If you visit Google today, you'll find a graphic celebrating the 161st anniversary of Moby Dick . I found another source which suggests that it came out on Nov. 14th, but maybe that was the paper back release...
Anyway, seeing this reminds me of a book I read this summer: The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach. This is a novel about baseball and Herman Melville and I very much enjoyed it. Unlike Moby Dick, it is not laden with heavy symbolism. It is straight-forward story telling featuring a cast of the most likeable characters I've read in recent fiction. It's in paperback now, so pick-up a copy and read it before baseball ends on Nov. 2nd. Of course it ended for me some weeks ago when the Pirates finished their 20th straight season with a losing record.
We'll get em' next year, boys...
October 18, 2012
October 12, 2012
Double Holy Cow
A few nights ago I went to Starbucks. I placed my order at the drive-thru window: one non-fat decaf latte, one kid-sized hot chocolate, and one large Rice Krispy treat. Normally, I spend $2.84 on the latte, and I tell the teenager NO when she asks for the cocoa and marshmallow combo, but because it was Monday, and everyone is entitled to a treat on Monday, I indulged her. I wish the bakeries of the world would embrace this truism. Why not close on Fridays instead of the most difficult day of the week? The day most of us long for the kind of comfort only an apricot danish can provide. Friday is its own treat.
The point is this was a big order for me. Totalling close to ten bucks.
Waiting my turn to pay, I noticed the car in front of me. It was small and red like mine but with a Baby on Board sign swinging from the rear windshield. I heard its driver laugh heartily - a woman whose profile I couldn't see in the dark - as money and goods were exchanged.
She drove off, and I smiled, as usual, extending my card out the window.
"Actually," the girl said. "The car in front of you paid for your order."
The best thing I could think to say was, "Nuh uh."
"Uh huh," she said,handing me the hot chocolate. "And we ran out of kids' size cups, so I hope you don't mind the bigger size."
"Am I on candid camera?" (Who says this in real life?)
The Starbucks gal seemed as pleased as me. She said the woman asked her to wish me a blessed day. We must have looked like a couple of real goofballs, smiling at each other. Stunned. Stupified by kindness.
"Holy cow," I said when I got home and explained to the teenager what had happened.
Sizing up her treats, she said, "Double holy cow."
Double holy cow, indeed.
The point is this was a big order for me. Totalling close to ten bucks.
Waiting my turn to pay, I noticed the car in front of me. It was small and red like mine but with a Baby on Board sign swinging from the rear windshield. I heard its driver laugh heartily - a woman whose profile I couldn't see in the dark - as money and goods were exchanged.
She drove off, and I smiled, as usual, extending my card out the window.
"Actually," the girl said. "The car in front of you paid for your order."
The best thing I could think to say was, "Nuh uh."
"Uh huh," she said,handing me the hot chocolate. "And we ran out of kids' size cups, so I hope you don't mind the bigger size."
"Am I on candid camera?" (Who says this in real life?)
The Starbucks gal seemed as pleased as me. She said the woman asked her to wish me a blessed day. We must have looked like a couple of real goofballs, smiling at each other. Stunned. Stupified by kindness.
"Holy cow," I said when I got home and explained to the teenager what had happened.
Sizing up her treats, she said, "Double holy cow."
Double holy cow, indeed.
May 24, 2012
What's New?
The other day I posted a link to this blog on the Cactus People blog which, as you may remember, I facilitate for my potted green friend, Fred. Today, I thought I'd return the favor by asking you to check out his latest post.
When clicking the link along the right hand margin (chroniclesofawesternpacactus.wordpress.com), you'll find a review of Kevin Wilson's book The Family Fang as well as a song by Eleni Mandell. Aren't links fun? It's like following a treasure map. One thing leads to another and before you know it, hours have passed; your tea kettle has boiled dry on the stove, and there are 15 windows flashing across the the bottom of your screen.
Enjoy!
When clicking the link along the right hand margin (chroniclesofawesternpacactus.wordpress.com), you'll find a review of Kevin Wilson's book The Family Fang as well as a song by Eleni Mandell. Aren't links fun? It's like following a treasure map. One thing leads to another and before you know it, hours have passed; your tea kettle has boiled dry on the stove, and there are 15 windows flashing across the the bottom of your screen.
Enjoy!
May 22, 2012
One Good Deed Deserves Another
I promised myself that after May 1st, I would be finished submitting my manuscript/selections from said manuscript to contests. I wanted to take a break for the summer. Free my mind to write something fresh. But (certainly you could sense the but coming) everytime I think I'm out...they pull me back in. (Please pardon the shameless Godfather reference). So, in the last two days I've written at least five checks to assorted literary contests, each promising to lovingly care for my work - to massage its feet and lavish it with praise - or at least that's what's implied by the slick phrasing of their ads in the magazines I can't keep myself from reading. Send us your cash, and we'll do the rest. And really, I'm happy to support the industry that I hope will one day support me. Such is my devotion (read obsession) that last night I went in search of a recently published novel written by one of the contest judges (I won't say which one). I had seen this book prominently displayed on the shelves at B&N in weeks past, but naturally, now that I was hoping to purchase it, it was nowhere to be found. The gal who consulted with the computer on their inventory appeared puzzled when none of the five copies they were supposed to have in stock appeared on the shelves. She resorted to asking a fellow human being who suggested she check the "Return" rack in the back room.
"I'll be back," she said. And in short order, the youngster returned carrying a stack of hardback books.
"These were going back to the warehouse?" I asked.
"No. I don't think. But no one has bought one yet, and they needed room for other stuff."
"So I saved her from oblivion?"
"..."
"I've brought her back to life!" I said, waving my copy triumphantly in the air.
"Sure."
