Uncategorized Archives - Page 10 of 16 - Elizabeth Maria Naranjo

A Good Way to End 2016

Posted on December 30, 2016 ·

Honestly? This has not been a good year for me when it comes to publishing. Part of that is the majority of writing I did in 2015 is tied up in 2 unpublished books. One of the books is a collection of short stories, and I hadn’t been submitting the stories individually because for so long I only imagined them as a collection. That could still happen, but there’s no reason for me not to submit them to literary journals in the meantime, which I started doing this fall.

Numbers-wise, I only had three new publications this year, and I collected more rejections than I care to admit. Still, I believe in quality over quantity, and I’m proud of the pieces I did publish. One of them came out this month in Superstition Review, and you can read it here. “The Woman in Room 248” is the story of a young nursing student trying to reconcile her idealized vision of a dream career with the harsh reality of the job. Superstition Review is a tough journal to get into (this wasn’t my first time trying!) so I was thrilled to join their list of contributors. And I’m relieved that I could end 2016 on a positive note.

Hopefully 2017 will be a more fruitful year; I think it will be, now that I’m not stubbornly hoarding all my newer fiction in the hopes it will be released in the neat little package I’d envisioned. Sometimes dreams need to be let go, but more often they simply need to be re-imagined. I’m a dreamer at heart, so that’s no problem for me.

Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll post my 2016 end of year book survey. I read so much this year (57 books and counting!), and I can’t wait to share some of my favorites with you. Until then, Happy New Year, everyone!

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: publishing, Superstition Review, writing

The Other Side of the Magic

Posted on December 20, 2016 ·

Image from Flickr by Brian Adams

Every December we travel north to Williams, Arizona, and ride the Polar Express. Grand Canyon Railway’s mystic “midnight” train ride is based on the classic children’s book made even more popular by the 2004 animated film starring Tom Hanks. Both of my children grew up watching the film; for more than ten years the whistle of that magic steam train beckoned from the television screen throughout winter break.

Until last year, when neither Abbey, 14, nor Gabriel, 9, wanted to watch it.

In the movie, a young boy who’s beginning to doubt whether Santa is real catches a ride to the North Pole, where he meets Father Christmas in person and learns once more to believe. And for those of us who still believe, the enchanted train in Williams speeds through a time-warp and arrives within an hour at that very same North Pole, where elves dance in the snow and wave from Santa’s sleigh.

On that night in December we wait at the icy depot, stamping our feet, cheeks stinging and breath clouding the air. We climb aboard and sing carols, sip hot cocoa and wait for Santa to arrive. When he boards, he’ll walk slowly down the aisle, presenting each wide-eyed child with the gift of a silver bell.

I have a collection of these silver bells, each strung with a loop of crimson ribbon, each ringing chime a ghost from Christmas past. I have a snow globe from the Polar Express gift shop that sits unshaken on a closet shelf, its wintry Christmas scene preserved within the glass bubble, like a memory.

The year she turned eleven, my daughter said, “I know about Santa, Mom. I’ve known for a while.”

But that was okay, because Gabriel was then only six. Abbey was simply on the other side of the magic now, watching with affection as her little brother pressed his nose against the glass, peering silently out the window as the moonlit trees rushed by, waiting to see the amber glow of a frosted Christmas village.

There are family traditions that for us will never fade. Timeless things, like stringing lights on the Christmas tree, stirring fudge on Christmas Eve, and opening presents on Christmas morning in pajamas and robes, wrapped in the warm candied scent of gingerbread drifting from candles.

Then there are traditions bound to fade. Childhood things, like tracking Santa’s sleigh in the flash of stars, throwing glittery oats like confetti across the lawn to light a path for the reindeer, and setting out a plate of milk and cookies on the cold brick hearth.

It’s nearly winter, and tomorrow we’ll drive to Williams and ride the Polar Express. When night falls we’ll hand our tickets to a conductor who will solemnly punch holes in the shape of a letter and hand them back. We’ll open our songbooks and sing carols on the way to the North Pole and drink hot chocolate delivered by sprightly chefs. One of us will still peer out the window, nose pressed against the glass. Waiting, but perhaps also wondering.

When Santa comes we’ll ring our silver bells and cheer at the tinny echoes. Then the children will tuck their bells into the pockets of their winter robes, knowing there will always be another.

