the gerbil diaries, part I

Perhaps for some of you the word “gerbil” brings to mind a somewhat hazy (and disturbing) rumor involving Richard Gere, an emergency room, and an unfortunate rodent. Even I experienced a vague sense of discomfort when, last week, the word started being bandied about our house casually and with some frequency.

But you must banish those unsavory images (which were solidly debunked as urban legend) from your imagination, just as I have. You must do this because, you see, the newest member of our family happens to be a gerbil, and I’d like you to welcome her with a clear heart and a pure mind.

Friends, meet Nibbles. Nibbles, meet my friends.



I never thought I’d be a gerbil owner. I actually never thought we'd have rodents of any kind in our house, even though as children, my sisters and I had guinea pigs and mice (and ducks and a chick and salamanders and a snapping turtle and two parakeets and a cat and two dogs).

My parents were very tolerant of pets, and owning pets seemed to teach us responsibility. Which is why I caved. (Who doesn’t want their kids to learn to care for an animal?)

Or at least it’s part of why I caved. Here’s the rest of the story:

Last year, Stella got in her head that we should have another baby. “Let’s get a baby,” she said at least once a week.

“Oh no,” I said each time, “we’re done having babies.”

But this explanation wasn’t satisfactory, so I was forced to go into more detail, explaining that me and pregnancy don’t really mix (to which she responded, “adopt one!”). I explained that we didn’t really have room in our house for another baby (to which she responded, “You can fit a bunk bed and a crib in our room! No problem!”)

But I just kept saying, “No sweetie, we’re not having another baby. I feel so happy and so lucky to have you two girls.”

Finally, she said, “Well then how about a dog?”

So we started talking about dogs—a lot. We talked about a timeline (after Zoë turns 3) and a plan for a non-shedding, hypoallergenic dog (so D’s not miserable). We talked and talked and talked about dogs, about breeds and sizes and possible names.

And then a few weeks ago, my sister adopted the nicest cocker spaniel from the Human Society. Patch is calm and adorable and great with kids. So when Rachel said they couldn’t take Patch on their vacation, we quickly agreed to take care of him. It was the perfect opportunity to see how we would do with a dog.

Well, Patch is perfect (except for his separation anxiety and penchant for shredding things when he’s anxious) and having him was great (except for the late-night and early morning walks and the fact that Zoë kept trying to ride him and smother him in blankets). He was perfect and overwhelming, and D and I quickly realized that if this sweet dog was too much for us, we definitely weren’t ready for a dog of our own.

So imagine my delight when, last week, Stella said, “I think I want a hamster instead of a dog. Can I get one for my birthday?”

“Great,” I said. “Done.”

But after research about the frequent biting and completely nocturnal habits of hamsters (not to mention the hamster salmonella outbreak I read about online), we decided a gerbil (a creature that is slightly less nocturnal and tends to be more social) would be a better pet.

So…

Friday, September 3

2 p.m.—Stella and I visit PetSmart and look and hamsters and gerbils. The staff reinforces our decision about gerbils.

2:30 p.m.—The begging begins: “Please, please can we get it before my birthday? I need it. I need it.”

3:00 p.m.—Names are discussed: Peanut or Nibbles?

3:30—7:30 p.m.—The lobbying for a pre-birthday gerbil begins in earnest. We finally agree that sometime the next day, we will go get the gerbil.

Saturday, September 4

1:30 a.m.—Stella is awake, in our room: “Are you sure we can get the gerbil today? Do you promise?” Kate: “I promise. Go to sleep.”

4 a.m.—To D: “Do you promise we can go straightaway in the morning? Do you promise?” D: “Shh. Yes.” (He has no recollection of this conversation.)

6 - 11:45 a.m.—Many tears because “noon isn’t ‘straightaway.’” Me: “True, but deal with it.”

Noon—We all pile into the car, go to PetSmart, sign papers, see Nibbles, decide he is definitely a Nibbles, buy appropriate (and expensive) paraphernalia: cage (check), ball (check), food (check), treats (check), bedding (check), mineral licks (check), chew toys (check). D says I have a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. I feel as if we’ve just purchased our first house.

1:30 p.m.— Nibbles is home and seems to be adjusting. The rule is this: no hands in her cage for four days (the salesperson recommended this so Nibbles could become acclimated.)

