Ariel Lawhon Blog

I used to be a runner. And I used to love it. It worked for me. My body responded well to the routine and consistency and when I think back, I’ve never been healthier than when I was was running thirty-plus miles a week. Life changes of course. Mine certainly did. I got married and had children and my days soon filled with other things: namely a desperate need for sleep.

Eighteen years later I’ve started running again., And while I’ve been pleased to learn that I still love running, it’s discouraging to realize just how out of shape I truly am. I’m slower than I’ve ever been. My aerobic stamina is pathetic. My body is older and stiffer and less inclined to cooperate. I blister easily. But I am running. And this makes me very happy.

But because I live in Tennessee there is another obstacle in my path: hills. Many, many hills, all of them seemingly in my neighborhood. It’s hard enough to run a mile on flat ground without getting red-faced and winded. But it’s even worse when hills are involved. So, a few weeks ago I made a decision: until I build up speed and stamina I am just going to run the downhill parts.

And it’s working! I’ve stopped dreading my runs. My speed is increasing. My time is decreasing. It still isn’t all that pretty, but it is progress. Allowing myself to take the easy route has allowed me to establish this new habit. And I’m healthier as a result. My clothes fit better. My circulation and skin are better. I feel better.

It’s been a revelation to me: I don’t have to make things hard on my myself. I don’t have to run up the hills. They aren’t going anywhere. I have to climb them anyway. But I don’t have to do it in a way that will hurt or exhaust me.

So, today, here’s your homework:

Run the downhill parts.

Pick the low-hanging fruit.

Write the easy chapter.

Make the easy sales call.

Let yourself see a bit of progress.

Of course we can do all the hard things. And we will. But sometimes we need permission to do the easy things first. Save that uphill run for later.

For now, take the win.

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A few things that are helping me form this new habit:

A fun playlist. Mine includes everything from Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger (Yes, I’m serious. Yes, I love Rocky. And yes, it really does help me keep the pace up—you try not running when it’s playing) to Thunderstruck by AC/DC. It also has Pink, Beyonce, Aloe Blac, Ram Jam, Hozier, Taio Cruz, Fort Minor, Macklemore, Fall Out Boy, and Andy Grammer. It’s all over the map but if I’m going to run to it, I want upbeat. I want it to make me happy.

The Map My Run app. It keeps track of time, distance, and calories. I can map specific runs through my neighborhood and share them with my husband so he knows where I am. It tracks my progress weekly and emails me a gentle reminder if I’ve skipped too many days. I like the accountability.

The realization that I write better if I’ve gone for a run that morning. Even on the days when I don’t really have time. Even on the days when I don’t feel like it. I write twice as many words on the days that I run. Every. Single. Time.

The end result? My new novel is getting written in record time.

Note: my dear friend Marybeth Whalen and I both wrote about our near-misses in meeting Pat Conroy recently for She Reads. Make sure you take a moment to read hers as well because it’s very moving. I’ve posted mine below, with a short addition on how his writing has both inspired me and made me want to quit altogether–as the best writing always does.

Some authors are so revered that their names are whispered at literary events like an incantation. Authors who earn an “esque” after their names. Patchett-esque. Conroy-esque. Authors whose style is so unique, so mesmerizing that others emulate them for decades. The Kings and Queens of publishing as it were.

And I will never forget the day I first saw the reigning King and Queen of publishing in the flesh for the first time, or the regret I’ve held since that day. In October of 2014 I was invited to attend the Southern Festival of the Book here in Nashville. My debut novel had been published a few months earlier and it was the last event I was scheduled to attend. If I’m being totally honest, I was exhausted and wilted and tired of talking about myself and my book. So as I sat in the green room, waiting for my panel, I was a little subdued. And then heard THE GASP. When I looked up, Ann Patchett and Pat Conroy stood in the door, and fifty or so authors sat open-mouthed staring at them.

