a critical review of war and peace

...is a perfect example of what not to title your blog post if you actually want someone to read it. So my senior thesis in college was on Crime and Punishment, so I have a Tolstoy quote written on my wall right now, this is not the forum for a discussion of the 19th Century Russian novel...unless there's a character missing an arm––and throwing yourself under a train doesn't count.

In fact, I started reading War and Peace several years back when I fancied myself a student of Russian literature. I got about 35 pages into it, but then something happened...like I found something more interesting to read...and I stopped. I still want to read it, though. I'm just loathe to go back because I know I will have to start from the beginning again and try to get to know characters called Aleksandr Petromoskikofff and Demitriev Stefanyzsyn Romananskovich. And then in chapter 11, those two characters will switch names just for fun. Whereupon, I will have to have three shots of vodka to continue.

Ode to Opie

After last week's invitation to submit questions for the OneArmGirl, I received a total of absolutely no inquiries, leading me to believe a)I am completely transparent and my work is done here, or b)You have better things to be doing with your lives. I'd personally go with the latter. And since I don't want to risk boring you with a step-by-step photo guide on how to tie your tennis shoe with one hand, I'm just going to move on, and tell you about my friend Opie instead.

Opie was the one who actually suggested that I do a critical reading of War and Peace for this blog, which, for my own sanity, I am going to assume was a joke. He also suggested that I write a post about him, and I quote loosely, because he is cool. I assume this was also a joke, but since it was a request, I am going to take him seriously.

Also, I kind of feel like I owe it to him after I published a totally unrelated picture of him in a post about porn. We both looked pensive, so I used it. Lucky for me, Opie doesn't have internet access, so he hasn't read anything on my blog for some time.

Opie came over last Friday night and we did basically nothing for the next four hours, which is what we generally do, and is probably my most favorite pastime. I excused myself for about five minutes to take a shower and when I returned, Opie said, "Are you wearing something different?"

"Yes, and I took a shower, too."

"How come your hair isn't wet?"

"Because I didn't wash my hair."

"Oh."

And it's that sort of stimulating conversation that will occupy us for hours. Of course, we also drink wine and eat quiche. Opie is one of the few people I know who really knows how to slow down and enjoy the present moment. Ironically, much of his enjoyment is spent listening to sad music and lamenting his life's path.

But lamentation is a dish better served on the side, so I asked Opie to fix my table fan, which I'd already partially disassembled on the floor after it inexplicably ceased to turn on. Opie disassembled it more, all the while, giving me assurances like "I probably can't put this back together." He showed me the motor and explained how it worked. I only remember that it has something to do with wires and a magnet, which isn't doing me any good because it's Thursday and my fan is still in pieces on the floor.

Opie's art

I love Opie because he's generally always up for anything. More than likely this is because he doesn't have another plan, but that kind of availability is hard to find these days. One day last summer, I called him up:

"Hey, would you drive to Santa Fe with me to pick up a vaulting practice barrel in a truck that may or may not break down on the side of the road?"

"Sure," he said.

And it was a good thing because we ended up on some serious back-country dirt roads with such elevational differences, I'm not sure I could have handled them without moral support. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't think 'elevational' is a word, but it obviously should be.

Mission accomplished, we enjoyed a rewarding dinner at a local hot spot with mural topped tables and plenty of guacamole. Heading back outside, I said, "You know, it's a shame we're not dating, because this was a pretty kick ass date." Opie laughed. Opie always laughs when I say something funny, and most of the time when it isn't that funny––that's why I keep him around. Also, he's willing to watch exceptionally obscure foreign films with me.

On the way home, we jammed to the Black Keys, and I thought driving in a truck through the desert with a good friend and good music must be one of the greatest ways to spend an evening. I also thought if I didn't get to a toilet soon, the beer I drank at dinner was going to be feeding a cactus shortly.

Here's to you, Ope.

OneArmGirl 

the secret

Sometimes I wonder about things. Like how I come to be reading a book called The Amputee's Guide to Sex and a book called Real Sex: The Naked Truth About Chastity, simultaneously. Due to recent events on this blog, I would like to clarify that the former is not actually a guidebook. 

