Life, Reimagined

"She's worse than you."
I had to pause in order to push the feeling of wanting to slap him - all the while acknowledging that I'm more of a punching kind of a girl - deep down and twist it in my brain to be reborn as something new. That rebirth was realized later as I waited for my train to arrive. Suddenly, I wondered what non-writers do with awkward, embarrassing and downright painful moments.
As a writer I pause for a nanosecond and file it away to use later. This would be labeled something that a character would say if they were:
a) an insensitive jerk
b) unable to tell what's appropriate
c) someone with a horrible sense of humor
d) in the case of the speaker - all of the above
Before he can go on with a laugh and say, "It's a joke, it's a joke." I have already gotten over it. No need to explain that jokes shouldn't need to be labeled in order to be identified, it's all soil for a story to grow.
In every life there are moments when you think it will be impossible to take another breath, when you pretend there was something on the sidewalk that made you trip, when you must bite your tongue until you taste blood. Worse than the original moments are when they make their encore, appearing in your mind when you're already feeling run down as if giving you that last kick to get back under the covers. But as a writer those encores spark insight, and I'll admit a certain kind of retooling of the event once it makes it on to paper. Everything becomes much easier to smile at. The jerk's own humiliation is played out during an internationally televised event. The girl that trips over her own feet falls into the arms of her soon-to-be boyfriend. That first breath without pain becomes the start of a journey...
Without that transformation, how does one deal with all the ghosts of their past? Every scar both physical and mental has opened my mind to what seem like endless possibilities. Those possibilities are as much a part of the experience as the event that caused them.
As I waited for the train, the insipid careless remark that would otherwise haunt someone else had yielded a blog. I will have to thank him. Or maybe just not be so mean when the cameras are rolling in my next story.

How Much is Too Much?

You have everything if you have your health... As someone who is struggling to improve hers I can believe it. I wonder though, how far should you go for your health? How much should it take over your life? I'm not just talking about giving up food, whether it be gluten, meat, sugar, sodium, or anything that can be delivered to your home within thirty minutes.
How much of your time do you devote to cooking from fresh ingredients? How many hours should be spent on the treadmill instead of out with friends?
How much of your money should go to buying natural and organic? Would you give up the security of a bi-monthly paycheck in order to heal faster? I was told that stress hormones slow everything down, except the aging process of course. And if stress is the worst enemy (outside of smoking and binge drinking - which I'd like to point out decreases stress)should you not answer the phone the next time your drama magnet of a bff calls you? Can I use that excuse the next time my mother calls with advice garnered from Dr. Phil?
Should every calorie be counted? Every measurement taken?
Since I'll spend over an hour wondering the aisles at Sephora for what goes on the outside, I'm more than willing to spend the time, money and energy on what goes on the inside. But how much?
At what point does it stop being a lifestyle and start becoming a religion?

A Gift Worth Receiving

It feels like I'm always playing catch up. I guess it started as a kid. I just wasn't interested in the long series books where every story ended the same way. (Even before I started writing I was all about plot). If only Harry Potter or Twilight had come sooner and had a chance to suck me into their secret world. It wasn't until I snuck one of my father's books into my backpack at the age of twelve that I realized how fulfilling reading could be. But I was a decade behind and I've been trying to catch up ever since.
Don't get me wrong, I had excellent English teachers who demanded I over-analyze the classics. I still had to speed read through Bridget Jones though because my classmates already had the edge on Austen. It seems no matter how many novels I have bookmarks in at any given moment - one for the train ride home, one for right before sleep and one for an indulgent soak in a bubble bath - I can never keep up. I'm swimming in a sea of books that I never have time to catch.
The same is true for writing. I have notebooks from the last fifteen years tucked anywhere I can find the space, zip drives full and sitting idle waiting for the last edit. There isn't enough time to polish the stories on the page least wise write the ones in my head.
Now with the holidays in full swing, my time is spent at the mall (finding even more books begging to be read) or at home wrapping, decorating, and, thanks to Hallmark, wrapping decorations. In fact, it's likely that the only thing I will write this week will be Christmas cards.
If my Secret Santa is reading this, I could really do with a gift of more time.

