Tightrope Walker
It's difficult to avoid the political firestorms that plague us today. Discussions, opinions are unavoidable as they should be. I was caught in a quagmire today in two of my classes as my students travailed through oral presentations of the research projects they'd been working on for more than a month. Two presentations stood out - one in each class. Both presenters were sturdy young men, almost seemingly unemotional during the term, but smart - way, way smart. And serious. I could tell that. When they spoke out loud - which was rarely - it was in a tone so soft and measured and considerate that you could swear they had already experienced many decades of life instead of just two.
One student gave his talk on creationism. He had been raised Catholic and, as he entered his teens, began to question those teachings. They just didn't make sense and the research he had done for my class proved his point. He found out that creationists took some of what the scientists had discovered and reworded them to suit and skew their own agenda. He spoke of biblical metaphors and "storytellers" from different continents that put this "great book" together. It was tough for me to walk that tightrope during the Q&A so as not to upset any other student in the class who may have deep religious beliefs, but I saw his point and tried saying so in a roundabout way. "I hope I didn't offend you," he said to me afterwards." I assured him that he didn't and that I admired his honesty. "That's what college is for," I told him. And he smiled.
My other student spoke about police brutality and the police officers in Ferguson and New York, of police behavior in neighborhoods with high crime rates as opposed to those where flowers bloomed, people strolled with their dogs, and pristine homes dotted the grassy blocks. This student aspires to be a police officer; that's all he thinks about, what he's working toward in mind, body, and soul. So, justifiably, he's concerned about how the media presents his kind. He took questions, took criticism, took it all with style and grace. Seeing him, knowing that here's someone with a heart and a brain, made it hard to say his name in the same breath as those performing chokeholds and shooting down 12-year-olds.
Reasonable, thinking young men. I can't wait until they get out into the world. Fingers crossed.
It's difficult to avoid the political firestorms that plague us today. Discussions, opinions are unavoidable as they should be. I was caught in a quagmire today in two of my classes as my students travailed through oral presentations of the research projects they'd been working on for more than a month. Two presentations stood out - one in each class. Both presenters were sturdy young men, almost seemingly unemotional during the term, but smart - way, way smart. And serious. I could tell that. When they spoke out loud - which was rarely - it was in a tone so soft and measured and considerate that you could swear they had already experienced many decades of life instead of just two.
One student gave his talk on creationism. He had been raised Catholic and, as he entered his teens, began to question those teachings. They just didn't make sense and the research he had done for my class proved his point. He found out that creationists took some of what the scientists had discovered and reworded them to suit and skew their own agenda. He spoke of biblical metaphors and "storytellers" from different continents that put this "great book" together. It was tough for me to walk that tightrope during the Q&A so as not to upset any other student in the class who may have deep religious beliefs, but I saw his point and tried saying so in a roundabout way. "I hope I didn't offend you," he said to me afterwards." I assured him that he didn't and that I admired his honesty. "That's what college is for," I told him. And he smiled.
My other student spoke about police brutality and the police officers in Ferguson and New York, of police behavior in neighborhoods with high crime rates as opposed to those where flowers bloomed, people strolled with their dogs, and pristine homes dotted the grassy blocks. This student aspires to be a police officer; that's all he thinks about, what he's working toward in mind, body, and soul. So, justifiably, he's concerned about how the media presents his kind. He took questions, took criticism, took it all with style and grace. Seeing him, knowing that here's someone with a heart and a brain, made it hard to say his name in the same breath as those performing chokeholds and shooting down 12-year-olds.
Reasonable, thinking young men. I can't wait until they get out into the world. Fingers crossed.
Being Lone...Lone Being...And the Written Word
Active solitude is a writer's friend. It's not everyone that can be a writer whether it's due to a lack of talent or impatience. But mostly, it is the somewhat rare person who can sit in a corner amid white noise and the click of keys for hours at a stretch. While I've known writers who can produce some pretty amazing stuff with chaos at their doorstep, Hemingway said that solitude is essential for creative work,
But tell people you don't mind being alone and, in fact, welcome it, and you'll be met with statements like "I don't know how you do it. I just couldn't." Or, "You writers. You're a crazy lot." Or walk into a restaurant and ask for a table for one and you're viewed as some sorry-shell-of- a-human being. Have your Facebook page show you only have one friend and watch strangers request they be added just because they feel sorry for you.
