurse for intensive care babies for over 15 years, and then a middle school nurse until she retired. She was an excellent nurse. People still stop to thank her for all she did for the children and babies in their lives, even if they didn’t make it. She had babies die in her arms in the NICU. I never understood how much strength this took on her part.

My mom and I are clearly related. We look like older/younger versions of each other, we have exactly the same laugh, we enjoy our own jokes (especially if no one else does), and we are delicate sensitive creatures. We feel the highest highs of joy and the deep darkness of low. But, give us someone to take care of and it is like we never tire and never falter.

My mom even more so than me. As a nurse she knew exactly what had to be done and was ready for all worse-case scenarios. Similarly, I can be flustered and nervous if a client at my job is “mean”, but if one of my loved-ones needs something I am there in a flash. Confident and collected with advice whether it is wanted or not.

Recently, I was asked by a dear friend to join an Intentions group. I went through what I imagine to be the regular insecurities about starting something new. But I am tired of being sad and sorry and hateful toward myself. So I dove right in and now I am writing this. 

So?

Well, one of my intentions was to allow creativity to follow through me in the form of writing everyday. I have not felt this full of creative expression in such a long time as I do right now as I write this. 

I don’t know what this has to do with books other than that I also intended to curb my book buying habit to help save money for big things coming up. I have been entering my favorite haunts and exiting without buying anything, opting instead for my much loved library.

I suppose what I am trying to say is strength comes in different forms. Some people raise children, some sing in musicals, some fight disease, some give up their jobs to help the hungry, some diet, some create jewelry, some rescue animals, some are activists for women, some give their hearts openly, some people run marathons; the list is endless. My mom is retired from nursing and is becoming a skilled watercolor artist. She is so strong and brave.

On Sunday I have orientation to volunteer at an animal shelter in the city. I have been cautioned because of my sensitive heart. “You are going to want to adopt everyone!” or “Pictures of animals make you cry. Why would you do this to yourself” It has made me question my ability, this truth about part of who I am. But two things have happened which have made me confident about the path I am on: my Intentions group and realizing that I am, thankfully, my mother’s daughter.

Writing is like flying. Or, at least I like to tell myself that it is. I like to pretend it takes the same amount of courage as it took the first pilots to hope their efforts would not kill them. Sometimes writing feels dangerous, like Amelia Earhart crashing through the sky; becoming careless in order to escape a life she had built. All I can see ahead is the ocean as my plane whisks downward when I run out of gas. I turn to my navigator and realize I don’t have one, or at least not one who is other than my brain. In the moment of loneliness, just before the crash,  I ask myself aloud, “What the hell is happening?”

Since a book of my poetry was released I haven’t written much. Scribbles here and notes there, but nothing I would call writing. Since that life giving project I have fallen in love again. The kind of love which makes me think of a well cooked, savory meal; suddenly you are full and you don’t remember when during dinner it happened. You reach for more pie and hope the feeling never ends. My love is a quiet person with long delicate fingers and intelligent, peaceful eyes. A gentle person with a surprising past, who is willing to play pretend and encourage the frequent use of crayons.  Full of  curiosity which is only hampered with the most withering of stares and who’s dreams sound so lovely they have begun to melt with mine. Our relationship is on the runway and it seems to be clear skies all the way. But, we agree, it is never really known what the blue will bring. We press our nervous palms together, interlacing our fingers in silent prayer that the weather channel was right.

I bring up this shift in circumstances not only because it is dearly important to me on a personal level, but also because it has helped to change the course of my writing. I have looked to subjects other than my depression and the terrible curses I have cast on my relationships. My love is not totally responsible for this shift, there have been many changes and relationship mendings which have contributed. And it is true, I still take a heart connection into consideration when I am browsing a subject. However, I find it difficult to accept stories without hope in them. I can clearly see the problem with this— life basically— and yet make no attempt to adjust it. So, when I picked up I Was Amelia Earhart, by Jane Mendelsohn, from on of the many stacks quietly taking over my livingroom floor, I didn’t expect what I ended up getting.

I found myself sitting on my futon, eating popcorn soaked in hot-sauce, and reading the thin creamy volume for a few hours. I am was so taken with the story and writing I didn’t realize when the popcorn ran out, and I was dangerously chewing on the kernels, until my jaw started to hurt. I found the novel full of poetry at its most effortless. The style of this fiction about what could have happened to Earhart and her navigator Fred Noonan reminds me of one of my other favorite writers, Marilynne Robinson. Although, Housekeeping leaves you with the feeling you are sinking and I Was Amelia Earhart sends you flying, my heart remembers them together because they struck it in the same way.

