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Articles by Shuly Cawood
I Only Know Jimmy Because
— 2 min read he waves whenever I walk by. He lives four blocks away, and he lets the neighbor dogs poop in his yard. He lets mine. That says all you need to know about him, or all I need to know. To say it’s okay for an animal to crap on your lawn is to say we all have needs and can’t always manage the timing, is to say sometimes it’s best to start with forgiveness, as Jimmy always does, is to say that to allow something to happen as it’s meant to is easier than trying to stop it.
Column: I will not fall in love with you
When we put down our beloved dog in September of 2022, I told my husband, “I need a two-year break from having dogs.” He didn’t altogether believe me. He thought I might change my mind. “I won’t,” I said. “I know myself.” The door to that room was shut, and I wasn’t ready to open it. Our dog had been wonderful — well-trained, sweet to people, and very bonded to us — and she’d had her challenges.
Contra Dancing After Divorce
All the dances where you showed up hoping to meet someone or you had met someone and hoped to see them on that wooden floor, under those bright lights—somewhere in the bubbling crowd— or you had broken up with someone or they had ended it with you and you hoped to God you would not cross them in any long line. All the laces you tied, the socks you pulled on, the tank tops you sweated through.
Column: Bright lights, big city? Or is it just me?
When I told people what city I was about to go see, everyone said I would hate it. Why was everyone so sure I wouldn’t like where we were going for my husband’s conference? The truth is that for a few years this city had been on my wish list of places to see in the US: Las Vegas, the place where everyone says that what happens there, stays there. I wanted to know its secrets. I wanted to see this city in real life since I had only seen it in movies.
Column: The practice of accepting things exactly as they are
I could tell you this story started in July, when I got a call from someone I love who lives seven hours away. Or I could tell you this story started last year, on my birthday, when I told myself I’d had enough — that I wasn’t going to let fear stand in my way anymore. kAm~C x 4@F=5 E6== J@F E9:D DE@CJ DE2CE65 :? s646>36C H96? 2 7C:6?5 D6?E >6 2 BF@E6 7C@> {2@ %KF]k^Am kAm~C >2J36 E9:D DE@CJ DE2CE65 H96? x H2D G6CJ J@F?8[ J@F?86C E92? 6G6? x <?@H]k^Am kAmqFE :?
The Sun Magazine | The Psychic Is In | By Mishele Maron | Issue 572
In the summer of 1980, when I was ten years old, a stranger sneaked through our trailer’s unlocked side door at 2 AM. He lifted a few gold-plated necklaces from my mother’s wooden jewelry box, then entered my bedroom. When I woke, the man pulled his hands out of my underwear. I sat up and watched as he adjusted himself awkwardly, almost apologetically, in the chair he’d dragged from the kitchen to my bedside. His dark hair was illuminated by moonlight streaming through the windows.
COLUMN: A note from the Don't Give Up Department
In the summer of 2020, I somehow heard about a particular literary magazine. Let’s just call it Long Shot for the sake of this column (but no, that is not its real name). I submitted a batch of poems to Long Shot, and they all got rejected. I submitted a bunch more a month later, and this time, the poems got rejected but with a “we aren’t taking these but try us again” kind of note. This kind of rejection is one level up from a flat-out no.
A tale of grief, hope and four orchids
For most of my life, I hardly noticed orchids. Years ago, my husband was given one that must have been blooming when he got it, but if it was, I did not pay attention. That flowerless orchid has sat by our kitchen window all this time, somehow not dying. My husband watered the bloomless plant whenever he remembered, which was every few weeks at best. The truth is I didn’t keep track. I didn’t care. I had a whole house of other plants to water and prune and re-pot as needed.
What you don't yet know you need
We checked the weekend forecast before we left for Blowing Rock: sunny and highs in 60s, the perfect kind of mountain autumn weather. We pictured coffee and eggs for early breakfasts, walks in the woods and around Bass Lake, the late afternoon sun slanting across our faces as we sat on a porch. We packed up the car and drove across the state line and into North Carolina.
