I gave in.

I struggled against the tides and tried to write, tried to resume the life I had, while juggling the mothering of a newborn. I hired a nanny. The nanny didn’t work out. I fired the nanny. I was left by myself, which was kind of better than having a nanny-that-wasn’t-working-out.

I was trying to write. Trying to compartmentalize the fact that I was now a mother. Ignoring it, in order to write, and resume my former identity. Struggling to make elaborate meals (never happened), when slapping some cream cheese on a bagel (un-toasted) was the best I could do. Maybe this is what people mean when they say “trying to have it all.”

It was like swimming upstream. And in the end, I hadn’t made much progress. I didn’t get any further upstream. I think I ended up downstream anyway. Didn’t get any writing done. Didn’t get any reading done. For all the sacrifice–for all my exertion and for all the time I didn’t spend connecting with my daughter, I was left unfulfilled and exhausted. So I decided to go with the flow. Follow the water. Let my life lead me.

Frankly speaking, I was too exhausted to do otherwise. I was beaten into submission. I looked at my daughter and whispered, “P, you got me beat. We’re just going to do it your way.”

This resulted in many many days in which I sat in bed with my kid, napping when she did, alternating between feeding, diapering, burping, pumping, and then napping with her when I could. Some days, that is pretty much what I did all damn day. All day. All night. Just that. Maybe get up and load the dishwasher full of bottles or do a load of laundry. Watch a TV show. But pretty much, just that. Especially when my husband was out of town on business trips.

(And why am I writing this in past tense? Because this is what I’m doing everyday, even now). My biggest thing last week was ordering a rice cooker online, because I was so desperate for hot food and I couldn’t track a stove with a baby. And deal with being chastised for clogging up the holes in the burners with boiled-over-rice-paste-water. I was So Excited about this rice cooker. I tracked its progression on UPS, salivating as it neared. I tweeted about The New Rice Cooker. One of my best friends emailed me, worried about what he perceived was increasing desperation. No, I told him, I’m okay. Just Really Excited about a Rice Cooker, because you see–my life has condensed down to a rice cooker. I’m not unhappy! I told him. Just! A little! Crazy! About a rice! Cooker! Hot! Food! Ohdear, I told him. I may be a little crazy.

I did worry about my writing. About returning to my novel revision. I dreamt about making a meal from scratch. And I fretted about who I’d become–just some clichéd stay-at-home-mom with unwashed hair, making no contributions to society, obsessing about breast milk. But that’s kind of like letting the river carry you and straining your neck to look at the river bank from which you originated. So I forced myself to just be, again. I stared at my baby. I smiled at her. I had conversations comprised of back and forth cooing (what was I saying? I had no idea, but my baby seemed pleased). I gave in. I forgot what day of the week it was.

I haven’t given up. I’ve given in. I acknowledge the different journey, the new journey, under my body. I acknowledge that I have no map for this new place. And I basically say, “Fuck it.” I am going to give up control and just explore without agenda and without an end.

Good things happen when I say, “Fuck it.” Excellent things happen, actually. But I’ve never done it simultaneously with giving in.

Giving in made things a lot more peaceful; to just be with my kid, make my mind a blank slate, and see what would happen. In short, go with the ease. Nothing kind of happened. Everything kind of happened. My life became little milestones comprised of minutiae–feedings, diapers, burps, naps. Picking out her outfits. Shopping online. Looking out the windows. Putting the baby in the sling and getting the mail. Maybe walking up and down my block. And yet these little things are kind of huge.

And–little surprises from the outside world are coming to me. An email from a former student, thanking me for inspiring her. (Which of course in turn, inspired me). And my writing community came to me, threw me opportunities. My friends sending me galleys of their new books (holding a book in my hands makes me feel human again). The world had not forgotten me. I should not forget me. I was able to sequester a little bit of energy. I started to read in snippets. I wrote this blog post while the baby napped (and she woke up right as I finished writing this post, as if this post were meant to be).

It’s my time in a chrysalis. As a writer. As a human being.

Making the most of my time in the chrysalis. By giving into it.

VONA has been the best thing I’ve ever done for myself as a writer, for my writing, as a writer of color. I’ve honed my craft and my voice at VONA. I’ve met the best and most encouraging and genius mentors (Junot Díaz, Mat Johnson, Chris Abani, etc., all of whom have been formative to my work) at VONA.

I’ve found a community at VONA that stands with me everyday as a human and a writer.

