I’m grieving the loss of dictionaries, thick, massive volumes that I used to get lost in. I would open a page and find hundreds of words, all of them demanding my attention, each a miniature world to explore. But now I’ve become a victim of on-line lexicons because they are handier than putting aside my laptop computer and marching into the other room to unload the Oxford from a bookshelf where it resides. (more…)
Foghorns blast through the 7 AM San Francisco overcast. The only woman in the place, I saunter into the longshoreman’s union hall, trying to appear as if I did this every day. A few cigarette-scarred wooden tables offer a place for the men to gather and talk while waiting to be called to work. Billowing clouds of cigarette smoke hang ominously over everyone. 
Like detectives, writers need to be constantly observant, picking up clues from what people are wearing, how they gesture, the words they speak, the way they interact with others. They study people’s facial expressions and what they might suggest about the person, storing away the data in their memory banks. Or they’ll take notes in a writer’s journal that they’ll refer to later. 
Memoir writing blurs the line between truth and imagination in this revealing conversation with Lily Iona MacKenzie. We explore how creative writing techniques shape both fiction narrative and personal stories, as Lily explains her unique approach: “you lie in service of the truth.”
Yesterday, I had to kill time (terrible metaphor) while waiting to hear a friend of mine do a reading of his newly published memoir at a Corte Madera bookstore. So I hung out at Marin County’s Corte Madera Library. 
For years I felt guilty about breaking the heirloom toys my stepfather’s mother had preserved, relics of another era. I can still remember the excitement of lifting each object out of the boxes where they had been stored and bringing them to life again: tiny china dishes with hand-painted flowers; a miniature stagecoach carrying riders and pulled by horses; dolls with porcelain faces and hands, features frozen in smiles, dressed in stylish Victorian gowns; a doll house with elegant furniture and a family. 
Editing writing requires tremendous restraint. I was reminded of this recently when a poem I had submitted to an anthology was accepted providing I approved of the editor’s changes. I’m open to thoughtful revision suggestions—a text can always be improved—but I assume the recommendations will be just that, insightful observations that cause me to re-think my work. In that light, I can re-enter a poem or story and see if any of the ideas resonate enough for me to make changes. Yet since I’m the poem’s creator, I expect to revise it myself and have the last word on its content. 
I’ve been thinking about how loosely we use abstract words like love, happiness, and truth as if they had concrete, observable meaning. I tend to revolt from using love to close my email or other exchanges unless I really feel love for the person I’m corresponding with. It bothers me when people sign their correspondence “love” without considering whether or not the emotion really applies to the recipient. Maybe you feel loving towards someone on most days, but not every day. Isn’t it deceitful to say “love” if you aren’t feeling it at the moment? Wouldn’t such a response seem confusing? It leads the reader to believe that the writer actually has such strong feelings, that somehow we’re part of the writer’s inner circle. Often that isn’t true. 
Being a first-rate writer requires the same kind of training that an architect receives. A typical program includes courses in architectural history and theory, building design, construction methods, professional practice, math, physical sciences, and liberal arts. Writers may not need to study math or the physical sciences, but they do need to give themselves the best liberal arts education they can find, both formal and informal. And like architects, in order to be successful in their field, writers need not only vision and a rich imagination but also a strong foundation. 
Thank you, Zackary Vernon, for taking the time to share your professional writing journey with me and my readers. 
Being part of an on-line writing group for several years has provided many benefits. But with the positives come a few negatives.
Until recently, if I had wanted a restful getaway, I would not have chosen San Francisco or any big city. Getting away meant heading out of town, usually for a coastal inn. I wanted the leisurely pace and ocean views of Mendocino, Pacific Grove, Carmel, or Big Sur. 
Onyx wind chimes shaped like birds hang outside my bedroom. Each time a breeze stirs them, their music reminds me of the first trip I took to Mexico. While there, I was hoping to discover a part of the country that photographs can’t capture—the spirit of the place. Lawrence Durrell claims that landscape communicates this aspect. He says, “All landscapes ask the same question in the same whisper, ‘I am watching you—are you watching yourself in me’?” 
