Darn but I hate it when someone calls my cell phone and doesn't leave a message. Mostly because when I see a missed call from a number I don't recognize, I get immediately excited. As if I've just missed the call of calls. The New Yorker, for example. Deborah Treisman, Fiction Editor, phoning to say she's decided to bump Alice Munro to make room for my story in the next issue. And to insist I hop the first plane to Manhattan so she can buy me a beer and I can explain exactly how it is that I do what I do.
Or maybe another editor - a judge from one of the 25 or so book contests to which I've submitted this year. "Is this Bridgette Shade?" yes..."Congratulations! You've won...you've won!" Or even an old friend who wants to say something nice. "Hello." or "What a thought-provoking, yet entertaining blog!" or "Thinking of you."
But there was no message. Two calls from the same wrong number. Someone trying to dial someone else on his lunch break - peanut butter fingers confusing the 8 for a 6. Someone who dialed me twice - maybe just to hear my lovely outgoing message - or to laugh listening to it once again, this time in the company of coworkers.
The truth is, no one calls anyone anymore. It's all texting and emailing and maybe, if anyone ever figures out how to crack the code, commenting. And I guess that's okay - but these things can't compare to hearing your name as it's spoken by someone with good news to give. With kind words to share. With years of stories stored up to tell.
As a Fiction Editor myself, I often write a personal note to writers who submit to WEAVE. Even if I don't think their work fits our needs, I want them to know I appreciate the effort. And I love nothing more than being able to send the email that says "CONGRATULATIONS! We love your story!" It's like Christmas and Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July to me. And it would be wonderful to phone them, but no one does that anymore.
Which brings me to my next point: Issue 6 of WEAVE is now available for purchase. This issue is truly a work of art. Not only is it loaded with outstanding new fiction by the likes of Jane McCafferty and Mary O'Donnell, but it is aesthetically unlike anything you'll find on the shelves - or Gasp - within the electronic files of your EReader. Please consider visiting the WEAVE website...a link to which appears along the right margin of this blog... and order a copy or two.
While you're at it, pick up the phone and call someone. And for pity's sake, don't hang up without leaving a message.
June 27, 2011
June 19, 2011
What is Left?
My father called at midnight on the day I graduated from high school. He hadn't attended the commencement and the last time I'd spent time with him was for my 12th birthday. "Have a good life," was what he said. I was 18 and I have no memory of how I responded.
I don't have much to write about Father's Day that won't sound pitiful. At 36, I still wish, almost everyday, that things had turned out differently - that my father had turned out differently. That he would have stuck around to tell me he loves me. To tell me I'm pretty. But still, I have his nose. When I look in the mirror, I still see his eyes. I can't escape the part of me that is him. And the parts that I can't see, the factions of my heart that are the same as his: the dark as well as the light - the man who sang and loved us outloud. But it is a bitter pill, this day. Always, every year.
Watch this video from the closing moments of the movie Smoke Signals. It features a version of Dick Lourie's poem "Forgiving our Fathers" which speaks for all of us, I think - those who love our fathers in spite of themselves and those who live with their ghosts.
I don't have much to write about Father's Day that won't sound pitiful. At 36, I still wish, almost everyday, that things had turned out differently - that my father had turned out differently. That he would have stuck around to tell me he loves me. To tell me I'm pretty. But still, I have his nose. When I look in the mirror, I still see his eyes. I can't escape the part of me that is him. And the parts that I can't see, the factions of my heart that are the same as his: the dark as well as the light - the man who sang and loved us outloud. But it is a bitter pill, this day. Always, every year.
Watch this video from the closing moments of the movie Smoke Signals. It features a version of Dick Lourie's poem "Forgiving our Fathers" which speaks for all of us, I think - those who love our fathers in spite of themselves and those who live with their ghosts.
June 9, 2011
Reading is Sexy
Years ago I saw a bumper sticker that read "Fat people are harder to kidnap." I can't imagine ever pasting such a thing onto my car, but the idea of it comes to me, consolingly, when I've (once again) lost the battle of the bulge to an ever-cunning jelly donut.