In Mendelsohn’s book Noonan is a drunken womanizer and Earhart is a bossy brat. If anyone has despised anyone in the history of intense partnerships these two do. They bicker like brother and sister; Amelia childishly throwing his glasses in the dirt and Fred stubbornly refusing to take off his shoes at a spiritual temple. It is almost embrassing to read how they go on. At times I felt like a third party trying desperately to ignore their tantrums in the hopes that others around us would do the same. I want to stand gently between them and say, “There is more at stake than either of you care to admit.” I know they wouldn’t listen. You see—the problem is—they both want to die.

They are both aware of other’s recklessness and therefore are afraid of and detest one another with ruthless attention. We follow their last flight in the public eye and through the crash, all the way being moved from one perspective to another. The blame is shifted back and forth like the narration without causing the reader to go mad. Mendelsohn handles these switches with grace. We get to see Noonan’s thoughts as Earhart tells us their story from the sky and sit with them on the beach as she continues right in-front of our noses.

I don’t want to say much more, because then I will say too much, just read this book. I finished it in a day and will add it to my shelf of favorites along-side The Life of Pi and The Things They Carried. I plan on exploring Mendelsohn’s other novels: Innocence and American Music to see if I have found what I like to call a, “Soul Writer.” A writer of work that touches my soul.

With her first novel a journey is what you will go on. Relax, don’t be afraid. What I said before about the problem being that they both wanted to die? Well, it might turn out to be the solution. Let the wind take you for a few hours. Who knows, later you might dream of the sea.

(Source: janemendelsohn.com)

My first realized visit to the New York Public Library left me speechless. I climbed the stairs with my breath caught in my chest not only because they are steep and numerous but also because I felt in the presence of something holy. Two huge lions guard the entrance, giving a feeling of something mystical and creative. It has become the closest thing I have to a cathedral in which to worship. The walls vibrate with a divine energy and I feel safe like nowhere in this world. Sitting amongst the silent I hear the whispers of stories from all over the world. From all different shapes of hearts have these words spilled across many many pages. People have devoted their lives, money, family, and health to the completion of the works that surround us busy bees. That is what makes the place blessed. Pages and leather, ink and titles aren’t what fill me with excitement, hope, and motivation. It is stories. The stories written in the volumes and the lives of the people who created them.

Sometimes I stand gaping at shelves frustrated that I will never be able to read all of their books. I wish I could melt into the spines and become part of the glue and ride the silver fish. Travel from page to page living out and drinking from the veins of each publication. My favorite place to imagine this is the children’s section. With its wimsy painted walls and short chairs it is there I find the most hope, magic, and growth. Adult books can cause a type of reverence in me, like a child tiptoeing past a sleeping Grandfather. “American Psycho”, for example, emanates an aura of darkness (and I fear it). I stand in awe of the powerful feeling it creates and of what I have heard of its unforgettable text. I pass over it. Feeling at this point in my life an overdose on hope and adventure is what I need and will push me forward on my path.

I have read a book recently which infused me with inspiration and hope. “The Dreamer” is an eye-catching work by Pam Munoz Ryan with illustrations by Peter Sis. It seemed to be pointing at me from the shelf on one of my rehab visits to the small Queens, New York library near my home. I call my trips to the library “rehab visits” because I can take out as many books as I want without feeling guilty or overwhelmed. I can hear my wallet thanking me when I dash past all of my favorite book haunts with eyes averted focusing on a public library. This tiny reading space in Queens has become a new favorite. So small and quiet, tucked away behind a food court in a financial building, the limited selection has allowed me to find gems I might have been missing in the overstuffed libraries of Manhattan.

Set in Temuco, Chile in the early 1900s “The Dreamer” is the story of Neftali Reyes; a sickly young boy with a deeply real imagination. Neftali lives with his family: Mamadre; his stepmother, his younger sister, Laurita, his elder brother Rodolfo, and his father, Jose. Father, is a tyrannical cloaked figure standing in doorways demanding Neftali to stop dreaming and make something of himself. He bullies his son into believing he is a disappointment and forces the titles of doctor or business man upon him causing Neftali to believe he will fail at everything before he starts. The paternal urge to want the best for your children; helping them avoid what you believe to be your mistakes is definitely apparent in Jose’s character. This, however, seems of little comfort when his ideals burn up Neftali’s dreams one flame at a time, even putting his life in danger.

It is not a secret that under great oppression comes great art. And the questions in my mind have always been: is it worth it? If there was never struggle would we see and hear and feel our way into expression? Would I rather be a tortured soul and write about it, or be at peace and never put pen to page? Honestly, this is an irrelevant question anyway. There is always pain in this world. Each life has strife no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.

