Category: writing

friendship, hope, letter, loss, nature, women, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – Owning Pink’s Tribute

Christa Avampato

I usually only publish one hopeful inspiration per day on this blog. Today is special for a lot of reasons, so I’m publishing two.

One month ago today, my apartment building caught fire, and set off a month of changes in my life that I never saw coming. Quite, frankly, none of them were changes I wanted. They were uncomfortable, sad changes that made me question everything in my life. Everything. One month ago today, at this very moment, I ran out of my burning building, fire crackling underneath my kitchen floor. I was standing on the street with nothing but my keys, watching my building burn. I was crying, scared, and alone. And much to my surprise, I emerged from this month, today, a stronger, happier, more confident person than I ever was before.

So it is with such heart-felt thanks I wanted to pay a big Pink tribute to a group of women who are one of the very best parts of my life. Today my lovely friends, Lissa and Joy, over at Owning Pink, an on-line community I belong to, honored me by making one of my recent blog posts, a letter I wrote to October, their mainstage story. I barely know what to say. I had no idea that my little post would inspire such beautiful writing from others women whom I respect and admire so much. I cried when I read the story that Joy and Lissa wrote about my post. I really don’t have any words to tell them how honored and fortunate I feel to have them in my life.

Today I realized with clarity how much good we have to offer by sharing our stories. One of my favorite quotes is by Isak Dinesen: “All sorrows can be borne if you can put them into a story.” I am living proof of this. As the telling of our stories frees us, they also allow others to free themselves through their own writing. The ladies of Owning Pink also made me realize without a doubt that I can make a go-of-it as a full-time writer. It’s a gift that I am not sure how to repay.

Owning Pink is a community I am so fortunate to be a part of. They have gone above and beyond the call for me during the last few weeks of my life that have been so difficult. Their love and support is a gift in my life that I truly cherish and I look forward to being there for them in the months and years ahead. Here’s to a beautiful, enlightened October for all of us!

To view the story on Owning Pink’s website please visit:
http://www.owningpink.com/2009/10/05/mojo-monday-exercise-write-a-letter-to-october/

art, film, free, hope, The Journal of Cultural Conversation, war, women, writing

The Journal of Cultural Conversation – Pray the Devil Back to Hell

Christa Avampato

Exciting news over in TJCC-land! Laura, my brilliant friend and writing partner as well as the mastermind behind The Journal of Cultural Conversation, is working on a front-end re-design for the site that will be up within the week. We’re also working on a re-branding effort as well, though again, Laura must take 99% of the credit here. I’m just lucky to have a role on the virtual stage next to her.

My latest post on TJCC is up today! I was on a brief hiatus as I dealt with some personal issues and am now back, fully present. This one is about the documentary Pray the Devil Back to Hell and it goes something like this:

“There will come a time when you believe that everything is finished. That will be the beginning.” ~ Louis L’Amour

A few weeks ago I attended a screening of Pray the Devil Back to Hell, a documentary that tells the story of the how the women of Liberia ended the civil war that ravaged their country for well over a decade. Donning identical white t-shirts, no weapons, 2500+ women linked arms and made their opinions and demands known, loudly and publicly, week after week, until Charles Taylor and the warlords sat down together.

For my full post about this film, please visit http://www.thejcconline.com/2009/10/pray-devil-back-to-hell.html
exercise, friendship, nature, New York, New York Public Library, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – The Woods Can Wait

Christa Avampato

I woke up at 5:45 on Sunday morning with the feeling that it was Christmas. I could barely sleep I was so excited. My friend and writing partner, Laura, made plans a few weeks ago to head up to Lake Minnewaska today with a group called Adventure Society. I’ve been interested in trying out their trips for over a year and Sunday was the day.

Got a new backpack, some gear at Patagonia, and bought a slew of snacks at Whole Foods. I was a bit surprised at the extensive “to-bring” list that Adventure Society emailed to us. My sister, Weez, and I used to go trekking up to that area regularly when we were kids donning sweatshirts and flip-flops. I grew up very close to Lake Minnewaska, and all we ever brought along was a bag of chips and some water. Maybe when you grow up in the mountains you’re hardier than most others would be in that climate.

