Wolfe's Neck Park

The first time I visited Wolfe’s Neck Park in Freeport, I had my newborn daughter strapped to my chest. My three-year-old son fished for periwinkles in the tidal pools with his new friend, Baxter. His mother, Sarah Worthing, was a fitness coordinator for L.L. Bean with a teacher’s knowledge of coastal habitats. I had arrived in Maine.

When my daughter started pre-school, I returned to Wolfe’s Neck to paint. I had been an oil-painter, but watercolors were easier to take on location and less toxic around my children. It took some experimenting and a summer course at M.E.C.A., but soon I learned to appreciate the way watercolor flows like the sea.

Soon after I resumed my art, I started writing my first novel, Moose Crossing. I was looking for work I could do from home while living in a remote location, and the two occupations complemented one another. There are only a few good months this far north for painting en plein air. Also a novel takes so much time to complete, but a watercolor is a day’s work. Selling my paintings was a fast reward.


About the time I was planning to approach galleries with my portfolio, a well-established literary agent, Jean Naggar, signed me on as an author. I realized it was hard enough to find the time for one career, let alone two, while raising children. I chose to focus on my writing.



I have a backlog of paintings to photograph, catalog and sell. Two have found a new home in California this spring. As an anniversary gift, the couple bought a view of Googin’s Island in Wolfe’s Neck Park and another of Reid State Park in nearby Georgetown.


On Sunday my family went back to Wolfe’s Neck. It was only fitting since I had named S.A.D.’s protagonist Agnes Wolfe. After an intense ten days straight of revising S.A.D., draft two was done! I worked faster because I had extra time.


Both kids had gone to Maine Audubon’s fabulous Hog Island Camp. It felt odd to be home and childless for the first time in thirteen years exactly. My son had his birthday at camp, and I’m still trying to get my head around the idea of him being a teenager. My youngest is now ten. When did that happen?


My husband and I didn’t work the whole time. We snuck off to the beach on a 90-degree afternoon. We went out to dinner together and with friends on short notice. Two Bowdoin couples, who don’t have children, came to dinner and stayed up late drinking Pimm’s cocktails. No kids to wake up with our conversation and laughter. Life felt like it had back when Henry and I were in grad. school. Sort of like taking off ski boots at the end of a day on the slopes.

Still, I’m eager to hit the trails again with the kids. With S.A.D. out with my next two readers and experts fact-checking sections, I’ll enjoy the excuse to go to the beach and slow down a bit. I have to admit I’m already thinking about my third novel, but that’s a story that can wait a couple more weeks.

Test Flight

Coming back home to Maine, I was in for a shock. My fluffy golden retriever . . .

. . .had become a Labrador retriever.

Or perhaps a naked mole rat? Poor Stella had been dying in the summer heat so a buzz cut was in order. She spent the first couple days chewing her tail, but now she is much perkier on her walks. Her feathers will grow back by autumn.

A mother’s solo vacation is more like racking up a debt. My husband coped well during my 5-day absence but didn’t get any work done. With a home office, I’ve learned to work with interruption if not gracefully. My children had so much to tell me they had to talk simultaneously. The laundry, camp forms, home repairs and bills had stacked up.

The piles only grew as my first priority was finishing manuscript revisions for my first reader. Henry is taking S.A.D. to England where he’s visiting family. Call it a test flight for an airplane book. With both of my books I gave my first chapter to my husband to read, and then I shut the door to my office. He waited patiently for years the first time and for months the second time for me to finish.

Henry must have read Moose Crossing six times. My first draft of that novel was a ridiculous 660 pages – more than twice what it is now! I’ve learned. The first draft of S.A.D. is 260 pages with room to expand. True love is the patience to proof carefully and offer constructive criticism.

Henry welcomes the fictional characters and their problems into our home but also entices me back to the real world. My son pointed out some people live in the past, others for the future, but I live too much in my imaginary world.

Stephen King (another Maine author!) wrote an excellent book On Writing in which he describes his creative process as writing for the ideal reader. For him that is his wife. His writing style, like mine, is to lock himself in his office, not sharing half completed work.