Being alone, working alone, writing alone, is a gift. My most cherished memories as a child was wandering endless hours in the woods near our New Jersey farm and cherishing the leaves, the flowers, the shifting shapes of the clouds. They all showed up in the stories I wrote - setting, the senses, characters. My friends; my dear friends. Always there. All I have to do is imagine...
Active solitude is a writer's friend. It's not everyone that can be a writer whether it's due to a lack of talent or impatience. But mostly, it is the somewhat rare person who can sit in a corner amid white noise and the click of keys for hours at a stretch. While I've known writers who can produce some pretty amazing stuff with chaos at their doorstep, Hemingway said that solitude is essential for creative work,
But tell people you don't mind being alone and, in fact, welcome it, and you'll be met with statements like "I don't know how you do it. I just couldn't." Or, "You writers. You're a crazy lot." Or walk into a restaurant and ask for a table for one and you're viewed as some sorry-shell-of- a-human being. Have your Facebook page show you only have one friend and watch strangers request they be added just because they feel sorry for you.
Being alone, working alone, writing alone, is a gift. My most cherished memories as a child was wandering endless hours in the woods near our New Jersey farm and cherishing the leaves, the flowers, the shifting shapes of the clouds. They all showed up in the stories I wrote - setting, the senses, characters. My friends; my dear friends. Always there. All I have to do is imagine...
Death and the Rolling Stones
“Gimme Shelter”
The spacious living room had caught our attention along with the wide streets. The two fireplaces didn’t hurt either – one in the living room and the other in the bedroom. It was a done deal. The “sold” sign went up and we signed on the dotted line. I’d woken up that first morning and heard the sweetest violin music, and laid in bed delighting in its sound, certain it was a recording by Stern or Bell and convinced it was a sign that we were meant to be here, right here, right now. Where was it coming from? At first, I was convinced it was the back alley, but the closer I got to the west window in our bedroom, the further away the music became. Determined, I padded down the stairway getting closer and closer to the sound and looked out. It was a neighbor, a young African-American girl, sitting on her porch and playing the instrument as the July sun shone. She’d played brilliantly, the bow nestled within her hand and dancing atop the strings. Violin music on the first morning in a new home. It was meant to be. Isn’t that what everybody says? It was meant to be. This was a mantra I never really believed.
“It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll (But I Like It)”
We shifted our feet from side to side, mirroring each other, mapping out our small space in the bleachers as Mick danced like a chicken and screamed to the crowd. We were at a big outdoor arena in Hershey, Pennsylvania, crowded with families, parents, boomer-types reliving their youthful years; years when the Rolling Stones were considered the “bad boys” and those over 30 sized you up depending on your musical choices. It was warm, July, and I knew the lyrics and you caught a word here and there; you were more at home with Sinatra, Bennett, and Broadway. Applause as the stage lunged like a claw into the frenetic crowd and dusk painted the sky red and purple. The percussion pounded, Mick slithered, and we got lost. I lay in bed that night and couldn’t get that song “Angie” out of my head. Was it the haunting melody? The strings? I was thankful, at least, that the tune refusing to let go of me was one of the Stones’ calmer ones.
“Get Off Of My Cloud”
It was in that bedroom, the same room I’d woken up in, the same room where I’d heard a violin, where you released that final whoosh of air. No music sounded that night. Only me calling out your name as I pushed my palms against your chest in a futile attempt to revive you. I tried to count as instructed by the 911 operator, but how does one count when the world is melting? You wouldn’t cooperate; or I should say, your body wouldn’t cooperate, deciding that it’s had enough of this life and wanting to enter another, one that wasn’t ready for ME yet. The men came, looking so official and serious in their uniforms, whispering, some laughter – an inside joke perhaps. I cowered downstairs in your den, scared and shaking, strangers in our bedroom, milling about, not doing much of anything because there wasn’t much of anything to do. That room upstairs; a sacred place, where once violins greeted the morning, where the tune “Angie” calmed me after a Stones’ concert. THAT was meant to be. But not this.
February 6, 2014
Widow. What an ugly word
Widow.
