“These are words I’ve lived and written by; they have allowed me to find meaning and purpose in every age, stage, experience adventure and misadventure in life. Here, I do it again, focusing on our lives, mine and yours, as writers. I give some advice; I tell some stories.
"Thanks for the title, Maurice.”
The car — I put gas in it yesterday — has only one small suitcase and two audiobooks. I packed lightly; it’ll only be an overnight. But my heart and mind are much more densely packed for this brief trip, to Sevierville, Tennessee. To see Hattie Mae. *** 1986. We used to say, of Dairy Hollow House, “It’s Eureka’s best inn,… Read More
Because yesterday was going to be a very full day, rather than put off what I consider my daily must-do’s until later, I did them first thing in the morning. The must-do’s include a very brief practice that passes for meditation or devotions (it’s not exactly either, but that’s the closest summation). And, writing practice. And, the drinking of alkalized… Read More
“That’s not the name of the song!” my father, Maurice, would say, mock-irritated. “It’s ‘Theme from the Sandpiper’, ‘Theme from the Sandpiper’!” But Charlotte, my mother, would merely give her half-smile, inscrutable. Like almost everyone else, she called the song “The Shadow of Your Smile.” That’s a line from the lyrics. The most memorable line, the one which everyone who’s ever… Read More
He would have been 60 yesterday, my late husband. But he didn’t even live to 50. In 2000, he went on his usual 3 times a week bicycle ride out towards Beaver Lake, turned at the Conoco station (which, because they used to rent canoes out there, he always referred to as the “Canoe-Co”) and headed home. Instead, he bicycled… Read More
This is one of four posts on poundcakes; which is to say, on life. And death. And stories. In June 2012, I went to a memorial for Maurice Sendak, the legendary children’s book writer-illustrator. He’d died the month before, at 84. Among his countless accomplishments, Maurice illustrated one of the books my mother, Charlotte Zolotow, wrote. His pictures for her Mr. Rabbit and the… Read More
Soup & respite in a whirlwind phase…there I was, taking a little bit of solo time at last, eating Thai comfort food on a bitterly cold night at a tiny restaurant on 19th Street in New York. Called Go-Go Thai, this restaurant was so tiny it grew noticeably colder every time the door opened, and eventually I put my coat… Read More
Small Satisfactions, Relentless Incrementalism: night-time walk in a town where I was young Last Saturday, for the first time in five days (I’d had company), I reached my daily goal of 10,000 steps, counted on my Fitbit. I reached it with a cool 10 minutes to spare before midnight. This happened because, as I was working away that evening, I… Read More
Quick, think of your favorite musician. Bonnie Raitt? Yo-Yo Ma? Doesn’t matter. John Coltrane? Lady Gaga? Eric Clapton? Youssou N’Dour? Doesn’t matter. Dolly Parton, Mirian McPartland, Howlin’ Wolf, Luciano Pavarotti? Still doesn’t matter. Because whoever he or she is, he or she did (and, if alive, still does) three things that anyone, who is good at anything, does. Those three things:… Read More
So I’m driving home last night from yoga, in a dreamy state, and I pass the farm stand at high Meadows and can see from the road that it looks like they still have two boxes of what are doubtlessly the very very very last of the season fresh raspberries. I go past, really not inclined to stop, but those… Read More
Oh oh… Surpassingly strange, strong, moving, out-of-the-blue moment tonight. The words I will try to find for it can only inadequately express the experience. I was at a yoga class which I take once a week, on Tuesday night, called restorative yoga. This is the one fitness class of any kind, anywhere, that I’ve ever taken, where at some level… Read More
I was innocently standing at the foot of my hill by the mailbox, flipping through the envelopes, about eight years ago. And there, smack in the middle of the mail, was one from Bank of America, with the word ‘statement.’ I glared at it. And heard myself say aloud, snarlingly, “Goddammit! I thought I was done with you!” I took… Read More
At the memorial service for the poet Miller Williams, a service held a month ago at the Fayetteville, Arkansas public library, I met his daughter, singer/songwriter/musician Lucinda Williams. It turned out she knew of one of my more obscure and long ago cookbooks, and she began telling me the dishes she made from it… “And those vegetable fritters? I must've… Read More
“My late father, Maurice Zolotow, was a Hollywood biographer, a professional freelance writer and passionate reader. Whenever I went through hard times, personally or professionally, Maurice could be counted on to tell me two things. The first was advice: ‘Write your way out of it!’ he’d bark, directively. But then, more thoughtfully, he’d say, ‘It’s all material, Cres. Nothing is wasted on the writer.’
