Sally's Circle

My mother passed away 10 years ago. But in preparing for the happiest day of my life, I had to face what made it so sad.  

Marisa Bardach Ramel

Photo: Totally overwhelmed: How do I do this without my mom?

A hipster salesgirl in Warby Parker glasses and red lipstick unzipped me out of the millionth wedding gown I’d tried on that weekend. Emerging from the dressing room in my jeans and flip-flops, I scrutinized my curly up-do in the faraway mirror—the one meant for teary-eyed brides squealing that they’ve found The Dress. Instead I saw a scared little girl—forever that 20-year-old who lost her mom—masquerading as some sophisticated, almost-30 bride-to-be. Yeah, right. I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Laura, my maid-of-honor and best friend since 13, who studied my face expectantly. She liked so many dresses—how could I feel so meh about them all? The store’s door closed behind us with an annoyingly cheerful jingle. Outside in the summer sun, I inhaled New York City’s Sunday brunch scent of smoky bacon and exhaled out the entire experience. I was free—for a moment.

Photo: Which bride am I? None of the dresses I tried on felt right.

Insert the montage of me in various white wedding gowns as Laura and I trudged through Manhattan and Brooklyn over the next several weeks. It was like the movie 27 Dresses, only I was always a bride, never a bridesmaid, and actually longing to be the latter. We tried Lord & Taylor and David’s Bridal. A seamstress who spun custom gowns, and a shop that sold former brides’ used dresses. A boutique with a traditional ball gown in the display window, and one featuring lesbians outfitted in a dress and tux.

At night, I prayed to the Google gods, hoping the perfect search terms (“cap sleeves,” “vintage”) would reveal the perfect gown. “Goodnight, doll,” Mark would say, ruffling my hair on his way to the bedroom. By the time I joined him in a few hours, drunk on dresses, he’d be snoring peacefully.

Photo: My best friend Laura took me to a dozen bridal stores and never complained once.

After another failed dress store attempt a few weeks later, Laura drove me home and parked in front of my apartment. Perpetually single and often a bridesmaid, she started spouting stores where friends of friends had luck and brainstorming an itinerary for the next weekend. Tuning out the details, instead I admired her fierce determination, all scrunched eyebrows and blue eyes blazing. Gently she asked, “Do you think you’re having trouble deciding without your mom here?”

Feeling exposed and embarrassed (it had been nearly 10 years, how could I still be mourning my mother?), I covered up by making excuses. I’m petite so they don’t fit right. I’m used to shopping alone. I don’t want to break my $1,000 budget. “I don’t know, maybe,” I finally said. “I know I’m driving myself crazy. I’m driving everyone crazy, right?”

“You have to be happy, Marisa,” she said kindly. “We’ll try again next weekend.”

Photo: Me and Mom, before she got sick.

It wouldn’t have been this way with Mom, I thought as I walked into my Brooklyn apartment, thankful that Mark wasn’t home so I could be alone. Mother-daughter shopping exists in an ether outside space and time. No one knows where you’ve been all day, what stores you visited, the embarrassing things your mom said that made you two giggle like teenagers.

Dropping my purse on the floor and sitting cross-legged on the couch, I remembered our many shopping trips to the Gap, where we’d often buy matching clothes in different sizes. On our last outing, I was home from college on summer break and helping her find “comfy pants,” as we called them. I knew things were bad because the pants weren’t on sale, and she wanted to try them on anyway.

Photo: Mom once she was sick, in one of her signature Gap baseball caps.

“Missy, why do I look this way?” she asked once we were in the dressing room. “It’s not normal.”

She looked hazily in the mirror at her naked distended belly, a result of the cancer, the chemo, the side effects, who knew what. I imagined her pancreas and liver swollen and wanting out.

“You look great, Mom,” I protested lightly. “You notice it more than anyone else.”

“Said like a daughter,” she sighed, stepping into a powder blue cotton pant leg, holding my shoulders for balance. And then suddenly she was falling, passing out, 90 pounds of dead weight leaning on me.

“Mom!” I hissed, looking around helplessly at the dressing room cubicle’s white walls and slatted door. I sent mixed prayers to the saleswomen: Please help me; please don’t come in. I’d spent the last two years keeping Mom’s illness a secret from our gossipy Long Island town. If she left the Gap on a gurney I was screwed.