What an ugly word. An old word. That’s what they’re calling me. Widow. My husband died last week – expected and sudden, shocking and mundane. He’d had ailments, but trudged forward, shoving life’s mischief to the side like a running back stampeding through menacing linemen. I had just finished writing a series of articles on grief for a magazine. A sign? How ironic that his final play rehearsal (he was an actor) had been one of perfection, praised by his director, marveled at by his fellow performers. In his den, his script highlighted and marked. In the basement, his makeup case, ready. An actor prepares.
Widow.
Should I dress in black, my cheeks drawn and pale? Should I sit alone in the dark? We had plans you and I. To travel to Amelia Island where our friends lived or perhaps California to the home of a cousin. London. Italy again. Widow. We couldn't wait to share a fancy brunch at the restaurant we went to once a year on my birthday in March, sipping champagne, marveling at the river ambling by as if it had all the time in the world. Widow. I need the answer to a trivia question, I have a joke to tell you, see a play, iron your shirt, wait for a storm, tell you I got published, tell you I'm sorry, get your card, get rid of my guilt, take a walk, cut down a tree. Widow. Smile at you, yell at you, hug you, nudge you at the movies, sip your coffee/water/tea, find your
keys, your wallet, your smile. Widow. An ugly word. An old word. Stop it. Come back.
December 14, 2013
Widow.
What an ugly word. An old word. That’s what they’re calling me. Widow. My husband died last week – expected and sudden, shocking and mundane. He’d had ailments, but trudged forward, shoving life’s mischief to the side like a running back stampeding through menacing linemen. I had just finished writing a series of articles on grief for a magazine. A sign? How ironic that his final play rehearsal (he was an actor) had been one of perfection, praised by his director, marveled at by his fellow performers. In his den, his script highlighted and marked. In the basement, his makeup case, ready. An actor prepares.
Widow.
Should I dress in black, my cheeks drawn and pale? Should I sit alone in the dark? We had plans you and I. To travel to Amelia Island where our friends lived or perhaps California to the home of a cousin. London. Italy again. Widow. We couldn't wait to share a fancy brunch at the restaurant we went to once a year on my birthday in March, sipping champagne, marveling at the river ambling by as if it had all the time in the world. Widow. I need the answer to a trivia question, I have a joke to tell you, see a play, iron your shirt, wait for a storm, tell you I got published, tell you I'm sorry, get your card, get rid of my guilt, take a walk, cut down a tree. Widow. Smile at you, yell at you, hug you, nudge you at the movies, sip your coffee/water/tea, find your
keys, your wallet, your smile. Widow. An ugly word. An old word. Stop it. Come back.
December 14, 2013
Snow Place Like Home
It's snowing here and they're calling for more. Much more. It's Saturday and there's something comforting in that pair of ideas: snow and Saturday. I settle into a warm house, a "quiet" in my heart and being. Nowhere to go; no one to see. Time to write and reflect, a day to "hunker down" with my husband and two Westies and allow nature to do whatever it wants to without any sort of involvement on my part. I will not venture out onto the roads nor will I even clear the elements from our sidewalk until nature says it's had enough.
There's another comfort, too. I know that my friends, family, and neighbors around me have the same idea to just sit, watch a movie, munch on some chips or bake cookies. I like that we all share this idea; that we are all powerless against what is out of our control and have discovered other avenues of joy and self-satisfaction in the simplicity of life. A snowstorm forces us to remember these little things we tend to forget, to slow down, stop, look around, pay attention. There's nothing quite as cozy as cuddling beneath a blanket of snow...
It's snowing here and they're calling for more. Much more. It's Saturday and there's something comforting in that pair of ideas: snow and Saturday. I settle into a warm house, a "quiet" in my heart and being. Nowhere to go; no one to see. Time to write and reflect, a day to "hunker down" with my husband and two Westies and allow nature to do whatever it wants to without any sort of involvement on my part. I will not venture out onto the roads nor will I even clear the elements from our sidewalk until nature says it's had enough.
