3 Days After My Wedding, or The Worst Day of My Life

In addition to my wedding anniversary, this time of year is special to me because, on this day six years ago, I lost someone incredibly special to me, my dear friend Jessica Caroe.

Jessica and I were BFFs in college, and spent the summer of 2005 living in group house together out in Maryland while we were interning in DC. She’d transferred to Georgetown from a small Southern school, and we met in Chi Alpha Christian Fellowship.

We realized we were kindred spirits for what’s probably a terrible reason—we were *those* Christian girls, the ones who could party hard on Saturday night, into the wee hours of Sunday morning, but still get up to be on time (or close to it) for church and not fall asleep during the sermon. Sure, we likely should have made some better choices, but I don’t regret a single thing we did because it taught me that self-righteousness—like that of some of our classmates who literally frowned upon people who went to parties, as if making someone feel bad about dancing and underaged drinking made Jesus smile—saves no one. It actually pushes people away from Christ. So, we were Christ Ambassadors (which is what Chi Alpha stood for) on the dancefloor of college parties throughout Georgetown. Amen!

I jest, but what I’m saying is, Jessica taught me about authenticity—what it meant to be unashamed and unafraid to be yourself, even when others are telling you that you should be something else, something they want you to be.

I always said with us being so much ourselves, it’d take strong men to handle us. God blessed us both with those strong men, Rustin for me and Robert for her.

At my wedding reception, where I’d made a joke about letting Robert come to the wedding as an investment in their future and Jessica called me her best friend, Robert pulled me aside and said that he was going to propose to her on Monday. I was thrilled! He showed me the ring on his phone, and I knew she would love it.

He did propose on Monday, and she said yes. They died the next day. I didn’t find out about it until Thursday, when I went on Facebook to see why on earth she hadn’t told me she was engaged; Robert didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would chicken out.

To say I was devastated is the smallest use of that word, ever. To say I could hardly get out of bed for days also doesn’t quite capture how I felt. To say I didn’t genuinely smile for a year still doesn’t do it justice.

Jessica dying was literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, worse than being abandoned by my father even, because it is the only thing that has ever made me question the existence and goodness of God. Crying out to a deity you think has dropped a very important ball is extremely difficult. Of course, I still went to church, still prayed, still went through the motions, faking it until I made it. God had nothing to prove to me; it just took a while for my brain to catch up to the re-revelation of His character.

My first year of marriage turned out to be quite a doozy since I wasn’t all there mentally and emotionally. I had to go back for my second year of business school and remember why I was there. By the time I moved to New York a year later, I felt some better, well though to start writing down some of our memories. That’s what got me started writing nonfiction, actually.

Losing Jessica is still the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s turned out for good in a lot of different ways. It made me take my marriage much more seriously since “for worse” came only three days after we made our vows. It made me take on leadership roles in school and work because I knew it’s what she would have done. It made me write memoir, so I wouldn’t have written my story about my dad if she hadn’t passed and I hadn’t started writing our stories. I wouldn’t have left my job and started writing seriously while still wanting to make in-roads for minorities and women in finance. And that’s just me; it doesn’t include the scholarships that have been founded in her name, the tree that was planted on the grounds of Duke University (where she was going to business school) in her memorial, and other ways I don’t even know about.

I sometimes contemplate finishing writing our stories, but six years later, it’s still a bit too painful. (I say this as her friend, not even her family member, so I can’t imagine their pain.) I haven’t actually cried while writing this blogpost, but I’ve come soooo close, and I’ve kept a distance between my head and my fingers to keep from coming unglued in a public place. She meant that much, that even after all this, it’s still raw to go there.

I miss my friend more than anything, but I’m thinking of their families today. I pray for her family and Robert’s, that God will continue to show His goodness and grace to them, and that they not forget that He’s never forgotten them. As hard as it is to believe.


Why I Don’t Call Him My Husband

This time of year is special for me for a couple of reasons, one of them being the celebration of mothers (and calm down, I have birthed nothing but stories) and another being my wedding anniversary this Saturday! (And cheers to Meghan and Harry the same day!)

