This is 33

Last month, this little turkey turned two. Yesterday, I turned thirty-three. And of course, today is Thanksgiving. Lots of occasions for reflection. It’s easy to say that what I’m most thankful for is her — because it’s true. Like any toddler, she does cry and whine on occasion, but on the whole, she’s such a joyful little creature. And now she can talk, she can sing, she can draw, she can imagine. She fills us with awe every day.

This is 33: Holding my daughter in my arms at the end of each night, telling her “just one more minute,” and then counting to 100 instead of 60, because sometimes I just want to savor the moment a little bit longer.

She’s in full-time daycare now, and while I miss her terribly when she’s away, I also revel in having my whole day back. I love the quiet of the house while the sun is shining through the windows. I appreciate the ease of running errands, scheduling appointments, and doing all the other tedious things adults have to do, without worrying about how to bring her along. Even though I am honored by my role as a mother, I enjoy feeling like my own person for a few hours. I live for sitting at the table with my journal and my pen and actually writing again.

This is 33: Returning to my roots, just a girl with some time and some blank pages, and stories simmering inside her. 

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Stuff Worth Reading

“Writing What We Run From” by Laura Roque

Currently, my people and perverse culture, our hybrid language and history, is all I can seem to write about, and are the stories I think I should be telling. This isn’t a claim that writers should stick to their own parts of the world, but that there’s a correlation between what we run from and why we’ve run from it, our personalities and the organic ways we manipulate language when we speak to those who know us best, and stories with a heartbeat.

“Strikethroughs and Strikeouts” by Peter Sheehy

Writing is some strange magic and we are foolish to try to understand it—the how, the why, the when—but writers try all the same.
It’s a numbers game. They say in baseball, a hitter can fail seventy percent of the time and he’s still a Hall of Famer. The odds seem worse for writers. Failure is a frustratingly large part of the game, at every level, from brainstorm to publication.
The variables are many, and there are countless ways to fail. Yet there is one common denominator: writers write.
The details beyond that—fascinating as they may be—are nearly irrelevant.
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Notes from New York

Way back in March, I spent a weekend in New York City with a dear friend for her birthday.

Since I was in town, I also met up with my agent Tina Dubois for the first time in person. It was magical.

Her delicate beauty is almost as captivating as her passion and intellect, the force of which is tempered by kindness and humor. We talked for over an hour, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute. I felt like we could have gone on for hours more.

My last Writer Unboxed post — “What Motherhood Has (and Hasn’t) Changed About My Writing” — touches on much of the same territory that Tina and I covered in our conversation that day. About my publishing journey so far, the successes and the failures. About becoming a parent, and how that impacts the creative process. About how my sense of identity has evolved. About the way forward from here.

Two other highlights, which didn’t fall under the scope of that post:

  • When thinking about which ideas to commit my time and energy to, I have typically asked myself, Do I have enough to give this story? Can I sustain it over the many months and years that I will likely be working on it? Tina flipped the script on me and said, What about asking, Can it sustain you? What does this story feed you? I had never ever thought to ask myself that, and I think it’s an amazing, possibly revolutionary mindset to apply to my work.
  • Most of all, I walked away reveling in the incredible feeling that Tina gave me — and has always given me — of being understood, of being safe, of being supported. It’s exactly what I need to feel confident and do my best work.

One evening, the birthday girl and I met up with two other friends from high school. The four of us shared bowls of ramen in an alcove at a quiet restaurant in the Flatiron District, reminiscing about the years we had spent together, and catching up on the years we had spent apart.

We talked about #metoo — the movement, and our own stories — sometimes saying the words “me too” literally.

Between the four of us, there was quite a bit to unpack, big and small. Trauma that we didn’t even realize (or want to admit) was traumatic until the stories poured out of us, hot and strong, like cups of tea that nobody wanted to drink.

It was sobering, but it was healing too.

I don’t want this to sound melodramatic, because that’s the irony. It was a big moment, and yet we were all so close, and our stories so commonplace, that there was a very casual feel about it too.

I hope someday my daughter has friends like this. I hope she and her friends have even more laugh lines, and fewer scars.

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Live with it (Fountain Square, Cincinnati, September 6, 2018)

I drove my daughter to daycare this morning, and passed the square — the heart of downtown — where three people were senselessly murdered last Thursday.

I wasn’t here that day, so in some ways I don’t feel entitled to the grief and outrage that I feel. To the tears and the trembling.

On the other hand, this is my home now, and I have stood in that square dozens of times. This place lives in my heart, and in my daughter’s bones. Is that not entitlement enough?

