Category Archives: getting old

Rejections, Hardiness, and 9/11

11 Friday Sep 2015

Posted by in Adventures, family, getting old, teenage years, writing

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This is a photo of Eleanor and me from 1999, I think. I was looking for one from 2001, but I’m terrible at keeping photos and memories organized. But basically when I think back on 9/11, I remember that Eleanor was too small to undeIMG_2109r-stand what was going on and had the world in front of her. So did I. So much of the person she was becoming was hidden from me. I had no idea how I would or could influence her; mostly I just wanted her to take a damn nap. I’d given birth before I’d even chosen a career path. In a couple years, this little girl will say something funny that inspires me to write a picture book that will go on to get rejected. But I’ll fall in love with writing. I’ll keep at it, eventually moving on to YA novels that I’ll be positive will sell before she graduates from high school. I’ll be wrong. But, I’ll still keep at it.

I’ll start a blog, which celebrates both the absurdity and wonder of the teenage years and the angst and joy of parenting. The kids will become teens, so I’ll write less about them because dang, I never really asked permission in the first place and maybe I’ve been kind of invading their privacy. And I’ll grow weary of not having good writerly news to share, so my blog will grow cold.

This is my first post in about a year. All in all, writing has been a less enjoyable journey than I thought it would be. This month, for instance, I was reminded to renew my SCBWI membership, which marked my 10th year with this beautiful organization. It also reminded me that it’s been over ten years now that I’ve been collecting rejections. This week brought three book rejections, which marks a new milestone: I’ve officially tipped the scale at over 100 rejections since my career start. I’ve been a little wallowy.

On the bright side, Eleanor and Magnolia are teens who happen to enjoy reading and talking about books, even my books. We also love talking about other life stuff, for instance the weirdness of high school and what the future holds. Where most parents feel estranged from their teens, I’ve never felt closer to my kids. This is a rare and remarkable thing that I treasure. Eleanor, now a senior, has herself fallen in love with writing and joined my critique group. I’m in my golden age of parenting. I feel weepy when I think of my kids leaving for college. I’m not a weeper. Josh is the weeper. Eleanor once said something like, “Yeah, my dad cries over poetry, TV shows, baby animal videos. There’s something at least once a month. But if I see my mom cry? Shit. Something is going down.” Well, college is about to go down.

This morning as I was scrolling 9/11 anniversary Facebook posts, Eleanor asked me if I wanted to read her college essay. Yes. Of course I did. I haven’t asked her if it’s okay to share any of it, so I’ll only say that I wept when she said her mother had been one of the fiercest and hardiest people she’s known–that she’d seen me at war with a myriad of life’s elements (physical and emotional: she mentioned my nerve disorder and the rejections streaming in over the years) that perhaps helped her raise her chin, keep her eyes hard, and meet the hard stuff in life head-on.

I mean, duh, of course I wept. It was kind of like, huh, I influence her. And it was kind of like, oh thank god. And it was kind of like, wow, we did it, she’s going to be so good at life. And it was kind of like, oh dang, she’s watching how I deal with rejection.

I wept because my books may fail, but my parenting hasn’t. I want to tell that young mother in the photo that her baby is going to amazing! I want to reach back and tell her to buckle in because she may never have a writing career, but the struggle will not be for nothing. I want to tell her to stop fantasizing about showing her kids what she’ll look like in a successful career because the way they see her in a failing career will shape them beautifully. I still hope for a time they see me succeed at getting a book published, of course. But, that’s a different blog post.

And then I wept because it’s 9/11 and there are mothers that lost out on seeing what their daughters will become. There are daughters who didn’t get to watch their mothers go to war with life. So, it seemed a good time to write a blog post. To be thankful that I was thrown into parenthood and that I’ve gotten to wallow around in both the love and suffering of life.

Of Corporate Meetings and Pedal Car Bars

21 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by in Adventures, family, getting old, my day job

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If you work or have worked in the corporate world, this meme likely resonates with you.

meetingI’ve been out of the corporate setting now for around three months and am more content than I’ve ever been. Instead of worrying if the team will actually adopt a new policy or if the client will actually implement the work we spent hundreds of hours on, I worry that I’m not saying what I want to say in my novel writing or that it won’t resonate with people the way I hope. But even if no one ever reads my fiction, I love the struggle of creating a thing that gives people a sense of personal and universal truth; and that’s what makes my life different now. They’re struggles I choose not struggles someone is paying me to nurture. I often wonder how many people really love their corporate jobs. It’s easy to assume that since it was never my first love that it’s no one’s first love. Maybe it is.

