TESTIMONIALS

 “Martina’s story is poignant, inspiring and funny, and she tells it with a fresh voice, imbued with self-awareness and wisdom. . . This memoir will catch and hold you with its resonance. It will also breeze you through so smoothly, you might well find yourself turning back to re-read when you reach the last page.”
— Mollie Katzen,
Author of the Moosewood Cookbook, James Beard Hall of Fame laureate

“Immediate, visceral, loaded with humor and insight, I’m Still Here is like an intimate conversation with a wonderful friend—it leaves you feeling enlightened, enriched, and a little happier than you were before. Savor this book and share it with people you love!”
— David Schweidel,
author of Confidence of the Heart (winner of the Milkweed National Fiction Prize) and co-author of What Men Call Treasure


"A story rich in emotional description..."
— Kirkus Reviews

“I couldn’t put this book down. The writer’s extraordinary life is shared in a beautifully written account that at times had me laughing out loud, teary eyed, and mostly in awe. She faces enormous challenges - life and death challenges - with courage, grace and humor. While this book would be inspiring for those battling cancer, it’s inspiring on many other fronts as well. Beyond recounting her cancer struggles (and her doctor’s prognosis that her condition was terminal) she chronicles an amazingly adventurous life. Her insights on romance, marriage, discrimination, activism, the law, parenting, family, friendship, and more, are imbued with emotional literacy, which made the process of hearing her story an uplifting gift.”

— Mary McNeill
Voracious Reader, Attorney, Mediator

News & Updates

MY NEW BOOK
As I'm Still Here  worked its way through the publication process, I workshopped my second book, The Last Pistachio, which I began writing in January of 2013 as an experiment to see if short memoir vignettes would work like flash fiction did. By 2024, I thought I might have a book. I’m now looking for a home for it. Here is an excerpt: 

FRISBO

As if we didn’t already have a full house––Tanya, Laura, Grace, me, and Habibi the dog––Grace announced, “I want a turtle.”

She was curled up in an easy chair by the fire, grinning her post-orthodontia smile, her long red hair in a topknot at the tiptop of her head. Tall and thin, she wore an enormous, baggy 2x gray sweatshirt over leggings.

“Do your research,” I said.

She and Tanya got on their devices and talked turtles for an hour while I read the news. It turned out, they said, that many turtles live long lives-some even live forty or fifty years!

“I’m not taking care of it,” I said. “What will you do this summer when you’re traveling around?”

“I’ll take it with me, of course.” She glanced at me sideways, trying to suss my reaction.

When we were upstairs ready for bed, she came to our bedroom door.

“I really want a turtle,” she said. “I’ve always wanted one, but my father always said no, over and over.” Laughing, she said, “I’m lonely. If I don’t get it, I might downward spiral. I need a friend.”

I knew I was being manipulated. And I knew for a fact that Grace had approximately one zillion friends, all over the world, all of whom adored her, all of whom she talked and texted to throughout the day and night. Still, I got it. They weren’t here, now, in the flesh, and she lived with what could only be described as three old ladies. In our defense, I’d say we’re hip old ladies, fun and funny. But nevertheless…

“What will you call him?” I asked the next morning. By now, I knew we wanted a “he” because a “he” would be smaller than a “she.”

“Frisbo, I think, but I’ll need to wait until we meet to be sure. I’m looking for the proper carrying case so he can go on walks with me. And on my outings.” During COVID, Grace’s “outings” consisted of driving to a spot in the Berkeley hills every night at sunset, shooting a photo as the sun dipped over the horizon, and driving around while chatting with friends in North Carolina. Bad for gas mileage. Good for her soul.

Grace decided she wanted a baby Eastern Mud Turtle, which would have to be ordered and shipped.

“No way!” I said. “No turtle by mail! That’s cruel. Order one from the pet store.”

“Martina,” she said, with ample sarcasm. “How do you think the pet store would get it?”

As if I still had the power to say no, I said, “I’ll research this and let you know tomorrow what we think.”

But of course, it was impossible to say no.

Frisbo was arriving by overnight mail.

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