Marianne maili creating writing, translation, conversation around the world washington university presidential debate

A new season is upon us. During spring, my favorite season, mom, through her death, gave me the gift of returning home to europe and being there again with my son. Traveling and writing made me feel so happy and once again so deeply at home in the world. Iceland, france, and spain. Writing everywhere.

These days I am working on the story of my eldest brother who died before I was born, on an essay on spiraling gratitude following the trail of my writing life, and on films of the readings and the alliance française of chicago interview with marvelous isabelle david. In october, I will do the first edit of the novel now titled, lucy, come home.

Naturally, there is a lot more than this that has been going on around and inside of and far away from me. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by both how much there is to tell and how much there is to read and to do and to know, and how much time any of us has.

As the end of my life feels closer, I am really trying to slow down. My appetite, however, is another story. What a balancing act. Dancing helps. So does yoga. Tenderness and laughter, utmost.

If you wish to buy or offer a book that’s thought-provoking and absolutely ‘unputdownable’, lucy, go see. Is what you’re looking for. Au university when we think of international models we can’t help bringing to mind the usual clichés. However, in lucy, go see., we are confronted with a funny, philosophical, curious, beautiful woman who explodes most of those preconceived ideas. As we read, lucy develops into a woman who resists dehumanizing, and being dehumanized with every bone in her body, in a business world where she is viewed as a commodity, and where back at home in iowa she is perceived if not exactly as the black sheep, definitely as a multicolored, un-herdable one. People persist in trying to categorize lucy’s body and mind, and lucky for her that somewhere deep down she manages, against the odds, to retain the knowledge that both are sound. American college cardiology however, when she listens to people around her, they question both, and ‘helpful’ suggestions of lithium and starvation are thrown in her direction. The very essence of lucy seems to be more at home in nature, than under layers of make-up and crimped hair, but although her iowa countryside feeds her, she also needs to see a bigger, wider world, and modeling is her ticket out. The reader imbibes her word-painted auto-portrait and is as confused as she when hairdressers, make-up artists and stylists don’t seem to understand the canvas and insist on transmogrifying her beauty into a cheaper, brassier version. Through lucy’s visits to international modeling agencies, and meetings with top executives and bookers, we get a grasp of how models have to start out on their career with a strong self-image, and fight tooth and nail to maintain it, and understand how they could be easily pushed on a downward spiral of eating disorders and low self-esteem if they don’t have a good spring to their internal resistance. Lucy’s metaphysical questions are not only confined to the city and her jet set career, she also has to deal with advances from her paternal grandfather in an extremely patriarchal mid-western family back in iowa. She tackles the problem with honesty and integrity and fast fledging courage, ruffling others’ feathers on the way. With her new unfaithful wife and divorcée status, she also has to justify her own right to speak out against being harmed. The treatment of the complex, taboo situation is thorough as lucy fights to protect herself mentally and physically, and tries to rescue her own pure love for her grandfather from the complex backdrop of a widower’s loneliness and feistiness that took a very wrong turn. Romantic love is not missing from the book and the reader is as fixated and as frustrated as lucy by the handsome and enigmatic julien who like lucy is very different from any stereotypical model. While making love with julien lucy has beautiful visions and shortly after they become lovers, lucy like saint teresa, experiences ‘ecstasy’, (as depicted by the artist bernini in the ecstasy of saint teresa and not in tablet form!). By the end of the book we feel slightly sorry for the male model agency executives, her family and her ex-husband’s belief that they could categorize lucy and clip her wings. This strong, shamanic, inspiring woman was way out of their orbit. Lucy, go see. Is one of the most enjoyable and inspirational books, for anyone, but particularly for women, who may want to also find the courage to go see for themselves… I can’t wait to see what’s in store for lucy and hopefully marianne maili the author will publish a sequel quickly. We sense that the book may be more than somewhat autobiographical and would also like to discover more about marianne herself…

I am really looking forward to being at the alliance française in chicago in live conversation with friend and ally isabelle david, a wonderful poet, philosopher, and literature expert ( https://surunlivreperchee.Wordpress.Com) – a real renaissance woman. She honored me when asking if she could be the first to interview me about the novel. I am thrilled and I guarantee you it will be a fun and interesting hour, incisive and thought-provoking as we use the novel to talk about the themes within it–and we laugh often together. The interview will be in english, and I will read isabelle’s requests from the novel, and then she will open the floor to questions and answers in english and french, which we will interpret in both languages. Please come. Refreshments will be served. I am very grateful to isabelle and the alliance for this invitation and for the writing spaces they have provided me, their friendship, and all of the interesting cultural events they offer. American university student jobs I would also like to extend special thanks to renée roger-saito, director of the resource center/ mediathèque, and to tiana pigford, communication and library intern. Please come join us on tuesday, june 12th, at 6:30 p.M.

I am thinking of what it means to be divine, holy, sacred. When I stepped into st. Joe’s key west last week to be quiet for a while before the first reading of my first novel I was struck by many things. The portrait of mary in the vestibule first caught my eye-I had never seen it before nor such a direct image of her. I thought of the praise I spoke for my mother at her funeral.

I wanted to light three candles, one for each of my grandmothers and one for my mother, to thank them and to ask them to be with me at the bookstore for the reading, but there were only two candle holders available so I lit one candle with the names of my grandmas on my lips and the other talking to mom alone. I stepped back and noticed that mom’s was shining more brightly than all the rest, which it did for the entire time I sat in the front pew of the empty church, and then while I noticed the library of the sanctuary for the first time. When I would show my sister the photos of it the next morning, she would point to the candlesticks on the altar and say, “those are from grandma. They were put there for her funeral and have been there ever since.”

On my way out, I noticed the 8th station of the cross in a way I never had before. I have memories of spending good friday afternoons in the church, praying at each station. I thought of those women who supported jesus and mostly I kept looking at those two words together: holy women. I thought of all the women in my life and how much they have supported me and how rarely I have seen those two words together: holy and women. I went to the cemetery and stood over the ground where my beloved mother’s body lays in rest and noticed the shadow of mine over hers. Best universities to transfer to I remembered those precious moments putting the last touches on the novel with mom at my side, often entering them with one hand as I held hers with the other.

My niece gave me a manicure and told me that I moaned in pleasure at the same points in the hand massage that my mom had. My niece then gently washed and styled my hair. Her daughters watched me get ready for the big night. I remembered my niece, my sister, and I all very close to my mother’s body as we did her hair, at the funeral home before the wake.

When I walked into the bookstore on main street of my hometown, the woman who owns it, and the women who work there, and some very dear women friends who arrived before I did opened their arms to me then led me to a table they had set with wine and food for the guests. My sisters were there, and many members of my mom’s family. Women and men. There were women and men I had gone to grade school with, too, and high school, who had known me all my life, others who introduced themselves, and others who had become my friends in the five years I re-rooted there upon return from europe.