Last night, Josh and I went out on a date and the restaurant we chose was pretty meh. The crowd was not our crowd. The setting wasn’t inviting to us. The food was mediocre. We decided the restaurant was too corporatized. It was owned by a group, and you could tell that it was trying to reach everyone instead of cultivating a single personality of patronage. So that probably influenced what came next. We were sitting outside, and one of those pedal bars came down the street. If you’re not familiar, here’s a picture:

pedalbar

The idea is that you all get drunk and pedal around town while a non-drunkard gets paid to steer. As Josh and I watched it go by, I said, “Do you think anyone is actually having fun on that thing?” And then we started chatting about how it’s the perfect metaphor for corporate life. A group of people come together because someone organized it–and even that guy is sitting there the whole time wondering if he did the right thing and looking around to see if everyone is having fun. Then they all pedal around–some more furiously than others–going nowhere and drinking like crazy to get through it all-the-while never making any collaborative decisions about which way to go. Instead, they very strategically clog the flow of traffic.

I had some great times in my corporate life. I met some of my best friends and worked along some of the best people Indianapolis bred or attracted. I don’t regret it. I just think we’re meant for more than meetings and busywork. Did anyone ever fall in love because of a meeting? Maybe in spite of it. Does anyone ever look back on their life and say, “I remember this one time during a meeting…?” Well, maybe they do, but I’d bet the wonder and meaning of the moment came about because of the people and not the subject or project at hand. Is unrealistic to think that even in your work, you can and should have meaning?

 

 

Rest and Recovery

09 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by in family, getting old

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recoveryHi. Nearly a month has passed and I’m finally writing something longer than an email. Hooray for progress!!

I’m doing very well post surgery and recovering as expected. Reading and writing are still taxing. Focusing takes A LOT of effort and seeing letters and words move quickly across the screen makes me motion sick.

It’s strange not to be able to read and write, those are my relaxation methods of choice. So I’ve been watching a ton of TV. Thankfully new episodes of How I Met Your Mother came out on Netflix. I’ve also watched The Tudors and both Elizabeth movies, which I enjoyed. My summation of the Tudors: The torture was as intense as the sex and I have no idea how historically accurate it was. Also, modern medicine rules. It is my life-theme for the month.

I’ve seen three movies at the theater. Sliver-Linings Playbook – good. Lincoln – good. Anna Kerinina, art design – good, plot – plbt.

Being at home is so nice. Snuggling the dogs and children has been wonderful, especially with the Christmas tree up and Josh around for a few days. He’s been doing such cool shit that, really, it’s too bad he isn’t blogging anymore. His would be far more interesting!

So, I’m off to find a new show to get involved in. Feel free to leave suggestions in the comments. Know that I’m doing well and will be enjoying a pain-free Christmas!

Brain Surgery is Motivating

21 Sunday Oct 2012

Posted by in family, getting old, writing

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I dig that slug reading a book, even if that is one of my least favorite creatures on earth. What does it have to do with brain surgery? Not much, I suppose, but see how absorbed it is in that book?

That’s how absorbed I am in writing my newest manuscript. And I think the reason I’m so absorbed in it is because I’ve scheduled brain surgery for November 14th. I finished another draft of Poverty Island on Sept. 16th, and sent it off for an agent’s review. So, that I wouldn’t check my email incessantly, I decided to outline my next book. By Sept. 28th, I had an outline done and 11 pages drafted. The fact that I even did an outline is a Sparks-Mugele miracle. As of today, just three weeks later, I’ve written 160 pages–over half the manuscript. I think I’ll have an entire draft done by my surgery date, just three weeks away.

Here’s why I’m going under the knife, if you missed that post.

Brain surgery! Crazy right? Turns out that even non-dying people have it sometimes.

Still, with great surgery comes great recovery. I’m supposed to take six weeks to recover. And six weeks is the perfect rest-time for a first draft too. So, we will rest together, giving each other plenty of room to stretch out–no touching. That only leads to revising, and that’s right out.

There’s also just something reassuring about having a complete first draft before having surgery. I mean, it’s BRAIN surgery. What if I forget where I was trying to go by the time I can write again? What if I come out with the ability to do high math (I keep hoping) but can no longer think up neat angsty fiction for teenagers?

