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Burlesque, the Best Poetry, & Poisoned Apples

Burlesque, the Best Poetry, & Poisoned Apples

Last weekend, Paul and I went to the Ritz Theater in Minneapolis for a Nutcracker-themed burlesque show called “Visions of Sugar Plums.”

In case you’ve never been to a burlesque show before (and if you haven’t, you’re missing out), it usually goes something like this… A girl in an elaborate and creative costume takes off her clothes in a funny, sexy, and/or clever manner. Often this includes dancing and props.  Occasionally this includes singing.  She leaves the stage seconds after her tassel-adorned breasts are revealed, and then there is usually some witty banter with the MC, or maybe a short skit, song, or other variety act. After which, the next girl appears.

To me, the best thing about burlesque is the creativity. The definition of burlesque is “an absurd or comically exaggerated imitation.” So it’s not really about girls stripping for male enjoyment. It’s about girls stripping in a way that is comic, irreverent, creative, and empowering.

Once, for example, Paul and I saw a girl dressed from the waist down like a bedside table and from the waist up as a lamp (with the shade on her head). Her act included a man opening her “drawer” and pulling panties out of it. Another time, we saw a performance in which a girl (the awesome Lou Henry Hoover) was dressed up like a man and stripped down to a flesh-colored body suit after lip-syncing to a song with the lyrics “let me put my banana in your fruit basket, baby.”  And of course, one of our favorite acts was a male burlesque performer who emulated Charlie Chaplin as he used a bowler hat and cane as strategically-placed props.

The finale of Lou Henry Hoover's burlesque act.  Photo credit.

The finale of Lou Henry Hoover’s burlesque act. Photo credit.

So you see what I mean. Burlesque is about taking the titillating act of stripping and turning it on its head.  Which is why, even though I have been to many burlesque shows at this point, I continue to be entertained and delighted by each one. Visions of Sugar Plums was no exception, but there was one act that, for me and Paul, stood out from the rest.

It began with two bare-chested men in harem pants carrying a rolled-up carpet to the stage. They began to unroll the carpet, and yes, just as we suspected, there was a woman inside of it. But, to our confusion, she was nearly-naked, wearing nothing but a glittery thong and nipple-tassels. What the heck? Where was she going to go from here?

She slunk around on her carpet, her back to us, while the men helped her into a jewel-encrusted bra. They picked her up, one thigh for each of them, and through a series of slow, sensual modern dance moves, the men rolled stockings up her calves and fitted ballet shoes onto her feet. They slipped her into a pair of sheer harem pants and zipped her into a belly-shirt. At the end of the act she was fully dressed, dancing like a charmed cobra.  She lay back down, and they rolled her up in the carpet and carried her off stage.

“Wow,” I whispered to Paul. “That was the sexiest one.”

And he agreed. Somehow, they had made an act in which a woman putting on her clothes was sexier than all the stripping acts combined.

They had taken burlesque — an act where women (and men!) take off their clothes — and turned it on its head. A double parody.

The cast of Visions of Sugarplus: A Burlesque Nutcracker. Photo credit.

These are the sorts of creative ideas that entrance me. I kept thinking about that harem act on the way home, and the thought that kept coming to mind was, “that’s poetry.”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge has an excellent quote that poetry is “the best words in the best order,” and I agree wholeheartedly with that simple definition.  But truly amazing poems, in my opinion, are the ones that take something familiar and turn it on its head. Poems that make the beautiful ugly or the ugly beautiful. Poems that make the sexy silly or the familiar strange. Poems that take the complete opposite of what we’ve always thought was true, and make it the new truth.

I recently read Poisoned Apples by Christine Heppermann, a book of poems that rewrites fairy tales with themes of modern beauty and body image. (Two of my favorite topics, by the way.) Although it’s definitely been done before, I still love the way Hepperman takes the fairy tale tropes and turns them on their head.  The poem below is one of my favorites from the collection.  It’s not sexy like the harem act, but it is a clever and poignant parody.  Burlesque comes in all kinds of forms.


The Giant’s Daughter
at the Spring Formal

by Christine Heppermann

It’s bad enough
that the other girls shopped at Teeny Town,
and I’m decked out in
Tarp City,

But even through the perfume
of my pumpkin-size corsage,
Papa will smell Jack on me when I get home,
those greedy little hands.