A quick jerky movement, like a hiccup, erupted from the heap slumped on top of me. She’d woken up, thank god. Mom placed her other leg into the pants, and then tied the drawstring in a big loopy bow, unaware that she’d been gone. I tried to keep my voice light but it shook anyway: “Those look good, Mom—let’s try on the rest at home.” In slow motion, she dressed and put back on her dusty blue baseball cap. On the way to the register, she reached for a few pairs of socks, too.

Photo: At our wedding, I made sure Mom was there, at least in spirit.

Two weeks later, Dad made me return everything. I fingered the price tags neatly attached to each item. “She never even got to wear them,” I lamented. Somehow that felt even crueler than Mom being gone.

My cell phone vibrated on the coffee table, startling me out of the memory. It was Laura, urging me to go dress shopping the following weekend, this time in Long Island. Although it’s our hometown, it hadn’t felt like home since Mom died. But I finally agreed. Perhaps I wasn’t the hip Brooklyn girl I’d tried so hard, too hard, to become.

Before Laura picked me up, I went for a run in my neighborhood, focusing on the familiar brownstones with their ceramic urns filled with flowers. White, fuchsia, and violet impatiens mocked my own impatience. Why don’t you just pick a damned dress already, Marisa? The answer came to me: no dress meant no wedding. And no wedding meant no peering into my entire adult life without her.

Finally, I did what Laura had been telling me to do. I’d been too stubborn to do it before, because I didn’t want to talk to ghosts, I wanted the real thing. But this time I was desperate, so I tried it, and with each pace I silently chanted, “Come with me today, Mom. Come with me today, Mom.” By the end I couldn’t tell what was sweat and what was tears.

Photo: I knew I’d picked the best guy; if only I could pick the best dress.

The store was small and the dresses were gaudy. But we noticed a contender while flipping through the racks. It was simple and beautiful, with an elegant rose-patterned lace from strapless top to cathedral train.  

“I like it,” I said slowly, studying myself in the mirror. “It’s simple, and… I can see my face.”

So many of the other dresses had too much going on—sequins, ruffles, ruching—that I’d gotten lost in the details. Here I saw the me that my mom loved.

We tried on others, with Laura adhering to our new strategy: “Do you like it as much as the lace one?” If it was a no, she’d bark, “Take it off!” We giggled at her drill sergeant routine each time.

Eventually I tried on the lace one again, and we oohed and ahhed and asked about timing and alterations and reshaping it to a sweetheart neckline and debated whether to belt or not to belt. And then the saleslady, Laura, and I were all just staring, and I was smiling.

Photo: Elated after finally selecting The Dress.

"Do you want someone to see it…?" Laura asked.

She meant my dad and stepmom, who we’d planned to call if we found a winner. But of course, all I could think of was the one person in the world I wanted to come see it.

"Are you crying?" Laura asked, astounded.

I nodded through my tears.

"Ohmygod you're not supposed to cry,” she exclaimed. “They only cry on TV!”

We laughed at the reference to Say Yes to the Dress, which we’d been glued to over the past year since my engagement. Now we were both laughing and crying. The saleswoman came over, confused, until Laura said, “Her mom died…”

“I’ll get the tissues,” the saleswoman said, scurrying away.

Across the store, a grandmother with white hair and piercing blue eyes looked away from her own granddaughter to admire me. “You look beautiful,” she mouthed. I gazed at her, wondering if my mother was nestled in this woman, using her to catch a view. I smiled back. I should have known Mom would find a way to get the best seat in the house.

Photo: After Mom died, I never thought I’d be happy again. My dear husband Mark proved me wrong.

Last Mother's Day was my first as a new mom. Ever since my mother died when I was 20, I'd dreaded the holiday. But last year, even though I still missed my mom, for the first time in 14 years I also couldn't wait to celebrate. Cards, flowers, boozy brunch? Bring it on.

My husband knew my hellish history with the holiday, and gave me carte blanche on plans. I chose a family brunch in New Jersey — a chance to introduce our son to my mother's relatives.

Here's what I envisioned: a sunny, tree-lined, hour-long drive from Brooklyn to New Jersey, me freshly showered (for once) and in a floral blouse laughing at some joke my husband made, our baby snoozing peacefully in his car seat (waking only to pose for the perfect Instagram photo).

Here's what actually happened: I was so adamant about celebrating the holiday that I insisted my son did not have pink eye. (He TOTALLY had pink eye.)