If you believe in me as a writer, you believe in VONA

For five out of the past seven years, I have attended VONA workshops. I have attended when I felt tentative, and when I felt strong. It was the place to which I returned when 18 months after my stroke, I felt able to write fiction again, and wanted a safe place in which to revisit my writing. It is my writing touchstone, and I want it to continue to exist and grow as a touchstone for other writers of color.

I’ve finished a novel manuscript over the course of my time with VONA. I’ve published stories and essays over the course of my time with VONA. I nailed down my voice as a writer over the course of my time with VONA. I owe so much.

And this is not to say you owe; maybe you do, as a reader of works by writers of color or as a VONA alum (many of whom have moved onto great critical success and whose works have landed on such things like the NY Times Notable 100 Books lists). But even if you do not fall into these categories, I ask you to INVEST.

There is a fundraiser under way to keep the program and workshops robust–and to that end, to bring in more voices from the unknown places and diversify literature. I owe so much to VONA as a writer, and that is why I gave the healthiest donation I could muster this year. And I’m asking my friends with love for literature and the arts, writers and readers, to do the same.

We are constantly asked to give money these days, especially since funding has been cut from so many programs–but if you’re considering a monetary donation to one arts group, I ask that this be it. Your money will go directly to the program and to the writers they support.

Please give. You can either make a donation to VONA or buy tickets to the fundraiser, held at Uptown Body & Fender on Sunday June 30, 2013. The VIP reception, at which you can meet with Distinguished Writers) is from 3:00-4:30pm, and the main event (food, readings, auctions), is from 4:30-6:00pm.

It’s a beautiful day to be a golem in NYC.

Lately, any writing I do is comprised of texting on twitter, in bursts of 140 characters, about all I can handle in terms of writing output. So if you want updates from me, follow @czilka on twitter.

It now  feels weird to write in paragraphs. I felt anxiety  after the first sentence (which incidentally was 140 characters long–has it become reflex now?) of this blog post–what to write next? This sure feels really long. Oh now it feels awkward. Huh.

This is all to say, “I haven’t blogged in awhile.”

Because I haven’t blogged in awhile–thought I’d do a “quick blog post” as an update.*

It’s interesting to note that in the past few months, my relationship with time has completely and utterly changed. As have my relationship with my body and the concept of achievement. My day is comprised of repetitive tasks like feeding, burping, and diapering my daughter. And pumping breast milk. And putting my kid to sleep. Only to look up and discover that two hours have gone by. And that in an hour, I’ll be feeding, burping, and diapering my daughter again. Time is no longer measured in larger units or through the lens of a longterm project like novel revision. My body is a food factory. And achievements are things like watching my kid discover consonant sounds and watching her grab her foot for the first time. Not a big deal in the literal sense, but I’ve learned that achievement is about perception. It’s a big deal to my kid, so it’s a big deal to me. And you should see my kid smile and laugh when you stand her up. It’s a Huge Deal.

Plus honestly, if I were to measure achievements in the literal sense, I’d be so depressed, because I’d have nothing to show for all this work.

So, my life has shrunk down to these moments, or these strings of moments. After I had my stroke, I lost my short-term memory, so my life shrunk down to only the present tense. There was immense insight gained from that period. And it ended up bolstering my writing. I’m hoping for the same, here.

It’s only in recent days that I’ve really truly fallen in love with my kid, and clung to her with an obsession resembling the biggest teenage crush ever (you know, the kind where you follow the object of your affection around school, try to arrange your class schedule around theirs, drive by their house at random times…). So glad the tides have turned, because doing all this work out of responsibility and duty and obligation is soul sucking–doing it out of love feels way better. It’s hard for me to let her go, now.

So I’m just coasting in the moment. I tried fighting all of this–I tried sacrificing my naps to write and I grieved my previous identity, and ended up miserable and very exhausted. So I’m going with it, learning things as I go. Especially since this is a journey I’ve wanted for some time.

*I started writing this blog post 12 days ago. I almost gave up on finishing this blog post. But decided to forge ahead, anyway. Because then I’d never get a blog post up, ever.

Read/Reading:
NOTHING! Okay, a chapter of Nova Ren Suma’s 17 & GONE. A bunch of baby books. (baby sign language, the Baby Book by Dr. Sears, wonder weeks, blah blah blah). There is a pile of neglected New Yorkers giving me the side eye. If I’m lucky, Vogue magazine while sitting on the can, but really, I don’t even have time to sit on the can when there is a baby that might start wailing any second for attention or because her binky has fallen out of her mouth and she can’t pick it up because her arms don’t go where she wants them to go just yet and oh my G*d someone put the binky in her mouth right the f*ck now! Yah.

