Voice |vois|:

The distinctive style of a literary work or author

Conference season is upon us. A time for artistic souls to traipse and travel from all corners and crevices to revel in the complexity and camaraderie of the publishing industry.

To sit in workshops and ponder questions like: What does my character want? What does my character need? 

It’s a humbling process that, for me, started many moons ago, in a workshop now far far away…

Circa 2005

“I’m Holly Howley and I am here today because I took a leap two years ago. I stopped working to stay home with my two boys and it’s hard to hear your voice when you are by yourself all day,”  I said, sounding like a train full of emotions was ready to run me over.

Dear God, did I really just say that?

The day was a birthday gift to myself. An opportunity to spend an entire day with other writers. It was also an opportunity to spend a day with myself by myself. A concept akin to taking a Mediterranean cruise for a mother of toddlers. Of course now, in this moment, the idea seemed entirely overrated.

“Write about your dinner table growing up,” the workshop leader prompted.

While I’d been obsessing about my opening remarks, the group had clearly finished making their introductions. It was time to get down to the writing. The reason we all were there.

My insides groaned. “What kind of stupid topic is that?”

I began by scribbling details of the actual table I sat at night after night as a child. The curve of the walnut stained legs. The heavy layer of furniture wax on the tabletop. Clever was the best I could hope for, I decided.

Until… many minutes later, a whiff of something, surfaced. And, slowly, the layers began to peel away, in small barely recognizable pieces.

When it was my turn to share, I began: “Most nights dinner took my mother by surprise.” (Sorry, Mom!)

It was a relief to hear sprinkles of laughter, recognition around the room. It was a relief to hear me. I spent the next several hours lost in a maze of internal scraps. Daring to care too much while letting go of trying too hard.

As the day wrapped up, the workshop participants exchanged contact information. But, somehow I doubted I’d follow-up. 

I’d found the person with whom I most wanted to connect. Me. 

What's On Your Nightstand?

Is there anything better than snuggling up with a furry friend, steaming mug of hot heaven, and an inspired read while the wind whips the mounds of snow around outside? (Don’t think so.) 

I thought it would be fun to share some of my recent finds in case you’re in pursuit of a good book for those upcoming rainy spring afternoons. Or, even better, a day at the beach (yes, summer is on its way!) 

I’m not much on giving reviews. For me, the review is in the finishing (as in, if I’m not hooked 20 pages in, I move on). Instead, how about a favorite detail or two? 

Adult Fiction:

Gone Girl

by Gillian Flynn

This bestseller got me through the heartbreak of my thwarted Puerto Rico trip. Was supposed to be my beach read but instead became my companion for the first blizzard of 2015 (seems SO long ago.) This bestseller masterfully weaves the creepy and absurd, rendering it memorable.

Loving Frank

by Nancy Horan

Number one thing I enjoyed about this historical fiction story (highlighting Frank Lloyd Wright’s life with his mistress and her role in the woman’s movement) is how no one is let off the hook. Horan portrays characters who are both loathsome and lovable, and therefore believable.

Young-Adult Fiction:

Crossover

by Kwame Alexander

This 2015 Newbery Medal Winner is tough to describe, but smooth to digest. The reader can’t help but breathe in sync as Alexander intricately weaves a yarn of growth and loss through the rhythm of teenage twins and basketball.

Eleanor & Park

by Rainbow Rowell
This book is still sitting on my nightstand (even though I read it over a month ago) because I’m having a hard time returning it to the friend who sent it my way. An anything but typical first-love story about two on-the fringe adolescents growing into themselves with each other. Beautiful, complicated, unforgettable.

Middle-Grade Fiction:

Rules

by Cynthia Lord

Ever wish life came with rules? Twelve-year-old Catherine has created a very specific list of rules to help her autistic brother navigate everyday situations. This charming tale of a frustrated, but determined, sister, daughter and friend tackles the question, "What is normal?"

Swindle

by Gordon Korman

Korman is a master of middle-grade suspense and the well-timed twist. This book champions resilience and the power of pooling talents toward a goal. Favorite part of this book: the plot is purely kid driven.

Ungifted

by Gordon Korman

My always reads non-fiction nine-year-old devoured this one--score! (Overheard him asking the librarian for a book like Ungifted after he read it...)

My read: Ungifted messes with the (tired) definition of “smart” and is hilariously funny in the process.

Reading now:

The Girl On The Train

by Paula Hawkins

Next up:

I'll Give You the Sun

by Jandy Nelson

A Love Story (Of Sorts)

It was 5 am on the heels of a rather ambitious few weeks. Holidays, work trips, numerous rounds of the stomach flu, computer issues, yada yada yada…the stuff life is made of, the stuff vacations are made for! 