I've also been pondering how often I frequent Starbucks. And now they've gone and made all their frappaccinos half price between 3pm and 5pm for the next two weeks. Bastards. This is the closest I've come to a temptation I cannot overcome. I actually drove twice around the block and parallel parked downtown so that I could get my Grande Coffee Frappaccino, Easy Ice, before going to work.

I stood in line for about ten minutes with a bunch of suits and ties, filled with disappointment in myself for being so pathetic. Looking around, I remembered what it was like to dress up for work. Looking down, I saw stains on my jeans and dust on my boots. Then I remembered that I'd forgotten to pay for parking, and panicked. But I didn't leave. I decided to chance paying a $20 parking ticket so that I could get a $2.27 cup of coffee. Yes, I did.

On the way out, I offered up a prayer..."I certainly know I don't deserve this, but please don't let me have a parking ticket, please...you know how much I needed this coffee, and isn't grace all about getting what you don't deserve?"

There was no ticket on my car.

------------------- 

Standing in line behind me were a man and a woman, discussing the effect of one's will in the determination of life. She seemed to think you have some wiggle room, but expressed that she's the kind of person who thinks "everything happens for a reason."

"I think you will whatever happens in your life," her colleague countered. I really wanted to turn around and say, "Really, so I decided to have only one arm and a crooked back?" But, apparently, I also decided not to have that kind of nerve.

She admitted there was something to The Secret, a book of Oprah fame, about how you can change your life by just deciding to do so (well, that's my summary anyway). She illustrated this with a story, almost too appropriately, about wanting to read The Secret, then finding herself on the plane next to a woman who finished it and offered it to her.

I considered if I had willed Starbucks to lower their prices.

-------------------

Is that The Secret? Is life really about the power of your own will? And what happens when things go badly, and you have only yourself to blame? I'm not sure I want that kind of power.

I once heard a preacher say "Everything is God's fault." It sounded sacrilegious and true. It's funny how often the truth turns out to be sacrilegious. 

The Secret smacks of the "Just think positively" adage, which always gives me the urge to go tramping through the daffodil beds of the people who say it. I wonder if they would mind explaining how so many Africans are dying of Aids and hunger, and still happier than a lot of physically healthy and materially inundated Americans.

I recently watched The Human Experience, a wonderful documentary by two brothers who travel around the world visiting with some of the most (assumed) underprivileged. In an isolated leper colony, where people were ostracized because their fingers and noses were rotting away, the filmmakers noted smiles and excitement when they arrived. When they asked one man who no longer had feet, he said he was happy because they had come.

I am no denier of the power of thought, but I tend to think life is more about what you do with what you got. I was born with one arm. Sometimes I get parking tickets.

If I could have willed my life's path, I would now be an internationally renowned broadcast journalist with a chateau in southern France. I would be wearing dress suits and heels and working in a cubicle. I would not be caring for two aging horses with goals like convincing a mentally handicapped woman to get on top of one of them. I would not be talking about disability.

But thank God, I am. Who needs panty hose, anyway?

OneArmGirl

an unfortunate incident

In what can only be called a colossally horrific earth-shaking incident, my Thursday post was eaten by Blogger. What's that? You hadn't noticed?

Well, I guess I'd have to explain to you how much I detest re-doing lost work, for you to understand the current environmentally devastated condition...of my brain. Still in shock, I'm clinging to the thread of a promise from the Blogger higher-ups that they are working feverishly, day and night, into the wee morning hours, to find and restore my lost content, which I imagine to be in the stomach of the Internet, which is slowly digesting it. Oh, my poor little post! It hardly had a chance.

In the mean time, I did my laundry. I was actually very excited to wake up this morning, knowing that I was on my way to the laundromat, a place of never-ending curiosity to me. How could a place where perfect strangers willingly throw their underwear around in front of each other not be of interest to someone?