I will hold onto mine a little longer.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Christmas, holidays, motherhood, Polar Express, winter

What I Still Believe

Posted on November 23, 2016 ·

Image from Flickr by Aftab Uzzaman

I’ve written and deleted more than one blog post since November 9. They were too angry, too hopeless, too cynical, too sad, too bloated, too simplistic, too something. And who am I kidding anyway? I have no answers for anyone, least of all my children; that morning I woke my nine-year-old son for school and, while searching for words to break the staggering news, broke into tears instead.

Since then we’ve had several discussions on the importance of staying true to our personal morals and integrity, and how kindness and empathy matter now more than ever. I still get to be the role model for my children, and that is powerful.

And it’s what I need to focus on. A few weeks before the election a woman I respected posted on Twitter her intention to vote third party, and she encouraged others to do the same, in protest of both candidates. After the election I wondered what if I’d engaged her instead of glaring at my phone and childishly clicking “unfollow”? I’m not saying I’m faultless. I could have done more.

But at least I can face my kids each day for the next four years knowing I voted on the right side of history. At least I can take comfort knowing that the majority of voters were on the right side of history too, even though we lost.

I don’t think I’ll ever look at the world the same way, but it’s time to move forward. It’s time to believe again that vulgarity, hatred, and scorn will ultimately lose to hope, compassion, and grace. I won’t be naïve, but I refuse to be cynical. I still believe that love trumps hate, and I always will.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Hope

This Really Is the Best of Phoenix

Posted on October 7, 2016 ·

I’ve felt so honored lately to have been part of two memorable projects. The first was as an assistant for this year’s Best of Phoenix, an annual issue published by Phoenix New Times that celebrates all that is great in the Valley of the Sun. It’s a huge project—the issue comprises several hundred categories, along with essays and as-told-to pieces, and my responsibilities included organizing copy, fact-checking the issue, and preparing lists and slideshows for the website.

Best of Phoenix has a different theme each year, and this year the theme was Border Town. We are a mere two hours from the border of Mexico, after all, a fact usually associated with scathing talk of separation and building walls. I can’t express how much it means to me, especially in a year like this one, to have contributed to a publication that embraces and pays tribute to the influences of Mexican culture in its city.

I’ve stayed silent online about the ugliness plaguing my country, not convinced that adding to the toxic mess on social media could possibly make a positive difference (and suspecting that fueling the fire would only make it worse). But inside, my heart has been hurting; too often these last several months I’ve felt hopeless, struggling to come to terms with the increasing awareness that we are surrounded by hatred, willful ignorance, and rampant racism. Thanks to social media, we know it’s in our families, our friends (or those we once considered friends), our co-workers—it is everywhere.

Anyway, you won’t find it here. Best of Phoenix was published last Thursday; if you’re local, hopefully you grabbed a copy, but you can always browse the issue online. There are wonderful essays, published in both Spanish and English, from gifted writers like Arizona’s inaugural poet laureate, Alberto Rios, and dozens and dozens of categories acknowledging, with pride, the best of Mexican culture in Phoenix.

The other project I’m excited to be a part of is Hospital Drive’s first anthology. Hospital Drive is the literary journal of the University of Virginia School of Medicine; they publish poetry, prose, and original art dealing with themes of health, illness, and healing. Four years ago this month, they accepted my short story “The Distance Ratio,” a semi-autobiographical piece about a single mother putting herself through nursing school by working at a job that is painful to her, and how she tries to cope with the pain.

Last January, Hospital Drive’s managing editor emailed, explaining that they were putting together their first print edition, a collection of what they considered their best work since the journal’s founding in 2007. They wanted to include “The Distance Ratio.” This week, I received my copies.

The anthology can be read online here; however, the print edition is only $5, and it’s so much nicer having a physical copy. The pages are filled with incredible artwork, moving poetry, and half a dozen works of prose from thoughtful and talented writers. It’s truly an honor to be among them.