It’s been six strange and happy years I’ve spent with this dude named Rustin, who’ve probably read about many times on this blog. You’ve probably also noticed that I generally refer to him as my “spouse,” and rarely ever my “husband.” I’ve addressed him this way in just enough essays that just enough editors have corrected it, so I thought I would tell you why I call him my “spouse.”

Growing up, I knew lots of women who were single for longer than they wanted to be and were, therefore, overjoyed when they finally got married. These women called the men their “huuuuusbands.” They always, ALWAYS dragged out the “u.” It was as if the title “husband” somehow venerated both them and the men they’d chosen and they needed to stress its importance.

The problem was, they had always, ALWAYS chosen horrible men. The men almost always—and we’re talking a good 99.8%—turned out to be controlling, manipulative, unfaithful liars, or some combination of the such.

I felt bad for these women not just because their relationships went to piss, but because they’d set themselves up for failure. By calling them their “huuuuuusbands,” they’d heralded these men and their marriages as if they were the greatest things since sliced bread, as if they were impenetrable, as if their love could never fail.

But they weren’t and it did.

I wasn’t turned off of marriage because of these women (I was turned off of it because of the men, but that’s a separate blog post; actually, that’s the topic of my second memoir), I just learned that I wanted to do things differently.

I decided that I would look at and treat the man I married as the person he was—a completely fallible human who is completely capable of letting me down at some point. I would speak highly of him, but I would also mention his flaws. I would let people know that my marriage was realistic, not some blissful train ride through the Swiss Alps.

I would call him my “spouse.”

“Spouse” is legally correct (so is “husband,” I know, but stay with me) and sounds completely objective. It gives me and those listening to me the space to judge him for who he is, not who I want him to be. It helps me to not jinx things.

“Spouse” reminds me that he is a human—a good human, without a doubt—but a human. A human who has made me and my life better, but still a human. A human I look forward to spending the rest of my days with, this attractive human I enjoy looking at.

You could say I give myself this distance out of fear, and there may be some truth to that. But I know that he and I are happier when I have my feet on the ground, managing my emotions and expectations, even if I call him something that’s kinda weird.

So, happy anniversary to us this weekend! May many more years of weird be to come!

What do we do now?

By now, you’ve certainly heard about the sexual misconduct allegations against the author and VONA co-founder, Junot Diaz. I don’t think my opinion is important enough to put on blast, so I’m actually going to leave out how I feel about him and his work. But my thought after I first read the tweets was, “What do we do with this?”

I appreciate Zinzi Clemmons for coming forward with her story. I know it must have been one of the most difficult things in the world to do. It’s not often these days that women of color are believed when we report things like this, so I’m glad that we’ve evolved enough as a society to have immediately listened to what she had to say and to believe her.

But I think part of the reason why we believed her without question was that Junot is well known in the literary industry for being his own type of jerk. I didn’t have him as a workshop instructor at VONA, but I went to a session he led, and he was very straightforward, commanding of our attention, and carried a sense that he knew all. Sitting in that session, I told myself that if I applied to work with him at a future VONA, I’d have to stock up on thick skin and probably call my therapist for a session while I was at VONA instead of waiting til I got home the following week.

In short, his attitudes and behaviors were not a secret, they just hadn’t been brought to the attention of the American public.

Knowing all of this, I was stuck when I read Zinzi’s tweet. I couldn’t say, “OMG, no way, that’s such a shock!” because it wasn’t. I couldn’t say, “Well, everyone knows he’s a bit of dick, so you should have, too,” because that is both callous and complicitous. All I could say was, “Well, now what?”

Duende District, a pop-up bookshop here in DC, removed his books from the shelves. VONA replaced him as a leader for the workshop coming up next month. I agree that actions need to have been taken to punish him and to show that we are not condoning his wrongdoing. But what comes next?

Junot Diaz does not have Matt Lauer or Harvey Weinstein money—if those cats never worked again, they’d be perfectly fine. I’m pretty sure if Junot couldn’t find work, eventually, he’d end up on welfare and be at risk of homelessness. Perhaps that’s the best way to pay him back for all of his wrongs.

But is it, though?

If the point is to stop this behavior the world (or at least industry) over, I don’t think bringing individual misogynists to the end of themselves one by one is going to bring about the change we need. Do not get me wrong here—I am not saying that people shouldn’t speak up and that these dudes should not be punished, they *absolutely* should. But how do we take it a step further to actually uprooting the icky things under the ground that are causing the plant to grow instead of just snipping off the top of the weed when it gets too tall?