Plate-juggling

A woman and a man walked in with several big bags of clothes. My attention was drawn from my library book when she suddenly said commandingly, "Sit down! Sit!" I know people can be particular about how they wash their clothes, but what could the guy have done to warrant that? Then I saw the long-haired chihuahua sitting in her basket. Can't argue with the efficiency of getting all your washing done at once. (Don't worry, no animals had their spots removed–they were actually very nice, non-animal-abuser, types). 

I don't want to brag, but I was faster folding my clothes than the two guys folding next to me. But to be fair, they were probably folding six months worth of clothing. And one of them was folding each pair of underwear with careful precision. I still feel liberated by the realization that I don't have to fold my clothes just like my mother does. Also, I can have sweets after 8pm. Actually, I wouldn't put that past my mother, either. 

I'm not sure if it's a testament to my sadly lacking social life or my notably domestic leanings, but I really look forward to cleaning day. I love organizing, setting straight, and dusting off around the apartment–makes me feel like I'm doing something important and real. I only wish I knew how to keep water from leaking out of my tub, through the wall, and underneath my kitchen sink.

I did make a Honey Do list and posted it on my refrigerator to make myself feel better. I figure, I can just pretend I have a husband who never gets around to it. If I get bored, we can have imaginary arguments about it. Did I mention I spend a lot of time alone?

I was sprucing up in the tack room at the farm yesterday. Missy came out to help me bring Sam in from the pasture. Rounding the corner into the barn, she looked at Finneas and said, "That's a nice arm, Tash."

OneArmGirl


*Speaking of clothes-folding skill, I think it's high time for another installment of "How Does She Do That," since we're currently averaging, uh, one installment...ever. So send your niggling questions to OneArmGirl@gmail.com, and I will do my best to answer one of them.

mama

On Monday afternoon, Kristy came out to the barn with a Mother's Day greeting she'd colored that day. She handed it to me. "But, I'm not a mother," I offered, feeling like Captain Obvious–Kristy is autistic, maybe she was confused. She paused for a moment, then said, "Yes you are."

My little helper

To my knowledge, I've never given birth to anyone, much less had a living being in my womb for nine months. Biologically speaking, I am not a mother. But when Kristy said that I was, I knew almost immediately that I wasn't going to win the argument. Sometimes sanity falls short.

I think it was sometime last summer that Kristy started calling me Mama. "Hey Mama," she calls across the parking lot when I get out of my car. The staff says that Kristy's much less willing to help outside when I'm not there. Nine times out of ten, she meets me in the barn within five minutes of my arrival.

Kristy's eager to tell me the latest animal news–show me a strange bump on Diamond's neck or discuss a recent incident wherein both horses managed to free themselves while being moved from the pasture to the barn, initiating, according to Kristy, an exciting victory run across the farm. She wasn't worried; she knew they would eventually go to their stalls of their own accord. And they would.

Kristy knows a lot about the residents of the barn. While I start to groom the horses, she pokes around, checking on the goats and the chickens. She brings me an egg, freshly pulled from a roost. She's never in a hurry, much to my annoyance when it's her turn to ride, and she'd rather discuss how Diamond is feeling than pick up a brush to help groom him.

Harder than it looks

"How is your little boy?" Kristy often asks. The little boy to whom she refers is my best friend's son Eli, whom I sometimes bring to the farm with me. Because he lost his daddy two weeks after he was born, I lived with Eli the first month of his life. In the morning, when he woke up, I'd steal him out of the bedroom and rock him quietly while he stared intently at the multi-colored lamp shades above my head. I wondered how he felt about not being able to care for himself–was he frustrated or did he feel safe?

When I hold other people's babies, I can often feel their parental misgivings. But I've never dropped one–though I once nearly lost the battle with a baby swing; thankfully, someone showed up to help before I had to consider Eli's legs a casualty.

I've explained countless times that Eli's not actually my little boy, that he lives with his mother, and she cares for him; but Kristy doesn't seem to care, offering suggestions for where I should take him or what I should feed him. Missy, who also lives at the farm, assumes the same. "Are you taking your little boy to get a flu shot?," she wants to know.

"No, that's up to his mom; she decides those things," I explain.

"I think you should take him to get a flu shot."