The subway was just not working properly so after waiting for 20 minutes, I hopped into a cab and headed to the meeting spot on 59th and 9th. I didn’t want to be late and miss the group – they stated very clearly that “we wait for no one”. Laura was there along with a few others. I wouldn’t call the other people unfriendly, but I certainly wouldn’t say I was excited about being in a van with them for two hours in each direction. Hmmmm….was this a good idea?

About 20 minutes later, we were still at Starbucks. Apparently our trip leader had been mugged late on Saturday night, had the van keys, and couldn’t be located. The substitute trip leader said he was heading down to 39th and 9th to pick up a new van. I felt a little dark cloud making its way over our group.

By 8:30, I started to really questions whether or not this was a good idea. Still at Starbucks, the traffic would be tough now and the trip would be cut short by a significant amount. Being quicker than I am to pick up questionable vibes, Laura had decided 15 minutes ago that this didn’t sound like a good idea at all. So we bid our group farewell, left the Starbucks, and headed up to Central Park on a hike of our own.

We wound our way East and then back West again. We eventually ended up at Sarabeth’s with never-empty cups of coffee, a plate full of pancakes between us to share with our own individual meals to boot. I was overjoyed to not be in that van. Just being with a good friend, talking about our writing, was all I really needed this morning. The trees and grass and squirrels would have been great, though our ability to be flexible and accept to what the world had handed us today gave us just as much happiness.

“We can just go some other time,” I said.

“Yes,” Laura said. “I mean, where are the woods going?” We smiled at each other and chowed down.

We had a whole free day. Laura went home to work on the TJCC site re-design. I went back to my apartment, got out of my multiple layers of hiking clothes, and made my way to the Rose Main Reading Room to be a writer for the day. Sitting in that incredible room, laptop shining, I smiled at having the day to myself to live inside my imagination. (If ever you need to be concentrated and inspired, I highly recommend the Rose Main Reading Room at the New York Public Library on 42nd Street.) My new Patagonia pull-over was supposed to be used for hiking in the mountains and instead I made use for it in the heavily air conditioned library. I was enormously productive. After four hours of straight writing, it’s a safe bet that if you’re looking for me on my free days, there I’ll be, fourth table from the back, glasses on, laptop opened, surrounded by books and papers, typing away.

As I headed home, I grabbed a cupcake from Crumbs, and thought about Robert Frost: The woods are lovely dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles [to write] before I sleep, and miles [to write] before I sleep. “At least for today,” I thought, “the woods will just have to wait.”

The photo above is not my own. It can be found here.

art, free, museum, nature, writer, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – The Life We Receive Without Asking

Christa Avampato

“Our plans are nothing compared to what the world so willingly gives us.” ~ Margaret Wheatley

“Never tell everything at once.” ~ Ken Venturi, American former professional golfer

On Saturday evening, I headed across Central Park toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As I crossed the park, I passed between the southern border of the Great Lawn and Belvedere Castle. It’s one of my favorite little pieces of New York City. There’s some sort of happy air that exists in that little triangle; it’s impossible to resist smiling there. I always feel romance and unending possibility as I traverse that ground. It was late afternoon so the sun was just streaming over Belvedere, the clover and honeysuckle filled the air with a perfume that I wish could be bottled, and there was a soft breeze. For those few moments, everything felt perfect.

On Friday and Saturday nights the Met is open until 9:00pm so I wanted to take advantage of the extended hours. I checked in on my friends Vermeer and Rodin, stopped by to visit the empires of Northern Mesopotamia, and spent some time among the folk artists of Oceania. It’s almost inconceivable how lucky we are to be able to walk among so many priceless pieces of art at a moment’s notice.

At the Met I was on a little bit of a mission. I’ve been working on some children’s fiction over the last few weeks. Every day that I sit with my characters, they tell me something new about themselves. In a way, creating characters is like getting to know a new friend. I uncover little pieces about them over time, just by sitting with them and letting them tell me their story. Every day I’m reminded of Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way, when she says “Art is not about thinking something up. It is the opposite — getting something down.” While I have a general map for the story, the characters themselves are just letting me tag along on their journey. The characters themselves will provide a far richer, more intriguing story than I could ever plan. That’s the great joy and magic of writing.