Here’s another thing: having a doctor for a husband may lead you to think I have all this reassuring inside info about the surgery itself and what I should actually be worried about, but no. The extent to which Josh’s inside knowledge played a role was as follows:

Me: I’ll be at Methodist. You had a neurosurgery rotation there, right?

Josh: Yes.

Me: So, which doctor should I use?

Josh: Well, I couldn’t tell you who’s a good surgeon, but I could tell you who’s not an asshole.

So, it’s good to know my doctor’s not an asshole, at least. You may have noticed this non-assholian surgery happens on the day before my birthday. So, after about 12 hours of surgery, I’ll be turning 38 in the ICU. Am I bitter? Not one bit.

If you wondered what the best gift I could ever receive for my birthday was, I’d say, read this post. But, since I’ve already received that gift, I’d say having this surgery. To be honest, I think I’ve hid my pain pretty well from the world outside of Josh, Eleanor, and Magnolia. So, it may seem drastic and terribly unpleasant to think of me having surgery so near my birthday. But, trust me, it’s a gift.

Now, back to writing!

What I Have in Common with Moby Dick, Mr. Roper and Rachmaninof

08 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by in family, getting old

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Much of the last few weeks I’ve been doing my research on Trigeminal Neuralgia (TN). A few interesting things I’ve learned include:

  • Norman Fell (aka Mr. Roper from Three’s Company) had TN, as did Jefferson Davis, Sergei Rachmaninof, Gloria Steinem, and Norma Zimmer.
  • A bit character in Moby Dick is noted for having it. “Didn’t that dough-boy, the steward, tell me that of a morning he always finds the old man’s hammock clothes all rumples and tumbled, and the sheets down at the foot, and coverlid almost tied into knots, and the pillow a sort of frightful hot, as though a baked brick had been on it? A hot old man! I guess he’s got what some folks ashore call a conscience; it’s a kind of Tic-Dolly-row they say — worse nor a toothache. Well, well; I don’t know what it is, but the Lord keep me from catching it.”
  • Due to the mysterious nature of the pain people over the centuries have tried a variety of things to “cure” it, including: blood-letting, exorcism, arsenic, bee and cobra venom, hemlock, tar on the face, searing the nerve with  hot iron, shock therapy, hypnotism, radiation and X-ray therapy and inhalation of trichlorethylene (now known as TCE).

Basically, it sucked to have TN before about the 1950s. It was then that Dr. Dandy hypothesized that vessels were compressing the trigeminal nerve. He began performing surgeries to remove the offending vessels, and people were finally getting consistent relief.

This is still the most promising form of getting relief from TN.

Turns out, I’m a great candidate for surgery, and I’m moving forward with that option. It will be months before it’s scheduled–if it’s scheduled (several tests will happen ahead of time); it will probably be months before I even get a consult. I’ll keep you posted.

For those interested, the surgery is called Microvascular Decompression (MVD). This site has great in-depth info about the who, what, when, why, and how of it, including illustrations of the open skull–if that sort of thing bothers you, consider yourself warned. But in basic terms, it’s believed that vessels compress the trigeminal nerve, causing my wackadoo pain. The  point of the surgery is to pad the nerve with Teflon, or separate it from the offending vessels.

Is it brain surgery? No. The brain is not operated on. It’s considered cranial surgery. And obviously, it’s still quite serious. Real risks include hearing loss in my right ear (to which Eleanor said, “Cool!”) or partial numbness in my face. Each happens about 1 to 2 percent of the time. Does that scare me? No. I told my mom this: I feel like I’ve lost 35 percent of my life to TN since I’ve had it. Besides the pain and the vivid dread of an attack, it’s affected work, marriage, family, and my social life. Dicking around with meds and trying to chase the pain away while coping with side effects that made me anywhere from forgetful and unfocused to suicidal is part of that 35 percent loss. If the meds even worked! Living at 65 percent is doable. Do I want to settle for that for the rest of my life? No. So, if I go deaf in an ear or have numbness, I’ll still get some of that percentage back.

My biggest fear? That it won’t work.

