Category: Commentary

I’m Writing A Novel, For Real This Time

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

In my twenties, I quit my job several times to write a novel. The premise was: working was incompatible with writing a novel.

This assumption of needing to stop everything to write a novel is especially hilarious now. Fast forward to 45, when I’m writing a novel, for real this time. And leading a non-profit organization. And married with a school-age child. And providing elder care support as the only child of my lovely parents. And completing an MFA in creative writing. And chairing a board of directors. And volunteering with the school. And going to church. And running a few marathons a year.

Writing a novel while I’m doing an ungodly number of things is weird, but I’m actually doing it. I’ve puttered around the margins of this story for years, trying to write my way in. How many times have I started a new draft, a new outline? It was time that I needed. Because now, the real novel is on.

I’ve written hundreds of pages, and write four a day on average. Every day. No matter what. I have an outline I’m more than halfway through, and am 136 pages into the draft that is actually going to be the real first draft, the serious first draft. The first time I ran a marathon I started tearing up around mile 24 because I realized I was far enough to actually finish. I have reached this feeling with this novel. I trust it. I will finish this first serious draft.

How is this possible? Especially given the number of commitments I’ve listed above?

Here’s my secret: Writing my novel is actually the most relaxing thing I do.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m in out-of-body mode when I’m writing my novel. I just zone out and let ‘er rip on the page.

Perhaps I have reached the maturity to write in flow (I am a merciless self-editor) because I have finally come to accept the real thing they teach you in MFA programs. Everything you write is only going to be rewritten. Again. Again. And again. And just when you think you’re about done, someone new will tell you to take it from the top once more in this new way that requires more work, more time. (The never-ending workshops of the MFA are their own topic, but I will note with envy the wise words of one of my favorite colleagues in my program: “I hate these people.”)

I have an Oura ring, which is constantly mad at me, in its polite Finnish way. I have learned: My body is showing a physiological stress response pretty much all the time. For example: Folding laundry is especially rough on my stress levels, apparently. But this is not addressable. I am a mom. I am always folding laundry. This fact is only made worse by the fact that I’m a distance runner. Talk about heart rate. (In an amusing paradox, whereas my husband very much wants his Apple Watch to track every bit of exercise he does for tracking purposes, I sometimes take my ring off for a long run so it won’t dock my readiness scores for the next few days.)

The amazing thing is the proof of my novel love is in my pulse. Short of sleep, there is no time my body is more relaxed than when I am writing my novel. Interestingly, this doesn’t apply to other times I am writing (creatively or professionally) or working at the same computer and desk. But if my vanilla novel-writing candle is lit, and I’ve got my coffee cup beside me, and the for-real first draft is open, it’s on.

And this is how I know that I’m writing a novel for real this time. That I’ll actually finish. That it doesn’t matter if I have a million other things going on. Because writing the novel has become the best part of my day, and I miss it when I’m not doing it. I want to be in that seat even when the scene is sputtering. The novel is not an aspiration, a chore, or even an end. The process has become the point.

As with running, when I’m writing the novel I am free. In a trance. Who cares if it’s any good? I don’t think I’ve done anything as beneficial for my mental and physical health in years.

Domestic Violence Is Terrorism, And The Problem Of Pete Hegseth

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Domestic violence is terrorism. While anyone can be a target, and anyone can be a perpetrator, domestic violence’s primary form is the domination of individual men over individual women. But the individual stories that make up domestic violence are not one-offs, or even a pattern: they are a systemic expression of male domination. Domestic violence is patriarchy, most literally weaponized at the most elemental building block of society: within the human relationship of family.

I’m going to start with some definitions, and then discuss how they fall short. Finally, I’d like to examine how acknowledging domestic violence as terrorism further elaborates upon the dangerous, unqualified nature of Pete Hegseth’s nomination to be Secretary of Defense.

