“But it really happened.”

I was in an adult-ed writer’s group when I first heard this. I’d watched the woman speaking become tenser and grimmer as members of the group—gently and with compassion—suggested that the gruesome events on the page could be presented in a manner more conducive to engaging the reader.

She listened for only a few moments—sadly, this group did not have a ‘be silent while being critiqued’ policy—before unleashing, accusing the group of everything from indifference about sexual assault on children, to ignorance about how children really thought (this in response to our collective idea that 4-year-olds did not speak like 30-year-olds.) She shook as she lectured us on the horror of incest.

True that. Everything she said about her pain and suffering was true—but it still didn’t work on the page. My social services hat went on and I reacted to (more…)

When I taught in a batterer intervention program—an educational, not counseling program—we’d draw a triangle on the board to help the men look at their belief system. During this lesson on the hierarchy of power, we’d use different ‘systems’ so they could identify the ways they classified people.  Schools, corporations, and prisons were just a few of the organizations we sliced and diced.

They stratified prison, showing the prisoners on the bottom, squashed under the guards, wardens, politicians, and everyone else in the world. When I asked if the guards had any chance of having an “authentic relationship” with the prisoners as they loomed over them as shown in the hierarchy triangle, their laughs were loud and derisive.

When we asked them to define the layers of family, the woman usually laid on the bottom of the heap. Some men argued that the women rated a place above the male children, but they were always wedged under the husbands and fathers. Men who’d grown up in single mother households still stuck the father figure on top.

This doesn’t come from the air.

The Boston Globe today reported on another domestic homicide, the sixteenth in Massachusetts since January. Sarin Chan was murdered by an ex-boyfriend. The murder was witnessed by her 4-and 6-year-old children. (The article does not say if they are boys or girls, and it is not known if the alleged murderer is the father.)

Honestly? I feel a bit shaky writing the above. My novel, The Murderer’s Daughters, revolves around young girls witnessing their father murdering their mother, I worked with men who savagely beat (and some murdered) their partners. My father tried to kill my mother, and still I try to pretend (more…)

I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven’t loved, and my adoration continued with this book. Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother (retitled for the paperback as For You Mom, Finally) was a deceptively simple snack. (I’m certain that Ms. Reichl, editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)

In her previous books, the author consistently folded her cooking and restaurant reviewing skills into personal memoir—making a mixture with the consistency of magic. Her work has always been fascinating, down-to-earth, and erudite—and always offered the reader fascinating glimpses into the world of food and Ms. Reichl’s own intriguing life, which often included portraits of her sad, unusual, and, to the author, exasperating, mother.

This 110-page gem boils it all down to the author’s mother true story. It is not an apology for what she’s previously written. Or, perhaps, it is.

Any daughter whose lived her life under the thumb of her mother’s quirks and enraging mothering mistakes will fly through this book, reading of Reichl’s brave attempts to find out the truth of her mother’s life. She writes of living her life on “Mim tales”—a trait with which my sister and I can over-identify, having dined, perhaps too long, on a pathetic treasure trove of Mom stories.

But as I read the author’s unearthing of her mother’s truth (her now-realization of her mother’s eccentricities as representing being crammed into the tiniest of housewifery boxes and the narrowest of work roles) I found it hard to catch my breath, amazed at the author’s courage in uncovering her own perhaps lack of generosity towards her mother, and deeply admiring her ability to now find the heroic in her mother.

Because I was with her every step.

Like Ruth Reichl, I too berate myself for not managing to rise above the role of daughter to my mother, and become a woman and friend to her. However, perhaps when one grows up with a larger-than-life mother, that’s an impossible goal. Maybe only after death severed a relationship that held us so emotionally hostage that we spent our lives holding our breath, can we step back and offer perspective.

So, thank you Mom for being a role model of friendship, you who offered such a striking portrait of being a loyal companion to so many wonderful women.

Thank you Mom for showing such a flair for beauty.

Thank you for showing us the wonder and fun of work.

For laughing very hard. For always appreciating a good story. For your advice on men.  And women.

Yes, you were often right. About many things. I can now consider you a hero, because you lived your life trying very hard. And I know that now.

We miss you. Happy Mother’s Day.

I’m back where I love writing the most. Once again, back in Provincetown, Back in the town in America where I feel safest, happiest, and most relaxed.

Most of this post is a re-run, because, hey, I’m here to finish my book. And my feelings about loving Ptown more than any other town in America remains the same.

Why Provincetown?

Freedom.

In Provincetown I get to feel like the minority—something we should all experience.

When my sister is here, she’s finally in the majority party. The sad part of this shift in reality is that when I’m in Provincetown, I’m treated great. I’m a straight woman who is treated well here and treated fine back home. Wherever I am, I don’t give a moment’s thought before throwing my arms around my husband to celebrate a sudden burst of love. I don’t check out the atmosphere. I don’t worry about getting looks—and if I do get a look, it’s usually a aww, cute, look at the middle-aged couple smooching sort.

In Provincetown my sister and her partner (hey, why don’t you two get married already!) can have that thoughtless affection I take for granted. Not so much in the rest of the world.

Provincetown means not being on guard. It means flannel shirts for every occasion if that’s your pleasure. Marc Jacobs, or boots laced up to your crotch, if you prefer. Provincetown means smiles from almost everyone, or mutual eye rolling when the tourist gawking goes too far.

Drag queens heft tomatoes at the Stop & Shop side by side with the blue haired ladies of Cape Cod.