As I was wondering through the Greek and Roman Galleries, the art of Cyprus, and the rooms full of knights in shining armor, a lot of ideas were drifting in and out of my mind. I dutifully wrote them all down – bits of dialogue and thoughts and twists and turns in the plot. After recording them all, I stopped to wonder if they made sense. And then I realized the characters I’m writing about can actually do anything they want. Writing fiction is a little daunting for this very reason – all of a sudden the possibilities are wide-open. When you’re just getting something down, there are no more limitations. Writing fiction may present our one and only opportunity for complete and total freedom.

While I went through Central Park and to the Met to accomplish something specific, I found something far greater in both places than I had intended. These experiences reminded me that the world has great plans for us, far greater plans that we have for ourselves. And while not having control may at first seem frightening, in many ways it’s as freeing as writing fiction. Unexpected, incredible circumstances, people, places, and opportunities are going to appear in our lives through no effort of our own. All we need to do to receive them is to show up with an open heart, an accepting mind, and the willingness to listen. If we can do this, the magic that is all around us becomes an unlimited and constant presence in our lives.

books, loss, nature, relationships, sadness, writing, yoga

My Year of Hopefulness – Rest and Relaxation

Christa Avampato

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.” ~ Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Though it’s just turned to Fall, I’ve found myself drawn to re-reading one of my favorite essays every night this week – Winter by Nina Zolotow. I first saw it in Rodney Yee’s book Yoga: The Poetry of the Body. I understand this essay now more than I ever have in the 7 years since I first read it. I pull it out in times of trouble, in times when I’m feeling sad and worn out and confused about how to move forward. Her conclusion makes me a feel a little better, gives me a bit more license to give myself a much-needed break. I love that the only period is at the end of the essay, and that all of the other sentences and phrases run together in one long, cohesive thought, just like life.

And now here I am at the final day of September, ready to release this month in favor of a happier, sunnier October. And some much needed rest and relaxation. A tired heart and mind can only be rejuvenated by rest and care, not by further trial and challenge. So that’s my goal for the next little while – a simple one, really. To just take care of this heart who has endured so much this month, to surround it with love, to nurture it back to its original state. It has done some heavy lifting this month and earned some well-deserved down time. Just like the fig tree, it will certainly be revived.

Last night, I listened to Professor Michael Sandel’s lectures at justiceharvard.org. They were just what I needed. He spoke about how to value life and the utilitarian philosophy that seeks to maximize pleasure over pain. I was lulled into a relaxed state as he told me about Sophocles and Plato, J.S. Mill, and Jeremy Bentham. And fell into a deep sleep between my comfy sheets made of bamboo fiber and topped by a fluffy duvet. I buried myself into my new bed, cocooning and nurturing my weary body and mind, and didn’t stir until the sun came up. So this is what it feels like to heal.

Winter by Nina Zolotow
“In their garden there was always a wild profusion of tomatoes ripening on the vine, and leafy basil, arugula, and lettuce, and glossy purple eggplants, and red and yellow peppers, and zucchini with its long, bright blossoms, and there was always lunch at the wooden table on hot summer afternoons, with plates of pasta and bread and olives and salads with herbs, and many bottles of red wine that made you feel warm and drowsy, while bees hummed and the sprawling marjoram, thyme, and rosemary gave off their pungent fragrances, and at the end of the meal, always, inexplicably, there were fresh black figs that they picked themselves from the tree at the garden’s center, an eighteen-foot fig tree, for how was it possible – this was not Tuscany but Ithaca – Ithaca, New York, a rough-hewn landscape of deep rocky gorges and bitter icy winters, and I finally had to ask him – my neighbor – how did that beautiful tree live through the year, how did it endure the harshness of a New York winter and not only survive until spring but continue producing the miraculous fruit, year after year, and he told me that it was quite simple, really, that every fall, after the tree lost all its leaves, he would sever the tree’s roots on one side only and, on the tree’s other side, he would dig a trench, and then he would just lay down that flexible trunk and limbs, lay them down in the earth and gently cover them with soil, and there the fig tree would rest, warm and protected, until spring came, when he could remove its protective covering and stand the tree up once again to greet the sun; and now in this long gray season of darkness and cold and grief (do I have to tell you over what? for isn’t it always the same – the loss of a lover, the death of a child, or the incomprehensible cruelty of one human being to another?), as I gaze out of my window at the empty space where the fig tree will stand again next spring, I think, yes, lay me down like that, lay me down like the fig tree that sleeps in the earth, and let my body rest easily on the ground – my roots connecting me to some warm immutable center – luxuriating in the heart of winter.”