There's another comfort, too. I know that my friends, family, and neighbors around me have the same idea to just sit, watch a movie, munch on some chips or bake cookies. I like that we all share this idea; that we are all powerless against what is out of our control and have discovered other avenues of joy and self-satisfaction in the simplicity of life. A snowstorm forces us to remember these little things we tend to forget, to slow down, stop, look around, pay attention. There's nothing quite as cozy as cuddling beneath a blanket of snow...
September 2, 2013
A bombed bookstore in London 1940.
A War of Words
I have many books of almost every genre crowding almost every shelf in my home. Some have already been read years before and have accumulated a thin layer of dust. Others are new and haven't been opened up as yet, but I purchased them before their titles became distant memories. Filling up those bookshelves is easy nowadays. All it takes is a computer click or a short drive to a bookstore. Before you know it, there are small piles on nightstands and in room corners.
There's something about cradling a book in one's hands that could be akin to holding delicate china. At least at first. Books ask to be read, for their pages to be turned, for their stories to be told, for their ideas to be mulled over. After awhile, we dog-ear corners when the newness wears off; we stick make-shift bookmarks between their pages or, worse yet, use the cover flap to keep our place. We toss them into carry-ons, bags, and backseats. And there's the tactile. Let's not forget that. The weight of it, grasping front and back covers, left hand, right hand, the comfort of settling under the covers late at night and living and breathing other worlds. Reality falls away like shattered glass and you go inside the author's head and inspiration. Yes, even inside a bombed-out bookstore. Sanity is alive and well inside those pages as the world around you goes dark. I can imagine if I'd lived in 1940, how I would seek literal refuge inside that blackened bookstore, oblivious to the fire and brimstone. How peaceful it would be in that place; how glorious to read and remember when life was normal and the greatest challenge was to carve out time for the simple pleasures of reading. Glorious, indeed.
I have many books of almost every genre crowding almost every shelf in my home. Some have already been read years before and have accumulated a thin layer of dust. Others are new and haven't been opened up as yet, but I purchased them before their titles became distant memories. Filling up those bookshelves is easy nowadays. All it takes is a computer click or a short drive to a bookstore. Before you know it, there are small piles on nightstands and in room corners.
There's something about cradling a book in one's hands that could be akin to holding delicate china. At least at first. Books ask to be read, for their pages to be turned, for their stories to be told, for their ideas to be mulled over. After awhile, we dog-ear corners when the newness wears off; we stick make-shift bookmarks between their pages or, worse yet, use the cover flap to keep our place. We toss them into carry-ons, bags, and backseats. And there's the tactile. Let's not forget that. The weight of it, grasping front and back covers, left hand, right hand, the comfort of settling under the covers late at night and living and breathing other worlds. Reality falls away like shattered glass and you go inside the author's head and inspiration. Yes, even inside a bombed-out bookstore. Sanity is alive and well inside those pages as the world around you goes dark. I can imagine if I'd lived in 1940, how I would seek literal refuge inside that blackened bookstore, oblivious to the fire and brimstone. How peaceful it would be in that place; how glorious to read and remember when life was normal and the greatest challenge was to carve out time for the simple pleasures of reading. Glorious, indeed.
July 23, 2013
Superstitions
There is no logic or real truth in superstitions or myths. Football and baseball players have their little idiosyncrasies such as good luck charms or favorite amulets tucked away in their pockets. Actors have their superstitions, too, the most well known being the ill-advised mention of the name "Macbeth" inside a theater or wishing a performer "good luck" instead of "break a leg." Even writers adhere to superstitions or believe in myths that, when it comes right down to it, has little to do with reality. Such as:
1. Adopt King, Rowling, or E. L. James (with different first initials) as a pen name for your novel. The thinking here is that your sales will skyrocket because your book will be on shelves right next to theirs. The problem is THEIR books are most probably on a special table near the front of the store, not on some wall in the back where yours is.
2. I must get a government copyright and protect my idea. Nobody is creeping beneath your office window waiting for you to toss your manuscript out the window; no recording equipment or camera is set up at your desk. Okay, perhaps a member of the President's cabinet yearns to be a novelist or playwright and is spying on your email, But here's the reality: there are about seven or so major story lines which have been used in stories for hundreds of years. Every literary effort is a re-hashing of one of them with your own unique take. Just write and stop worrying.
