Category Archives: Sailing

Real Men Wear Eye Masks

My husband and I don’t see eye-to-eye on our bedtime routine. He’s a light sleeper, early to bed and up at the crack of dawn, while I’m a night-owl who journeys through magazines, web pages and episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians every night in bed.

After twenty years of marriage and conditions like these, you’d think we’d have a Lucy-and-Ricky sleeping arrangement, yet somehow, he puts up with my nightly meanderings and I…well, I sleep so soundly that I don’t even hear him move around in the morning.

Still, he’s gotten the short end of the stick. He’s tolerated my bedside light left on all night, the click-click-click of my keyboard, and the brain-jarring volume of late-night commercials for acne products. How does he cope?

He turns on his side and puts a pillow over his face.

Between the two of us, I’m the one who deserves the smothering, but somehow, he understands my basic needs: a shared bed, a scan of my latest books and gossip rags, a nightly glimpse into Hollywood’s latest train-wreck-to-be and no judging.

He’s a good man, and I try to remind him of this (when I’m not complaining or bitching or stomping) but he knows I’m a good woman, too.  After all, he sails.

He sails a lot.

When we first met in college, I thought his little “obsession” with sailing was as adorable as the Laser II sailboat he so desperately wanted. When he acquired one after graduation, we sailed together every weekend in northwest Illinois on a lake where his paternal grandparents’ had retired.

They’d welcome us every weekend, always asking about our shiny new jobs and our dreams for the future. Then, they’d shoo us out for a day of dinghy races, followed by cocktails at 5 and dinner at 6.

An oil painting hung in their living room. I never paid much attention to it, since I was more interested in his grandfather’s extra-short finger (was it an accident in high school wood shop or a World War II wound he’d never tell us about?) and the hallway rug (which actually hung on the wood paneled wall) depicting a scene of wild horses. I loved my boyfriend’s grandparents, but they just didn’t strike me as horse people.

Many years later, after we’d married, had children and sold the Laser II, the oil painting made its way to our own house. My husband’s grandparents, now my children’s great-grandparents, passed away within three days of one another. My husband asked for only two things from his grandparents’ estate: the oil painting and his grandmother’s old typewriter.

For the first time, I really looked at the painting, which shows two sailboats rafted together in a harbor. Neither boat looks fancy. It’s obvious they’ve endured scuffs and scratches. Yet they fit together. Their colors, though muted, seem to complement one another beautifully.

We hung the painting in the front hallway of our house, an older, dusty Victorian rowhouse near Lake Michigan. The painting was the first real piece of “art” we’d ever owned. The typewriter is on the upstairs hallway table. Everyone who passes it feels a need to touch its keys, which I love.

My husband and I watched in amazement as our schedules grew increasingly crowded with activities like soccer games, school picnics and parent-teacher conferences. Finding the time to sail under these conditions (not even factoring in weather and moods) proved challenging. My husband realized that the only way to address his sailing addiction and keep our marriage intact was to find a boat large enough to allow our family of five to sail together. He found a used Beneteau and researched harbors on the lakefront. Her name was Allegro, which means moderately fast in Italian — perfect for the nervous wife who was skeptical about taking little children on a bigger boat.

We’d drop her into the chilly Calumet River waters in late May, sailing her north to Monroe Harbor where she’d be moored for the season; five months later, from the darkened waves in late October, we’d haul her out for another Windy City winter.

Each and every year, the sailing days between Allegro’s drop-in and haulout warmed my husband’s heart like nothing else on earth. I was stunned to learn I had to compete with a fiberglass hull for his attention, but as most sailing widows know, we simply cannot judge.

My husband once said, and I’ll never forget this, “I’d take horrible weather on a sailboat over a gorgeous day on land any time.” I looked at him like he was crazy, but he couldn’t have been more serious. At that moment, I came to understand and appreciate his needs. He is a sailor.

True, Chicago’s sailing season is as short and intense, but it’s the seven months out of the water that really test my nerve.  The winterized boat’s equipment makes its way into the house — things like sails, cushions, mildewy pillows, pots and pans, first aid equipment and electronics I hadn’t known we owned. My husband makes trips to the boatyard to fix, repair, measure, tinker and refine. He returns somehow restored after every journey to visit her. I’m told by the boatyard owner he refers to me as The Admiral, especially when it comes to his inevitable purchases for his lady. It’s a nod of respect I believe I’ve earned as a sailor’s wife.