“T-shirts, shorts and a bathing suit. That’s all you need!” Those were the instructions, given by my bestie, who’d even dropped off the appropriate travel-sized toiletries the day before. A low maintenance four day getaway with two of our favorite people.

A quick stop at Dunkin' Donuts, and we were en route to the airport. The sun had not yet risen on the frozen tundra of Connecticut, and it didn't matter because were heading to the land of endless sun: Puerto Rico.

In hindsight I probably should have noticed Rob was being kind of quiet, but who talks much at that hour? Except my friend and I…

One of the perks of traveling with good friends—discussing nonsense with ease, topics that are interesting to just about no one but you, that’s why you’re friends. In fact, I think we were reading a Facebook post on mothers and friends when Rob said, “Be right back.” Simple enough, he was going to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later we were boarding the first plane, destination not-so-sunny Philadelphia where apparently fog was mucking up the works. 

“There will be a forty minute delay,” said the loudspeaker voice.

“Forty minutes or four?” I asked Rob.

He was looking at the floor, with an odd, serious gaze. “Four O.” 

I opened my book. He closed his eyes. 

Thirty minutes later the voice returned, “It looks like we are all clear for take-off.”

Bing. The Fasten Your Seat Belt light sprang on. And that’s when my husband, the consummate rule follower, sprung up from his seat and ran toward the back of the plane. 

“Sir, sir,” I could hear a flight attendant say. 

“Going to throw up!” I could hear him say.

Oh boy. I closed my book. A woman one row in front of us offered me some of her anti-nausea medicine.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see if he needs it.”

But, I’d cleaned up enough vomit over the prior two weeks to know that no amount of anti-nausea anything was going to cut it.

Five minutes later a very pale Rob, holding a very big bag was being escorted by an angel flight attendant (this woman was THE definition of friendly skies.)

“I’m taking him up front,” she said. (Sure would have stunk to be in first class that day.) 

I won’t detail what happened next. After all, who among us hasn’t had the stomach flu? And, who among us hasn’t had nightmares about having the stomach flu thousands of feet in the air with a plane full of passengers shooting dirty looks your way?

Fourteen hours later (okay it was more like 30 minutes) we were in Philadelphia and it was clear that we, Rob and I, were at the end of our vacation.

We waved goodbye to our friends (who had about 4 minutes to make their connection) and I proceeded to join a very long line of other forlorn fliers.

An hour later after several intense exchanges with numerous customer service sorts who tried to help, but couldn’t, then did—we were back, en route, to Hartford.

The rest of the “trip” was smooth sailing (of course). In fact, we arrived home in time to escort the kids off the bus (who by the way were not at all happy to see us and forfeit their fun weekend plans with Mimi.)

Soon, the usual homework was sprawled across the kitchen table and hungry mouths were asking, “What’s for dinner?” 

It was quite simply like we’d never left. And, shock was setting in. 

I’d been so sure that I needed to get my white-as-a ghost, sick-as-a dog husband home. Woman on a mission and all of that. But, now all I could think was, “I am supposed to be in Puerto Rico, not making dinner!!!”

I decided to check on my patient. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Can you bring me some Saltines?” the voice from under the covers responded.

“Seriously?” I think. Now keep in mind, the kids and I had had the stomach flu, together, while Rob was away. It had taken me three days to finally consume ginger ale.

“You’re already hungry?!” I said, not waiting for the answer.

When I returned to the bedroom, plate of Saltines in hand, Rob sat up, “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” I said. “But, could you do me a favor?”

“Start planning a new vacation?”

“That and throw-up non-stop for the next two or three days!”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, with an almost smile.

“And, maybe spike a low grade fever for good measure?”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Okay, call me if you need anything. Love you.”

A WERy Good Year

Inspiration from my local muse, So G Coffee Roasters

Chances are you’ve spent the last month (or longer) creating holiday magic for the loved ones in your life. Shopping and wrapping and pursuing thoughtfulness like a squirrel gathering nuts for the long winter. (What is THE perfect gift for that teacher who spends seven hours a day with your kid or the stylist who listens to you chime endlessly about your oval shaped face?)

But, now, IT’S OVER! And if you ask me, this is the most wonderful time of the year. 

Sure it’s cold and grey and Mother Nature is prone to dumping loads of white icy stuff on short notice. But, I love this low expectation gap in the calendar. After all the decking of halls, and before the summer camp brochures flood the mailbox and evenings turn sunny. 

Yep, it’s new beginnings, resolution time. And this year I’ve decided: I’m out. 