I was missing my mom yesterday, perhaps a side effect of all the beautiful Facebook comments you left for me about my essay, “My Mom Died 12 Years Ago. Here’s How My Pregnancy Brought Her Back to Me.” 

So I did what I often do. Made a favorite meal my mom used to make for just the two of us: onions & eggs scramble with slices of cucumber on the side. Just as my dad and brother never liked it, neither does my husband, so it’s still something that’s just ours, hers and mine. I kind of like that.

Two Tums and a dose of heartburn later (oh, pregnancy), Mom appeared in my dreams. 

Both took place in my childhood home. In the first, my brother had occupied the bathroom he and I shared (a common occurrence), so I traipsed upstairs to use my parents’ bathroom. Mom was in there, peering into the mirror, happily doing her makeup. 

“CanIpee?” I asked sleepily, one word, and sat down on the toilet. 

When I looked closer at the mirror, I realized she had taped about a dozen Polaroid photos to it. Each one featured scenes from her childhood or mine, both of us as young girls. I longed to ask which photo was her favorite, but I knew she would say “all of them,” so I kept quiet. 

Perhaps this was her way of telling me about motherhood -- that it is not one moment, but all of them strung together, all the days of your life that add up to such immense joy. 

In the next part of the dream, I was leaving her bedroom when I passed by her walk-in closet. I entered and it looked exactly as I remembered, the rows of clothes and shelves for shoes and baskets for miscellaneous items. I went to leaf through the section for long hanging dresses. Mom trailed behind me, looking too. “Mom, can you believe I never thought to raid your closet for maternity clothes?” I asked her incredulously. 

We decided none of the clothes were quite right, deeming each one as “too small” or “too matronly,” but it was fun to have a girly moment again of “shopping” in her closet -- something I loved doing in high school and college. 

"I want to tell you something, but don't get depressed," Dad says.

My heart flutters. Then I take a deep breath and smile at his careful delivery. "Okay ...?"

I am so excited to announce that I've been published in a book -- my first time as a published author!

The book is Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks to My Mom. For those unfamiliar with the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, each book is a compilation of personal essays from 101 writers about a particular topic. In this book, we are all paying tribute to our amazing moms

My essay,  "The Perfect Prom Dress," relates the experience of my mom taking me prom dress shopping only a few weeks after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and told she had two months to live. At 17 years old, doodling dresses during class and in denial about my mom's illness, I resent the too-early shopping trip and the gown that replaces the dress of my dreams. It's only while shopping for my wedding dress a decade later do I truly understand my mom's sacrifice: that despite her illness, she made something as minuscule and monumental as a prom dress into a revered mother-daughter rite of passage.

The essay is adapted from a chapter of Sally's Circle, the memoir that my mom and I wrote together while she was sick. I am so happy to have published even a small part of our book. (I'm still working towards publishing our full book!)

I know my mom would be especially happy about this publication because she's the one who bought me my first Chicken Soup book--Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul--when it came out in the late '90s. We both loved it, though to me the authors seemed like mini-celebrities. I never dreamed I'd be writing among them, and I can't help but think Mom pulled a string or two up there, wherever she may be...

If you'd like to buy a copy, please get in touch. I'm selling books for $10 and donating all the proceeds to the incredible Lustgarten Foundation for pancreatic cancer research. I am always in hope for a cure, for all the amazing moms out there.

Last week, I went to NYC's Public Theatre to see novelist Jonathan Lethem (The Fortress of Solitude) and memoirist/graphic novelist Alison Bechdel (Fun Home) discuss the experience of having their books turned into musicals.

  I was excited to attend because my friend, the extraordinarily talented composer Peter Michael von der Nahmer, recently asked me to write a chapter of my memoir, Sally's Circle, as a play scene—and then he will write music for it. How amazing is that?

  Of course, the only challenge is, um, WRITING A PLAY. Translating the actual dialogue was easy enough, but what about the internal dialogue? Without that, how do you get across the most intimate thoughts of a character? I attended the event in hopes to find out.

  After two gorgeous performances of songs from Fun Home (the funny and poignant "I'm Changing My Major to Joan") and The Fortress of Solitude (the passionate "Painting"), Lethem and Bechdel launched into a casual, off-the-cuff, riveting conversation. No moderator necessary, so it felt more like eavesdropping on them in a coffee shop.