Sunday, September 5
Sometime in the morning while I am at the coffee shop writing—little hands go into the cage and try to hold Nibbles. Nibbles tries to escape. Tail fur comes off in said little hand. There are many tears. There are many different versions of the story.

12:30—I get home from the coffee shop and notice blood in Nibbles’ cage, blood on the exercise wheel, blood on the food dish, blood on the shredded toilet paper roll. I call PetSmart. The vet is at lunch. I am told they will call me back.

2:30—The vet is not a small animal vet. They recommend a different clinic.

3 p.m.—D takes Nibbles to a clinic in St. Paul. A shot is administered. Nibbles is sedated. An amputation of the “de-gloved” portion of her tail occurs.

3:30 p.m.—I get the whole story after I assuage my daughter’s fears (“But I’ll get in trouble! I didn’t listen!”) about telling the truth. Lessons about following directions are learned. Lessons about being honest are learned. Everyone feels better.

4 p.m.—D and Nibbles are sent home to recuperate. Nibbles is tired, but fine. I look at the vet bill and try not to cry. “We have the most expensive gerbil in town,” I say. D has a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. I pour myself a glass of wine.

The following days are spent cleaning up Nibbles’ droppings to prevent a tail infection. They are spent washing hands and trying to regain Nibbles’ trust. They are spent wondering whether a gerbil is truly less overwhelming than a dog, or even a baby.

structure, structure, structure

Okay, so I’ve been avoiding posting about the memoir and the deadline because, well, the deadline passed and the memoir still isn’t finished.

There were some distractions in August, some of them lovely (my 20th high school reunion, which brought a few of my closest friends into town) and some of them not as enjoyable (proposals, house projects, etc.) But even without these, I wouldn’t have made my September 1st deadline. I realized, as I was muddling through my manuscript, that I had some structural problems later in the book. I had dropped a narrative thread. I was too tangential. I needed to condense and compress in order to maintain narrative urgency.

And I was feeling panicky because I was trying to rush through the writing, not letting the solutions emerge in the process of writing. So I slowed down a little. I fretted. I woke up thinking about The Manuscript.

Then last week with everyone back in school, I gave myself the space I needed to let the book happen. I wrote and I wrote. And yesterday as I was pulling together the new chapters to send to my wonderful writing group, I realized that I’m actually writing faster than I thought I was. I have written 64 pages in the last month. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I’m on 296 and still going. Another two weeks to go? Maybe. I hope.

Structure is such a tricky animal, but it’s critical to a book’s success. Sometimes the necessary structure emerges in the process of writing and sometimes an author really needs to plan out a book. My friend Francine Marie Tolf has an interesting article in A View from the Loft about this very thing. Francine interviewed me and three other memoirists about how we approached structuring our memoirs. Check it out and see what Marge Barrett, Nicole Johns and Vicki Forman, who just won the PEN USA award for creative nonfiction for her wonderful memoir, This Lovely Life, have to say about structure and memoir.

And now I'm back to The Manuscript.

back to school

Both girls are back in school this week. Stella woke up at 6 a.m. yesterday, ready to dash out the door and wait for the bus. “I’ve tried to go back to sleep,” she whispered, “but I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You can get ready.”

I’ve never seen her brush her hair and teeth so fast. And then she was dressed, had eaten breakfast and triple-checked her backpack. Photos were taken and more photos were taken until finally she rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, mom. Okay, okay.” And then she was off, running to the bus stop, thrilled to be, as she had mentioned the day before, an “official first grader.”

Zoë’s transition was a little more challenging. As I drove her to preschool, she started to cry. “Don’t want to go to school,” she wailed. “I stay home. I tired. I take a nappy.” Poor kid. She thought I’d let her stay home if she slept all day.

Then she said, “I want Stella go to school wit me.” And every time we saw a school bus, she said, “Stella in there?” That killed me.

I tried to point out the big diggers at a construction site. I tried to tell her how excited her school friends and teachers would be to see her again. None of it worked. I had to pry her from my body and hand her off to her teachers when we got to school. The last thing I saw was her red, tear-stained face over the shoulder of one of her teachers. I felt sick as I drove to the coffee shop.

