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.
A week and a half ago I finished what seemed to be part one in the latest novel. So, I took a day to reflect, and critical editor guy came into the writer’s room and staged a coup. The writer leaned back in her chair, put her feet up on the desk, and went to sleep. Editor guy is still storming around talking about structure and thematics, and a bunch of other jargon that...Read More
I didn’t really get into theater until college. Once we read Pinter, I determined I’d be a playwright. At that point, I was reading plays, and watching the occasional performance. In Dublin, I attended the Pinter festival, and the experience became markedly different. Plays are meant to be performed. That may seem terribly self-evident, but, in fact, it’s experiential. I’d read every Pinter play I could get my hands on, and so I thought...Read More
Amanda Palmer posted an interesting blog yesterday (http://blog.amandapalmer.net/post/75463717/on-abortion-rape-art-and-humor) about the fact that her single Oasis has been banned by every television and radio outlet in the United Kingdom, and the consistent stance from those outlets is that the song “makes light of abortion and date rape.” I’m not particularly a fan of the song, but I do understand what she’s trying to do, and the fact that it’s being censored is wicked worrying. It’s kind of...Read More
I didn’t develop insomnia until I began writing short stories. A buddy of mine had had insomnia since elementary school. He’d worked out an entire routine to cope with it. Sometimes, during college, I’d sit up with him in the middle of the night, and just think, You poor bastard. It’s worse for me in the winter, probably because I’m less active. If I take a walk at night, I sleep better. Something about...Read More
I’m a small kid—either 3, or 6, because it had to be right before Germany, or right after—and I’m standing on white tile in a bathroom. A woman has her jeans rolled up to her knees, and is rinsing mud from her calves and feet in a white tub. The light is bright in the corner of the bathroom nearest the window, and dull everywhere else. The woman is young, in her twenties, with...Read More
We caught the movie, Defiance earlier this week, and it has been weighing on me ever since. I didn’t know the story, and I won’t spoil it for you here, but it’s the kind of film that I love: one that leaves you with more questions than answers, one that doesn’t settle comfortably in your belly, one in which the heroes are equal parts villain. The movie punctuated Clive James’s book Cultural Amnesia admirably...Read More
Gavin’s Christmas Concert is tonight. Rotten weather resulted in the cancellation of the original program, and subsequently every other class dropped out, so Gavin’s preschool class will perform on their own. They have three songs, and then we’ll all eat some cookies. He loves these crazy songs. I’d never heard of any of them before: Every Little Wish, Little Toy Trains, and There Was a Little Baby. We sing them every night after stories....Read More
My father usually read to us, although my mother gave us Little Women aloud on a road trip across the south when we were in grade school. But Dad had the gift of doing voices, and reading with a coherence that always felt rehearsed. (I mean rehearsed in the best sense, as though he’d practiced his delivery.) The first novel he read to me was The Wind in the Willows and his Toad was magnificent. No one will ever deliver...Read More
The last year we lived in Missouri, I was a fourth grader, and my father had taken over the division chapel where the basic trainees came every Sunday by the hundreds (if they went to a church service, they didn’t have to participate in drills). What I remember most from that year, was a family that moved in down the street from us, and discovered, in a heavy trunk in their garage, the body...Read More
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