Again, I won't mention the name of the book because I wouldn't want to be disqualified from the contest she's judging. I mean, can't you just see it unfolding? Somehow the 20 year old readers select my story from the stack. They manage to forward it to the 22 year old editors who miraculously agree with their understudies and voila! The unnameable judge reads my story. She loves it. Kicks herself for not writing it herself. And such is her devotion, she runs a search on my name. Stumbles upon this blog. Sees that I've rescued her book from the remainders and realizes that she can't choose my story because now we have a personal connection. In the fantasy world raging in my head, this is just exactly how it would happen.
So, I won't tell you the name of the book or the name of the contest or the name of the judge. And because of this one day some starry-eyed reader will save my story from obscurity. She will be compelled to read beyond the first three sentences all the way through to the last three sentences, run her fingers along the words as if they'd been written with her in mind; march right into the editor's dorm room, my story dangling from her armpit - demanding an audience. Undeterred by the naysayers. The heavily pierced skeptics. Stopping at nothing until she's granted a meeting with the big (un)nameable judge.
"I'll be back," she said. And in short order, the youngster returned carrying a stack of hardback books.
"These were going back to the warehouse?" I asked.
"No. I don't think. But no one has bought one yet, and they needed room for other stuff."
"So I saved her from oblivion?"
"..."
"I've brought her back to life!" I said, waving my copy triumphantly in the air.
"Sure."
Again, I won't mention the name of the book because I wouldn't want to be disqualified from the contest she's judging. I mean, can't you just see it unfolding? Somehow the 20 year old readers select my story from the stack. They manage to forward it to the 22 year old editors who miraculously agree with their understudies and voila! The unnameable judge reads my story. She loves it. Kicks herself for not writing it herself. And such is her devotion, she runs a search on my name. Stumbles upon this blog. Sees that I've rescued her book from the remainders and realizes that she can't choose my story because now we have a personal connection. In the fantasy world raging in my head, this is just exactly how it would happen.
So, I won't tell you the name of the book or the name of the contest or the name of the judge. And because of this one day some starry-eyed reader will save my story from obscurity. She will be compelled to read beyond the first three sentences all the way through to the last three sentences, run her fingers along the words as if they'd been written with her in mind; march right into the editor's dorm room, my story dangling from her armpit - demanding an audience. Undeterred by the naysayers. The heavily pierced skeptics. Stopping at nothing until she's granted a meeting with the big (un)nameable judge.
May 7, 2012
No more pencils? No more books?
With the last of my finals over, the last of the 55 essays critiqued and grades submitted to the registrar, I should be elated. I should dive into the pile of words I've been meaning to sort through all year, ideas I've stashed in various crevices of my brain and on the backs of crumpled receipts. I should write. I should nap. I should watch a movie. It is summer vacation! But I've always preferred fall to summer, and to be honest, I already miss my students as much as I used to miss my teachers when I was a little girl.
I guess that means I'm in the right profession. School is where I feel most complete. Most alive. Most likely to succeed. (Did you know that I was featured in my senior yearbook beside this prediction? Of course the other kid voted Most likely to succeed became a brain surgeon or something. Seriously. This is not me trying to be funny; I believe the man actually operates on brains. But how does one define success, anyway?)
Aside from some really extraordinary things - things like taking a trip to Italy with my family - I will probably spend the summer doing what I did as a kid: playing school. Reading up on books I want my students to read. Plotting out my lesson plans. Sharpening pencils...
Here is a video of some of my students conducting a mock-trial for their final presentation grade. Half of them were prosecuting President Bush and the rest of the federal gov't for failing to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina; the other half tried to pin the horrific relief efforts in New Orleans on the local and state gov't. Very compelling stuff. I filmed their arguments on my phone, and my stupid thermos has a starring role, but I am proud of what they accomplished - of their creativity and zeal. And of the fact that I actually figured out how to upload something to YouTube. That's the great thing about being a teacher - there's always something new to learn.
I guess that means I'm in the right profession. School is where I feel most complete. Most alive. Most likely to succeed. (Did you know that I was featured in my senior yearbook beside this prediction? Of course the other kid voted Most likely to succeed became a brain surgeon or something. Seriously. This is not me trying to be funny; I believe the man actually operates on brains. But how does one define success, anyway?)
Aside from some really extraordinary things - things like taking a trip to Italy with my family - I will probably spend the summer doing what I did as a kid: playing school. Reading up on books I want my students to read. Plotting out my lesson plans. Sharpening pencils...
Here is a video of some of my students conducting a mock-trial for their final presentation grade. Half of them were prosecuting President Bush and the rest of the federal gov't for failing to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina; the other half tried to pin the horrific relief efforts in New Orleans on the local and state gov't. Very compelling stuff. I filmed their arguments on my phone, and my stupid thermos has a starring role, but I am proud of what they accomplished - of their creativity and zeal. And of the fact that I actually figured out how to upload something to YouTube. That's the great thing about being a teacher - there's always something new to learn.
April 13, 2012
Congratulations, it's a blog!
Who'd have thunk it? ME - with not one but now TWO blogs! Unthinkable! ME who, just six months ago had nary a Powerpoint presentation to her name. And while I'm on the subject of things remarkable, have you noticed how often the exclaimation point is used in daily life?
Good Morning!
How are you!
Fine!
This kind of punctuation has traditionally been reserved for words like Fire! Stop! Help! and now, perhaps in an attempt not to come across as hostile in email, we are maniacs with the Shift key.
Anyway...I have some excellent books to recommend (somehow I have managed to read a number of terrific things in the recent weeks) but first I want to tell you about my new (additional) baby blog. In truth, I am only the facilitator of this second blog: Cactus People/Chronicles of a Western Pennsylvania Cactus - see the link on the margin. The real author is my cactus. Please check out this new site and consider clicking the 'follow' button to track Fred's adventures and inner thoughts.
