The Moment

Stolen from the Facebook profile of fellow "Moment" contributor Deborah Copaken Kogan (clicking on pic takes you to her website)

The second item on my Life List is: Publish a book. When I look back at it now, I realize I should have been more specific because I’ve sort of done that already. I have run the gamut of publishing jobs ranging from book publicist to book researcher, coordinating sub rights, and e-book producing (where I produced a NYT Bestseller, baby!) If I was to take #2 at face value, however, I’d have to classify it as a book on which I appear as the author complete with name on the cover and author photo on the back flap. So those publishing gigs are subsets of #2.

BUT

This book you see above puts me a step closer. In “The Moment,” you’ll find 125 beautiful moments that changed the lives of writers and artists both famous and obscure. My essay, “Fearless Flyer,” appears in here. It’s my first contribution to a publication that is bound and made of pulp, not pixels. Even more exciting, some of my favorite writers, storytellers, and friends also appear between these covers. I fell in love with Deborah Copaken Kogan’s words in college; I sometimes wonder if Rebecca Woolf (whose insanely gorgeous essay ends the book) and I weren’t separated at birth; Gregory Maguire always enchants me with his stories. Ever since Baratunde Thurston and Sara Barron did the Six-Word reading series I co-produced, I’ve been stuck on their every word. Jennifer Egan and Elizabeth Gilbert (two literary rock stars), also contributed pieces. When I heard Liz Gilbert was contributing a piece, I put Larry Smith, the book’s editor, in touch with my friend/Liz’s sister, the awesome YA writer Catherine Gilbert Murdock, who turned around an essay in no time flat. She’s that good.

“The Moment” also contains pieces from people who aren’t writers by trade, but who are incredible storytellers. Some of my favorite pieces in this book are written by people who are: unemployed, zoologists, still in school, a camp director, and a former trend-forecaster. Everyone has a Moment that changed their lives. What’s yours?

Life List #71

If you check out my life list, you’ll see it’s a work (life) in-progress. #71, Return to the Santa Ynez to walk in the fields and write, was one of those Lift List goals that snuck up on me and that’s part of what made it so enjoyable.

Last month, I traveled to California for an extended period of time to see friends, meet babies, and work from a different location (as lovely as my apartment/workspace is, sometimes I need a change of scenery). During that trip, I visited a friend in Santa Barbara — a place I had only been once before, where I fell in love with and vowed to return to the Santa Ynez mountains.

Since I had a few work days to kill before my friend and I went on an adventure to Hearst Castle, I decided to spend those days writing up in the mountains. At 9am every morning, I made the 30(ish) minute trek up through the gorgeous mountains and settled on the deck of  Corner House Coffee, in Los Olivos. While I typed away on my laptop, I watched the citizens of this small town come in for their morning coffee, stop in for a muffin or a lunch time sandwich or meet up with a spouse after their work day. I heard their local gossip, learned about new construction underway, and pet a few adorable dogs.

During my lunch breaks, I shut my laptop, got into my rental car, and drove around aimlessly through the mountains, marveling as their peaks changed from purple to green and taupe. There were times where I’d comment out loud to myself how it didn’t look real. When you daily commute consists of pavements and subway tunnels, winding roads and expansive views that look as if they were painted with watercolors makes it harder for an urban brain to absorb. It almost makes you feel giddy. Since I was already in a state of euphoria (or maybe it was the altitude), I would follow whatever small sign struck my fancy. One day it was “Lavender Farm, keep right.” Another day “Miniature Donkeys for Sale + Petting Zoo.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I turned down long driveways and was greeted with the smell of fresh lavender or manure. I bought linen spray and almost walked away with a miniature donkey. I walked through an olive grove, picked a few olives off a tree, and absently put them in my pocket — where I rediscovered them a few weeks ago, shriveled and hard as rocks, but they made me smile. I’ll keep them in that jacket to remind me that I took a risk, went off the beaten path, turned off the GPS, didn’t follow Mapquested directions or my hour-by-hour itinerary and just drove — only turning when I encountered small hand-painted signs to destinations that sounded interesting. This freedom from schedule, even from knowing where I was, was exhilarating.

After my lunch break adventures, I went back to the coffee-house and moved indoors, where it was warmer and I could plug-in my laptop. From there, I’d lose myself in World War I and lost romance while the milk steamer hissed and the baristas chatted with each other during their downtime. When the local school children started pouring in and ordering frappes, I emailed my collaborator my rewrites, turned off my computer, and prepared for the trek back down to Santa Barbara. I wrote (and rewrote) two scenes during those days in the Santa Ynez and, not surprisingly, they are my favorite moments in our musical. I’d like to think I first recognized a magic in those mountains that provoked me to add #71 to my Life List — something that lead me to include  the words “and write.” An instinct of sorts. Maybe even a connection to nature. Whatever it was, I’m so happy I listened to it, took advantage of my days there, and had the opportunity to be inspired by such a breathtakingly beautiful region.