He’ll stagger around the castle
hunting for bones to grind
until I tuck him in. Then I’ll toss
the bottles down through the clouds
where Mama won’t find them,
and wait out by the beanstalk.

Someday I’ll meet a guy
I can look up to.
One who’s not a drunken oaf
or a shrimp whose jeering buddies
dared him to make the climb.

Poisoned Apples: Poems for You, My Pretty by Christine Heppermann. I also looove this book cover.

What Agents Are Looking For in a Manuscript & What I’m Looking for in a Stitch Fix

What Agents Are Looking For in a Manuscript & What I’m Looking for in a Stitch Fix

*Check out my poem and new CNF piece on Burlesque Press’s Variety Show!*

I’m attempting to start a writing group here in Minneapolis. We had our first organizational meeting last week, and quickly the conversation turned to agents and how hard it is to get one. I have an agent now, but I agree they’re difficult to nab, especially when your query is floating in the slush pile.

I queried more than thirty agents before landing one. I got requests for partial and full manuscripts, and my hopes would rise… but then the agents would email back saying they didn’t connect with the story/character as much as they had hoped, or that the book ended up not being a good fit for them after all.

I agonized over what needed to be changed. Did I need to make my main character more likeable? Increase the romantic tension? Add more adventure? When I pressed an agent about what wasn’t working, she said “It ended up being a bit darker than I expected and it just wasn’t really to my taste. Of course, it’s all so very subjective!”

Indeed it is.


Stitch Fix box. photo credit.

On a seemingly unrelated note, I recently gave Stitch Fix a try. This is a service in which a “personal stylist” picks out five pieces of clothing that are mailed to your door. You can keep whatever you like and send the rest back.

This seemed like a great idea since I desperately need clothes (the other day I put on a sweater I bought for $3 probably ten years ago and noticed a hole in the armpit…and I wore it anyway), yet I never really feel like going shopping. Plus, since the Stitch Fix clothes are a little higher-end than what I’d normally buy, I thought it would encourage me to stop wearing denim maternity dresses from the thrift store (but they’re so comfy!!) and incorporate a few more dignified pieces into my wardrobe.

So I filled out the “style profile” online with my size and preferences and waited for my first “fix” to arrive. When it did, I was pretty disappointed. Here’s what was in my box:

1. A black-and-white blouse my fiancé said made me look like a cow.
2. An ugly paisley dress that was way too big.
3. A boring coat in a hideous shade of maroon.
4. An ill-fitting orange and navy sweater that was waaaay too preppy.
5. A weird and sort-of fun necklace that I ended up buying just because I wanted to have something to show for myself.

The funky necklace I ended up buying.

The funky necklace I ended up buying.

I wondered what had gone wrong. That’s when I read something on the Stitch Fix site I had missed before: “Pinterest is the best way for our personal stylists to see exactly what items and looks you love.” Crap. I hadn’t given my stylist enough information about what I was looking for.

So, I created a Pinterest board called “Clothing I Like” and sent it to Stitch Fix, hoping next time they’d get it right.

My second box came last week, and it was better, but I was still disappointed. It contained:

1. An orange sweater that fit and wasn’t terrible but wasn’t warm enough for Minnesota and ultimately didn’t thrill me.

2. A gray cardigan with gold sequined elbow patches. I had pinned a cardigan with elbow patches on my board, so I see where the stylist was going with this, but gold sequined patches on a gray sweater was not exactly what I had in mind.

3. A halter top with some sparkly sequins. I had said that I wanted something sparkly for the holidays, but this top just wasn’t for me.

4. A gray dress that fit me perfectly and I considered buying, but the color and style wasn’t quite right, and I wasn’t sure I had any events I would actually wear it to.

5. A purple tunic shirt that was a little too big, not warm enough, and a bit plain, but again, I wanted to buy something. (This is the trick with Stitch Fix — you end up buying something because you don’t want to lose the $20 “styling fee” that goes towards your purchase.) The shirt wasn’t perfect, but I was pretty sure I could make it work with a long-sleeved shirt underneath (for warmth!) and a fun sparkly scarf. So that’s what I bought.

photo (1)

The dress I almost bought from Stitch Fix. I’m second-guessing myself now, but really I can’t wear sleeveless in Minnesota.

I felt sort of bad sending back the clothes with my negative comments. “I like the idea in theory, but this just doesn’t wow me,” I wrote.  I wondered if my stylist would be bewildered. (Eva said she wanted sparkly! What’s wrong with that top I sent her?) The answer is, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s a nice top. It’s just not right for me.

This is probably what happens with agents. On their blogs and Twitter they tell writers what they’re looking for, but it’s hard to describe exactly what book will knock your socks off.

An agent might read a query that sounds promising, but when the manuscript arrives, there’s something about it that’s not quite right.  Maybe it’s not a bad manuscript, but they don’t think they have any editors in their network they could send it to. Maybe they already have another book they’re representing that’s too similar. Or maybe it’s simply not to their taste. They aren’t wowed. And if you’re going to be the champion for a writer and his/her work, you need to be wowed.

On the other hand, it happens sometimes that the manuscript isn’t quite right as is, but the agent still thinks it’s workable. Maybe with a few changes and a sparkly scarf…

The point is, an agent is looking for the same thing in the slush pile that I’m looking for in my Stitch Fix box: something they absolutely love that fits them well. You can try all you want to describe what that might be, but in the end you won’t know until you get it.

Of course it’s all so very subjective!

How I jazzed up the purple tunic.

How I jazzed up the purple tunic.

Interview with Heather Tierney, Author of The Freedom of a Tangled Vine

Interview with Heather Tierney, Author of The Freedom of a Tangled Vine

Heather Tierney is an English teacher and author of The Freedom of a Tangled Vine (Wise Ink Press, 2014), a quietly beautiful novel about family and forgiveness. When I sent her these questions, she was literally days away from giving birth to her third child, but still she took the time to give me some thoughtful answers.


What is your novel about, and who would enjoy reading it?

The Freedom of a Tangled Vine tells the story of a Midwestern family’s journey toward redemption and healing. As this family unearths the secrecy behind an adoption procedure in the 1960s, the characters find themselves caught between two generations’ concepts of truth.

The first narrator is Fawn, a 32-year-old teacher, who finds photographs of a young woman in her mother’s jewelry box and must retrace her mother’s past to discover who this woman is. Complicating her search is the chronic illness of her father and her family’s fierce nostalgia.

Lea, Fawn’s mother, is the second narrator. The reader is able to see Lea as a young woman with a secret and as an adult, attempting to heal a wound she has kept covered for most of her life.

The Freedom of a Tangled Vine is a story for the reader who enjoys literary fiction about family, choice, and community. I hoped to tell the story through what is felt (rather than just said) on the page. I love imagery and symbolism. Like the image of the vine that reemerges in its passages, The Freedom of a Tangled Vine reminds us that we are most free when we allow life’s tangles to embrace us.

My copy of The Freedom of the Tangled Vine.  You can get yours here or on Amazon!

My copy of The Freedom of the Tangled Vine. You can get yours here or on Amazon!


There are real-life events that inspired the novel. What made you decide to write fiction instead of a memoir?

There are definitely real-life events that inspired this story. My mother chose adoption after a pregnancy in the 1960s, and she has since reunited with her birth-daughter. I wanted the reader to see a birthmother, such as my mother, in her past and present. And my father has a progressive form of multiple sclerosis, so I also wrote that into the story.

I chose to write fiction instead of a memoir because I wanted to give myself liberty with the characters and plot. When I first started writing, I would wonder, “Is that what this person would really say?” or “Is that how it actually happened?” It was too limiting, and I always felt sensitive about not offending anyone or casting anyone in a negative light. When I decided to write it as fiction, the story took off much more easily from there. The characters became completely separate people from anyone I know in real life.


What did your family think of the novel?

My mother loves it. It makes her teary because the topic of adoption will always evoke that reaction in her. But she’s read it a number of times. Writing the book threw us into conversations we’d never had before. The rest of my family has been encouraging and enthusiastic as well.


Tell about your experience working with your publisher, Wise Ink (based in Minneapolis). What was the process like?

My experience was wonderful. Amy Quale (co-founder of Wise Ink) and I had been in touch for years, but I was never ready to publish. When she contacted me about starting her new publishing company, it felt like the right time to move forward with the manuscript. The story had been sitting on my computer for years.

The first step was to work with an editor, and Amy connected me with Angie. We worked together online almost daily for eight months or so. This was the most exciting part of the process: having someone (who wasn’t a friend or family member) work with me on the text and offer professional feedback from a reader’s standpoint, not just from an emotional angle.

Wise Ink connected me with a graphic designer, an imprinter (who was incredibly patient with me as I made numerous last minute changes), and a printer. The whole process was a great experience.

tangled vine


You are a mother of (soon-to-be!) three and a full-time high school English teacher. When did you decide to write your book, and how did you make the time to do it?

I have no idea.  It took seven years. I wrote when I could, and there were months when I felt very inspired to write, and months where I didn’t even look at it. There was more work done during breaks from work, such as in summer, and I would write late at night. If writing feels like a burden, it loses its fun.

Once I began working with Wise Ink, I was more motivated, because we set up timelines to get things accomplished.


In Freedom of a Tangled Vine, Fawn teaches Their Eyes Were Watching God and My Antonia to her English students. Are these books you teach? Why did you decide to include them in the novel?

They are books I enjoy, and I do sometimes teach Their Eyes Were Watching God. I chose to reference Hurston’s book in my novel because Their Eyes Were Watching God, in my opinion, is about accepting the idea that we don’t have the answers for why people we love make the choices they do. This is the very theme of The Freedom of a Tangled Vine, so the reference fit.


Are you working on any writing projects now, or do you have some in mind for the future?

I have just barely started another book, and I plan to work on it this summer. It’s on hold for now.


What is your favorite piece of writing advice?

Definitely a quote from Willa Cather. She said, in regards to writing one of her books, that it felt like “taking a ride through a familiar country on a horse that knew the way, on a fine morning when you felt like riding.” She said this when she wrote about places and experiences she knew.

Another piece of advice she gave on writing was to “Let your fiction grow out of the land beneath your feet.” These ideas changed the way I wrote. I stopped trying to write about people, emotions or places that were unfamiliar to me. Instead, I wrote about what I know, and that made the writing more authentic and believable. It also made me care about it so much more.


The Freedom of a Tangled Vine is available here and on Amazon.

Winter is Here… Writing About the Weather

Winter is Here…  Writing About the Weather

Paul and I just started watching Game of Thrones. (I know — we’re behind the times.) The first episode is called “Winter is Coming” because in the fantasy realm of The Seven Kingdoms, it has been summer for nearly a decade, and now a cold, dark, and very long winter is approaching.

“We live in real-life Winterfell,” I said to Paul. “Except instead of “winter is coming,” winter is already here.”

We recently moved to Minneapolis, and the Minnesota winter is no joke. We had our first snow in early November, and ever since temperatures have pretty much stayed below freezing, often venturing into the negative degrees Fahrenheit at night.

Outside my window each morning, I see snow-topped roofs and the half-frozen Mississippi River. Crows venture across the snow-covered ice sheets, and steam rises up from the flat, gray expanse. On especially cold mornings, the waterfalls freeze, turning into thick, white icicles in mid-air, and when I go outside, my head aches from the cold while ice crystals try to form inside my nose.

For Thanksgiving, Paul and I drove two hours north to a lodge in Nisswa, Minnesota. On Thanksgiving Day, the temperature was negative 9 degrees Fahrenheit. We piled on layers and went out for a walk on Gull Lake, which was frozen solid. “Soon people’ll start driving their cars on it,” an employee told us. Paul and I turned our faces towards the bleak sun, low in the sky even though it seemed the day had just begun. When we turned back to the lodge, our eyes hurt, as if the liquid inside them was trying to freeze.


Eva walking on frozen Gull Lake in Nisswa, MN.

Despite the bitter temperatures, Paul and I still do things outside. I take walks along the river or through the neighborhood of Victorian houses on Nicollet Island. One day, Paul and I even attempted to do an outdoor scavenger hunt despite the fact that it was 14 degrees outside. We were managing to stay warm until I slipped while climbing on an icy statue to retrieve a clue and fell in the snow. Paul retrieved the clue, but his cotton gloves got wet in the process. With wet gloves and wet jeans (we don’t yet own snow pants), we quit the hunt in fear of frostbite and retreated home to drink hot tea under blankets, which is probably what most people in Minneapolis do all winter long.

And it is a long one. Paul and I are already getting tired of the cold that has seeped into our bones. I’m tired of donning my snow boots and heavy coat each day, my hair crackling with static. But we’ve still got four more months of this. The snow won’t melt until late April. In Minneapolis you get six whole months of winter.