And because it’s in Massachusetts, in Provincetown two brides or grooms can share a wedding cake.

There is a sweetness in Provincetown.

I love being here, living for a week, in a place where my sister and I can be equal as sisters can be.

A place where derision isn’t a sport.

A place where guns are unholy and men in wigs are fun.

A place where I can walk around in sweat pants all the time. And if that ain’t heaven, what is?

Last year I spent a week in Provincetown working a newly hatched manuscript. This week I’m here, head down, hammering out revisions. And I’m in the town in America where I feel safest, happiest, and most relaxed.

Why Provincetown?

Freedom.

In Provincetown I get to feel like the minority—something we should all experience.

When my sister is here, she’s finally in the majority party. The sad part of this shift in reality is that when I’m in Provincetown, I’m treated great. I’m a straight woman who is treated well here, and treated fine back home. Wherever I am I don’t give a moment’s thought before throwing my arms around my husband to celebrate a sudden burst of love. I don’t check out the atmosphere. I don’t worry about getting looks—and if I do get a look, it’s usually of the aww, cute, middle-aged couples smooching sort.

In Provincetown my sister and her partner (hey, why don’t you two get married already!) can have that thoughtless affection I take for granted. Not so much in the rest of the world.

Provincetown means not being on guard. It means flannel shirts for every occasion if that’s your pleasure, Marc Jacobs, or boots laced up to your crotch, if you prefer. Provincetown means smiles from almost everyone, or mutual eye rolling when the tourist gawking goes to far.

Drag queens heft tomatoes at the Stop & Shop side by side with the blue haired ladies of Cape Cod.

And because it’s in Massachusetts, in Provincetown two brides or grooms can share a wedding cake.

There is a sweetness in Provincetown.

I love being here, living for a week, in a place where my sister and I can be equal as sisters can be.

A place where derision isn’t a sport.

A place where guns are unholy and men in wigs are fun

A place where I can walk around in sweat pants all the time.

I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven’t loved, and my adoration continued with this book. Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother was a deceptively simple snack. (I’m certain that Ms. Reichl, editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)

In her previous books, the author consistently folded her cooking and restaurant reviewing skills into personal memoir—making a mixture with the consistency of magic. Her work has always been fascinating, down-to-earth, and erudite—and always offered the reader fascinating glimpses into the world of food and Ms. Reichl’s own intriguing life, which often included portraits of her sad, unusual, and, to the author, exasperating, mother.

This 110-page gem boils it all down to the author’s mother true story. It is not an apology for what she’s previously written. Or, perhaps, it is.

Any daughter whose lived her life under the thumb of her mother’s quirks and enraging mothering mistakes will fly through this book, reading of Reichl’s brave attempts to find out the truth of her mother’s life. She writes of living her life on “Mim tales”—a trait with which my sister and I can over-identify, having dined, perhaps too long, on a pathetic treasure trove of Mom stories.

But as I read the author’s unearthing of her mother’s truth (her now-realization of her mother’s eccentricities as representing being crammed into the tiniest of housewifery boxes and the narrowest of work roles) I found it hard to catch my breath, amazed at the author’s courage in uncovering her own perhaps lack of generosity towards her mother, and deeply admiring her ability to now find the heroic in her mother.

Because I was with her every step.

Like Ruth Reichl, I too berate myself for not managing to rise above the role of daughter to my mother, and become a woman and friend to her. However, perhaps when one grows up with a larger-than-life mother, that’s an impossible goal. Maybe only after death severed a relationship that held us so emotionally hostage that we spent our lives holding our breath, can we step back and offer perspective.

So, thank you Mom for being a role model of friendship, you who offered such a striking portrait of being a loyal companion to so many wonderful women.

Thank you Mom for showing such a flair for beauty.

Thank you for showing us the wonder and fun of work.

For laughing very hard. For always appreciating a good story. For your advice on men.  And women.

Yes, you were often right. About many things. I can now consider you a hero, because you lived your life trying very hard. And I know that now.

We miss you.

Perhaps every insatiable reader has a book so thoroughly imprinted at a vulnerable age, that they carry those characters like family of the heart forever. Some marked me for horror. IN COLD BLOOD assured I’d never stay alone in a country house. Others taught me about the awful mixes of fear, revulsion, and sadness we can barely tolerate, like OUR GUYS, by Bernard Lefkowitz, a book which assured I’d look at any boy my daughters dated with more judgment than I wanted.

And some taught me faith in the future.

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN by Betty Smith was the only bible I ever owned, my personal talisman of hopefulness. Perhaps it was partially because, though in different times, like Francie, I grew up in Brooklyn and I missed my father. He, like Francie’s, ran from by what we now call self-medicating (and what Francie’s mother and mine, called nothing, because who talked about it in Brooklyn?) And then they escaped forever by dying young.

Like Francie, I’d experienced the horror of old men liking young girls, of having an aunt I worshipped, and a school I hated. Each time I read A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN I was struck anew by how this author knew so much and dared to write it.

That’s the beauty of books. They don’t just transport, they heal, they teach, and they soothe. On the loneliest of days, they ask no more than picking them up. In the worst of times, they stand by. And those old friends—like Francie Nolan—they don’t only offer a ‘you are not alone,’ they provide you with the promise that there will be a way out. Maybe not the happiest ending in the world,  but at least you knew you could end strong at the broken places.

Thank you, Francie Nolan.

Bless you, Betty Smith.