3. Every writer must have a cat. This is an odd one because many writers do have cats. I see Facebook photos of furry felines crawling over keyboards with comments like "Cute Fluffy helping me with Nanowrimo," or "Oh, dear, have to clean the cat hair off my computer (LOL, ;), <3).
I have two dogs, but I'll always wonder if I would've been further ahead career-wise if I'd had a cat.
4. Every writer should carry around a little notebook or moleskin to jot down story ideas. This is a myth. Toilet paper and the wet napkin underneath your margarita serves the same purpose and they're free.
5. Write only when you're inspired. If this one was true, we'd spend our days watching "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" - not that there's anything wrong with that.
6. When writing about your major character, wear what they might wear. If this was true, every character in every short story, every novel, and in every play would wear a torn flannel nightgown and fuzzy slippers.
7. If your family and friends love your story, then it must be wonderful. Hogwash. Be wary of those closest to you bearing compliments. Find beta readers in the form of other serious writers or complete strangers who don't give a darn about your feelings. Then and only then will you get the truth.
I admit that many a black cat has crossed my path, I've walked under ladders, have broken mirrors, and have gone about my normal routine every Friday the 13th. So I know nothing bad will happen if I don't adhere to a writer superstition now and then. Knock on wood...
Superstitions
There is no logic or real truth in superstitions or myths. Football and baseball players have their little idiosyncrasies such as good luck charms or favorite amulets tucked away in their pockets. Actors have their superstitions, too, the most well known being the ill-advised mention of the name "Macbeth" inside a theater or wishing a performer "good luck" instead of "break a leg." Even writers adhere to superstitions or believe in myths that, when it comes right down to it, has little to do with reality. Such as:
1. Adopt King, Rowling, or E. L. James (with different first initials) as a pen name for your novel. The thinking here is that your sales will skyrocket because your book will be on shelves right next to theirs. The problem is THEIR books are most probably on a special table near the front of the store, not on some wall in the back where yours is.
2. I must get a government copyright and protect my idea. Nobody is creeping beneath your office window waiting for you to toss your manuscript out the window; no recording equipment or camera is set up at your desk. Okay, perhaps a member of the President's cabinet yearns to be a novelist or playwright and is spying on your email, But here's the reality: there are about seven or so major story lines which have been used in stories for hundreds of years. Every literary effort is a re-hashing of one of them with your own unique take. Just write and stop worrying.
3. Every writer must have a cat. This is an odd one because many writers do have cats. I see Facebook photos of furry felines crawling over keyboards with comments like "Cute Fluffy helping me with Nanowrimo," or "Oh, dear, have to clean the cat hair off my computer (LOL, ;), <3).
I have two dogs, but I'll always wonder if I would've been further ahead career-wise if I'd had a cat.
4. Every writer should carry around a little notebook or moleskin to jot down story ideas. This is a myth. Toilet paper and the wet napkin underneath your margarita serves the same purpose and they're free.
5. Write only when you're inspired. If this one was true, we'd spend our days watching "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" - not that there's anything wrong with that.
6. When writing about your major character, wear what they might wear. If this was true, every character in every short story, every novel, and in every play would wear a torn flannel nightgown and fuzzy slippers.
7. If your family and friends love your story, then it must be wonderful. Hogwash. Be wary of those closest to you bearing compliments. Find beta readers in the form of other serious writers or complete strangers who don't give a darn about your feelings. Then and only then will you get the truth.
I admit that many a black cat has crossed my path, I've walked under ladders, have broken mirrors, and have gone about my normal routine every Friday the 13th. So I know nothing bad will happen if I don't adhere to a writer superstition now and then. Knock on wood...
June 6, 2013
First Tier Musings
We are in New York City, meeting up with Diana, an
actress/friend of my husband's. During a tasty Italian dinner, he graciously
gives up his ticket reserved for a concert at Carnegie Hall by the National Symphony Orchestra so she could attend with me.