Now for the books: (or as an Irishman might say, the Bukes - which rhymes with Lukes)
The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka. A National Book Award Finalist, this very short novel reads like a beautiful prose poem. Told from the collective 'we', Otsuka follows the lives of several Japanese women from their first boat ride to the U.S. through their forced exodus from American society during WWII. Unfortunately, you will likely find this book on a table at Barnes & Noble labeled 'New Releases' among other paperbacks featuring handcuffed women in negligees. Book Store design and layout is only one of the many careers I wish I had time to pursue.
Zeitoun by Dave Eggers. A non-fiction account of one family's Hurricane Katrina nightmare come to life. Dave Eggers is a new hero of mine.
Ms. Hempel Chronicles by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum. A truly wonderful collection of linked short stories. In a world where so many authors misuse the comma, Ms. Bynum is ever-faithful to the correct form. She gets a gold star for grammar and for her intelligent, heart-felt tales of a seventh-grade teacher.
Other People We Married by Emma Straub. Another collection of short stories - unlinked. I didn't love every story, but overall, a solid debut by a woman who works at an independent book store.
Reviews forthcoming: Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward; When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams, and Girlchild by Tupelo Hassman. If you've read these or if you run out and buy them right now and want to chime in, please drop a line. I'd love to have a chat about the bukes.
Good Morning!
How are you!
Fine!
This kind of punctuation has traditionally been reserved for words like Fire! Stop! Help! and now, perhaps in an attempt not to come across as hostile in email, we are maniacs with the Shift key.
Anyway...I have some excellent books to recommend (somehow I have managed to read a number of terrific things in the recent weeks) but first I want to tell you about my new (additional) baby blog. In truth, I am only the facilitator of this second blog: Cactus People/Chronicles of a Western Pennsylvania Cactus - see the link on the margin. The real author is my cactus. Please check out this new site and consider clicking the 'follow' button to track Fred's adventures and inner thoughts.
Now for the books: (or as an Irishman might say, the Bukes - which rhymes with Lukes)
The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka. A National Book Award Finalist, this very short novel reads like a beautiful prose poem. Told from the collective 'we', Otsuka follows the lives of several Japanese women from their first boat ride to the U.S. through their forced exodus from American society during WWII. Unfortunately, you will likely find this book on a table at Barnes & Noble labeled 'New Releases' among other paperbacks featuring handcuffed women in negligees. Book Store design and layout is only one of the many careers I wish I had time to pursue.
Zeitoun by Dave Eggers. A non-fiction account of one family's Hurricane Katrina nightmare come to life. Dave Eggers is a new hero of mine.
Ms. Hempel Chronicles by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum. A truly wonderful collection of linked short stories. In a world where so many authors misuse the comma, Ms. Bynum is ever-faithful to the correct form. She gets a gold star for grammar and for her intelligent, heart-felt tales of a seventh-grade teacher.
Other People We Married by Emma Straub. Another collection of short stories - unlinked. I didn't love every story, but overall, a solid debut by a woman who works at an independent book store.
Reviews forthcoming: Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward; When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams, and Girlchild by Tupelo Hassman. If you've read these or if you run out and buy them right now and want to chime in, please drop a line. I'd love to have a chat about the bukes.
March 22, 2012
Moving Pictures
Sometimes the internet is a really amazing thing. Yes. I said it. Here's why...in the past ten minutes I've read a beautiful poem by Gary Young called "In the Heat of Late Afternoon". I would never have known about it if it weren't for the daily email I receive from The Writer's Almanac. Also in the last ten minutes I've read a wonderful piece from the Chicago Tribune which recalled a eulogy for a journalist who recently died in a car crash - a reprint of a letter written to him when he was an advice columnist. And I've watched (twice) an incredibly moving YouTube video uploaded by a Japanese comedian referred to as "Tekken" (though his stop animation short film is hardly funny.) I actually have a lot I would like to write. So much to 'blog' about. But I think I'll save my words for another time in lieu of offering up these moving pictures. Here are the link to the column (in red) and the film. (below) In honor of the wisdom of Jeff Zaslow
March 17, 2012
Feel Free to Smile
Today is my birthday. As a child, I thought that being born on St. Patrick's Day made me Irish. My mother's maiden name is O'Donnell, which has more to do with it, I suppose, but I've always loved the fact that every year there is a parade on my birthday. It is 75 degrees in Pittsburgh. The sun is shining, and I'll be having spaghetti for dinner. How much better could it get? Today and always, I wish you the luck of the Irish, and to set the mood, here are the muppets with a rousing rendition of "Danny Boy". As they say at the DMV - Feel Free to Smile!
Happy St. Patrick's Day...
Happy St. Patrick's Day...
March 6, 2012
For Mature Audiences Only
Much space has been devoted in this blog to the discussion of technology. How rapidly the times they are a changin' and not necessarily in the way that Bob Dylan intended. Indeed, technology seems to advance at such warp speeds that it's nearly impossible to monitor. Still, even with my limited knowledge (and interest) of this kind of advancement, I am willing to risk that modern medicine has not yet progressed to the point that women can now impregnate themselves. Sure, a woman with financial means can visit a doctor and pay to be artifically inseminated. But obviously, this woman is hoping to become pregnant and therefore not simultaneously seeking a prescription for birth control.
Understanding how babies are made does not escape even the youngest among us. Entire television programs are devoted to demonstrating the reproductive prowess of children. So why in the year 2012 do we still view birth control as a women's health issue? Shouldn't men be as concerned about their progeny? About their ability to assume responsibility for a life beyond their own? About the women they love whose health depends upon a little blue pill the way others depend upon injections of insulin or epinephrine? If birth control is a women's health issue - one that, as Rush Limbaugh suggests, is the business of the bedroom and not the federal government, then diabetes is an issue best discussed in the kitchen. People who would die from a bee sting should simply stay indoors.