Wrote/Writing:
NOTHING!
Okay. Tweets.

And I’ve given myself permission to not have to write anything fiction until Fall. Just to be gentle on myself. I’ve got essay ideas swimming in my head, but no energy to write them down.

In any case, I won’t be writing until I can read fiction again.

Viewed:
Thank goodness for the fact that there remains the gift of observation.

• My baby laughing. Cooing.
• Django Unchained. Watched in small increments of time, but still.
• Mad Men
• Cherry blossom petals blowing in the wind. About as beautiful as all the cherry blossoms throughout NYC and at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. I’m lucky that I get to experience Spring all over again in NYC, a couple months after Spring commenced in Berkeley.
• Lots of bottles of breast milk.

Memorable eats/Culinary outings:

• McDonald’s.
• Wendy’s.
• Discovering food delivery services like Three Stone Hearth, Good Eggs, and Shira’s Kitchen in Berkeley.
• Our first dinner out with baby at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant–speed-eating so we could get the baby home.
• Leaving the baby with a favorite doula and going to EMP!

Cooked:

• Okay. I boil pasta. It makes me sad. I am such a cook. It is one of my decompression activities. Once, during my 3rd week postpartum, while someone took care of my baby, I baked a coffee cake. Because I was desperate to cook. That is about it.
• Thawing all the things I cooked, pre-baby, from the freezer.
• Okay. I just remembered: I cooked Passover Seder dinner. I made chicken matzo ball soup, brisket, stuffed cabbage rolls, chicken liver salad. And then I slept for days afterward.

Happenings:

I GAVE BIRTH.

Never happened:

Sleep.

The new Spring 2013 issue of Kartika Review is live! As the Fiction Editor, I’m particularly proud of the pieces by Wah-Ming Chang, Kaitlin Solimine, Anu Kandikuppa, and Sharon Hashimoto–though I’d like to also give a wink to my friend Jackson Bliss whose work is featured in the Creative Nonfiction section. And don’t miss our interview with the amazing Monique Truong.

It took me thirteen years to get pregnant. I don’t talk a lot about my infertility, because somewhere during those thirteen years, I decided to not let it define me or my life. I didn’t want to sit around at home pining for a child while allowing other opportunities to slip away. And I certainly didn’t want to be seen that way by the world; I didn’t want to be known for what I did not have–I wanted to be known for what I could do and what I’d done.

I mean, there were plenty of days in there where I would draw the curtains in my bedroom, crawl into my bed, and cry for hours on end, grieving a life I didn’t have. I would be very happy for my pregnant friends, but found baby showers unbearable, so I stopped going. And I’d be very happy for my pregnant friends, but simultaneously found their round pregnant bellies torturous. But for the most part, I kept my grief very private, for better and for worse, to the point where some people were very surprised to learn I wanted children.

We bought our home in Berkeley with the intention of having children, many children. Over the years, the extra bedrooms became guest rooms and and an office. Still, the aura of empty bedrooms never escaped me.

In some fit of optimism, I decided early on that the first child I’d hold in my arms was going to be my own, so for many many years I politely declined holding people’s babies. Eventually, I wondered if I should go ahead and hold a baby, because maybe I’d never get to hold my own. But by then, very few people offered up their babies to me. And the significance of the act had become quite large–whose baby? And what would that act signify? Would that mean I’d totally given up? And uh, yah. Awkward.

Yah, it got complicated.

At one point, I picked up my head and made a concerted effort to “do what people with kids cannot do.” That meant that when we were asked to move to New York City, we immediately (okay not immediately, but twenty-four hours later) said yes, we would. (Plus hello? New York!) We picked up and moved within two months, wending our way across the country (through a blizzard in Arizona!) in a MINI Cooper with two geriatric wiener dogs in the back. We lived a bicoastal life. We flew back and forth. These were things that people with kids could not do.

And then–we got pregnant.

I wrote a little essay late in my pregnancy on my infertility and its intersection with yoga for my friend and yoga instructor, Tara Stiles. I met her completely by chance at her yoga studio Strala Yoga. Yoga with Tara changed my life. Tara read this essay at a conference on infertility (Fertility Planit) at which she was a keynote speaker.

If you want to hear it, Tara’s presentation is up at MindBodyGreen; she begins reading my essay at the 24:30 mark.

