We all need a little shelter from the storm.

I've had mine for as long as I can remember. What's yours?

Well hello there. It’s been three weeks since my last confession post, but it feels like a lifetime. So many fresh hells and abominations since then! A veritable smorgasbord! People deported and abducted without due process, war plans shared by morons in Signal chats, stock markets clobbered, universities and law firms extorted, history expunged from websites and museums.

It is hard not to feel completely overwhelmed by what is happening, and what may be ahead. I try so very hard to remain hopeful—to remember to feed that thing with feathers that is apparently perched in my soul. (Ew?) But it is not always easy. Lately, in fact, it has been quite difficult. The abduction of Rumeysa Ozturk a couple of weeks ago, right near the playground we used to take our kiddos when they were little, marked something of a turning point for me—a stark confirmation of just how dark things have gotten, and how much darker they may get

At the same time, I find myself being much more keenly aware of—and thankful for—the sources of refuge in my life: the places, people, and activities where I can catch a break from anxiety and anger and intrusive thoughts such as: oh my god are we headed toward martial law and a total breakdown of society and should I stock up on rice and gasoline for bartering with the hordes of armed citizens soon to be roving the streets of my quiet, suburban town?

Those sources of refuge include but are not limited to: laughing with my kids and husband, walking in the woods, making and eating good food, doing crossword puzzles, reading, rock climbing, spending time with friends, and mocking our cats.

But the biggie for me is writing—via this here Substack, yes, but even moreso via the new novel I’m working on. Like my last book, it’s funny, and on the lighter side—so, a nice escape for me and hopefully for future readers—but with some serious themes and emotional truths running through it. I am totally absorbed in the work (which is part of why I haven’t posted here in a while) and am closing in on a decent draft, which I will soon share with my agent and some beta readers.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so keenly, consciously grateful for writing as I have felt over these past few months—even though I’ve been writing avidly ever since I was first capable of it.

My mom has been going through old slides and photos of late, and sent me this one, in which I seem to be waiting patiently for the muse to enter my body and guide my hands to the keys of my parents’ electric typewriter.

I don’t know what I was working on here. I would say that maybe it was my first major work of nonfiction, The Sticker Sensation: a Fun Guide to Collecting Stickers, but I think I wrote that when I was a little older. The “cool” handwriting on the cover was something I believe I cultivated in fourth grade.

It’s also possible—and would explain the closed eyes—that the photo captured me in midst of teaching myself how to touch-type, which I did, from a book. (I was a strange child.) I still remember the first phrase I learned to type without looking, using the home row keys: Dad had half a shad salad.

Ironically, I don’t remember ever thinking as a kid that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. This in spite of the fact that I was constantly doing it, whether it was writing in my diary or lightly plagiarizing Shel Silverstein or touch-typing didactic guides to popular children’s hobbies. Jobs like archaeologist, airplane stewardess (the correct term at the time!), actor, and dancer were all much higher on my list.

In fact, I actually had a brief career as an actor / model, doing professional theater and commercials, and modeling for catalogs and department store circulars. Check out my cringey 80s headshots…

I had immense range.

…and my adorable original SAG card!

Elon may have my social security number, but you can’t!

As a teenager and young adult, my career dreams shifted from performing (I retired at 12, due to waning interest and braces) to politics and activism and vague designs on “something involving travel.” But no matter how hard I rowed in that direction, I was borne back ceaselessly into the past, to the thing that had made me feel most anchored, contented, and fully myself as a child.

Writing was my soul’s home. And it still is. It can be thankless and crazymaking and tedious as hell. But when I’m doing it, I feel safe. Calm. Fully in the moment of whatever world I’m creating or line of thought I’m exploring. It’s the realest thing I do.

I can’t turn away from what is happening to our country. I can’t stop speaking out (did you protest on Saturday? Wasn’t it amazing?). And I can’t help feeling the anger and sadness and anxiety. That would be impossible.

But I will keep taking shelter from the storm where and when I can (how lucky I am to be free to do that). To refuel and find joy. To stay rooted. And to make sure that thing with feathers (ew?) doesn’t croak.

I hope you’ll do it, too.

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All posts on this rambly and sometimes surprisingly earnest Substack are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription (As little as $4.16666 a month! Cheap!) or buying my book. Thank you.

P.S. Here’s Bob Dylan singing Shelter from the Storm, which is one of my favorite songs of his. Maybe your shelter, like his, is some chick with silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair. Whatever works!