Click here to purchase a print copy of Hospital Drive’s first anthology, and help support a literary magazine. You’ll receive several hours’ worth of great reading and a year’s worth of good karma. Really.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: anthology, Best of Phoenix, border town, editing, Hospital Drive, Phoenix New Times, The Distance Ratio, writing

On Empty Journals

Posted on September 18, 2016 ·

Early in grade school, a concerned teacher notified my mother of a problem I had with communication. This problem, the teacher warned, would need to be corrected or I’d continue having great difficulty making myself understood.

The issue wasn’t crippling shyness or dyslexia or a speech impediment.

The issue was my handwriting. I had terrible handwriting.

I practiced as ordered, struggling to compose words as pretty as the other girls’, who wrote with perfect slants and even letters, daring loops and adorable quirks, dotting their i’s with hearts or little bubbles, pinning their confidence onto the page with flourish.

Maybe I tried too hard, or maybe I was in such a rush to express myself in written words the words tumbled out too fast, spilling into each other and rising and falling to the rhythm of my thoughts.

Maybe the problem is the way I hold my pencil, which I realized only as an adult was different from the way most people hold theirs (not resting lightly between my index finger and thumb but squeezed between thumb and ring finger, my hand pulled nearly into a fist).

Despite all efforts to improve my penmanship, it honestly remains deplorable. Sometimes even I have a hard time reading it. Anything I write that looks pretty on paper looks that way because I wrote it twice, the original version crumpled up and tossed away.

Maybe this is why I have so many blank journals.

Because aren’t journals wonderful? I suppose it’s ironic that I could happily spend hours lingering in the part of the bookstore that sells books with blank pages. But I love the promise of those pages–smooth bare sheets waiting to be filled with thoughts, ideas, memories, and stories. That’s always my intention, of course. To fill them in, to stamp their unbroken surface as merrily as a child stamps through a surface of unbroken snow.

Most of the time I can’t bring myself to do it. When it’s time to put my thoughts to paper, I might reach for one of those tempting journals on my bookshelf, the ones I couldn’t help but slip into my shopping basket while out buying birthday presents or school supplies. I might even pull one off the bookshelf, flip carefully through it, imagine pressing a pen to one stone-white page and filling it with my scrawled and uneven script.

Inevitably I put it back, choosing instead a yellow legal pad or a plain old spiral notebook. And I suppose that’s fine—what matters is that the writing happens.

Still, there’s something wistful about those beautiful journals on my bookshelf that remain unmarred, their spines unbroken, their pages still smooth and smelling of new paper, and of promise.

Perfect, and perfectly empty.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: journals, penmanship, writing

Write With Joy

Posted on September 12, 2016 ·

Image from Flickr by dillypopdotcom

In his essay collection Zen in the Art of Writing, Ray Bradbury talks about writing his classic dystopian novel Fahrenheit 451. Distracted by his daughters at home (“Father had to choose between finishing a story or playing with the girls. I chose to play, of course, which endangered the family income”), he began visiting the university library to write.

At the time it cost a dime for every half hour to rent one of the typewriters, so he’d write like mad trying to cram words in. It cost him a total of $9.80—all in dimes—to complete the first draft, which he did in nine days.

I thought that was a pretty great story. I can picture the young father, desperate to make the most of his limited writing time, hunched over an Underwood in the basement of a university library, furiously pounding away at the keys. The end product turned out pretty well, wouldn’t you agree?

Bradbury was a big advocate for writing every day, and for having fun while doing it. He insisted we should write with joy:

If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer. It means you are so busy keeping one eye on the commercial market, or one ear peeled for the avant-garde coterie, that you are not being yourself. You don’t even know yourself. For the first thing a writer should be is—excited. He should be a thing of fevers and enthusiasms.

I’ve written with joy, with love, and with gusto. I’ve also written with self-doubt, with despair, and with dread. I always felt like a whole writer, but it’s true that if you’re writing your story for anyone else besides yourself, you’re not really being you.

Not every writing project will be fun, but it should at least be exciting. Sometimes I get excited about an idea but then overthink it and lose that joy. I used to believe it was the actual writing I found laborious, the way Dorothy Parker described it when she said she hated writing but loved having written. But no—for me the frustration is not writing, but not writing, which inevitably happens when I’m overthinking.

Which would not be a problem, I’m sure, if I had to pay for the privilege of typing out my words. I guess with inflation that dime Ray Bradbury paid for every half hour of typing Fahrenheit 451 would be, today, about a dollar. And I imagine if it cost me two dollars an hour to write, I’d write a lot faster. Maybe I could even draft an entire novel in nine days.

