The Living Years
Newsletter Issue #73
When I signed a publishing contract for my novel-in-collected stories in June, my initial joy was short-lived. It was not replaced by exactly, but a little marred by sadness and anxiety. My book is fiction. I’ve heard about memoirists experiencing this after their memoirs are published, but I was (am) experiencing it over fiction that isn’t coming out for two years.
Although my stories are fiction, their themes are real: generational trauma, the complexity of mother-child relationships, the intricacy of family, the ways in which idealizing the past can be just as damaging as avoiding the past or swimming in it. The stories are not true, but they were imagined based on true history and true science and true emotion, and I hope this is what will make the book relatable to all of you. Life is complicated, and we all experience that uniquely, based on our own circumstances.
My mom wasn’t perfect. She made mistakes, and for many years, I dwelled on them. I was 27 or 28 years old when I learned she dwelled on them, too. So much so that, after a surgery, when she was being rushed back to the hospital and was afraid she might die, she whispered to me, “I wasn’t a good mother to you. I’m sorry.”
I reassured her that was rubbish, that she’d been a wonderful mother. My heart broke for her. I hated that she was so scared, and I hated that this was what she was thinking about in that moment. But secretly, I felt validated. We’d never before talked about all the mistakes she’d made as a mother, and we never did again, but I’ll be honest: It felt good to know that she knew what she’d done and felt bad about it. This moment went a long way toward healing our damaged relationship—I don’t think we ever argued again after that because I believed, finally, that she loved me, that she was sufficiently sorry for ruining my life, and that I no longer needed to hold onto my anger.
I let go of my anger toward my mother, but I continued to hold onto her mistakes—they were such good excuses, after all, for all the mistakes I was making, both as a human being and as a mother myself. It was so easy to dwell on the moments where my mother got it wrong. No wonder I’d turned out like I had. I knew I was a difficult daughter, a self-absorbed and sometimes unkind sister, a less than devoted wife, and an inadequate mother. But whose fault was that? It was certainly not mine.
But over time—too much time— I learned to dwell on the things my mother got right, the little things and the small moments that would have told me all along that she loved me, if only I’d paid attention. Like the time she got up early in the morning and made an enormous batch of fried won ton for me to take to my elementary school’s international food fair, even though she was sick and we couldn’t afford the groceries. Or the time we couldn’t afford to go out to dinner at a restaurant, and she made homemade cheeseburgers and packed everything up in brown paper sacks for carload night at the drive-in—each of us kids got our own brown bag dinner and an entire box of Fiddle Faddle. Or all the times she handmade clothes for me or baked chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
There was the time in junior high when she made my baby sister share a room with my two younger brothers for a while, the boys in bunkbeds and my sister in a toddler bed, so I could have my own room during a time when I craved more privacy. While my siblings were packed in like sardines, my mom managed to give me the popular corner group bedroom set I dreamed of for Christmas. I spent all my free time in that bedroom, listening to my music, and my mother let me.
For my 13th birthday, my mom threw me a party with all my friends and gave me a charm bracelet I still have and a Helen Reddy album I lost along the way. My mom was perhaps the least feminist woman I ever knew, but she recognized I was growing up in the 1970s and the times they were a-changin’. She bought me “I Am Woman” even though she didn’t understand why I loved it. Then there were all the times she bought me Osmond Brothers and Partridge Family and Bobby Sherman albums, when we really couldn’t afford them, and let me plaster my bedroom walls with photos from Tiger Beat and Teen Beat—magazines she also bought for me. My mother believed in spending money for the important things and figuring it out later, perhaps the one dogma I inherited from her.
There were all the mornings after the winter holidays, when my mom allowed us kids to eat the leftover homemade pies she’d baked … for breakfast.
Not to mention the way she held down the fort and was basically a single mother of four young children while my dad was away fighting in the Vietnam War—he was gone for 11 straight months with no leave when we were 12, 9, 7, and 5. I’ve come to realize how hard those years must have been for my mom.
My mother helped me with my 7th grade sewing project. Actually, she chose the pattern and sewed it all by herself, a complicated dress with a mandarin collar and inset sleeves, and she didn’t let me help with it. She loved to sew, she was an expert, and she didn’t need me mucking things up. But my home economics teacher knew I’d had no part in the sewing and gave me an F. She said I should have made an apron. My mother made mistakes, but her heart was in the right place, as it always was.
My mother gave me a volume of Shakespeare’s Complete Works for my 16th Christmas—I still have it on a shelf in my living room. She did this even though she and I were so different, and she searched it out at Waldenbooks even though she didn’t understand why I’d asked for such a boring gift. She was beautiful prom queen, and I was red-haired, freckled book nerd, and she didn’t get me. But there were times like these when she decided not to question it, to accept me as I was, and to make the effort.
When I was an adult and moved away from home, my mother sent me cards and flowers to celebrate birthdays and accomplishments. She stayed with me and helped me after each of my three children were born. She delighted in being a grandmother, and we grew closer once I had children of my own. Once I began making mothering mistakes of my own.