I hate that I’ve made you read this whole thing just for me to say: I have no idea.

Roxane Gay read my mind when she tweeted, “Now, I don’t know how fans of this work proceed from here. I do know we need to have a more vigorous conversation that simply saying, ‘Junot Diaz is cancelled,’ because that does not cancel misogyny or how the literary community protects powerful men at the expense of women. …It’s all a damn shame.”

And that’s why I decide to write this post, to second her call for more vigorous conversation and to start by saying, “I don’t know how to solve this problem,” which is, ironically, usually the first step to finding a solution.

The only thing I know to do is start with the youth, the kids, the babies. Help them to understand their value and the value of others, and when they act in a way that violates that value, correct the crap out of it, because, as we see, it grows and grows and chokes and chokes until the whole lawn is dead.

What Opera Does For My Soul

This weekend, my spouse and I had a real grown-up double date to see The Barber of Seville at the Kennedy Center. For me, opera has grown into a full-blown love from a small intrigue a long time ago.

I never listened to opera growing up, except for that one [amazing!] episode of Hey Arnold! and that part in Pretty Woman, both of which I still know by heart. Opera always seemed inaccessible, something spooty rich people to do to remind the rest of us that we will never be spooty or rich.

To be honest, that’s what started my fascination. You hear all the time about ballet dancers and actors who came from humble beginnings and made it to the top of their field; what was it about this type of performing arts that was so ritzy?

During my sophomore year of college, my friend at the school newspaper asked me to cover the Kennedy Center’s production of The Magic Fluteto review it for the entertainment section. He gave me tickets to the Saturday matinee show, and I was excited to finally get a chance to break into this secret club. I asked my roommate to go with me since I was apprehensive of going to my first opera alone; she was a bit hungover, but was a trooper and went with me anyway.

We both dressed up as we saw fitting for opera but on a Saturday afternoon. I wore a red cotton skirt and a white twin set (all from the Gap, where I’d worked previous summer and unloaded each and every one of my paychecks) with black sandals.

When we arrived at the Kennedy Center, I gave the usher my ticket, and she showed us to…the center box!!! Crazy!!! (Spoiler alert: Those were best seats I’ve ever had at the opera. Ruined on my first show.)

I looked down at the audience and noticed that it was full of children. I then read my program and realized that The Magic Flute, in particular, is very kid- and opera-newbie friendly. It was as if God was smiling on me, giving me a chance to experience this new thing like a child.

During the show, I was enthralled. I’ve always loved theater—drama, dancing, singing (I wanted to be an actress from 5th grade until 9th grade, when my mother finally convinced me that I’d wind up hooked on drugs, turning tricks for rock). Opera was all of the above, with a live orchestra playing along. There were captions above the curtain, so you could know what they were saying since the show is in German.

The music nearly lifted me out of my seat, it was so beautiful. I became immersed in this other world, and totally forgot that I was just down the street from my university. By the end of the show, I didn’t want to go back to school; I wanted to stay in that world for just a while longer.

When I graduated from college, I bought season tickets to the Washington National Opera, going into debt to capture that feeling. I couldn’t afford to go on vacation, so each performance was like a little getaway of its own, sweeping me away from thinking about my mundane jobs and lack of love life.

That’s why I love opera: it takes me away and makes me feel what I thought I couldn’t, or just hadn’t felt yet. I don’t know very much about it, so I can’t tell you which is “better” than another, or if the conductor did a good a good or bad job. I just know that it makes me feel joy.

I hope one day to introduce opera to people who think the way I used to about it, to help people to see that it’s not as pretentious as they think (it’s also not as expensive, if you get tickets at the right time). It’s almost like travelling—seeing the world as a way of worshiping the God who created it. Opera lets you do the exact same thing without having to leave your city, if you live where I do.

DC Author Fest recap

Sooo, I’d intended to blog last week, but errands very quickly got out of hand, and the rest of the week was insanely busy, too, as was the weekend. But such is life!

One of the things that kept me busy this weekend was DC Author Festival, which was this past Saturday at the Library of Congress.