Neftali flearns this when faced with possibly drowning with Laurita as Father forces them to tackle the ocean when learning to swim. But where there is pain there is joy. During this time he finds Augusto’s library, cottage, and swans as he storms off to escape Jose. We follow Neftali until he leaves for college; sometimes dropping in a few years after where we left off in the last chapter. There are characters I wish we knew more about: Augusto, Nefatli’s birth mother, Blanca. We pass them as if on a moving train. This narrative moves swiftly on and we only have so much time to see their faces before we are on to the next place; like the landscape from a train window sometimes in stories we only get a blurry outline. Such is life. The poems, questions, and drawings (the later by Peter Sis) add to the magical nature of the narrative. The book lacks structure which I imagine is what it feels like in Neftali’s mind. This is also the most mentioned quality by critics. Which makes me ask, “Really? It’s called ‘The Dreamer’ what do you expect?”

As I think of Neftali leaving for college I am made aware of my surroundings. My library cathedral is in New York City where I came to pursue acting after High School. I scan the people around me at the long wooden table and see that most of them are students from different places around the world. Many of us know what it is like to leave home to find ourselves. And lots who have gone into art careers know of the uncertainty and courage/naivety it takes to follow those dreams. Some of us have done so despite our parents wishes, and so it is with Neftali. As he heads out there are certain decisions to be made about his path in life and looming over his pen is Father. With crushing criticism, literal fire, and threats Jose seeks to scare Neftali into submission because he knows once out of the house Neftali can do as he pleases. But contrary to Father’s opinion Neftali is no longer a weakling to be pounded into submission. One foot out the door he turns to his father and makes a promise. “Neftali Reyes will not disappoint you.” He is full with a secret and like Bastian in “The Neverending Story” after giving The Childlike Empress a new name, Neftali boards his train to a world of possibility and freedom completely of his own making.

I felt lonely. The kind of lonely that comes with a quiet moment when there is no Internet or movie or person to distract from what is really going on in you. I sat in my green bathrobe, sipping black coffee (with Cinnamon) out of a cup with mustaches printed all over, listening to the rain. I live in a basement and can’t see the rain, but I can hear the sharp plunks of sound it makes as it hits the grates above the grime covered holes in the ground we call windows. They are so small that when we are locked out of the house my roommate and I thank the stars we are both small enough to slip through. I am the luckier of the two in this respect as my chest carries not much extra that can get smashed against the edge of the frame as I lay on my back and shimmy my way into the kitchen. Late morning and it is already gray outside and will probably stay that way, but even if it were sunny I would hardly be able to tell. To help ease the separation from the sky and also the winter S.A.D.s I have taken to sitting in front of a light-box for thirty minutes in the morning. While basking in this mood enhancing warmth I usually read, most recently allowing me time to work my way back through The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien.
 
The Things They Carried has one of my favorite beginnings to a book I have ever read. Simple and heartbreaking it chronicles what the men in the Alpha Company carried when the “humped” through Vietnam. I remember sitting up all night reading through the stories, enthralled by O’Brien’s ability to get you to trust him, believe every word, and at the same time drive you nuts with his lectures on what he thinks makes a story true, calling into question all that he had written before. I had given my copy away long ago and was on the hunt for an affordable replacement ever since. I have no idea who borrowed it, or if I gave it to my Dad, I just know that since being parted from its company I have missed the story of Vietnam and the men in O’Brien’s memory. I finally found a copy at Mercer Street Books not far from where I work in SoHo. I walked in to browse and suddenly it came to me that I would find this book in the fiction section. And there it was, the only copy of any of his works and it was 7.50. Along with an Anne Lammott book and a commentary on Martyrs I spent about twenty dollars and felt a surge of guilt. I have taken to ignoring this feeling after telling it to fuck-off. And for the most part I am proud of my defiance. When I worry over the affect my addiction is having on my life people usually respond with a there-are-worse-addictions-to-have type comfort which I wrap around my mind like a down comforter in December.
 
