Writer's Digest: 5-Minute Memoir

My "5-Minute Memoir"  is out in the March/April issue of Writer's Digest! Check out the issue at Horizon Books, Brilliant Books and BAM in Traverse City. Here's a PDF online for my essay "The Last Page."

I love this Writer's Digest. If you are a (real, imagined, wannabe, professional, pubbed or unpubbed) writer, you should be reading this publication!

The essay is about losing my mom and how it changed my writing. It was a hard essay for me to write. I wrote it in an afternoon, barely edited it and sent it off before I could change my mind. It was too personal!

I sent it to them in August. Months passed and I forgot about it, relieved, so far-fetched was the idea that it would be published. Then I got an email in November from a "Zac" at Writer's Digest. I deleted it on my iPhone. I thought it was spam.

When I (finally) realized that Zac was real and in fact the Senior Managing Editor, I flipped out. I wanted to be in my favorite magazine so, so much. I was excited and flattered and shocked... and terrified.

This essay was too sad and too personal. I didn't want my sisters to read it. I didn't want my dad to read it. I didn't want anyone to read it. I couldn't even re-read it when they sent me a galley proof. I asked for a couple extra days to get back to them on any changes just so I could prepare myself to face the loss again.

But when I finally brought myself to read it, I felt the sadness (shitloads, as my dad would say) but I saw, too, that it was a tribute to my mother, her laughter and her love, her pancakes and her venison stew. I was glad I'd written it, every word of it true.

For now I am settling for this PDF, but I am stalking the mail lady every day, waiting for my hard copy of the magazine to arrive. I hope you'll read it. And I hope my mom is reading, too.

A new beginning: The spark!

For those of you who are embarking on a new, healthy beginning, be it getting (or finally using) a gym membership, starting to run or eating better, consider this...

All new beginnings start with a spark. For example, polishing off a bag of mini Milky Ways always generates a decent spark. With the pile of shiny wrappers on your couch all around you, you think, OMG (pronounced in full), I must change my ways!

That? That’s a tiny spark. It will happen every time you eat a bag. But this spark is too tiny by itself to ever make you quit.

Get out the flint
Still these little sparks are useful. Pay attention to them each time they come. Seething over an empty, crumb-rattling box of cookies left in the cupboard as a decoy? Spark. Buying a new pair of jeans because the elasticity has clearly gone out of the denim? Spark. Bending over to put on your (new) jeans and glancing in the bedroom mirror just as your belly folds in half. And then in half again? Spark (explosion).

These sparks are part of the process: Once you start sparking like this, you are just a few hundred Oreos away from changing. The slow burn is underway!
The flint will finally come with an ordinary little spark, like when your thighs chafe on the treadmill and catch fire.

Blowtorch time
About this time, you get a little sparky yourself. You feel a steely (flint-like) resolve. For starters, you buy a workout getup. A glorious byproduct of change is the new outfit you need. Relish it. Buy a tank top that shows the roll now but will show the biceps later. Buy the neon pink shoes that will blind the cashier. Buy a new pair of shorts and plan to donate them to Goodwill 10 lbs. from now. Feel benevolent. Spark, spark, spark.

Next, re-appear at the gym, sweaty off the treadmill and carrying a water bottle in the locker room. A long-forgotten gym friend (still toned) will do a double take. You manage a small wave, your arm limp from 10 pushups (8 of which you barely bent your elbows at all). Your hand almost clears your shoulder, but you’re happy. You’re feeling skinny as a rail after one workout. Spark, spark, spark.

Fan the flames
Best to call in reinforcement at this point. An accomplice beside you is the best spark in the world. 

Kandy’s long-time secret flint is her private blog with a friend. Completely private and brutally honest. They post daily in times of need. (For example, when entire bags of Reese’s Pieces are being consumed in a single sitting. No, no. The big bags. The ones that stand up by themselves. Seven servings? We don’t think so.) They log in and list their meals and exercise for the day. It’s a wonderful shaming process made bearable by a lot of bravado, venting and careful crafting of one-liners.