  Here's what the pros had to say:

  1. A body on stage is different than a character on the page.

  This was especially true for Lethem, who was surprised to find that even his story's most hated bully is redeemed in the musical adaptation of The Fortress of Solitude.

  But, watching the play for the first time last week (it's currently running at the Public), he understood. The person up there on stage is a human. And just that simple fact makes him demand our empathy.

  He noted that this was even more apparent during a song. "When a character opens his mouth to sing, you're connecting to their insides."

  So, if any family/friends/ex-boyfriends are offended by my memoir, maybe they'll be pleased with the musical version J

  2. A play is an economic choice: all you have are words + music. 

  Poking fun at his length novel, Lethem remarked on the musical writer's dilemma of translating a 700-page novel into a 2-hour play. "There are no 7-hour plays," he joked.

  But he and Bechdel were equally impressed by how much mileage you get out of a song.

  "A song comments on the action or spins out from something in the scene," Lethem said. "It's a metaphor breaking through the skin of the story."

  When working on my play scene, I found that writing a song (yes, I wrote the lyrics and even came up with a melody!) was the only way to convey my character's innermost feelings. I was thankful for the reassurance that I am on the right track.

  3. Unlike movies, bad musicals evaporate.

  You'd think having a movie based on your book would be the ultimate sign that you'd made it. (Hello, Wild.)

  But Bechdel made a wise point (and let me note that just about every point she made was wise, eloquent, and bashful—a combo that left me in pure adoration). She said that rather than film, she preferred a musical, noting that "the bad ones would evaporate."

  Their worst fear was an awful movie that could be watched on Netflix for eternity.

  So maybe I take back my wish to see my life as a movie, as I noted after watching Boyhood. I always had trouble picking a curly-haired celebrity to play me anyway. Broadway, here we come!  

  4. A musical succeeds or fails within its own terms beyond the book.

  Especially for audience members who haven't even read the book, the play is all they have.

  This sounds terrifying, but it also opens a world of freedom. If evil characters can find redemption, some characters can be cut altogether, and entire passages can be stripped out, as Lethem noted of The Fortress of Solitude, anything is possible.

  This struck me because when writing my own play scene, I kept feeling that I could fall back on the book. But in truth, you can't. Whatever you strike from the book vanishes. Poof. The material left must stand on its own.

  5. To share or not to share with family? Maybe not.

  "I wish my mom could have seen it," Bechdel said of the musical adaptation of Fun Home, "and I'm relieved that she couldn't."

  Sadly, her mother passed away only a few months before the show premiered at the Public last fall.

  I could relate, as I often question whether my mom would be happy with the final manuscript, particularly since she is my co-author. It is hard not to have her say. And yet I must trust that she has guided me to where I am.

  Bechdel shared her mom's frequent and skeptical comment about the play: "Well, it'll be interesting to see the reviews."

  It's one of those lines that's now seen as naive, given that the play garnered such rave reviews that it will move to Broadway in April 2015. I can't wait to see it.

  Any advice on turning books into movies or plays or musicals? Please fill this novice in!

  Bright and early Sunday morning, my dad and I did the Lustgarten Foundation Pancreatic Cancer Research Walk -- our first time walking it together!

Dad did the walk in 2001, but under very different circumstances. It was the inaugural year of the walk, and he was alongside my mom, Sally, who had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the year before. Sadly, it was their first and last walk. After battling the disease for two-and-a-half years, she passed away the following year.

  Nearly a decade later, I finally got up the courage to do the walk. It was 2011, the year leading up to my wedding, and the walk was a way to honor my mom and grieve her absence leading up to my big day. My groom Mark and maid-of-honor Laura walked alongside me, readying me to walk down the aisle. It was a moving and memorable day.

So when Dad asked if I wanted to walk it together this year, I was eager to do it again. Even though the loss of my mom was so devastating, she has smiled upon us over the past few years. My dad is happily remarried to my wonderful stepmom, Susan. Mark and I just celebrated our two-year anniversary. And to top it off, this year I finally completed the memoir that Mom and I started writing together when she was sick. I knew Dad and I were in a good place to experience the event together. 

  The morning started with Erasure. On the drive to Jones Beach, Dad blasted our favorite hits ("A Little Respect," "Blue Savannah"), the same way he used to when picking me up from playdates. We sang along, remembering all the lyrics, and I felt just like a kid again. 