Holiday Tradition

The mall has been decorated since the day after Halloween, Christmas music started playing on the radio some time last week, and Thanksgiving, the food-filled holiday that gets the countdown rolling, is this Thursday. But still, even though I've pulled the decorations out and bought the cards to mail in the next few weeks, it just doesn't feel like Christmas is coming.
I started watching holiday movies and have plans to see The Christmas Carol on IMAX next weekend. (It was going to be this weekend but New Moon won... as if there was ever a competition). Nothing I do is getting I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas stuck in my head like every other year before. Even the Waitresses can't get me to do Christmas right this time.
Then I read the quote from Kate Moss saying that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels and it kind of came crashing down on me. I couldn't agree with her less. I'm very far from Kate Moss skinny though so maybe supermodel thinness comes with a feeling of euphoria that I'm not aware of (or maybe that's just low blood sugar). Still, I would gladly pack on those extra holiday ten for a chance to enjoy real stuffing. I wouldn't hesitate to add an extra hour to my gym time in order to have oatmeal cookies for breakfast, butter cookies with lunch and of course a cup of hot chocolate with chocolate chip cookies before bed. (I now see why I don't know what low blood sugar feels like). It's not just the cookies though, it's the candy and cakes, the three hour long dinners out with friends you only see once a year and the holiday work lunches where everyone eats so much we all just stare at one another like cows slowly blinking as we digest.
You spend all this money on giving holiday cheer to others, the food is your cheer to yourself. Maybe it's not healthy, but it's only for a month - one month of treating yourself to a little indulgence. This is the time of year when you're supposed to enjoy yourself, when you're supposed to reward yourself for finally putting all the decorations on the tree, finding a gift for everyone on your list and wrapping them! And those freaking Christmas cards, how do you write them all without the promise of a sugar cookie after every five completed?
I'm having a hard time this year and it's not even December yet. I could try to bake gluten-free cookies that I know won't taste the same, I could make the long trip to pick up a pie that no one will touch but me. I could even order twelve salads at the holiday work lunch just to feel as full as my co-workers. But it's not the same... and what are the holidays about if not tradition?
Maybe Kate Moss knows how to start new traditions...

Elusive Inspiration

There are days when everywhere I look there is a story waiting to be told. Every song I hear provokes a plot and every person I see adds a detail for a character. Other days, I feel like I live in a vacuum. It's like being in a state of depression when nothing moves you.
I can sit in Bryant Park and watch the array of characters literally skate past me, potential dramas, comedies and of course, this being New York near the holidays, romances. Like the inexperienced skater, it all falls flat. There is something out there, I know there is, but how do I find it?
Perhaps my greatest remorse is the overheard conversation by some sixty plus women behind me. They were discussing... Bon Jovi's birthday. Add in their British accents and you know it should bloody well start the creative juices flowing. Maybe some things aren't meant to be or maybe some things just take a little bit more - like if I had actually seen them rocking out at a concert. Still, I have to trust that it will eventually come. Inspiration, like love, can not be forced. But like a single girl looking for the one, I have to put myself out there.

The New Small Talk

Everyday, EVERYDAY, I get asked "Can you eat this?"
It's never when someone is offering me food, trying to find a restaurant for lunch or a baker/cook who wants to ensure they make something that I can enjoy. It's not even a "how was traffic this morning" kind of question that's curious in a concerned way. It's more of an adult form of "Na Na Na Na."
I know, I know, your first thought is man, is she being overly sensitive. But when someone is munching on a Twix bar in front of my face, and they don't have a spare one that they were going to offer me, I can't help but wonder what the point is of asking me if I can have one. They then respond to my no with a "these are really good." Followed by them sucking on each chocolate coated finger with a look of pure (somewhat evil looking) glee. I even get the "I know you can't have it but I tried the best cereal/sandwich/pizza this morning/yesterday." What am I supposed to say to that, "Good for you?"
I can honestly say that no one ever talked to me about food before I was diagnosed. People constantly forgot I was a vegetarian until I would order a veggie burger. Tell them you can't have bread though, and they bring it up everyday. Now it seems a daily poll of what I can and can't eat is considered small talk. I long for the days where we talked about movies, tv, Twilight or even the weather. Instead, now all I get is "Weight Watchers has all these new meals out that taste divine. I don't think there is anything you can eat, but they are really great." How does that pop into someone's mind as an acceptable thing to say? It's like me saying, "I know you could never fit into a pair, but I really love my skinny jeans."