Okay, probably not. But I’m sure I’d have more fun doing it.

Writers are writers whether they choose to write with misery or with joy; I’d much rather choose joy. And Ray Bradbury had the perfect advice for how to do that, summed up in two little words he kept on a sign by his own typewriter for decades:

“Don’t think.”

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: inspiration, ray bradbury, writing

Quiet Time

Posted on July 2, 2016 ·

It’s halfway through the year and for once I haven’t fallen behind on my Goodreads Reading Challenge; in fact, I’m ahead by a month! Part of the reason is that I have more free time now that school’s out, but I think the main reason has to do with one of my big goals for 2016.

In January I resolved to focus more. I wanted to work on being present in the moment, focusing on one thing at a time, and finishing the task at hand. I thought if I could discipline myself and learn to resist distractions and shut out the noise, I could accomplish more.

It worked, but it also had some side effects. Naturally, the more I tuned out the Internet in an effort to concentrate, the less I interacted with social media. And then when I did visit sites like Facebook, I became very quickly overwhelmed, and very often dismayed. The noise was so much louder.

I think all of us struggle with this. We want to share and connect and feel as though we’re part of a community, yet we’re drowning in it. I literally cannot process that amount of information anymore. I’d meant to take a short break from Facebook, but now I dread the thought of going back so much I honestly don’t think I can.

The bright side, again, is that I’m much more likely to finish a book within a week of starting it, and I’ve read some fabulous books this year! In May, my son and I were at Barnes & Noble buying a birthday present for his sister and I noticed a display of discounted hardcover copies of Robert Galbraith’s (J. K. Rowling’s) The Cuckoo’s Calling. I’d always wanted to read the crime fiction series but hadn’t gotten around to checking it out. And although I didn’t have the extra money, I did remember later to look up the book on my Overdrive account (I love that program).

Soon the novel was on my Kindle, and I was completely hooked. I tore through The Cuckoo’s Calling in days, once staying up until three in the morning. When I finished it I immediately downloaded the second book in the series, The Silkworm, and then the third, Career of Evil. All three are fantastic, with intriguing mysteries, irresistible characters, and top-notch writing.

Some of the books I’ve read this year were underwhelming, especially because there was so much hype surrounding them. I expected to be impressed with The Boy in the Striped Pajamas and Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children but both left me cold (that said, I can’t wait to see Tim Burton’s film version of the latter).

Then there were the books that started out amazing but either fizzled out halfway through (Neverwhere) or disappointed with the ending (The Girl on the Train).

My favorite novel so far is a debut by Carol Rifka Brunt called Tell the Wolves I’m Home. It’s a beautifully written story about a young girl coming to terms with the death of her beloved uncle, who succumbed to AIDS. The novel takes place in the ’80s, and both her uncle’s sexuality and the manner of his death are forbidden subjects. June has no one to share her grief with, until the one other person who loved her uncle as much as she did reaches out to her. This book is so lovely; I highlighted countless passages as I read. Here is one of them:

Then, into the silence, over the top of everything, came a long, sad howl. For a second it felt like the sound had come from inside me. Like the world had taken everything I was feeling and turned it into sound.

As for my own writing, I’m querying for my second book, What Was Never There, editing my middle grade novel, and of course writing essays on the endlessly fascinating topic of motherhood. This one, which explores the language we use to describe blended families, was published a few weeks ago in a new magazine called Motherwell.

Let me know what you’re reading, what you’re writing, or just how your summer’s going!

Filed Under: Uncategorized

The Happiest Place on Earth

Posted on May 11, 2016 ·

Image from Flickr by H is for Home

Monday was Arizona State University’s Spring 2016 Commencement, and although I am ecstatic and enormously proud to be a graduating Sun Devil, I decided to skip the ceremony.

I stayed home, made popcorn, and watched a Harry Potter movie with my family instead (we’re in the middle of a HP marathon), occasionally scanning Twitter’s #ASUGrad hashtag and smiling at all the beautiful sentiments, overjoyed selfies, and youthful messages bursting with energy, optimism and hope.