During a press conference today, President Obama addressed Rush Limbaugh's comments about Sandra Fluke - sort of. He told reporters that he wouldn't comment on the advertisers who've pulled their dollars from Limbaugh's radio program. He wouldn't comment on the sincerity of Limbaugh's 'apology' to Sandra Fluke. He would say that the words used by the right-wing pundit had no place in the public discourse. For those of you who haven't heard, Sandra Fluke is a law student at Georgetown, who tried to testify before a congressional panel on behalf of the bill to include contraceptives in employer-provided health care. Limbaugh, as a point of reference, demonstrated his respect for the power of broadcasting, for the privilege of free speech and called this activist a slut. A prostitute. A woman whose agenda is to have as much sex as possible without consequence, seemingly for profit.
It just so happens that the focus of the classes I'm teaching this semester is argument. One of the first lessons about argument and its art, rhetoric, is that human tendency is to have the strongest opinions about the things we know least. Inflexibility and ignorance make smug bedfellows. And I suppose if the logic follows, then Rush Limbaugh is the least informed man in America. Here is what else Mr. Obama said during his press conference: "being part of a democracy involves argument and disagreements and debate. And we want you to be engaged, and there's a way to do it in a way that doesn't involve you being demeaned and insulted." The definition of argument - in my classroom - is mature reasoning. Defending not the first opinion that you have on a subject but the best opinion - arrived at through active listening, inquiry, and thoughtful consideration. What part of Rush Limbaugh's tirade involved thought? He's made a name for himself by spewing venom for public spectacle. Brandishing hate for entertainment. For years. And he's hardly the only one.
Sandra Fluke is a private citizen. She isn't running for President. She didn't deserve to be singled out, defamed for her bravery. In the end, she didn't even get to testify. The panel changed its mind and told her she would not be permitted to speak. She wanted to exercise her right to voice her opinion - calmly, intelligently, and with nary an expletive or personal attack on the character of the members of the panel. What she got instead was a phone call from Barack Obama. An appearance on The View. Over 280 million Google results. And hopefully, enough public outrage to call attention to the flagrant misuse of so many microphones. To reject the notion that the loudest voice is the most powerful.
Teddy Roosevelt was famous for saying "Speak softly and carry a big stick". It was something he'd heard in West Africa and though he wielded it as most politicians wield catch phrases: to advance his political agenda, I think it bears consideration. Speak softly, meaning be a mature reasoner. Be willing to listen - to change when presented with good cause. But carry a big stick - just in case you encounter a snake - earless and forktongued.
Understanding how babies are made does not escape even the youngest among us. Entire television programs are devoted to demonstrating the reproductive prowess of children. So why in the year 2012 do we still view birth control as a women's health issue? Shouldn't men be as concerned about their progeny? About their ability to assume responsibility for a life beyond their own? About the women they love whose health depends upon a little blue pill the way others depend upon injections of insulin or epinephrine? If birth control is a women's health issue - one that, as Rush Limbaugh suggests, is the business of the bedroom and not the federal government, then diabetes is an issue best discussed in the kitchen. People who would die from a bee sting should simply stay indoors.
During a press conference today, President Obama addressed Rush Limbaugh's comments about Sandra Fluke - sort of. He told reporters that he wouldn't comment on the advertisers who've pulled their dollars from Limbaugh's radio program. He wouldn't comment on the sincerity of Limbaugh's 'apology' to Sandra Fluke. He would say that the words used by the right-wing pundit had no place in the public discourse. For those of you who haven't heard, Sandra Fluke is a law student at Georgetown, who tried to testify before a congressional panel on behalf of the bill to include contraceptives in employer-provided health care. Limbaugh, as a point of reference, demonstrated his respect for the power of broadcasting, for the privilege of free speech and called this activist a slut. A prostitute. A woman whose agenda is to have as much sex as possible without consequence, seemingly for profit.
It just so happens that the focus of the classes I'm teaching this semester is argument. One of the first lessons about argument and its art, rhetoric, is that human tendency is to have the strongest opinions about the things we know least. Inflexibility and ignorance make smug bedfellows. And I suppose if the logic follows, then Rush Limbaugh is the least informed man in America. Here is what else Mr. Obama said during his press conference: "being part of a democracy involves argument and disagreements and debate. And we want you to be engaged, and there's a way to do it in a way that doesn't involve you being demeaned and insulted." The definition of argument - in my classroom - is mature reasoning. Defending not the first opinion that you have on a subject but the best opinion - arrived at through active listening, inquiry, and thoughtful consideration. What part of Rush Limbaugh's tirade involved thought? He's made a name for himself by spewing venom for public spectacle. Brandishing hate for entertainment. For years. And he's hardly the only one.
Sandra Fluke is a private citizen. She isn't running for President. She didn't deserve to be singled out, defamed for her bravery. In the end, she didn't even get to testify. The panel changed its mind and told her she would not be permitted to speak. She wanted to exercise her right to voice her opinion - calmly, intelligently, and with nary an expletive or personal attack on the character of the members of the panel. What she got instead was a phone call from Barack Obama. An appearance on The View. Over 280 million Google results. And hopefully, enough public outrage to call attention to the flagrant misuse of so many microphones. To reject the notion that the loudest voice is the most powerful.
Teddy Roosevelt was famous for saying "Speak softly and carry a big stick". It was something he'd heard in West Africa and though he wielded it as most politicians wield catch phrases: to advance his political agenda, I think it bears consideration. Speak softly, meaning be a mature reasoner. Be willing to listen - to change when presented with good cause. But carry a big stick - just in case you encounter a snake - earless and forktongued.
February 14, 2012
Love me like a rock
I love a theme. Gifts I buy often have a theme - right down to the wrapping paper. As a result, I spend a lot of time developing lesson plans around a central idea. Recently, I've discovered the wonders of PowerPoint, so I log even more time trying to meld my theme into a slide show. I have yet to figure out how to get a song to play throughout the show, and I realize I am (as usual) late to the game when it comes to technology, but if anyone out there knows how to make that happen, I'd sure enjoy a comment about it.