There is no one right way to write. The trick is finding the method that works best for you. I need privacy and big chunks of time; others need more feedback and write better in short bursts. All writers need readers because it’s hard to see the fault lines in one’s own work.

Although I write women’s fiction, my ideal reader is my husband. He’s a demanding critic, my most avid supporter and has a great sense of humor. He’s also an excellent writer himself. My comments on his political writing tend towards critique of theory. Academia is geared towards a narrow audience but good writing is all about communicating and entertaining.

Entertaining was the theme of last weekend. My youngest child just turned ten and invited SEVEN girls to what could only be called a wake-over. One parent described the next day as giving your child a hangover as a party favor. Not from alcohol but from sleep deprivation after watching Pirates of the Caribbean and giggling all night long.

P.S. Does anyone know who took the naked mole rat photo? If so leave a comment so I can credit the photographer.

Building Character

For the kids' spring break the options were:

A. The tree house in our backyard

B. Central Park in NYC (after a record 7 1/2 inches of rain)

Every April the kids and I head south to NYC, trading muddy fields and snow banks for daffodils and blooming magnolias. My mother, the artist Cynthia Lamport, has a long list of museums for the kids to visit.

Grey Landscape by Cynthia Lamport, oil, 1999

We all loved the experimental design exhibit at the Cooper-Hewitt. There were robots, computer simulation games, modern furniture, fashion, light shows, interactive house designing and Chip Kidd’s futuristic book jackets. The Design Triennial is really a children’s museum for preteens through adults with an eye to the future. By contrast, the museum itself is an ornate gem of pre-war architecture with elaborate carved moldings.

The Cooper-Hewitt Museum on 5th Ave.

My parents took the children on an historical tour at the Tenement Museum on the lower Eastside while I worked. We have an ancestor, who in the turn of the last century was living in similar accommodation, crammed 6-12 people to an apartment of 325 square feet. This was both living and working space for the tailors. My great grandfather went on to become a union official in the garment industry.

While the kids were visiting the Museum of Natural History, I met my brother for lunch downtown with his colleague. They are architects at a large, prominent firm. Lunch wasn’t just for fun. The protagonist of my third book hails from a small town in northern Maine and works as an architect in NYC.

My brother’s colleague talked about the experience of being a woman directing a male construction crew. There are a few female electricians, but it’s a testosterone-infused jobsite. At the beginning a woman architect has to fight hard to win respect. Some of the men will say things like, “I bet you thought it would be all picking paint chips.”

After proving herself, a female architect often makes a better manager due to excellent interpersonal and organizational skills. She can earn love as well as respect and encourage people to work as a team.

Although most architecture schools have a 50/50 female to male ratio, most large firms are 40/60 at the junior level, and this ratio drops as you rise through the hierarchy. At this firm there are only two women out of nine full partners: one woman who never married nor had kids and a single mother who adopted.

My brother manages to raise a family with the understanding support of his wife, who is home with the kids in the suburbs. They met when he was working for an architecture firm in Japan. Male architects have an advantage since their spouses are often more willing to take on the responsibilities of being the primary caretaker for their children.

Parenting is difficult because architects work long hours and need to prove themselves in their early 30’s. The pay is low, comparable to academia but with very limited vacation time. There are all-night charettes to make deadlines. The hours only increase with promotion. Worst of all, an architect has little control of her time.

My brother’s colleague, an avid reader of fiction, would love to join a book group but could never commit to a weeknight regularly. Work comes home thanks to Blackberries, known as “crackberries” since architects check them like addicts.

My brother, like his colleague, is compulsive about his work. The profession seems to attract a creative but intensely focused personality. You have to care about the details. I sat with my brother through a two-hour meeting in which all they discussed was millwork as in window trim, door openings and cubbies. All drafting is now done on computers, but they're still called blueprints.

My brother decided he wanted to be an architect at age five. Most architects come to the profession at a young age like a calling. Watching my brother make his dream a reality has given me a feel for the character of architects and an understanding for the profession. His colleague agreed to be my bridge to the female experience.