Not going to play the usual game of resolving to lose the same ten pounds (that I’ve lost and gained back four times already). Or, to become an organizational ninja in an effort to streamline my gloriously crazy and crammed life.

Instead, I’ve decided to declare a personal wish list of what I will do, because I want to. 

Here goes:

I will WRITE every day. I pretty much do this now, but, this year I want MORE quality writing time. And so, I’m structuring my days with this in mind. I’m saying goodbye to a long-term venture in order to allow time to achieve my goals. I am nervous and excited. Like a little kid on Christmas Eve.

Next, I wish to EXERCISE often because running makes me feel good and fuels the aforementioned writing (not to mention general sanity). But, perhaps the most important reason I will exercise most days? Wine and cheese are two of my favorite food groups.

Finally, I am going to READ, really read. I think Stephen King put it best in his primer On Writing. “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.”

To date, I’ve mostly viewed reading as a leisure activity awarded when laundry, dishes, writing and running are done. Consequently it happens late at night when I can digest about a page and a half before falling into deep slumber only to wake having retained a mere whiff of what I read the night before. But this year reading will be done in primetime (feels so decadent to even write that!), when I’m awake and alert and ready to bask in the jubilation of other writers who’ve cracked the code.

Okay, so that’s my plan for a WERy good year. My official New Year wish list. 

What’s yours?

Right Now

A Friday night, on the eve of the holiday season:

Volunteers and silent auction items are in place. It’s showtime for the annual fundraising gala benefiting a local charity of choice. 

It’s not until the guests begin to arrive, that I realize much planning has gone into this night, but not into what I’m wearing.

As I witness the drooping neck lines and flowing dresses multiplying around me, I see: “You go girl!” And: “What? This old sparkly thing?” And: “Reporting for volunteer duty! Let’s get this show on the road.” (That one is me.)

I am in a pencil skirt, fitted turtleneck and cropped blazer. Not casual, not dressy...not fun. Why did I feel the need to look more Barbara Bush than Michele Obama tonight?” 

A friend approaches and immediately I see that she has shed the volunteer Mom garb and is rocking a playful black dress. She looks stunning.

“You look fabulous!” I say, as she reaches me. 

“I’m overdressed,” she leans in, “And, I have turkey arms.” She then shakes her arm to show me.

I shake my head and laugh. What are the appropriate words to convey sincere confidence?

“Glass of wine?” I ask.

She nods and we are off, together, in pursuit of liquid courage.

The next morning:

I wade through pictures of holidays past, in search of images for a “look how far we’ve come” montage for this year’s holiday card. I decide this route is the path of least aggravation after wading through the one thousand pictures (no joke) on my phone and not finding a single image that rises to Christmas card level.

The first envelope I open sports shots of John and Will surrounded by pillows. John is almost two and Will is not yet one. I am immediately transported to a time when capturing the Christmas photo was a day long endeavor (minus naps and feedings of course). 

The boys are propped on each other and pillows with pops of red. Knowing the back-then me, the hints of red were surely chosen to suggest the sentiments of the season.

That me was always tired. Come to think of it, so is this me. 

There are probably twenty photos of my cherubs (remember the days when you HAD to print them all?) Will looks like he’s either scared out of his mind or going to take flight, and John is the cool older brother with a “you know I could drop him, right?” look. 

Viewing the slices of history one after the other, I can hear myself: “Okay, look at Mommy. Look at Mommy. LOOK at Mommy!”

It’s a funny thing to witness stages long gone in pictures. Life looks softer, less serious. I never ended up using any of these pictures, opting for a photo from a later session. I now see I could have used any of them. They’re priceless. 

I spend another minute reminiscing and close the envelope. I dig my phone out of my purse and vow to find something in the current archives.

Ten years from now, I won’t care that the image is slightly blurry or that Will is wearing neon green sweatpants or John is rolling his eyes in a newly pre-teen kind of way. That will be what prompts me to remember. This season.

And next year, I vow, I will flaunt an “I’m here because I want to be!” outfit at the annual gala. 

Because here, right here, is where I want to be. Turkey arms and all.

BigHEARTedness

It was a simple class assignment. Interview an adult about a time when someone helped them out. A purist exercise in who, what, when, where and why.

“A big moment?” I asked my son, John.

“Whatever comes to your mind first; that means, it was important enough for you to remember,” John said.

I began to dig deep for a ‘Lassie saving me from the well’ moment in my past. A magic memory when a stranger or a loved one turned my life in a new direction or saved me from impending doom, or...

Was kind.

Two immediate memories zoomed in. The first was an old neighbor from way way back, when it was just my mom and me in a little brown house on a hill. 