What was supposed to happen, and then what did
My husband and I planned our week-long trip to my Ohio hometown. “Is there anything particular you want to do?” I asked. Preston asked me the same. We had a potential list: drink coffee and write (well, I would write; he would read) at the Emporium; hike in Glen Helen; pick up food at Current Cuisine; go see my beloved college campus; get ice cream at Young’s; make a Trader Joe’s run. Just before we got into our packed car, we took our COVID tests.
Appreciating small kindnesses
Shuly Cawood, Community Voices Have you ever run into the grocery store for a small something — a couple of apples, or a carton of ice cream, or a bag of coffee beans — and found yourself stuck in the checkout line behind a shopper with an overflowing grocery cart? You’re already counting how many items this person has and being judgy (Do they really need all those boxes of cookies? Are they shopping for a restaurant, or maybe for 10 million kids?).
The year I was a submission machine
Shuly Cawood, Community Voices Here we are again, my annual acceptance/rejection column where I summarize the results from my last year’s literary submissions. This is where I tell that you that no literary magazines turned down my work because, you know, it’s my work and my work is PERFECT. And this is where I also tell you that all the big publishers are emailing me, Oprah is calling, and I’ve been nominated for a Pulitzer or one of those other little ho-hum prizes. Or ...
The other side of trouble
Autumn is tricky. It’s a time of year when any piece of big, bad news has fallen into my life along with all those big, beautiful leaves. One year, a few days after Thanksgiving, my first husband said he wanted a divorce. Another November, on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I was driving on a highway in North Carolina when I got the call that my dear friend had died.
A fake British accent and bicyclists: Both an opportunity
Years ago, someone I knew who had grown up in my Ohio hometown graduated high school and went off to college. Except when she got there, she put on an English accent and told everyone she was British. I don’t know how long until the gig was up — if she was able to pull this off for months or years or through her whole college experience, but I do know that I never forgot it, never forgot how bold it was.
All you have to do is get into the NYT
Shuly Cawood Years ago, when I was in Earth Fare shopping, my husband and I met someone with whom he had grown up. We got to talking and discovered we were each writing memoirs. The difference? She had a publisher. And a contract. And a deadline. I was still, at that time, just writing my memoir hoping someone, someday, would want it. Which I admitted to her (all the while wishing I could say to her: “You have a publisher?
Wait, it's what? It's Valentine's Day
Last summer, around my husband’s and my wedding anniversary, we asked each other, “What date did we get married?” The 30th, the 31st, or was it the 29th? We always have to figure it out. For our anniversaries, we do not get each other gifts. I usually ask him for a card — it can be just a sheet of notebook paper for all I care. I just want him to write about how he feels about me, something I know but never tire of hearing (I have kept all the cards he has ever given me, and yes, I reread them).
'No' never means you're not good enough
Many years ago, I liked a boy. No, I’m just kidding. This isn’t a column about relationships, although I admit that some (but not all!) of what I am about to say could apply to relationships. For those of you who are my long-time readers, you know that this is the time of year when I review my submission success—the number of times I submitted my work to magazines, and the number of times my work was accepted or rejected—and the lessons I learned along the way.
'You really should think about teaching'
Years ago when I was in college, my professors told me, “You should think about teaching. You’d be good at it.” But I didn’t want to teach. I wanted to be a writer. I did become a full-time writer, eventually. In the meantime I became a study abroad administrator, an admissions recruiter, a publications coordinator, a career counselor, and a financial counselor.
Relearning the lessons of connection
A few years ago, I told my husband I needed a change to my days. What I meant was that working at home alone was no longer so great for me. I was starting to become lonely, and the loneliness was shading the days with more and more grey, no matter the sunshine outside. Having a home office had been great — and still is at times— but I am an extrovert. I need my alone time, but too much of it and the sadness seeps in.
Southern Literary Review
Author Ellen Birkett Morris has a new short story collection out, Lost Girls (TouchPoint Press, 2020), which explores the experiences of women and girls as they grieve, find love, face uncertainty, take a stand, find their future, and say goodbye to the past. Though they may seem lost, each finds her center as she confronts the challenges and expectations of womanhood.