When my husband found himself with the chance of a lifetime to buy a younger, faster model — a Beneteau 10R — he found it hard to resist, particularly when the former owner declared his willingness to show my husband how to race to Mackinac Island. Never in my life have I seen such a complicated plan come together in such short order (such is the way of the obsessed). In a matter of months, our boat was sold and the new boat was acquired and outfitted for the race. Crew was secured and trained, provisions were loaded, and the boys (including our teenage son) set sail on a 333 mile voyage to the other side of Lake Michigan. I knew their trip would be memorable, and I was decidedly envious. I drove a chase car with our two younger children to meet the boat at the finish line and kept my fingers crossed.

Their journey was life changing, to say the least. A squall claimed the lives of two sailors during the race. I will never know the fear and worry my husband carried in his heart that night, but when I greeted the sailors as they stepped off the boat, I’ve never seen more tears, relief and humility as I did that day. Every crew member, including my son, has told me how brave my husband was, how safe he made them feel, and what a tremendous sailor he is.

Upon our return home, we unpacked the bags and talked about the race. As a race participant, sponsors provided an array of promotional items like keychains, deodorant…and sleeping masks for crew to use during the 3-day race. We joked that a mask might help him get through my late night channel surfing, then went back to unpacking.

I recently moved the oil painting to a spot above our bed. I thought it fitting, as our schedules and our circadian rhythms often leave us feeling like the proverbial ships passing in the night. I also love the gentle reminder of the grandparents every time I look at it. I think of our carefree days on a crystal lake, getting to know one another before we even knew ourselves.

And now, that eye mask finds its way over my husband’s tired eyes every night. I never requested he wear it, and he makes no bones about doing so. The eye mask, like the race, has been life-changing. He now sleeps soundly through the glow of my laptop and the flicker of the Kardashians’ endless 15 minutes and the bedside light left on all night. No judging. The eye mask is physical proof of his tolerance for my nocturnal energy, not to mention a silky reminder of his first Race to Mackinac.

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Keeping Watch

As your mother, I watch you watch the world.

I want you to see all the good and exciting things you long for every day.  I want to push your spyglass away from any darkness, sadness, or pain.

Your curious nature, however, will always conquer my cautious one.  You will peek when I am unaware, catching sight of things that may confuse and sometimes frighten you.

It’s not that I want you to see the world as easy and perfect.  I remind you of that every day when I correct your behavior, take away one of your privileges or, especially, demonstrate my own faults.

As the youngest sibling, you often look up to so many others without the benefit of being looked up to yourself.  You, like so many younger siblings, will wonder why your mother never made time to put together a baby book.  You might question why others are more important, but they are no more important than you.

I am watching you, and I am proud of what I see.

You’re gentle and empathetic.

You’re sensitive and caring.

You get frustrated when I do not hear you, and you make sure your perspective is known.

You are strong, and I look up to you.

As a baby, you were so tiny and fragile…so ill…so often. You have grown into a boy who is unafraid to do most things.

You are an incredible dancer.

You’re often the first to clear your plate and to say thank you.

You take my hand when you sense I need a human touch.

I look up to you.

You endure two older siblings who rarely show mercy, though they love you through and through.

You always fall asleep within the first three breaths after closing your eyes.

While your small body is still with slumber, I will also rest my own. Yet even in my sleep, I promise to keep watching over you.

What I Say When I’m Asleep

What my daughter sees when I'm asleep.

One of the benefits of having an eleven-year-old daughter with a sense of humor is that she writes down what I say while I’m sleeping.  Here are her notes from last night.  And yes, it’s become sport (for her and the rest of my family) to track and discuss my nocturnal ramblings:

Daughter: Mommy, where’s the bandaids?

Me: Hmmm.  In my purse in my wallet which is in my red and white sailor dress.

Daughter: (Looks for dress, then realizes Mom is “crazy talking” again.)  Mom, you’re crazy talking.

Me: NOO!

Daughter: Mom, yes.  Now where are the bandaids?