And here is my essay if you would prefer to read it:

I’ve lived in Berkeley since 1991, when I was an undergrad at UC Berkeley–this is a land with no lack of incense, tie-dyed tshirts, and yoga studios. But I didn’t find yoga here; I found yoga while living in New York City twenty years later when a friend of mine and I in the most timid of manners, stepped into a RELAX class at Strala.

We just wanted to get moving. We were both writers who sat at desks all day. We would never describe ourselves as athletic or coordinated. We both hated exercise classes; I disliked them because I felt so self-conscious in a classroom setting, where my place in the spectrum (worst in class) would be so marked. But we thought it would be good to get more flexible. We picked the studio because in all frankness, it was conveniently located. In sum, we had no expectations.

But there we were, with a yoga instructor in Tara Stiles who would occasionally giggle to herself. And bring laughter into the room. So that I began to equate yoga with delight. Who welcomed us as if into her own home. Who didn’t make me feel like a failure because I struggled to hold Downward Dog those first weeks. It was okay. I went back the next week. And then the next. I upped my visits to two times a week, sometimes three over the next year.

What happened over the next year and a half at Strala Yoga was life-changing.

But in order to tell you what changed, I feel like I should tell you a little about my relationship with my body: I have had a painful relationship with my body–in fact, I wanted to divorce myself from my body. It had let me down in so many ways, I’d assumed it would always disappoint me with all manner of pain. I was not nice to my body, either–I starved it, I purged it, and I hurt myself in retaliation and in pursuit of control throughout my teenage years.

In my late 20s, I was diagnosed with PCOS, which unabbreviated is Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. It was undiagnosed until a few years after my husband and I tried to conceive. When I saw my ovaries on the ultrasound, my first reaction was, “They look like a pomegranate cross section!” They were filled with dozens of unpopped eggs, cysts if you will. I cried when I found out–not because of grief, but because of relief, because I had found a name for what was wrong with my body. That I’d been chubby and sluggish and moody not out of lack of discipline, but because of a hormonal imbalance. That the root cause had been there all that time. I cried because I was angry that I’d gone undiagnosed all those years, and because the side effects of PCOS (easy weight gain, difficult weight loss) could have been mitigated. I had engaged in needless war with my body, and with myself.

And so I had renewed hope. I exercised. I ran. But you see, when I worked out, I was like a fainting goat. I’d still run and want to pass out. Any strenuous weight lifting (it wasn’t that I couldn’t lift heavy stuff–I’d put my mind into it, and push through the pain), and I’d go home with a migraine. I did stadium stairs and I’d vomit fourteen times in an hour session. My personal trainer high fived me for pushing through the pain each time.

I love backpacking. I’ve backpacked the Lost Coast, and I’ve backpacked throughout the Sierra Nevadas at altitude. My friends and I got used to the fact that I got altitude sickness before everyone else, and that I’d just puke up the mountain.

And then I had a stroke in December 2006 at the age of 33 due to a PFO, which is a Patent Foramen Ovale, a hole in the center of my heart; as a fetus, we breathe through our mother’s blood, and so we have no use for our lungs. The blood flows from one side of the heart to the other, skipping our lungs, through a hole in the central wall. When we start breathing air, that hole is supposed to close and route blood to our lungs, but in about 20% of us, it remains open to varying degrees. A small percentage of us have migraines due to that hole, and an even smaller percentage can have a stroke. On December 31, 2006, I threw a clot into my brain and had a left thalamic stroke, one that left me with a fifteen minute short term memory.

Doctors closed the hole in my heart a few months later. I was restricted from exercising until I healed. I was Dory the Fish in Finding Nemo. I couldn’t read anything other than People Magazine for months. I couldn’t read a novel for a year. I couldn’t write fiction for nearly two years.

And when my heart was ready a year later, I began running again, in earnest. I could run. I could breathe. I couldn’t believe the freedom.

There was still a lot of healing left to do–doctors are amazing, but after my stroke, I learned that medicine can only go so far; that last mile is a lonely road that doctors often do not take alongside you. My neurologist told me as his parting words, “You’ve come a long way. You’re lucky to be alive. But this is as far as I can take you.” He was a wonderful neurologist who said this with the greatest of empathy. But it was the truth. This was as far as *he* could take me. The rest was up to me. And I pushed forward. I wrote everyday, hoping to regain my ability to write. And I did.

