Writing. Life.

My apologies for the spam, dear readers!

Eeek! Someone stole my domain name and made a mess of the blog! I am so sorry for the trash that's just gone out on Feedblitz and am working now to fix it. We've been working seven days a week for the last two months and FINALLY turned in the first draft of the current memoir last Friday night. I hadn't even looked at the blog (or done much of anything else in life) during that time. A perfect example of what happens when  life gets out of balance! All work and no play has not only made me a very dull girl but sabotaged my blog - and caused a lot of you to get spammy garbage. Again, I'm really sorry!

Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme...

After a long hiatus from blogging to focus on writing about mothers and daughters, what better time to reconnect and share some news than Mothers Day weekend. First and foremost, we hop that for all of you, it's a weekend of fun and laughter, of acknowledgment and gratitude, of forgiving if needed, and, of course, love.

It’s actually felt like Mothers Day every day for the last year in our neck of the woods. The more we learn about the relationship between mother and adult daughter, the more we’re struck by the immutability of almost every aspect of it, regardless of era, culture or country. Unconditional love is, of course, the most common thread, though the dispensation of maternal advice and instruction is a close second (early 20^th century author and playwright Florida Scott-Maxwell put it well: No matter how old a mother is, she watches her middle-aged children for signs of improvement.)

American mothers of twenty-somethings are telling their daughters the same things mothers have told their grown daughters for hundreds of years. In a letter from Madame Marie de Sevigny to her  married daughter in 1671: I saw the Duchess de Sully and the Countess de Guiche; their heads are charming, I give in. this hair style is just what will suit you, you will look like an angel and it is quickly done... Now just imagine that the hair is parted peasant fashion to within two inches of the back roll; the hair on each side is cut in layers and made into round loose curls which hang about an inch below the ear; it looks very young and pretty - two bouquets of hair on each side. Don't cut your hair too short because the curls require a lot of hair as several ladies have found out and are an example to others... I don't know if I have explained it very well. I shall have a doll dressed with this hairstyle and send it to you.

Elizabeth Vigee LeBrun was Marie-Antoinette's official court painter. At left is one of LeBrun's many self-portraits with her daughter, Julie. It hangs in the Louvre in Paris. In 1800, several years after this was painted, LeBrun, lamented: Unhappy as I was at the thought of giving my daughter, my only child, to a man without talents, without fortune, without a name... In vain did I attempt to make my daughter understand how unlikely in every way this marriage was to make her happy. Her head was so far turned that she would take nothing from my offering and experience. (Julie did marry him; he squandered their money and then dumped her.)      

Mia felt vindicated by the former, I by the latter. You can see countless examples of motherly advice (most of them hilarious)  at a website where women send in emails and instant messages their mothers sent them  - www.postcardsfromyomomma.com

While you're online, we were just interviewed by www.BookReporter.com  as part of a Mothers Day series featuring mothers and daughters who write together. We describe what it's like working together, the writing process itself, and share a few funny (read embarrassing) stories. Also interviewed are Janet and Alex Evanovitch and Carolyn and Lisa See, among others. Mothers of authors (such as Emily Griffith and Catherine Schine) are also interviewed.

Comments, cookies and catch-up

First, thank you, CM, for your comment - it means so much to us to know our story has helped someone heal. It is hard to understand what someone we love is feeling and thinking when we're so hurt, frustrated, bewildered and angry at them for self-destructing.  Even after going through the whole ordeal with Mia, it was only in reading what she wrote as we worked on Come Back that I truly, fully understood her experience. Thank you to all of you who have taken the time to comment or email us privately, we feel so privileged and blessed that you share your stories with us.

And thank you, Janice, for cheering us on (my email bounced back, please send new one, time for a catch-up chat!) 

 We are still working, seven days a week, to finish the new memoir. Lots of challenges and setbacks the last few months, personally and professionally (among other things, a building employee stole a container with all of our jump drives, camera memory sticks with photos from the trip, some not yet transfered, and our tape recorder with ALL of our taped conversations from the trip, what a NIGHTMARE.) But you know how it is, the frustrating stuff is where you learn the most about yourself. Joe, see photo, reminds me that laughter will get you through most things. What a surprise to find him tucked in the trees behind the Pope's Palace in Avignon.
 

A big THANK YOU to all of you who have sent, and continue to send, your questionnaires - what a joy to read and how useful. You'll be tickled to know that some of the things that rattle you about your mothers or your daughters are exactly the same as mothers like Madame de Sevigny in the 17th Century! We'll be quoting some of these ladies-of-the-courts' diaries; you'll laugh in recognition! And many of the things that delight and endear you haven't changed either. 