The truth is that I’m thrilled to have longer stretches of time to work. I love having a set schedule, knowing exactly how many hours a week I can prepare my classes and write. I love having time to run during the day a few times a week. And I know Zoë will adjust. This morning was already smoother (though she still offered to stay home and nap). She said, “No, I not go to school. I just stay here with you.”

“But I have to go to work, sweetie.”

She shook her head. “No, you not go to work.”

“Mommy always comes back for you,” I said, reminding her of the Hap Palmer song she loves.

“Just like Baby Songs,” she said.

“Just like that,” I agreed.

And instead of tears when I dropped her off, she just buried her face in my shoulder and told me she was shy.

“That’s okay, sweetie. You’ll feel like playing soon.”

She was probably zooming down the slide a few minutes after I drove away, so I shouldn’t feel so melancholy. And I know this heaviness is about more than leaving a sad daughter at daycare; it’s about the way the start of the school year marks the end of summer, the passing of another year. In a minute, Zoë will be rolling her eyes at me and running to the bus behind Stella, and I can’t even imagine what Stella will be doing. And I’ll probably have more writing time than I ever wanted. I should be careful what I wish for.


How is the transition back to school for those of you who have little ones?

fall classes at the loft

I can’t believe fall is right around the corner. Everyone (Stella, Zoë, D.) will be back in school next week, which will be disorienting. But I’ll have time to finish the revision (please, please) and gear up for my fall classes, all of which I’m really excited about.

This is what I'll be teaching:

Mother Words - 10 week class at the Open Book, Minneapolis
Tuesdays, 1-3 p.m. Sept. 28 - Dec. 7 (No class Nov. 23)

Whether you are a new mom or a veteran, whether you gave birth to or adopted your child, in this class you’ll learn how to take birth and motherhood stories and turn them into art. We’ll talk about the use of humor and explore ways to capture funny motherhood anecdotes on paper. We’ll also discuss and write about the heartbreak and loss that are part of motherhood. Weekly writing exercises will focus on telling details, character development, and strengthening your reflective voice. You can expect to generate two to three creative nonfiction pieces. The instructor will provide feedback on up to 10 pages of student writing (typed and double spaced) in addition to pieces shared and workshopped in class. Course packets will be available for a copy fee on the first day of class.

For more information and to register, visit the Loft.

Introduction to Creative Nonfiction - 8 week class at the Open Book, Minneapolis
Tuesdays, Oct. 12 - Dec. 7, 7:30 - 9:30 p.m. (No class Nov. 23)

Memoirist Patricia Hampl says, “I don’t write about what I know, but in order to find out what I know.” Writing is an act of discovery. In this class, you will have an opportunity to write and reflect, go deep into your writing to find out what you know. You will develop an eye for seeing the true story in your writing. Assigned readings and writing exercises will be focused on telling details, creating a sense of place, developing strong characters and strengthening your reflective voice. Students will have an opportunity to receive supportive, constructive feedback from class members and the teaching artist through weekly sharing and one workshop.

To register, please visit the Loft.

Blogging: A Tool for Writers - Open Book, Minneapolis
Saturday, Oct. 9, 1 - 3 p.m.

In this one-day workshop, we will explore the benefits of blogging for writers. We will discuss issues of audience and voice, and how to use a blog to help build your platform and cultivate a readership for print publications. Participants will leave with a better sense of how a blog can help further their writing careers and with a page of blog resources and tips for how to start and maintain a successful blog.

To register, please visit the Loft.

I’m also taking registrations for my winter online Mother Words class, which will begin in February, 2011. And there are still a few spots left for the Mother Words Retreat, which will be held February 24-27 at Faith’s Lodge. For more information about either of these, visit my website or contact me.

a few things

I feel as though I’ve spent so much of the summer juggling and fretting that I’ve forgotten to enjoy these last months. I have been snappier with my girls, who are both in high-parental-involvement stages—Zoë is potty training and fully embracing all of the defiance inherent in being a two-year-old; and Stella is suspended somewhere between a little girl and a big girl, a transition that makes her moody and sensitive. One moment she’s totally fine, the next she’s furious, in tears, and yelling, “I’m just so frustrated, Mom! I hate you!” (That’s my favorite.)

But as is always the case, I feel much better if I take a moment and list all of the things in my life for which I’m grateful. So here is my list.

