Weekly Wrap: The Shoulders We Cry On

I’m guessing I’ve had too much champagne to type for my blog. Oh well. The problem with being your own boss is you just do whaever you feel like doing.

This is a picture of some butter my dad made. You’ll understand when you get to the end of this post.

I’m sitting here, wondering if I should tell a story about how long it’s taken me to learn how to cry, or to cry in front of others without being ashamed, or to learn how to accept comfort, which is kind of an ongoing struggle for me. I’m considering naming the incredible friends I have and the ways they’re there for me. I have phenomenal friends who believe in me much more than I believe in myself, and I am so grateful for each of them. I’m considring telling you about my mom, my husband, my agent, who are kind of superheroes to me.

But what I’m going to do is link back to this week’s interview with Porochista Khakpour because I have a feeling a number of you were on the road when it went up. And if you haven’t read the interview, I think you’ll be surprised how much her story might transform you. Because Porochista is not just on LitPrk for writing a great piece of literature, and she’s not just here because her book tells an important and surprisingly humorous story of Iranian-Americans living in post-9/11 paranoia. But she’s also here because her story about the despair of rejections and the fear of attending her own readings is a great reminder that even those who’ve made it know what the rest of us are going through. There are many wonderful things about being writers and artists, but there’s also this part that all of us know too well, and Porochista is with you here. And she rescues greyhounds, so I kind of love her forever.

Even if I didn’t have too much champagne, I’d tell you how much I love Porochista.

And all of you.

I would tell you without typos.

So, go back and read her interview and let it heal and recharge you. And leave her a comment. And buy her book if you want a guaranteed good read. Check out her blog, all of that.

You can read it on the treadmill as you try to lose all the weight you gained this week.

Speaking of which… many of you know, I’m in Virginia, spending Thanksgiving with my folks.

This is the house I grew up in. This is the view out the dining room window.

My dad is an awesome cook. He’s an awesome, high-maintenance cook. For just one small example, he made his own butter to coat the turkey. The butter has shallots and herbs and garlic and wine in it. Everything he does is like this, and from scratch. We just sit around and wait to be served.

So we sat around talking and we watched “Bustin’ Loose” (God, is there anyone sexier than Richard Pryor? The answer is, Of course not.) Tomorrow, I’ll regret not waiting till I sobered up to type this because I know it will be wordy. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.