Me:  Blue Harbor Monte Carlo.

Daughter: Okay, but where are they?

Me: BLUE HARBOR MONTE CARLO GOMEZ!

Daughter: What?!

Me: That’s where I got them.  Blue Harbor.

Daughter: No, but where do I find one? I need one.

Me: (Sing-song-y tone) Some are in the bushes.  Some are in the trees.

Daughter: Good night, Mom.

Me: Feed the bunny, honey.

Daughter: Mom, you’re scaring me.

Me:  Nightie night.

Trying Not To Cry

I’m sitting in a hotel from a gilded era, The Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan, awaiting my husband and son as they sail the 333 mile Race to Mackinac.  The boys and six other men left two days ago, and I’ve just learned that two members of another boat died in a violent storm last night. I do not believe anyone’s ever died in the Mac before this.  I’m in a state of suspended disbelief.

My husband and I are scheduled to sail to a nearby island for our 20th wedding anniversary, which is in two days from now.  I cannot even let myself think about that journey.  I am entirely focused on my boys’ safe return.  My other two kids are running around the hotel…which is as Grand as promised, and I am fighting tears.  The flag at the top of the hotel has been lowered to half staff.

I am trying my best not to cry, but I am failing.

I received a voicemail from my husband this morning, very brief, letting me know that they dropped their sails in anticipation of the storm and that they’re all fine.  The call was quick and to the point, but it said exactly what we needed to hear.

“Hey, uh, it’s us. I know you called a couple of times, uh, but we were, uh, preoccupied with, uh, incoming storms.  I just wanted to let you know that, uh, it hit, uh, but we got the sails down and we’re fine…but anyway, it’s uh late, um, I’m sure we’ll get a chance to talk at some point tomorrow.  Love you and we’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

Book Tour via Sailboat…Now THAT’s Brilliant

Just stumbled across this article about author Jim Lynch, who’s sailing through Washington State’s San Juan Islands to promote his novel’s paperback release.  His book is titled Border Songs.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704288204575363264266123180.html?mod=googlenews_wsj

Note to self:  If I’m ever lucky enough to get published, schedule local book tours via sailboat May through October ONLY.

P.S.  Fair winds to you, Mr. Lynch.

Anatomy of a Sailboat

It’s snowing and twenty seven degrees.  Snowmen are populating the neighborhood.  One is sporting a Hawaiian lei.

I like the way that snowman’s family thinks.

What better way to get through this winter than to think ahead to another Chicago Summer?  Here’s a quick lesson on the anatomy of a sailboat to put you in the mood.  These photos are of our Tartan 34 Classic sailboat.

The compass.

Looking up at the mast and spreaders. The stays are the cables that keep the mast upright.

The helm (or wheel)

The port (or left) side of the boat. The right side is called the starboard side. The lifelines are what you hold on to while walking forward to the bow or back to the stern. The wooden toerail runs along the edge, under the lifelines.

Maggie and I rest our feet on the lifelines, just above the toerail.

Now we're inside the cabin, on the starboard side. The taller door leads to the hanging locker (or closet). The three drawers are used for storing clothes, towels, blankets, and equipment.

This is the port side salon (or living room area). This couch can transform into a queen-sized bed!

The table in the cabin folds 3 different ways: 1) down like this, 2) opened wider, or 3) folded up and attached to the cabin wall. The head (or bathroom) is behind the wall with the table. The hanging locker is behind the couch (or berth) on the right.

Looking back toward the starboard stern, the galley (or kitchen) is small. The little wooden door above the sink leads to an icebox to store foods that require refrigeration

Looking into the v-berth (or v-bed) at the bow (or front) of the boat. Two people can sleep in here if their toes meet at the tip of the "v"

The head (or bathroom). This isn't a regular toilet. You must pump the contents into a holding tank in the hull every time you use it. Then, you pump out the holding tank at a pump-out dock when the tank is full.

A boat like ours with a fixed lead keel (which keeps it from tipping) needs to be lifted out of the water with a special truck. The truck lifts the boat out of the water and places it on a tall cradle or on jackstands that hold it upright so work can be done.

