My book trailer is on the way – almost done!

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being yourself, book trailer, dreams coming true, Jane Butler, Jane Paffenbarger Butler, joy, play, words, writing

 

This is my Author’s Team, three high school students, myself and my not-yet-putrid Putrid Doll.

Just in time, back in February our team went out into the creek to film these beautiful scenes. Since then we have worked remotely to put together the two-minute trailer featuring a tea party on a rock in the middle of this raging creek. It hopefully will entice the viewer to want to read You’ll Get Over It, Jane Ellen. A discussion group organized by readers of the manuscript will get to preview our masterpiece this Thursday.

Sisters

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To all my acquired sisters (and brothers) out there: I love you and appreciate all that you bring to my life!

But my background is unusual, and a little fraught, and so the idea of having carried a sister with me from that difficult past into today, to help interpret what was and what is now, would be terribly sweet.

A scene like this picture above always makes me take pause. It is two sisters. Before the pandemic, I used to see them often and just like this, eagerly engaging in whatever it is they have to share, obviously friends. They report, lest I be confused, that as sisters things are not categorically smooth all the time.

I do love romanticizing the idea of two women who have know each other their whole lives. Partners in life who have seen it all. A trusted friend who knows what others do not and can engage in the lifted eyebrow communication reserved for so few in our lives.

My own sisters and I took different paths, primarily characterized by flight. One ran away physically, and the other, although she did move a thousand miles from home, fled by engaging with everyone through that effective distancer, anger. I haven’t gone as far away on the map, but my world is profoundly different than the one I shared once with them.

I’ve always thought it would be fun to have a sister. But it’s kind of too late now. One is gone at the hands of breast cancer and the other has herself hidden far away. There was so much threat in our lives we learned not to trust anyone, even each other. Real communication, like sharing our feelings about anything as it seems these two sisters above have been doing for a lifetime, that’s off the table.

Too bad, too. I was always up for it.

Join me at the Langhorne Writers Group

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Next week I’ll be talking to a writers group in Bucks County about the lengthy path I have taken as a writer. Meet me at the Sheraton on Oxford Valley Road in Langhorne, PA at 6:30pm to join in the conversation about This Writer’s Journey.

I knew I had a story to tell when I realized I’d reached adulthood unwilling to trust anyone. Back then I knew to take things seriously. Not to say out loud anything that mattered to me. Not to expect anyone’s help. To be leery of people who wanted to help. To leave my body if I needed to. That is all different now and it has been eighteen years since starting my project.

I’ll be using Austin Kleon’s book, Show Your Work “a best-selling guide to getting your work discovered,” to help me describe my own path. I’ll be using his points to make my points. He says that work, or in our case, writing, “is about process not product and that by being open and freely sharing your process you can gain a following that you can then use for fellowship, feedback or patronage.”

My own process has been slow for good reason, and I’ll talk about the hurdles we all face in trying to move forward in the seemingly solitary pursuit of “being an author.”

 

If you notice that you are unloading all of your issues on your fellow humans on a day-to-day basis, maybe you should talk to someone

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I love the title of the book Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb. It’s a phrase we hear often, but the subtext is a serious one that is easy to ignore. So by making it the title she highlights the notion that no, really, maybe you should talk to someone.

Lori Gottlieb shows us in her informed examination of the psychotherapeutic process, that making contact is the primary goal when a patient shows up on the therapist’s couch. She gives us a sense of what a therapist might experience as they go about their work day attempting to assist those who come to them seeking help. Meanwhile, as she tells us about her various patients and what they talk about in her office, she herself is struggling with her own crisis. This comes in the form of jilted love that derails the life she had been planning, and for which she also seeks the help of a therapist.

It’s a bit of genius to open up the role that is traditionally held secret, that of the therapist but also that of the patient, to demystify the process and therefore welcome us all into what some may see as the scary world of psychotherapy. By positioning herself as both therapist and patient she shows us that it is not that easy to get the job done. That it is not just a matter of showing up and paying the money and claiming you were there, no matter which role you take. Both must engage. Both must make contact.

I know this firsthand for having wandered into a psychotherapist’s office when I was 27 and then staying for about another twenty years. A good therapist can open up their office as a symbol of what it means to be real. I went in believing that psychotherapy was a place to “learn more about oneself” whatever that means, rather than to work on any problems. I actually believed I had no problems, except at some level I must have realized the benefits because I went willingly and openly. A capable therapist, as Lori shows herself to be, has the power to help people make huge changes in their lives if they are able to welcome the opportunity. You must give yourself over to their leadings, trust in their training, their intuition, and their humanity, to guide you where you need to go. And a talented therapist can do it.

Lori Gottlieb is not afraid to show us how this works as she offers both the details and the outlines to the processes undergone by her patients and herself. Each of us at our own pace and in the therapy office, must let down the very useful defenses that keep us from unloading all our issues onto our fellow humans in our day-to-day lives, and Lori shows us that in this engaging book.

 

 

 

Susan Holloway Scott meets Project Runway

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Soon after meeting Susan Holloway Scott this week, the best-selling author of many historical novels including her latest, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, I went to her Instagram account. There I found a treasure trove of Project Runway-perfect inspirational photos. Not only does Susan delight in crafting stories about historical figures, she posts lots of artwork. She’s attracted to pictures of women, often wearing clothes of either great richness or great simplicity. I couldn’t help but imagine the designers on Project Runway running away with ideas inspired by the frocks in the many paintings she selects. The dresses themselves tell a story.

Great examples are “The Painter’s Honeymoon” by Frederic, Lord Leighton, c1864, “Lille Marie on Neky’s Arm” N.P. Holbech, 1838, and Kehine Wiley’s 2012 “The Two Sisters.” Thank you, Susan, for sharing these images with us.

The Big Mind Break at The Lodge at Woodloch

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being yourself, dreams coming true, higher power, inspire, Jane Butler, Jane Paffenbarger Butler, joy, play

If I could have taken a picture of my daughter and myself outdoors in the infinity hot tub, in the woods during a snowstorm, peering out across the forest where deer were nestled in from the weather, to the view of the frozen lake beyond, I sure would have. But, as you can imagine, I just couldn’t manage a camera at the time.

Besides that unique experience I learned to ice fish! No mani-pedi’s for me.

And start fire by rubbing sticks together! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lodge at Woodloch, in the Poconos, was a spa full of deligthful surprises. It was worth the splurge to be there because not only did we have the fun of these physical outdoor activities, we enjoyed some unique indoor fun, too. Here we are on The Great Wall of Yoga.

Once our brains were well-perfused we sat in on a small-group discussion of “apologies.” A social worker led by describing her cancer experience and how her first doctor, who missed the signs and the diagnosis, seemed to be avoiding her. Missing apologies, accepting apologies and how to move on if you’ve decided not to accept an apology were all brilliant points if you ask me since these are issues of everyday life.

The big mind break of thinking in different ways and learning new skill brought a joy I didn’t expect. This gift to my daughter seemed like it might be loaded with the kind of activities I enjoy only in small doses. But the thoughtful variety of things to do and experience were exactly what I appreciated in this January trip to the spa.

Daughter saves the show

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Last night my daughter complained that both my husband and I fell asleep at the movie theatre. (What are they putting in those loungy reclining chairs for anyway?)

“It’s like going to the movies alone,” she said.

I countered with, “You used to wet you pants, you know,” and that shut her down!

Thanks to her waking me several times though, I can report that Knives Out is a delightful show with an unexpected social commentary under all the fun.

I’ve suffered from emotions my whole life

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This is me at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) this fall.

Movies for me have always been a secret way to spy on others. I’ve had emotions my whole life and it’s been a big problem because they weren’t allowed in my house growing up. Because I was isolated physically and emotionally, movies were one of the ways I discovered that other people suffered emotions too. I’d see how a mother and daughter might interact, or discover that crying was acceptable. I’d feel the validation that disappointment happened to others, and the acknowledgement that forgiveness is real.

Even the least popular movies were wonderful for me, because they suggested that there was no shame in having emotions. There they were, on display, larger than life.

That is why I willingly signed on to watch ten shows in the space of 72 hours at TIFF this year. I am a lifelong movie lover and this event did not disappoint. Some movies were great, some were weird, some were not good at all, but overall, the artistic endeavor to depict the human condition in whatever way offered, is fascinating to me.

My favorites this year:

Blackbird with Susan Sarandon, Sam Neill, Kate Winslet and Rainn Wilson, and

Dads, the documentary directed by Ron Howard’s daughter Bryce Dallas Howard.

Storytelling 101

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A jeans pocket I embroidered circa 1974

I was watching Abstract: The Art of Design, a Netflix program, when Ruth Carter, the designer for those fantastic Black Panther costumes explained that it was not a love of fashion that led her there. My ears perked up when I heard her say that her heroes were authors, poets and playwrights, like Langston Hughes and James Baldwin. She considered them designers. And they inspired her. She says people think she sews, but that’s not it at all. Her work is an art form. A means of storytelling.

What?

Her Black Panther costumes apparently incorporate the history of African tribes. She selected a color palette to support the words and scenes of the script, and fabrics that mimicked the specifics of the landscape and of African traditions.

When I heard all this I felt like jumping off the couch. Because I used to sew. A lot. And I never once thought of my many hours at Mom’s Singer machine as a means of storytelling. I was supplying myself with clothes. Otherwise, my choices for what to wear included anything from my two older sister’s hand-me-downs. By the time I left home during the college years, I was splicing patterns together, custom fitting every project, and embellishing my work with embroidery, contrasting thread and button tricks.

But storytelling was not on my mind.

My work back then was literal. I sewed the straightest top-stitching around. By eye. And I measured three times before I cut once. My work was impeccable, skilled, practiced and I considered going on with it somehow. But the only idea I had was to become a tailor. I did not see the possibility of becoming even more creative in my sewing or to tell the stories I wanted to tell through this art form. So hearing Ruth Carter tell me that I could have, that she does, confirmed what I’ve learned about art in general since then.

It’s about expressing yourself and you can do it any way you want to.

So, I ended up writing a story to express my story. Being literal once again.

But the good thing about art is that the story is still the story however you tell it.

My conversation with Mark Twain

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Mark Twain and I were chatting the other day when he said to me, “When in doubt, tell the truth,” as if I hadn’t heard THAT before.

What was he even talking about? Of course, I tell the truth, that’s the whole point of my memoir. But you can’t just tell the truth as if it is a finite thing, Mark. Nope, I’ve learned over the years, and it’s been a difficult surprise, that my truth is not necessarily your truth.

“If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember anything,” he explained.

Mark Twain seemed a little exasperated as he stared back, not even batting an eye. He sat still as a stone, a cold chill flying off his shoulder directly at me.

But you might consider, he continued, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

Thanks for that, Mark, but I can’t stop myself, I told him.

He seemed a little testy now.

Best I can do is be as honest as possible and hope others see that’s what I’m aiming for. I want to make a point, you know. About how we try to love each other and about how it doesn’t always work out that well.

Mark softened and I thought I saw him smile. His parting words, which I chose to interpret as supportive, were all I needed to head back to my desk and hit the keyboard again, back on my way after our brief interlude.

“All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence, and then success is sure.”

Thanks, Mark. Looks like I’m ready then.