I was still recovering from an insanely fun but brutal trip to Disneyland with my daughter’s 8^th grade music program–over 100 kids in orchestra, band, and choir–plus 25 adult chaperones and three music teachers.

We met at the school at 10:30 p.m. on Friday night, boarded a bus about an hour later and tried to sleep during the six and half hour drive, which didn’t really happen for me. Next we spent a bleary eyed two hours at McDonald’s, where I was yelled at by a hysterical woman who thought I was trying to sneak in front of her: “I’ve been standing here for 45 minutes!” she shrieked. “You need to get to the back of the line NOW!”

Instead I went back to my table empty-handed, in a daze, shaking from anger and shock at not only being screamed at but accused of something so stupid. “I can’t believe that just happened,” I said, and proceeded to tell Abbey why I didn’t get her sandwich yet. “I need to calm down,” I told her.

A few minutes later one of the students, who’d been ping ponging around the back of the restaurant and had heard my story, planted himself in front of me and began pounding on my table, screaming, “She cut me off! Hey! She CUT IN LINE! EVERYBODY! THIS LADY CUT IN LINE!” By the time he finished I was laughing so hard I was practically in tears. The parent whose group this boy belonged to eyed me with mock hope. “Would you like to trade?” she joked.

I would gladly have taken him.

The four kids in my group were my daughter and three boys. One of them is very much like Abbey—goofy, funny, extroverted—making silly faces when I aimed my camera. The other boys are funny too, but also very shy, turning their faces away whenever I snapped a picture (I promised them I wouldn’t post those, but I wanted to take some for their families).

Strolling into ToonTown

We didn’t technically have to stay together as a group, but they kept me with them for most of the day anyway, and we had a great time hitting the roller coasters, munching on churros, and shopping for souvenirs.

Still, being at Disneyland for fifteen hours, from opening until close, after a night of practically no sleep, was a new experience for me. In the middle of the day, when I’d been there for seven hours and was facing another eight, I was so desperate for a moment’s peace that I broke away and stumbled into the Main Street Opera House for a viewing of “Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln.” In the fifteen-minute showing I believe I fell asleep and startled awake approximately seventeen times.

At midnight, we gathered at our meeting place and took attendance, then wearily made our way to the parking garage and boarded the buses once more. Not surprisingly, I had no issues sleeping on the way back.

So I ditched the cap and gown (and crowds) on Monday, but I celebrated in my own way, quietly, at home. Soon enough I’ll receive my diploma, one year after returning to school, and it’s been an incredibly rewarding experience, truly one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

I mentioned previously that as part of my capstone course, I’d committed to finishing edits on What Was Never There. I’m happy to report that I made that deadline, with a lot of help from my friend Carrie, who graciously read and offered feedback on several of the stories, including the whopping 8,000-word title story (thank you, Carrie!).

That means that this week, in addition to preparing for my kids’ last week of school (and one more field trip), and planning for their birthdays (I don’t even have birthday lists to the grandparents yet, let alone ideas for parties), I get to work on one more thing: writing a query letter for book #2. 🙂

Filed Under: Uncategorized

Abigail Wins an Honorable Mention in the 2016 YAA Scholastic Writing Awards

Posted on April 18, 2016 ·

Abigail at the 2016 Young Authors of Arizona awards ceremony in Scottsdale

I mentioned last month that I was looking forward to sharing some wonderful and inspiring writerly news from a very special family member.

Well, here she is! For the second consecutive year, my daughter Abigail has won an honorable mention in the Young Authors of Arizona Scholastic Writing Awards. We attended a lovely ceremony and reception on Saturday at Desert Mountain High School, and I was so proud watching Abbey cross the stage and collect her award. It takes courage to share your writing, something I know most of you who read this blog can appreciate.

Crossing the stage at Desert Mountain High School

Abbey and her best friend, Grace

We learned about Young Authors of Arizona through Lisa Jones, the language arts teacher at Abbey’s middle school. Abbey adores Mrs. Jones—I think all of the students do. She was recently honored herself, as a finalist for the Tempe Diablos Excellence in Education Awards, in the category of Inspiration.

Not only does Mrs. Jones inspire her students to create, she encourages them to submit their work. Last year she helped them register and enter their writing in the Scholastic Writing Awards, and she looked every bit as proud of Abbey as I felt when we met in Glendale for the awards ceremony.