"Well, I'm not his mom, so..."

"It won't really hurt that bad, ok?"

"Ok, but..."

"Just take him to get a flu shot, okay, Tash?"

"Okay, Missy."

------------------

Recently Eli spent the night at my apartment. We had blueberry pancakes for dinner because it's easy to be the coolest mom for one night.

"I'm going to sleep in your bed," Eli says.

"Okay, as long as you don't kick me," I agree.

After an episode of Pink Panther and sufficient story-reading, I tuck him into bed.

"My mommy usually lays down with me for five minutes," he tells me.

I lay next to him, and remember doing the same until my little sisters fell asleep. I remember trying to sneak away after my childhood Chihuahua Chi Chi fell asleep–which was much harder. Eli turns and squirms. Then he faces me and looks in my eyes. He reaches an arm over my shoulder: "I love you," he sighs. Is he trying to manipulate me? Who cares.

Ten minutes later, he remembers he needs to brush his teeth.

Cat reminders left by my little boy

The first thing I remember wanting to be was a mommy. And I wanted five children–because two wasn't enough, three meant awkward dinner table arrangements, and four was too even–five seemed just right, enough to feel like a big family, but not too big.

Now I'm not sure I'll have any children, biologically speaking. Suffice it to say, I have some complications, not least of which being the lack of someone in my life to have babies with. And though I've witnessed the incomparable beauty of birth, when I think of birthing five people out of my body, I nearly pass out. But I'm not all that concerned. As they say, "The show ain't over till..." That saying just took on a whole new meaning for me. And if the final act never comes, I think I'm gonna be OK.

I certainly never imagined having a 'child' several years older than myself. Life is funny that way. I take the greeting from Kristy's hand and smile. "You're right," I say and give her a squeeze.

"C'mon, Mama," she says, and we head toward the house.

OneArmGirl

 

real women have dimension

I don’t want to write about this. It goes against my instincts of self-preservation and privacy. But I should have considered that before I started this blog, which is nothing if not honest. 

I recently experienced a heart-bruising, from which, I am finding, I am still recovering. This hurt in love was as much my fault as his, if not more so, but hurt it is nonetheless. It’s left me tender, wanting to listen only to classic rock, a now familiar sign that I am trying to feel less vulnerable.

And so, you may well understand why this was not a good week to stumble on a soft-porn site and find pictures of myself, the one-armed girl, posted thereon. Not only were pictures skimmed from my blog, but comments were left, one particularly disrespectful, and another stating that I am currently “looking for a boyfriend”–something of which I was unaware.

Unfortunately this is not the first time I’ve found my particular handicap pop up in a search along with sexually degrading web sites–I’d recommend you not try this type of web browsing at home–But I’ve never actually found myself on one of those sites. I guess I’d be flattered if I hadn’t felt so disgraced and upset. I actually felt shame for “contributing” to the objectification of women and handicaps. And this on the heels of writing about freak shows-apparently, objectification doesn't discriminate. And I'm a freak?

Now I have a few things on my mind; don’t worry, they don’t involve cutting off any part of the male anatomy.

I would like to particularly address any visitors of the aforementioned site who are directed to TheOneArmGirl.com thanks to the poster conveniently leaving my blog address in the post.

A) Welcome. I'm glad you're here, and not there.

B) You may be disappointed because this site is about empowering, not degrading, people with handicaps (of which, incidentally, you fall well-within the demographic).

And...

C) I feel sorry for you. Not sorry like I want to hit you over the head with a tire iron–that was yesterday. Today I feel sad for you, and all men (or women), who are believing a lie because of two-dimensional, photoshopped spreads. Thinking this is sexual gratification, you are missing out on the superior gratification of loving a real woman. Expecting the same thing from a woman that you get from a replication is like expecting gourmet to taste like fast food. It’s time to raise your expectations.

Loving a real woman is hard, yes-as Meredith Brooks puts so appropriately: “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother...” Couldn’t have said it better, I think to myself, shoveling manure as the song plays through the barn. I’m sure it was appreciated by both male horses as they munched their hay–we won’t talk about what happened to their male parts.