We're falling in love with Avignon all over again as we recreate her on our office walls, blowing up photos, etc. Such a feminine city, endlessly fascinating and compelling, we couldn't have picked a better place to explore the mother/daughter relationship, full of surprises and charm.

 

We're taking the afternoon off to bake cookies and make butter crunch toffee with a girlfriend. We're gonna bake and talk and eat and get messy and have some much-needed fun. We hope you ladies are having fun, too. 

Mia and I send our best wishes and love to all of you as one year ends and another begins - a new year to love, learn and laugh.

The Nose Knows (that's a dumb title, Mother!)

Ever notice how suddenly and powerfully scent can take you back to a particular time and place? Like the smell of blackboard chalk, cut grass, the beach or something that smells just like your mom's Avon hand lotion did. It's as close as we'll probably ever get to time travel, complete with visuals, sounds, emotions, physical sensations. It's hypnotic really, almost like a drug. Scent bypasses our thinking brain and goes right to the primitive part of the brain (or lizard brain as it's called, which if you lived in Florida and saw all the squashed lizards on the sidewalks, you'd totally get. You'd think they'd evolve.) 

It's rarely the case, but sometimes a scent in adulthood will burrow into us in the same way. For me it was lavender. Yeah, yeah, I know, cliche, lavender's so trendy. Nonetheless. I've had the good fortune of being invited to spend summers with friends who live in Provence. Every August, I get to be another me. A more elemental, feminine, happy me, someone who rarely comes out of hiding. It took me a few summers to realize why (aside from the obvious.) It was the scent in the air there. Lavender is a relaxant, it's used in hospitals in Europe to help patients sleep. Purple was one of my least favorite colors. Now all I have to do is see the color lilac, periwinkle or lavender to sigh. I feel instantly like my August me.

In NLP (neurolinguistic programming) this kind of brain/body reminder is called an anchor. Kind of how rosary beads or a yarmulke remind one of a higher power every time you see it or touch it. You can create an anchor in many ways - consciously, by attaching a piece of jewelry or object in your purse to a visualization or affirmation ("I am calm and confident," "I trust life," "What would I be doing if I weren't worrying?" etc.) Or by noticing what you've unconsciously created, as I did with lavender. You can also use a gesture as an anchor. While getting my coaching certification, some classmates created an anchor by switching a bracelet from one hand to the other every time they found themselves doing or thinking something they wanted to change, for example, judging rather than being neutral. With practice and mindfulness, it's an amazing tool for growth. 

I've put bundles of lavender in my home (left) and I'm looking to find some small lavender something to carry with me. To remind me to be soft, to choose ease. Images of lavender are on the Vision Map I've been working on (I should say playing on.) Here are some photos from a day Mia and I spent driving from one field of purple to another. That's me at the Abbey at Senanque, near Gordes (after a week of eating waaay to much bread and cheese) and, above, of some fields outside of Sault. Here's a great NY Times article on a few folks that grow lavender in Sonoma, California.  

Mothers & Daughters

That's pretty much where we've been the last seven months,  immersed in the land of mothers and adult daughters as we write and research for our second memoir, an exploration of this relationship. It's such a complex and fascinating subject, we never tire of listening to and learning from other women about their own mother/daughter bond. 

In the "there are no accidents" department, last night we watched  "Mothers&Daughters," a Toronto film festival award-winner about the lives of three mother/daughter pairs. We loved it, it was moving, sometimes funny and rang so true in so many ways. Mia found it on Comcast's Movies on Demand while I was in the kitchen making lemon risotto (I go to town on side dishes in an effort to make salmon palatable.) 

Our work break is usually dinner with the news or a movie. We have to watch in the living room, because the book has taken over the dining room of my petite fixer-upper. Here's what the dining room looked like last winter, when the book was an entertaining little tale of our travels and travails last year. A simple outline.

 Behold here the reason we haven't posted in so long. This is what the structure looks like now that the story has expanded to include the relationship across centuries and across the globe, and after interviewing women of all ages to get a broader perspective. And this is just a small section. We have catalogued and attached close to 800 notes/recorded  dialogue/visuals/recollections/anecdotes, etc. to each chapter. We've had so many balls in the air this last few months, I've come close to weeping on many a night. Mia simply takes a nap when it gets too overwhelming.

