THE ART OF MEMOIR by Mary Karr

I just started listening to this audio book yesterday . . .

Karr is an engaging writer (and reader) who makes this interesting point:  when asked about the rise in popularity of the memoir over the past ten years, she says that people who crave realism in their narratives have turned to the form in response to the current interest in dystopian, speculative, and/or experimental, academic fiction.

I have no way of knowing if this is true or not, of course.  But it makes sense to me.  People's stories--the "I" narrator--have always fascinated me.

When my dad cried

I only remember seeing my dad cry twice.

It's not that he was against boys crying.  In spite of his profession, he wasn't running around celebrating MACHO all the time.  He didn't need to.  And we always used to kid him that he was way, way, way in touch with his girly side.  Dude likes to garden and buy clothes and iron.

So there's that.

But if he did much crying, I never saw it.  The first time was the day I got married, and now that I think about it, he was probably crying for joy.  YES!  THANK YOU, KEN CANNON!

The other time was a few months after Becky died.  I found out that Becky's father, Tom, was giving a talk in church down in Provo, so I decided to attend the meeting.  I thought Tom might feel like Becky was there in spirit when he saw me there.

So I went.  And Tom, of course, gave a lovely thoughtful talk, which was very much a Tom thing to do.  He was such a literate man.  On my way out of the meeting, I ran into my own father, who was on the way to his meetings.  Tom's ward and my parents' ward met in the same building--just at different times.

The coach was surprised to see me.

"What are you doing here?"  he asked.

When I told him I was there to hear Tom speak, his eyes filled with tears.  He didn't say anything else.  He didn't need to.

Watching Donald Trump . . . in silence

I'm sitting here on my bed, watching Donald Trump attack Mitt Romney.  Watching.  Not listening.  I have the sound turned down so low I can't hear him.  Which, frankly, is a good way to experience Donald Trump.

I do this sometimes, watch instead of listen, because you notice things you wouldn't notice otherwise.  The thing about Trump I'm noticing right now is that for a guy who is such a huge, meaty, WWF, bullying presence, his hands are remarkably feminine.  And the motions he makes with those hands--the index finger touching the thumb when he wants to make a point--are nothing short of womanly.  Dainty, even.

Is it sexist to say that?  Because I like women's hands.  I just didn't expect to see them on Donald Trump.

I'm into silence right now, actually.  I've lost my voice and so I have this enforced quietude going on. As a result, I am listening now more than talking.  Which is a good thing, actually.

But I still don't have to listen to Donald Trump.

Surprising Journeys

For many years I have thought of myself as a writer first and a teacher second--maybe because I sort of fell into teaching.  It was a default choice.

But what I have come to realize lately is that my richest experiences have come from the teaching part of my life.  Because of the opportunities I've had to teach at BYU and Westminster, as well as in various workshop settings, I have been able to meet the most incredible people.  People who are smart and brave and hungry, vulnerable and strong.  My life would be all kinds of gray without their stories.

You know who you are.  Thank you.

What not to flush down the toilet

The sign on the elevator in an apartment building I just visited has a list by the floor buttons.  Along with the usual suspects, you're not supposed to flush kitty litter or cigarette butts down the toilet.

Since I'm not a smoker, I don't know if it would have ever occurred to me to flush a butt of the cigarette variety down a toilet.  But I've been a cat owner all of my life and seriously, it never once occurred to me to flush litter down the toilet.

My kids, however, did flush my keys down the toilet once.  So there's that.

I'd like to thank the Academy

. . . for raising my consciousness and increasing my awareness last night.  Because I would never do that on my own.

Gah.  What a dreary, self-important bloated event that was!  The irony is that my politics are definitely progressive.  But guess what.  I seriously resent being lectured to.  I also want my Oscars to be a party, not a rally.

And if I never EVER see gravity-defying breasts I'll be happy.

Special Super Power

Can you think of a moment in your life when you felt thoroughly validated?

Here's mine:  I was getting ready to park in front of our house (we don't have off-street parking) when I noticed a car behind me.  I'd have to park quickly, I knew, so I did the parallel parking thing and NAILED IT.

As the car passed me, the driver--a teenage boy--gave me two thumbs up because yeah.  I won't lie.  I was impressive and we both knew it.

That's my special super power--parallel parking.  As one of my boys said, "Mom is oddly good at that."

What's YOUR special super power?