I’ve been thinking about these moments a lot lately. The good ones. I’ve been letting go of the bad moments. If you’re dwelling on your parents’ mistakes, I highly recommend letting them go. Remembering the times they got it right and forgiving them the times they didn’t can be quite healing.
I was 34 years old when they took my mother off life support, after a heart attack that came out of nowhere. I was allowed to spend some time alone with her while she slowly left this life and moved on to the next. I rearranged the blankets around her and whispered in her ear—I’d read that the auditory senses were the last to go, and I believed she could hear me, even if she couldn’t respond. “You were a wonderful mother,” I said. “You did the best you could, and I didn’t make it easy for you. I never told you this before, but when I was a kid, I always thought you were the most beautiful mother in the neighborhood. I thought you looked like Elizabeth Taylor. I am so glad I got to be your daughter.” I fully meant every word this time. I only wish I’d told her all this much sooner, but I believe she knows.
My book is a love letter to California, but it’s also a love letter to my parents and grandparents, to my children and grandchildren, and to the generations that came before and the generations that will come after. It makes sense that my feelings about it are complicated and perhaps always will be, and it makes sense that these memories are coming back up for me now. It’s a part of the vulnerability that goes along with writing, and if you’re writing about things that are dredging up memories and maybe a little sadness, I hope it helps to know I’m right there with you.
XOXO
Leanne
P.S. I wrote this essay, “Growing an Avocado Tree from Seed,” during the summer of 2020. When I started writing it, I didn’t know what it would be or how it would end, but it turned out to be mostly about motherhood, the circle of life, and my grief over losing my mom.
“Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.”
—Robert Browning
NEWS & ANNOUNCEMENTS
Please join me at the Central Coast Writers’ Conference September 26th & 27th in sunny San Luis Obispo, California! Friday afternoon, Brenna Humphries, M. Golda Turner, and I will host a panel on the benefits of finding your writing community. Late Friday afternoon, I’m talking about Funding Your Writing Career with Grants, Fellowships, and Residencies. Saturday, I’ll be presenting on Strengthening Your Brand & Resume by Publishing Short Pieces.
“Motherhood is the greatest thing and the hardest thing.”
—Ricki Lake
WHAT I’M (ALMOST) READING
Right now, I’m looking forward to reading my short story “Lullaby” in print! It’s in Better Off Dead: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Elton John and Bernie Taupin Volume 1, which is out in just a few days on 8/25/25! I was tasked with writing a noir story inspired by one of the sweetest and most sentimal songs ever—“Your Song”. It was so fun to write, and I was able to come up with a story that is noir crime fiction but still has some of the song’s sweetness and sadness.
Although the publication date isn’t supposed to be until 9/16/25, according to Bookshop.org my copy of Absolute Pleasure: Queer Perspectives on Rocky Horror is on its way to me right now! I suspect they’re just getting it ready to ship next month. But in any case, I can’t wait to read my friend Trey Burnette’s essay “A Rather Tender Subject”.
“The days are long, but the years are short.”
—Gretchen Rubin
WHAT I’VE BEEN UP TO
This summer, I’ve traveled a little, worked a lot, and learned to cook more vegetarian meals. Also this summer, my four-year-old granddaughter Louise was finally ready for sleepovers at Grandma’s house. A couple of Saturdays ago, during one such sleepover, we had a movie night—Beauty and the Beast. When Belle told Gaston, “He’s not a monster. You’re a monster!” Lou pumped her fists, cheered, and laughed. “Yay!” she said. “That was so good she said that because he is mean!” It is so cool watching my grandchildren’s sense of justice and fair play develop as they grow up. It’s my favorite.
“Being a working mom is not easy. You have to be willing to screw up at every level.”
—Jami Gertz
SOME THINGS FOR READERS
No Entry: In American, whether we can swim—and whether we have access to water at all—is closely tied to race.
(Hannah S. Palmer for Earth Island Journal)
These Carson McCullers Stories Are Haunted by Mothers Who Can’t Be Their Authentic Selves
(essay by Acree Graham Macam for Electric Literature)
What if Everything We Know About Sacagawea Is Wrong?
(Christopher Cox for The New York Times)
In Search of Light
(Maya Dobjensky for The Rumpus)
“There is no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one.”
—Jill Churchill
SOME THINGS FOR WRITERS
I’m on Literary Agent #3. Ask Me Anything
(Allison K. Williams for The Brevity Blog)
Why Beta Readers Lead to You Getting Paid for Your Writing
(Jessica Conoley for Jane Friedman)
Using Beat Sheets to Slant Your Memoir’s Scenes
(Lisa Cooper Ellison for Jane Friedman)
The Rule of Three in Writing: Our Guide
(Amy de la Force for Jericho Writers)
What Happened When I Tried to Replace Myself with ChatGPT in My English Classroom
(Piers Gelly for Literary Hub)
“Life doesn’t come with a manual. It comes with a mother.”
—Cleophus Franklin, Jr.
SOMETHING TO MAKE YOU SMILE
“Maybe it’s just a daughter’s job to piss off her mother.”
—Chuck Palahnuik, Diary
Leanne Phillips
Writer | Book Coach | Editor
leannephillips.com
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Such a wonderful, touching post.
I always appreciate a good cry in the morning. 💖