A different kind of Independence Party
Many years ago, I got married around this time of year to my first husband. It was close to my parents’ anniversary, which is also around the July 4 holiday. I can’t remember now why exactly he and I chose the date we did, but I can imagine I probably thought my parents’ own wedding date might bring us some luck. Not that I consciously thought we needed luck. I’ve written much about our marriage — a young one that now, through the lens of many years, feels glossed with naiveté and wishful thinking.
My Next Education
Many years ago, when my then-husband and I started truly struggling in our marriage and toward our way to the end (though I did not know it was the end), I saw I had a few things of my own to work on and I started the work. But looking back, I can see that I did not yet know how much work I had to do. Finally, when my then-husband said he wanted out of the marriage, I mostly blamed him. And in the months that followed, I blamed him more.
Inheritance - The Sun Magazine
My great-aunt was not the type of lady to smoke out on the porch. No, she lit up in her living room, and up and down the stairs, and in her bedroom on hot Mississippi nights with the windows thrown open. My great-aunt read faster than other women cooked, cleaned, baked cookies. One night she read Gone with the Wind cover to cover while sitting on the toilet. She didn’t have much use for clocks or schedules: if she wanted to sleep, she slept.
Treading through Love's Complications — Shuly Cawood
(This blog originally appeared in The Rumpus.) When I was in college, I developed a crush on a man with whom I worked. He was a good person, he made me laugh, and we were friends. But since I was still a student—he was not—and we were coworkers, we were off limits to each other in the dating world, not that he ever expressed any romantic interest in me at that time. Undeterred, I declared in my journal that one day I would marry him. Love was a simple equation to me.
Taking the good from the hard and making better
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices • Today at 6:15 AM A few years ago, I started a fictional story about two people who had been high school sweethearts and now, in their late 30s, are brought back into each other’s lives by a tragedy, which is what opens the story. That’s about all I knew about what I was writing. I never plan out stories, so I never know how long they will end up being or what will happen to the characters. So much of the joy for me is the surprise of finding out.
A little stronger than you think
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices Columnist • Today at 6:45 AM Last week, I was writing in a library, and I saw a woman suddenly get up from her chair by the window and stand a few feet away. I was fairly certain I knew what was wrong. I got up and went over to her. “Is there a wasp?” I asked. This library had a long row of windows, and many of them were open, sans screens. Yes, she said, there was. “Do you need help?” I asked. Not that I wanted to help.
A little stronger than you think
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices Columnist • Today at 6:45 AM Last week, I was writing in a library, and I saw a woman suddenly get up from her chair by the window and stand a few feet away. I was fairly certain I knew what was wrong. I got up and went over to her. “Is there a wasp?” I asked. This library had a long row of windows, and many of them were open, sans screens. Yes, she said, there was. “Do you need help?” I asked. Not that I wanted to help.
The Going and Goodbye
The Going and Goodbye Shuly Xóchitl Cawood $17.00 (including shipping) 978-0-9935321-9-1 · 192 pages · 129 × 198 mm Also available on: Amazon, Book Depository and Barnes & Noble. The Going and Goodbye is an examination of loss and leaving and the search for meaning in the memories that remain.
The value of sharing each other’s stories
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices • Today at 7:45 AM This fall, I was contacted by the nonfiction editor of Northeast State Community College’s student art and literary magazine, Echoes & Images. Every year, the magazine holds a competition for Northeast State students to submit original work, and for each edition, the magazine seeks a different judge for the competition. This year, the nonfiction editor asked if I would want to judge the nonfiction entries.
The value of sharing each other’s stories
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices • Today at 7:45 AM This fall, I was contacted by the nonfiction editor of Northeast State Community College’s student art and literary magazine, Echoes & Images. Every year, the magazine holds a competition for Northeast State students to submit original work, and for each edition, the magazine seeks a different judge for the competition. This year, the nonfiction editor asked if I would want to judge the nonfiction entries.
