For eleven years, I have facilitated a FREE creative writing workshop in Camp Hill, PA, at the Fredricksen Library. I try to emphasize honest but positive feedback -- brutality can march right out the door. In those eleven years, some fine writing has emerged and can be found here: http://www.sunburypressstore.com/A-Community-of-Writers-A-Collection-of-Short-Stories-9781620060490.htm

I agree with the blogger -- these little writing workshops you'll find sprinkled throughout the south central PA area are treasures, a kind of oasis for writers itchin' to write, but not in a vacuum. 

Enjoy the read. And check out a writing workshop nearest you soon!

I say "familiar" because in the late 70s, early 80s, I followed the wisdom of a Sandberg predecessor — Gloria Steinem. I continue to greatly admire Ms. Steinem, founder of Ms. magazine: http://www.msmagazine.com, among other noteworthy accomplishments designed to empower women, which contained information that opened the eyes of my then-20-something self. I modeled myself in those days after Steinem's courage, intelligence and grace-under-fire. And I believed with my whole heart and soul that I could have it all.

It was not until I had become a mother, not until I was faced, nose-to-nose, with having to make The Choice, that the full meaning of "having it all" slapped me upside the head. Having it all in the 80s and 90s meant the McMansion, the designer clothes and accessories, two or more SUVs and maybe a zippy little Miata "just for fun."  The only way an average couple could maintain this lifestyle was for both to maintain high-income jobs. Reality translation: long, hard hours spent in mid- to high-level corporate or institutional jobs where every drop of blood is sucked from you, leaving your child with what was left of you at the end of the day: a dried out husk.

All in the name of something our society called success, measured by how much stuff you can accumulate.  (A popular saying at that time was "Whoever has the most stuff when they die, wins.")

Children? Easy fix: daycare.

I fell for this as an "older" first-time mom (35) because my career had been carefully cultivated by then and I had been working in what many would consider a glamour job carrying some amount of prestige. As Creative Director for Pfaltzgraff, a York, PA based international housewares manufacturer, I brainstormed advertising and public relations campaigns with an international advertising agency, calling the shots on what made it and what didn't. Two to three times a year, I worked in a tiny office within our dazzling Madison Avenue showroom and hobnobbed with giants of the housewares industry. I oversaw photo shoots in SoHo lofts and ate power lunches with bridal magazine editors in trendy Village bistros.

I traveled around NYC on an expense account, taking taxis to this appointment or the next. At one point, during a launch of the company's American Bone China debut, all of Bloomingdale's was at my, and my boss', disposal — after hours! That same trip involved a late-night cocktail party at the boss' midtown apartment, overlooking The Chrysler Building. 

Why would I give all that up just because I wanted to start a family? I can have it all, right?

With baby in belly and clipboard in hand, I began to survey all the available offerings for daycare facilities (keep in mind, this was still a bit of a new concept), selecting only the best, and there were few. Armed with a dozen questions, I fired away at a young woman, the director of one of the toniest daycares in Harrisburg at the time, who answered them with intellligence and empathy.

And then I toured the facility.

My baby, I learned, would receive his very own cubby, destined to be filled with my daily schlep of diapers, wipes, ointments, bottles, toys. The cubbies lined the walls of the infant room — a cavernous space filled with two rows of cribs. Out of one popped a sleepy-eyed, pouty-lipped baby, head aglow with a mass of blond curls. He held his arms out to me.

I lost it.

"Sorry," I said as I tried to get out of there as fast as my seven-month pregnant body would allow. "I can't do this." I started to hyperventilate, gulping back what I knew would be a torrent of tears. "Please get that child now. He wants to be picked up." I bolted for the door and never looked back.

When I had announced my decision to my husband later that day that I wanted to raise our child, I wanted to be the face he saw when he awoke from his naps, I wanted to be the rock in his life on which he could always lean, well. . .he was surprised. As were all my friends and co-workers. Because I was always the ambitious one, I was the one spouting the platitudes of having it all.