It may sound confusing that I’m researching my third novel while I’m still writing my second novel. It’s no more difficult than reading two books at the same time and means that I never have wasted time if my manuscript is out being read.

I like to spend time getting to know my characters and structuring the plot before I start writing. It’s never set in stone but gives me a sound foundation upon which to build.

Turning Forty

Popham Beach this past weekend in forty degree weather.

My twelve-year-old son asked, “Mommy, what do you want for your birthday?”

“I don’t really need anything. Maybe a nice card.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“More specific than a card?”

“A card? I thought you said ‘a nice car.’ Some people need a new car to help themselves through a midlife crisis.”

“What?! That’s exactly what I do not need: absolutely no mention of midlife crises. Forty isn’t that old.” We both doubled over in laughter, which was exactly what I did need.

I’m not too happy about turning 40 this month. There’s nothing wrong with my life: great kids, happy marriage, good friends, nice home and I love my work. That’s the key: work. Big birthdays are benchmarks, and my book isn’t in print yet. No “young writer” awards for me, but I have at least written a good book. It just took longer than I had anticipated to reach this point in my profession.

I don’t regret the time I took off from career to raise my young children and to care for my husband during a two-year health crisis. Those were really important times for my family and for me. I grew a lot and gained appreciation for what I have. My writing voice matured through the experiences.

I didn’t even realize I was a writer until I had something to write, and now that I’ve started, I have so much more to say. There are decades to write all the other books in my head, and my kids only get easier and more independent every year. My husband is in good health again too.

I woke the morning I turned 40 with a sense of relief that nothing bad had happened despite my dread, like looking out the window after a storm or down to find my toes for the first time in weeks after giving birth. There's a sense of accepting who I am rather than of being what someone else expects. As a writer, my identity is inside not on the surface. And yet I still feel just a little sad as if I've lost something, despite Henry's poached eggs and our daughter's sweet card.

Why is 40 so hard? I spoke to a good friend who had just done it last year. She’s a successful doctor with two healthy kids and a strong marriage. They live in the most beautiful home, but even she was not satisfied. She wished she had time to pursue her creative side and publish children’s poetry. Knowing her, she probably will, but she hadn’t by 40.

Most women make trade-offs between career and family, and those who do it all are inundated. Then along comes the big birthday. Even with the balls juggled competently in the air, we only see the one ball that dropped and rolled away.

What’s the solution to the doldrums? Another friend, home with her kids, turned 40 last month. Her advice was to celebrate. She had a party for friends and family, was going away to Mexico with her husband and then off for a spa weekend with a girlfriend. I’m not making this any easier on myself by saying I’d rather have a book party.

I am going away with Henry this weekend and met him for lunch on my birthday. I chose Sweet Leaves Teahouse where we had planned to go on that stormy Valentine’s Day. It’s sunny and warm, just like its owner, Jessica Gorton. She moved here from NYC to enjoy the wilderness. The ingredients are local, wholesome and original. Like Frontier, it’s new this past fall to Brunswick and sponsors cultural events. There are open mike nights and jazz Sundays. It cheers me to find that my little northern town is becoming a hip place to settle for the next generation.


Jessica is stepping up a decade this month too, and shared her thoughts on turning thirty: "Most of me doesn't care at all, doesn't really think about age in that way. Part of me is sad about the end of my twenties (which, for all their drama, were a lot of fun). Another part of me is glad to be going into a new decade, and also to be of an age that (in theory) engenders more respect...now I'm an adult, and maybe will be seen as one."

Henry teaches at Bowdoin College so we are always surrounded by younger twenty-somethings. Some come to me to talk about alternative careers. All this free choice and opportunity and instead of feeling overjoyed, they’re overwhelmed. I remember feeling that way too. I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

As we age, it’s easier to see what it is we want and hopefully to master the skills to achieve it. In our twenties we didn’t know where to start. Then in our thirties the ticking biological clock added complications. By forty we women should be happy and proud of what we have accomplished even if it wasn’t as much as we had dreamed. Isn’t it part of still being young to keep on dreaming and wanting more?


Bailey Island Photo by Catherine Ferdinand