Here, the boat rests on jackstands inside a storage shed. The mast is off. The boat has just been painted. You can see the keel at the bottom of the hull; it looks like an upside-down shark's fin. You can also see the rudder off the stern. The helm (or wheel) is what moves the rudder, helping to steer the boat.

This is what our boat looked like on the day we bought it. The paint job really made a big difference.

I hope you’ve gotten a little bit of useful information out of this post.  If you want more specs about the Tartan 34C, check out this Tartan 34 Classic site.

The Beauty of Life

 

Nate at sunset, Union Pier, Michigan

 

This morning, I was editing my first blog post, re-reading and agonizing over every word.  Will people think it’s too much?  Does anyone care about what I’m saying?  Is this just another procrastination vehicle?

Then the phone rang.  It was John.

Let me explain.

Back in June 2008, I was searching Amazon.com for a good summer book to read.  Looking for suggested titles, I plugged in the words “sailing” and “medical”, because I find both topics fascinating.  What Amazon offered was a book by John Otterbacher called Sailing Grace (http://www.sailing-grace.com). The book chronicles John’s determination to learn to sail in his 40s after learning his damaged heart will undoubtedly shorten his life.  The book touched me for so many reasons:  here’s a man faced with mortality, deciding not to lay down and stop living.  A family man who’s not afraid to try something new and unnerving later in life.  Someone dedicated to family and optimism.  A human being demonstrating life’s most important messages — loving, living, and enjoying — with humility and self-deprecation.  I loved his messages, and I admired his writing.

I recommended John’s book for a co-ed book group I belonged to:  I figured there’d be something in the book for everyone.  My friend Aleca Sullivan’s mother happened to notice the book at her house, and pointed out that the author was available for book group discussions.  On a whim, I emailed John.  And to my surprise, he emailed back.

On July 23, 2008, John phoned in during our book group.  For over an hour, he shared a bit about his experience, but he also listened to us — really heard our comments, questions, background conversations.  He commented on how obvious it was that our group shared a close and special bond (we’re all connected by our children attending the same elementary school), and that we were lucky to have one another.  The evening became one mutual appreciation:  for the author as well as for the audience.  It was a magical night that many of us will not forget.

I’ve kept in touch with John these past few years.  We visited him at Chicago’s Strictly Sail boat show, and I’ve emailed him occasional questions about his writing or boating life.  He always called back to answer questions (or more often, apologizes for not getting back to me sooner, which is just ridiculous!). This is a man whose heart should have given out over a decade ago, yet he works tirelessly at speaking engagements and promoting his book.  His voice is always kind and happy, and without hesitation, he always mentions how much he struggles to balance work with the family he loves dearly.  He also never fails to ask how things are going on my end.

So back to today:  My telephone rings, and it’s John Otterbacher.  He’s driving to Chicago for this weekend’s Strictly Sail boat show, where he’ll be talking about his book as well as selling his new DVD.  I’m so disappointed I won’t be there to see him, as I’ll be in New York.  He asked all about how my writing process is going and really pumped me up about the message my book will send.  Once again, I found myself choked up talking to him.  He’s got that way about him.  I told John my husband and kids would be at the boat show, and they’d be sure to stop by and see him.  He wished me luck in New York, and reminded me to have some fun while I’m there.  I think I’ll find a little token for him in NYC, something to let him know I remembered his advice.

If you have the chance, pick up John Otterbacher’s book, Sailing Grace, check out his DVD, and be inspired by his messages:  http://www.sailing-grace.com.  You can also see in in person at Chicago’s Strictly Sail Boat show this weekend (http://www.strictlysailchicago.com).  John will be giving a talk called:  What Sailing Taught Me About Living.  He’ll be speaking Thursday @ 4:30, Friday @ 12:45, and Saturday at 10:30 and 3:30.

 

Penobscot Bay, Bangor Maine

 

This Is What I Do

I’m writing my first book.  It’s a middle-grade chapter book for girls.

I started writing one year and ten days ago.  When I started out, I had no idea what I was doing or where my journey would take me.  I just knew I’d always wanted to write a book, so just before I turned 40, I decided I’d dedicate the time and effort to reaching that goal.  I didn’t even know what genre I wanted to tackle.  I just knew I was a busy mom with a crazy dog and a very supportive husband.