I do need to disclaimer these definitions of domestic violence and terrorism to follow, because at the time of writing (January 22), we are three days into the second Trump administration and it seems that any moment the Department of Justice will no longer have an Office on Violence Against Women, or if it does, this page will become really fucking weird. So, too, the FBI website is about to become a new outpost of RT or some such, and one can only imagine what definition of terrorism is going to slide onto this website when the top priority of the authoritarian president and wack-a-doodle FBI director is ‘RETRIBUTION.’ (And how long until someone is punished either directly by the state or by agents operating on its behalf for writing a paragraph such as this? Oh well, part of the way autocracy works is fear on the part of the people, including self-censorship, and I will be calling for free speech from the rafters until I’m hauled out!)

At the time of writing, here’s the definition of domestic violence from the Department of Justice’s Office on Violence Against Women, quoted, and with a screen shot below for posterity:

Domestic violence is a pattern of abusive behavior in any relationship that is used by one partner to gain or maintain power and control over another intimate partner. Domestic violence can be physical, sexual, emotional, economic, psychological, or technological actions or threats of actions or other patterns of coercive behavior that influence another person within an intimate partner relationship. This includes any behaviors that intimidate, manipulate, humiliate, isolate, frighten, terrorize, coerce, threaten, blame, hurt, injure, or wound someone.

And also at the time of writing, the definition of terrorism from the FBI before inevitably Trump 2.0 changes it, again with a screen shot to help future us remember ‘the way we were’:

International terrorism: Violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups who are inspired by, or associated with, designated foreign terrorist organizations or nations (state-sponsored).

Domestic terrorism: Violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of a political, religious, social, racial, or environmental nature.

The domination of men over women in abusive relationships is absolutely a “violent, criminal act committed … to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of a political, religious, or social … nature.” In fact, keeping women in line with rigid gender roles in which men reign supreme is one of the chief outcomes of domestic violence. It’s an ideological goal absolutely supported by a toxic culture. I’d argue the only reason why this no-brainer isn’t already recognized is because of, you guessed it, systemic sexism that has permeated societies for literal ages.

Which brings me to the latest news of Pete Hegseth, that allegedly alcoholic and misogynistic (both allegations backed by piles of eyewitness accounts and unsavory quotes that have been reported in the media!) television anchor who has never managed a large, sophisticated organization. He is incredibly unqualified to run the Department of Defense, and in normal times within our democracy, when both parties had a commitment to vetting nominees regardless of how much power they held, his nomination would not remain a going concern.

But these are not normal times within our democracy.

Now Mr. Hegseth’s former sister-in-laws says he abused his second wife. The other disqualifications were disqualifying. This is even more disqualification, and perhaps the most of the most disqualification. The Department of Defense is intimately engaged in the battle against terrorism. If we accept that domestic violence is terrorism (as we should), then it follows that these allegations, if true, mean that Mr. Hegseth has no place in a position that is at least supposed to fight for the ideals of freedom, justice, and security.

My Online Real Estate Obsession

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I have many pathologies, one of them is compulsive use of a website, Redfin.com.

There are many cities in which I look at homes. I look at homes for hours. I will never live in these homes. I will never live in these cities. Many of these cities I don’t even want to live in.

Nor am I looking to move at this time.

I hate moving, actually. I hate boxes and packing them and especially, unpacking them. It is why I still have unpacked boxes from moves several years ago.

But here is what I love: fantasy.

The fantasy of having a slide that shoots from the upstairs to the playroom in the basement (what lucky children live there)!

The fantasy of an old-school elevator, the kind with a collapsible metal screen painted black instead of a proper door, or an outdoor shower by the sea.

The fantasy of any number of architectural styles having nothing to do with one another: mid-century modern, Victorian vampire, camelback fixer-upper, exposed brick artist loft, ugly nouveau riche McMansion (often contains provocative innovations in toileting equipment).

I have realized what this is about. I want to have multiple lives, as many lives as possible.

I want more.

The older I get, the more I have seen the irrevocable finitude of others. And I see my finitude. This one life of mine is moving fast, seemingly accelerating because that is what happens when you gain perspective by way of time.

By fantasizing about a succession of alternate lives, I am able to pretend I have more runway than I probably do. (Though I consider myself to be quite healthy and put effort into that—it would be awesome to live as long as possible.)

I rawdog this website, Redfin.com, no account, no app, gawking homes in my pretend cloak of anonymity.

Of course every site I’ve ever visited is tracking me with “cookies.”

Of course Mark Zuckerberg, Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos and the supposedly depersonalized algorithm know everything.