I recently reread Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady and have mixed feelings about the era and the characters. It’s difficult to read about Victorian morés from a 21st Century perspective. Not only do I need lenses that will give me a bi-cultural perspective, but I also feel squashed between a culture clash. Not long after I finished with Portrait, I read a review of A. M. Homes’ book May We Be Forgiven in The New York Review of Books. One of her main characters says, 
I’m remembering a fascinating article I read in the New York Review of Books some time ago about Joseph Cornell. In many ways, he feels like my spiritual father. I love his quirkiness, his living on the periphery, his unique vision. Reading about him makes me want to go out and haunt junk shops for interesting memorabilia to make things with, to start a collection that I can draw from. I had an image of turning an old radio into a kind of Cornell box. Partial knee replacement
August 31, 2009
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Try Oxford: It Isn’t Just for Scholars
On August 13, 2008, I didn’t win an Olympic medal, but I did celebrate a year of being pretty much pain free in my left knee—better than a gold medal to me. Before August 13, 2007, I couldn’t have made that statement. The cartilage in the medial (inner) part of the knee joint had worn away, and I had been walking bone on bone for a long time. Though I could still ride a bike without too much discomfort, walking gradually became extremely difficult.
My only relief came from steroid shots, which I got three times a year, but they gave me only three weeks to a month of partial respite. My stomach can’t tolerate NSAIDs, and Tylenol was useless. I was running out of options.
In May 2007, I made an appointment with Dr. Eugene Wolf, one of the best knee specialists in the area (he has offices in San Francisco and Greenbrae, California). I asked him to prescribe a knee brace. Dr. Wolf wanted x-rays of the knee, but he wasn’t encouraging about the benefits of such a support. By the time the x-ray technician brought in the film, I felt I’d run out of options.
Dr. Wolf put the images on a screen, comparing them with others taken a few years earlier. He finally spoke, confirming what I already knew: I had no cartilage remaining in the medial joint. I also had many loose bodies swirling around under the kneecap and elsewhere, creating potential problems for the remaining good cartilage and the patella because of the grating action.
He said, “You need an operation.” I, of course, thought he meant a total knee replacement, having assumed that was my only alternative. Then I heard him saying, “You’ll walk out a few hours after the one-hour surgery.”
That’s when he told me I was a good candidate for the Oxford Unicompartmental Knee System, a knee implant that duplicates the original knee joint and is used in situations like mine where I still have stable cartilage in one section. I didn’t need a total knee replacement.
Dr. Wolf pointed out there’s a major difference between the Oxford knee implant and other unicompartmental devices: it is mobile bearing. An artificial meniscal bearing glidea freely throughout the knee’s range of motion, replicating normal movement. The free-floating nature of the device also improves durability of the implant because the wear and tear is distributed evenly over the surface. Most will last the lifetime of the patient. Also, the incision is less invasive than for other mechanisms, especially total knee replacements, and the overall trauma to the knee is far less.
The device has been available in England and Europe for over fifteen years and in Canada since 2000. But the U.S. didn’t approve its use until three years ago. In an article on Today’s Surgicenter, Dr. Wolf says,
‘Up to 40 percent of the 500,000 patients that now undergo total knee arthroplasty in the U.S. could benefit from this new knee prosthesis now done on an outpatient basis.’
After discussing it with my husband, I made a date for outpatient surgery on August 13, 2007. I walked out of St. Mary’s Hospital a few hours after the operation—six hours to be exact. I used crutches for support, but my left leg bore my full weight. I had a few days of pain that Oxycontin controlled successfully. After three days, I switched to Advil, used mainly at night for pain management, along with ice packs. I never felt overwhelmed with pain. I could move about with one crutch. After about a week, I didn’t need any painkillers, for the most part. I started bending and straightening my leg immediately and began physical therapy at two weeks. A month after surgery, I was back to my usual routine at the gym, upper and lower body strength training, and riding a stationary bike.
Today, a year and a half later, I’m not only walking without a limp and free of arthritis pain, but my knee feels normal. Except for the scar and some loss of feeling around it, I wouldn’t know I’d had surgery, and the implant feels like a natural part of my anatomy, not like a foreign object.
Clearly, I’ve become an enthusiastic advocate for the Oxford implant. It can be a miracle for many people. So if your doctor has told you a total knee replacement is in your future, think again. You may have more choices than you thought, and you don’t have to go to Oxford. It will come to you.