The photo above is not my own. It was taken in Centennial Park in Sydney, Australia by Mike Bogle. I can be found here.

history, home, New York City, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – The History of Where We Live

Christa Avampato

I crunched along on the few fallen leaves on Columbia’s campus walk yesterday and smiled wide. A perfect fall day took me back to being a student in Philadelphia, the tall, impressive buildings lined with names like Sophocles, Vergil, and Plato reminded me of the joy of academia.

Late in the afternoon I was on my way to see Inna Guzenfeld, an archivist at the Avery Architectural and Fine Art Library at Columbia. The papers and drawings of Emery Roth, the architect who designed and lived in my apartment building, are housed there. During the 1920’s Roth was the busiest architect in New York City, and many regard him as one of the founding fathers of the art deco movement. Until I moved into my building two weeks ago, I’d never heard of him and now I think of him and thank him every day.
“No bags, pens, no flash on your camera, touch the plans only on the edges, and we close at 5:00 sharp,” said Inna. She had everything laid out for me in perfect order, and all of the materials exactly as I had asked for him. She is the hallmark of efficiency.
There was an architect there doing research. Maybe in his 40’s, Elvis Costello glasses, lean, and intense. He looked up at me with some interest.
“Are you an architect?”
“No,” I fumbled. “I’m a writer.”
“Why are you interested in that building?”
“I moved into it two weeks ago.”
“Who’s the architect?”
“Emery Roth.”
“You live in an Emery Roth building?”
“Yes.”
“What floor?”
“Top floor.”
“Really?” he said as he quickly removed his glasses. “You know those buildings are stunning. I’ve had the chance to work in a few of them. Are they doing work on your building?” he asked.
“No, it’s actually perfect,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” he continued. “That man was a genius.”
And then I knew I was on to something.
I have been having architecture dreams, dreams where I feel my way along passages in my building, curling around dark corners to find some secret way through to the light. I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night with complete clarity and scribbling down notes as fast as I can before the images fade from my mind. So it was with great excitement that I learned that the actual building plans, made on linen, were preserved just 15 blocks north of my building by Inna and the team at Avery.
The Archives were freezing, a preventative measure to preserve their contents as well as possible. I peeled back the plans one at a time, pouring over dimensions and lines and descriptions of the very walls I wake up in every morning now. Their pungent, historical smell reminded me of the Fischer Fine Arts Library at Penn where I spent many hours studying and reading as a student. To this day, Fischer is still one of my favorite places on Earth. The floor on my side of the building remains exactly as it was then, in 1924. These were the maids’ quarters.
Inna also provided me with the autobiography of Roth, which I quickly devoured, and a book about his work entitled Mansions in the Clouds. Closing time was fast approaching so I was running through the text as fast as I could, continually fascinated that Emery Roth and I share some striking similarities, from the tone of our writing to our family lives as children. His writing style is so relaxed that I felt like he was reading to me, telling me the story of his life. I wondered why an architect committed such personal thoughts and feelings to paper while I also wondered if it was possible to fall in love with someone through his writing, someone I’ve never met who passed on decades before I was even an inkling in my mother’s eye. And then I was reminded of Thomas Jefferson and my affection for him as I read everything he ever committed to paper. Yes, love through writing is possible.
In the final 5 minutes of my time at Avery I found the gems I was looking for. A “Tower Room” was designed for my building, though I have yet to find it. What could someone house in a Tower Room? My mind is reeling with possibilities. Roth lived on the very floor where my current apartment is, on the other side. I found the plans and photographs of it. I believe it’s still in existence, exactly as he had designed it for himself. There are numerous references in his autobiography and in his drawings about his desire to build fire-proof buildings – it was of critical importance to him to protect his work from going up in flames. Chills ran down my spine.
What’s more, the building where I live provided the pinnacle of happiness for his wife. He designed the penthouse specifically for her. It was the living space she dreamed of, and then a sad set of circumstances set in for her in that very space, and she was never quite the same. The writer in me has been working overtime since leaving Avery. The fact that there were so many photos and that Roth wrote personally about the space in my building where he lived left me with a feeling that there is a story here that can and should be spun out and told.
As I packed up, Inna asked “did you find everything you needed?” “Absolutely,” I said, “thank you.” The architect next to me looked up and smiled. I suppose my giddiness at my findings showed, and he understood them well. The places we live house special meaning. They aren’t just a collection of walls and doors, but they contain intense, personal moments that define our lives. This new space is a new chapter for me, in my life and in my writing.
The image above is not my own. It depicts the lobby of Devonshire House, a building in Greenwich Village of New York City, that was design by Emery Roth in 1928.
adventure, apple, New York City, technology, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – Programming and the Mind

