the other half of my life

I leave my house at 6 in the morning, gliding in an absurdly fancy town car with a paper cup of coffee in my hand, wearing a smart black jacket and a scarf. My bag is packed neatly with papers and spreadsheets. I'm bound for Akron, Ohio for work. 'The buckeye state is lovely this time of year,' says my boss, dryly, from his office at the opposite side of the country. 

I never make it to Akron.

Instead I fly directly into the sleeting heart of Winter Storm Luna, which is punishing the city of Chicago in sheets of ice and crashes of thunder. The scene at the airport is dismal, business men and women slumped in their seats watching the weather deteriorate. The little commuter jets are sprayed down with thousands of gallons of orange de-icing mist. Some poor soul is wandering around giving out samples of Tylenol decongestants. The flight to Cleveland is delayed, then cancelled. Shortly after, all planes are grounded. There's an uproar. A stampede to the ticketing desk. I throw my elbows out. 

In an instant, someone new emerges from within me, the person that I rarely ever get to see- efficient, clipped, polite but steely. I'm on the computer snatching up a hotel room before they all disappear, pushing numbered tags to harried desk workers, demanding my luggage, shouting on the phone to the airline (bad connection) while simultaneously insisting to the cab driver that the airport suites should really be closer than the length we're driving. 

There are no workable flights to Cleveland. I make a snap decision- I give up and grab the last seat on the last flight to Seattle. (It's always the last seat on the last flight.) Actually, I reserve that ticket three times in a row, my confirmation evaporating from their system each time. 

From the seventh floor of the hotel I watch the sky seize with white lightning and a brick square of a bar pulse neon blue in the deserted parking lot below. I turn the TV on and off. Then, overtaken with a sudden energy: alone in a hotel room, a gal on the go, a real person! I spread out all my papers on the giant white bed which could fit eight of me. Quite chipper, I write a magazine query, some book work, I drink a corona with lime sprawled out on the bed, typing away, happy as can be. I decide that being stranded outside O'hare in January is the quintessential American experience, that I'm very lucky. I order room service.

The next morning I fly to San Jose, then Seattle, having spent two full days traveling and going absolutely nowhere, a big useless triangle on the map. "Such is the way of these things," says the new me, the business me, tightening my black pea coat and ordering an airplane cocktail. 

In less than a week I'll be back to Chicago, another training session, another meeting. Then California, then Kentucky, then Massachusetts. Again and again and again and again.

Inversion

On Sunday there was an enormous inversion and the world flipped on its head. On top of the mountain the weather was warm, sixty degrees and blue, while below the normally tepid city froze stiff and smothered in fog.

On saturday I was nearing the very bottom of things, curled up on the kitchen floor in the early afternoon, my head filled with black sand. Then the world did its somersault, and suddenly I was on top of the mountains, looking down at the city as if it were a little map. Suddenly I was okay again.

It was jarring.

Standing on the summit on Sunday morning with a friend, I didn't feel sad. The air was soft and warm and light. My lungs expanded as the weight of the black sand disappeared from my chest, they unfurled like the white wings on a hollywood angel. The snow was old, and it gleamed under an icy crust like meringue. "Such terrible conditions," said everybody. Our skis hissed through grainy piles of snow, like sugar.

On the last run of a long day, I started to think about the workweek ahead of me. I dangled my legs back and forth on the lift, wondering if I'd end up at the bottom of the ladder again, back on the kitchen floor with the cat clock swinging its paw back and forth between seconds. Then I had a brilliant idea. I could just come back here. I work remotely, after all. Why not?

On the way home I called my friend Cindy. Her work is transportable too, and we're both tired of coffee shops and lonely at home. She agreed in an instant.

Morning comes, and we're out of the city before dawn. The inversion layer remains for a second heavenly day in a row and we spend the morning on the back side, neck deep in sunshine.

It is so warm that, pushing through a particularly steep run, heavy with spring slush, we become completely overheated. We stop in the trees, strip away the last of the layers and lie down in the snow. Face against the ice, back against the sun, it is intoxicatingly warm. I am feeling voluminous.

"Hey," I say to Cindy. "Maybe I'm manic!"

"I don't think so," she replies cheerfully. "I think you're just skiing."