 

Jack came from a breeder called THUNDER LABS. Enough said.

 

 

That's me on the left with my sister, Beth, and our mom. She'd just married our stepfather, Bob. He's the greatest.

 

At first, I thought I’d try memoir.  I’d always kept a journal as a child, and I wanted to explore how “full circle” my life had become.  My parents divorced when I was seven; now that I’m a happily married mother of three children, I wanted to write about the differences between my own childhood and theirs.  But, delving into the emotions of my past seemed a heavier task than I was willing to tackle, especially as a new writer.

I told a few friends and acquaintances I was thinking about writing a novel, and everyone said, “You ought to do it!”  I was leaning toward a book for young girls, primarily because I loved the way books captivated my then 8-year-old daughter, Maggie.  We discussed and devoured books constantly, and even dreamed up ideas to someday write our own mother-daughter book.

During the summer of 2008, I ran into a lovely friend I only ever see in South Haven, Michigan.  Her name is Nancy Glazer, and she has three beautiful daughters.  Maggie loves to play with her girls, especially since she doesn’t have any sisters herself.  Standing on the beach while we watched our girls play, she asked if I was still teaching preschool.

 

South Haven, Michigan

 

“No,” I said.  ”I turned 40 this past April, and I promised myself I’d start the novel I’ve always wanted to write this year.  I’d like to write a book for young girls.”  Instead of a comment like, “Good for you,” Nancy suggested I visit the website of a children’s author from her hometown of Deerfield, Illinois.  The author, Brenda Ferber, had just published her first children’s novel to rave reviews.  Her book, Julia’s Kitchen, had won numerous awards and accolades, including the Sydney Taylor Manuscript award.  Nancy suggested I visit Brenda’s website to get an idea of how a first-time author went about the writing process.

As soon as I got back home to Evanston, Illinois, Maggie and I paid a visit to the library.  I was on a mission to find Julia’s Kitchen. I had to see for myself if this “Brenda Ferber” was the real deal.  Mags and I sat down to read our books, and by the third chapter of Julia’s Kitchen, I had tears running down my face.  The writing was powerful (think Judy Blume) and the experience beyond meaningful (Maggie noticed my tears and wanted to know what had moved me so deeply).  My daughter and I sat on a beanbag chair in the Evanston Public Library, reading over each other’s shoulders, laughing and falling silent, simultaneously, over and over again.

When I got home, I checked out Brenda’s website at http://www.brendaferber.com .  Its impressive presentation and helpful tips about writing simply amazed me.  I couldn’t believe how far she was willing to go for the sake of other writers out there.  I literally thought, “Hmm, she’s giving away all her secrets.”  I followed several of the site’s links, and each one led me to a unique writer or group or society.  Still, I always found a common theme:  share and share alike.  Everyone in the children’s book writing/illustrating industry seemed to take this “pass it around” attitude very seriously.  The children’s writing community was a very welcoming place.

From August 2008 until January 2009, I did what many children’s authors suggested doing:  READ, READ, READ.  I read everything I could get my hands on:  all the things my daughter loved, hated, and heard about.  I spent time in the Newberry Award section in several libraries and bookstores, reading with fascination, awe and often envy the books honored by this distinction.  I got to know patterns, styles and page counts in middle-grade chapter books.  I watched children kneel on the floor, holding books open, deeply drawn in by the author’s first pages.  I witnessed the amazing force children’s books have in this fleeting age — and I wanted to learn everything about it.

 

Multi-tasking moms are never given enough credit.

 

Ah, but life was going on all around me.  For those six months, I often felt I was stealing time to “work on my craft,” but the reality of three children, a dog, a busy husband, volunteer projects at schools — and oh yes, a house to keep up — demanded more of my time than my “writing.”  I often found myself frustrated, bitter, or disappointed that I wasn’t WRITING.  I’d been making notes and jotting thoughts everywhere, inspired by so many little stories in my head.  Would I try humor?  A coming of age story?  A mystery?  Friendship struggles?   Everything sounded great and difficult at the same time.  My focus was non-existent, so I just read more.  I’m a slow reader, but I savored every word.  I read From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, Overboard, and every Judy Blume children’s book ever published.  I joined the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators at http://www.scbwi.org (and didn’t even know there was a listserve until months later).  I also read adult novels like Why I’m Like This, Mommies Who Drink, The Road, In an Instant, and The Middle Place, just to stay in touch with my adult interests.