But since when does difficult mean time to back down?

----------------------  

But I have some good news. Not coincidentally, I ran into two real men this week.

On Saturday night, I went to dinner with one of the kindest guys I’ve ever met. He ordered more sushi for us than I could dream of eating at one sitting, and asked the sort of questions that I giggle with delight to answer–none of which included ‘What’s your sign?’ or ‘Favorite movie?'

I also received an email from an admiring fan–No, not my mother. We’ll call him Guy, he’s new to OneArmGirl, and I’ve never met him. As if it weren’t flattering enough that Guy’s read every post I’ve written since I started blogging, he called me “enchanting” and said I “write with a hint of the sort of charming understatement, even self-deprecation” which he generally identifies with British writers. Could I hope for a better compliment? So much for self-deprecation. It doesn’t count against me if I’m quoting someone else, does it?

But Guy’s email wasn’t superficial flattery. Having “seen” me only on a computer monitor, Guy recognized real things about me–things certainly influenced by my handicaps, but none directly related. He made me feel real, parts aside.

Real women have curves?–Even porn peddlers can join that bandwagon. No, real women are more than arms or lips or toes–or the absence thereof.

"This may mean you'll have to be a stronger man."

Using my pictures for cheap gratification is your loss. Real women have more than two dimensions. We live in 3D. You might want to put on your glasses for the full experience. 

OneArmGirl

freak show

Thanks to a new follower of this blog, I've been made aware of an important Facebook page called Armless Wonder, dedicated to the men and, probably, mostly women who were exhibited in freak shows, demonstrating various mundane tasks such as smoking a cigarette or using a writing utensil with their feet. Apparently, for the Victorians, this was not only freakish, but also provocative, as women rarely showed any part of their legs above the ankle, much less made dinner with their toes.

And, as I hadn't a clue as of yesterday what I was going to write about today, this find provided a perfect opportunity to share something I wrote several years ago for Confessions of a One-Armed Girl: 

from us-smkr.info

It used to be that people with disabilities joined freak shows. That was how they made it in this world. When I was a kid, my mom read us a true story about conjoined twins from Siam (now Thailand), who, through various stints in show business, popularized the term 'Siamese Twins.' Not only did they make a living from being joined at the stomach, they both got married and fathered 21 children all together. Yeah, try to get your head around that one.

I watch freak show documentaries with interest. “Why’d they do it?” I find myself asking. Why would people with some sort of physical deformity subject themselves to public display and possibly scorn, even contributing to the stereotype of being less than human? They were labeled freaks by their own employers. You’d hardly get away with that in today’s society of political correctness. I’m sure there must be endless hypotheses as to why the bearded woman and the half lizard man joined the freak show. Maybe it was for the money. Maybe they got attention they’d been denied all their life. Maybe they had no other option. I don’t know. But sometimes I wonder if they actually chose to be a 'freak' because the title fit. Like there was maybe nowhere else in the world like the freak show, where being a freak was a good thing, something lauded and praised. Is it possible that these people joined the freak show because they actually felt like they belonged there? This is just a theory I’m working on.

It doesn’t take much for me to feel like a walking freak show. Just going to Target or the food court at the mall can feel like stepping on stage in front of hundreds of eyes. “And now, the amazing one-armed girl! Yes, folks, she’s got just one arm and she still goes shopping just like any other person. Amazing, isn’t it? Watch closely, you might get to see her tie her own shoe!” Sometimes I have to giggle because people can hardly conceal their amazement at most anything I do.

But sometimes, mostly when I’m tired and introverted, I don’t like feeling like a float at the Macy’s Day Parade. So I’ve become an expert at concealing my handicap. If I walk fast, wear a coat, or smile a lot, I may get by even the most observant onlooker without being found out. When I first met my best friend Audra, she didn’t notice that my coat sleeve was empty. In fact it took a few weeks before she thought, ‘Hey, why is Tasha wearing her watch on her right wrist?'