Today I saw a blue pickup with the following words stuck to its slightly rusted bumper: "Reading is Sexy". Faster than a finger snap, I turned my attention to the driver of this smart vehicle. It was a man, and I couldn't look for too long because traffic was beginning to move, but clearly, this wasn't one of those ironic bumper stickers. No siree, Bob.
Of course, it's possible he bought the truck with the sticker pre-stuck. Maybe he can't read a lick. Maybe he burns copies of War and Peace to keep warm in the winter and the sticker is just a facade - a way to get written into the blogs of bookish women driving to the supermarket in rental cars. But who gives a hoot? You have to admire a person who projects a positive message out into the world.
Not like those beef jerky commercials. Have you seen them? The ones where a couple of goofballs pretend to invite a socially awkward Sasquatch into their fire circle, complete with sticks of beef, of course, and Big Foot just wants to be their friend, so he takes the bait only to have the seat pulled out from under his hairy butt at the last second. Nothing like marketing your product as a footstool for bullies. Endorsing the concept that it's okay to devalue people (and beasts) based on their appearance as long as you're having fun.
Wouldn't it be more humane to use the imitation meat as a peace offering? An olive branch extended to those who frighten us by their difference? In this way, I'm inclined to side with the haughty message I saw on a Lexus: "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention."
The problem is that being outraged isn't enough. It isn't enough to assign blame to motorists who aren't wagging their fists in protest or politicians who aren't keeping their promises (or their flies zipped) or holding high-minded conferences about hunger and war. Anger alone will never fill the bellies of hungry kids - won't heal the soldiers, wounded in places you can't see. Not to mention the damage anger does to the lining of the stomach. If you ask me, it's better to eat a doughnut - to get it all over your face and fingers and sprinkle a little of that sugar - everywhere you go.
Today I saw a blue pickup with the following words stuck to its slightly rusted bumper: "Reading is Sexy". Faster than a finger snap, I turned my attention to the driver of this smart vehicle. It was a man, and I couldn't look for too long because traffic was beginning to move, but clearly, this wasn't one of those ironic bumper stickers. No siree, Bob.
Of course, it's possible he bought the truck with the sticker pre-stuck. Maybe he can't read a lick. Maybe he burns copies of War and Peace to keep warm in the winter and the sticker is just a facade - a way to get written into the blogs of bookish women driving to the supermarket in rental cars. But who gives a hoot? You have to admire a person who projects a positive message out into the world.
Not like those beef jerky commercials. Have you seen them? The ones where a couple of goofballs pretend to invite a socially awkward Sasquatch into their fire circle, complete with sticks of beef, of course, and Big Foot just wants to be their friend, so he takes the bait only to have the seat pulled out from under his hairy butt at the last second. Nothing like marketing your product as a footstool for bullies. Endorsing the concept that it's okay to devalue people (and beasts) based on their appearance as long as you're having fun.
Wouldn't it be more humane to use the imitation meat as a peace offering? An olive branch extended to those who frighten us by their difference? In this way, I'm inclined to side with the haughty message I saw on a Lexus: "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention."
The problem is that being outraged isn't enough. It isn't enough to assign blame to motorists who aren't wagging their fists in protest or politicians who aren't keeping their promises (or their flies zipped) or holding high-minded conferences about hunger and war. Anger alone will never fill the bellies of hungry kids - won't heal the soldiers, wounded in places you can't see. Not to mention the damage anger does to the lining of the stomach. If you ask me, it's better to eat a doughnut - to get it all over your face and fingers and sprinkle a little of that sugar - everywhere you go.
June 6, 2011
Guten Tag
Perhaps it is an odd mistake. Some glitch in the tracking system, but when I checked the statistics for my blog this morning, I noticed that 21 people in the UK supposedly visited this site. Also, there have been viewers from Germany, Denmark, Australia, and Russia - with the lion's share residing in Germany. Perhaps, unwittingly, I have become the David Hasselhoff of bloggers, and though I've never been to Germany, I did study the language for four years in high school, which prepared me to say, "Vielen Dank."
