Magic avocado sauce
My mom is looking to improve her diet, and since I'm home in Jersey right now I've appointed myself her personal chef. I'm coming up with fun new recipe ideas and we're eating like queens. All-around win! I even made a pasta sauce out of beets (the leftovers of a beet, kale, and pinto bean stew, actually—just thrown in the blender), and Mumsy kept saying she couldn't believe there weren't any tomatoes in it. (Power of suggestion, perhaps?)
On this occasion, wanting to come up with something unusual to put on a simple dish of sautéed vegetables, I had the ingeeeenious idea to cut up a pair of avocados and blend them with veggie broth and some fresh herbs.OH.MY.GOSH.Easiest, tastiest sauce EVER. Ever, ever, ever.Here is the "recipe": using a blender or food processor, blend two avocados per one cup of broth, adding fresh herbs (basil? cilantro?) if you feel like it, and salt/pepper to taste. That's it! 
In case you are wondering, the vegetable sauté consisted of sweet potatoes, kale, garlic, and chickpeas, with roasted Brussels sprouts on the side. 
(This pic reminds me just how much I have to learn re food photography!) I've also tried the sauce on pasta (this nifty new kind, brown-rice quinoa fusilli from Trader Joe's), and it tastes great with nooch on top. Creamy, flavorful, easy peasy. I know avocados aren't cheap, but trust me, this sauce is totally worth the price of ingredients, and it'll go farther than you think! It also keeps for several days in the fridge too (and if the brown layer on top squicks you out, just skim it off).
Long Distance
My grandfather passed away four years ago this past week. In keeping with my promise to write more candidly on spiritual matters, I offer this.
* * *
There are three phone numbers on my Skype call-out list that I will never dial again: my grandfather's home number in New Jersey, his snow-bird line in Florida, and his cellphone, which he never used much anyway. These days reaching Grandpa Ted requires something other than a long-distance phone call.
It was just under a year after his death that my grandfather first got ahold of me. I was nearing the end of a six-week stint in India, sitting alone in a hotel restaurant in a place I didn't want to be. I'd just left the warmth and excitement of Sadhana Forest, a reforestation project and wonderful international community, and I was feeling lonely after a month of friendship and usefulness. More to the point, I had a nasty charley-horse in my calf after sleeping on an overnight bus with my legs slung over my backpack, and I didn't see how I'd be able to stand, possibly for hours, in the insanely crowded bus station across the street. The bright, independent, can-do me had vanished in a fog of pinching pain and irritable self-loathing, and I hid my face in my bandanna.
The restaurant manager approached. “Please don't cry, Miss. How can I help you?”
I asked him how much a taxi to Munnar would cost. (Munnar, by the way, was a three-and-a-half hour drive.) The manager went to call a taxi service, and when he came back he informed me that a car would run me 2,600 rupees, or just under sixty US dollars.
It was a bargain by our standards, but I was used to spending fifty cents on all-you-can-eat thali meals. “Would it cost less to take a taxi without air conditioning?” I asked. “I don't need air conditioning.”
Again the manager went to call the taxi company, and I went back to feeling sorry for myself. But the next voice I heard wasn't the manager's.
I did not hear it with my ears, and yet it was as clear as if he'd been sitting right next to me. For Chrissakes, honey, order the taxi!
My grandfather had a way of speaking when he was exasperated—his voice would strain in this very particular way. In that moment he'd been the farthest thing from my mind, which is one reason why I knew I wasn't imagining it.
He spoke again, with feeling instead of words, though it was easy enough to understand him: You're traveling on my dime, honey, so I'm telling you—order the taxi. (Just like him, too, to be dictating how I should spend my inheritance money!)
The second reason I knew I wasn't imagining the voice was my physiological reaction, which was instant and complete: my frustration and loneliness gave way to the most wonderful calm I'd ever known. I ordered the taxi along with a hearty lunch, and was rewarded for my reverse-stinginess with vista after vista of mountains swathed in the brilliant green of the tea plantations, and all from the comfort of an upholstered seat. With each new view, with each fresh breath, I thanked my grandfather for knocking some sense into me, just as he would have when he was alive.
It's easier for Grandpa Ted—or any of our departed loved ones—to communicate with feelings and images instead of speech. (Words are limiting even between mortals, and we are still less competent when listening to the dead.) You might say my grandfather and I are separated by all the vastness of time and space, and yet we get along far better than we did while he was alive. In the old days we knocked heads about a lot of things—politics, mostly—but my grandfather is no longer the man who announced in an Italian restaurant that “all Democrats are liars,” nor am I the girl who needed to be right when letting it go would have allowed us all to eat our meal in peace.