Here’s what you need to understand about me: if I am in awe of you, I will avoid you at all costs. I will not make eye contact or ask for your autograph. My absurd brain believes that the best way to show respect is to be the one person in a room not genuflecting. I will give you one less hand to shake. One less gushing compliment to deflect. I will leave you alone because I assume that you’re tired of the lines. This is unreasonable and I have no idea why I do it but it’s my default setting.

So I sat there, watching fifty authors rise to their feet and form two lines, and I settled deeper into my chair. A very flawed plan considering that within minutes I was the only person sitting. And three feet away, directly to my left, was Pat Conroy. But I dug in, determined.

The simple truth is that I froze. And it was awkward. And embarrassing. And obvious. I find myself in green rooms like that on occasion and at the time I thought I’d have another chance. I would rally and do better next time. But you know how this story ends and that second chance never came. If I could have done it all over again I would have gotten to my feet and shaken his hand. I would have told him what an honor it was to meet him. How staggered I am by his talent. I would have allowed myself to be in awe. He would have forgotten me instantly but I would have treasured the memory.

A memory that I never made because I’m an idiot.

Shake your hero’s hand. Give that gushing compliment. Send the email. Write the letter. Tell them that story in the signing line about how their novel changed your life or made you want to be a writer or helped you forgive your dad. They’ll understand. They do this because they know words are powerful and they want to hear that they have touched your life. Don’t be like me. Be a fan girl.

So when I woke on March 4th and learned of Pat Conroy’s passing I was devastated. But I instantly knew how to make amends. I decided to read through his entire body of work this year as penance for my stupidity. I already owned THE PRINCE OF TIDES but I bought each of his other books on my book tour this spring and I am currently  immersing myself in Pat Conroy’s south. I’ve lived here for much of the last twenty years but I can honestly say I’ve never really understood it until now.

Thank you for that, Mr. Conroy. It has been an unexpected gift. And I’m sorry that I don’t have the sense God gave a rock. I hope we get the chance to laugh about that one day on the other side of eternity.

When Random House told me they’d hired award-winning narrator John Lee to read FLIGHT OF DREAMS for audio I was thrilled. And of course I immediately went online and listened to samples from his numerous audiobooks. Mostly I was thankful he had the time to do mine. His voice is spectacular and he’s a genius with accents so it’s no surprise that he knocked it out of the park. Happy author all the way around. I could listen to him say “The American” all day long.

And then on Tuesday my editor sent me the link to this YouTube video of John Lee discussing FLIGHT OF DREAMS. I can’t explain why this meant so much to me but it did. My level of elation is silly and unreasonable but I don’t really care. It was hugely encouraging to me that he actually liked the book.

So there you have it. I am ridiculous. But John Lee is pretty darn amazing.

Today is the publication day for my  new novel, FLIGHT OF DREAMS, and my friends at Doubleday Books have partnered with Gaelan Ennis from Gone the Whiskey, to recreate the Maybach 12, a famous cocktail served aboard the Hindenburg. Even though the original recipe was lost in the disaster, Gaelan was able to put his creative spin on the drink so we can once again enjoy this piece of history.

Tonight I hope to toast this new book with my husband and I hope you’ll join me. Right now I’m thinking about those who died on the Hindenburg and I’m hoping that we come to know their names and their stories a little better because of this book. The original dedication for the novel reads, “To those who love. To those who lose. And to those who stand in the flames so others can pass safely through.” I changed it in the end to honor specific people who mean the world to me (my husband, a friend, and my grandmother) but that first dedication seems very apt today. This novel would not exist without the men and women on board that last ill-fated flight. And I hope I’ve honored their memory well.

Th Maybach 12, as written about in FLIGHT OF DREAMS:

Leonhard leaves her then and goes in search of the bar on B-deck and its famous cocktail, the recipe for which is known only to the bar steward, a secret that is guarded more closely than the Hindenburg itself…Leonhard joins them at the window carrying three frosted glasses containing ice chips and a murky citrine liquid. The look he gives Gertrud is a mixture of astonishment and respect. He hands one of the glasses to the colonel. “You will join us for dinner? Unless my wife has revealed too much of her impetuous nature?”