****

Two days ago, my roommate came home in the afternoon and found me on the rug. She knelt down, a flash of black in torn stockings. "I think you should get up," she said gently. This alarmed me; she never sounds gentle. We've known each other since we were seven. "Maybe have some cereal?" She has great big eyes, like an owl, and they were focused on mine. I turned my face to look at the wall. The black sand shifted from one side to the other.

"Sounds complicated." I said.

***

Now here I am, I'm whirling down the mountain in the middle of a January thaw so warm it feels like I'm swimming. I'm all smiles and laughter and talking a big talk about new writing ideas, new publications, new articles, a book. I'm telling Cindy about seeing Andrew one last time, how I got bombed on martinis and cried at dinner, now I'm wiping my hands together briskly of all that, all better now. Turning to look at the bright dome of the limitless world, breathing deeply. All better!

(It's amazing what the sun will make you think.)

Cindy and I work for a few hours at the lodge, snap together a little office in seconds with coffee and chords and laptops. I squint at spread sheets in my ski boots; we are surprisingly productive. Then the sun drops behind the mountain, and the tiny disk of the moon slides up the side of the sky. We keep skiing into the night, a warm blue basin swimming with stars. I can't explain it, but I feel so strangely new. Like the beginning of someone.

Allow me to introduce myself.

Vajanuary

Welcome to Vajanuary, the very special month I invented back when I was the only girl on the staff of an outdoors high school in South America, enduring a never ending onslaught of flaunted muscles, man-fests, bonfires, shirt-lessness and bearded men who were forever declaring their love for whiskey and driving with one elbow out the window NO MATTER HOW COLD IT WAS.

(Why did I leave that place?) (What is it with men talking about whiskey?)

Vajanuary was my antidote to this unending Movember- a month dedicated to spending time outside in the company of ladies, doing essentially whatever you want to do and ordering your drinks extra girly with a twist.  It's a holy month. And I began this year's in Missoula, where Nici and I indulged in all good girlfriend activities.

Late at night, we lay side by side on the living room floor and wrote, both pushing our deadlines to the breaking point. We were constantly interrupting one another's concentration with just one more thing- one more thing we have to discuss about writing or life before I swear, I'll let you work, and she kept putting a fresh martini in my hand until, sometime around midnight, I couldn't figure out what the hell I'd been sad about lately. Life was fantastic!

The thing is, at Nici's house, life is fantastic. I'm tossed awake up from a very peaceful sleep to Margot and Ruby jumping on the bed and pulling away the covers, and Andy puts a double espresso in my hand and then we go sledding. Sledding is followed by more coffee, and food, and card games and books and writing and talking and writing and talking. Then we go to sleep and do it all again.

And my God, but that woman makes a good Martini.

On Monday evening, Nici gathered up her girlfriends and we met a brewery for the things girls do best: talking. At length. About everything. Telling stories about ourselves and everyone we know. Leaving the table only to get another pint of beer, chasing it with red wine and the best burgers in Montana. Becoming louder, our laughter out of control, waving our hands around to get the point across.

No simpler way to say it: I love that woman and her sweet, chill, gorgeous family. I love the way she invites me so warmly into the workings of her household, the way she generously shares her friends with me around a wooden table covered in peanut shells, the way she gets me all liquored up on Montana Juniper and forces me to confront my fear of olives.

Happy Vajanuary! Are you celebrating?

the stories

this post aims to answer some frequently asked questions about storytelling. I hope this connects you to some good listening or even a live show. people throw around the term around 'this will change your life' until it's d-e-a-d, but storytelling will change you. it takes every aspect of life- pain, loss, embarrassment, love, joy, the whole deal, and gives it all a purpose. a tool to connect with others, or at the very least, entertain.

inspiration:: story swoon

I listen to stories constantly. Way more than I read, at least these days. There are the obvious radio offerings, the trifecta of american storytelling....

this american life.

radiolab. (start with memory. than placebo.)

the moth. 

You should also listen to the brilliant show selected shorts, where famous actors read aloud from pieces of short fiction. I've made it easy to begin by choosing a recent show I enjoyed, The Private Paradise. Andrew and I caught the middle of this while driving home from downtown, and we ended up sitting in the driveway in his car, unwilling to turn off the radio till it was over. Most notable is the Dave Eggers piece read by the late David Rakoff. Listen to that and then listen to the This American Life dedicated to Rakoff, our friend david. 