But he is still the person who read my first novel and praised it though it was blatantly anti-Republican, and he is still the person who even read it a second time without once complaining about my politics. He supported me then, and he supports me now. When the ARC for my second novel came out, I brought it to the hospice to show him. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment—the moment I held it up for him to see—that he would never have the chance to read it.
I was wrong about that, though. On one occasion, almost two years after his passing, I was feeling sad about him never getting to read the book, and I felt a sudden clarity as a picture unfolded in my mind:
A quiet, darkened room, like a university library past closing time. A green reading lamp perched over the shoulder of an imitation-leather armchair. I felt his pride and anticipation as he settled in and cracked the spine. Freed of hunger, fatigue, and the call of nature, he read the novel in a single sitting.
Most of the time when Grandpa Ted checks in it's just to tell me he's proud of me, which is something he wasn't able to say outright while he was alive. I have a friend who is a psychic-medium, and while she was communicating with my grandfather back in late 2012 she told me he wished he could have lightened up and laughed with me the way I'd always been able to laugh with my dad's dad. In my mind I went back to one afternoon when my grandmother was watching me after school, and I hid in the coat closet as Grandpa Ted pulled into the driveway after work. He opened the closet and put his coat on a hanger, and I giggled into my hand as he called to my grandmother, “Oh, Camille went home early? That's too bad. I was looking forward to seeing her.” Most of the time, what a medium has to tell you isn't remotely surprising. What more do we ever really need to say besides "I love you"?
My favorite long-distance call happened last summer. I was on a second date, and it was going very well. We were sitting at a bar talking about our Italian-American families, and as I told my date about my grandfather surviving two typhoons during World War II, the most obvious revelation all but tapped me on the shoulder.
“I'm proud of him,” I said, in awe. “I'm proud of how tough he was, how brave he was.” I had never said this to anyone—least of all to the man himself—but the physical reaction was instant and complete. I know Cupid never shot an arrow of familial love, but that's the best way I can describe it. My whole body hummed and shimmered from crown to toe. He'd been dead three years at that point, but I'd never felt so loved.
Vegan Britain 2014
From Cork I flew to London for four perfect days with Seanan. Deirdre happened to be passing through from Cambridge on her way to Belarus (random!), so the three of us had a lovely relaxed Easter Sunday bruncheon at Drink, Shop & Do. The vegetable curry hit the spot and the pineapple pumpkin coconut cake was just as amazing as it sounds. See what I mean about never "depriving" myself? 
I was really psyched to find a whole bay of vegan lifestyle and cookbooks at Foyles, including Vegan for Her, co-authored by fellow MSVA graduate J.L. Fields. 
I bet some of you guys suspect I go overboard praising vegan restaurants just because they're vegan, and if you do, I'm about to prove you wrong. 
I wanted to love Vantra, I really did—and you'd think it has the perfect set up, with a chill atmosphere, a HUGE and delightfully varied buffet, and a drool-worthy juice and smoothie menu. Unfortunately the buffet options I sampled (for all its eye-catching color) were on the bland side apart from one dish (the Moroccan chickpea stew between 12 and 1 o'clock), the smoothie guy forgot my order and I had to keep asking for it (when people who arrived after I did received their drinks rather quickly), and when it did finally arrive midway through the meal it was even more tasteless than the food. I thought of taking it back and asking for what were probably missing ingredients, and I guess I should have. I'm too embarrassed to admit how much I paid for this mediocre lunch.Ick—sometimes I really don't enjoy being honest. So now back to your regularly scheduled dose of AWESOME. 
And I'll tell you what is awesome: getting to know my lovely Penguin UK editor, Hana Osman, over a marvelous meal at The Gate, a vegetarian restaurant in Islington (with another location in Hammersmith). Seanan had spoiled me with a deluxe breakfast that morning (granola with almond milk, crumpets with sunflower spread, grapefruit, orange juice and tea), so I opted for two appetizers—potato and leek soup (above; I know it looks like sweet potato or butternut squash, I'm not sure which spice they used to turn the soup orange, but it was delicious) and a courgette flower stuffed with sweet potato (say it with me: courzhhhhette. So satisfying. I almost wish I were English just so I could get away with saying "aubergine" and "courgette.") 
Dainty and fun, and a happy combo of yummy and healthy. I hadn't had courgette (erm, zucchini) flowers since Harmony Homestead Farm! [And in case you recall the zucchini blossom fritter recipe I posted back in 2010, I've taken it down until I can veganize it.]And dessert? OHHHHHHHHHH: 
Fruit trifle with vegan sherry cream. O YES. It was gorgeous. Next time: Brighton for the evening and vegan high tea!