Trigeminal Neuralgia: Ultimate Negative Reinforcement

20 Sunday May 2012

Posted by in family, getting old

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This is what my face feels like about 5 to 20 times a day depending on how fussy my trigeminal nerve is feeling. That’s not an exaggeration. You know how when you go to a doctor for some pain issue and they ask you to rate it on a scale from 1-10? Women in labor probably get this a lot. Well, I never picked 10 because no matter how bad the pain was, I’ve thought, I’m sure it could be worse. It could always be worse. This February I would have picked 10. This is not a pity post–and I’ve written my fair share. It’s an awareness piece, I suppose, about trigeminal neuralgia. Look around the Internet and you’ll find few people talking about it.

Apparently only 1 in 15,000-20,000 people are affected. The medical sites and Wikipedia say trigeminal neuralgia is thought to be one of the most painful disorders known to mankind. Some call it the suicide disease because the pain is literally unbearable.

My pain started in 2007. At random, I’d get a shocking strike to the right side of my face in my lower jaw. Maybe I’d eat something sweet, maybe I’d bend over to kiss Eleanor or Magnolia to say goodnight, maybe I’d lean over the sink to brush my teeth, maybe I’d laugh or talk or touch my teeth together wrong or maybe I’d do nothing at all. One day when I was running, I dropped to my knees with this electric strike of pain in my face I didn’t understand. It lasted about a minute and then suddenly I was pain free, and I finished my run. The more frequently it happened, the more I was convinced it was a toothache.

I saw two dentists, an oral surgeon, and an endodontist. No one could find anything wrong with my teeth. In 2008, one caring dentist and friend said he’d refill my tooth. It seemed to work. I was pain free for almost a year. In the winter of 2009, the pain was back. I did another tour of dentists and specialists who again refused to touch my teeth. My dentist friend said he’d put a crown on my tooth. It seemed to work. I was pain free for about three months. Then the strikes of pain came back. I would have asked my friend to pull my tooth, but I’d moved to Indianapolis.

The pain seemed to magically disappear in Indianapolis. Then in winter of 2010, the attacks were back. My dentist here refused to pull my tooth, and I was pissed! I would have done about anything to not feel the strikes of pain. I didn’t want to eat, speak, or move my face at all; I’d learned to fear these things deeply. I could avoid those things by doing nothing–by sitting and not moving an inch–but I’d have to stand up at some point, and just standing up might trigger a strike. I lived in fear of this and didn’t want anyone to touch me. At one of my begging sessions at the dentist, he mentioned neuralgia, but it was rare and affected mostly people over 50.

I was so convinced it was a bad tooth that I basically cursed my (very kind) dentist and lived with the pain throughout winter. When the strikes stopped happening in spring, I began to notice the pattern. Strikes in winter. Reprieve until May. Strikes for a month or two. Reprieve until winter. Right on schedule, in winter of 2011 the strikes came back.

They were worse than ever before. They could last up to ten minutes. It was paralyzing. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t dying. My lips, tongue, and even my ear would go pins and needles around the explosion of pain in my jaw, I would drool because my salivary glands were going nuts, and breathing was more like gasping. When it was over I needed to cry because of the tension I’d had waiting for the strike to happen and the ordeal of going through it. I was embarrassed for some reason, too. I think it was because when the strike was over, I was completely pain free. To the outsider, it had to look ridiculous and confusing to see me paralyzed with pain and then suddenly ready for a night out on the town. Except I was afraid of going out–afraid of having an attack in public, or while driving, or at work, or in front of the kids.

One night after an attack, Josh sat rubbing my back, and said, “Well, at least you don’t have trigeminal neuralgia. It’s so bad, they call it the suicide disease.”

I remembered my dentist saying neuralgia, and I decided it was time time to see a neurologist. Twenty minutes into the appointment, he diagnosed me with trigeminal neuralgia. I would have laughed, but I was terrified of the possible pain. I did call Josh later to inform I had the suicide disease. He didn’t laugh either.

At least there was hope for treatment. I could finally label this pain! The weird thing is, you can’t just take some Tylenol to help the pain pass. Narcotics don’t cut the pain either–don’t even lessen it. My doctor put me on an anti-convulsant, which takes some time to build up and affect my system. But, that winter the meds kicked in, and I could tell that they were working. I had a weird dull ticking in my “tooth” but it never led to an attack. I became pain-free by the end of February.

It’s now May, and the strikes are back. The meds seem to help somewhat, but not like before. They attacks don’t last as long–only a few seconds–and I can get through them, but I still look ridiculous, flinching and freezing, and fearing the next one. I hate when it happens in front of the girls. Josh has a new joke though: “Sorry about your face.” I think I need a t-shirt for him.