And in true, ‘I walked to and from school in ten feet of snow fashion,’ may I add, in those days in Upstate NY we routinely were clobbered with extreme snow. It rarely made the news, but it always meant digging out.

And so, it was Mr. Waterman, my then seventy-something year old neighbor, who quickly came knocking at memory’s door.

“Well, there was a man, when I was about your age. He was older but he had a snow blower and he--” I began.

“Is this the guy whose house smelled like old newspapers that you used to visit and listen to his stories?”

I nod. Apparently this wasn’t the first time memory had summoned Mr. Waterman. 

“Well, Mr. Waterman used to come plow our driveway when there was tons of snow and I just remember how it felt to look out our front window and see him, a frail older man taking the time to help a single mom and her daughter. Because if he didn’t come, it was me and Mimi out there. And the truth is, it was mostly Mimi.”

John looked up, not sure what to do with that story.

“Okay, I just thought of something else. I was living in my first apartment in Boston and I was by myself on Easter morning, because I had something going on at work the next day and my family was six hours away. My college boyfriend and I had just broken up. I remember that because I was sitting around in my pajamas feeling sorry for myself, when the doorbell rang. It was a little girl, who lived in the apartment next door, whom I’d never really met, holding an Easter basket, for me. ‘Happy Easter!” she said and handed me the basket.”

At this point, I glanced over at John, whose eyes were rolling back in his head. 

“Thanks, Mom. Got what I need,” he said.

I don’t actually think I made the cut; pretty sure he ended up consulting his dad for the “real interview.”

But the conversation got me thinking, really thinking about the many many good samaritans I’ve known. Strangers who stopped to help me in the rain, when my car broke down on the side of a major Boston highway. Co-workers who invited me into their home when I was new to town and knew no one. My now sister-in-law who had the vision to inconspicuously set me up, at my own party, with her brother. 

Still, it was telling to me that it was Mr. Waterman and the little girl next door (whose name I’m not sure I ever knew) and their simple acts of big-heartedness, who first popped to mind, all these years later.

I think Maya Angelou knew what she was talking about, when she said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” 

Proof, that long after the details get fuzzy and the years blend together, how it feels to be the beneficiary of someone’s unsolicited kindness...remains.

Walking the Dog

“Art comes to you proposing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass.” --Walter Pater

That quote hung above my desk, at the well-known art museum where I worked, in my late twenties. I’d left a highly creative environment in advertising where autonomy and spontaneity reined, for a much more stoic and formal atmosphere. And while centuries of creative exploration adorned the walls of the galleries downstairs, they had very little to do with my day-to-day duties upstairs, I quickly found out. 

Somewhere during that time I discovered that quote and it resonated. It was the beginning of me, defining for myself, what art was and my relationship to it. And so, when my mind would lock in a mental maze of regret, or worse, boredom, I would make the time to walk amidst the Monets and Manets. To let my mind wander, before returning to my 4x4 “office” overlooking a concrete wall.

The quote was my reminder: Take a walk.

These days, a quote isn’t necessary to remind me to walk. Now, I have Daisy, my furry affectionate, not-a-labradoodle labradoodle (fodder for another blog). There’s nothing like a four legged companion to dictate strolls at the beginning and end of the day. Walking a dog, like writing a book, requires routine dedication. Regularity helps things along.

When Daisy first arrived at our house, I read all the books. The ones that tell you exactly how to train your new pet. In each volume, there were chapters on walking. Instructions on how to show my new pup who was boss. But the endless steps required in a day already full of obligation, left me just wanting to walk, with my dog. So I did. 

Consequently I would often have to run to keep up, leash tugging against her collar. Finally, one day on a whim, I dropped the leash while frantically grasping the handful of treats in my pocket, in case she darted and I needed to will her back.

But instead, a funny thing happened. Daisy looked up at me, as if to ask: "What’s up?" Then, miraculously kept stride by my side. That’s how we’ve walked ever since. I’m pretty sure that was the intention of all the instructions in the how-to books, we just got there a little later, in our own way. 

The other night, on a right-before-bed trip around the cul-de-sac, Daisy abruptly stopped mid-walk and looked up. Which, of course, caused me to stop and look up too. There we stood, both transfixed by the most amazing full moon. I might have dutifully taken her out, mentally checking the walk off the to-do list, never seeing the bright orange harvest moon hovering above me, had it not been for Daisy. Dogs have a magical way of guiding their masters too, I’ve found.

Yes, these days, Daisy, comes to me proposing frankly that I give nothing but the highest quality to my moments as we walk.

And for that I am eternally grateful. Because all these years later, I now know just how fast those moments pass.