Hi, I'm Jill
I'm a mom, an award-winning author of 3 books, and an avid outdoor adventurer, who married a performance artist and addiction counselor renown for the best risotto on the planet.
I grew up as an Army brat, traveling the world. Now, I'm psyched to live in Spokane and adventure around the Pacific Northwest.
We have the dubious pleasure of a bus stop/staging area at the end of our driveway. A group of African refugees—several women in vibrant colors with very small children—will laugh the entire time they are waiting. You have never heard such extended pleasure. It’s as lovely as birdsong. They are fine compensation for every weirdo with his paper bag of beer. The drivers give the dogs treats and are frequently chivalrous with elderly passengers....Read More
I can’t explain how I’ve gone so long without knowing about Marc Forster’s 2005 film, Stay. This week, I’ve watched it twice, and the second viewing was even more affecting than the first. Since the Greeks, we’ve read tales of grievers’ attempts to bring back the dead. Orpheus descending into Hades to recover Eurydice. (Re-imagined by Rilke, Eurydice has found her fulfillment in death, and does not even recognize Orpheus when he turns on...Read More
Our modem died over the weekend, and we spent a week without the internet. Not a tragedy, I know, but I have felt disconnected and isolated from news and events ever since. And I have been over thinking, over dreaming, and generally stirring myself into a fierce frenzy. At issue is conviction. I would rather see humanism prevail than feminism. Civil rights rather than gay. I am as skeptical of conviction as I am...Read More
I’ve been reading Clive James’ provocative collection of short essays, Cultural Amnesia, and here’s a little taste: “Nothing creative should be excluded for the sake of any other conviction.” I have never read James before. He reminds me of Jacques Barzun. His argument admirably stated and intriguing, his prose striking, his stance frequently anti-establishment. I feel tethered to all the world while I read him. As much as “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”...Read More
Some people have to be at work by 8 a.m., and stay there until 5 or so. Some of them have to talk to customers. Or punch time cards. Sometimes they work for assholes, or sit in tiny partitioned cubby holes. Some commute for hours—leave in the dark, and arrive home to a similar situation. There are whole days I don’t go outdoors. Days where I might produce 7 pages, though I have sat...Read More
What do you remember of your adolescent self? Ali Smith channels hers beautifully in The Accidental, and Stephanie Vaughn’s short story Dog Heaven has exactly the right mix of girl remembering story, and woman remembering girl. I’ve been thinking a lot about this, this adolescent point of view, and I think one of the most striking things about adolescent brain is its immediacy. In eighth grade, this boy described to me how he’d wound...Read More
When I read through the latest rewrite of my novel in November, I was embarrassed to find that several key character details were based on a close friend of mine. When I’d envisioned the character, these details were supposed to be placeholders, developed, later, into other, less recognizable details. But the character got away from me. From the earliest pages, she was so wholly her own that I forgot I’d based any of her...Read More
I’ve just watched a documentary about extreme winter sports: Warren Miller’s Playground. Skiers cliff diving, half-pipe jumping, snowboarding into trees, parachuting down the north face of Alaskan mountains, etc. Sweet, terrifying athleticism. I am so not extreme. I never caught a wave over eight feet. Whenever I mountain biked in the back country, I hit a tree. I sucked at skateboarding because I was afraid of crashing (most especially down stairs). Two days ago,...Read More
The sleds of our youth are German: a sweet wooden one with a multi-colored webbed seat, and curled runners; and a racing car of red plastic with a sophisticated steering mechanism that includes a wheel and horn. Yesterday my brother and I humped these up Howard Street in addition to my son on his new inner tube. The inner tube is fast beyond all reckoning–riding up the snow burm, spinning in wild circles, whooshing...Read More
My four year old is a random trekking companion. But two days ago, we walked for miles through the snow paths and side streets of the South Hill, while Gavin told a story of an avalanche that buried cars and houses and trees. Groups of young men with shovels were moving up and down the hill, digging people’s cars out, and excavating driveways. We watched any number of cars get stuck, and neighbors come...Read More