This Path: Free Today Only

This Path, a collection of essays, was just re-released in electronic format. It contains two of my favorites, "The Dance Class" and "Endless Possibilites" and is FREE TODAY ONLY for Kindle

If you need it for Nook, please let me know.

And yeah, please let me know what you think about these two excerpts of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book.

I have two other pieces coming out this fall so stay tuned. One is a tribute piece to my grandmother entitled "Artichokes," by the same publisher.

The other still needs ink to dry on the contract,  but its a bawdy, girl talk romp.

Stay tuned.

Ten Years Later: Tread Lightly On Our Memories, The Pain is Still Very Great

Lower Manhattan-Then And Now-My Scrapbook

9/11/01 struck like an alligator lurking just below the water. It grabbed every single person in New York City and the tri-state area, chewed us up, and spit us out--some dead, some mangled physically or psychologically, all changed--most for the worse but there are always glimmers of hope that get through the darkness.

It takes a lot to get a New Yorker's attention since we're always on sensory overload, scanning ahead, to the side and behind for the ever present threat of something unexpected. And since that day, there's even more to watch out for than the occasional nut waving something that looks like a gun or knife. We're used to that.


And it takes a lot to bring this City to its knees, though since 9/11/01 the schools close much more regularly for storms, the mass transit system was stopped and even Brooklyn was evacuated in anticipation of Hurricane Irene. We're not taking any chances, especially in September when the lure of a sky, so clear so brilliant, so cloudless, a cross between periwinkle and Wedgewood, low humidity and bright sunshine brings back memories of suddenly being inundated by flames, ash, smoke, of incessant sirens and alarms, of screams, tears, and the world standing still.


A routine morning turned into one that everyone, including pre-school children, would never forget, since their parents couldn't get home to pick them up, take them home, hug them, and try to explain. Some of us were mandated to remain at our jobs in anticipation of mass casualties. Other couldn't get past roadblocks, over closed bridges, through closed tunnels and streets crowded with throngs running, walking, limping out of lower Manhattan, covered in thick white dust while fire trucks, police vans, ambulances rushed toward the burning Twin Towers.


 And some never got home because they were dead or dying in the attacks, including neighbors, friends, and family members of co-workers.I remember a kinder, gentler New York City in the days after the attacks. Bosses not worrying if you got in late due to roadblocks, and really wanting to hear the truth when they asked how you were doing. Petty politics on the job suspended, silly grievances forgotten.Flags everywhere, including the rear windows of every car. Less road rage, more patience on long lines. Spontaneous parades and candlelight vigils. I myself stopped to listen, hold hands and say a prayer with an evangelical something on Chambers Street when I made the pilgrimage to Ground Zero for the first time.


There were not a lot of smiles as we donned masks and gloves and emptied our mailboxes over the recycling pail--outdoors and away from the kids-- during a surprisingly mild, dry fall. It made it easier as recovery efforts went on, we watched for Anthrax, sent socks, lip balm, water, work gloves and other supplies to Shea Stadium for distribution to the heroes downtown--many of them now terribly ill from toxic exposures (including the police officer who gave me copies of images he took at Ground Zero). One police officer I know, a thirty-five year old singlemother, has died.


In addition to nuts, impaired drivers, rats and petty thieves snatching I-pods and gold chains, we did as told: "If you see something, say something." The campaign didn't bear fruit until years later when a multitude of terrorist plots and activities were uncovered, but we also learned to expect, and welcome, police and the National Guard, with weapons drawn, patrolling bus terminals, train stations and at times of high alert, the subways, bridges, and tunnels.I drive over the East River bridges almost every day, and there is never a time when I look at the hole in the skyline and don't remember. And in my own post traumatic stress disordered world, the sounds of sirens still shock my heart into a rapid rhythm, make me nauseous, and weaken my knees.