One complaint I’ve heard from more than one DC writer is that our literary community isn’t super robust. On the one hand, that’s definitely true: I’d argue that there’s far fewer creative writers in DC than in New York or even more offbeat places, like Minneapolis. On the other hand, there’s definitely a critical mass of us—we’re just rarely in the same room.

DC Author Festival was a chance to rectify that. Sponsored by the DC Public Library, there were panel discussions that covered a good range of topics relevant to writers, and a keynote address that basically blew me away.

The first panel I went to was the Author to Publisher Relationship, which I found to be the most helpful of all of the ones I attended. There’s a gazillion resources for writers about what their relationship with their agent should look like, but there’s not as much emphasis on the relationship with the publisher. For example, I learned that publishers have waaaaay more say in your cover than I thought (which was kind of disconcerting, so I had to start praying about mine, right then and there. Not out loud, of course, though.). The publisher should also have a conversation with you about what marketing efforts they’re going to put into your book, but you should expect to do a lot of promotion yourself. Note that your book’s title can change, too—UGH!

The second I went to was a query letter workshop, led by genre fiction writer Alan Orloff. He was hilarious—“Think of querying like dating; you want the agent to think they’re special, that they’re the only one you’re seeing”—and gave great tips on how to make the letter pop. I was most interested to learn that the point of a query letter is not to get an agent, but to get an agent to request pages. Key difference!

There was a really innovative social media panel, as well. Mystery author Shawn Reilly Simmons took us through her social media profiles and gave some handy tips, but I thought Ingrid Anders’ presentation, which she did from her Twitter, was super cool. Though, it did confuse some of our elderly guests, who weren’t familiar with Twitter in the first place.

Finally, Tracy Chiles McGhee, a fellow Georgetown alum, took us through some strategies on how to build an author platform without stress. The best thing I took away was her definition of the platform: “Imagine you’re in a crowded outdoor café in Paris, and someone stands up to start speaking—whoever looks up from their meal is the platform.” Makes so much sense, and is so much less stressful to think about than trying to garner as many readers as possible.

The keynote was George Derek Musgrove, who talked about his book, Chocolate City: A History of Race and Democracy in the Nation’s Capital, and hit my heart discussing all the changes that have gone on in DC in the last several years. But, of course, there’s a long, long history of gentrification in our nation’s capital, and the book goes into great detail about it. It’s quite a tome, but I can’t wait to read it!

I detailed all of that to say that there’s some really amazing writers in the DC area, and they’re doing super cool things, and seem supportive of each other. I do wonder if we can have more of these opportunities for a bunch of us to be in the same room, encouraging each other to continue making great art. I hope so!

It’s just come pourin’ out of me

It seems that the key to killing writer’s block is to say that you have writer’s block.

When I wrote about the blockage I was experiencing back in January, I was in a really tough place. I’d sent my book out to a few readers and was waiting for their feedback, but was struggling to produce while I waited. Normally during periods of writer’s block, I read. Something about reading loosens up the mind a bit. It’s almost like physical therapy: it strengthens you without exhausting you, to heal whatever it is ailing you.

Then I started an online fiction writing class at the end of January, and it ended right before AWP at the beginning of March. Maybe it was reading my classmates’ work, or focusing more on making up stories rather than telling true ones, but I’ve been on a bit of a tear since I got back from AWP/vacation.

Since then, I’ve written four long-form essays (those that are at least 2,000 words; one topped out around 5,000), and revised two short stories, one of which I’ve started submitting to literary magazines. I’ve published two of the short pieces that I’d been toying around with forever, one on Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog and one on Blavity.

All that to say, March wound up being pretty darn productive, and April seems to be following suit, so yay! I’ve got to get all of this generating done before my brain decides to turn off the faucet.

I was accepted to the Yale Writers Workshop for this summer (yay!), and I will be doing fiction this year. I am incredibly excited about this for so many reasons, the primary being that I finally feel validated in fiction, the very thing I started writing all those years ago. It also means that I actually have to start writing the novel that’s been rattling around my brain for almost 4 years; I cheated by writing out the parts I knew best in a short story (what I’ve been submitting), but it’s time to write the first 10 pages of the book, which one of my Yale workshops will focus on.