Christa Avampato

I seem to be receiving a “critical update” from Apple everyday on software that’s installed on my computer. I’m not really sure what any of the fixes are or why I need them, but I trust Apple. If they say I need them, then I assume that I do. So I click the little button that says “install now” or something to that effect. I go about my business while Apple magically repairs all of my software problems in the background. I’m an efficiency junkie so I’m a big fan of parallel-pathing.

Writing works a lot like those critical updates from Apple. Friends, family, and co-workers always ask me, “when do you find the time to do all of this writing?” Truthfully, I’m always writing. Sorry – this is my confession. My writing mind is always working in the background while I go about the rest of my life. When I’m having dinner with friends, at movies, at CVS buying shampoo, at work, I’m writing, tucking away little bits and pieces to use later. I’m one of those hopelessly nerdy people who always has a pen and piece of paper in my bag. Even when I’m heading to a big night out. You just never know when something interesting will happen. And I can’t be held responsible for keeping it all stuffed in my brain. I need that pen and paper.

I also purposely try to put myself in interesting situations. I seek out new people, go to lectures, book readings, and art exhibitions all the time. It’s one reason I am so in love with New York, and fall more in love with it everyday – there’s always something new to see, do, and try. New York and I have had a long and sordid history together. 11 years running. At times, we’ve been blissfully happy to be with one another and at other times, we’ve each gone running for the hills. But we always somehow end up back together, New York and I. This is my third time moving here, and I imagine you’ll find me here for a very long time to come. There’s just too much going on here for me to be away for that long. My writing lives and breathes here.

I’ve been wondering how Apple knows what to fix and how to fix it in these updates. My only idea is that it goes out into the world and takes stock of the latest software landscape to make needed improvements. I do the same thing in my writing. In the past year, I’ve been sending myself out on little writing adventures in New York. Odd-ball museums, sitting in a crowded area and eaves-dropping, going to parts of town I never frequent without a map and getting as lost as possible. On Saturday, I’ll be heading to the Demolition Depot on 125th Street. It contains 4 floors and a garden full of architecture pieces from every conceivable period. When buildings are dismantled all over New York City, most of the pieces end up at the Demolition Depot.

Can you imagine what crazy things that place stores? While I’m sure there’s a fair amount of mundane items like antique faucets, I’m equally sure that there are valuable items that will inspire my writing. A fireplace that I’ll imagine someone sitting before, a gargoyle who faithfully watched over a busy street for many years, a mirror where a young girl watched herself become a woman. You see – inspiration is everywhere; you just need to keep looking, especially in unlikely places.