The theme for today's post, of course, is love. Ahh, love. I think the best love songs are about break-ups or heartbreak of some sort. In fact, I would say the best songs of any category are about heartbreak or any guttoral emotion conveyed through voice-cracking, soul-bareing singing. One of the truly greats is "The Story" by Brandi Carlile. There is a moment in this song that makes me cry every time I hear it. Actual tears streaming. I won't tell you which part, but please, do, find this song and listen for the life-changing lyric.
The best movies about love are the ones that remind us of a time when we first discovered the meaning of the word, so they're different for everyone. I imagine there are folks who get misty-eyed by Night of the Living Dead. For me, the first movie that taught me about love was Funny Girl. A few years later, I found John Cusack and Ione Skye and everyone my age who loves Say Anything loves it because it came into their lives at the right time. For example, if the first time I saw this movie was yesterday rather than when I was 14, watching John Cusack balance a boombox over his head in the rain probably wouldn't move me the way that it does, still.
When it comes to novels, I would recommend The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. This is a beautiful book about love - love of country and spouse. Love of tradition and change. And overall, love between a father and son. It's a slow start, but be patient. It's very much worth your time.
Yesterday I played two stories for my students - both of them about love, both featuring anthropromorphized animals. The first, by David Sedaris, is about a chipmunk and a squirrel and the nebulous meaning of jazz. As expected, it's funny, but not for funny's sake. The last line is one of the best I've read when it comes to love and truth and what it means to be human - even if you're a chipmunk.
The second story is called "The Duck" by Ben Lorry. His collection Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day is one of new favorites. In this piece, a duck falls in love with a rock. All of his duck friends laugh at him - except for one girl duck, who follows him into the woods and watches as he woos the rock. He tells the girl duck that this is not just a rock. It's something special, and the girl duck believes him. They embark on a mission to discover the rock's true purpose and indeed, when hurled off the side of a cliff, the rock becomes something quite remarkable.
It got me thinking: What if we are all rocks - until we are loved? Until someone takes the time to see something beyond the lumpy exterior. This someone might be you. Love isn't limited to romance. Love is a kind word. A grocery cart returned for someone with small children and a trunk full of popsicles. Love is seeing the possibility in people. So for this Valentine's Day, I offer you the same challenge I offered to my students: Be on the look out for rocks. Love them like a mother loves a child.
And now a song - originally by Paul Simon - but rendered nicely here by the O'Jays. Happy Valentine's Day.
The theme for today's post, of course, is love. Ahh, love. I think the best love songs are about break-ups or heartbreak of some sort. In fact, I would say the best songs of any category are about heartbreak or any guttoral emotion conveyed through voice-cracking, soul-bareing singing. One of the truly greats is "The Story" by Brandi Carlile. There is a moment in this song that makes me cry every time I hear it. Actual tears streaming. I won't tell you which part, but please, do, find this song and listen for the life-changing lyric.
The best movies about love are the ones that remind us of a time when we first discovered the meaning of the word, so they're different for everyone. I imagine there are folks who get misty-eyed by Night of the Living Dead. For me, the first movie that taught me about love was Funny Girl. A few years later, I found John Cusack and Ione Skye and everyone my age who loves Say Anything loves it because it came into their lives at the right time. For example, if the first time I saw this movie was yesterday rather than when I was 14, watching John Cusack balance a boombox over his head in the rain probably wouldn't move me the way that it does, still.
When it comes to novels, I would recommend The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. This is a beautiful book about love - love of country and spouse. Love of tradition and change. And overall, love between a father and son. It's a slow start, but be patient. It's very much worth your time.
Yesterday I played two stories for my students - both of them about love, both featuring anthropromorphized animals. The first, by David Sedaris, is about a chipmunk and a squirrel and the nebulous meaning of jazz. As expected, it's funny, but not for funny's sake. The last line is one of the best I've read when it comes to love and truth and what it means to be human - even if you're a chipmunk.
The second story is called "The Duck" by Ben Lorry. His collection Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day is one of new favorites. In this piece, a duck falls in love with a rock. All of his duck friends laugh at him - except for one girl duck, who follows him into the woods and watches as he woos the rock. He tells the girl duck that this is not just a rock. It's something special, and the girl duck believes him. They embark on a mission to discover the rock's true purpose and indeed, when hurled off the side of a cliff, the rock becomes something quite remarkable.
It got me thinking: What if we are all rocks - until we are loved? Until someone takes the time to see something beyond the lumpy exterior. This someone might be you. Love isn't limited to romance. Love is a kind word. A grocery cart returned for someone with small children and a trunk full of popsicles. Love is seeing the possibility in people. So for this Valentine's Day, I offer you the same challenge I offered to my students: Be on the look out for rocks. Love them like a mother loves a child.
And now a song - originally by Paul Simon - but rendered nicely here by the O'Jays. Happy Valentine's Day.
February 7, 2012
Speaking of books...
Here is an amazing short film called The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore. It has been nominated for an Academy Award, and besides its breath-taking imagery, the message beautifully coincides with my last post. Please enjoy.
January 30, 2012
Smell This?
It was Helen Keller who said, "History has taught you nothing if you think you can kill ideas." This was in response to the infamous book burning of 1933. The fires were started by students - Nazi children. It's not difficult to imagine a similar scenario in 2012. Students hurling their textbooks onto a swelling pyre. Not because they necessarily have a problem with literature - an indifference, perhaps. (I nearly had to distribute toothpicks to prevent my students' eyelids from snapping shut while listening to a reading of Percival Everett's "Appropriation of Cultures" - one of the most stimulating pieces of short fiction I have had the privilege to read.) But rather they might be inclined to feed their pages to the flame because books in the flesh have become superfluous. Antiquated. Dangerous, even, when one compares the blood-thirsty, finger-slicing corners of pulp to the cool, smooth edges of an electronic reader.