There are plenty of things to do this Sunday to commemorate the tenth anniversary of 9/1/01. Concerts, multimedia retrospectives, church services, ceremonies, dedications. I'm not sure what I'll do. My sons, 10 and 8 at the time of the attacks, are away at college. My daughter, who we adopted in 2003, was born nearly a year after and I'm trying to explain it before show her the pictures. Anguish spurned me into initiating the proceedings in November 2001, because there were just no more good excuses to put off all the things I'd always wanted to do.


I could also just do my routine Sunday things like take ballet class, or putter in my garden, or clean up the house, but I am feeling an even bigger sense of loss this year since my father's recent death. His construction company was a major contractor for the building of the WTC, and it was one of his proudest accomplishments and greatest heartbreaks.Even my favorite peaceful activities- kayaking or walking along the shorelines, seeing my childhood haunts, remembering how it was to be a kid is too painful these days, with the hole in my life left by Dad's absence, the hole in my heart left by the hole in the New York City skyline. 


I can still remember the fear, the confusion, the desperation, the camaraderie, the anger, the sounds, the smells--oh yes, that smell of smoke, burning rubber and plastic, and death diffusing over the world churning my stomach into a knot, keeping me on the verge of puking every time wind blew a certain way.On September 1, I took these images of the Freedom Tower rising above the space left for the 9/11 Memorial Pools over the footprints of the towers--a crypt for the unidentified remains and for those whose remains were never found. The DJ on The Circle Line was playing Usher's D.J.'s Got Us Falling in Love Again and it seemed like an appropriately upbeat way to sail past the new skyline toward the tenth anniversary of the attacks.


But as today approached, melancholy washed over me like the rains flooding the tri-state area. Natural disasters like hurricanes, earthquakes, and tornados aren't intentionally planned to spawn death, destruction and despair--unless your gods or God is more capricious than mine. I'm physically sick today, puked once already, and my right arm feels like it's been wrenched out of place. I don't want to hear any speeches, listen to any music. I don't want to read any "ten years later" stories. I don't want to do things I love: to dance, or to write. I don't want to do anything except hug my husband and my kids, crawl into bed, and wake up tomorrow morning.


Read part of the 9/11/01 chapter from Someday I'm Going to Write a Book


Read last year's retrospective The Twin Towers and the Lowly Parking Meter--A 9/11 Remembrance

What I'm Thankful For Today

Turkey in A Nest by Maya Virzi, class 3-204.

Happy Thanksgiving to all those celebrating. And for those who aren't, this traditional American holiday provides us Yanks an opportunity to focus on what we're thankful for rather than complain about what we don't have.

I'm really lucky. First off, I have my health and my family, without which nothing else matters. I have a job, a house, a wonderful husband, three happy, healthy kids, a big sloppy hound, and a sassy cat who sleeps on my feet every night. If you're interested there is more on the personal things, and an excerpt of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary here.

Writing wise, I also have a lot to be thankful for. Progress along the path to publication, wonderful literary friends and partners on several groups and loops, and a bunch of editors who've been generous with advice, support, and venues for me to prove myself. Writers Eugie Foster, Michaela Roessner, Marta Randall, Mary Buckham, Margie Lawson, and Ana Maria Spagna who truly taught me everything I know about how to write and give me encouragement to keep going.

So to all my friends and followers, crit partners, group mates, soul mates I am thankful for YOU today. There are too many names to list here, but you know who you are.

If you've noticed my absence, well this month has been quite busy--and trying.

Please visit and "like"my writing and professional Facebook Fan Pages.

The Widow's Walk (paranormal romance novel/sequel) is almost done! Look for it on the newly expanded Critters and OWW soon. Anticiworkshoppers, no snitching about the first draft.

Boulevard of Bad Spells and Broken Dreams (first book in my urban fantasy series) is fully plotted, outlined, and research is completed.

My alter ego has completed final edits and marketing of the novella. Now it's time to enjoy the release party. Email me for an invite.

Reviews have been posted on Tangent Online and The Portal.