We've decided that as long as we're buried in all this, why not include you in the writing and publishing process, the foods (including recipes) and sensual delights of the trip (from lavender and perfume to Hungarian paprikash,) photos of the trip, travel tips (lots of those,) Mia's running commentary on the culture, and, of course, what we're learning about mothering and daughtering. 

If you'd like to help with the book, we'd LOVE your input. Please email us at [email protected] and we'll send you a short questionnaire to fill out on your relationship with your mom and, if you have one, your adult daughter. Once the book's released, our publisher will send signed copies to twenty randomly drawn questionnaire filler-outers.

We're excited to be back and looking forward to creating a fun place for you to visit!

Mia's Thanksgiving Thoughts

It's Thanksgiving day, but my mind keep wandering to the bombings in Mumbai, particularly the image of the small Israeli boy, his pants covered in blood, likely that of his parents. His own rescue is a small miracle. And I couldn't help but be somewhat annoyed when the newscaster changed his voice and facial expression to announce the winner of a local school's Turkey Drawing Contest!  Yes, on one of our nation's oldest and most celebrated holidays, running the Mumbai story non-stop is utterly depressing, but even he seemed somewhat embarrassed at how forced it felt.  

I suppose you could look at the bombings as a strong reminder of all we have to be thankful for, but it's a somber, rather than celebratory, sense of gratitude that I'm feeling today. Our ability, my own ability, to turn pain or discomfort off and on so quickly amazes me. To some degree I'm sure it's a survival mechanism. I remember once being told that after giving birth you forget the pain immediately, but I remember thinking that it made sense. We do forget what's painful as soon as we see something beautiful, memory is murky territory, easily changed, forgotten or deliberately ignored. 

I often find such sharp juxtapositions unsettling, I don't know what to make of them, where to file them.  I'm learning to balance conflicting emotions, learning to experience them together if they arise that way, rather than compartmentalize them for faster, easier understanding.  I think it's necessary because you typically experience both in equal measure over the course of a lifetime, especially as technology has made our world so much smaller ad faster, and noticing my reaction to the children's contest made me realize often much I do this.

So today I am thankful for the small things that never fail to elicit laughter and smiles even when you are surrounded by chaos or cruelty: exuberant puppies, waddling toddlers still in diapers, the smell of pumpkin in the oven, popcorn and movies, purring cats. I'm thankful I got to meet my family in Budapest last summer - L to R - cousins Hajni, Zoli, little Zolika on my lap, Eva. I'm thankful for my own small corner of the world which, today, is filled with nourishment and love. I hope yours is, too.

In the Company of Women

Having a mother who's a writer forces you to think in different ways.  My mom and I spent that last two days gallivanting around the Provencal countryside with some girlfriends and, when talking about how much fun we had over coffee this morning, she asked me what I felt was the theme of those days, what the weekend was really about.  This is the type of question that I both love and am exasperated by.  I love it because it makes me think in ways that I otherwise wouldn't. I'm exasperated by it because, besides my college literature professor, only my mother sees the world so…thematically? Mythically? Bigly? And expects me to do so pre-coffee. 

So what was the theme?  Good food was too easy.  The smell of wild lavender too clichéd.  The joy to be had in the company of other women probably stood out the most but I know my mother well enough to anticipate being asked well, what about the company?   Is it the company of women in general or this group in particular? 

In the group, there was one woman for each generation, 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s and 60 (note: I say 60, not 60s - our friend-who-shall-not-be-named pointed out that she sixty, not in her sixties!), something I hadn't given a second thought  to until our discussion. That I hadn't thought of it made me realize again, as I often have for the last few years, that I no longer feel like the girl in a group of women.  Which I suppose is a function of being a woman myself.  Having taken a couple of years off for bad behavior, I'm a bit of a late bloomer. 

I think the other reason our age differences never occurred to me is where I've lived the last four months. Age simply isn't as much of an issue in France as it is in the U.S. There isn't the same sub-categorization of women based on age. You don't see magazines geared for each decade, or beauty and fashion tips divided into age group charts (How to Look Sexy in Your Twenties, Thirties, Forties, etc.) Here, you're either a girl, a woman or seeing a gerontologist. And young men look at my mom as much as they look at me. 

I can't wait to return to certain things back home, I haven't eaten a good hamburger in months, nor spoken with someone on more than a third grade level (I'm an utter disgrace to the French department at my college).  But one thing I know I will miss is this feeling of agelessness.  