But you see, it wasn’t until Strala and Tara that I finished healing, when everything came together, my mind my body, that last mile. My relationship between my mind and body. That I realized there shouldn’t be pain in wellness. There should be ease. That this new ability to breathe could connect my mind with my body. That every breath could heal.

I spent a year not running. I thought, “What if I just do yoga? What if I really just enjoy myself and my body? What if I slow down?”

To reiterate, there was still a lot of healing left to do, stuff I didn’t even expect to have healed–my husband and I were still struggling to have a child. I’d taken progesterone, taken fertility medications, lost weight, taken metformin therapy. It had been a thirteen-year-long road, one not without its share of “let’s give up for awhile,” and “let’s try this or that again,” and “I guess our life would be fine if we didn’t have a kid”-conversations. I was approaching forty, and the door was closing.

In the meantime, I was going to Strala. In the beginning, I trembled during Warrior two, but I’d take a deep breath, think of water, think my body was floating in water, and take a deep breath, exhale, transition to reverse Warrior two, breathe, exhale, back to Warrior two, forward to Triangle. Breathe. Easy. Slow. Breathe. Tara Stiles’ voice was in my head. Ease. Easy. Breathe. Slow.

I was going to Strala. Mostly RELAX but some STRONG. For me, yoga wasn’t about doing inversions or balancing on one arm. It was about ninety minutes with myself.

I was going to Strala. I did crow. I couldn’t believe that when the time came, I could balance my body with my shins on my arms. It took a breath, not force, to do so.

I was going to Strala. Where people like Michael Taylor say things like, “Move like you like yourself.” I had begun to like myself. The war with my body had finally ceased.

I was going to Strala. Where change was happening every single minute. Without pain. Without struggle.

A work acquaintance of mine once told me, “Christine if it were easy to be fit, everyone would be fit. Working out is supposed to be hard and painful.” At the time I nodded. But today, I’d shake my head. It doesn’t have to be that way.

I happened to drop fifteen more pounds over the course of my year at Strala. When I wasn’t in NYC and I was in Berkeley, I popped in Tara Stiles’ DVDs, and did yoga at home. I happened to start eating better–not that I didn’t eat my share of junk food, but I found myself having a few bites of chocolate and then stopping when I had my fill. So many things “happened to happen” with yoga that it can’t be a coincidence.

And my backpacking didn’t suffer, either, because I happened to become more aerobically fit–last Fall, I found myself jogging up Sierra trails that I’d previously struggled to walk.

I happened to be happier. I happened to be more confident.

And this Spring, I happened to become pregnant.

I didn’t go into pregnancy without risks; I had had chronic high blood pressure for a number of years and was at risk for pre-eclampsia. The first thing doctors did was take me off blood pressure medications I’d been taking for ten years. I was a little worried.

Everyday during my pregnancy, I took my blood pressure. It never went above 125/84. And on the days (and the day or two after) I did yoga, my blood pressure stayed at or below 115/75.

I happened to no longer need blood pressure medication. Without medications and with yoga, I happened to no longer have blood pressure as high as 160/120.

Yoga kept me and my kid safe throughout gestation. I happened to not have morning sickness. I happened to have a completely textbook pregnancy.

I’m now 38 weeks pregnant, a milestone I never ever thought I would reach. At this point in pregnancy, I’m uncomfortable, but healthy, thanks to yoga. I did RELAX classes on DVD with a few modifications–no rocking on my belly–(download it online!) until the end of week 32, which in layman’s speak is 8ish months.

I did everything I could to get pregnant over the course of 13 years. I know deep in my heart that it was yoga that happened to be the variable of change. It was yoga that brought my body into balance–and I could see things become regular in a way that hadn’t been before.

I’m not scared of labor, because I am going to go into it with the Strala Yoga philosophy of breathing and moving with ease. Because I now have faith in my body. And this–this is how Strala Yoga changed my life.

(I am totes pregnant in the above photo with Tara. P was born in January. And yes, the birth/labor experience ended up being Amazing, thanks to yoga lessons and the support of my husband and my birth doula).

(Spring is making an appearance in Berkeley).

I’ve a few pieces out in the world in recent days.