But indulge me for a moment: Lean forward. Place your nose on the computer screen (or smartphone or ipad or yes, even the Kindle Fire). Really get in there and breathe deeply. What do you smell? Honestly. Nothing, right? Now find the nearest book. Even a phone book will do, although, who has one of those? Run your thumb from spine to spine, shuffle the pages and let the breeze fill your nostrils. See? Books are living things. They breathe out as you breathe in. They have dog-ears for pity's sake. And old books, like people, harbor the most interesting odors. A mixture of leather and Shalimar. Of sweat and dirt and everything and everyone they've ever touched or been touched by. They are the keepers of our collective memory - memory which doesn't require batteries or bytes.
In the business section of yesterday's NY Times, Julie Bosman writes about the future of the bookstore as we know it. In other words - Barnes & Noble. Now that they are the only game in town - publishers have no choice but to ask: "What if all those store shelves vanished, and Barnes & Noble became little more than a cafe and a digital connection point?" Apparently, this is exactly what Jeffery P. Bezos, top executive at Amazon would like to see happen. Mr. Bezos, as the Times refers to him, looks exactly like Dr. Evil. Look him up. In yesterday's paper, he is holding some machination of the Kindle at eye level and staring into the camera with empty eyes. It is his vision to 'eliminate the middle-man' (even when someone is being eliminated, it's a man) and create his own publishing "unit" - isn't that a nice word. If it's too much trouble to heave a book to and fro, when will it be too taxing to visit a restaurant? Why not just take a delicious dinner pill?
And it's not just a dream. The Times reports Bezos has already 'snagged' some guy named Timothy Ferriss and hold onto your hat - James Franco, the spoiled brat best friend of Spider Man turned fiction writer. Holy crap, Batman! The bookshelves are already a bit too polluted with 'novels' supposedly written by the puppets of reality television. Dr. Evil + the son of the Green Goblin = the metaphorical murder of print via 'books' which can only live on a 5x7 screen. And even if you could stomach that - accept it as progress - and You Can't Stop Progress - there's the fact that we'd be stuck with whatever Mr. Evil deems as publishable. Again - say it ain't so, Batman.
So here's what I propose: Stop ordering cheap books from Amazon. Books which are not on display for you to sniff or caress in a well-lit store (albeit B&N which has squeezed out other big-box stores as well as who knows how many independent booksellers and now they're all we've got). Books which are probably treated much like factory livestock - crammed up against one another in dark and dank warehouses down by the river. I implicate myself in this too. I love a good bargain as much as the next gal, but after reading this article, I have vowed to save my cash and buy my books in person - which of course, I do anyway, but in the past, I have also ordered from Amazon and now I will not.
While you are in the bookstore - a.k.a. Barnes & Noble - please check out Jane McCafferty's new novel First You Try Everything. A generous writer and human being, reading her latest effort (which is set in our fair, shared city) is like being transported to Pittsburgh when the Three Rivers Arts Festival is in full swing and the inclines are scaling Mt. Washington on a day when the sun is shining and the humidity is low and the cityscape is in perfect view as you travel west - unimpeded by tunnel traffic on I-279 (or 376) depending on how long you've lived here. It is a story of an unconventional love (aren't all the best books about love? isn't it the common denominator?)yet it's classified as 'women's fiction' if you look it up on Amazon. But you won't do that. You'll find it on the shelf of new fiction - right next to books by Julian Barnes and Stewart O'Nan - (I haven't researched this, but certainly these authors' titles would have to be classified as men's fiction, right?)You'll find this book on foot. Your fingers have done enough walking for today.
Like Helen Keller, I don't believe you can kill ideas, but let's not get so smart that we stop paying attention to the ideas - ideas that could lead to the death of so many old friends - books.
But indulge me for a moment: Lean forward. Place your nose on the computer screen (or smartphone or ipad or yes, even the Kindle Fire). Really get in there and breathe deeply. What do you smell? Honestly. Nothing, right? Now find the nearest book. Even a phone book will do, although, who has one of those? Run your thumb from spine to spine, shuffle the pages and let the breeze fill your nostrils. See? Books are living things. They breathe out as you breathe in. They have dog-ears for pity's sake. And old books, like people, harbor the most interesting odors. A mixture of leather and Shalimar. Of sweat and dirt and everything and everyone they've ever touched or been touched by. They are the keepers of our collective memory - memory which doesn't require batteries or bytes.
In the business section of yesterday's NY Times, Julie Bosman writes about the future of the bookstore as we know it. In other words - Barnes & Noble. Now that they are the only game in town - publishers have no choice but to ask: "What if all those store shelves vanished, and Barnes & Noble became little more than a cafe and a digital connection point?" Apparently, this is exactly what Jeffery P. Bezos, top executive at Amazon would like to see happen. Mr. Bezos, as the Times refers to him, looks exactly like Dr. Evil. Look him up. In yesterday's paper, he is holding some machination of the Kindle at eye level and staring into the camera with empty eyes. It is his vision to 'eliminate the middle-man' (even when someone is being eliminated, it's a man) and create his own publishing "unit" - isn't that a nice word. If it's too much trouble to heave a book to and fro, when will it be too taxing to visit a restaurant? Why not just take a delicious dinner pill?
And it's not just a dream. The Times reports Bezos has already 'snagged' some guy named Timothy Ferriss and hold onto your hat - James Franco, the spoiled brat best friend of Spider Man turned fiction writer. Holy crap, Batman! The bookshelves are already a bit too polluted with 'novels' supposedly written by the puppets of reality television. Dr. Evil + the son of the Green Goblin = the metaphorical murder of print via 'books' which can only live on a 5x7 screen. And even if you could stomach that - accept it as progress - and You Can't Stop Progress - there's the fact that we'd be stuck with whatever Mr. Evil deems as publishable. Again - say it ain't so, Batman.