 
I sat very still in my warm and safe underground home listening to the patter of the water above and thinking of the men and all they carried. All their equipment, sorrow, guns, love and fear. Their racism, cruelty, friendship, letters and food. I can see everything Tim describes. I know exactly how each solider looks. I am there when Curt Lemon gets blown up, with his innards and skin and bones hanging from the trees like Christmas tinsel. The color of the sun as it hits his face the second before his foot comes down “on a booby-trapped 105 round.” I hear Kiowa’s gurgling scream as he takes a bullet and is swallowed by the shit field. I look into Rat Kiley’s wide bloodshot eyes as he tells me about the bugs that are out to get him. I smell and see O’Brien after a bullet jumps up into his butt and he almost dies from shock waiting for help. I sit inside their minds as they think of love and death and what they would be doing if they weren’t at war. I sleep with them on the ground in the rain and dig their dead friends out of the mud. I will never forget the sound of the gun as Kiley puts bullets into the baby water buffalo they find after his best-friend is reduced to nothing more than scraps of flesh thrown down from branches. The silence between the shots seems to go on and on and when he finally continues to put lead into the animal it makes me jump, every time. I realize then that the water buffalo isn’t making any noise, each abuse is taken as if it knew what was coming and accepted it.

My first reading of this work was when I was about 19, six years later I have a whole new understanding of the ideas O’Brien is pushing. I feel like I understand, which is pretty much impossible. I have never been forced into war. Have never shot at anything other than cans and old furniture in the desert with my Dad and Uncle Tom near by drinking canned beer gently making jokes about farts and cars. The closest I have ever been to roughing it is sleeping in a tent when camping with my parents as a kid. I am a caucasian girl from a middle class family who has never known what it is to go hungry or watch your friends die inches away from you, leaving a feeling of pain and sickening relief. Relief that it wasn’t you, this time. Or being taken over by the kind of pain which makes you slowly kill a baby animal. I guess the closest I should come to connecting with O’Brien’s thoughts is on stories and what they do for us and why we tell them. And I do connect with that, I am a writer myself, a spinner of stories. But despite how different my life is from what these young men face in Vietnam I feel my heart entangled with theirs.

I have feared for my life since I became aware of being alive as a concept. I have fought a war in unknown territory, digging trenches in the night throwing up prayers as thoughts as dangerous as bullets light-up above my hiding. Please make it through the night, I would whisper. Tomorrow is a new day. That’s war. A war against myself. The war that keeps me silent when I should speak and causes me to shout out of turn and anger when caution is called for. A pain and fear allowing me to press my gun up against the knees of my own baby water buffalo. Just like O’Brien I have hoped I would be brave, but instead found myself dealing in all kinds of cowardice and cruel behavior. My whole life I have struggled with my mind. It has only been in the last few years I have gotten down in the shit and faced myself. At first the world was out to get me and I ran through the divots of my grey matter hoping to find refuge. Slowly, over years, I came to find that I was chasing my own shadow, or rather that it was chasing me. My own fear held the apposing gun.

So, this loneliness. This anger and hatred and fear. They are there no matter who you are. No matter if you are a house wife, a homeless guy or a CEO. No matter if you are privileged or repressed. My point, I suppose is that we all fight in wars falling asleep under the moon of a foreign land, whispering to ourselves in the dark. But, even as I write this I think that I might be stretching it a bit. Making up a connection because I want so badly to matter. I want my pain to have relevance in this world of wars and hunger and death. But in the end it does not matter. Or maybe it does. My story may never be told. The guys that make up the Alpha Company may disappear off the shelves; out of print. So In my green robe, feeling the unstable quality of time and memory, I let my loneliness happen. I lean back and feel it to the end of every nerve in my body. And as I do I can hear Azar excitedly snapping his fingers as the boys play chess, see Kiowa asleep on the open pages of his Bible and Jimmy Cross crouching in his hole pretending the letters he reads from Martha carry the love he has for her. I smell the dampness of the camp and the sweat of the trek across this land. And as my coffee goes cold I shoot the shit with guys about girls and jobs and our folks and our dead. With the rain as my background and the grey sky as my palette I smile a bit, because for whatever reason I feel connected and understood. Very simply I start to feel less alone.

Teddi Tarnoff and I have never actually met, but luckily our work has. Randy Grishow Schade became a fan of her work and suggested we ask her help when coming up with promotional material for The Bridge.

I was shocked by the amount of talent and heart her voice and lyrics possess. Together with three other musical ladies Teddi completes a female cover band: Misstalica. Which I think is just…well, cool. 

Teddi took on the task of composing a score for the two trailers we shot to promote my first book of poetry The Bridge. Then she worked magic on the poem ‘Arias’ and made a beautiful song out of it. Along, with fellow musician Gina Gleason she was able to cut the fat off ‘Arias’ and transform it; giving it wings.

I never would have thought words I put together could be sung with such passion by an award-winning, professional singer/songwriter.

When I interviewed Teddi I was not at all surprised by the honesty, presence and humor of her answers. It is all there in her music.