I had my son in 1990 (a wonderful time in history to be a parent: we were in peace time, the country was prosperous, there were jobs out there if you wanted them and terrorist attacks were not yet part of the mainstream conversation). Because I had developed a nice career prior to motherhood, Pfaltzgraff did not want to lose me. The powers that be were wise enough to negotiate a contract with me so I could work from my home on a given bank of hours, which I had greatly reduced from the regular grind. That sweet arrangement lasted only a year, as I knew it would — it took that long to find someone to replace me. But that one leap of courage allowed me to work as a freelancer: I'd go after the projects I wanted when I wanted to work on them. And I'd work around the needs of my baby: when he napped, or when daddy came home, or when he was asleep at night.

I suppose today, I would be considered one who "leaned out" of her job instead of "leaned in." For me the price was simply too high.

What Does All That Really Mean?

The moms out there are probably asking themselves by now: how did your decision translate to the realities of keeping up rent or mortgage payments, child expenses, etc.?

Going from two healthy incomes to one and a quarter was not easy. There's a word out there that could be considered old-fashioned and has been nearly obliterated from the English language during the high flyin' 80s and prosperous 90s: Sacrifice. That's it. That's what it took for parents of our means, mid-level execs with no help from parental coffers or trust funds.

We resided in a residential area of Harrisburg city in a lovely "starter" Cape Cod while our friends or colleagues broke ground in one of several tony neighborhoods, preparing to build their dream McMansion. My husband drove a mid-80s Isuzu Trooper and I an 86 Toyota Corolla. I still smile whenever I spot a rare glimpse of a Trooper, remembering our newborn son puddled into a borrowed car seat in the back, my arm around his tiny shoulders and my eyes never leaving his beautiful face.

We borrowed a dear friend's crib, having to weigh all purchases now for practicality. The crib was newish, safe and free. Today we smile at the notion that our collective offspring of three, successfully-launched young adults began their lives in the comfort of that white crib.

A recent article outlining the real costs of Leaning In (about $96k a year when you consider the army of help you need to pull it off) depicted a mom handing off her baby, about six or seven months old, to an eager, smiling young woman ready to receive her. 

Okay, while mom may have no regrets missing stinky diapers or singing "Wheels on the Bus" for the hundredth time, or cleaning up baby spew, there is something to be said for that sleepy-eyed, tousled-headed toddler wiping away a nap haze with dimpled knuckles. Something to be said for greeting him with a huge smile, feeling the warmth of him, hearing his heart beat next to yours. Something to be said for long walks in the neighborhood, to the farmer's market, the library, playground, play group. Something to be said about chattering on about the world around you, helping your baby NOTICE something other than a wallpapered Peter Rabbit and rows and rows of conformity.

I am not ignorant of many parents having to pull in two incomes today to survive nor am I offering a black or white rebuttal to Sandberg's mantra. I admit there are many women who should return to their jobs, and I've known many. But for those, like me, caught off-guard by the siren song of their own infant, I say: Go for it. Love every minute of it. Don't beat yourself up by comparing yourself to the Sandbergs or Mayers (Yahoo CEO who took two weeks maternity leave). They had a huge head start in the working world, and they employ an army of helpers. I am confident in saying that their hubbies may count unloading a dishwasher as pitching in around the house. 

I am reminded of another mom in my child-rearing days who put herself on a pedestal: Kathie Lee Gifford. This talk show host, nightclub singer, actress and published writer touted over and over again on her gig with Regis Philbin how wonderful it was to be Cody and Cassidy's mom and shared ad nauseum all the cute things they did . . .

She even went so far as to say in an interview that every morning before she left, she wrote her children a note and placed it next to their plates, as if that fulfilled her duties of mom for the day.

I wonder. Did Cody and Cassidy reach for that note every morning or the willing arms of the person left to care for them?

It's a personal choice, no doubt. And the caregiver does not have to be mom. Dad would do just fine, if he is so inclined.