So here's what I propose: Stop ordering cheap books from Amazon. Books which are not on display for you to sniff or caress in a well-lit store (albeit B&N which has squeezed out other big-box stores as well as who knows how many independent booksellers and now they're all we've got). Books which are probably treated much like factory livestock - crammed up against one another in dark and dank warehouses down by the river. I implicate myself in this too. I love a good bargain as much as the next gal, but after reading this article, I have vowed to save my cash and buy my books in person - which of course, I do anyway, but in the past, I have also ordered from Amazon and now I will not.
While you are in the bookstore - a.k.a. Barnes & Noble - please check out Jane McCafferty's new novel First You Try Everything. A generous writer and human being, reading her latest effort (which is set in our fair, shared city) is like being transported to Pittsburgh when the Three Rivers Arts Festival is in full swing and the inclines are scaling Mt. Washington on a day when the sun is shining and the humidity is low and the cityscape is in perfect view as you travel west - unimpeded by tunnel traffic on I-279 (or 376) depending on how long you've lived here. It is a story of an unconventional love (aren't all the best books about love? isn't it the common denominator?)yet it's classified as 'women's fiction' if you look it up on Amazon. But you won't do that. You'll find it on the shelf of new fiction - right next to books by Julian Barnes and Stewart O'Nan - (I haven't researched this, but certainly these authors' titles would have to be classified as men's fiction, right?)You'll find this book on foot. Your fingers have done enough walking for today.
Like Helen Keller, I don't believe you can kill ideas, but let's not get so smart that we stop paying attention to the ideas - ideas that could lead to the death of so many old friends - books.
January 1, 2012
Let's Begin Again
Have you ever seen Finnegan Begin Again? It's been years since I watched this film starring Mary Tyler Moore, Robert Preston, and Sam Waterson. Robert Preston's character is often singing an old Scottish song about a man named Michael Finnegan, whose whiskers are blown back in-again. But mostly, what I remember is the line: "Well, Finnegan. Let's begin again." I was probably 10 or 11 when I saw it, but that bit of dialogue stuck with me. Goes to show how effective rhyme can be when it comes to memory, and in my case, it was around that age that images from movies became part of my longterm schtick.
And it always feels relevant in January. To gaze wistfully into the middle distance and say, "Let's Begin Again." The people around me - those who know me well, anyway - ignore the obscure theatrical reference, not wanting to invest the time in asking, "How's that?" chalking it up to the aforementioned schtick. But I like living simultaneously in 1985 and 2012. Everything that I am is a result of who I was, which is a product of what I watched and read; how I spoke and listened.
Apparently my New Year will not be much different from my old year, in the sense that what I should be doing is planning a syllabus for next semester (which begins in a week) and what I am doing is procrastinating via philosophical blogging. Good grief.
But here's what I'm hoping: To keep a journal everyday. To write 1,000 words of a new book everyday. To read the 1,000 books waiting for me on crammed shelves of every room in the house. To exaggerate less. To exercise more. Etc.
Last year certainly had its rocky moments. One of which involved the critique of a story. One that meant a lot to me but had not yet found a published home. The very accomplished woman who read it, hated it. Hated me, it seemed, and everything I'd thought to be true to that point went Poof! A few weeks ago, I found out that it had won second place in Clapboard House's Best of the House short story contest. It is called "A Case for Annie" and you can read it by visiting:
Clapboardhouse.wordpress.com
Difficult as it was, I began again with that story. I sent it out. I sent it out and I sent it out. Nine months after the nightmare began, I received the good news. First place would have been sweeter, of course, but that's the great thing about living through a disappointing year. Every piece of news that isn't awful, feels like first place.
Happy New Year!
And it always feels relevant in January. To gaze wistfully into the middle distance and say, "Let's Begin Again." The people around me - those who know me well, anyway - ignore the obscure theatrical reference, not wanting to invest the time in asking, "How's that?" chalking it up to the aforementioned schtick. But I like living simultaneously in 1985 and 2012. Everything that I am is a result of who I was, which is a product of what I watched and read; how I spoke and listened.
Apparently my New Year will not be much different from my old year, in the sense that what I should be doing is planning a syllabus for next semester (which begins in a week) and what I am doing is procrastinating via philosophical blogging. Good grief.
But here's what I'm hoping: To keep a journal everyday. To write 1,000 words of a new book everyday. To read the 1,000 books waiting for me on crammed shelves of every room in the house. To exaggerate less. To exercise more. Etc.
Last year certainly had its rocky moments. One of which involved the critique of a story. One that meant a lot to me but had not yet found a published home. The very accomplished woman who read it, hated it. Hated me, it seemed, and everything I'd thought to be true to that point went Poof! A few weeks ago, I found out that it had won second place in Clapboard House's Best of the House short story contest. It is called "A Case for Annie" and you can read it by visiting:
Clapboardhouse.wordpress.com
Difficult as it was, I began again with that story. I sent it out. I sent it out and I sent it out. Nine months after the nightmare began, I received the good news. First place would have been sweeter, of course, but that's the great thing about living through a disappointing year. Every piece of news that isn't awful, feels like first place.
Happy New Year!
December 23, 2011
The Secret of Christmas
It's official. Spring - that is. All signs point to it: the stores have emptied their shelves of stockings and bows and have replaced them with hearts and shamrocks. In western Pennsylvania, the buds on the pussy willows are actually beginning to poke out - confused by the 60 degree weather and the deluge of March-like rain. On December 23rd, it doesn't feel especially 'Christmasy". But that really is a Hallmark conceit - isn't it? Or maybe Norman Rockwell. Snow and such...my mom pointed out how silly it is to presume that everyone envisions Christmas the same way we do just because all of the songs are about cold and snow and conspiring by a fire. The truth is that most of the world probably spends more time perspiring than putting another log on.