Gertrud takes a tiny sip of the Maybach 12 and can almost feel her hair blow back. The drink is everything, all at once, and she has an immediate appreciation for its reputation. She can taste the Kirsch and the Benedictine in equal parts, along with a good dry gin, and something else she can’t identify. “He means I’m an acquired taste.”

“On the contrary, Liebchen,” Leonhard says. “It didn’t take me long at all. One kiss, if I recall correctly.”

And the recipe courtesy of mixologist Gaelan Ennis (who I hope to meet one day):

THE MAYBACH 12

3 drops Saline Solution*

1tsp Dolin Blanc Vermouth

3/4oz Maybach Batch**

3/4oz Edelster Aventinus

1 1/2oz Bol’s Genever

—

In a mixing glass, stir cocktail over cracked ice until it has reached the desired temperature and dilution. In a chilled AP Coupe, express the oils from one lemon twist, then discard the lemon twist. Strain cocktail into glass. Garnish with a Brandied Cherry dropped into the center of the glass. Serve.

*The saline solution mix that I use is 1tbsp of salt, diluted into 4oz of water.

** The Maybach batch is a 1-2-3 mixture of Simple Syrup, Luxardo Maraschino, and Kirschwasser. Meaning, while you would batch 1oz Simple, 2oz Luxardo, 3oz Kirschwasser, you would only be using 3/4oz of that total mix.

I’ve posted this essay in various places but never with pictures of the real Sally Lou Ritz. Many thanks to Bert Weist for sending the photos and granting permission to publish them here.

Hello, I’d like to find out where you did your research for your book about Judge Crater? You see, the showgirl depicted in your book was actually my grandmother . . . .

So began an email that I received on May 16, 2014. There are certain moments that writers do not forget. Your first good review. Your first bad review. Finally holding the book you’ve labored over in your hands. But I am convinced there is nothing that will send you into total body failure so fast as receiving an email from someone who shouldn’t exist. Because that showgirl I wrote about, the one I’d researched and brought to life on the pages of my novel? The one whose granddaughter had just written me? I truly believed she had died in the fall of 1930. She shouldn’t have lived long enough to have children, much less grandchildren. But that email turned all my personal theories inside out.

My first introduction to Sally Lou Ritz (I would later find out her last name was Ritzi—the nickname I used for her in my novel) came ten years ago while reading an article about a missing New York State Supreme Court Judge. Though we’ve largely forgotten him, Joseph Crater was nothing short of legend for almost fifty years. He’d only been on the court four months when he got into a cab on August 6th, 1930, and vanished. His disappearance became the biggest missing person’s case of the twentieth century, thanks in no small part to his connections with Tammany Hall, infamous gangsters, and rumors of judicial corruption. It didn’t take long to discover that there were three interesting women in Judge Crater’s life: his jaded, socialite wife Stella; a devoted maid who was in their apartment in the days surrounding his disappearance; and a showgirl named Sally Lou Ritz, long suspected to be Crater’s lover. A wife. A maid. And a mistress. What if all three of them knew what happened to him but chose not to tell? Now I had a story.

But the difficulty in writing about historic figures is that you must treat them with respect. Their legacies and their families and their memories must be honored. Despite the fact that they felt like characters to me, they were real people. And there could be men and women wandering around the planet that knew and loved them. I don’t believe that writers must always paint their characters in a positive light—especially when history supports a gritty version of events—but I do believe they should be treated with dignity. And I was determined to be mindful of that responsibility.

Yet here’s the truth: in this particular situation I felt as though I’d gotten off easy. Joseph and Stella Crater never had children. The maid, known only as Amedia Christian (I changed her name for the novel) makes one appearance in one newspaper article and no one knows for sure if that was even her real name. And the showgirl vanished shortly after Judge Crater. She’s been listed as a missing person for the last eighty-four years. I stayed with the facts that could be verified. But beyond that, my imagination had room to play. Joseph Crater’s disappearance is still unsolved. No one knows what became of him. So I used these three women to tell a version of events that could have happened. And I was very pleased with how it turned out.