Irish Holy Wells, part 3
(Irish holy wells, part 1; part 2.)
This post is going to be almost all photographs. St. Culain's Well is one of the loveliest, most tranquil places in Ireland (and you know I have been ALL over). I'm so grateful to Bán for taking me there! 
This is the best example of a "rag tree" you are likely to find. Leaving a trinket on a rag tree is a form of prayer for a loved one in need of healing. 
The holy well is located just off the Lough Derg Way, and it overlooks this peaceful pond off the River Shannon. 
A bit of pottery I found in the spring. 
The last line cracks me up.
A Night at the Book Mart
I have to tell you about the monthly poetry open mic Paddy hosts at a wonderful secondhand bookshop in Sligo called the Book Mart.Paddy had assured me there'd be vegan food at the event, and sure enough, Donal and Adam (who work there) had prepared two really delicious and filling grain and bean salads, with French bread and cashews on the side, and orange juice as an alternative to wine. When I asked Donal if he were vegan himself, he said, "I'm not vegan, no, but why wouldn't I make food that everyone can eat?"BEST. RESPONSE. EVER. 
There was a good turnout (no more space to sit in the back room), and the readings were wonderfully varied—there was quite a bit of original work as well as original translations (I wish I could remember the name of a very young German poet who wrote of the horrors of war as if he'd witnessed them firsthand, yet he'd written the poem at least a year before WWI broke out; he was translated by a gentleman named Frank, and I was really impressed at how he'd managed naturally to preserve the rhymes), prose as well as poetry, and even some science fiction thrown in for good measure.One of my favorites was "Porphyria's Lover," written by Robert Browning and read by Paddy:
This poem reminds me of that line from one of the witchy Discworld books (Witches Abroad, I think?), about a proper "happily ever after" necessitating chopping the bride's and groom's heads off the minute they've said "I do." (Or, ahem, the morning after?) At any rate, all I remembered about Robert Browning was the schmoopiness of his romance with Elizabeth Barrett (though in fairness, "how do I love thee? let me count the ways" was probably not so cheesy back then), so this poem rather shocked me. But Paddy has a delightfully gothic sensibility (he is obsessed with the Grand Guignol, after all), so there was no better person to read it aloud. 
After the break I read a passage from Bones & All, and I think everyone was too taken aback to respond to it apart from "I know this isn't what you were going for, but I really want a hamburger now." (I suspect I'm going to be hearing a lot of that.) 
Where We Make: Mieke Zamora-Mackay
I'm so pleased to introduce Mieke Zamora-Mackay, a South Jersey writer whom I "met" on Twitter in early 2012—the short story is that we came together through our mutual love and appreciation for Nova Ren Suma, though Mieke (pronounced like "Mikey") tells the full story in her introduction to the 11 Questions interview we did that April. We got to see each other every week at the writing workshop series I hosted at my local library, and have kept in touch via Twitter and email ever since. I'm happy to offer her contribution to Where We Make—these are images from real life, not some idealized workspace worthy of a home dec mag, and I really appreciate that. (It's a big part of why I started the series to begin with!)
* * *
Hello! My name is Mieke Zamora-Mackay, and I write. I knit and cook too. Camille is my friend. Unbeknownst to her, she is also a mentor in my creative life. When she launched the “Where We Make” feature, her invitation to participate left me giddy and nervous at the same time. It took me a while to take her up on her offer, due of the static nature of my creative spaces. Yes, I said “spaces."
In my house, I have a designated craft room. But almost nothing is created there. Instead, there are spots that I cycle through when I work on my projects. These are the spaces where I truly make: My office desk. (Only during my lunch breaks, boss! I promise!)
The leather couch in the living room. (My poor back.) The head of the dining table. (Sometimes having the window behind me gives me the heebie-jeebies.) The drivers’ seat of my van. (While waiting for the kids.)
Camille recently posted about writing in a 24-hour coffee shop at Penn Station while waiting for her 4:00 am bus back to Boston. She reminded me of the poem "Air and Light and Time and Space" by Charles Bukowski, which she shared during a workshop* she led. The post and our Twitter conversation later reminded that we as artists must create anywhere, under any conditions. The “now” and “here” is the opportune moment and place.
Finding the perfect space or moment becomes just another excuse not to create.
*I’ve kept a copy of the poem in the inside cover of all my journals since then.
* * *
Find Mieke on Twitter at @mzmackay and on her blog, The Author-in-Training. Every Sunday she posts beautiful and inspiring images to use as writing prompts!