I also devoured writerly magazines like The Sun, Writer’s Digest, Writer’s Journal and The Writer, and writer-type books such as Gotham Writer’s Workshop: Writing Fiction and Writing Children’s Books and This Year You Write Your Novel.  I formed a writers’ group with an amazing writer (and now friend) with whom I don’t deserve to hang with, Jill Schacter (http://www.aheartbreakdiary.blogspot.com).  I lived and breathed writing, and I couldn’t get enough.  I kept the variety alive so I didn’t bore of one activity.  At times I felt I was spinning my wheels a bit, but at least I knew I was getting some “writerly exercise” while doing it.

In December 2008, I submitted an article I’d written about losing the diamond in my engagement ring to the New York Times Modern Love section, hoping against hope I’d be published and on my way.  REJECTED.  I laugh now thinking back.  Did I really believe I’d be published?  How grandiose of me!

On January 15, 2009, I distinctly remember sitting at a table at The Lucky Platter, a fantastic restaurant in Evanston.  I was by myself with all my writing “stuff”:  spiral, piles of notes, many pens, tea, cell phone turned OFF.  I remember feeling overcome by disappointment — how could I have let all this time pass without writing ANYTHING substantive?  I’d told my husband and my friends and my extended family that I was going to write a novel, and here I was, by myself, with nothing but a bunch of scraps and post its and disorganized notes and scribbles.

Then I thought, “Oh for God’s sake, quit feeling sorry for yourself.  You’ve got a wonderful life and a husband whose job allows you to stay home and follow your dream to write…”

And then it hit me.  What if Mike lost his job?  What if we didn’t have all the comforts we’re used to?  What if it all went away?  How would we handle it?  How would we survive?

And then a very simple thought popped up:  How would the heroine of MY NOVEL handle this situation?

And that, in a nutshell, is how I came up with the idea for my book.

I imagined a little girl, a little older than my daughter, whose parents both lose their jobs in this economic recession.  Everything she’s been used to, everything she’s taken for granted, is now gone.

And, I’ve never stopped writing about it since.  It’s been one year and 10 days since that idea hit me, and I’ve thought about, written about, talked about and researched ideas for my novel, tentatively called My Year Afloat.

 

Writing, writing all the time

 

From January 15 to April 8 (my 41st birthday), I wrote non-stop — ideas for storylines, notes for readers’ guides, and diagrams (when words failed me).  I spoke to anyone interested in listening to my plot and conflict and character issues.  I put of all my crazy notes and ideas into a binder, organizing them by subject (ie., foreclosure, materialism, characters’ everyday lives, etc.).

Earlier that Spring, another friend, Kendra Morrill, overheard me say I wanted to write a novel.  One day, while we were picking up our kindergarten sons from school, she told me about a critique group she’d joined.  Steve and Sharon Fiffer’s Wesley Writers’ Workshop was something Kendra thought I’d really like, too.  I knew the workshop was primarily geared toward memoir, but I was desperate to find other dedicated writers and have some sort of STRUCTURE, so I jumped at the chance to join this weekly group at the Fiffer’s gorgeous home.  The books Sharon and Steve have written are numerous and wonderful, including collaborations (Home, Family, and Body, plus 50 Ways to Help Your Community:  A Handbook For Change), as well as their own works. Steve’s include Work Hard, Study…and Keep Out of Politics, Three Quarters, Two Dimes and A Nickel:  A Memoir of Becoming Whole, and Tyrannosaurus Sue; Sharon’s feature the Jane Wheel Mystery Series (Buried Stuff, Dead Guy’s Stuff, Hollywood Stuff, Killer Stuff, Scary Stuff, and The Wrong Stuff) among others.  Check out Sharon’s website:  http://www.sharonfiffer.com/

The first class assignment was to come prepared with a mock review — written by me — of the piece I was working on.  The review had to be positive, and it had to describe what my writing was all about.  The assignment completely focused me.  It forced me to summarize all those little bits and pieces and ideas into a cohesive explanation of what I’m writing.  Here’s what I wrote for that assignment, March 10, 2009:

My Year Afloat — A Mock Review, Written by ME

Christine Wolf’s debut novel, titled My Year Afloat, touches young readers and adults alike, but for very different – and meaningful – reasons.