My fingers are getting itchy. Just writing about writing is giving me some ideas. This writing mind of mine is working in the background and it’s almost time for me to reboot to see all of the changes that have occurred in the past few minutes. In the time it’s taken me to write this post, some more dots have connected, and I have to make sure to get this all down before it’s hopelessly lost in the abyss. I’d like to think I’m a recovering multi-tasker, though as with most addictions, I guess I’ll always be in a constant state of recovery, never quite cured of my desire to do multiple things at once. Thank goodness for background processing!

art, books, children, family, friendship, values, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – Value we can’t see

Christa Avampato

A week ago, I found myself in Barnes & Noble nosing around in the children’s fiction department. In order to begin working on the scripts for my education program, I wanted to get a feel for a 6th grader’s vocabulary, sentence structure, and plot complexity. I was wandering around the store feeling underwhelmed. Where were all of the good children’s books?


And then just as I was leaving a small set of books caught my eye. Published by Scholastic, Blue Balliett wrote a set of kids mystery books that involve several main characters that carry over in the series. I picked up The Wright 3, a book about three 6th grade friends who find themselves in a race to save the Robie House, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Chicago masterpiece, from demolition. I found it oddly comforting over this last week because of several key messages it offers in a very forthright fashion – just the way that kids do.


1.) “Don’t give up. In darkness, much work can be accomplished.” I think about how much darkness was in that stairwell of my old apartment building during the fire. So much raced through my mind as I scrambled down the stairs – from “stop drop and roll” to things I never got a chance to say people whom I care about to “I will get out of this building unharmed”. In darkness, we develop a keen sense of sight and insight for things that we cannot see in broad daylight.


2.) “Sometimes when you lose something, you end up getting something else. Only you can’t know about the second thing until you’ve lost the first…losing is sometimes gaining.” It’s human nature to lament a loss of any kind whether it’s our home, our belongings, our jobs, a relationship. What’s so often under-appreciated is that losing something makes room for something new, and often better than what we had before, and it gives us a new appreciation for the things and people we do have in our lives. It takes a while to see that trade-off as a good one. In the past I have hung on to a sense of loss for far too long. I am trying to change that.


3.) “It’s sometimes hard to tell the line between real and unreal.” This world and the energies it contains work in mysterious ways. Magic and things that cannot be explained are constantly at work. Our life is full of coincidences. People appear in our lives, then disappear, then reappear again. An opportunity comes around, we may pass on it, and then it comes around again for a second and third chance. This world always has something to teach us.


4.) “Sometimes little things can appear big, and big things little.” This idea is especially powerful for me this week. I used to think I needed so many things. My apartment was filled with things I loved, things I could not imagine living without. In the end very little of it mattered. Actually, none of it really matters too much. My health and the people I love are really the only things that matter to me now.


5.) “What you notice first isn’t always what you’re looking for.” This is my favorite idea from The Wright 3. We’re so quick to judge, categorize and title a person, place, or thing. And sometimes the value we connote to an item or a person isn’t permanent. Some things and people become more valuable to us with time, and it can be a long, slow process to figure out just what the right value should be. We owe it to ourselves to give things and people a chance to prove their worth. The reality of a situation is not always what it initially presents itself to be.

community service, Darden, dreams, education, writing, yoga

My year of Hopefulness – It’s More than Just Business

Christa Avampato

I got my MBA from the Darden School at the University of Virginia. When I began there, I thought I was going to learn about Finance and Accounting and Strategy. I thought I was going there to increase my business acumen and break out of the hum drum of middle management. I did all those things, though that wasn’t the important stuff of an MBA, not by a long shot.

This morning on the subway, I worked my way through the rest of this month’s issue of Yoga Journal. There is a beautiful article about the use of yoga in prisons that helps to rehabilitate and treat young offenders. Yoga asks us to scan our bodies, to delve deep into who we are and how we want the world to be. It empowers us. It calms us down by giving us a sense of “otherness” – the ability to view our lives from an objective third party perspective.

In yoga, we find the gratitude to appreciate the good around us, the fortitude to survive challenging times with grace, and the confidence to recognize that “if it is to be, it’s up to me.” This is exactly the message we all need to hear, and a particularly profound way of thinking for young offenders. No one is beyond forgiveness or change. It is never too late. Young offenders need to know this.