All that being said, it has been a great month or so of plowing through new material. I wish I liked revising more, so I’d be more excited about all of the re-shaping I have to do, but I’m going to try not to think about that right now and just continue pouring out whatever comes in.

How I Met My Spouse

Nine years ago, tonight, I went to a lounge called Napoleon with my friend Laura, seeking a regular fun night.

It’d been a long, cold winter in which I’d stayed holed up in my apartment, being angry at a guy I’d dated for a couple of months over the summer. He’d been a big enough jerk for my anger to last a full six months. But one Tuesday, I woke up and felt fine about it all. The weirdest sense of peace and contentment took me over.

I’d decided to give up alcohol for Lent because the friend who usually bought my drinks had done so, leaving me no choice. (What was I going to do? Buy my own drinks?) So, when I went out with Laura that Friday night, I drank Coke while she indulged in a Champagne cocktail.

But, I thought, at least my eyebrows looked great. I’d left work earlier that afternoon to get them threaded for the first time, and they looked quite sleek, if also a little puffy.

Having a great time in the basement lounge (upstairs was a really nice French restaurant) as music thudded, I noticed a group of kids who’d gone to Georgetown had all come in together, as if the “freshman herd” concept had extended into post-grad life. There was a Black guy in their midst. He looked familiar because there’s only so many Black people at Georgetown at one time, but I’d never actually talked to him. I’d seen him in the cafeteria with guys who played soccer, but he didn’t come to the parties I went to, so we wouldn’t have had the chance to meet.

I told Laura that he looked familiar, and she said I should go talk to him. I refused, saying I wasn’t going to approach some random man in a lounge. She slapped my arm and said I was being ridiculous. As he came closer to where we were, she gave me a line, “You look familiar, did you go to Georgetown?”

When he came close enough, and there was a break in the songs, I delivered the line. He said yes, he did go to Georgetown. We introduced ourselves over the loud music and danced.

After a while, he asked if I wanted some water. Before I could say, “Sure,” he added, “I meant, a drink?”

I shook my head. “Water’s fine,” I said. “I gave up alcohol for Lent.”

He giggled.

“I mean, I know it’s hard, but you’nt have to laugh in my face,” I half-joked.

“No, I meant—I gave up alcohol Lent, too,” he said.

I wondered if he was BSing—of course you’d tell a woman you’ve met in a bar that you’d given up alcohol for Lent just to save $8 to $14 on a drink. But he was for real.

We sat with the water and talked for a while. It got late, so Laura went home, and after a bit, his friends did, too, leaving us alone together. So, naturally, we kept talking: about our families, about Georgetown, about studying abroad and how the world is both wonderful and racist regardless of where you go.

I had to go to work at my part-time job early the next day, so around 2am, I put on my hat and coat, and he followed me out of the lounge. Outside, he asked for my phone number. I hesitated, not wanting to give my number to someone I’d met in a bar, but something said it would be okay, so I did.

“Could you spell your name for me?” He asked.

When I asked the same of him, I realized neither one of us had heard what the other had said when we introduced ourselves.

“Rustin,” he said. “Like Justin, with an R.”

“Got it,” I said.

We hugged, and I hailed a cab, and went home. I didn’t really think about him again until he called me that Sunday evening, asking to go out the following Friday, Good Friday.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Nine years later, I still don’t regret leaving work early to get my eyebrows threaded, or giving up alcohol for Lent that year. All things worked together for my good. Best 9 years of my life!

I Was Hit by a Car Last Week

Last Monday, I was hit by a car.

On my way to return some books to the library, I was crossing the street, with the light in my favor (the little white man with the countdown), in the crosswalk. A man turned left more quickly than he should have and, though I contend that he saw me, careened right into my left knee. The force knocked me down, and I landed on my hands and knees.

My first thought was, “My jeans better not be torn.” (They weren’t, but my knees hurt from being scraped across denim that hit pavement pretty hard.)

And then I realized that had happened: I had been following the rules, doing what I was supposed to, when someone hurt me.


I screamed at the top of my lungs from the deepest depth of my belly. It was like I was screaming at everyone who had ever hurt me. I was shaking from adrenaline, but also because I was screaming so loud that I was surprising myself.

And then I was breathless.