And then came that email in May.

Ritzi’s granddaughter went on to tell me that her grandmother had left New York City in fall of 1930. That she had changed her name. Married. Had a child. She had gone on with her life and never once mentioned that she was with Joseph Crater on the night that he disappeared. Or that she had been in any way connected to one of the most notorious missing persons cases in history. Her children and grandchildren knew her simply as a beautiful, talented, charming woman who shied away from personal questions. She died in 2000 after living a full, happy life.

It’s ironic, that.

Even though I sincerely believed that Ritzi had not made it out of New York City alive, I wrote her a different ending. A happy one. I gave her a family. A new name. I wanted those things for her. And I was brought to tears by the knowledge that she actually got them.

I spent several weeks this summer communicating with various members of Ritzi’s family. I’d gotten many things right. Her real name for instance: Sarah (she went by Sally). Some things I’d gotten wrong. She fled to California, not Iowa as I’d imagined. But the thing that humbled me most was that her son, granddaughter, and great-grandson had a few more answers than they did before. Much of what I wrote about her was total fiction. But I was able to point Ritzi’s family to the historical record of her time as a dancer on Broadway, to her connection with Judge Crater, and to testimony she’d given police about his disappearance.

Questions were answered. (For them and for me.) Gaps were filled. And a legacy was discovered. To me that is a better ending than anything I could have written.

“If you tell me this is a boy I’m going to cry,” I told the technician that day. It was August 2008 and I was five months pregnant and the results of this sonogram were rather crucial to my mental health. “It’s not your fault. And I’ll be okay. But we already have three boys and we’re really hoping for a girl. So if it’s another boy I need to get my crying done now so I’m not doing it in the delivery room.”

I’ve wondered since if she remembers that day as clearly as I do. How she put that warm jelly on my swollen stomach, set the monitor against my skin, and immediately declared, “Penis!” True to my word I burst into tears.

I was still crying an hour later as my husband drove me home. We’d left the doctor’s office with three grainy black and white pictures of our son and the number of a good urologist.

I’d like to blame my emotional breakdown on hormones but the truth is that a part of me needed to grieve. This would be our last child. I would never have a daughter. I’d collected pretty names and pink clothes for years and now I would never get to use them. My world would always be filled with Legos and camouflage and that wet-puppy smell unique to little boys.

My husband was rather less emotional about the whole thing. “Don’t cry,” he said, patting my arm, “It’s not your fault.”

I snapped.

“My fault? My fault? This is your fault! You have no X chromosomes. You did this to me. And I’m getting a dog. And it’s going to be a girl dog. And I’m going to give her a girly name!” It was the only solution I could think of and everything I said after that came through sobs and gurgles and this high-pitched keening that I’ve never been able to reproduce. From what I remember he stopped talking to me after that. You can’t blame the man. He was terrified. By the time we got home I’d gone through an entire box of tissue.

The next morning I was calmer and quieter and he brought me coffee as he always does. He hugged me. He kissed me. He told me he loved me and that he was rather glad to be a father of all sons. It was a relief, he said, not to have a wedding to pay for. And then he added, “If you really want to get a dog we can get a dog.”

My poor husband. I looked at him like he’d grown another head. “That’s a terrible idea. I’m pregnant! Why on earth would we get a dog?” I believe I may have actually wagged a finger at him. And then I said words he’s never let me forget. “If we are supposed to have a dog, God will drop one on our doorstep.”

Now that I think about it that was the first and only time I’ve ever thrown down a gauntlet. And no wonder. Two hours later I went out to check the mail and found a black lab puppy on our doorstep. This is the part that people often find hardest to believe when I tell this story. But I swear it is true, point for point. At the time we lived in Texas, in a neighborhood tucked between two major thoroughfares, and for reasons I’ve never fully understood, people often abandoned animals at the end of our street. It was not uncommon to see some poor stray wandering around until someone took pity on it or called animal control. On that particular day, the puppy had followed the mailman around until getting tired and collapsing at our door.