Surviving home clutter reduction via Netflix
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices Columnist • Jan 24, 2019 at 7:30 AM It all started when my husband and I watched the first episode of the new Netflix series: “Tidying Up with Marie Kondo.” I realize now that this might not have been the brightest idea, seeing as how I am susceptible to absorbing too much of what I watch (which is why I avoid scary movies and programs).
Surviving home clutter reduction via Netflix
Community Voices Shuly Cawood, Community Voices Columnist • Today at 7:30 AM It all started when my husband and I watched the first episode of the new Netflix series: “Tidying Up with Marie Kondo.” I realize now that this might not have been the brightest idea, seeing as how I am susceptible to absorbing too much of what I watch (which is why I avoid scary movies and programs).
For Crying Out Loud
Community Voices Shuly Cawood • Today at 7:30 AM About 12 or 14 years ago, I started to cry. Wait, that sounds like I never used to cry. I did, but like a normal person: if something really sad happened, I cried. End of story. I didn’t cry when reading a beautiful poem. I didn’t cry when telling a story about someone else.
For Crying Out Loud
Community Voices Shuly Cawood • Today at 7:30 AM About 12 or 14 years ago, I started to cry. Wait, that sounds like I never used to cry. I did, but like a normal person: if something really sad happened, I cried. End of story. I didn’t cry when reading a beautiful poem. I didn’t cry when telling a story about someone else.
How poetry can change a life
“You’re already halfway through,” he said. It’s not as if I couldn’t do the math, but I couldn’t see the finish line that he could see or the future he could imagine. My father understood that a master’s degree in anything would help my career, and he probably surmised what it would take me years to understand: that a journalism master’s degree in particular would strengthen my writing skills and help me land a wide range of communications positions, which in fact it did.
Changing your perspective will change your life
He didn’t mention all the great shots, the highs of the game, the wins. He remembered the misses. The other son — I’ll call him Mike — would score one or two points out of all the shots he made, but afterward, he would talk about those one or two fantastic shots, the best ones, and never mention the misses. He remembered how good it had felt to do something so well. He remembered, not the lows, but the highs. And who do you think was happier? It’s not hard to guess.
Singing and skating to forget the pain
I had a plan to be gone for Christmas in my hometown in Ohio, but there were plenty of days that preceded that trip, days when I was still stuck in our shared condo, still living under the same roof with the soon-to-be-ex-husband, days when I dreaded going home after my workday ended. At that time in my life, I had two co-workers who were also my friends: Stef and Kim.
July 4th in my hometown
Today, after lunch, my brother-in-law decided he wanted to see the 4th of July parade. This event takes place every year in my hometown, where I am today with my sister and her husband and my parents. The truth is that for many years—though my parents live a block from downtown, where the parade takes place—I didn’t go to it. I’m not a big parade person. I never watch the famous parades on television. I’m not a crowds person, either.
An author loses her mind (briefly) on the radio
Vick interviews authors on the program, and he is a fantastic interviewer. No interview is like the next. The questions aren’t canned, so he tailors every single one of his questions to not just that particular author and the author’s book, but also to what the author says in the moment, during the course of the interview. And oh, that Vick voice: smooth and soothing.
Because sometimes we all need a piece of cheese
Recently, I enrolled in an advanced therapy dog class with my little brown dog, Kibbi. The class goes beyond just the typical obedience commands — sit, stay, come. It prepares dogs and their dog handlers to go into public and community facilities — schools, nursing homes, hospitals — and to be calm and helpful to people they encounter. This isn’t Kibbi’s first rodeo in the therapy dog world.
Poetry can shape our lives and make us think
“You’re already halfway through,” he said. “You’ll never regret having a master’s degree.” And he was right, as he has been about so many things, even when I didn’t want him to be. So I listened to him and enrolled in the next quarter, but I made one change: If I was going to stick with the program, I knew the only way to make it through would be to add in a creative writing class every season. I remember the first poetry one I took.
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