Considering my innate aversion to stares, one may find it a bit counter-intuitive that I became very actively involved in drama in high school. But something drew me to the stage, every aspect of production, but I loved acting. I loved standing there at the end of a musical number with the cameras flashing and the crowd applauding. It felt like all eyes were on me and I loved it. I hated auditioning, but I did anyway, just to have that chance to stand on stage again. The thing is, I knew I had talent, I knew I had something to say and to do, I just needed my big break.

But my big break never came, unless you consider singing “Beauty School Dropout” dressed in a pink leotard and a shower cap, a big break. I never had a starring role, never. And to this day, I’m a little bitter. That’s when I felt my disability was really working against me. Maybe I didn’t have the talent, but truthfully, I believe my greatest talent, taking on the world with only one full arm, turned out to be too much of a distraction for the stage. I imagine waltzing on for my crucial opening scene, where I leave my lover standing at the alter, and all the while the audience is thinking, “Hey, what happened to her arm?” And then, in the next scene, they’ll be like, “Hey, did they break up? And seriously, what happened to her arm? This play sucks.” At least that’s how it goes in my mind.

from aurelia.mx

Later in college, I got some callbacks for leading roles. But it never really panned out there either. Eventually I just got tired of being one of many in the ever underestimated ‘chorus’ or ‘villagers’ or ‘townspeople.’ They go by many names but are often told the same thing by directors all over the country: “There’s no small roles, just small actors,” which is partially true and partially meant to stop the grumbling that accompanies late nights and long rehearsals. So I guess I just got tired of small roles or long rehearsals or maybe I’m just a small actor, but nonetheless I began to put less stock in the stage.

I think it was in college that I realized why acting came so naturally to me. Shakespeare said that all of life is a stage, and in my case, nothing could be more true. Not unlike a movie star, I feel noticed everywhere I go. I am, in essence, living my own personal freak show. So somewhere along the way, I decided it might be worth taking advantage of my high profile. I never chose to be noticeable, but since I was, I figured there had to be an upside. For instance, I often have the complete attention of the world around me, if only for a few seconds. It’s kind of like those movies where everything is suddenly frozen except one character who is still moving. I also realized there was little I can do to make people stare more, they were already looking, and there was freedom in that.

Suddenly, my liability as an actor became an asset in my regular life. I decided to give myself permission to do pretty much anything. I could dye my hair purple or dance to the music in the elevator and it wouldn’t matter because people were already staring. I had gotten used to being in the spotlight and, over the years, I actually started to enjoy it. Carrying cafeteria food trays with one arm, a sometimes daunting task, became an opportunity to show off my ability. Not only would I carry it from the salad bar to my table, I

Most likely to be a freak?

would stand at the edge of the table while the waitress finished clearing it, then set it down, just for show. I get a small high when fellow gas station patrons peer through the filling stations to get a glimpse of me pumping my own gas. If I’m feeling generous, I’ll squeegy my windows as an encore.

And while I was coming to my quiet conclusions, Hollywood had the same idea. Lately, certain prominent celebrities with handicaps are appearing on the reality television circuit. Heather Mills, former wife of Paul McCartney, appeared with a prosthetic leg on ABC’s ballroom dancing competition Dancing with the Stars. Next came actress Marlee Matlin who found her inner sense of rhythm despite not being able to hear the music. I don’t think I’m the only one who watched with interest. The judges were consistently blown away by the commitment and level of competition these ladies brought to the show.

Just a few nights ago I happened to catch the latest episode of something I consider to be the closest thing to a freak show since Wild Bill Hickock. Celebrity Circus enlists the Hollywood B-list to attempt various big top endeavors like the Wheel of Death as they vie for the top spot. Oh my goodness, can you imagine my reaction to a show that would put Burt Reynolds on the high wire? Of course Burt Reynolds has too much good sense for that, but still, can you imagine? This week, I watched Wee Man of Jackass stunts fame, born with a form of dwarfism, attempt and succeed at balancing a gigantic weight-lifter on his back. Impressive. And this was after he’d beat out other competitors with acts like the wheel of fire.