Submissions:

To Wordrunner E-chapbooks: Six excerpts of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book
To Alimentum: "Artichokes," a tribute to Grandma Clo, who died 11/18/99 leaving a big hole in my life--and my heart.

To agents:

Requested proposal for Someday I'm Going to Write a Book
Requested partial of Unfinished Business

And I'm very thankful that only one (so far) was a lovely, personalized rejection.

"Everything Must Go," Oasis Journal 2009 Contest Winner-Best Nonfiction

I wrote this essay never intending it to be a part of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book.

It's a very personal story about the divorce from my childhood sweetheart and the aftermath-which is a big deal in an Italian Catholic family whose elders stayed married,some for more than fifty years until death they did part.

So how did it wind up in Someday, subtitled Diary of an Urban Missionary? Well, during the writing process my readers kept telling me to include more about myself to give a better context to the patient related stories I was telling. Otherwise it made my prose feel like a case study rather than a heartfelt examination with a connection to universal experience.

In more simple words, I was above it all looking down instead of immersed and invested emotionally in my experiences. Professional distance is critical in clinical practice, but this memoir isn't a lecture.

When I looked back at the "Everything Must Go," I realized the inciting incident did not only end my marriage. It killed my innocence, my invincibility, my youthful bravado, the illusion that I was above all the misery I had borne witness to. It also coincided with very significant events in my career and propelled me in a new direction. But most of all, the depression and the process of recovery gave me critical insight into what it's like for people being tossed about in a storm they just happened into-and how to better help them pull out of it.

So, in "Everything Must Go" I acknowlege the enduring effect of families on everyone's life, pay tribute to the very special people who had a major impact on my life and career--my ex-husband, whose love, support and generosity made it possible for me to achieve what I have today, his mom and dad, his sisters and their husbands. Even though I am no longer a part of the family, they remain a part of me.

And special thanks to my current husband, who accepted me with all that baggage and continues to this day to be by my side as I struggle to carry it all.

Winning Oasis Journal's prize for best nonfiction for this excerpt has affirmed that it speaks to the universal experience and does indeed belong in Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: The Diary of an Urban Missionary.

Enjoy!

I’d driven by the house on my way to work, almost everyday, for the last eighteen years. Until I saw the sign, it was easy to deny how much time had passed since the gate creaked open and I meandered past the immaculate garden, up the long driveway, through the back door, and into the cozy kitchen with pots simmering on the stove. I can still smell garlic in the meatballs, and the bittersweet tang of stuffed cabbage and sauerkraut balls. The cat would brush against my ankles while the dog's tail beat a welcome across my legs.

The dining room hosted Thanksgiving feasts of turkey, bread stuffing, candied sweet potatoes and peas—but only after the lasagna. On Christmas mornings, we crowded into the living room and plunked onto bulky chestnut colonial furniture upholstered in trendy orange and brown. A fire flickered, stockings hung from the mantelpiece. Pale winter sunlight filtered through ivory lace curtains, glinting off the dark wood paneling and polished hardwood floors.

The tree was surrounded by more presents than one could ever imagine for three teenage children and their assorted boyfriends and girlfriends. The cat and dog ran rampant through discarded wrapping paper. There was always My-T-Fine chocolate pudding for dessert, with Saran wrap on the top to prevent the skin from forming.

More love to go around than the average family, and you could feel it the minute you walked in the door to hugs, cries of welcome, and fights. Was it really over?

* * *

I married into the family in 1979, but was welcomed in many years before that. We met when Michael was a seventeen-year-old star shortstop, and I was a fourteen-year-old Little League groupie.

Like most love struck teenagers, we vowed to stay together forever and went steady for eight years before finally getting married. He encouraged me as I pursued the career I so desperately wanted, and had faith that I was going to be the best nurse ever. I knew he would succeed in business and finance. We stayed married long enough to graduate college, land good jobs and buy not just one house, but also a vacation getaway in Vermont.

©Carole Ann Moleti, 2009. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission.


Oasis Journal 2009: