For my sisters, weeping

I woke up this morning and saw the news. Barely awake and suddenly weeping.

Grief was drawn from the well of me, pulled up from my girlhood, womanhood. An excavation from the deep of my experience, and yours.

I never, ever forget yours.

And then – this morning – I screamed. Mouth against pillow. Careful, even in my anger. Because that’s what we’ve been trained for, right. Self-silencing, lest we wake the sleeping.

No more.

I cannot take this anymore. I will not put my hand to my own mouth, or yours. I will be louder than I have ever been before.

And I will be quiet, when you need me.

When you need me. I am here.

I see you. And I believe you ♥

(I don’t know what else to do right now, but rage. And write)


“My rage could swallow whole continents. I suspect I am only one of millions of women worldwide who has finally unleashed her fury. We will never placate you again.”

~ Jane Caro




Three years past pretty

Maggie Valentine has no idea how old she is. Not in the sense of calendars and birthdays, these details she of course knows well enough, marked as they are with parties, and resolutions, and the requisite attention to the big years. Rather, it is the final number that doesn’t make sense to her, the tally of her years as if the age she has landed at is a place, irrefutable, like the next city plotted on a map. She does not feel 37. She sometimes experiences a jolt of surprise to hear this actress, or that singer, someone she sees the details of regularly, is a particular, much younger age than that. When she would swear these women are contemporaries, older even, than she is. It is as if she has the wrong idea about everything now.

In truth, Maggie Valentine is approximately three years past pretty. Though filters and animal ears hide this in her most commonly shared photographs, it is a reality she sees in the mirror every morning. The slacked jaw, the fold-down corners of her mouth, the stomach rounded and hips fleshed. She has not grown old with someone, has only herself to wake up to each morning, and this is what she sees. A woman well past pretty, still sexy, even beautiful at times, but there is little youth to be found in her features now. This, she has to accept.

But how to be 37? How to understand in her bones what that means, when it is nothing that they told her it would be (They. Her mother. Women’s magazines. People who should have known better).


I missed Maggie V. So I’m revising her at a different time. Just to see where she’ll take me 😉


It still surprised me

It isn’t that I think the sky will fall. Or that I wouldn’t know what to do if it did. I am not afraid of anything, you should understand that. But I don’t know that I have ever felt safe. Safe seems like a promise someone broke, and the worst part is that you believed them. With promises, it’s only a betrayal if you believed them.

I don’t believe I’ll ever be safe.

Do you know how aware we have to be? Girls like me? The man ahead who slows down, who disappears into doorways. The man behind who walks too fast, his encroachment felt on your skin, creeping. Vans with dark windows and streets with alley ways. A park at dusk, or just emptier of people than you thought it would be, any old time of the day. The teacher whose hand lingers, or the group of boys with beer on their breath. The door closing and the room spinning. Do you know how aware we have to be?

(I suppose I let my guard down. At the end. When the sky actually did fall. The crack, and the flash of light, and the wet like rain drops. Air heavy like a boot on my chest. Dirt, and metal and being pushed down, down into the earth. It still surprised me. The shock of how little you can mean to another. How an entire world can be discarded for someone else’s storm. I was right not to believe I’d ever be safe.

But it still surprised me. At the end.)

~ Alice, What We Have Left

Things already broken

“The first kind of woman? To deal with the fear, the loss of control – well, she sets about breaking things, herself. Before anything can break around her. She does the breaking, so that she is never, ever let down again. She builds a life around broken parts.

The other kind? Well she looks for things already broken. She only ever sees the damage. And she spends her life trying to repair it. To repair people, their sadness and their grief. She puts people back together, creates a mosaic from their stories and their sorrow. She finds broken people and tries to love them back to something whole.

That’s her fear, her control. If she can love something back together, it means nothing is lost, nothing is too far gone for saving.” ~ Alice, Into the After

Shelter from the rain

Image: Beth Priestly

The Memory of Stars written …

Eidyia’s note: It has been nearly two years since I started blogging here at body, remember and as I (triumphantly!) posted a few weeks back, I’ve now finished the story I began 22 months ago. I have been in an endless cycle of edits and re-writes since the moment I (symbolically) typed – The End – and it has been a new challenge to approach the story as a reader, to consider my writing from the outside – in, this time.

One of the biggest changes to come from the editing process is my realisation that body, remember doesn’t just belong to Maggie Valentine anymore. Though MV remains dearest to my heart, the stories of Anna, the widow, and Lucy, the young woman who triggers the tragedy at the heart of the novel, have allowed me to express ideas and philosophies that I am passionate about.

This is a story of women. The novel explores issues that the women of my universe have been directly affected by – desire, infidelity, betrayal, violence, choice. Each character has lost something even greater than the man she loved, something deeper, and the novel is the story about how they get it back. Separately. And ultimately, together.

All three women are flawed no doubt (there are some … interesting … choices going on!)  but they are also resilient. Thoughtful. Sensual. Brave. Just like the women of my universe, in fact.

body, remember started out as a love story. And it remains so. I’ve just broadened the definition, changed the constellation. So many of you came here via the struggle of I know you don’t watch me walk away. It is my sincerest hope that you stay with me and my girls as we explore what happens next …

Oh! And the whole point of this latest post was supposed to be this. The story belongs to three women now, and the original title body, remember feels like it only expresses Maggie’s part of the journey. So I’ve changed it. The blog remains body, remember but the novel that has grown out of it is now called … The Memory of Stars. A little phrase that has stuck with me since I scribbled it down, right at the start.

Here’s the cover page of my manuscript, and the much-revised prologue (endings, of course!) … from the end, the story begins …
The Memory of Stars by Jacqueline Bublitz


Did you know that the light we see from certain stars is really just the past finally reaching us? That for our most distant stars, their light survives – even when the star itself no longer exists?

Sometimes it is simply the memory of stars we see written across the night sky. A glittering memorial to all the stars that used to be.

Which is why I look up when I want to find you.