Redfin.com and the whole internet control apparatus knows damn well I’m a middle-age woman with a long list of additional monetizable insecurities and obsessions (to flatter the ego, we’ll relabel them ‘aspirations’) not specified here. This is escapism with no escape hatch.

What Does It Mean To Be A Writer In The Trump Era?

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

I’ve been thinking on what it means to be a writer in the Trump era.

It means nothing good.

The latest salvo in the assault on the press out of the dictator-elect looks like a lawsuit against The Des Moines Register and others for publishing a poll that suggested Kamala Harris would win the state on election day (she didn’t).

This comes on the heels of a $15 million settlement payment from ABC to Donald Trump following a defamation lawsuit he filed regarding George Stephanopoulos’ characterization of E. Jean Carroll v. Trump, a civil suit in which Trump was found liable for sexual abuse.

To wind it back, so what does this mean for writers?

The next phase of Trumpism hasn’t even taken the reins yet, and it’s clear that speech is out for punishment.

As a hobby I study authoritarian governments and their effects on societies, and I think an instructive example is to look toward Russia, the country that gave literature Tolstoy, Chekov, Gogol … and then,

nothing.

There is nothing like a vindictive, hostile state demanding obedience to kill the publication of creativity.

I’ve also been thinking about the disturbing trend of book bans, and the edict in Project 2025 that school librarians be registered as sex offenders if the censors deem they have been providing sexually explicit material.

And I’ve also been thinking about trends within the left that also hamper free speech. I’ve noticed a definite uptick among colleagues and friends with concern that speaking out of turn will lead to getting cancelled. This is quite frightening at a time when the left needs to robustly champion open and free debate. The right is sure as hell not going to do it.

I’ve heard it said before, “reading is thinking on the page.” So, too, is writing.

So here’s what I think: To be a writer in the Trump era–a writer, not a sycophant–is going to require taking creative risks at even greater levels than before. It is an audacious thing to believe one has something to contribute. Only growing moreso.

I Actually Have No Idea How Fast I Am Going

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I write about running a lot, because I run a lot. Perhaps too much. It is entirely possible that my running is detracting from my writing. It used to be the case that when I got up early, I would write. Now when I get up early, I run. Or I start working on my job so that I have time to run when it gets light outside. If I’m being honest, I have too many [waves hands] hobbies.

But running gives me energy. That feeds my ability to write. And my ability to give my best thwack to fighting the hateful ideas behind gender-based oppression, which, tbh, is not an easy nutcracker to ballet.

I work out many ideas on my feet.

I am a middle-age recreational lady runner. For that demographic, I take it seriously. For years I’ve kept a daily journal noting time, distance, pace. I schedule my runs. I compete against myself like whoa. (The only person you’re ever really competing against is yourself, I’ve learned. All these lessons are for running and so much more.)

One thing I’ve been focusing on is my speed. Training myself to run faster is fun. In this process, I have realized that I actually have no idea how fast I am going. Sometimes, I look at my device and realize I’m going like a minute per mile faster than I thought I was. Much more often, I think I’m going fast, and I’m like slo-mo runner in actuality.

I think to the times in my life when I’ve crashed or burned out, and how this lack of self-awareness about self in relation to time and space chases me. Me chasing me without realizing I’m doing it. But also how there are times that I think I’m going fast when actually, it’s an illusion and I need to buck up to hit the mark.

To know oneself in relationship to an actual measurement of velocity is somewhat akin to the experience of seeing yourself on video. This is how I look from outside the blinders of my body? Really?

Sometimes I think I can understand others better than I can myself. And to be clear, I’m constantly confuzzled by others. Who is this me in the sneakers? How fast is she going? I dunno.

Another Semester Of Grad School Complete

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

Tonight, I finished my final “normal” semester of my part-time, low-residency graduate MFA program. By this I mean, I am done with my last regular class. This end came unceremoniously, in the parking lot outside my daughter’s gymnastics, with me hunched over my laptop in the dark in the passenger’s seat, using my hotspot from my phone. I responded to the required reading for the week. I have already turned in my final project early.

It is best to turn things in early when you’re a sandwich-generation student working a full-time job. You just never know when real life will blow up. In my experience it does all the time.