• My essay on Scarlet has found a wonderful home at Newport Review. Much thanks to Kathryn Kulpa for reaching out to me after spotting the essay, which was initially an exercise in grief more than a piece intended for publication. Writing the piece helped me feel better about Scarlet, and I am really happy it found a home out in the world.
• And this morning, I’ve a piece on a pick-up line up at Sundog Lit. I’ve had my fair share of bad pick-up lines (e.g., “Can I talk to you about my cancer?” and “I don’t care if you’re married–can I buy you a drink?”), so it was hard to choose just one. But I did. And in doing so, I wrote about something I rarely talk about in public: having my engagement broken off. (We got back together a year later, by the way, and we’ve been happy ever since). All the Men I Loved was inspired by and written in support of my friend Matthew Salesses‘ forthcoming book, I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying. All the pick up lines by all the contributing writers are compiled here. Also, delighted to say my piece is out alongside my friend Mary Kim Arnold’s pick-up line piece for Matt. She has a great blog, if you’re looking for another to add to your reading.

Hope you like and enjoy them.

My good friend Nova Ren Suma, who also happens to be an amazing writer and author of Dani Noir (aka Fade Out), Imaginary Girls, and the forthcoming 17 & Gone, recently tagged me in the “Next Big Thing Blog Hop” interview series.

The point of the series is to give you some insight into an upcoming book or in my case, a work-in-progress.

While I usually don’t like to talk about my novel, I’m looking forward to re-engaging with my writing after a pregnancy-induced months-long hiatus–and excited about participating in this blog series. It is time to germinate all these dormant thoughts about my novel, even if it means stepping away from motherhood and thrusting my newborn daughter into someone else’s arms for a few hours to do so. Also, now that I consider my novel more finished than unfinished, it’s nice to share some of my thoughts with the public.

Here goes… because the Next Big Thing in my writing life is THIS:

What is your working title of your book (or story)?

Golem of Korea. Or Golem of Seoul. I haven’t decided. (And now you know why my blog features a picture of a golem).

Where did the idea come from for the book?

My book is inspired by my parents who were immigrants to this country. I began to think, “What if they had an additional culture outside of Korean culture from which to draw for wisdom and insight? What if they embraced a hybrid identity? How would this impact their world view?”

I wondered what could save a couple of immigrants–and drawing from my own Korean Jewish life, I created a golem for my characters.

Also, I want to note that over the course of writing this novel, the golem has been the saving grace of my characters and for me as the writer. The golem has kept me adventurous as a writer–every time I’ve felt stuck, I let the golem loose, and it has led me to different spaces and story lines. So the golem has saved me, too.

What genre does your book fall under?

Literary fiction. Asian American literature. New York literature. Historical fiction. Magical Realism. Someone dared called it “fantasy” (if golem literature is a subset of “fantasy”). Golem literature. If I add a university, can it also be a campus novel?

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is when I wish there were more actors of Asian/Korean descent in Hollywood. Right now I can pick from John Cho, Bobby Lee, Daniel Dae Kim, and Ken Jeong…? So, John Cho and Bobby Lee. Seriously, we need more actors of Asian descent.

Also, I love B.D. Wong so much–I should write a character for B.D. Wong to inhabit. I also wonder if I can create a part for Jon Hamm, because–because I am a bit enamored with him.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Yong Kim is a war-traumatized North Korean man homesick for a time and place to which he can never return; upon immigrating to the United States in 1973, he builds a golem to help him cope–in doing so, he establishes a new relationship with his future.

(I find writing one-sentence synopses of my work so difficult).

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? (my note: in reality, these aren’t the two only outcomes for a book–you can self-publish, you can have the book represented by an agent, the book can find its way to a big publishing company, or its way to a small press, among so many other things).

Can you predict the future? I can’t. I don’t know what will happen, but I do hope that my book is represented by an agent who believes in me and my work, and finds its home at a publishing company with an editor who loves and supports my novel.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

It’s hard to say–it took years and years. I had a stroke, and recovered from the stroke, and even had a baby during the course of writing this thing. It’s taken a long time to write, so I’m going to say it took my entire life. This novel is my life to date.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

A little bit of Midnight’s Children (my book is about nations), a little bit of The Wind Up Bird Chronicle (there are underground tunnels and talking animals). And because there’s a golem, a little bit of Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

See my answer above regarding from where the idea for this novel comes. My mom and dad. My late Jewish mother-in-law as well. And the idea of monsters. The idea of being able to create companionship and resolve loneliness–it’s awful lonely to be an immigrant in America. The idea of nations. The idea of war. The idea of rescue. The idea of hybrid identity. The idea of New York City.

Mostly, I was inspired by New York City. This book is a way for me to always find my way back to New York City.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

There is a character named The Frog. He is not an actual frog.