Which is funny because I lived for a long time in New Orleans, which gets six whole months of summer. In New Orleans, you step outside in the summer and the air is so thick you could chew it.  You live in a constant bath of hot, humid air and your own rum-scented sweat.  In New Orleans, “winter” (which means temperatures in the fifties) starts December first and is usually over by Mardi Gras Day in February. If I were in The Big Easy right now, I’d be drinking a frozen eggnog daiquiri instead of this mug of cocoa.

On the outdoor scavenger hunt, before we got cold and cranky.

On the outdoor scavenger hunt, before we got cold and cranky.

On a semi-related note, a few weeks ago, Paul and I went to see Interstellar, a movie that involves space travel, and one of the planets the characters visit was a frozen wasteland sort of place with days and nights both 67 hours long. I remember my first thought was not, surprisingly, about the cold, but about how strange it would be to live in a place where one day is 67 hours long. How would that change a person’s daily rhythms, not to mention a society’s?

All of this is to say that climate and other environmental factors can make for an interesting premise to a story, or add volumes to the tone and atmosphere of a narrative. Just look at Ursula K. LeGuinn’s novel, The Left-Hand of Darkness, set on an extremely cold planet. And weather can work for realistic fiction, too.  When I think of The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells, I think of the steamy, lethargic heat of southern summers without air-conditioning.  And Annie Proulx’s novel The Shipping News, set in a stark Newfoundland fishing village, has the power to make my teeth chatter no matter what time of year it is.

As a writing exercise, perhaps I’ll try thinking about what it would be like to live in a land where the seasons last for years instead of months, or where it takes years for the ocean tides to rise and fall. How would life be different on a planet where the days are 67 hours long, or where the weather is so variable it could be a hundred degrees one day and negative 9 the next? What about a story set in a place where it never stops raining, or where mid-day is so dangerously hot that anyone who goes outside underneath the three suns risks being burned alive?

Or maybe I’ll just write about the sticky heat of New Orleans, or the dry, biting cold of Minnesota.

Right now I sort of feel like I’m living a story about a woman from Summerland who moves to Winterfell and is forced to face her first bitterly cold winter. So far I’m surviving, but I still have many months to go.

Winter is here…  for a while.

Ice crystals on the frozen lake.

Ice crystals on the frozen lake.

Getting Back in the Habit: Guitar Playing vs. Writing

Getting Back in the Habit:  Guitar Playing vs. Writing

My fiancé, Paul, bought a 3-D printer and is crazy-giddy about it. He assembled it himself, which was quite the feat, and he finally got it working the other night. “Watch, babe!” he said, dancing around the living room as the printer made beeping sounds and filled our small apartment with the smell of melted plastic. “Isn’t it so cool?”

“It’s very cool,” I said for the hundredth time.

After about twenty minutes, the printer had successfully created a one-inch plastic cube. “It’s like we own a machine from a Lego factory,” I said.

“Yeah! I could make Legos for our kids one day.”

Paul’s been trying to convince me for the past six months that a 3-D printer will actually be quite useful. “I can make all sorts of things with it,” he told me, “Like… I could make a broom.”

“But we already have a broom.”

“Or…” His eyes fell on my guitar case, “I could make you some guitar picks.”

I laughed. “That would mean I’d have to start playing my guitar again.”


Paul’s 3-D printer.

I began taking guitar lessons in October of last year, and back then I practiced nearly every day. I quit the lessons in April due to money and time restraints, but still I tried to play a few times a week and teach myself new songs using the Internet. But by August, my guitar-playing had fallen by the wayside, and I’d only picked up my guitar once or twice since we moved to Minneapolis at the beginning of September.

I looked at my guitar. I could practice, or I could sit on the couch reading and eating a cookie. I chose the latter. I’ll practice tomorrow night, I thought.

But then I didn’t. I’m always so tired in the evenings after work and yoga and making dinner. I didn’t feel like lugging out my guitar and struggling through songs that are frustrating because I can only half-play them. Plus, I’d lost the nice calluses I’d built up on my fingers — playing would be painful.

Eva and guitar.

Eva and guitar.

In a lot of ways, playing the guitar is like writing. Chances are, you’ll only get good if you do it nearly every day. That’s not to say you can’t take a hiatus, but when you do, it can be difficult to get back into the routine. You’re going to be rusty and things aren’t going to sound good or go smoothly, and that doesn’t exactly motivate you to pick up the guitar or sit down with a blank page.

While I was driving the other day, I wondered if maybe I’d never play the guitar again. It’s not like I’m ever going to be that good anyway.  I have tiny, child-sized hands and little natural musical ability. I’ve never been the type to play around with an instrument until I get it to sound good, and it wouldn’t be any real skin off my back if I never played again.

But then I thought of the pleasure I got when I worked out the chords to a new song, or when I was able to play something simple and sing along. Sort of like the pleasure I get when I revise a short story or work out the plot to a new novel.  The work isn’t always fun or easy, but I’m proud and happy when I get something to sound good.

So yesterday morning, I took a break from writing and sat down with my guitar. It was horribly out of tune, and I had to spend a good ten minutes tightening the strings and practicing some basic chords.

Then I played some of my easier songs: “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me For a Sunbeam” and “Riptide” by Vance Joy. My fingertips smarted painfully, and my chords were less-than-crisp, but I could still do it. My fingers moved with muscle memory into the chord shapes and strumming patterns. It was hard, but I still had it in me. After three songs, I had to take a break, but that was okay. A little bit is better than nothing, and realizing that I could still make music would be my motivation to play again sometime soon. It was also helpful, I noticed, to play in the morning, when I hadn’t used up my reserves of patience and energy for the day.

My brother, Deven, on the other hand, is a natural musician.  He taught himself to play the guitar.

My brother, Deven, on the other hand, is a natural musician. He taught himself to play the guitar.

For the past few months I’ve been fairly dedicated to writing, but I’m getting ready to take a hiatus. I’ve finished the first draft of a new novel and I want to let it rest. Plus there’s Christmas and New Years and a trip to New Orleans coming up. Oh, and a wedding to plan. So chances are I won’t get settled back into a serious writing routine until the middle of January.

When January comes around and it’s time to get back to work, I’ll have to remember that even though it’s hard to get back in the habit, and even though I’ll be rusty and writing might be painful at first, this is something that will always be in me. It may take a few days of tuning and practicing the basics, but eventually I’ll be back in the swing of things, my calluses fully-formed.

And although I don’t feel the need to be a guitar player, I do feel the need to be a writer. I like to think I’ve got some natural ability, and I’ve always been the type to play around with words and stories until I get something that sounds right. My guitar playing will probably come and go, but writing is a habit I intend to keep.

Eva and her old guitar.  (My new one is much prettier and shinier.)

Eva and her old guitar. (My new one is much prettier and shinier.)

Should I Change My Name? Or, Why Eva Langston Will Live On

Should I Change My Name?  Or, Why Eva Langston Will Live On

“The name is the thing, and the true name is the true thing. To speak the name is to control the thing.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Rule of Names

I always said when I got married I’d change my last name, as long as my husband wasn’t named Piggbottom or Beeva or something like that.

And as it turns out, my fiancé has a good last name. If I take his, I’ll be Eva Patrone, which sounds sort of awesome, like I’m a passionate Latin American activist.

But when I brought up the name-change question to Paul, his initial response surprised me. “Don’t change your name!” he said. “You have a great name. You should keep it.”

And it’s true. I do have a great name. I didn’t always feel that way, but over the past thirty-three years, I’ve grown to love my name. Eva Langston. It’s unique without being bizarre or hard to pronounce. It sounds both beautiful and strong. Random people (once a gas station attendant) have told me it sounds like a writer’s name. I even love signing my name: the swirling elegance of the capital “L” and the strong slash when I cross the “t.”

Plus, I’m finally building up a web presence with my name, which will be helpful when I start to publish books. When you google “Eva Langston,” the very first result is my Twitter account and the second is this blog site.

So I started to think, hmm… Maybe I shouldn’t change my name after all…

Eva and Paul.  The day we got engaged.

Eva and Paul. The day we got engaged.

But what about when Paul and I have a baby?  Will I feel strange or sad if I don’t have the same last name as my child?

Paul’s mother didn’t change her last name, and he said it never bothered him to have a different name from her (although I wonder if it bothered her sometimes). His mother instilled in him strong feminist values that I’m very glad he has: Paul believes that marriage is an equal partnership and that I will always have my own identity. To Paul, me keeping my name is a statement of our equal standing.

But a part of me was slightly offended when he was so adamant that I keep my name. Does he not want to share his name with me? Does he not want us (and our future family) to be united under a common name?

Because although the idea of keeping my name is really tempting, it also feels like I’d be holding back from the marriage. Paul and I are becoming one family, and changing my name not only symbolizes that, it feels like an important commitment to make. If I don’t change my name, is it because a part of me is afraid of committing fully to the marriage?  Is it selfish of me to want to keep my name?