As women, we need to respect each other and support our choices. All I ask before you get swept up in another have-it-all hue and cry, or if you're about to soothe yourself with a pint of Ben and Jerry's because suddenly you feel less than a modern woman,  read between the lines and realize that Yes! You Can Lean In — when and if it is right for you. And Yes! You Can Have It All.

Just not all at once.

Here, I'd like you to meet a few indie authors I know.  We all struggle to find that elusive prize: readers. While every one of these writers' works can be found on Amazon.com, you'll be hard pressed to know about it unless you are in their circle of friends and acquaintances or happen to stumble upon their work through Goodreads.com or some random magazine article highlighting their hard work. To say it's tougher than ever to sell a book today is a vast understatement. So many wonderful reads wade through the ocean that is the Internet where they bump against flotsam like the latest cute cat video on You Tube  or withstand gale force winds generated by tripe that shall go unnamed but garners million dollar sales because it hit a collective (hollow) nerve. Nabbing an agent and a book deal with the Big Five still looms large for any author and one can wait a lifetime for it. 

When the urge to write strikes, when the writer jumps through all the right hoops —joining writing groups, attending writing workshops, investing in an MFA program, and above all: writing, writing, writing, then revising until they can no longer see straight — one wants to share their stories with the world!  Well, at least a portion of the reading population. This is where small publishers fill that space between the Holy Grail of the Big Five and the publish-anything crowd known as vanity presses. 

But, here's the rub: small publishers do not have the resources to push the books they print, garner the NPR interviews, or blow their authors' works all over The New Yorker. Advertising, publicity, marketing — necessities in any writer's toolbox today — must cohabitate with the yearning to write. 

In the early '00's (sounds so strange, doesn't it?), I innately understood this, which is why I had used money earned from a PA Council on the Arts fellowship for literature to found, curate and publish an indie literary magazine called PHASE. We had a great run, published 50 Pennsylvania authors and countless photographers and graphic designers. The magazine sold out, every time, in a favorite (and Thank God still existing!) venue: The Midtown Cinema in Harrisburg. Appreciative readers had discovered this little literary gem, but not enough of them. After seven issues, I had to fold this labor of love which I am proud to say supported itself, every issue. A wobbly support, but we ended in the black. 

In that spirit, here are a few of my friends, some of whom are former students at the writing workshop I facilitate at the Fredricksen Library in Camp Hill, who have toiled, combed through every word, endured critques and revisions, and have published with small publishers. There's horror, romance, intrigue, fantasy among the selections, all well written and just waiting for their spines to be cracked, their words to find a home in your mind and your heart. 

Cate Masters : http://www.goodreads.com/author/list/2944596.Cate_Masters?auto_login_attempted=true

Catherine Jordan: http://catherinejordan.com/

Mike Silvestri: http://www.mikesilvestri.com/novels/

Don Helin: http://www.donhelin.com/

Madelyn Killion: http://www.amazon.com/At-End-Day-Madelyn-Killion/dp/1620061228

Jon Sprunk: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2915851.Jon_Sprunk

And, of course --

Ann Elia Stewart: http://insidelewybodydementia.com/

That should take you all the way to your upcoming beach reads. By then, I may have more for you. Thanks for your consideration!

This is a compelling, eye-opening portrait of two communities in Philadelphia with drastically different economic resources. Over the course of their 10-year investigation, the authors of this important new work came to understand that this disparity between affluence and poverty has created a knowledge gap–far more important than mere achievement scores–with serious implications for students economic prosperity and social mobility. At the heart of this knowledge gap is the limited ability of students from poor communities to develop information capital. This moving book takes you into the communities in question to meet the students and their families, and by doing so provides powerful insights into the role that literacy can play in giving low-income students a fighting chance. Important reading for a wide audience of educators, policymakers, school reformers, and community activists,

Giving Our Children a Fighting Chance:

• Documents how inequalities begin early and are reinforced by geographic concentration.
• Compares community libraries to see how print is used in each neighborhood and how children develop as young readers.
• Looks at patterns that create radical differences in experiences and attitudes toward learning prior to entering school.
• Explores the function of technology as a tool that exacerbates the divide between affluent students and those with limited access to information.
• Provides a comprehensive analysis of community literacy, documenting the transformation of media habits from books to computers.
• Concludes with a look inside schools to answer questions about what schools can do to overcome this complex, unequal playing field.