Now I’m supposed to tag five writers to take on these “Next Big Thing” questions themselves…I asked a number of writer friends who blog, but did not get to five. *shrug* In which case, I’ll list the three who were game–and urge you to do this on your end, if you wish. Or–I’m happy to tag you!

• Susan Ito
• Naomi J. Williams
• Matthew Salesses

Can’t wait to hear your answers to these questions!

We’re closing in on a month postpartum here in our household. It’s been an intense few weeks, one that at times I doubted surviving! But we’re all still alive, and a bit wiser for it. And yes, we are very very sleep deprived, so mostly, I hope I make sense to the outside world.

Since having a newborn is a very singular, obsessive experience (feed baby, change baby, put baby to sleep. feed baby, change baby, put baby to sleep, baby, baby, baby, baby…), I thought I’d go with the flow and put up a baby-related post, since that’s been my life. Also I hope that in barfing up baby thoughts here, I’ll make room for more literary pondering. Maybe I’ll help some folks, who knows.

If you’re not into it, know that my posts will turn writing-centric again, soon. Because miraculously, I have been able to write in these first few weeks. And I’ve been doing a little bit of Fiction Editor work for Kartika Review. For now, humor me.

Beyond the usual must-haves/recommendations of bouncers, swings, gliders/rockers, and diaper bags (I like the Skip Hop brand diaper bags) and such…I thought I’d chat about baby gear that has been surprisingly helpful in the first postpartum month. These are the items I use every single day that aren’t usually mentioned on baby gear must-have lists.

Soother: This thing was recommended to me by one of my doulas. I seriously was not sure how awesome it could be–it plays lullabies in analog, it’s made of plastic, and it has a few blinking lights; in sum,  the contraption is completely underwhelming to an adult. But zomg, my baby LOVES it, even at 3 weeks old, and it gives me a chance to wash my hands after a diaper change while my kid lies in her crib and watches the lights. Even better is the fact that babies love it until 18 months-2 years old, so this is one of those baby items with longevity. (In comparison, baby crib mobiles are only good until 5 months, because at that point babies can push themselves up and the mobiles become a choking hazard). I have the Fisher Price rainforest themed soother, but have heard good things about the Tiny Love soother, too.

Homedics Soundspa Sound (aka white noise) machine: For the first weeks of our baby’s life, all she wanted to do was sleep. A white noise machine does wonders to further that goal. We like the Homedics brand, which is not a baby item per se, but incredibly useful.

Leg warmers: Keep baby’s legs warm while outfitted in a leg-less onesie without the hassle of having to remove and put pants back on (quite a hassle if you have a fussy baby, or if you don’t want to fully awaken your sleeping baby). Completely pragmatic–and if you so choose, also very stylish (see picture above at the top of this post). You can find them in various baby clothing stores, though I got mine from knottybabywear’s shop on etsy.

Red light bulb or a head lamp with red LED light: I got a storm headlamp, which can be found at REI. My newborn is completely fascinated by lights–even at the lowest setting on the dimmer, the track lights in my baby’s nursery would wake her up (nevermind the sconces, which can’t be dimmed at all). Also, with the track lights so low, I couldn’t really see what I needed to see in the dark, especially during diaper changes, when details are crucial. And after taking a good amount of time putting the baby to sleep, the last thing I want to do is wake her up by flipping on white lights, so the red light is a miracle. Baby stays asleep. I see everything I need to see. Hallelujah. Also, it’s great for nighttime pumping–I don’t wake up my husband during those nighttime pumping sessions in the bedroom. Ohwait. I just reread that, and it sounds perverted. But you know what I mean.

Diaper wipe warmer: So we didn’t buy this straight away, because I thought this was one of those frivolous “you don’t need this at all” things. But after hearing my otherwise mellow baby Scream Her Head Off Crying and Shrieking during diaper changes the first two weeks, I broke down and bought a wipe warmer. I should have had one from the beginning; she hasn’t cried during a diaper change since. She is more comfortable. The wipe warmer is $20. Totally worth it. (Beware that some of them dry out the wipes, so you’ll need to add a bit of water to the holder to keep the wipes hydrated).

Rock ‘n play sleeper: We use this instead of a bassinet. A couple stopped us while shopping at the baby store and pointed us towards this item. They said this is what their child slept in, and it beat everything else, hands down, plus it’s good for babies with reflux issues, as the rock ‘n play places the baby in a slightly upright position. And it’s super light and portable. They were right. Thank you, strangers, for your kindness. Our child is now transitioning to the crib (she has all new likes/dislikes as she nears the 1 month mark), but the rock ‘n play definitely got us through the first month.