Vegan Ireland: Cork, part 2
After the night of that lovely Japanese-inspired meal with Emily at My Goodness, I headed out to West Cork (between Bantry and Glengarriff) for a weeklong DIY writing retreat (more on that later). I got off the bus in Bantry, picked up a load of groceries, and rang for a taxi.That week I made simple meals for myself—porridge with almond milk and flaxseed-goji berry meal, a vegetable and sprouted-bean stew (using tomato sauce as a lazy-girl's base, since I didn't have any broth or herbs/spices to hand), Linda McCartney veggie sausages with locally-made onion chutney, tomato and spinach sandwiches with hummus or vegan "mayo," and so on and suchlike.The mayonnaise alternative is downright sad compared to Vegenaise (or my new favorite, Earth Balance vegan mayo made from olive oil), but you gotta take what you can find and be grateful for it, right? (Particularly since I was in a small-town grocery store!) The next time I go back to Ireland I'm sure there'll be a wider variety of vegan products available. (And in fairness, I believe Bantry does have a health food store, but seeing as I had all my luggage with me it just seemed easier to plop my big red pack in a full-size shopping cart and get on with it.)
Vince happened to be taking an overnight hiking trip near Glengarriff, so at the end of that wonderfully tranquil and productive week he picked me up on the way back to Cork City. That afternoon I went to the Crawford Municipal Art Gallery (especially for the Harry Clarke room, more on that later too), and then to the Natural Foods Bakery for a date bar and a soya cappuccino to tide me over until dinnertime. (I ate a LOT of dessert on this trip. You'll see over the next several vegan-themed posts why I want to laugh every time somebody implies I'm depriving myself.)I'd said in my last Cork post that I didn't think I'd make it to the Quay Co-op this time around, but happily I was wrong! It's hearty good-value deli-style food (like Cornucopia in Dublin, which I'll also be blogging about). I like that you can go up to the counter and choose whatever main course and salads look the most delicious. (No dinner envy when the plates come out and your friend's dish looks nicer than yours!) There's also a grocery on the ground floor. 
The Quay Co-op also has a tempting selection of fancy juices and sodas. 
Emily and Vince and I had a great meal. I got the chickpea burger with gravy, and butternut and beet salads on the side. 
I convinced myself that Dandelion & Burdock soda is good for the digestion (hey! it very well might be!) 
See what I mean? Being vegan is SO, SO HAAAAAAAAARD.
Streedagh Beach
As you know, research is one of my favorite aspects of the novel-writing process—particularly when I get to drive around County Sligo with an old friend and call it work! 
I'd been to Streedagh Beach once (back in 2006, working on the guidebook), but I'd never paid this much attention to the fossils, the landmarks, the tufts of long dry grass on the tip of every dune. (Paddy is very good at spotting the fossils.) 
This beach has a sad history, having been the washing-up point for one of the Spanish Armada shipwrecks in 1588. Those who'd washed up alive were slaughtered by the English. 
This is the loveliest fossil I have ever seen. 
Alas, it'll be years yet before you can recognize this beach in my novel. Nice pictures in the meantime, though, right?
Revision complete!
I'll tell you more about this new book (new-new book?) later. For now, a list of things I will do now that I have finished this revision:
1. Take a shower (heh heh).
2. Get back into my daily yoga/exercise routine.
3. Catch up on email.
4. Send thank-you notes.
5. Get started on my veganize-an-18th-century-Scottish-cookbook project.
6. Read The Demi-Gods by James Stephens.
7. Finish writing a short story.
8. Read the second and third books of Patrick Ness's Chaos Walking trilogy.
9. Knit a sweater.
10. ...Start in earnest on the new(-new-new) novel.
Magical Destinations in Faerie Magazine
I'm excited to show you a little piece I have in the spring issue of Faerie Magazine!
(It's part of a series on magical destinations, mine being the Fairy Glen.) 
The magazine makes a point of showcasing the work of incredibly talented artists like Frank Tjepkema (above) and Emma Van Leest (below). 
This is a gorgeous ad-free publication—it's unabashedly "girly," and I really admire the lush photography and design. I'd love to publish a longer piece with them at some point. 
(In case anyone is wondering—yes, the lamb-as-accessory thing does squick me out a bit.)
Why Knit Vegan?
My Empire of the Sun cardigan, made of a hemp-cotton-modal blend.While I was at Hawthornden last year I got into several conversations about veganism with my fellows, and on one occasion Colin asked, "Well, what are you knitting with?" At the time I was working on my vintage quickie 2.0, so I replied, "It's a bamboo-cotton blend." He seemed a bit disappointed that he hadn't caught me knitting with wool!