The Years Equal 30

I was 18 years old when I first heard someone say, “Your thirties are the best. Your life has more of a focus. The picture gets a little more clear.” I’ve always kept those words in my memory bank. They helped me get through times when I thought I knew what I wanted and then realized I didn’t. Where I worked hard and sometimes forgot to play harder. When I took everything seriously and didn’t realize some of it was something to laugh at. When I wondered how much longer it would take to get to where I wanted to go — and where was that, exactly?

Thirty became a magical number, or, as I learned in math class, a semiperfect number. Very close, but not quite there yet. I feel it though, that closeness. It has been coming on for some time. I walk down the street and run into people I’ve been thinking about hours before. I meet perfect strangers only to learn we’ve almost crossed paths before or have a mutual friend in common. This doesn’t just happen once or twice, this happens all the time, across industries and cities, computers and countries. Paths that crossed once ten years ago meet again until they get twisted into a knot.

The build-up to 30 has also taught me how to say “no.” That it’s possible to be too busy; that one’s self is too important to take for granted. That favors aren’t friendships and friendships, for the most part, should be two-way streets and make you feel good. If they aren’t and they don’t, they’re not worth having.

30 has the confidence I worked toward in my 20s. At some point, I discovered I knew exactly what I was talking about and I didn’t need to convince other people of that. People to whom I listened  and learned from began to listen to and learn from me. I don’t know when that started, but one day it magically began to happen. I’m young enough to know and old enough to understand.

Other things began to feel natural, too; my knowledge came faster and spread wider — I’m only beginning to reel my net back in to take stock of my bounty.

In 30 years, I’ve learned three very important things. They are what I live by and, what I believe has brought me to where I am today:

1) Listening. Everyone has a story. Everyone’s story is fascinating. Listen to it, learn from it. Yesterday, while in a restaurant, I recognized a woman I had met at a mutual friend’s Christmas party seven years ago. I couldn’t remember her name (I’m so bad with names), but I remembered all of her stories: the birth of her first child; her audition for a part in an Oscar-winning film (she didn’t get the role); the story about her husband slicing off his finger and walking four blocks to the hospital, but stopping to get a slice of pizza first, because he knew there would be a long wait in the emergency room. Every one has a story they like to tell. Remember their story. Everyone wants to be remembered, even if you can’t always remember their name.

2) Thank you. People forget how to say thank you or neglect to say it at all. A note, a quick email, a kind word, or something entirely original. Not to get all Emily Post here, but a thank you goes so far in this world. Time is valuable. Giving people your time is equal to giving them your money; minutes, hours or days of your life, and the moments you spend apart from those you love. Every one deserves to be thanked for sharing their wisdom and their time. Thank yous also carry on. Last year, I was having coffee with a friend and admired her necklace. She took it off right there and gave it to me. I wore the necklace just last week and sent her a message to let her know how much I still love it. It was a simple act. It took no more than five seconds. In return, she sent me back a line saying how happy she was I still wore it.

3) Don’t be afraid. This is the hardest thing because fear is our easiest out. Taking risks is a beautiful thing. It doesn’t always end in success or a response, but you learn from each and every scary experience. And, when it does go your way, the victory is sweeter and you know how to embrace it with all of your might. This is the most important thing my parents taught me. They pushed that lesson into me. It took thirty years, but I get it now. I reach out to people I admire; I pitch ideas; I work hard to make things happen; I grab opportunities; I think my way in and out around all sides of a box. I’ve fallen flat on my face. several. times. I’ve taken a moment to dwell on it and then I’ve moved on and rebuilt. It isn’t always easy, but I’ve learned this is how we survive. I can give you one neat little story about something I’ve accomplished or failed at, but the truth is, my successes and failures are written all over this blog. I say the risks I want to take out loud. I take them. As I get older, I succeed at more of them. The odds get both better and worse with age.

I’m glad I had the foresight at age 18 to listen to those words about turning thirty and remember them like a mantra. For right now, these 30 years feel good. But 30 is a semiperfect number. The numbers following it will each reveal a larger portion of my pentimento. I’ll embrace each number as hard, as fully, and as fearlessly as I’ve managed to do with the first 30. Only this time, I have 30 years of experience behind me.