Abigail and Mrs. Jones at last year’s YAA awards ceremony

This year, the coordinator for ASPIRE Academy also came to the ceremony. Dr. Taylor is another teacher who’s been incredibly supportive of Abbey and her artistic dreams. She graduates middle school next month, and although she’s excited for high school, she is going to miss these amazing teachers who have encouraged her and cheered her on for the last three years.

Abbey with Dr. Gerald Taylor, coordinator for ASPIRE Academy at Connolly Middle School

Abigail with Dr. Gerald Taylor, coordinator for ASPIRE Academy

Congratulations, Abbey! You’ve always been an inspiration to me.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Aspire Academy, Scholastic Writing Awards, writing, Young Authors of Arizona

Interview with Amy Silverman, Author of My Heart Can’t Even Believe It

Posted on April 8, 2016 ·

Author Amy Silverman with her daughter Sophie

Last summer I had the privilege of reading an early draft of Amy Silverman’s new book, which launches May 1 at Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe. My Heart Can’t Even Believe It is a strikingly honest memoir that blends investigative journalism and personal narrative to explore what it means to raise a child with special needs—Amy’s 12-year-old daughter, Sophie, has Down syndrome.

With a journalist’s heart (she is managing editor of Phoenix New Times and has twice been named journalist of the year by the Arizona Press Club), Amy asks hard questions about biology, about history, about motherhood, about discrimination, about the future, about Sophie, and about herself. Most of the time she finds the answers, but her daughter—who is a remarkable and charming girl—continuously surprises her mother by defying all expectations and refusing to be solved.

Like Sophie, My Heart Can’t Even Believe It is fearless, honest, and beautiful.

Click here to pre-order the book through Changing Hands Bookstore, which comes with two tickets to the launch party!

My Heart Can’t Even Believe It is also available for pre-order from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

About the Book:

In MY HEART CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE IT, journalist, blogger, and NPR contributor Amy Silverman tells the story of the birth and growth of her daughter, Sophie, and the Down syndrome diagnosis that changed everything. Amy wrote the book she desperately wanted to read but couldn’t find, meant not just for parents of kids with Down syndrome, but rather a story for anyone touched by disability, a story about science, and a story about being different: something that all of us can certainly identify with. It’s part memoir, part investigative reporting, part parenting manual — a crash course in genetics, history, politics, pop culture, education, medicine, health care policy, marriage, motherhood and family.

About the Author:

Amy Silverman is managing editor at Phoenix New Times and a commentator for KJZZ, the National Public Radio affiliate in Phoenix. Her work also has appeared on NPR’s This American Life and in The New York Times. Amy holds a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University. She lives in Arizona with her husband Ray and daughters Annabelle and Sophie.

Find Amy online at her website, myheartcantevenbelieveit.com.

Elizabeth: You’ve been blogging about your daughter Sophie for nearly eight years. What inspired you to begin sharing your stories, and when did you decide to turn those stories into a book?

Amy: I actually shared my stories about Sophie long before the blog came along. Around the time my first daughter, Annabelle, was born, I began to write memoir – inspired mainly by the now-defunct section on salon.com called “Mothers Who Think” as well as Anne Lamott’s work and what I was hearing on “This American Life,” the public radio show.

I did a few stories for the local NPR affiliate here in Phoenix and managed to get a couple published on Salon. Around that time I also began to teach Mothers Who Write, a local writing workshop I co-teach with Deborah Sussman (and where I met you – yay!). All the memoir stuff started to fall together; I was hooked.

Deciding to start a blog was not easy – I’m old and was not an early adapter of the Internet and all it has to offer. (To say the least.) A co-worker at New Times convinced me to start a blog with the goal of getting me to understand what the company was trying to do online. As a journalist I’d been taught to never give my work away, but I was intrigued by the idea of telling the story of Sophie’s kindergarten year. I started and haven’t stopped, although I’ve slowed down.

And as for the book, to my dismay Sophie did not come with an instruction manual. Not one I was prepared to read. Everything was either too sciency or too touchy-feely – not real. Not my reality, anyway. (Which is not to say that there aren’t great books out there about DS – there are.) As Sophie grew, and as my shock (and awe but mostly shock, I have to admit) wore off, I began to explore what it meant to have a kid with Down syndrome in the 21^st century. It felt like a book. So I pursued that.

