On Feeling Alone

And an invitation to community

Writing together

"This is precisely the time when artists go to work…We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal. I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge — even wisdom. Like art."

-Toni Morrison

Dearest writers,

On election night, I was in fetal position by 8pm. So I turned off my phone, went to bed and read The Square of Sevens (historical fiction), then dreamed that Trump had won, saw him hobbling in the dark towards the White House on crutches.

So I knew before I knew.

Between bouts of crying, I’ve been listening to Linda Ronstadt, Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris’s second Trio album.

Eight years ago, I thought, “Well, I’m an activist. Now’s the time to get active.” And I wrote an album worth of political songs.

This time, I’m not so certain “there are more of us than there are of them” as I then said. Because there clearly weren’t. I feel more how I felt in 1980 when Reagan swept— terrified, in the minority. The way marginalized folx have felt since well before the dawn of this nation. But when I pray for strength, and to be open-hearted whenever possible, I do remember––because it’s true—tyrants always fall.

When I was a child in New York City, I lived in the neighborhood where both of my parents had grown up. My grandparents were a few blocks from our apartment. I walked to school by myself at the age of six. The women on both sides of my family had gone to this school—in fact, my youngest aunt was in 12th grade when I was in kindergarten. Here, I was known and beloved. Every child in my class was my friend. Because I knew no better, I believed all the world was my extended clan.

We moved to a suburb of Washington DC when I was seven, and my world turned upside down. I was a stranger in a strange land, teased for being “different” at my new school. I tried so hard to figure out how to conform—what was it they wanted from me? In New York, I didn’t have to do anything to be loved—I just expressed myself, and I was accepted.

None of my winsome little maneuvers seemed to go over at my new school. I couldn’t crack the code or tap-dance my way out of anything. Finally I just gave up and stopped trying to be anything other than me.

Perhaps that’s why, as an adult, I gravitated to Western Massachusetts. I was primed at an early age to find my “people” again, people who were unafraid to be themselves, or as my friend Dar says, “resigned to bravery.”

Perhaps this is why I lead writing groups. My own muse delights, comes alive when it gets to share space with others whose minds and muses are all tuned to the same frequency. When we write together, all our antennae become increasingly alert, casting about for that shared signal. This synergy I feel when I’m writing with others seems equally present both in person and on Zoom.

All I want at the moment is more time with my people, and to listen to the words that come from this shared space. For this reason, I’m going to open Little Blue and the Writing It Up in the Garden Zoom every Tuesday from now through December 17 for a drop-in writing group, available to all members of my weekly groups as well as paid subscribers to this newsletter from 6-7:30pm. Starting this Tuesday, November 12, we will write together for an hour, and then, from 7-7:30pm there will be a reading by members of the Morning Seeding & Tending and Weekly groups*.

We need to hear each other. We need a safe space to share what is real and true to us.

*To sign up for a reading slot, email me at Nerissand@gmail.com. Readings will be timed at 5 minutes a person, so there will be time for six readers per week. Preference goes to members of Morning Seeding & Tending, since they don’t usually get to hear each other read.

Little Blue after a storm.

It’s November, which means lots of writing here in Little Blue. I’m participating in 30 Poems in November, a fundraiser for Center for New Americans. So far, I’ve written a song called “The Mentalist,” a poem I published on my blog called “Of Course I Prayed for Kamala,” and more pieces I hope to publish in some other outlets. Daily writing is a balm for me, even if the “work” isn’t anything I want to share.

Coming soon! I had the wonderful opportunity to interview novelist Ellen Meeropol the day after the election. Ellen is married to Robert Meeropol, the son of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg who were executed by the government in the 1950s at the height of McCarthyism for being Russian spies. Even though there was plenty of evidence that proved Ethel was not, in fact, a spy, they tried, convicted and killed her anyway, leaving her two young sons orphaned.

There is a petition asking Joe Biden to exonerate her which you can sign here, and I urge you to do so. Now more than ever we need to stand up against witch hunts and lists of all kinds of enemies. We are better than this.

Thank you for reading this far, dear friends. In the words of Colson Whitehead, Be kind to everybody, make art, and fight the power.

Love, Nerissa