But they both live in mind-numbing fear of the day they accidentally click some button where they make their blog public and the entire world reads their true weight or, worse, their number of threats leveled at Pizza Hut.

Kerry’s secret: Her number one reason for getting a new puppy was to get back to running. She spent years chasing her other dog, Jack; time to re-up! Nothing distracts you more from being a sweaty mess than a cute sidekick named Bobby to steal the show. And, well, if the puppy MUST take a break along the route to investigate a squirrel up a tree, that tree is pretty good for leaning against too. Spark, spark, bark.

As the New Year begins, we wish you all a new beginning with plenty of spark! And, don’t forget, we are launching the Jane 2014 program this issue. If you are ready to apply and put on your “awesome pants,” see page 24 of our Jan.Feb issue or our website at www.grandtraversewoman.com. (There. Was that a spark you felt? Do it!)

Behold: The first snow day of the year

Ah, the first snow day of the year. There’s not much that compares to it.

Snowy roads no match for sledding hill.

It starts about 6 p.m. the night before. Someone (usually me) checks www.snowdaycalculator.com. It says it's a 99% chance of a snow day. Someone (again me) announces this loudly while standing in front of the TV. The children who were tired and grumpy are born-again revelers in high fashion fuzzy pj bottoms. I try to hold them off a smidge by warning them that the site has been wrong 99% of the time so far this year.

But let’s face it, we don’t care. A hope starts up deep inside and homework is tossed aside.

I start to meticulously check the Weather Channel app. I wait and wait for it, until yes, an orange exclamation point appears. A rise of excitement rips through me before I even click on it. Four to 6 inches? I try to steel against my hopes, worried about all those who have to drive to work in the morning. But I can’t help myself: I fire up 1989’s National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. We’re staying up late and, mother of all inventions, we’re microwaving popcorn.

It’s a party before the party. Confession time: Moms want snow days as much, if not more, than the children. We fantasize to great lengths: No lunches to pack. No kids to drive anywhere. No basketball practice. No battle of the wills over what pants to wear. No pants to be worn.

11 p.m. – Everyone is in bed far too late.

Midnight, 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. – I check my phone. The orange ! is still on the screen. Trepidation and exhilaration have a social gathering in my chest.

4:30 a.m. – A check of the TCAPS website. Nothing. Check at 4:31, 4:33, 4:35. Give up. Start prepping myself for the Morning from Hell.

6 a.m. – Wake up to the buzz of a text. Aha! The alert from WLDR that school is closed! I rip my phone from the charger and nearly upend the dresser. My heart hammers wildly. Finally, I can sleep.

7 a.m. – Still can’t sleep. I can’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they get their first snow day. Something you can’t earn, can’t make and can’t buy. It’s bestowed upon them from above and placed lovingly across the ticker on the bottom of the TV screen. I turn off the alarm so the kids can sleep in. I wait quietly, proud of my restraint.

7:30 a.m. – A child races into the room. He makes a beeline for my phone. I say nothing. I don’t want to spoil the surprise and I also want to make sure he can read.

7:31 a.m. – There is shouting, dancing and spontaneous brotherly hugging. Finally, I can go to sleep. My work here is done. Just a pesky little deadline for the 48-page January-February issue on my calendar today…

8:30 a.m. – Without being told, the kids find their own mittens, hats and boots, all without flopping down in a pile by the front door and wailing in despair like every other school day morning. Outside reveals the most glorious of conditions: Fluffy white snow outlining the trees to perfection. When the kids leap, they disappear into a cloud of white.

9:30 a.m. – It’s time for the be-all end-all of snow day activities: sledding. While the roads are impassable for school buses, they are nothing for a mother with two waterproof children on her hands and half a tank of gas.

10:00 a.m. – Head for the sledding hill next to the school.  

Noon – The moms at the sledding hill stand around in the sunshine. We marvel over the heat wave – it’s 14 degrees. And we marvel over the road conditions – they’re better than they’ve been in two weeks. There’s no doubt it. It’s the perfect snow day.