Moving Forward on a New Path

No man is an island, blah blah blah...
Sometimes being surrounded by a large body of water can be a good thing. Especially when all you want to do is cry, scream or punch a pillow until you're covered in feathers - which would be impressive from a cotton pillow.
I've always been a believer in moving forward. You keep going and when you accidentally eat something you shouldn't you add the offending food or ingredient to the do-not-eat list and get back to cooking. When the rejection letter comes in, you send it out again. You make short term goals with the long term ones in mind. You make lists and pinpoint when you will accomplish them.
The hardest part isn't finding the time, which is almost impossible, it's sticking to it. It's doing what you know you should even when there is no immediate reward. It's when you can't catch a break and no reason is given. You can do everything right and still feel sick, you can write what others call brilliant and still be told 'it's not for us'. When that happens, all at once, how do you keep from giving up?

I've been stuck on that question for a while now. As I search the web for other Celiac suffers and writers/editors/agents with advice to give I realize that maybe the answer is to reach out. To extend a hand over the wall, lake, or whatever isolation unit best describes your methods and ask for a little guidance. Turn down the ipod and listen to someone else. After all, you shouldn't stop moving forward but maybe it's time for a new path.

Same Unique Ideal

I recently picked up a book by a popular author that I had, up until that moment, avoided. Something about the covers, overly bright and slightly out of focus, as well as the writer's website, which was somehow both apologetic and condescending, turned me away from their work. I will confess that even the popularity itself made me uncomfortable in my jealousy. But obviously the writer knew something that I did not, so I picked up their first novel and was disappointed to find that I could see the plot laid out before me by the third chapter. Worse yet was the exertion involved in the writer's attempt to be unique, bleeding through every sentence. How could something so loved be so transparent? Should the reader be comforted in knowing what was ahead or was I somehow tuned into the writer more than the character that traipsed blindly through her creator's plan?
I was ready to give up and turn to another author to learn from, when I saw it; an image I had used in my own writing staring up at me. It was a well known concept and it had been used in a different manner than my own. But still, there it was and I hadn't put it there. How could my own unique voice somehow not be mine alone?
From that moment I had to know everything about the writer.
We grew up on different sides of the country and our education was worlds apart, literally and figuratively. They had more connections, more opportunities and an easy to market hook for readers. We were nothing alike. Yet as I read of their experience, motivation and theories on writing I realized that being a writer isn't just about who you are at the moment but who you wish to be. The writing isn't just a reflection of yourself as you are now but the expression of what you are trying to become. While no two writers can be exactly alike, perhaps they both can be striving for the same ideal.

Condolence Cake

Not too long ago Starbucks introduced a gluten-free cake plastic-wrapped to prevent contamination. Then it disappeared. It's not that I miss it really; it tasted good enough, but for its calorie count I would have expected something more decadent. After all, this is the place that took the basic black coffee and added flavored syrup, sprinkles, chocolate, whipped cream and even crystallized ginger. They could have made a gluten-free version of any one of their cakes. (How I miss the pumpkin cream cheese muffin and chocolate chip banana cake.) Instead they came out with a rather tame orange cake. The cake didn't really taste like a treat, instead it tasted like a condolence prize. It's no wonder that no one bought it, it was the first cake to make you feel bad while you were eating it.
Now Starbucks has healthier fruit & nut bars as their gluten-free option. Bars you can pick up in any grocery store that offers gluten-free food. It tastes healthy and is much more favorable calorie wise. But who goes to Starbucks, home of the Peppermint Mocha Twist (530 calories for a venti, if you're wondering), to be healthy? The price alone tells you a trip to Starbucks is a treat, a reward for getting through a tough day or a boost for a challenging day ahead. Or, as in my case, motivation to keep writing. I can only hope that Starbucks won't stop at the bars as their only gluten-free option for food. And if they're reading, might I suggest something with chocolate?

Finding a place

My writing is kind of like a relationship, one second I'm in love with it and the next we can't exist in the same room. I'm madly in love as I see all of its strengths. The next moment I hate every aspect of it, especially the quirky bits. The parts that make it unique I wind up criticizing over and over again. Without those parts though what would make it stand out? What would be left to love? It's an endless cycle as I go through edits. One draft after another; polished until it's smooth and gleaming.
Finally, it becomes like a child you send off into the world to be rejected over and over again until it finds its place.
Ultimately though, it's me out there, my talent, my skill, my experience. Once more, I'm going out into the world to be rejected again and again until I find my place; it's scary and thrilling.