The more time I spend studying writing, the more I come to believe I have no business writing. Or that I have no business doing anything but writing. The absolutes come flying at me strong, and with feeling, as if by embracing the extremes I can avoid the dull reality of what it means to keep up with the work and the laundry on a regular basis.

Next semester, I start thesis. I will do this for two semesters. My thesis is a novel I have been trying to write for years.

I know I will emerge with this degree, and this novel draft, one year from now. And I accept that I’ll probably have to revise that draft eight times or more after the degree is over.

What I’m learning most of all in this program is that it’s not about writing, which I have always done. It’s about revision. It’s about ruthlessly staring at your own words and asking how they could be better. About excising the phrase you thought was so clever. About building the eye, and then the courage, to find and eliminate that wicked phrase. And to sharpen the next one. And to try rewriting the whole damn piece, again. A fourth time.

And it’s also about managing to do all that ego-whipping grunt work when the parking lot of your child’s activity is the only available option to getting it done. I’m continually struck, reading male authors, how little they talk about the needs of daily life, of interdependence, cohabitating with their precious writing time. This imbalance is part of what inspires me to keep going.

Goodbye, Democracy. Goodnight, Social Media Time Suck. Hello, Old Friend The Blog.

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary2 Comments

For the past two weeks, nearly every conversation I’ve had starts with:

How are you doing?

Well, of course we’re all doing terrible, generally speaking. There is a looming fascist dictatorship. It’s a variant of the doom feeling before throwing up is certain:

It’s coming. Nothing can be done.

Some days the check-in is cathartic. Other days, it’s draining. And throughout these conversations, even conversations occurring on the same days, my answers change.

Because sometimes I get really sad. I’m human.

But mostly I’m okay. Fighting authoritarianism is something I’ve thought seriously about for several years at this point. And I’ve been studying and working to address an important segment of this issue—the anti-abortion movement is an anti-democracy movement, full stop—for years.

So, I feel equipped to fight in my own corner, and I have resources to do so. And, I’m not afraid to keep fighting if and as crackdowns on activists get more intense than anything previously seen. And I do believe that’s going to happen. While I’m not seeking to martyr, and I hope this is not necessary, I’m willing to make sacrifices in service of my commitment to living in a democracy where there is rule of law, freedom of expression, and equality for all.

Because I’m a motherfucking American, dammit.

I’m not jejune about our collective predicament. What’s ahead will be much uglier than the first time around with Mr. Dictator. He’s going to go for it. Some people are going to be rounded up and put in jail. Others are going to die. He will simultaneously seek to dismantle the government and replace it with a retribution chamber in the mirror of his own whims. This is what authoritarian governments do. And that is what our looming collective future is.

I’m not really joking when my husband calls out to ask what the hell I’m listening to, and I answer, Pussy Riot, while I can still listen to it without going to jail.

But also, I want to share the most wonderful thing from the past two weeks. I have drastically changed my relationship to social media, as well as news consumption.

Acknowledging the concerning matter of Mr. Musk and setting it aside from its own explication, all social media has created an echo chamber that has promoted the rise of authoritarianism, and the division of neighbor from neighbor. It has also created feeds that are, frankly, a drag. I’m mourning with people all day long, and I don’t want to do it on the Internet as well.

Moreover, dictatorships depend on overwhelming you. The news cycle is purposefully made awful to overwhelm you. I don’t want to consume news through social media anymore. There is no value in having my news curated by for-profit monsters in bed with the regime. It distorts my views and makes it more difficult to understand what is going on.

I’m also stepping back from a robust engagement I had with news alerts. I am and will always be what my mom calls a “news junkie,” but I’m relying more on actual newspapers and occasional check-ins on television. I don’t need to doom scroll anymore.

Protecting my strategic headspace from the steady drip-drip of outrage gives me the space I need to fortify myself for what’s ahead. It keeps me from inadvertently colluding with the algorithms built for our domination. And, it’s giving me more space for reading books and writing for myself.

So, if you want to find me on the internet, erintothemax.com is more likely to be the spot than social media. If you want to, go ahead and subscribe to get emails each time I post, and we can do this together.