Wee Man is a modern day freak. He’s making a living doing things that we love to watch because it's strange, and it might be impossible. There’s just something extra interesting about watching a deaf actress do the Mambo. People want to see the underdog get ahead. It’s as primal as eating and buying something on sale. It makes us feel good inside.

from androidbees.com

So I’ve realized that maybe the freaks were onto something. They knew something that it’s taken me years to learn. They looked at disability and saw opportunity; they made a living at just being who they were. Several years ago I began to ask myself a question: “Are you ready to be a career freak?” And simultaneously it occurred to me that I may not even have a choice. I’m interested in people like Heather and Marlee and Wee Man because they are helping me to understand my place in the world. When I decided to join the freak show, I started to feel much less like a freak and more like a person. I found identity and purpose like I’d never known before. I started to find me.
 

announcement

I don’t know if it’s coincidence or not that I started back into a project this week that lay dormant all of last year, and, on the same day, inexplicably put my right leg into my pants first, when I always start with the left.

 

But what better time than Spring for starting new things. And it seems appropriate, as we approach the one year anniversary of TheOneArmGirl blog, that I go public with another project that’s still in the wings. 

Curtain, please–I am writing a book! Tadaa!! For some of you this is not an announcement, but old news, and you’ve probably already given up hope of ever seeing it in print. But for those unaware, five years ago, also in the Spring as I recall, I decided that I was going to write a book. There is a great deal of garbage and life composting from which this idea grew, but it sprouted from the realization that my disability(s) were giving me a shit-load of material that couldn’t be ignored. And so I began to write, in the midst of upheaval, sitting on a mattress in my parents house, the frame having been already taken as they packed up the house to move.

The working title is Confessions of a One-Armed Girl. I tell people it’s not personal; a joke that hasn’t gone over especially well. Then I tell them it’s a collection of essays on the disability experience, specifically mine. When they nod sympathetically, I’m quick to chime in, “and it’s funny.”

One of the first essays I wrote was 'Joey’s Theory' because he shifted the spotlight onto what I most wanted to hide, leading to the creation of OneArmGirl. I loved to act, but now my handicap was

Sneak peak

becoming the star.

I’d wanted to write a book forever, probably before I was even conscious of wanting to write. I wrote a series of chaptered books and self-published them when I was nine, but since then, nothing had materialized. From time to time, I’d open a new document with the best of intentions, but I never got more than a few paragraphs down before I got bored and filed it as a ‘work in progress’, never to be opened again. But Confessions was different. Ideas were tumbling out chapter after chapter, like it was coming from a wellspring I’d never tapped into. I knew the concept wasn’t mine because the last thing I’d ever wanted was to be associated with the handicapped. How could I have known I had so much to say?

Since the Divine push, I’ve worked on Confessions in spurts over the past few years, around writer’s block and other demands and delays of life. Then, a year ago, at 33 chapters and 144 pages of the third draft, convinced that it was all mildly entertaining rubbish, I decided to take a break. I was sick of my own confessions. I sent the draft out to some readers for feedback, which they generously returned, and I put the manuscript and feedback in a pile where they proceeded to collect dust for the next nine months.

Writer's desk

However, with my book temporarily shelved, I finally overcame my fear of commitment, and started a blog; the very same blog you read today. Really, TheOneArmGirl.com is a reflection of the book, kind of a PR experiment. And largely because of my readers, the blog has encouraged and inspired, and even surprised me over the past year. I soak up the feedback like water on cracked earth.

And so, with renewed determination, I’ve taken Confessions off the shelf, and spread its bits and pieces over my tiny kitchen card table. It seems inviting, especially sitting atop the red and white checkered tablecloth, like a book writing picnic. I even borrowed a book of agents and publishers from the library, which makes the whole thing look much more official.

I don’t know where this is going to end up, but I hope you’ll join me on the journey, to eat an unhealthy amount of carbs when I get rejected, and to raise a glass of champagne when the time comes. Because it is you, who read what I write, that make it all worthwhile.

So, here’s to new beginnings; though I think I’ll continue putting on my pants, left leg first. Let's not get carried away.

OneArmGirl