My Heart Can’t Even Believe It combines personal narrative with investigative journalism. Can you describe your writing process? How did you approach blending these two different writing styles?

First, I had some amazing role models. If you are at all interested in the genre, I recommend The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman and Crazy by Pete Earley.

Fadiman’s book goes back and forth between a very specific narrative and some wonderfully vast political and historical perspective about the Mong people. Earley, a longtime newspaper reporter, writes about his son, who is seriously mentally ill, and then reports on what it’s like to be SMI in the Miami jail system. Different approaches, both super powerful, both moving from a specific storyline to a broader one.

I read Fadiman’s book when Sophie was in the hospital for open-heart surgery and the book really opened my (sleep-deprived) eyes to the possibility of a different kind of story telling. I’d been trained to never, ever use “I” in my writing as a journalist. Totally forbidden. On the flip side, in my other life as a memoir writer and teacher, there was no reporting.

I began to wonder what would happen if I mixed the two – and then I did, in a story for New Times when Sophie was very young. It worked for me. I was hooked, and began looking for different ways to do it more.

Along with raising two daughters, you are managing editor of Phoenix New Times, run several writing workshops a year, and blog regularly at girlinapartyhat.com. How do you balance work, family, and creative writing time?

It’s not pretty. My husband would tell you I am not very good at it. I am lucky to have a day job that has turned into a 24/7 job as journalism has changed and while that sounds like a negative, it’s been my saving grace because it means that I can slip away during the day for a kid’s school event and make the time up super early the next morning before my family wakes up.

I don’t sleep as much as I should and my closet’s a wreck but if I don’t get that creative time I’m just a miserable person to be around. And family time is not negotiable. I’m not sure that answers the question. There’s an element of smoke and mirrors as well. A lot of time in the car and on the iPhone.

When did you tell Sophie you’d written a book about her and what was her reaction?

People think this is weird and I have to agree, but I didn’t really tell ANYONE about the book until I actually signed a deal with a publisher. I am terribly superstitious (and maybe a little insecure) and at so many points I was unsure it would ever happen. So a few of my writer friends knew and that was it. I told Sophie a few months ago. She was (and continues to be) thrilled. I should hire her to be my publicist.

The first complete draft was due to my editor last fall and on the day it was due Sophie shook me awake, saying, “Your book is due today! Your book is due today!” When I dropped her off that day she instructed me to go print out a copy and leave it at the school office so she could read it. And she was disappointed when it was not available for her winter non-fiction book report project. She is very excited.

Writing memoir means asking hard questions about ourselves and answering those questions with unflinching honesty. You did that here, and the result is an extraordinarily brave and powerful memoir. What did you discover about yourself while writing this book?

I discovered how painfully naïve and uneducated I was before I had Sophie – both emotionally and intellectually. As a child of the 70s and 80s I was sheltered from people who were different from me. I didn’t meet an African American person until college. Growing up, I didn’t know any of my friends were gay.

Sophie was the first person with a developmental disability who I really got to know as a human being. I guess I knew those things before I wrote the book but putting all the pieces together and telling our story really brought it to the surface. I’m not proud of that; I have a lot of lost time to make up for.

On the book cover is a lovely photograph of Sophie. Is there a story behind the photo?

This is embarrassing. I only vaguely recall that photo. We tried several and I was going back and forth with my dear and incredibly talented friend Claire Lawton, who suggested design elements for the cover, and one day she sent a batch that included this image and I said, “Where’d you get that?” And she said, “I found it on the Internet.”

It must have been posted with something I wrote, a blog post maybe, I believe Sophie is 5 or so in the image and I recall the outfit – but not the moment. So yeah, so much for controlling your kid’s image online. Go me.

You have a launch party at Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe on May 1. After that, where can readers find you on your book tour?

Details for upcoming events are at myheartcantevenbelieveit.com in the “events” section. I’ll be at Changing Hands in Phoenix on May 7 for the Mothers Who Write Mother’s Day Weekend reunion and again May 12 for a workshop called “Writing The Memoir in Real Time.” More info about pre-ordering and ticketing is at changinghands.com.