Stronger than Cake

Everyone brings something - except the men of course. They'll tear themselves away from their desks twenty minutes after the birthday party or baby/wedding shower has started to polish off the rest of the pizza, to dump the crumbs at the bottom of the bag of chips onto their plates and take the last can of soda. But as a woman I'm expected to bring food. I offer to bring the chips - the kind I can eat. This isn't to make sure that I'll have something to eat - who could make a meal out of potato chips while everyone else devours the 'best pizza in the city' - it's to make sure that I have something to do. I can pick at a plate of chips while everyone else eats their meat lover's slice and deli sandwiches.
I sit near the super skinny girls. The ones who talk about their running time while flexing their tiny calf muscles and how they're trying a new cleanse next week. Since I've never starred in a Michael Bay movie, I never run, and as a Celiac sufferer the concept of a cleanse is too ironic to contemplate. But I'll happily nod and smile while they frown at my choice of grease and salt for lunch. They eat the vegetable-ridden pasta salad, only eating the vegetables as they envy my every crunch. What they don't know is that I'm jealous of every pasta-contaminated broccoli floret they put in their mouths. Each of us thinking the other one has it better.
Later we'll be even when the cake is cut. The super skinny girls and I will keep passing the buttercream-icing topped dessert to the person next to us. Taking a second longer each time before deciding to be strong. For them, they need to be strong until he proposes, until they fit back into their size zero jeans or until it's cold enough to wear bulky sweaters. For me, there is no cut-off date: I need strength for life, the kind I can't get from running.

Writers' props

Kids are always asked what they want to be when they grow up. The answers are always doctor, lawyer, veterinarian, and of course teacher. I even heard the rather specific orthopaedic surgeon once. I've yet to hear anyone answer with "writer." There are no uniforms or props associated with being a writer, except for a laptop, but doesn't every profession use a computer? (And how do we know they're writing instead of looking for photos of their most recent vampire crush?)
Wanting to be a writer as a kid didn't come with a stethoscope and over sized plastic syringe. The best I could do was put a pen behind my ear and a notebook in my pocket. Of course, that just made me look even more like the student I already was.
In fact, it was as a student that I was most comfortable with wanting to be a writer. So long as I could write in the warm cocoon of knowing I already had an audience, I was not just content but confident. Teachers were paid to help me write better while fellow students got me past my overuse of the word beautiful. Every piece was a shared experience, a creation brought to life. Even if no feedback was offered they still listened. It was listening that made me feel like I could call myself a writer; my story in someone else's mind. The characters were outside of the world I had created for them, now existing in another's universe.
Once graduation came, the audience was gone and suddenly writing became a very isolated event. A refuge at times, a saviour always, but lonely never the less.
As I slowly start to build my life, I know that one thing I need is to find an audience again. Someone to listen... now that would be beautiful.

From the beginning... again

How do you start a life? From scratch would be easy, a blank canvas to fill with all of your favorite colors. But the canvas I'm working with is a bit frayed along the edges, not to mention filled with chipped paint and colors you'd never find in the kid-friendly Crayola box. How does one move everything already there to create a picture of yourself that you like, that you recognize as being you and not just a reaction to other people's expectations?
I couldn't tell you the exact day or time (although I have a few theories and my mother has even more) but at some point a switch was flipped in my body and it no longer worked the way it should. I'm lucky though - it's completely controllable so long as I have a will of iron. Unfortunately, the diagnosis took eight years - eight years of pain so bad that I woke up each morning wishing my life away until I could escape again in sleep. Eight years of no energy, of countless doctors prescribing infinite pills, and one unnecessary surgery. Not to mention all the doubt, self loathing and depression that goes with every hopeful savior in a white coat hinting that it might just be all in your head.
I admired everyone else's Manolos while the money was spent on chiropractors, acupuncturists, herbs and vitamins. I tried whatever I could afford. I researched every lead, experimented with every suggestion.
It took eight years and a rather odd game of connect the dots to realize that I had something called Celiac Disease. There are no pills to take, no surgery to recover from. I just have to revamp my life.
At the time of diagnosis I was overwhelmed, too tired to even know where to start. While there are several books on Celiac Disease and even more websites, there is no instruction manual the doctor sends you home with. There is just one rule: No Gluten. The first few months I spent searching every website, reading the best reviewed books and trying every brand of gluten free food available. I did this all while still dealing with the all too familiar pain as well as the newly added detox experience - I was no longer dreaming of that Louis Vuitton bag but of French baguettes. It's been six months and every day is something new, two steps forward and one step back. It was predicted that I might not start feeling any relief until after a year, maybe even two. It's a long time to wait, then again I've already waited eight years. I'm looking forward to starting my life, not just surviving it.