Rakoff is a storytelling icon, and it's not too late to get into his work, even though he died 2 months ago. In 2013 his final novel will be released. It's written completely in rhyming couplets and it's titled: Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die; Cherish, Perish, a novel by, David Rakoff. (Isn't that great?)

If you do listen to Ira Glass's tribute, a box of tissues will serve you well.

Fitz Cahill's the dirtbag diaries are all stories of adventurers and people who make their living in the outdoors. I wholeheartedly recommend checking this out, whether or not you're of the outdoor persuasion. To be honest, I haven't listened to many of these, probably because the stories are so similar to mine and I get envious. Could be.

The list goes on: the vinyl cafe, storycorps, a prairie home companion, snap judgement and even the savage love podcast.  Storytelling is a huge and magnificent realm which also includes comedy, which I can't go into now because it would be like trying to throw two big parties at once. so instead I'll just say this- sleepwalk with mike birbiglia as soon as you can.

The american storytelling tradition is irreverent, personal, relaxed, intense, raw, funny, and modern.


my stories::

I've been telling stories live for about two years. most of my stories are adapted straight from this blog. so far, everything I tell is autobiographical. the stories are about 98% true. Sometimes I add or subtract (mostly subtract) a few details.  I might rearrange dialog or the order of things for the purposes of  condensing a scene- it's worth it to keep a story short and tight. The intent of storytelling is to connect and entertain and enthrall- it's not journalism.

there are a few stories I perform that I have chosen not to write (so far.) They are mostly adventure stories gone awry, and they would call into question the decisions and motives made by others. it's one thing to call myself out for being an idiot, quite another to bring someone down with me.  sometimes i choose to do it anyway. I always change the names of people when I do that. but that's what everyone assumes I'm going to do. so, in an unexpected twist, i change the names back to the real ones. that way, no one knows what's going on.

oh yes, i've attended legality seminars for bloggers. and i think for a long time (and write many drafts) before publishing pieces about my job, like this one.

there is one story I haven't written because it's just too embarrassing. It involves getting really sick in the sleeping bag of a beautiful boy on the grand canyon. I can't bring myself to write it, but for some reason telling it to strangers is no problem. Counter intuitive perhaps, but I'm keenly aware that whatever goes on the internet is there forever. I recently told this one at the moth (the theme of the evening was surprise!) and it was a big hit.

performances::
there is a growing storytelling culture in seattle, including the seattle moth where I performed my first moth story on a first date. a guide to visitors is similar, only more vetted (and now it's a radio show!) most recently I performed at the storytelling southeast festival in Ireland. I've studied improv with unexpected productions, and the best advise I can give to anyone, hands down, is to take at least one improv class.

but the best part of storytelling for me is just the informal stories we tell amongst friends. it's my favorite thing to do. my life has been full of campfire tales, stories shouted over beers in raucous bars and whispered between crewmembers, belowdecks on the boat where there was no tv or radio.

there is a particular cave that I discovered on a particular trip to goldmeyer hotsprings, where wild storytelling is at its finest. the cave is filled with hot water and steam, dark and sunless but illuminated by candlelight, and there you can tell stories to friends and whoever else happens to be having a soak.  (and it's naked, which does not detract from the experience.) I'm lucky to have friends to like to wander up there in the winter, or to island cabins for the weekends just to hang out and tell stories.

Ireland:: 

Ireland was absolutely the highlight of my storytelling 'career' (that's just not the right word) and first time I've been paid to perform. I told three stories to four different audiences. The last two shows were sold out, with a crowd lining the walls and sitting on the floor up front. I signed autographs, had my photo taken with audience members and had radio interviews. there was nothing cavalier about the experience- I was so excited and pretty amazed to be there. the whole thing was a bit dizzying. 

This group was from a local kid's book club 

my sister and I at the local radio station

I have a l-o-n-g way to go with storytelling. I recently heard a story on the Moth about a man and his cubicle mates getting addicted to 3-D Tetris. that was the whole story and it was hilariously engaging. I have to learn not to lean so hard on the 'big' events in my life (freezing, drowning, death) and instead learn how to take ordinary things and make them relatable. 