“We have a dog.” I told my husband over the phone five minutes later. “But it’s a BOY!”

Perhaps he felt safe, with the phone between us as a buffer, because he laughed at me. I still remember that laugh. Part delight, part disbelief, and no small amount of triumph. We had a dog. The boys loved it immediately. And by the time he got home from work they were all romping happily in the back yard.

“You,” he said, after inspecting the puppy, “are not well versed in canine genitalia. It’s a girl.”

We’ve had Maggie for six years now. If we’re very lucky we’ll have another six years with her. She completes this wild, motley family of ours, and if I didn’t know better I would swear she’s part human. Maggie barks at us if we yell at the kids. She dances with my husband every evening when he comes home from work. She sleeps with one of his boots every night and she sits at my feet during the day while I write. Remember that fourth son of ours? He started Kindergarten in August. On his first day she sat at the door and waited until he got home. She didn’t eat. She didn’t move. But the moment he was through the door she went to his room and brought him his teddy bear. I think of them as belonging to each other. A dog and her boy. Sometimes it feels as though we got them on the same day, so linked are those memories.

I didn’t get a daughter. I wouldn’t change that now, not for anything. But I did get these boys and the unexpected, divine gift of a dog I don’t deserve.

**Warning: I’m going to use an old, tired analogy in this post. But I don’t care. I’ve been writing all week and I have soup for brains and this is all you get from me. The leftovers. Flotsam and jetsam. Ragged thoughts after a glass of port and today’s badly-written pages. (I have to grant myself permission to write badly or nothing will ever get done. I actually wrote myself a note this morning: “Ariel has permission to write badly today.” I would show it to you but even the handwriting is bad.)

Moving on. Where was I?

My tired analogy: writing is like running. It sucks if you haven’t done it in a while. Hell, it can suck if you’ve been doing it every day for years. Do it anyway.

It’s been a while since I drafted a novel. Revised? Yes. Edited? Yes. Promoted? Yes. The first draft has always been and will always be my achilles heel. But I’m writing again. And I’d forgotten how hard it is. There is no feeling so dread-inducing as the blinking cursor on the first page of a new book. Truly, not for the faint of heart.

And there is no feeling so miserable as that first, sharp stitch in your side when you haven’t run consistently in months years. It’s the curse of the over-achiever. The misguided belief that you can pick up right where you left off without putting in the hard work to build endurance. And it’s always accompanied but the hard shock of reality.

Mental conditioning. Physical conditioning. It’s all the same. And the first time back always leaves you sucking wind.

It takes a while to go from lacing up the old running shoes to crossing the finish line of a marathon. It takes sweat and tears and pain and this really awful anti-chafing cream that I probably shouldn’t talk about in public.

It takes a while to go from typing the title page to celebrating the release of a new novel. There are no shortcuts. It’s a butt-in-chair every day for months on end commitment. Which, if I’m totally honest, creates the “If I’m going to keep writing I need to get back into running” mobius strip that I find myself on right now. Because now that I’m a bit older I find that there is a physical nature to the writing as well. A certain stamina that’s needed–and not just mental. All that sitting is hard on the body. Better to be in shape. Better to be at the top of your game.

So this post is for me. It’s a reminder to be kind. To be gentle. To have mercy and compassion and to celebrate every tiny little bit of progress. This is me giving myself permission to write badly. This is me giving myself permission to run-a-song/walk-a-song.

It’s been a while since you wrote a book, Ariel. It’s been a while since you ran distance of any type, much less a marathon. Be kind to yourself. No one else can do that for you.

You’ve done it before. You can do it again. And though you might feel like the process will kill you, it won’t. You’ll just be totally spent once you cross you finish line.