  Our singing only stopped once we pulled into our parking spot and realized that the car in front of us had a Connecticut license plate -- Sally's home state. We had just been relaying recent dreams we had of Sally (Dad's the night before, mine a couple weeks ago), and this felt like yet another welcome visit from her.

Arriving at the event, we checked in, donned our t-shirts, and filled out our bibs that we were walking in honor of Sally. At Dad's nudging, we even made a team poster and took a team photo for Sally's Circle -- despite only being a small team of two!

Photo courtesy of Ben Asen

As the race kicked off at 9:30am, Dad and I held hands as we crossed the start line, and didn't let go for several minutes. We were moved and thinking of Sally, and yet cheerful. For this I give credit to the wonderful event organizers. Despite there being so few pancreatic cancer survivors (most patients pass away within months), the Lustgarten Foundation strives and succeeds at throwing an upbeat and positive event that brims with hope -- hope for the surviving family members, hope for scientific advances like screenings, and most of all hope for a cure. 

  Sunshine beaming down on us, a cloudless blue sky ahead of us, and the ocean only a glimpse away, Dad and I walked on, pausing to take a photo and visit with our photographer friend Ben Asen, who has been shooting the event for twelve years in honor of his father who passed of pancreatic cancer. It made the event even more special to see a smiling, familiar face. And, of course, he and Dad traded stories of their favorite and most famous rock concert experiences (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young and The Who). 

Photo courtesy of Ben Asen

  Soon it became like any other walk Dad and I have taken--and many were taken along the beach after Mom died. We chatted about everything and nothing: checking in on all the family members, pointing out repairs done since Hurricane Sandy, commenting on the gorgeous weather after yesterday's rain. We paused midway to enjoy the beach view before completing the three-mile trek.

  Making our way back, we again held hands as we crossed the finish line, and hugged once we actually crossed. We learned that 8,000 people had walked with us and more than $1 million had been raised ($1,500 of which was donated by our amazing family and friends!). We felt so honored to be part of this wonderful event.

  "I can see why people do this once and then continue to come every year," Dad said. I agreed.

  So although it took us twelve years after Mom's death to do the walk together, we now plan to make it an annual thing--with guests! My stepmom Susan and my brother Jordan have already volunteered, and I bet we can recruit Mark and Laura. Who else is in? Team Sally's Circle 2015!

Last month, on the twelfth anniversary of my mom's death, I finally got up the nerve to return a library book. One problem: It was twelve years overdue. Fortunately, a nice woman at the Hospice of Central New York in Liverpool, NY was happy to take it back. Here is the letter I sent, which explains all...

August 19, 2014 

Dear Michelle,

About a decade ago, as a student at Syracuse University, I came to your facility, which was then called The Center for Living with Loss, to see a pastor who was a counselor there. My mother had recently died from cancer, and I was seeking support for my grief.

The pastor and I spoke for a while, and before I left, he led me to the library and asked if I'd like to borrow a book. I noticed one right away: Motherless Daughters by Hope Edelman. I flipped through the pages and was shocked to find snippets of loss from young women just like me. I checked it out... and never brought it back. 

Since then, the pages have been read and reread, dog-eared and tear-soaked, and loved beyond belief. I am so grateful to Lisa McChesney, who donated the book, and to your facility for lending me such a wonderful and helpful resource. 

Now, after a dozen years, I'd like to return my book. Enclosed is the recently-published third edition of the book, signed by Hope Edelman herself, who I was fortunate enough to meet in May at the Motherless Daughters Conference in Los Angeles. I hope this book is helpful to someone else, as it was to me.

I hope you won't mind that I am keeping the version I originally borrowed. It is too sentimental for me to part with. It also reminds me how far I've come. The book mostly stays on the shelf these days, atop a bookcase in the charming and sun-filled Brooklyn apartment I share with my husband. We are happy newlyweds, about to celebrate our second anniversary.  

My deepest gratitude to you, your staff, and your community. 

Warmly,

I recently went to the movies with my childhood friend Joanne to see Boyhood. Filmed over 12 years, director Richard Linklater caught on film the magic and misery of growing up. 

We meet the main character, Mason, as a six-year-old boy lying on the grass, staring up into the blue sky. And we watch as he morphs into a shaggy-haired 10-year-old on a dirt bike, a troubled 13-year-old hating his alcoholic stepfather, and later a thoughtful, if not a bit pompous, 18-year-old going off to college.