If you’re curious, here’s a photo of the  big trigeminal nerve; it splits into three. For me, the offender is the V3, which branches down through the lower jaw. I circled it. The arrows point to the regions where I feel the attacks.

Anyway, I’m starting to think about Microvascular Decompession surgery. It’s a tough decision because surgery is always a risk. But this one in particular requires a small part of the skull being removed and a small part of the brain and brain stem being exposed in order to place a tiny sponge around the nerve to separate it from blood vessels that may be wrapped around the nerve. Not the most inviting of treatment options. Many folks in my support group have had this procedure and have been pain free for years. Of course, there are a couple who have gone through it and found no relief. I’m still in the research stages of this treatment option. When I’m in a period of attacks, it seems worth it. When I’m not, it seems risky. Then I think about the dread of an oncoming attack and the way the fear stops me from laughing, smiling, talking, kissing my family, and sometimes driving or even going to work; and it seems like it’d be worth a try. I’ll let you know what I decide.

How Busy My Blog Has Been

17 Saturday Dec 2011

Posted by in family, getting old, insecurity, writing

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It’s been so long since I’ve posted that my dashboard is different and I’m getting payday loan spammers asking me for guest blogs. I’d love to see how they try to relate it to YA authors and books for teenagers, but it’s more fun to tell them they can’t post here. It’s not like this blog will give off much link juice anyway. Anyhoo–

I haven’t posted recently because I really wanted to have good news to share. But I don’t. And I if I don’t post something soon, Google will drop my rankings into nowhere which is worse having a shitty domain authority. Is my tone today a bit dim? Is this blog really even about being an authority? I think my work life has just bled into my other work life. It’s certainly more alive at the moment even if bleeding is involved.

I know most women have this work- home life balance situation that they teeter with. I have a work-work life balance that fucks with me. I’m competitive; I want to be not just good at my job, but GREAT at my job. I’d like to even be the BEST at my job, but I’m not willing to do that because of time I need to cultivate my writing job. Which to me is a job, just one I’m not paid for. Yet. I’d like to be the BEST YA author I can be, but I won’t be because I like getting paid and providing for my family and having security, and being good at other things. On days where my paid job is going well I think maybe I should step away from writing and really be the best at something in that job. On days where I have writing success, I’m pretty sure I could live without going into the office and strategizing how a client can have an authoritative website. On days (like today) where I’m tired of both jobs, I wonder what the heck I’m doing and if being somewhat satisfied in both jobs is the easy way out. Maybe I should I ditch one. Take a risk and find out if I can be the best at one thing. If I did turn out to be the best at one thing, would I actually be more satisfied? I think I’d regret ditching one or the other. I don’t know if I could un-invest myself.

This is a first-world problem. I know. But over the last two years I’ve finally been able to look up from raising my kids and getting through med school/residency with Josh without going broke and finally think about my career. Most women do this in their twenties. Lucky ducks. Then they attach to a man and have kids. So let me just say I’m glad to have this struggle. It’s cool to think about me. My career. It’s just weird and well, hard, to navigate my own ambition.

 

If My Life Were a Book Cover (7)

23 Friday Sep 2011

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Title: Hippie Van!

During our recent family trip to Seattle and Portland it became Eleanor’s (and consequently Magnolia’s and my) mission to shout HIPPIE VAN every time we saw one. There were a lot — something you don’t get much in Indianapolis, even when you live close to Broadripple. Counting up all the occurrences of hippie culture on the west coast reminded me that I like it better out there. You get used to living in Indianapolis and forget how the salty beaches, fresh produce, and hippie vans really perk and inspire you. I don’t know why I feel like I live a better life elsewhere because that can’t be true. Because here’s the evidence: I have a big girl job at tech start up, a library in my home in which I can write, a husband who is happy in his job for the first time ever, and a talented critique group that I love being a part of. Now if I could only buy liquor on Sunday!!

But, I want to be elsewhere about as much as when I was that 17-year old girl looking for colleges at least 1000 miles away. You can’t go home again? Or, maybe you can because I fall right into the old pattern of wanting to leave. I wonder if my girls think about Indiana. Maybe they will crave stability after having moved about 10 times before college. I wonder what it feels like to have life where you actually settle. And how can people actually want that? How can one life be enough? It’s like I’m cramming 10 lives into one because shit, I don’t want to miss out. Is this also part of what drives me to write? Creating new versions of people who make choices I won’t and live lives I can’t?