I suppose that's what this blog is for. and by the way, happy four years, blog! celebrate by sharing your favorite posts and joining the wilder coast facebook page. it's really helpful for me, and it's full of photos you won't see on the blog. 

Happy listening!  

Brilliant

A few days after I got off the boat, I went to Ireland. Suddenly, I no longer worked on a cruise ship. Instead I was a professional story teller. For a week.

The day I was to leave Seattle, I slept peacefully through my flight to Chicago, having misread my itinerary. I begged and cajoled with delightfully accented Aer Lingus employees, shelled out a whole lot of money, wept at the counter at Sea-Tac until they grudgingly allowed me onto the next flight without the requisite 90 minute early arrival for international flights, raced through security, last one on the flight, dashed through Chicago in a cartoonish frenzy until I finally slumped, a deflated balloon, into my seat on the flight to Dublin.

A cheerful "Heading to Ireland, wish me luck!" Facebook status masked the whole thing and nobody knew what a terrific ball of incompetence I was. Facebook, you little wall of white lies, you're so magical. The little back of seat entertainment system cheered me immensely, I watched a dozen movies and all was well. Except for that, with no time to pack, I had no clothes or shoes or books or anything, no toothbrush. I'd stuffed a suitcase with whatever had been lying on the floor of Andrew's garage which turned out to be a lot of long underwear- useless.

Then came rainy Dublin and the first radio interview, many teas and jogs around the block to keep myself awake and I finally ended up in Dungarvan, where I succumbed to a fierce case of jet lag and overall jet-confusion.

Each day I woke up deep into the afternoon, completely sideways in my big white hotel bed. I wasn't alone- my sister, Anna, and her Italian guitar player Danielle and his friend Drea were sharing a guest cottage with me.

Thank goodness, because I was a helpless being with no clothes and I was never certain what day it was. Each afternoon, I'd dress out of my sister's suitcase, stab myself in the eye with an eye pencil, wander into a cafe in town and prepare for my performances by jotting down notes and drinking strangely thick cappuccinos and trying to pep-talk myself out of nerves.

The writing calmed me down, but nothing soothed me like walking alone up and down the streets of  Dungarvan. A cold, wet, autumn wind breathed through the streets where bright, multi-colored shops piled up against one another like dominoes. The houses looked like music boxes. To get from one part of town to the next you walked across the cobbled town square and through dark alleyways lined by crumbling castles. There were tiny boats moored at the edge of town, and the pubs were all named The Anchor and Lady Belle and The Moorings.

A walk to the outskirts of town brought you to a checkerboard of green fields and purple thistles that rolled straight into the ocean, and in the distance glowed the pointed lights of town so small and insular that the kids all grew up speaking only Irish. I'll admit, even though I've been to Ireland before, I didn't really know that Irish was a language that people spoke. I thought people just sang it.

Anna and I explored together when we could, both of us kept very busy with the festival and interviews and me being asleep until after noon. She sang during opening night of the festival and I sat with her backstage with a few other musicians and the Irish storytellers. I drank as much wine and French cider as possible and tried not to think about the next day, the first of my four shows. My stomach tightened at the thought- what if nobody shows up? I forbid Anna to attend, wanting to save her the disappointment of seeing me perform to an empty room, if that was the case. It very well could be,  I had no idea, and neither did the festival director, who was tall and very serious, a notable genius who may have lived inside of a grandfather clock. He had taken a great chance by inviting me, and I so very much wanted it to work out well.  

At the very least, I assured myself in the black painted backstage of the town theater, I got myself here, and that is worth noting. Somehow my writing and my incessant need to tell stories got me all the way to Ireland and even paid me to be here, even though I almost blew it at the starting gate and I don't have any underwear.  All I can possibly do now is to tell an entertaining story and that much- even if I'm a whirling ball of incompetence in all the other things- that much I know I can do. 

Guinness and Whiskey

I'm drinking Whiskey and Guinness on a Saturday night in Dungarvan, Celebrating my last show in Ireland: Sold out, people standing lining the walls and sitting on the floor, a real success. The director of the festival ran into me tonight on the street, shook my hand and invited me back for next year.

 I have a few more days here on my own; I'll be sure and write more very soon.

Dublin Smogs and The Last Word

Rainy Grafton Street, Dublin

I had about seven hours to kill between getting through customs and arriving at the studios for my interview on The Last Word with Matt Cooper.