Played by the same actor, Ellar Coltrane, covering 12 years of his well, boyhood, this feat in modern filmmaking leaves us inexplicably attached to him. Not much happens in the movie, but we root for him. We want him to figure himself out. We want him to have a good life.  

Today, as I honor the 12-year anniversary of my mother's death, part of me wishes I could watch a film of my life over the past dozen years. Sounds narcissistic, I know. But I think it would help me realize how much I've grown. 

Sometimes it's hard to remember that. Like on Sunday night, when the anticipation of the anniversary coming and the pain of missing my mom squeezed my heart so tight I couldn't sleep. On that night I felt like a little girl—the 17-year-old who found out her mom had cancer, the 20-year-old whose mom died. 

But a part of me fought it. You're 32, I thought, you're too fucking old for this.

I'm tired of it hurting. 

I'm tired of it continuing to hurt. 

This year carries a particular weight. Although it feels amazing to have finished writing the memoir my mom and I began co-writing when she was sick, I feel heartsick for not being able to share it with her. I find myself telling her over and over again, while pedaling on the elliptical, while walking in the sunshine down the street, before I go to sleep at night: I finished it, Mom. I finished our book. I fucking finished it. (She didn't really mind cursing.) 

Friends, and friends' moms, and my mother-in-law, and my very sweet readers have been telling me that I should continue blogging. That people will find comfort in seeing how far I've come and that things get better. But on nights when I feel my heart pinch with pain, I doubt myself. What do I have to offer? How much has really changed?

After a fitful sleep on Sunday night, I woke up on Monday morning and headed to the gym. I pedaled as fast as I could on the elliptical and thought about my mom. I thought about how I want things to be different. That I want to be more accepting of her death. I know that is the final piece that is missing. 

Walking home from the gym, a Muse song I loved in college blasting on my headphones, I spotted a guy I knew from college who had recently moved to my neighborhood. He was even wearing a backpack. It was as if I was transported back to the Syracuse University quad. 

And yet. So much has changed. I live in Brooklyn. I'm a working writer. I'm married, about to celebrate my two-year anniversary. I have more gray hair than black. A few days earlier I'd spent the day at the beach with my college roommate—and her two-year-old daughter.

I feel 32. But in a good way. 

My really nice friends have been saying really nice things like, "Wow, I can't believe you finished writing the book!" and "What an accomplishment!" and "That must feel so good."

But there's something about a Word doc in your Google Drive that doesn't give you that warm and fuzzy feeling.

So today I put that PDF on a jump drive and beelined over to Kinkos (or I guess what is now officially FedEx Office Print & Ship Center--ugh, what a mouthful). I'd been putting off the task for months, intimidated by the finality of it, and I expected to hand over the file and pick it up after work.

So I was stunned to learn that I could print it myself, and that it'd be ready immediately. 276 pages. 13 cents a page. 5 minutes, if that. What was so hard to write was so easy to print. Something about it all made me want to cry. 

I watched, bewildered, as the photocopy machine purged my pages. It felt like witnessing the delivery of a child. Blinking back tears, I berated myself: Marisa, do not cry at Kinkos. Instead, I gazed up at the enormous vent, which snaked from the machine to the ceiling and looked like an oversized Slinky. 

Composing myself, I brought all 276 pages to the front desk and braced myself as I watched the young salesman punch holes in my pages and thread a wire binding through it. I critiqued his every move as if he were performing surgery. I wondered if he was looking at the title--"Sally's Circle"--or glimpsing a word here or there--"cancer," "two months to live"--and wondering what in the world this little girl was doing writing about such heavy things.

But nothing was heavier than walking out of the store, holding the enormity of what my mom and I had built over the last fourteen years. 

I took a walk to clear my head and stumbled upon, of all things, Marshall's--one of my mom's favorite stores where we'd always shop together. (I never even knew there was one on the Upper West Side.) I was debating going in when suddenly the sale sign outside began to move towards me. Seriously. Granted, it was on wheels, and it was a bit windy--but still. It was sort of eery, in a "Is that you, Sally?" kind of way. So I went in and flipped through dresses and pajamas and handbags. Nothing caught my eye, but the familiar ritual was soothing.

The truth is, I don't know what Mom would think of our book. She started it, but I finished it. How I wish it could have been a collaborative process the whole way through--and maybe it was, just in a metaphysical way. I do know that when I saw that book printed, a firm voice inside me said: Sally's name is on that page, and that's important. What you're holding matters. It matters. 