I’m grateful for:

• the way Stella purses her lips in concentration when she’s working on a new craft. (She can sit for over an hour and make a friendship bracelet or a beaded ornament.)

• the way Zoë whips off all her clothes a dozen times a day, then shouts, “I’m naked! I’m naked!” as she shakes it around the room.

• Stella’s pride as she heads down the sidewalk on her new skateboard, with more grace and balance that I’ve ever had. (Seriously, the girl has mad skills. She could be a serious surfer if she put her mind to it—and if we lived somewhere that wasn’t landlocked.)

• the way Zoë packs up all her plastic fruit and vegetables in a bag and announces she’s going to work at the “shoppy cop” (coffee shop).

• that I can run again. (I’ve spent hours this summer in the chiropractor’s office and it wasn’t helping—or helped a little and then stopped helping—and finally last week I started taking those little packets of EmergenC of all things, and my hip and leg feel so much better. Electrolytes! Magnesium! Selenium! Potassium! I could have run for an hour the other day.)

• D.—I have to give the guy a shout out not only for his surprising garage-building skills but also because he’s my biggest supporter, arranging his schedule so I can finish my revision by Sept. 1

• Led Zeppelin—Okay, I’ll admit this is a little strange. But can I tell you how much I’ve loved rediscovering those guys this summer? There is nothing like running down a country road in Northern MN; open pastures on either side of me, a cloudless sky above me, and “Ramble On” blaring on my IPod. (Who am I? No idea, no idea. I’m just going with it.)

• My parents, who have spent even more time with the girls than usual so I can log in as many hours at my computer as possible. I know it can be exhausting, but they keep offering. They keep showing up, and I’m so grateful for them.

• My kick-ass friends, both in person and virtual. I so appreciate that you’re always close by, always listening, always ready to make me laugh. Thank you!

I’d love to hear what you’re grateful for. Leave a list in the comment field or link to your own post. And thank you, as always, for reading.

a proposal, a platform, and what to do if you don’t have them

The thing I love most about blogging is connecting with other readers and writers (and mothers and friends). I recently “met” Lisa Groen Braner, who wrote The Mother’s Book of Well-Being and has a lovely essay in the latest issue of Brevity. Lisa is also a writing coach who helps nonfiction authors polish their book proposals and get their work into the hands of agents and publishers.

Book proposals. Urgh. Just the words may make you cringe. (I already wrote a whole book and now I need to write a proposal? What?) Or you may be asking, what the hell is a book proposal?

Well, Lisa has a great set of interviews at The Court Street Literary Collective in which five authors discuss book proposals and author platforms. (I especially love Dinty W. Moore’s thoughts on platforms: “Platforms are great for those who have them – politicians, pundits, celebrities – but in my humble opinion, there is too much focus on platform right now. Good books are about the writing, not about who wrote them.” Amen. Amen!)

But the truth is if you’re writing memoir or narrative nonfiction, at some point you will need to write a book proposal (in which you will need to describe your platform). So check out these interviews and, if you need help writing a proposal, check out Lisa’s website, Book Dreams.

deadline, oh beautiful deadline

It’s been a whirlwind around here. D has been rebuilding our garage with his dad and brother, transforming it from a run-down shed (what a neighbor boy accurately called it once) into a real garage with electricity and a garage door and a ceiling actually high enough for a garage door opener. They have been sweating it out in the back yard for over a week now, and I’ve been spending long afternoons with the girls, grilling hamburgers and watching them jump in the pool, splashing water on each other until their laughter transforms into whining and crying and hair-pulling.

I have also been writing and revising and writing and revising in my one-and-a-half hours each morning, trying to finish the memoir by September 1. (I realize that I’ve moved my deadline. Cut me some slack.)

The good news is that I finally feel like I’m moving the book forward. I’m past those hard middle chapters and I can actually see the light at the end of the tunnel. Don’t get me wrong; I still have pages and pages to write, but for the first time I feel as though finishing it is a real possibility. I’m getting close. Which is why it’s frustrating that I don’t have more time to work on it right now.

But maybe it’s better this way. I’m out the door to the coffee shop as soon as I wake up, and each morning I’m excited to dive back into the narrative. Maybe the fact that I need to write 65 (or 70?) pages in the next three weeks is exactly the kind of fire under my a** I needed.

Hello, fire. Meet my a**.