I was super jet lagged and honestly couldn't figure out whether it was Monday or Tuesday. It was cold, wet and raining and I was wearing sort of nothing. No rain coat. I had this little incident with the plane schedule- let's just say I broke out all the stops and actually prayed this morning that I would get to Ireland, and I did get to Ireland, which means....well, what does that mean? What happens when I pray and it works? Do I file a report or something? Please advise.

So, seven hours in a rainy city. I talked the radio station into stashing my bags, then went wandering till I found a cafe with a chatty barista who called me "love" and took great care of me. I ordered three Dublin Smogs, which are just like London Fogs only they've changed the name. Earl Grey tea with a shot of vanilla and steamed milk. Lovely. Everything here is "lovely" and "you're very good." If I shuffle back to the counter with an empty tea cup, the barista says: "Lovely. You're very good."

Since I felt terrible, there was only one cure: massage and a hair cut, both of which I found right away, both of which could take me immediately, both of which were full of cheerful blonde women who told me I was "lovely" and "a very good girl" when I tipped.

For the past twelve hours, I'd sprinted through airports, begged security to let me cut in line, thrown people out the way, cartoon-style, cajoled myself onto flights that were closed and self medicated with those expensive little cocktails that used to be free in International Flights before terrorism ruined everything. Now all I wanted to do was throw up or sleep but I had that interview, so yeah, I'm getting that massage.  The storytelling festival is graciously paying for my trip and all my amenities, so why not.

At the studios, interview ready

It was magic, I tell you. No food, no sleep, still not sure what day it was, but I was back to being a normal person. At the studios, a very profesional woman whose heals clicked loudly when she walked ushered me through thick, double-walled sound proof doors into those rooms you see on TV with the head sets and giant microphones. Matt Cooper jumped in right away and I had to wave my hands back and forth and whisper- "waitasecond- is this Live?" 

He laughed and said, "It's not live, but it may as well be, we won't be recording twice."

I said, "Okay....great. I've never done a radio interview, is all." And then, so I didn't sound like a total novice, I added, "I mean, I've done television interviews, of course." Which is true. Once. I've done one television interview. It was in 2005. It was about frisbee. 

"Well, this is much easier than television. No cameras to worry about! Now." And he put his headset back on.  He did this great intro to me, and asked me a bunch of questions about storytelling, writing, a little about the blog, what brought me to Ireland, extreme sports, and kayaking. A lot about kayaking. Which is funny, since I don't consider myself a kayaker anymore, but you know what? This whole thing is so surreal, I just went with it. 

Then I got in a car and somebody, I'm not exactly sure who because I slept the whole time but I am grateful to them, drove me three hours over to Dungarvan, a rainy town on the coast. Now I'm in a big beautiful room in a house that I'm sharing with my sister and her Italian Guitar player, Daniele. And the minute they saw me, they arrived a few hours after, they both broke into a chorus of "waiit why do yooooouuuuu get the big roooom????" and they kept bringing it up at dinner, how unfair it was for me to get the big room when they've been on tour for five weeks (I was on a boat for four months, I shot back) and gradually things seemed just a little more like real life. 

Southeast Storytelling Festival

Last Autumn, the producers of the Southeast Storytelling festival in County Waterford, Ireland invited me to perform in a brand new division of the festival called Stories From the Wild. They were interested in the kind of adventure epics found on this blog.

Like the complete amateur that I am, I wrote back and said that while I was honored and could not imagine a more exciting opportunity, I would not be able to afford the cost of travel.

I'll never forget the email I got in return, one of the best surprises of my life. The producers were a bit bemused. "We're inviting you as an artist," they wrote. "We're hiring you. We will pay for all your travel. And we'd like you to stay and perform for all five days of the festival."

Keeping this quiet has been tough, but, unlike everything else, I decided to wait until the funding was secure before broadcasting it everywhere.

Finally, here at the very beginning of March, I got the go-ahead message. "The funding for international performers is coming along well," they wrote. "Put it on the calendar!"

So, it's official. I'll be traveling East at the end of September to perform here, alongside a very talented roster of artists and performers, including the best singer on earth. I can't wait to return to Ireland- it was the first foreign country I ever visited, fourteen years ago. I've wanted to go back ever since.