Check out what Teddi and Misstalica are up to:

http://www.TeddiTarnoff.com/

http://www.Misstallica.com/

Watch the music video shot and directed by Randy Schade, music by Teddi Tarnoff and lyrics by Jenny Checchia, here:

http://youtu.be/eKwL-netdrA

Come along with me now and meet a songbird who knows how to give a poem wings.

J: If a book from your childhood (or one you have read recently that you wish had been around during your childhood) fell open and you were pulled by a big hand into its adventure, which would it be and why?

T: Umm “Helter Skelter”.. does that make me a big weirdo? I think I romanticize serial killers too much.

J: If you could spend a week in the company of any writer (dead or alive), who, what would you do, and which story/novel/comic/whatever would they be writing while you were there.

T: Roger Waters, he wrote the lyrics in Pink Floyd. Some of the most profound things that man sings about and it all comes from a very dark place. I guess I think I can relate to that and I’d want to try to figure him out and maybe myself too.

J: If you have ever suffered from something; heartbreak, allergies, depression, lactose intolerance, etc. what made you feel better, what did you learn from it and what did you wear?

T: Alcohol? I mean sometimes but it’s fleeting. But I like to be alone in my head, and sometimes that’s good and other times I get lost in there.

J: If you were to write a poem about your life so far, how would it go?

T: Lost her wings at birth

She is only a young girl

But she is ready…

J: If you could replace any actor and play their character; who, what, why and how would you bring something astonishing to the role?

T: I would play Veruca Salt in “Willy Wonka”, mostly cause it would be totally fun, but also cause I think the young actress did a fantastic job and I like to mess with perfection.

J: Being humans, we tend to be overly self-critical and spend great amounts of time saying terrible things to ourselves. What about you do you think is awesome? Go ahead. Go look at yourself in the mirror and find that zipper at the base of your skull, unzip and tell us a story about that one time when you… and found out you are…and DON’T tell me somebody once told you your eyes were pretty. Lame. And duh, anyone can see they are breathtaking. ( if you are the type of person who doesn’t happen to do this, please, give yourself a lovely pat on the knee and then write about how being nice to yourself has changed the way you treat others.)

T: I am kind, sometimes too kind. I am considerate and at times, far too accommodating. It can be frustrating but I think these are my truest and best attributes because anyone can see my bitchy facade, but it’s the people in my life that see all of the good at my core. And I like my toes!

J: What color does the word ‘Penelope’ make you think of and how long does it last?

T: Periwinkle and it’s gone in a flash

J: If you could get any artist in all of history to draw/paint/ take a photo portrait of you who would it be and what roll would you play in their lives?

T: Frida Khalo! I would be the lover she would run to when Diego was acting a fool.

J: Good one!

J: When you fall in love, what does it smell like? If you have never fallen in love write about what you think it smells like.

T: Sweat and salty tears, flesh of someone so sweet

J: In a perfect world I would be there with you, and we would have tea and cookies. Where would we meet, and after a lovely hug or warm hand-shake, what would we talk about.

T: Harrods Tea House, cause in a perfect world we’re filthy rich and can fly off to London whenever we please. And while in London we would speak of the Queen and rugby, all the time in our best British accents.

J: If you could write a book what would it be about, who is the person you would want to read it the most, and why?

T: I would write about life because there is nothing more astounding, comical and unbelievable then our everyday. But I wouldn’t want anyone to read it, I would write it for me alone. And it would be private and thoughtful, far too personal for prying eyes.

J: Sometimes we do things we regret. Think of the person you feel like you have wronged the most and simply write down what you would say to them if one day you turned a corner and they were there.

T: I have already had the very scary and awful experience of coming clean to the person I have wronged the most, hurt the most. I told her of the pain and weakness that lead to the deception. I told her of the daily struggle to deal and make amends. I told her that her love makes me better and stronger and promised there would never be that kind of hurt again.

J: That is very brave.

J: Draw a picture of your favorite style of moustache.

T: Cause it looks like a squid!

J: This is AWESOME!

J: If you had a soundtrack to accompany the story of how you feel right now, what would it be made up of?

T: Urge for Going- Joni Mitchell, on repeat (no lie)

J: If you had a child what would be the most important thing you would want them to learn from you?

T: That they are only entitled to what they work for and that appreciation and respect go a long way.

J: If you could build a bridge to a different time and save your younger self from something scary, what would it be and how would you do it?

T: I would want to save myself from desperate decisions made in darkness. I would show myself pictures of forthcoming happiest days and ask her to be patient.

J: Give a title to the picture below.

T: “See No Evil”

J: One last thing….

What would make you happiest right now?

T: A quiet day at home without responsibility, a movie marathon with kettle corn and my babies- actually have most of that going on, so go me!

J: Yay, you!