Recently I overheard a friend talking about A Verb for Keeping Warm, a yarn company based in California. My friend explained that they started out by salvaging fleeces; the sheep had been sheared before their slaughter, but the wool was going to waste. I didn't make this comment at the time—I'd have made myself that annoying vegan, you know—but it astounded me that no one gave a thought to the dead sheep! I'm all for salvaging materials, but there is something unnerving to me about destructive or dishonest acts to foster creative acts like spinning and knitting.How is the wool industry destructive or dishonest, you ask? Well, you are taking the hair off a sheep's back, which is a sort of thievery, if we are to be frank. Then we ship the animal off to the mutton factory when she stops producing sufficient wool. I know you want to believe that we are doing the sheep a favor by shearing her and that the animal lives out her days on a sunny green pasture, but that's just not reality. For more information about how sheep are actually treated, please read this PETA article. I also highly recommend listening to Colleen Patrick-Goudreau's podcast episode from 2010, "The Shearing of Sheep."Here's the trouble with wool: it may be "nature's perfect fiber," but it does not belong to us. Even if you assured me that the sheep you spin from live in your own backyard and that you will never sell them for meat, I will say "thanks but no thanks."
You may have noticed that I kept knitting with wool for awhile after I transitioned to a vegan diet, and I can only say that my knitting was a fairly large blind spot for me. There are many absolutely breathtaking wool and silk yarns out there, and it is all too tempting to push aside any uneasy thoughts of where it came from or how it was produced.And yes, it's true there aren't a ton of great vegan yarns out there...YET. But there are enough to get started with, for sure, and I hope to offer vegan knitting resources on this blog on a regular basis in the coming months and years. I'm particularly excited about Vegan Yarn out of British Columbia. (But I can't buy any more until I've knit some socks out of this lovely stuff!):
Bamboo-nylon sock yarn from Vegan Yarn.Another thought I've had is that if Vaute Couture can make gorgeous coats out of fabrics that can totally pass for wool, surely someone can do the same for knitting and weaving yarn!
And finally, I would like to offer you some proof that plant-based yarns can result in projects that are every bit as attractive as their wooly counterparts. Last month my new yellow cardigan made it to the front page of Ravelry!:
(Thanks to Kath for sending me that screenshot!)
Irish Holy Wells, part 2
(Irish holy wells, part 1.)
After a few nights in some random little towns in Roscommon and Leitrim, I met up with my old friend Paddy in Sligo, and he took me to a holy well and grotto just outside town called Tobernault (tobar meaning "well" in Irish). As you can tell by the complexity and upkeep, this is quite a popular spot for prayer and reflection. 
(More on my time with Paddy in another post.)After a couple nights each in Sligo, Mayo, and Galway, I arrived in Tipperary for a visit with Seanan's family. Bán (Seanan's mom) took me on an afternoon tour of three holy wells all within a few miles of their house.The first, St. Patrick's, I'd been to with Seanan before, but the past five years have not been kind to this little spot. The well is clogged with slurry. (You can't see it too well from the photo below, but really—was I going to take a picture of liquid cow poo to prove it to you? Sigh...) 
The second well, St. Brigid's, was overgrown and tricky to find, but it smelled much better!: 
Bán saved the loveliest well for last—I'll show you those photos next time.
Moldy Oldie: a speech for the Riverton Porch Club
I gave this speech to the Riverton Porch Club in the fall of 2007. There are parts of it I quite like, so I thought it might be worth sharing here.
* * *
I’ve written a novel called Mary Modern, which was published by an imprint at Random House this past July. It’s about a girl, a genetic scientist, who clones her grandmother. Yes, it’s strange, and people are always curious about the novel’s unusual premise and how I came to write it. The story is in no way autobiographical, though the book’s genesis has a lot to do with the women in my family and how they encouraged my love of reading.
A few years ago my aunt Eileen gave me a copy of my great-grandparents’ engagement portrait, which was taken sometime in the ’teens. It’s a very striking portrait, and not only because it shows a handsome young couple on the cusp of their life together. I would stare at that portrait and think of what I knew would happen to them, and my great-grandmother Anna in particular, after they left the portrait studio. She would die after giving birth to her fifth child, her fifth daughter, at the age of thirty-three. My grandmother was five years old at the time, and she spent most of the rest of her childhood in foster homes. I was unsettled by the thought that Anna knew nothing of her future life, and I knew too much. I started wondering what we would have to say to one another if, through some temporal blip, we were granted an hour in each other’s company.