Here's a picture we took, just us girls playing around in a vineyard. 

An Update from France

A bit of news from France and some in the states, too. The new PS edition of Come Back was just released and is in stores now, on the endcap/aisle at B&N and on the Buy 1, Get 1 tables up front at Borders; if you happen to be in a bookstore and it's not there, please send me a note! In the new section at the back, we talk about our writing process, there's also an interview with us, as well as copies of some of our letters to each other while she was away. We included her first letter home from Morava, quite a missive... if I'm not out of here by summer I'm gonna burn the fucking place down! She wasn't and she didn't.

You can click on this link if you'd like to read some of the new PS section, click here.

We're still in Avignon working on our new book, stealing away when we can to have fun. Here we are at our friends' vineyard in St. Cecile les Vignes. Jean-Marc's grapes are "biologique," their term for organic. When he first planted them last year, he even made "tisanes" for them, herbal teas, to strengthen them, as one would our own immune system. We tasted his first red, "Dentelles," which is rich and, pardon my lack of wine vocab, "thick" and silky, a little chocolate and cherry. After only half a glass, I also realized that it has a higher alcohol content, 14%, than our wines, quite a kick. Here we are by the vines.

As promised below, here are photos of us in a jumble of lavender and one in the right direction (instant purple catapillars.) You'll have to click on the links to see two of the photos.

Deja Vu

This month has been a time of return, remembrance and renewal for Mia and me. We returned to Gordes, in Provence, a place of great peace and beauty for me. It was where I first felt healed from the trauma that had dominated our lives to that point, and it was where I felt a sense of profound pleasure, of great sensual delight for the first time in twenty-five years. And for the first time I realized that such things are not a luxury, they nourish us as much as food, air and sleep.

We are in Budapest for two weeks to visit my family, some of whom Mia is meeting for the first time, my great-niece and great-nephew (having a great-anything is a sobering thought.) We usually start each day at Nagycsarnok, the biggest indoor market in this part of the world, to buy some of the amazing produce grown in Hungary (and a poppy seed pastry or two... or three.) It’s a beautiful glass and metal building with a soaring ceiling, reminding us that this is very much a nineteenth-century city, complete with several structures designed by Gustav Eiffel and wrought ironwork that is a national treasure (or should be considered so, it might nudge the city to restore more of it.)

Mia took a two-day side trip to Brno, in the Czech Republic, to spend the night in what was once Morava, the school/facility where she herself first began to heal. Of course, she was forced to go (by yours truly) and it was a lock-down facility (so she couldn’t run away for the fifth time,) but it was where she first learned to love herself again. It’s now a small resort/pensione, but the cook you read about in the book, Francesca, is still there and made Mia the same lunch she used to make the girls. She also got to spend the night in her old room, in her old bed. It was a very significant trip for her, nostalgic, bittersweet and delightful in its way. She’ll post about it later this week

Greetings from Provence!

Hello there, it’s Mia this time. This post is coming to you from Avignon, a fortified city in the South of France where my mother and I are working on a new project. France has proven to be both delightful and depressing. Delightful in that, well, it’s France. Depressing in that as my waistline slowly gets bigger thanks to all of the bread, cheese and chocolate, my bank account is getting not-so-slowly smaller thanks to the weak dollar and the fact that I quit my well-paying, full-benefits 9-5 to take on this project.

But back to the delightful... My mother has been to France six times and has yet to arrive early enough to see Provence’s lavender fields. Braving foreign driving rules and signs, and the speed and impatience of the French when they take the wheel, we rented a car for the day to do just that. My initial impression of a lavender field was rather underwhelming, a peppering of purple amidst sage-colored tufts of grass. It wasn’t until we drove by and saw the field from a different angle that the plants suddenly organized themselves into row after row of what looked like giant, purple, Dr. Seuss-like earthworms. PICTURE A GORGEOUS FIELD OF LAVENDER LEADING TO A HUGE STONE ABBEY HERE (where the photo is supposed to be but isn't loading for some reason - check back soon.)

While I was charmed by sunny hilltop villages, I was most impressed by the Abbey at Senanque and totally seduced by a little shop in otherwise-drab Apt called the Bonbonierre, where I bought a confection that sinfully combines candied clementines, marzipan, honey and chocolate. PRETEND YOU CAN SEE THIS CANDY HERE - SORRY!

This trip is the first summer my mom’s enjoyed the lavender. It is, however, the sixth summer she’s enjoyed this candy (quell surprise…)