After dinner, she and I weave through the bustle of uptown until we reach 57th Street and 7th Avenue, go into the small lobby, up a crowded staircase, and whisk ourselves to our first tier seats smack dab in the center. The "hall" opens up to splendor amidst our persistent ooh's and aah's. The lights go down, there are the traditional entrances by musicians and the conductor met with audience applause. Then the baton strikes, the music begins and I believe I have not heard classical music played in quite this way. What is it? Why is the sound so lavish and rich? Then it hit me: the acoustics. The old-world ceiling seemed to touch the heavens and the vast expanse of space celebrates the sound waves as vibrations bounce off every surface. Pythagoras and Aristotle understood the concept, but it is always a new discovery when you first hear it. The viola player, a soloist for the Schnittke piece, is lean and handsome and his body moves in harmony. This is his time; he's waited years for this moment, right here, right now, and we're there giving witness. The music, Shchedrin's Slava, Slava, Schnittke's Viola Concerto, and Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, shakes you, fills the heart and mind. I close my eyes and listen. Afterwards, the music sticks with us, back down the streets of New York, into a busy little grocery store, back to the hotel.
Several days later I leave New York, I leave Carnegie Hall, but
not the music.
actress/friend of my husband's. During a tasty Italian dinner, he graciously
gives up his ticket reserved for a concert at Carnegie Hall by the National Symphony Orchestra so she could attend with me.
After dinner, she and I weave through the bustle of uptown until we reach 57th Street and 7th Avenue, go into the small lobby, up a crowded staircase, and whisk ourselves to our first tier seats smack dab in the center. The "hall" opens up to splendor amidst our persistent ooh's and aah's. The lights go down, there are the traditional entrances by musicians and the conductor met with audience applause. Then the baton strikes, the music begins and I believe I have not heard classical music played in quite this way. What is it? Why is the sound so lavish and rich? Then it hit me: the acoustics. The old-world ceiling seemed to touch the heavens and the vast expanse of space celebrates the sound waves as vibrations bounce off every surface. Pythagoras and Aristotle understood the concept, but it is always a new discovery when you first hear it. The viola player, a soloist for the Schnittke piece, is lean and handsome and his body moves in harmony. This is his time; he's waited years for this moment, right here, right now, and we're there giving witness. The music, Shchedrin's Slava, Slava, Schnittke's Viola Concerto, and Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, shakes you, fills the heart and mind. I close my eyes and listen. Afterwards, the music sticks with us, back down the streets of New York, into a busy little grocery store, back to the hotel.
Several days later I leave New York, I leave Carnegie Hall, but
not the music.
May 8, 2013
Living in the Land of Disbelief
I'm driving home from teaching college students and half-listening to radio news. Its announcements are disjointed. Words like bomb, Boston, death, roll from its airwaves. Such a contrast to the pink dogwoods and chirping birds heralding a spring awakening. So different from the students I just left who view their lives as new beginnings always. It had been a day like any other and now it wasn't. All the good things shattered; all the routine for the next day and the next in question. I believe what I'm hearing. I believe the facts, the descriptions of the horror, the chaos. I believe what's being broadcast. Later, there are videos and stills, and I believe those, too. Yet, I am in disbelief.
Disbelief. A funny word. An odd term of opposites. On the one hand it means the inability or refusal to believe or to accept something as true. This devastating news I was hearing was true; this explosion happened. There was the blood. There was the loss of precious lives. But there was another sort of disbelief. An amazement, an astonishment of what human beings can do or decide to do against other human beings. That's the other definition. The Holocaust. Manson. Assassination. Amazement. Disbelief.
It grips me. I want it to. I can't shake it off. I'm thankful for it. I fear the thought of what some say; that we will become immune to the school shootings, the snipers, the wars, the bombs. That those things will become as commonplace as putting out the trash each week. Get used to it, they say; other countries have, why not us? Nevertheless, I always feel that surge of fear, and tears, and yes, disbelief, to hear of man's inhumanity to man.
I clench the steering wheel as I make my way down the interstate, yearning for familiarity and comfort. I wonder why some do horrible things to others. After all, we are all made up of many things: water, and hair, and limbs, eyes, hands. There's a heart there, too. Mix in some disbelief and we are indeed human.
April 1, 2013
Between the Covers
Last week, I was part of a panel at a local library where four of us shared experiences and advice about writing. The room was packed with published writers, beginning writers, those thinking about writing, non-writers and avid readers. Perhaps a few others were there for the refreshments, but I have no proof of that. The space was alive with questions and I discovered myself on the edge of my chair wanting to impart my own writer's journey.