I started creating a family called the Morrigans, with a daughter, Lucy, who is so lonely in her crumbling ancestral home, and so ambitious, that she actually sets out to clone the dead. As I researched the possibility of human cloning, I learned that the function of what scientists call “junk DNA” is still a big question mark. Some say these seemingly useless codes in between our functioning genes had their purpose much earlier on in the course of human evolution, but are now obsolete. This mystery of science really captured my imagination. What if, in Lucy Morrigan’s fictional universe, “junk DNA” codes memories and physiological changes over time? So that when Lucy clones her grandmother from an old bloodstain, thinking she will give birth to a baby girl, she winds up with a young newlywed from 1929? So I set the stage for a rather unprecedented identity crisis when a young Mary Morrigan wakes up in the year of her 80th wedding anniversary, with all her memories intact. Needless to say, she’s pretty angry at this girl, Lucy, who is older than she is but claims to be her granddaughter.
My grandmother was an avid reader, and passed her love of a good yarn on to my mother, who passed it on to me. When I was in elementary school I wrote whimsical little stories, and I was fortunate to have many teachers who encouraged me. Some of them were so encouraging that I saw fit to name characters after them. My grandmother encouraged me, too, of course. But it was only after she passed away that I really started to see myself as a writer. I began to write as a way of dealing with my grief. So you might say my grandmother first made me a reader, and then, through the loss of her, a writer.
Oddly enough, I never thought about any of this until the novel was finished, and I began reading the first proof pages. But a novel about a girl who clones the grandmother who read to her as a child, played with her, humored her, protected her—well, when you put it that way, the psychology behind the story isn’t so complex. I dedicated Mary Modern to all four of my grandparents, but to my Grandma Dorothy most of all.
One of the best experiences in the process of publishing Mary Modern was being able to watch my mother devour the book in galley form. She read it in about twenty-four hours, and said most of the time she was so engrossed in the story she forgot who’d written it. We have a lot of books in our house. My mother sometimes jokes the bedroom floor is going to collapse under the weight of my bookcases. If that ever happens, though, I will tell her it is actually her own fault for reading to me too much when I was a kid.
John Ruskin said that if a book is worth reading, it’s worth buying, and I’ve always believed that; but there are other people, like my grandmother, who subscribe to the “that’s why we have the library” school of thought. Those people are more sensible than I am, I suppose; they will never have to worry about their ceiling caving in. Still, I enjoy not only reading but owning my books: making tick marks when I come across a particularly beautiful or clever sentence, and the ability to revisit a beloved book any time I choose. I also just like to glance over at my bookshelf, recognize the title on a spine, and remember how much I enjoyed it, or how much I’m looking forward to reading it. I am very taken with the idea of not only a room, but a library of one’s own.
It’s only recently, too, that I noticed how many of the story’s plot turns transpire in the Morrigan family library. I don’t think this is a coincidence. This is a room that holds thousands of books that once belonged to Lucy and Mary’s ancestors (and my heroines would probably tell you the books belong to them still). There is a velvet sofa before a grand old fireplace where the characters sometimes gather with a glass of wine for a long chat. There is a butterfly collection displayed on the mantelpiece and old portraits arranged on a great wood desk by a bay window. Every character in the novel harbors a fascination with this room, even if they aren’t a member of the family. The library is in essence a repository of family knowledge, and it also serves as a rather eerie metaphor: for oftentimes, the most profound family secrets are hidden in plain sight.
But no matter how grave the secrets or difficult the dynamics, I believe that the love, protection, and encouragement of the family can transcend death, and that’s a belief I’ve brought to bear in this novel. I guess what I’m really trying to say here is this:
Literacy is fostered through dedicated teachers and organizations like the Porch Club, but it begins on the lap of someone who loves you.
Fleet Library, part 2
(Fleet Library, part 1.)Here are some pictures from the Visual + Material Resource Center upstairs at the Fleet Library:
And look, an old friend!: 
Veganversary!
Three years ago this month I decided to cut all animal products out of my diet. Not coincidentally, these have been the happiest and most productive three years of my life thus far.In April 2011 I was volunteering at Sadhana Forest, and as I write this I'm abroad again—this time happily ensconced in a cottage apartment in West Cork, writing and reading and going for long walks down quiet country roads in the glorious and improbable sunshine.
This is my first time in Ireland as a vegan, and I am experiencing the landscape in a new way. The romance of the Irish countryside isn't there for me anymore. These animals, the cows and the sheep—they are raised for slaughter, and there is nothing remotely "romantic" about that. I knew this before, but I see it now. I acknowledge it to myself every time I walk past an animal grazing in a pasture. 