My good friend Sara Lieberman (that's us above), who blogs about her travel adventures over at News Girl About Towns, was kind enough to recently tag me in a Blog Hop. 

What's a Blog Hop? Great question. (I had no clue either.) 

Basically, I answer a few questions about my writing, and then let you hop over to a few of *my* favorite bloggers. The hope is that they'll answer these questions, too, and we can all gain some insights into this crazy thing we love/hate to do called writing.

(Get ready, by the way. The bloggers I'm linking to are out of this world.)

OK... here goes!

What am I working on / writing?

I just finished writing a mother-daughter memoir, Sally's Circle, which traces how my relationship with my mom, Sally, fell apart and came back together in the wake of her cancer diagnosis when I was 17 years old. Alternating chapters to each share our side of the story—whether dealing with chemo, shopping for the perfect prom dress, or comforting me through first loves and break-ups—we wrote the book together until she passed away when I was 20. Our hope was to write a relatable, meaningful, and honest story that could help other mothers and daughters.

(To get a feel for the book, you can read my recent xoJane.com essay, "How Do You Find a Wedding Dress Without Your Mom?")

Now that the manuscript is ready, I'm working on a book proposal to send to literary agents. Please cross your fingers for Sally and me!

How does my work/writing differ from other works of its genre?

Co-written mother-daughter memoirs are rare and special. (So far I've only read a handful). In our book, readers get to see everything—my mom's diagnosis, the worst fight we ever had, saying goodbye when I left for college—from both of our perspectives. 

When my mom and I shared chapters with each other years ago, we were fascinated to witness what the other went through. Sometimes our reactions to events were so similar. Other times, they were wildly different. 

We always envisioned Sally's Circle as a pass-along book that mothers can read and give to their daughters, and vice versa. I hope it can help them see the world through each other's eyes and bring them closer. 

Why do I write what I do?

I blame my mom—and I mean that in the best way. Sally always encouraged me to follow my passion of becoming a writer. In fact, it was while I was getting my journalism degree at Syracuse University that she called me at midnight and said excitedly, "Missy—I have an idea. Let's write a book."

Writing gave us a way to understand what the other person was going through. When she was diagnosed, I ran in the opposite direction, and for a while it seemed like we'd never regain our closeness. Writing the book brought us back together. 

After my mom died, it was hard to continue writing the book without her. But whenever I sit down to work on it, even now writing this blog post, I feel Sally's presence with me. After fourteen years of working on the book, on and off, I finally finished writing it this year. I know Sally helped me to complete it. 

How does my writing process work?

I love setting aside anywhere from one to five hours on a weekend afternoon to write. Our sunny Brooklyn apartment has a small office with an antique "lady desk" my husband and I bought on our honeymoon in Maine two years ago. You'll often find me sitting at the desk, blasting my favorite music from college on Spotify (mostly Jimmy Eat World's "Clarity" album), and enjoying the alone time to think and write. When I'm on deadline, I often stay up 'til 2am or write on my iPhone during my hour-long subway commute. The delirium and the tiny device make me less self-critical, and free me to write from the heart. 

Now... allow me to introduce you to a few of my favorite bloggers:

Rebecca Elkin-Young is a NYC-based Licensed Creative Arts therapist and writer who started The Ever Forward Blog in response the miscarriage of her first pregnancy. She scoured the internet for the supportive voice of a real-talking, dark-humored, insightful girlfriend who could guide her through this experience ...and then decided to be that voice. The blog became about more than miscarriage. It speaks to coping with any loss or transition and the ways we pick up the pieces and find creative ways to put them together. Becca is in the process of expanding her blog into a hybrid memoir/survival guide. Stay connected via www.TheEverForward.com and @theeverforward on Twitter! 

Meredith McBride Kipp is the self-titled 'hunter & gatherer of style & flavor.' Between the interior design magazine that she is the Creative Director at (New York SPACES and previously Elle Decor) and her plethora of projects she works on for her design blog (amerelife.com) and 200-year-old farmhouse, Meredith is always looking for inspiration in beautiful places or capturing & creating aesthetically luring content. She has designed beach towels for One Kings Lane, glamorous DIY projects for Apartment Therapy and she makes really intoxicating English Toffee. She's a laid-back & modern-day Martha Stewart. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter and subscribe to her blog.