Well, this is becoming very Dear Diary, so I’m off to write fiction. Maybe I’ll include a hippie van.

Fourteen Years

31 Tuesday May 2011

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So today marks fourteen years of marriage for Josh and me. That seems like sooooo many years. I guess it is. Josh asked me what year was the best so far. It’s a little like asking which season is the best when you live on the California coast. They’re all good. Sure there was the year of El Nino, but other than that, it’s mostly delightful. And I guess that describes our married life. Sure there was the year of the dot.com bust, oh! and let’s not forget the year of Ella’s colic. But other than that it’s been swell. It really has.

I was looking for some kind of medical records or something the other day when I found our wedding vows. We wrote our own because I sure wasn’t going be pledging obedience and all that shit. And here’s what Josh wrote and recited me all those years ago (written on a memo pad from gemini metals corporation):

Well, Jody, our parents have given their blessing, our friends and family have all come as witnesses, and the minister will make our marriage legal. But it’s this–you and me, speaking together–that is the most important, the most valuable part of the whole wedding. These promises I’m making are not for our parents, they’re not for the church, they’re for you. And, really, I don’t need to make them. You know, Jody, that without speaking, because of our life together, how much I love you and how committed I am to you. But in front of all these people, I promise out loud, to learn to love you and to stay with you as long as we live, Jody. And, of course, I promise to respect you, encourage you, and grow with you . I promise to have babies with you and grow old with you. These things go without saying–they’re written in every aspect of the life we share. But more than these promises, these vows, Jody, I will work with you, Jody, and most of all I will try my very best to be a good husband. After all, isn’t that what love is? Isn’t that, really, what life is? — working together and knowing we will fail often, still doing the best we know how to do.

Well, yes. And failed we have. And loved we have. What a life it has been. A really good one.

And, um, Josh? When you promised to have babies with me, you really didn’t have to make good on that on our honeymoon. But, thank you for this wonderful life we have. Thank you for the commitment, respect, encouragement, and for staying true to these words. I love you. Happy Anniversary.

 

A Bit of Nostalgia: The Couch

23 Monday May 2011

Posted by in books, family, getting old

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When I first began dating Josh, we spent a lot of time reading. Outside on the college campus, on rooftops, and in parks he’d read me The Once and Future King. On our very first date we went to a bookstore and we read Lafcadio, The Lion Who Shot Back. For our Contemporary Lit class he read Cat’s Cradle to me. By that time I’d fallen in love with him, and was falling in love with literature.

When he graduated college and took a job at Independent bookstore, he’d read me poetry. Sometimes he’d recite it. Still does. I wonder if our kids think that all kids’ dads recite poetry at dinner (and sometimes scrawl it in secret corners of the basement walls). Probably they know its just their dad. But of all the places Josh has read books to me, the couch is my favorite. The first couch Josh ever owned was something out of an old lady’s house. It was a light olive color, the fabric shiny and puckered with buttons. The back of the couch had a curve to it. It was a long couch, fit for a tall bookish man almost 6’5″ and still growing. What’s weird is that while I remember reading on the couch time and time again, I don’t remember a single book we read there. I was probably too busy watching him, hearing him, feeling him. I know I promised myself I’d remember those times reading on that couch. I was very busy memorizing the scene, it seems.

This last weekend and today Josh has been at the hospital quite a bit and I am well into book number three. It’s been me on the couch, alone with my books a lot during this intern year. And I don’t know what it is these past few days that make me need to read like a dog needs a treat. I just can’t get enough. Whatever it is, I was satisfying that hunger again tonight when Eleanor came and sat with me on the couch. To Read.

I smiled and smiled and was a little sad when I had to tell her to go to bed. And then I yelled at her for dog-earing the page of the book she was reading. Gah! She knows better. She just can’t be bothered with the details like that. Anyway, I hope she has memories of reading that are wonderful for her. Or maybe it will Magnolia who remembers her sister reading to her every night–the Harry Potter books in order, the way that Eleanor hates. I have no idea why you’d read them out of order, but for Eleanor it’s satisfying. It’s kind of mysterious to me why books are so satisfying. But they are. They just really are.