It wasn't a phobia of flying at all

After my November debacle when 7 or 8 (or was it 9?) gin and tonics could not quell my terror on a flight back from the east coast, I went to see a therapist. I wouldn't be able to fly anymore, I feared, if I did not get help. I would never again see my mother, be forced to drive thousands of miles to M.'s graduation, to C.'s wedding, never visit Greece or France or anywhere across an ocean ever again. The anxiety was spilling over into driving. Freeway overpasses were difficult. Going anywhere after dark troubled me. A fellow writer and friend recommended someone.

Seven (or was it eight?) sessions later Terror stands in a corner empty handed, shrugging.

It didn't seem like a true phobia, the therapist said. General Anxiety Disorder, she said. Unresolved grief and anger, she said. Mr. Ex sounded like a classic Narcissist, she said.

So I flew to see my mother last week and went on to the AWP Conference in Washington D.C. Without the gin bath. Without a cranky silent husband next to me drugged to sleep before take-off. But I thought of The Narcissist and the trips we took, how he threw his things in the suitcase an hour before we left the house because he was never sure he could get away from the office. Oh the suspense...would he make it?
But I was always ready. I had the breasts full of milk to feed the baby. I had the diapers, the wet wipes, the juice and the snacks and the toys. I had the baby sling and the umbrella stroller. I had the dolls and the sketchbooks, the homework, the sweaters and the rain boots and the rain coats, the hats, mittens, scarves, and Christmas presents. I had the jump ropes and the story books. I had the theatre tickets, the dinner reservations, the excursions planned, the guidebooks and phrase books. I had the horseback riding reservations, float trip reservations, dinner cruise and fish fry reservations. I had the train and ferry schedules, the days which museums were closed and what to see where, and when we were getting together with which relatives or whom we were taking with us on this or that trip to Europe or New York.

I had it all.
Almost.

Associated Writers' Palace (a.k.a. AWP)

The photo above is the view from exiting the elevator on the way to my room. Shouldn't we writers be housed in garrets or quaint cottages or cabins with a view of  some pond?


Poets heard: Stephen Dunn, Marie Howe, Gregory Orr, Bob Hicok, Kevin Young, Elana Bell, Curtis Bauer, Tyehimba Jess, Aracelis Girmay.

Conversations with poets: Lee Ann Roripaugh, Allison Adele Hedge Coke, Natalia Trevino, Jen Lambert, Matthew Shimoda, William Trowbridge, Art Homer.

Superstar Author: Joyce Carol Oates reading from her new book--a memoir about the sudden death of her husband.

Panels attended: 2--one on teaching creative writing, one on writing abroad.

Fabulous meals savored: 3

Hours worked at my MFA program's table: 4

Books at the Book Fair:  5 bajillion.

Number of bedbugs in our room: zero

Inspiration: unfathomable

Good-bye, Denver.

AWP has come to an end and I feel like a giant flightless bird who has ravaged the Denver Convention Center crying Awp! Awp! devouring everything in its path.
I've reconnected with friends from a dozen states.
I have books freshly signed by a couple of those friends.
I have business cards from editors & new friends.
I have resolutions.
I have a prayer. Dear God, If I am ever on a panel, please do not let me misuse my position as a presenter by sinking to shameless self-promotion.
Yes, there has been a disappointment or two.

 And while on the subject of disappointments, would the designer of the toilets in the Denver Convention Center, please explain why they consistently splash water all over the seat when flushed? Come forward, admit your error and be punished. I think there are hundreds of women who would be happy to join me in this effort.

Good-bye Denver.
Thanks for the free buses, blue skies, clean streets, and good coffee.

Writer Heaven & a little bit of hell

I have my 3 days at AWP planned. Mostly, I'm concentrating on the business end of things. But there'll be a few dashes of writerly craft and pure pleasure.
Session with my favorite title: All Around Bitch. Unsavory female protagonists are a hard sell. The protagonist in my novel killed her baby. I need this.
Poetry fix: Gary Snyder
Writer I'm most excited to meet in person: Cheryl Strayed
Session that may inspire a future trip: Honoring the Sandhill Crane Migration Annual Literary Tribute
And of course there are a couple of time slots where I'd like to be 3 places at once. That's the hell part.

Flush

Denver and full of glee at the prospect of 3 days crammed with writers, readings, books and friends at AWP.  Lunch in the Cherry Hill neighborhood with a friend after she met me at the airport. Cherry Hill. Familiar. Oh, yes. Mr. Ex worked in Denver on a case for a few months right out of law school. He stayed with his cousin who lived in...Cherry Hill. I came to visit him. We went to the Denver Museum of Art. And because it was shortly after he'd found out that he passed the California Bar Exam, we went together to the Denver courthouse where he was sworn in--or whatever it is one does after passing the Bar. Me at his side for the momentous occasion. I chased the memory away.
My friend drove me to the Hyatt. "You should go into the Brown Palace and take a look around," she said as we rounded a corner and came face to face with a historic red stone building.
"I've stayed there," I said. I remembered the room Mr. Ex and I had shared. If the Red Queen had gone to design school and had a little more sweetness & whimsy in her personality instead of pure aggression she would have had a room in her palace just like it. The front desk clerk gave our daughters bowls of goldfish when we checked in. We had a wonderful dinner in the restaurant. There'll be no more dinners like that.
Good-bye glee. Please come back.
Which is not to say I want Mr. Ex back. I want to be rid of him, memories, joint assets and all.