Beating the Brain Drain

Since we've moved into our new neighborhood, I've met more people than the first day in a new school. But unlike my school days, I'm finding it much more challenging to remember everyone's names. In our little cul-de-sac alone there are Bob and Sue, and Bob and Karen. There's  Jim and Mary Ellen, and Jim and Darlene, and Jim and Marilyn (I kid you not). There's Kevin and Karen, and Roger and Fran. Roberta and Bill. Ned and Elaine.

You get the picture. All of it reminding me (again!) that I'm not as young as I once was, and my brain no longer works as efficiently as it once did.

I've read a lot recently about the ways we can keep our brains in shape, and I've been happy to learn that many of them are already part of my daily life.

Brain boot camp, I call it.

You can read more about it here at Medium.

The Sunday Salon: Summer Time

Summertime, and the livin' is easy...

It is, isn't it? Anyone who has ever been a slave to the school year (student, parent, teacher) has a special affinity for those precious three months of freedom. Days are loooonnng, creating a seemingly infinite number of possibilities. When I was a child, it meant staying outside until 9:00 at night, it meant hours riding my bicycle side by side with a girlfriend, not going anywhere particular,  just riding around talking and gossiping companionably. It meant queuing up for the Good Humor truck, slurping rainbow popsicles or Nutty Buddies. It meant slathering on Coppertone suntan lotion and jumping into the neighbor's pool or running through the backyard sprinkler.

But even as a child, reading was an important part of my summer fun. I always joined the library summer reading program, and usually cajoled several of my friends into joining me. We made weekly trips to the library, our carefully completed summer reading logs in hand, and picked out even more books which we'd bring home and pile up next to our chaise loungers under a shade tree. I would carry my reading on far into the night (or as far as my sleepy eyes would let me), my book propped surreptitiously under my pillow with only a tiny flashlight to guide me along its pages.

I noticed our local library has started a summer reading program for adults, in addition to their programs for children and teens. Reading is usually a solitary activity, but it's human nature to be drawn toward a group so there's something enticing about the idea of sharing this pastime with other readers. Probably why we like book clubs and readalongs, why I can so easily start conversations with strangers if they've got a book in hand. We recognize our compatriots and gravitate toward them.

Sometimes I make plans for my summer reading, but this year I'm winging it - whatever takes my fancy on trips to the library or bookstore. Right now I'm engrossed in Wild, Cheryl Strayed's breathtaking memoir about finding herself on the Pacific Crest Trail. It's an inspiring allegory for  life in general, and I highly recommend it if you haven't yet read it.

How about you? Do you read more in the summer? What's on your reading list?

Write On Wednesday: Too Little Too Late

NPR featured my book on the air today. The one I was supposed to write. The one that I've had ideas about for years. The one that was tailor made for me.

It was the book I was supposed to write - but didn't. Because I was too busy writing medical reports, or doing press releases for volunteer groups, or going grocery shopping and doing the laundry. Because I was more interested in playing around on Facebook or following links on Twitter than sitting in my writing chair. Because I chose to go out to lunch with friends rather than do research at the library.

It was the book I wanted to write - but didn't. Because I was afraid I wasn't smart enough. Because I was scared people might laugh at me. Because I feared the topic wasn't important enough.

It was the book I should have written - but didn't.

So someone else wrote it.

NPR gave me more than another book to add to my to-be-read list (and read it I will, this book I should have written but didn't). NPR also gave me a serious wake up call. All these writing ideas that keep pestering me are doing so for a reason. They're trying to prod me out of my complacency, stir me from my slovenly slumber, and imploring me to take this writing thing seriously.

It's now or never.

How about you? Have you ever gotten a writing wake up call? 

Sleep Cycle

I have an elaborate bedtime ritual, and I'm totally OCD about it. There's good reason for that. The act of falling asleep is the most delicate of all transactions for me. One false step, one thing out of place on the road to dreamland, and I will be awake until the wee hours of the morning.

It's been happening a lot lately. Like last night. A thunderstorm woke me at 1:30 and I spent the next three hours in restless sleep.

I did get some writing done. You can read the fruits of my midnight labor here.

How are you sleeping these days?

The Sunday Salon: The Woman Upstairs - Finding Friends Between the Covers

Novelist Claire Messud was in the news recently when her testy reply to an interviewer from Publisher's Weekly provoked some debate among the literati. The interviewer commented  something to the effect that she "wouldn't want to be friends with Nora (the main character in Messud's new novel, The Woman Upstairs) because her "outlook was unbearably grim." Messud's response was thought provoking: "If  you’re reading to find friends, you’re in deep trouble," she told the interviewer. "We read to find life, in all its possibilities. The relevant question isn’t ‘Is this a potential friend for me?’ but ‘Is this character alive?’ ” The question seems to have taken Messud aback, but I know where the interviewer was coming from. I recently finished this novel which I found quite brilliant. I actually could see myself being friends- or at least friendly - with Nora. Most women I know can relate to Messud's concept of the The Woman Upstairs - the one who quietly takes care of others, follows the rules, puts her own needs on hold for the greater good of her family, her colleagues, her friends. Nora is angry about the way her life has turned out, and she is very outspoken about her anger. "My anger is prodigious," she says in the last pages of the book. "My anger is a colossus. I’m angry enough, at last, to stop being afraid of life, and angry enough … before I die to fucking well live. Just watch me.”

So while I  don't read to find friends per se, I do want to find someone in every book with whom I can be sympathetic, someone I understand on some level, someone who is relatable enough that I can picture myself sharing coffee and conversation with them on some imaginary occasion. Perhaps that part of what Messud was trying to get across? If an author can make their characters come alive, make them three-dimensional so that the reader relates to them on a myriad of life levels, then the relationship between writer-character-reader is much more complete.

I wonder if this isn't all part of a necessary schism between writer and reader. The writer wants to create characters with something to say, with something to demonstrate about life; while the reader tends to gravitate toward characters with whom they can relate, that make them feel - if not comfortable - than at least comparable.

I don't think there's anything wrong with that - the writer and reader have separate roles in this thing we call The Reading LIfe, and they usually join together quite nicely for a satisfactory experience all round.