The driver—an older Black man—apologized a bunch of times, and I ultimately accepted his apology. I knew I didn’t have any broken bones or anything other than the scrapes on my knees, so I wouldn’t need to drag him through legal or financial mud, even though an old lady stood on the sidewalk yelling at me, “You weren’t supposed to get up! You’re supposed to stay down until the police come!” There was no need to stop traffic on an extremely busy road during evening rush hour because of scrapes on my knees.

When I got home, I went straight to the bathroom and cleaned up my wounds. As I applied Neosporin and band-aids, I thought about the fact that I’d screamed at someone at the top of my lungs in the middle of a busy road during rush hour. I’ve never really screamed at anyone before, not even my husband.

When I went to therapy later that week, my therapist asked how it felt to do it.

“It felt great,” I said. “It was like I’d finally farted after holding it in for a really long time.”

He was mystified at the fact that it took being stricken by an SUV to get me to express anger. I tend to keep it bottled up, for fear of losing control.

“Be angry and do not sin,” the scripture goes. I never really saw how it was possible to do the first and not do the second, so I figured I’d stay away from the emotion altogether. Of course, that’s not what God has wanted me to do. And now I’m finding healthy ways of expressing anger when I feel it that don’t involve screaming like a madwoman in the middle of the street.

So, though I wish it hadn’t happened and pray that it will never happen again, I needed to be hit by a car to allow myself to feel another emotion I’ve been afraid of. I guess I can call it one more step in becoming a fully adult human and a more mature follower of Christ.


Woman with a Plan: AWP 2018 Recap

After being on the fence about it for a while, I took the plunge and went to my second AWP, the Association of Writers and Writing Programs annual conference.

I had a great time at my first one, but was so overwhelmed by all of the panels and people and things and stuff that I had a headache for four days straight, and spent the Sunday after in sweatpants on the couch, watching golf for hours, in recovery.

This time, I felt a lot more prepared:

  • I carefully chose 2-3 panels for each time slot.
  • I decided to give a panel no more than 30 minutes if I felt it was going in an energy-sucking direction (15-20 is better, actually; gives you time to process what the panelists are talking about after they’ve done introductions).
  • I went in with concrete goals: talk to 5 literary magazines I’d researched to see what the editors are looking for these days, and to meet the people I’d met online in real life
  • I decided to only buy books by authors I knew, or books I was really excited about, or books by authors who seemed to write the kind of stuff I liked (I got suckered into a lot of books I didn’t like last year; hence, these parameters).

As a result, I had an amazing time!

I went to 16 panels, and of those, I left two, and I established within 15 minutes or sooner that they were going to be energy-suckers. (I don’t mean to insult the panelists when I say this. “Energy-sucking” means that I feel literally drained by the talk, either because of how the presenters talk [monotony] or because they only talk in vague/general terms.) So, 14 were great, and a large subsection of those were ludicrously helpful or encouraging.

I spoke with the 5 lit mags I’d intended, and then I allowed myself to be intrigued by some others. I stuck with buying cheaper back issues, so I could get a feel for what they like without breaking the bank on new issues or subscribing altogether. But, if I knew I would like it, I happily subscribed and felt no guilt.

I met so many people I met online! I even met up with about half of one of my online classes at the instructor’s panel!

And there was even a mini VONA reunion!

That was the most exciting part about this year’s AWP—no longer feeling like an outsider. Actually knowing people—even if we were just meeting because we’d only seen each other on Facebook or Twitter—made such a big difference. I don’t say this to discourage newbies from coming (and I’ll likely make it a goal to meet new people there next year), but it made it less intimidating. If you can say with some certainty that you know at least 5 people of the 12,000, it’s surprising how much easier it is to breathe.

The biggest delights of the conference were running into my first fiction professor, Jennifer Fink, who taught me what literary fiction was back in fall 2005, when I was still a heavy chicklit reader and teeny-bopper romance writer. Basically, she helped me to see my talent for storytelling, not just telling a story. I also met a woman who I’m pretty sure I interviewed for a position at my old job; she’s since also left the industry, written a novel, and is in an MFA program. I asked during her panel how she was coping with the lack of concreteness in writing and with the prospect of making way less money, and I was so touched by her honesty: “I’m not sure I’m coping well with either,” she said, laughing. I felt seen and understood, and Lord, if that’s not the point of art in the first place.