So, from now until September....I'd better learn how to tell a story. How to really tell a story, I mean.

Arcless: Without Arc

Last night I climbed at the brand new, high walled, rad but crazily crowded Vertical World which is, thankfully, just across the river from me in Magnolia. For the past nine years I've been a devout follower of Stone Gardens, but in the last year the scene exploded and now there are new gyms everywhere and I belong (in a roundabout way) to all of them. I used to know everybody at Stone Gardens, either by name or by face or by reputation. Now I'll climb to the top of the wall and look down at a room filled with people who dress like my friends and act like my friends but who are actually total strangers. Like a little alternate reality.

A few of those strangers introduced themselves last night. They told me they read this but had never met me in person. That's got to be the best perk of writing the blog ever, when that happens, it's always a burst of energy and happiness. I had to laugh, though, because three people last night - three!- told me they particularly loved the previous post and they wanted more like that.

My god, so do I! Those posts are the absolute most fun to write. They practically write themselves. I do hope that one day- preferably when I'm still pretty enough (oh, I'm going to get slammed by that sentence)  the man will be a boringly perfect fit. Until that happens, whenever life delivers in the realms of dating disasters and poisoned hamburgers, I'll keep writing about it.

But what do I write about in the meantime?

Because I mean most of the time, I'm not out on a bad date, or any date at all really. They take so much energy. You have to schedule yourself a recovery week after those things. And by date, I'm really referring to any of the things that are fun to write about: big climbing trips, traveling, barfing, girl friends morphing into guy friends. Things that have a story arc.

A lot of my time is spent just going along, with no clearly defined rising action or falling action. No action of any kind. They look like this:

And this:

And lots and lots of this:

But I think I'm going to go ahead and write about the normal things, even if they don't have that neat little arc. The whole point of this blog is to write everything. So here we go, Arcless.

Last night I actually climbed. This was a big surprise for me. Imagine a climbing gym, if you can. Now imagine spending every evening of every weekday there, getting really strong and pretty good. Not crazy good, but good enough. And after a while, naturally, you start to get to know the people there. Everybody who works there and everybody who climbs there. Now picture a little drain in middle of the floor. And imagine yourself slipping into the drain and disappearing.

This is what I did. I fell into a hole. Ever since this past summer, all I've really wanted to do was write, work and take walks by myself. I don't know what hit me, but I went with it. I'd go to the gym every now and then, or stay late after work to boulder, but I was mostly just dicking around. The only time I felt truly happy climbing was outside, but that became difficult when winter came. I lost a lot of strength and the thought of building it up again, and getting those painful blisters that turn into callouses was depressing. I was like oh, shit, forget about it. Let's just do something else.

After Christmas though, I really started to miss it. I went a few times to different gyms and started getting it back. And last night, when I fought, fell but ultimately finished two 11B's and led a bunch of easier but overhanging stuff, I was like- oh, right, this! I really like this. I really like this. Everything about it. Maybe if I don't get exactly what I want- which is to be the head writer of SNL and live in New York, marry a Seth Meyers look alike, have two beautiful children and then retire and live richly outside of Montpelier Vermont without ever having to work again- I can still be happy.

It was quite the revelation.

And after the gym shut down, we went to the High Life. I think there were ten of us all together, and I knew less than half of them. So I met a few more people. We had nine pound porters, and these little pizzas, and some other things, and since nobody ever brought us a check we stayed there till almost midnight.

It must have tired me out, because I went home and slept for thirteen hours solid. In my dreams, I came up with a comedy piece about describing my own physical heart in an extremely complicated manner. It's not worth writing, of course, but I always to mention when I write something in my sleep. Something in there deserves the credit.

And then today happened, and it was a very slow and, as you can see, very dark. I woke up, basically, just in time for sunset. That's gloomy. I had no pressing deadlines, and the real job I have keeps getting pushed back and pushed back because of funding issues. So it's alright if I wake up late.

But I don't like it. It's disconcerting and disorienting. Why is it that I'll sleep and sleep and sleep for more than half the day? I don't know many people who do that. What is my brain doing? I'm certainly not getting any taller, sadly.

It makes me think of that Tom Waits song: What's he building in there? 

So there you have it. The dreaded second act. Are you still reading? Are you still here?