The panel pointed out to the audience that writing all begins with reading. There's nothing truer than that. As a child I hadn't simply "read" books; I devoured them. A new book became an imaginary friend, a treasure revealing extraordinary characters and plots. My family couldn't afford to purchase as many books as I wished to read, so I relied on the school library to satisfy my literary addiction. But there were caveats. My elementary school in New Jersey assigned each student a "level" which allowed us to check out a certain number of books. "Bookworm" was the summit of Everest in our little educational world. Achieving bookworm status was the gold ring, the Academy Award, the highest pinnacle a young reader could attain because it meant you could take out as many books as you wanted at one time. Once my teacher bestowed upon me that much-desired prize, I didn't hesitate to rush over to the library and take out as many books as I could carry - mysteries, biographies, science fiction. Those were my favorites. I'd walk home with books piled one on top of the other and sandwiched vicariously between my clasped hands and my chin. Each book was read, digested, dreamt about. All of them were returned by the due date and then replaced by another pile then another despite the aches in my arms and shoulders. As I read, I wrote, attempting to copy a favorite author's style and never realizing that I was beginning to develop one of my own.
Whenever I present to an audience, it surprises me when I hear that childlike passion in my voice - a passion which can be easily forgotten or taken for granted when one faces daily writing deadlines. That unexpected enthusiasm about writing, that "oomph", rings loud and clear I've been told from audience members. That could only mean one thing. Through sharing with others, I've become that "bookworm" again, the kid who lived and breathed reading and writing and then transformed the ache of carrying those piles of books into a lasting embrace.
March 9, 2013
Private Lives
Privacy is not the valued commodity it once was. In fact, it's become a term that's sounds very foreign to those who've grown up clicking and IMing and texting; reciting their innermost personal secrets to anyone who will listen and whose "private" cell phone conversations are shared on trains and buses with reluctant and resentful voyeurs. There's something to be said about those "good old days" when mystery was revered and diaries had locks and the keys that opened them were stashed away in a drawer beneath layers of clothing. I'd like those days to come back. TMI - too much information - can make us immune to society's ills as we hear time and again about harmful and extreme behavior then accept it on reflex. Reality is somehow too real and in-your-face. Hollywood stars used to have an aura about them. Now they're on Twitter and YouTube and *gasp* appearing in public without makeup. They're like us now...and I don't want them to be. Scandal? Keep it under wraps, please. Relish in the colors of the painting, not what's holding it up on the wall. Even though I've interviewed celebrity-types, I want to keep them at arm's length with something akin to the Berlin wall between us. Give me fiction and make-believe and story. Therapists sit there, nod their heads, and listen to excruciating details of our lives so we "feel better" and "find solutions." Until we do, we're losers and loose cannons. The number of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists have more than quadrupled in recent decades in our tell-all society. And does anyone REALLY feel better?
So what do I do? I decide to start a blog, but not to unveil mysteries but to discover new ones; not to satisfy the seekers but to applaud the curious, not to answer all questions but hopefully lead to more of them. The blog? I want to keep writing, force myself to do so - no deadline, no pressure, no revelations...unless it happens without warning. Besides, privacy is sooooo overrated. Well, let me tell you this......
Living in the Land of Disbelief
I'm driving home from teaching college students and half-listening to radio news. Its announcements are disjointed. Words like bomb, Boston, death, roll from its airwaves. Such a contrast to the pink dogwoods and chirping birds heralding a spring awakening. So different from the students I just left who view their lives as new beginnings always. It had been a day like any other and now it wasn't. All the good things shattered; all the routine for the next day and the next in question. I believe what I'm hearing. I believe the facts, the descriptions of the horror, the chaos. I believe what's being broadcast. Later, there are videos and stills, and I believe those, too. Yet, I am in disbelief.
Disbelief. A funny word. An odd term of opposites. On the one hand it means the inability or refusal to believe or to accept something as true. This devastating news I was hearing was true; this explosion happened. There was the blood. There was the loss of precious lives. But there was another sort of disbelief. An amazement, an astonishment of what human beings can do or decide to do against other human beings. That's the other definition. The Holocaust. Manson. Assassination. Amazement. Disbelief.