I can also sing a song called "Ein neuer tag" as interpreted by the trio Peter, Sue, und, Mark and can quote various idioms including the ever-useful "Der apfel fallt nicht weit vom stamm." (for the sticklers out there, I am aware that there should be an umlaut over the a in fallt, but I have no idea how to type that in this space.)
But I digress. The point is that I began to worry after my last posting that I'd only mentioned Carlo Gebler as being Edna O'Brien's son. (His name should have an accent mark over the first e in Gebler, just to be consistent). I was so excited about the inscription his mother wrote for me, I neglected to point out that he is an extremely accomplished writer in his own right - in addition to being the original English gentleman. He taught me a great deal about story telling and gave me this important advice: "Always do exactly what you are asked and nothing more." These are invaluable words for someone with a propensity toward unneccessary elaboration...
And while I'm at it, I'd like to say that teachers have been some of my favorite people from the start: Miss Jubera, Mr. Silbor, Mrs. George; Miss Patti, Dr. Merrily Swoboda, Dr. Constance Ruzich, Mary O'Donnell. How different I would be if not for their presence in my life and always at the precise moment I needed it.
I can also sing a song called "Ein neuer tag" as interpreted by the trio Peter, Sue, und, Mark and can quote various idioms including the ever-useful "Der apfel fallt nicht weit vom stamm." (for the sticklers out there, I am aware that there should be an umlaut over the a in fallt, but I have no idea how to type that in this space.)
But I digress. The point is that I began to worry after my last posting that I'd only mentioned Carlo Gebler as being Edna O'Brien's son. (His name should have an accent mark over the first e in Gebler, just to be consistent). I was so excited about the inscription his mother wrote for me, I neglected to point out that he is an extremely accomplished writer in his own right - in addition to being the original English gentleman. He taught me a great deal about story telling and gave me this important advice: "Always do exactly what you are asked and nothing more." These are invaluable words for someone with a propensity toward unneccessary elaboration...
And while I'm at it, I'd like to say that teachers have been some of my favorite people from the start: Miss Jubera, Mr. Silbor, Mrs. George; Miss Patti, Dr. Merrily Swoboda, Dr. Constance Ruzich, Mary O'Donnell. How different I would be if not for their presence in my life and always at the precise moment I needed it.
June 3, 2011
Two Bridgets
Last week Half Price Books and Records held its annual Memorial Day 20% off sale, so I made the rounds to (almost) all of their stores in the Pittsburgh area. It's a weakness - buying books, and if I had any business savvy, I'd open a store myself - just so I could spend my days talking about writers and convincing people to read the ones I love.
Anyway, one of my finds was a biography of Flannery O'Connor by Brad Gooch. The cover boasts a cool oil painting of Ms. O'Connor flanked by a pair of peacock feathers like blue eyes with overgrown green lashes. I found it in the fiction section, however, which is a pet peeve of mine. Much as I love Half-Price Books, they are a bit lazy when it comes to shelving. If it were my store, I'd have a vast section of local authors prominently displayed, and nonfiction would never be housed next to fiction. None the less, it was a great find, hardback and in mint condition. AND - it's inscribed. Here's what it says, in lovely script, I might add:
"For Sarah...Love Mom & Dad 2009 HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
Now, if by chance, Sarah, you happen to be reading this, I'm sorry for exposing your secret. But shame on you. Your parents dedicated this book to you, and it doesn't even look like you read it. Maybe you don't care for Flannery O'Connor. Maybe, like me, you aren't a big fan of birds - but come on! A dedicated book is priceless. What did you get for it? Five bucks? Ten on the outside? We have precious little to hold onto when our loved ones die, and handwriting has become a rarity. Hopefully, your parents are alive and well. And Heaven forbid anything happened to you which resulted in someone else having to sell this book on your behalf. But regardless of the reasoning behind the sale, it breaks my heart a little.