Today's a "snow" day. But where is the snow? From my office/studio window I see: a roof dusted with sugar. Naked branches of a mighty maple looking like icing on a broken oreo. Rain tears. Closed front doors. Christmas deer camouflaged in snow. Branches of lace breaking up 

gray.

Like --

Dirty dishwater. Flannel. My cat, Benny. A soul in original sin. (Look up your catechism.) Or is it venal? Certainly not mortal. A coated tongue when you're getting sick. Eowyn's battle-fatigued smock. The ocean right before a storm. The new color of appliances. The perimeter of my Otter box. Perpetual twilight. Thoughts in my brain right now. Oatmeal mixed with frozen blueberries. An empty nest (aviary and human). Colonial Williamsburg. Wet newspaper. Unpolished silver. The new vanilla. The stick after you ate the corndog. Zoos. Kennels. OPI's Berlin There Done That. London (not like I'd know or anything. a gray observation, no substance). Smudges on a white keyboard. One foot in front of the other in slow motion. Casablanca without the radiance of Ingrid Bergman. Morning after you forget to take off your makeup. 5 am. Manuscripts that need to be read. Ragg wool. The clutter in our garage (you just don't see it after a while). Dust bunnies. State cars. Second place. Winters in Central Pennsylvania. 

That was fun. 

Analogies welcomed.

. . .to realize it is December, and yes, you are responsible for shopping, baking, wrapping, greeting, socializing, cooking, pleasing everyone as humanly possible, continuing to work/teach, and finding a podiatrist for your twenty-something son who just arrived home for the holidays with probably a broken heel.

Holiday greetings from my home where boxes of Christmas items linger in the living room like items on my to-do list haunt my thoughts. Where my dear husband's well-meaning project to mend the fireplace (repointing brick, cleaning the chimney) before Christmas prevents us from putting up the tree, which has been assaulted with everything from rain to fog to high and low temperatures as it lay on our patio. It didn't asked to be picked so early. All it wants is to shine. (Personification. Meh.) Where grades are due and book clubs continue to be booked well into 2013 (oh, that's right! I had written a book). Where presents clutter my studio, some waiting to be wrapped, some waiting for a bow. Where one last batch of pumpkin bread waits to claim its aromatic place in my kitchen.

As writing goes, 2012 has been a good year. I saw my novel, twice a child, published by Sunbury Press and well received by readers. I continue to shout it to the rooftops in the hope I can reach an ever-widening audience that may benefit from taking a dip into the mind of an elderly man who suffers from Lewy Body dementia.  A collection of short stories, written by my workshop participants at the Fredricksen Library, continues to delight readers with twenty-five of the best short stories to originate from this decade-long writing group (A Community of Writers from Sunbury Press and Amazon.) I started this blog and I am beginning to hear from you!  Keep the comments coming, love the dialogue.

My writing students at the Capital Area School for the Arts completed five, ten-minute short screenplays which will become five, ten-minute short films by the end of the school year. (I'll let you know the dates they will be screened.) And guess what? They are all good! The films are now being cast from the excellent actors in our Theatre class, and they are to be produced and filmed by our excellent filmmakers in our Film/Video class. Posters will be made by our excellent artists in our Fine Arts class, and maybe, just maybe, I can ask for one original score from an excellent musician in our excellent Music class. 

A fine writing year indeed.

The breads will be baked, the presents wrapped and the subsequent smiles duly noted. My house will somehow come together and Christmas morning, there will be a gorgeous, roaring fire in the fireplace. It all will get done. And I will rest. Sometime. Real soon.

Merry Christmas to all. Keep dreaming.  Keep creating. And thanks for reading.