She gave a galley of her book (which seems really interesting), and I added it to the pile of other treasures I’d collected: novels by Percival Everett (one of my favorites ever), Simeon Marsalis (as a former Jazz at Lincoln Center patron, I had to!), and stacks of literary magazines I targeted because they publish Black women who I want to write like, like Danielle Evans and ZZ Packer.

So, I accomplished all of my goals, and didn’t feel remotely as overwhelmed. My spouse and I scheduled travel to Miami for vacation that Monday instead of that Sunday because I assumed I’d be as lifeless as last year, but I felt totally fine, so we got an extra day to explore Tampa. Tampa’s not the most thrilling town, but while I was talking to my spouse as we walked around after brunch, I got the words for an essay that’d be germinating in my soul for months.

That’s what AWP is all about: inspiring you to keep writing, even when you feel so far over your head, you’re barely standing. But at least you know with certainty that you are not alone.

Everything Happens for a Reason

I hate the saying, “Everything happens for a reason.” I question its veracity, and even if it is true, it’s still annoying.

I didn’t blog last Tuesday because I was crazy busy, trying to get through some work for a writing class I’m in, submit some other work, and resume revising my memoir. It was also the same day that Rustin asked if I wanted to tag along on his business trip to NYC the next day. He’d been working sleeplessly for days, so I figured it’d be nice for us to at least sleep in the same bed while he (and I) was still busy with work in NYC. So, I went.

I was hugely productive on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and even got to see a few friends. (I’m leery of asking my NYC friends to hang out on short notice, so I didn’t see a lot of folks. When I lived in NY, I made plans weeks in advance, so I assume short notice invitations cause people just as much anxiety as they caused me. So if I didn’t see you, please don’t be offended—I love and miss you, I promise!) I’d planned to spend Friday evening reading Priestdaddy on the train back to DC, then to do a whole mess of domestic and community things on Saturday.

But the Nor’easter made other plans.

Amtrak cancelled trains between Boston and DC late Friday. Rustin’s assistant called him and said she’d arranged for a car to pick us up and drive us back to DC—hallelujah for big law perks!

So, at around 5:30pm, we hit the road. There was the usual traffic getting out of the city and into NJ, but we’d expected that. Everything ran smoothly through the rest of NJ and through Delaware. We entered Maryland, and things started to get hairy.

The GPS said that 95 was backed up for miles and suggested an alternate route, starting at the next exit. Well, it took an hour to get the 2 miles to the next exit. At that point, we realized that 95 was closed.

Rustin, being from Maryland, said that we should try I-40, which is about 10 miles away from 95, but could help us go around the traffic. We followed the GPS onto the back country roads in the dark of night. I peered out at the shadows of houses, and I couldn’t help but think of a Twitter post I’d read earlier with a picture of a century-old dollhouse captioned, “Based on my professional opinion, there are approximately 12 to 37 ghosts in this house.”

We passed a house with a sinister blue light shining into the front yard. Next to it, a car parked, and a man in a hoodie got out and started to walk down the street.

We continued following the GPS’ voice, dodging branches that had snapped off trees and fallen into the road. More creepy houses. More ghosts. And then the blue light again.

The stupid GPS had taken us in a circle around this creepy backwoods!

Rustin navigated us back to the main road. On our way, we passed the guy in the hoodie again. He was one of the workers picking up branches—a creepy guy making our journey safe.

When we finally arrived at the mouth of I-40, the road was a parking lot. We squeezed through traffic and made our way to a gas station down the street, where we learned that the bridge there had been closed. There were no roads to the rest of Maryland, much less to DC.

So, we turned around.

We went back to NYC, arriving at 2:30am, nine hours after our departure, just to have landed at a hotel up the street from the train station.

Rustin and I spent Saturday working, and Sunday morning brunching, before finally getting the train back to DC Sunday afternoon.

I have never been so happy to sleep in my own bed.

So, if everything happens for a reason, I don’t know what we missed, but we were meant to miss it. I didn’t finish reading Priestdaddy on the train, so I had to buy a copy. Maybe that’s what all of this was about: buying a book that became overdue to the library.

Everything happens for a reason.