My Year Afloat chronicles a year in the life of Maeve Winters, a twelve-year-old girl from a Chicago suburb whose family is touched profoundly by the sinking U.S. economy.  When Maeve’s parents BOTH lose their jobs, she and her fourteen-year-old brother are suddenly adrift in ways they never imagined.

The life Maeve once knew, and took for granted, has suddenly vanished.  Activities she used to dread, such as cleaning her room, organizing her various collections, and taking her dog to the park are no longer necessary.  The family is forced to sell their home at a huge loss to prevent foreclosure.

Maeve and her father move onto the family’s sailboat in a Chicago Harbor, while her brother and Mom move in with relatives in Kansas City.   The arrangement is supposed to be for the summer ONLY.  Just until one parent finds a new job.  But will it be in Chicago, or Missouri?

Maeve tries to make the best of her “adventure”, but everything is all wrong.  Her father’s stressed about finding a job, her Mom is hundreds of miles away, and the worst part is, Maeve’s living on a boat with less room than her old bedroom.

Maeve’s efforts as a mother’s helper for her father’s former boss are equally trying.  Working in a penthouse in Chicago’s Lake Point Tower by day, then sleeping on a 400 square foot boat each night, leave her confused and emotionally drained.

Wolf captures the conflicted emotions of a twelve-year-old with moving clarity.  Readers young and old will identify with Maeve’s initial adolescent detachment, then ride the emotional rollercoaster of her taut, upended existence.

So often, children’s feelings are soothed and reassured in the face of unpredictable or dire situations…to the point of being ignored.  Wolf captures the profound feelings one girl experiences when all seems lost.  Her novel creates a strong context in which parents, teachers and families can discuss abstract subjects like change, adaptation, bravery and appreciation. My Life Afloat holds the reader by weaving true-to-life examples of angst, hope and perseverance throughout.  During her year afloat from life as she knew it, Maeve loses her mother, her home, her dog, her friendships, and her equilibrium.  In the process of staying afloat, Maeve discovers strengths she never knew, and the awesome power of humility.

Maeve’s struggle to get back to her old life is at times heartbreaking, as witnessed by letters she writes to her mother (the only other “girl” in the family), her brother (with whom she’s never been close), her father (who’s struggling with depression), and even the President of the United States.  She yearns for normalcy, but discovers that courage can deliver something even better.

Christine Wolf and her husband and three children live in Evanston, Illinois.  Catch Ms. Wolf at her next book reading and signing at the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators next month, as well as at several local mother/daughter book groups in the Chicagoland area.

How’s that for hubris?

I was on such a high after my well-received self-review, that when I shared my first chapter on April 14, 2009 with the group, I went home devastated by the reactions it drew.  No one was mean…in fact, just the opposite:  everyone was so encouraging about the idea I’d presented in March, but they knew my execution just wasn’t right.  To me, the execution had seemed great on paper and in my head, but when I read my first 15 pages aloud that night, it became utterly apparent that I’d written in the wrong voice. The diary entries I’d planned to use throughout the book were stilted and cumbersome.  I gave up writing entirely for one month after that class.  I wondered if I’d even go back to it.

On June 9, 2009, I presented again at the Wesley Writers’ Workshop and found a stronger voice for my heroine:  1st person narrative.  After that class, I brushed myself off and once again started thinking about the novel every day, this time from my narrator’s perspective…taking notes, writing scenes, getting excited.  I found a really cool software program called yWriter (http://www.spacejock.com/yWriter5.html) after reading The Writer. It helped get me excited to set writing goals, keep track of word counts, etc.  I used it for a short time, and decided it wouldn’t be for me long-term.  However, I thought it really was a great, free program.