That said, I have dear friends who are cattle farmers, and I'm not judging them. This has been a way of life for their families for many generations, and I recognize that our respective worldviews aren't going to converge anytime soon. I like to think I've mellowed a bit since I first relaunched this website back in September; I'm no longer trying to convince anyone of anything, and that feels really good. I can juggle the apparent contradiction in loving people who raise animals for food—in knowing they are good people even though I passionately disagree with them on crucial points. Theirs is a dying way of life—not sure if I'm intending the pun here or not—and the only thing for me to do is to be here, ready and waiting with resources and information, for when someone is ready and willing to receive it. 
Being vegan in Ireland isn't quite as easy as it is in the U.K., but people do know what veganism is and are more than willing to accommodate me. "Feeding a vegan is easier than I thought it would be!" Ailbhe remarked toward the end of my visit to Galway, and hearing her say that made me really happy. I've found a new equilibrium—letting people be who they are as I go on being who I am—and perhaps this is the culmination of a three-year growth process. Makes you wonder what the next three years have in store, eh?
Irish Holy Wells, part 1
I have visited six holy wells for novel research over the past couple of weeks. Some were well tended, others neglected and even polluted. Some were enchantingly situated, others less so. But each of them has a long history and tradition behind it, even if they're seldom visited these days.
St. Attracta's Well in Clogher, County Sligo. If you follow that link, you'll see just how much further into disrepair this well has fallen since those photographs were taken several years ago. You can still see the bullaun and "serpent's eggs," but the crucifixion carving has been removed (for safekeeping, one hopes!) 
The next day I stopped by St. Lasair's Well, which is just across the road from Kilronan Abbey in County Roscommon. (Somewhere in the graveyard is the final resting place of Turlough O'Carolan.) Kilronan means "church of Ronan," by the way—Ronan and Lasair are father-and-daughter saints. Her well is in the midst of refurbishment. 
Because of the renovations, all the bits and pieces people had left at the well over the years were scattered on the Mass rock a few paces away. 
Here I found my first "rag tree": a bush or tree near a holy well where people leave items belonging to a loved one in need of healing. It could be as simple as a scrap of clothing, a bit of yarn, or a set of rosary beads; or you could find children's shoes, stuffed animals...even a pacifier. (Along with this teacup, I found an unopened package of Weetabix. St. Lasair is all set for breakfast whenever she wants it.) I have an even better example of a rag tree to show you in a future post.
Fleet Library, part 1
In high school I dreamed of going to the Rhode Island School of Design. I wanted to be an artist of some stripe, only I couldn't get a portfolio together in time, so I wound up studying art history at NYU. That path led me to paint with words instead, and while I love this life, I do occasionally think about how things would look now if I'd had more courage and confidence as a high schooler. A few weeks ago Elizabeth invited me along to a reception and tour of the Fleet Library at RISD, and I got to indulge again in that little daydream. (Not that I'd have been able to use this library back in the day—it only opened in 2006.)The library is in a converted bank building, with all the best details and features intact. It is an absolute delight. 
The lovely folks at the Fleet had wine, apple cider, fresh fruit, and other nibbly things on offer, and Elizabeth and I chatted with our new friend Chelsea before the tour began. 
We left the library that evening feeling thoroughly inspired. I mention that "lost" dream of high school not because I care to dwell on "might have beens"—it is a waste of energy, for the most part—but because I haven't actually given up on it...(Coming Thursday: fun shots from the Material Resource Center and Picture Collection on the second floor!)
Vegan Ireland: Cork edition!
I landed in Cork last Friday afternoon and met up with Brendan for coffee at Filter on Georges Quay, followed by elderflower-pear juice and a vegan snickerdoodle. YES. 
(Two of my favorite murals from the White Street car park, where graffiti art is officially sanctioned.) 
Then I arrived at Emily and Vince's house, where I met their new degu (his name is Tristan—I'll have to get a picture!) before Emily and I headed to dinner at My Goodness, a "pop-up" vegan restaurant in the café space at the city's LGBT resource center.
I've always appreciated veg restaurants that do a simple set menu—I'm spared the indecision, and they're free to focus on doing one dish really well (or in this case, a raw and cooked version of the same dish). That said, such a restaurant should also be flexible enough to accommodate those of us with food allergies, and when Emily informed our kindly server (who happens to be married to the chef) that she is allergic to avocado, he replied with "no problem at all."