I have a book called Two Bridgets by Cynthia Hathaway. It was written in 1944 and purchased the following Christmas for a girl named Kathleen by two women named Joanne and Sara. Thirty-two years later, my great-grandmother bought it for me. Her inscription is just below theirs:
"To Bridgette Bernice on her Second Birthday
March 17, 1977
From her Great-Grandmother, Mary Bernice Campbell."
Grandma Campbell died in 1993, but I have her words right here next to me.
What will become of these treasures if E-Readers replace real books? I have many books signed by authors as well. Just yesterday my dear friend Lorraine sent me a personalized copy of Edna O'Briens' new collection Saints and Sinners. Ms. O'Brien's son, Carlo Gebler, was one of my mentors while studying for my MFA in Ireland. So it was an amazing treat to read what she wrote following an evening at Symphony Space in NYC:
"For Bridgette, from Carlo's mother, some stories...Edna OB"
I have been known to go a little overboard with the hero worship, so I won't gush too much about the less than six degrees of separation between me and this incredibly accomplished woman. (I've had tea with her son for pity's sake!) And, truly, it is Lorraine that I am in awe of - for her thoughtfulness. For standing in what must have been a hellish line to secure this special book for me - a book which I will never sell. Even if the Nook police come knocking at the door with nunchucks.
Anyway, one of my finds was a biography of Flannery O'Connor by Brad Gooch. The cover boasts a cool oil painting of Ms. O'Connor flanked by a pair of peacock feathers like blue eyes with overgrown green lashes. I found it in the fiction section, however, which is a pet peeve of mine. Much as I love Half-Price Books, they are a bit lazy when it comes to shelving. If it were my store, I'd have a vast section of local authors prominently displayed, and nonfiction would never be housed next to fiction. None the less, it was a great find, hardback and in mint condition. AND - it's inscribed. Here's what it says, in lovely script, I might add:
"For Sarah...Love Mom & Dad 2009 HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
Now, if by chance, Sarah, you happen to be reading this, I'm sorry for exposing your secret. But shame on you. Your parents dedicated this book to you, and it doesn't even look like you read it. Maybe you don't care for Flannery O'Connor. Maybe, like me, you aren't a big fan of birds - but come on! A dedicated book is priceless. What did you get for it? Five bucks? Ten on the outside? We have precious little to hold onto when our loved ones die, and handwriting has become a rarity. Hopefully, your parents are alive and well. And Heaven forbid anything happened to you which resulted in someone else having to sell this book on your behalf. But regardless of the reasoning behind the sale, it breaks my heart a little.
I have a book called Two Bridgets by Cynthia Hathaway. It was written in 1944 and purchased the following Christmas for a girl named Kathleen by two women named Joanne and Sara. Thirty-two years later, my great-grandmother bought it for me. Her inscription is just below theirs:
"To Bridgette Bernice on her Second Birthday
March 17, 1977
From her Great-Grandmother, Mary Bernice Campbell."
Grandma Campbell died in 1993, but I have her words right here next to me.
What will become of these treasures if E-Readers replace real books? I have many books signed by authors as well. Just yesterday my dear friend Lorraine sent me a personalized copy of Edna O'Briens' new collection Saints and Sinners. Ms. O'Brien's son, Carlo Gebler, was one of my mentors while studying for my MFA in Ireland. So it was an amazing treat to read what she wrote following an evening at Symphony Space in NYC:
"For Bridgette, from Carlo's mother, some stories...Edna OB"
I have been known to go a little overboard with the hero worship, so I won't gush too much about the less than six degrees of separation between me and this incredibly accomplished woman. (I've had tea with her son for pity's sake!) And, truly, it is Lorraine that I am in awe of - for her thoughtfulness. For standing in what must have been a hellish line to secure this special book for me - a book which I will never sell. Even if the Nook police come knocking at the door with nunchucks.
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