It grips me. I want it to. I can't shake it off. I'm thankful for it. I fear the thought of what some say; that we will become immune to the school shootings, the snipers, the wars, the bombs. That those things will become as commonplace as putting out the trash each week. Get used to it, they say; other countries have, why not us? Nevertheless, I always feel that surge of fear, and tears, and yes, disbelief, to hear of man's inhumanity to man.
I clench the steering wheel as I make my way down the interstate, yearning for familiarity and comfort. I wonder why some do horrible things to others. After all, we are all made up of many things: water, and hair, and limbs, eyes, hands. There's a heart there, too. Mix in some disbelief and we are indeed human.
April 1, 2013
Between the Covers
Last week, I was part of a panel at a local library where four of us shared experiences and advice about writing. The room was packed with published writers, beginning writers, those thinking about writing, non-writers and avid readers. Perhaps a few others were there for the refreshments, but I have no proof of that. The space was alive with questions and I discovered myself on the edge of my chair wanting to impart my own writer's journey.
The panel pointed out to the audience that writing all begins with reading. There's nothing truer than that. As a child I hadn't simply "read" books; I devoured them. A new book became an imaginary friend, a treasure revealing extraordinary characters and plots. My family couldn't afford to purchase as many books as I wished to read, so I relied on the school library to satisfy my literary addiction. But there were caveats. My elementary school in New Jersey assigned each student a "level" which allowed us to check out a certain number of books. "Bookworm" was the summit of Everest in our little educational world. Achieving bookworm status was the gold ring, the Academy Award, the highest pinnacle a young reader could attain because it meant you could take out as many books as you wanted at one time. Once my teacher bestowed upon me that much-desired prize, I didn't hesitate to rush over to the library and take out as many books as I could carry - mysteries, biographies, science fiction. Those were my favorites. I'd walk home with books piled one on top of the other and sandwiched vicariously between my clasped hands and my chin. Each book was read, digested, dreamt about. All of them were returned by the due date and then replaced by another pile then another despite the aches in my arms and shoulders. As I read, I wrote, attempting to copy a favorite author's style and never realizing that I was beginning to develop one of my own.
Whenever I present to an audience, it surprises me when I hear that childlike passion in my voice - a passion which can be easily forgotten or taken for granted when one faces daily writing deadlines. That unexpected enthusiasm about writing, that "oomph", rings loud and clear I've been told from audience members. That could only mean one thing. Through sharing with others, I've become that "bookworm" again, the kid who lived and breathed reading and writing and then transformed the ache of carrying those piles of books into a lasting embrace.
March 9, 2013
Private Lives
Privacy is not the valued commodity it once was. In fact, it's become a term that's sounds very foreign to those who've grown up clicking and IMing and texting; reciting their innermost personal secrets to anyone who will listen and whose "private" cell phone conversations are shared on trains and buses with reluctant and resentful voyeurs. There's something to be said about those "good old days" when mystery was revered and diaries had locks and the keys that opened them were stashed away in a drawer beneath layers of clothing. I'd like those days to come back. TMI - too much information - can make us immune to society's ills as we hear time and again about harmful and extreme behavior then accept it on reflex. Reality is somehow too real and in-your-face. Hollywood stars used to have an aura about them. Now they're on Twitter and YouTube and *gasp* appearing in public without makeup. They're like us now...and I don't want them to be. Scandal? Keep it under wraps, please. Relish in the colors of the painting, not what's holding it up on the wall. Even though I've interviewed celebrity-types, I want to keep them at arm's length with something akin to the Berlin wall between us. Give me fiction and make-believe and story. Therapists sit there, nod their heads, and listen to excruciating details of our lives so we "feel better" and "find solutions." Until we do, we're losers and loose cannons. The number of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists have more than quadrupled in recent decades in our tell-all society. And does anyone REALLY feel better?
So what do I do? I decide to start a blog, but not to unveil mysteries but to discover new ones; not to satisfy the seekers but to applaud the curious, not to answer all questions but hopefully lead to more of them. The blog? I want to keep writing, force myself to do so - no deadline, no pressure, no revelations...unless it happens without warning. Besides, privacy is sooooo overrated. Well, let me tell you this......