What followed was one of the most creative and surprising meals I have ever devoured. First up, "crawb" cake with a colorful assortment of fresh and pickled vegetables along with a lightly dressed sprouted bean salad and tahini dip:
The "crawb" cake was made of seaweed (naturally); shiitake mushrooms; flax, pumpkin, and sesame seeds; and the same pickled vegetables we found on the plate. I imagine the cakes were finished in a dehydrator. Very flavorful and fun. 
Needless to say, €12 for all this delicious food was an extremely good value. On our way out we got to chat with Virginia, the chef, who is an ecologist and gardening teacher from Texas. I was really excited to hear that she doesn't have any special culinary training—she has the attitude that if she can do it, anyone can (which is exactly what I wanted to hear as I move into more food blogging and recipe development!)At the moment they're only open a few days a week, but hopefully business at My Goodness will flourish and they'll expand into a permanent space. (And as someone commented on Facebook recently, some creative vegan entrepreneurs need to do a pop-up café like this in Galway! Galway gets all the hippie-hipster "forward thinking" cred, and yet they don't have a single vegetarian restaurant as far as I know. (Cork, on the other hand, has Café Paradiso and the Quay Co-op, both of which are top notch in their own way. Alas, I don't think I'll have time to revisit them this time around!)Emily had promised me a pint of vegan Irish beer, so after dinner we met up with Vince for a pint at the Franciscan Well (none of their brews are made with isinglass): 
Apart from Cork, I've been cooking a lot of my own food on this trip (spending a lot of time with friends, and we've been mostly hanging out at home; and right now I'm on my DIY writing retreat a long way from any restaurant!), but I'm sure I'll have more fun vegan eats to blog about while I'm in London next week.
Irish Spring
After that seemingly interminable New England winter (heck, everywhere winter), it was wonderful to land in Ireland and find spring in full swing. I spent my first day in and around Boyle, County Roscommon, passing the night at a lovely old B&B literally right next door to a 12th-century abbey. (Okay, so the B&B is new in comparison.)
Tomorrow: a wonderful pop-up vegan restaurant in Cork City.And next Tuesday: Irish holy wells!
Tips for Better Fiction, part 2
(Tips for Better Fiction, part 1.)
Say it without explaining it.
Whether your story is set in another galaxy or the next town over, build the world for us through dialogue and description. As they say, “Show, don't tell!” This goes for your characters too—if Johnny is a mischievous little boy, show him drawing a mustache with blue marker on a framed portrait of his great-aunt Mildred, or picking holes in his sister's stockings on the drying-rack. This requires much more imagination than simply writing “Johnny was a troublemaker,” and your reader will appreciate that.
Find the joy in discipline.
As children we're implicitly taught to see “discipline” as a four-letter word, and yet we couldn't get anything done without it! You don't have to write every day (I don't know any writer who does, although I'd say most of us do take notes on a daily basis), but if you can stick to a somewhat regular writing routine (and stay offline while doing it!), you're that much closer to actually finishing something. Whenever you put in some quality writing time, take a moment to feel good about what you've accomplished.
Let it marinate.
It's amazing how much work you wind up doing on a subconscious level. With several novel projects I've felt very strongly that their time just hadn't come yet, so I put them on the “back burner.” When I've come back to them months or years later, I've found these projects fully “marinated” and ready to go. Treat your story like a hearty vegetable stew: give the ingredients a chance to mingle for maximum satisfaction!
Use your intuition.
Give that vast unconscious mind of yours more credit: underneath all that doubt, you know what you're doing. The trick is to get out of your own way.
Ask yourself, "Who cares?"
Why does this story matter? How is it different from what's already out there? Make your story richly worth your reader's while.
Enjoy the process!
Don't be in a rush to finish your project. This may surprise you, but I've found the greatest enjoyment in the actual writing of my books, as opposed to seeing them on the new fiction table at Barnes & Noble or doing book signings or other publicity. There's no feeling on Earth like hitting that creative flow state, so relish it while it lasts!
Know when to let go.
Sometimes you wind up writing something just for the practice, and that's totally okay.
Find a community.
Take a class, join a writing group, go to readings, make friends with another writer (who appreciates your style, and vice versa) and give each other feedback and support. Sometimes building worlds inside your head can be exhilarating, and other times it is rather lonely—finding a balance between solitary and social will allow you a sustainable and much more satisfying writing practice.
Remember: you don't have anything to prove.
We are all born storytellers, and because each of us has a unique way of looking at the world, we each have the potential to come up with a story no one else could tell. You don't become a writer only when you've seen your work in print; you're a writer the moment you commit to the story you need to tell.
For more tips and frank talk on the writing life, check out my blog entries tagged “useful writing posts.” I'd love to hear your suggestions for future entries!