Natalee Woods

author. dreamer. music lover.

Boob Job: Confessions of a Department Store Bra Fitter Coming Spring 2019!

Years ago on a road trip up the coast from LA, I met an older gentleman at a Napa Valley inn. His name was Mike and he was a retired physicist for the government.  After some wine, and maybe a little whiskey, we closed down the bar, totally immersed in conversation. I mostly listened because I found him so intriguing. No bullshit pretense or smooth moves. Just real, authentic dialogue about all of life’s ups and downs. He had lived a lot more years than I had.  And though he was a complete stranger, also navigating through the complexities of loss, he didn’t feel like one.

Somewhere within the bulk of our exchange, I told him that I was headed back home to Seattle to try and ‘live out a dream’ by selling my book, Boob Job, which was my thesis in school and based on my experience working in a lingerie department. My plan had fire, and my recklessness had speed. I was nervous about subletting my apartment and leaving a place I had grown to love, but I knew it was something I needed to do. The death of my mom had quietly taken its toll, and my dad, who reopened his doors for as long as I needed, was alone. I was incredibly fortunate to have had the opportunity to begin with, and it was bound to be a memorable time. However, I wasn’t prepared for the strength and fortitude needed to put my aspirations into action.

Rejections poured in like a motherfucker. I went broke buying texts on how to land a literary agent and write a winning book proposal and find my inner warrior. Summer turned into fall and fall turned into winter. I finally signed with an agent and then split amicably because I was too much of a risk. People had other ideas. The project needed work. Publishers wanted experienced writers.

I’d lie awake countless nights wondering where I had gone wrong, and more importantly, what I needed to do to get it right.  And then another summer turned into fall and fall turned into winter. My apartment found its way into a storage unit I couldn’t afford. My dad died. Blockbuster closed. And I was living out of a pickup truck and the downstairs of family friends who threw me an unexpected lifeline that ultimately redefined the concept of gratitude. The fast burn of rejection hit like bricks as life placed its chokehold. But somehow along the way, I refused to take no for an answer. I refused to give up on something I had passionately believed in­­—and continue to believe in. The power of narrative in the context of women has always carried the most beautiful and bravest of truths. Plus writing was the only thing that ever felt right. So when a rejection came in, a submission went out.

My time in the dressing rooms, from Seattle to Los Angeles… and back to Seattle, taught me a lot about the power of vulnerability, empathy, and what it means to love. Deeply and unconditionally love. The experience also taught me how to listen and learn. How to be present and welcome new perspectives from people who didn’t look like me or talk like me. Individuals who had endured far greater hardships. And what I had in my corner as time worked its magic, was Physicist Mike from Napa Valley. That night in the bar, before we parted ways, he looked at me dead in the eyes and firmly delivered pieces of Charles Bukowski: “You write until your fingertips bleed. And then let it kill you,” he said.  My eyes watered as he kissed my forehead and then turned to walk away. I knew I’d never see him again, but his words and hours of sincerity created a lasting imprint, which I’ve replayed over and over in my head, season-to-season, blow-by-blow.

As this fall and winter nears, I finally get to celebrate a win! With an awesome agent, a badass publishing team, and a few more final touches, Boob Job is set for a spring release. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’ll continue to learn and enjoy the ride, knowing that perseverance, resilience, and a profoundly deep trust in self, really can prevail, covering every last inch of clichés—and every aching desire for purpose. Life is short. But life is good, from the messy to the magnificent. Find your passion and let it kill you. Every. Single. Day.

 

 

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Hope In The Hallways

The great Toni Morrison once said, “There is really nothing more to say except why. But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how.” I love this for a variety of reasons — and it propels me to think about our current political climate and catastrophic presidency.  As we enter week number five of one of the biggest shit shows I’ve ever seen, I cringe—and cry—at the thought of four years under what has proven to be a frightening global emergency.

Following the election, my job as an educator has been challenging. I teach English at an International school and I’ve had the great opportunity — and honor — to learn about my students’ lives. Since the unveiling of Trump’s immigration ban, the mood has changed drastically, causing students to lose focus while living in a constant state of fear. Some have even stayed home from school. The thought of this makes my insides hurt as I still can’t wrap my head around our current administration’s appallingly ignorant actions. These are our kids. This is our future.

I could spend hours on the whys, but like Toni Morrison said, “they’re difficult and one must take refuge in the hows.” How will we continue to resist and make our voices heard? How will we stop and become a listener? During the “Day Without an Immigrant” protest, students rolled out posters on the grounds of the hallways they had made together. I remember opening my classroom door and immediately awestruck by what I saw. Powerful words, statements and illustrations one couldn’t miss, as you had to step over and around the posters in an effort to move to your next class or to the bathroom. Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ alliance, Muslim solidarity, and even suicide awareness covered the grounds. It took my breath away. My students, who I adore and cherish, took my breath away. And as I stood fighting hard not to turn into the sobbing mess I’ve become post election, I stood in silence and thought . . . this is how.