On the other hand, Paul is committing to the marriage, too, but that doesn’t entail him changing his name. In fact, I asked him jokingly if he’d change his name to Langston, and he very seriously said no. And unless we do hyphenated last names for the kids (which would be bulky and ridiculous), our children will probably end up with his last name, and that’s not exactly equal, is it?

Eva performing in the musical "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change" at the Actor's Theater of New Orleans.

Eva performing in the musical “I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change” at the Actor’s Theater of New Orleans.

This is what sucks about the decision. I want us to have the same last name, but in order for that to happen, I’m the one who has to make the sacrifice. And now I understand why Paul wants me to keep my name. He doesn’t want me to have to sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it’s a sacrifice either way. Either I change my name, or I deal with having a last name that is different from my husband’s and my children’s.  Both cases involve me making a compromise.

At our wedding in April, I’m not going to wear a veil or have bridesmaids. I may not wear white. And I will not be walked down the aisle by my father or any other male. To me, that tradition is old-fashioned, and the concept that I am being “given” from one male to another is both untrue and icky. Instead, Paul and I will walk from opposite sides of the room and meet together in the middle to symbolize that we are coming together as partners; we are giving ourselves to one another.

It’s too bad we can’t have the same sort of symbolism with our name. Oh, I suppose we could in theory. We could both change our names to Langstrone or Pangston or maybe choose a totally new last name like… I don’t even know what. But I don’t think Paul will go for that, and it seems sort of silly to me, too.

Paul has amended his initial statement to say that whether or not I change my name is totally my decision, and he’ll be supportive either way.  “That’s what feminism is about,” he said.  “Women having the power to choose.”

So I’ll give up my name (and perhaps a little piece of my identity), or I’ll give up sharing a name and identity with my husband and children.  Neither option is exactly what I want.  This is what happens when you’re a woman. You  get a choice these days, but you’re always choosing between less-than-ideal options.

I still don’t know for sure what to do.

Another photo from "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change."

Another photo from “I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change.”

I guess the silver lining is this: No matter what I decide, I can always be Eva Langston in my writing life. If I decide to become Eva Patrone, I can still publish stories and books under the name Eva Langston. I can continue to write my blog as Eva Langston, and the Eva Langston web presence will remain as long as I keep tweeting and posting. It’s a hard decision to make, but it is nice to know that if I become Mrs. Patrone, Eva Langston will live on.

Eva Langston will live on!

Eva Langston will live on!

Being Thankful: Why Writers are “Well Favored”

Being Thankful:  Why Writers are “Well Favored”

Today is Thanksgiving, so I’ll keep it short since you guys are all probably drifting in and out of a turkey and red wine stupor.

In his book Turning the Mind into an Ally, Sakyong Mipham says that “most of us contemplate what’s missing in our lives, as opposed to what we have.” He suggests that we spend time thinking about how amazing it is that we were born human and “well favored.”

Well-favored, he says, means “we’ve been born in a time and place where we have the luxury of hearing, contemplating, and putting into action teachings that awaken us to our enlightened mind.” If you’re reading this, no matter what troubles you have, your basic needs are being met, and you have access to education and information and all sorts of other opportunities. This is something we often take for granted, but if you look at the timeline of human history, we are incredibly lucky to be so “well favored.”


I turned a Halloween decoration into a Thanksgiving decoration.

As a writer I feel especially well favored. I live in a time and place where practically all the books in the world are at my fingertips. I can download them, check them out at the library, buy them online. I also have a laptop computer that makes writing and revising infinitely easier than the days of quill pens and parchment. I have Internet for doing research and a community of writers I keep in touch with through social media.

And I have Paul.

I cannot stress enough how thankful I am for my fiancé Paul. He is incredibly supportive of my writing career, despite the fact that I currently bring in zero dollars from it. (At least once a week, out of the blue, he’ll tell me that he’s proud of me.) He reads my rough drafts, helps me brainstorm, and never misses a blog post. And because of Paul, I don’t have to work full-time anymore and can spend my mornings working on writing. I feel incredibly lucky and well favored.

Thank you, Paul. Thank you, technology. Thank you, universe. Thanks all around.

Eva and Paul

Eva and Paul

More Posts About Being Thankful:  

Be Thankful for the Bathroom

Searching for Turkeys


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