The article goes on to talk about nonprofits who are providing yoga classes in prisons, one of them being Mind Body Awareness (MBA) Project. The name gave me pause. I always associate the combination of the letters MBA with “Masters of Business Administration”. Reading this article and recognizing MBA Project’s mission and value gave me a whole new way of thinking about these letters, and my Darden degree.

Much more than analytical skills, contacts, and opportunity, my MBA and Darden offered me a mind body awareness connection as well. It’s where I first taught full yoga classes on a regular basis. It’s where I realized that I could be anything and do anything I wanted. It’s where I realized how connected all of life’s moments are. It’s where I gained a true appreciation for my own personal history, the histories of others, and how they intertwine so beautifully. At Darden, I first became a published writer. I started my blogging there, as well as my interest in social media. I learned that every day we have an opportunity for a fresh start, to learn something new, to be happy, healthy, and grateful. At Darden, I found the seed of what I wanted my life to be in every facet, and I’ve been nurturing it daily ever since.

books, friendship, The Journal of Cultural Conversation, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – Success in Writing

Christa Avampato

“To appreciate beauty; to give of one’s self, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived — that is to have succeeded.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Last week I sent an email off to a nonfiction writer whose work I greatly admire. She writes the histories of people who defied odds to create something truly remarkable in the world. I wanted to interview her for The Journal of Cultural Conversation. I was delighted when she emailed me immediately to say she’d love to be featured. I fired off a set of questions to her and waited for her response.

As I read her answers, I found myself nodding my head in full agreement with everything she said. Until I got to the final question: “What advice do you have for aspiring writers?” Her response: “Honestly, we’re in such a difficult time for non-fiction writers because the Internet has blown up the longtime economic models, I’m not sure how newcomers are supposed to make a living. I started off in newspapers and then briefly free-lanced for magazines. What newspapers are hiring today and what’s the future of magazines? The on-line sites pay nothing or tiny amounts. Ebooks may well undermine the publishing model that makes sizable advances possible. So, I truly don’t know how young writers will develop paying careers. And I find that sad.” Ouch.

I sat back at my desk and let out a long, slow sigh. I can’t possibly publish that answer with the interview. And then I considered why I was so resistant to that answer. After all, this writer sent me this very honest answer, and I always want honesty from people I interview. I don’t want candy-coated metaphors. Tell me what you think and how you feel. She did, and now I’m upset. Not exactly fair of me, is it?

Let’s consider this from her point of view – she’s a very established writer. She’d put out tomes that are the definitive works of the people she’s written about. She’s in the industry of publishing and she’s frustrated by the changes she sees occurring. We’re all entitled to feel frustrated from time to time. Maybe she was in a bad mood when she got my email. Maybe she was hungry – I get cranky when I’m hungry, too.

In this conversation with myself, I had to ask the question, “why am I doing this? All this writing? What am I trying to do here?” Recently a friend of mine questioned my motive about my writing. Out of concern, the friend thinks I might be wasting my time with all this work. At first this comment really hurt me, particularly because I have always been so encouraging of this friend. With this question before me, an answer quickly and easily surfaced, much to my surprise.

I’m not trying to make a living as a writer. I make a good living as a product developer, and I enjoy that work immensely. But it’s not my life. Writing is helping me build a life I’m happy with and proud of. It’s helping me to connect with interesting, passionate, inspiring people. I learn so much through these connections. And most of all, my writing is helping others. I get emails, texts, phone calls, and online comments on a variety of sources about how much my posts have helped them. It’s humbling. With writing, I’m doing some good in the world, and that’s all I’m really after.

The author I interviewed may be absolutely right – perhaps the publishing / writing paradigm has shifted forever due to technological advances. Maybe a career like hers, the way that she built it, just isn’t going to be possible going forward. And that’s just fine with me. Change arrives on our doorstep every moment, and there’s no way to shut it out. We can’t stop the world from transforming. What we can do, and what I try to do everyday, is show up in the world, tell my stories with honesty and grace, with the hope that some of them resonate with another soul. That’s really all I ever need in this life – to reach out, connect, and feel like I’m part of the global conversation.