This was the “acceptable” kind of shooting. The gun was not an AR-15. The police responded quickly and effectively. (Thank goodness for them.) The number of dead can be counted on one hand.

I don’t know how to feel about that. As someone who advocates for “reasonable” gun regulations, I suppose this is the sort of scenario “I can live with.”

Except that I can’t.

I am. I have to.

But I can’t. I don’t want to.

The whole city is “living with it.” Surviving, moving on. Except for the ring of flowers around the fountain on the square, and the yellow caution tape around the front doors of the building where it happened, you would never even know about our little tragedy. I’m both proud of my city for this, and deeply sorry. We are #CincyStrong, but we deserve to be unmoored. We shouldn’t have to go on as normal, because this — people getting shot at work, or at an ice cream shop — shouldn’t be normal.

This should not be normal.

But it is.

This is our normal now. This is what we made.

Can we do better? I believe so. I have to.

Day by day, brick by brick, I will do my best to build something better.

I know I’m not alone, and that is how I “live with it.”

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Seen on screen

On Friday, I indulged in two movies, one on the big screen, and one on my iPad mini. Both filled my heart with joy, and made me cry several times, because of the stories themselves, and also because of what these stories mean. I haven’t stopped thinking about them all weekend, and I can’t wait to watch them again.

Based on the novel of the same name, Crazy Rich Asians is part rom-com, part fish-out-of-water story, part family drama, and part extravagant party.

It’s also the first Hollywood production to feature an all-Asian cast since 1993’s Joy Luck Club. (Which is one of my all-time favorite movies, by the way.)

When the movie started, I was overcome with emotion. Seeing all those Asian faces — faces like my aunts, my cousins, my friends, their parents — and for them to be the stars? For them to be the focus of a lighthearted contemporary story, as opposed to something historical or niche? It was just so…

It was everything.

Crazy Rich Asians is not perfect, but it’s genuinely enjoyable. Henry Golding is a gem, and Michelle Yeoh is great as ever. The last third of the movie is especially strong, which is significant, because endings are hard. (The wedding reception! The mahjong scene! The plane scene!)

The more I look back on the movie, the more I appreciate both the big things (romantic love vs. family love; mother-child relationships; self-sacrifice) and the little things (Araminta with glasses and no make-up at the night market; Rachel and Peik Lin going barefoot through the Goh family mansion; everyone making dumplings together and sharing family stories in a mix of English and Chinese).

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before, now streaming on Netflix, is also based on a novel, and features a half-Korean main character. The whole cast is charming, but especially Noah Centineo (Peter, one of the love interests) and Anna Cathcart (Kitty, the younger sister). To be honest, I was just expecting this to be a bit of fluffy fun, and it was, but it was also much more.

This piece does a great job explaining how TATBILB manages to succeed within its genre, while also setting itself apart:

The story plays out with familiar beats and set pieces, bits I remembered from beloved predecessors like “A Walk to Remember,” “She’s All That” and “10 Things I Hate About You,” movies designed to make you remember, viscerally, the terrifying thrill of first love.

But damn, does “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before” stick just about every landing, in part by reshaping misogynistic and shallow tropes of the genre in ways that make it feel more honest and yet also more optimistic.

Specifically: The dad is not stodgy and oblivious; When couples break up, they don’t instantly hate each other, because that’s not how first love usually works; And maybe most importantly, the heroine doesn’t require a sexy makeover in order for the hot guy to fall for her.

[It’s] a gentle, witty, nuanced movie about family, grief and growing up, wrapped around a love story that’s both believably bumbling and an irresistible fantasy.

Also: That hot tub scene.


My daughter IB is too young to watch these movies with me at the moment, but I hope when she’s old enough, she’ll want to. Because if seeing them healed pieces of my own 30-something-year-old heart, then I can only imagine what they might mean to her growing up. Maybe she’ll watch them dozens of times, like I did with Mulan and Joy Luck Club. Or maybe, if we’re lucky, she won’t have to, because there will be so many stories with good Asian representation that these won’t stand out like they do now.


I would like to be a part of that. Like many writers of color, my earliest work defaulted to whiteness, but as I’ve matured, all my best writing has reflected my mixed race identity, in one way or another.

Sometimes I wonder whether the world really needs my stories or not. I ask myself, What can I add? Why does anything I say matter?

This weekend, Crazy Rich Asians and To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before reminded me that you don’t have to change the world, or be perfect, to make a difference.

#RepresentationMatters

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