In early June 2009, I received an email from Nancy Glazer (who hadn’t forgotten I was trying to write a children’s novel). She’d received an email from Brenda Ferber about her updated website.  Nancy forwarded the email to me, and I checked it out.  THIS TIME, I noticed that Brenda was starting a children’s writing class called North Shore Writer’s Studio (http://www.northshorewriters.wordpress.com).  I immediately emailed her to find out if there were any spaces left.  She said, yes, there was one more.  Brenda and her friend, Jenny Meyerhoff (http://www.jennymeyerhoff.com), run the workshop and it’s been beyond any expectations I could have had.  During that first session, six children’s writers (including me) submitted 5 pages of their work to the group before our meeting; we’d all read and comment on the submissions; then at our weekly gathering, we’d read the pieces aloud, and discuss each one in detail.  I’m now on my 3rd session with North Shore Writer’s Studio, and I look forward to each meeting (they’re now every other week).  They motivate me to move my novel forward.  Brenda and Jenny — whose written her own fantastic books for children (Third Grade Baby) and YA (Queen of Secrets, June 2010) — teach, listen, critique, advise and encourage.  I can’t say enough about how far this workshop has brought me.

Throughout the summer of 2009, all three of my kids were home, and I found it very difficult to carve out time for writing.  I was going to 2-3 critique groups a week in June/July.  I’d often find myself going into groups wondering what the priority was:  voice?  perspective?  plot?  arc of story?  character development?  tone?  I knew in my heart the story needed telling, that it was original and it was mine.  But sometimes, I felt like those were the only 3 things I really knew.

 

Nate, Maggie and Henry

 

In one of my classes at the North Shore Writers’ Studio, I asked Brenda Ferber how she writes with her kids around all summer?  Her advice was (and I’m paraphrasing), ” You DON’T write when your kids are around.   But think about it:  At those times, you’re doing something that’s more important than writing.  You’re choosing the right thing to do at those moments.”  How true.  Taking her advice, I tried to enjoy time with my family and keep in mind there was always time for the novel.  Sometimes it was easier than others, particularly when the family was sailing!

 

Sailing Liberty, our 34 foot Tartan Classic, in Chicago

 

September 2009:  My kids went back to school, and I was thrilled and reinvigorated to finish my novel.  I began reading Writing It Right by Sandy Asher.  Phenomenal book about revising.  I attended an agent talk at Chicago’s Story Studio and spent a luxurious day there writing and thinking about my novel.  I went back to Story Studio twice after that for their Write-A-Thon days, which are wonderful, day-long marathon writing sessions filled with comfortable, quiet surroundings and lots of snacks and caffeine and writers.  Very motivating.

Oct/Nov 2009:  I wanted to give up a number of times.  I went to my critique groups but sometimes it felt like too much time was spent critiquing others’ pieces and not enough time spent writing my own.  I’ve learned, however, that critiquing others’ work (and articulating what I like/don’t like) is extremely informative for my own writing process.  All my instructors told me that was the case, but I had to see it for myself.

During this time, I also felt lacking in discipline with my writing.  I’d intended to head into this new school year by writing every day, then every other day, then, as often as possible, then, when it got really bad, enough just to have something to turn in to my weekly writers’ groups.  I was so curious how my instructors found time to write when they, too, seemed to have other things going on, like kids and houses and pets and vacations.  How come they’re all published and I’m not???  I came to learn that they ALL avoid writing in the same way each of us does:  checking email, organizing closets, meeting someone for lunch, checking email some more, eating, checking email…  The key to getting published AND having a life is not giving up on either one. Keep plugging away at both.  Famous last words from a still-as-of-yet unpublished author!

Two things kicked me in the butt and got me moving forward:  1.  I signed up for the November 2009 SCBWI Illinois Prairie Writer’s Day conference, and 2. I registered for the January 2010 SCBWI New York conference.  I have broken the bank and my husband’s probably wondering WHY this novel isn’t finished…but I’m still hanging on.  The November SCBWI conference was the first of its kind I’d ever attended.  I was stunned at how many people like me there are out there. It’s both heartening and defeating (!) to know I’m accompanied by so many others on this journey.  I can ONLY IMAGINE how magnified those feelings will be when I attend the New York Conference later this week.

Which brings me to today.

 

This is my first novel, and its also my first blog.  I’m learning as I go, and I hope you enjoy the ride.

Thanks for reading.  If you’ve made it this far, I thank you.

 

Captured this rainbow after sailing through three separate storms. It was worth the hard work.