Yoga ball: Yah. You’ll use this in your last trimester to sit and relieve pressure on your back, you’ll use it while in labor (we seriously took a yoga ball with us to the hospital (not all hospitals have yoga balls available), carrying one in with our overnight bags), and you’ll use this to bounce your baby to sleep. You sit on it with your baby in your arms (or in a sling/ergo), and then bounce up and down. So much better than bouncing your baby while standing and holding her–your poor knees! Beware: your baby might get really addicted to being bounced while you sit on a yoga ball, it is so addictive.

Pacifiers: Get at least a couple different kinds. Your baby’s going to have preferences, and you won’t be able to predict what they might be. Hell, your baby’s going to prefer one kind in the morning, and another kind in the afternoon. Ten minutes later, she’ll change her mind. And then the next day, she’ll prefer the afternoon one in the morning, and the morning one in the afternoon. Have at least a couple different kinds of pacifiers. Our baby likes the mam and first years gumdrop pacifiers in newborn size.

Falke newborn socks: Okay, everyone is going to have socks for their baby. There are some really cute socks out there, like the Trumpette mary jane baby socks. But my baby’s got very long feet, and she is a genius at kicking socks off. I’m not sure why, but all the socks I’ve found are easy to kick off, primarily because they are ankle length, and the newborn socks are all slightly small on my baby’s large feet. Falke newborn socks are really really pricey (nearly $11 for a pair), but I bit the bullet and got a pair, because it’s the dead of winter and my kid’s feet were turning blue. The socks are like tube socks for newborns; they go well up the shins, almost to the knees and they are super thick. They accommodate larger baby feet and because of their longer length they stay on, especially under a footless onesie or under leg warmers.

Food for parents: And this isn’t gear–but it’s still something helpful: have ready-made food for your first postpartum weeks. In the last trimester of my pregnancy, I cooked up a storm and froze a bunch of food in the freezer (bolognese sauce, soup, tomato sauce and other liquids in ice cube trays, and then into ziploc bags, as well as ziti, meatloaf, and macaroni & cheese frozen in serving size squares in ziploc bags, etc). So we weren’t going to starve.

But even then, if people offer to bring you food, take them up on it. Because there were times I stared into the freezer and become so so so discouraged thinking, “Oh, I have to THAW that to EAT it.” I was THAT tired–so tired that the prospect of unfreezing/heating up food was daunting. So tired I chose starvation over the act of thawing food (and this is bad for so many reasons, including the fact that if you are feeding your baby breast milk, it will affect your milk supply). Plus, I had some serious baby blues and lost my appetite, thereby furthering my food-thawing-aversion. I am so grateful to friends who quietly dropped off (without turning their drop off into a full-on visit) hot and easy-to-warm-up food to me in the first weeks. It made me cry with gratitude.

I don’t know what I’d have done if 1) I didn’t have friends who took such good care of me and 2) if I didn’t have food in my freezer. I guess we would have been eating peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and take-out. For the record, my spouse has been an amazing source of support–but guess what, the Last Thing I wanted my spouse to do in those first few weeks was cook, because I needed him to help me with the baby as much as possible.

Peri Squeeze bottle: That little plastic squeezy bottle at the hospital? The one you fill up with water to squeeze on your vag and perineum post-bathroom-visit? Yah. Take that home with you. It will be crucial to your survival. Same goes for the bag of wipes. And while some hate them, I really appreciated those disposable granny-pants undies. I grabbed as much as I could to go home with me.

Chux pads or Waterproof crib flat sheet: I slept with a crib-sized waterproof flat sheet the last few weeks of pregnancy, because I was paranoid about my water breaking and soaking our mattress. This did not happen, but the reassurance was priceless. Postpartum, I continued sleeping with a waterproof crib flat sheet under me for a couple of weeks. You’ll want something. If you don’t have chux pads or can’t find a waterproof crib flat sheet, lay down a towel you don’t care much about. Also useful are waterproof lap pads, which can be used on your changing table (trust me, you want LOTS Of waterproof lap pads).

Dermoplast pain relieving spray: Along with Tucks pads, you want some Dermoplast pain relieving spray on hand those first few postpartum weeks.

Parenthood is the most humbling experience, ever. Props to all single parents out there, doing it on their own.