Whatever is my point? I suppose it makes me sad to see Christmas go, seemingly even before it arrives. I devote so much time to the business end of things: shopping, wrapping, cleaning, baking, etc., that I don't remember to look around until it's too late. Until I'm confronted by a glitter-glued cupid.
Yesterday I had to have a scan of my leg to make certain that I didn't have a blood clot. The calf was swollen - about half an inch bigger than the other - and the podiatrist I went to see for my aching heel didn't want to take any risks. The test came back negative, but it did take up a considerable chunk of my time. I had so much to do - a big list waiting for me on the kitchen counter - last-minute things I needed to pick-up and do, but when the man said blood clot, I could not remember what one of those things was. All I could think was that I didn't want to be dead for Christmas. And it's funny to me (today) that it took a life-threatening situation for me to appreciate the 60 degree weather. The rain. To remember to love the people around me or I might as well pitch their presents - the ones I stayed up till 2 am to wrap.
My heart, not unlike the Grinch's, feels 10 times bigger today. I wish that for you. Merry Christmas, my friends.
Whatever is my point? I suppose it makes me sad to see Christmas go, seemingly even before it arrives. I devote so much time to the business end of things: shopping, wrapping, cleaning, baking, etc., that I don't remember to look around until it's too late. Until I'm confronted by a glitter-glued cupid.
Yesterday I had to have a scan of my leg to make certain that I didn't have a blood clot. The calf was swollen - about half an inch bigger than the other - and the podiatrist I went to see for my aching heel didn't want to take any risks. The test came back negative, but it did take up a considerable chunk of my time. I had so much to do - a big list waiting for me on the kitchen counter - last-minute things I needed to pick-up and do, but when the man said blood clot, I could not remember what one of those things was. All I could think was that I didn't want to be dead for Christmas. And it's funny to me (today) that it took a life-threatening situation for me to appreciate the 60 degree weather. The rain. To remember to love the people around me or I might as well pitch their presents - the ones I stayed up till 2 am to wrap.
My heart, not unlike the Grinch's, feels 10 times bigger today. I wish that for you. Merry Christmas, my friends.
December 2, 2011
Krauss Rhymes with House
Silence is a difficult thing to capture in a story. How do you create silence when your only tools are words? But it's important to me to keep trying to make my characters be quiet. To show how much 'the nothing' weighs. I say things like: He was most afraid of the deafening nothing. Or: They stood saying nothing. I use the space bar a lot. It's tricky business.
I recently gave a lesson on public speaking to my first-year writing students. "If you stumble," I said. "If you come to a moment where your mind goes blank and you can't recall your phone number let alone what you were going to say next, think of Norm McDonald." Remember that guy? He used to deliver 'the news' on Saturday Night Live, and he was the least funny man I have ever heard on that show. Still, he managed to get quite a few laughs simply by making silence work for him. He could say whatever stupid thing came into his head. For example: Why did the elephant cross the road? When no one laughed, he didn't flinch. Silence accumulating like the national debt, he waited them out. Finally, he'd say: Because it was the chicken's day off. And since he had allowed the quiet to speak for him, permitted the audience members to feel the weight of their own thoughts and in turn, his - they laughed like crazy.
I have been told that I am not funny. I have also been told that I am funny. I have been asked to Stop making words with my mouth and Why would you write about that? And I have been asked to Say more and Please write more about that. And in truth, I believe the greenhouse effect is in part a result of a layer in the atmosphere where all the wrong words we've ever spoken or written rise and collect, choking out the clean air. Many times 'in real life' I wish I had just kept quiet, so it's no wonder that I want to gift my characters with this quality. This ability to not talk a thing to death. And, unlike Norm McDonald, I don't want to use silence to get a laugh. I want to peel back the padding words provide like barriers between us and show the tender spots. The bruised fruit beneath the skin. I want to look at what hurts. Analyze it like a scab.
On the other hand, sometimes I don't say enough. Sometimes I keep too quiet. I don't stay on top of emails to people I care about. Or out of fear of confrontation (which I am getting better at as I age) I retreat. Wave the white flag and say nothing when a situation clearly calls for the opposite. Even this blog goes stale for weeks at a time, waiting for the 'right' words to fill my fingers. Perhaps I should ponder what Mr. Myiagi might say: "Balance, Daniel Son."
The last thing is this: I often dream about people who are long gone from my life. Those who have died or departed in other ways. I wonder why their faces appear in my unconscious thoughts. I like to think it means they are are thinking of me at the same time. That our words sleep walk and venture into a world we can't travel by foot. A place where we meet and hold hands. Sing songs and say all the things we didn't say when we had the chance. Probably a bunch of baloney - but who doesn't like a little balogna from time to time? White bread and a squirt of ketchup and Voila. Happiness.
Here is a great song by Allison Krauss and the Union Station. It came into my head last night and so I send it on to you.
I recently gave a lesson on public speaking to my first-year writing students. "If you stumble," I said. "If you come to a moment where your mind goes blank and you can't recall your phone number let alone what you were going to say next, think of Norm McDonald." Remember that guy? He used to deliver 'the news' on Saturday Night Live, and he was the least funny man I have ever heard on that show. Still, he managed to get quite a few laughs simply by making silence work for him. He could say whatever stupid thing came into his head. For example: Why did the elephant cross the road? When no one laughed, he didn't flinch. Silence accumulating like the national debt, he waited them out. Finally, he'd say: Because it was the chicken's day off. And since he had allowed the quiet to speak for him, permitted the audience members to feel the weight of their own thoughts and in turn, his - they laughed like crazy.
I have been told that I am not funny. I have also been told that I am funny. I have been asked to Stop making words with my mouth and Why would you write about that? And I have been asked to Say more and Please write more about that. And in truth, I believe the greenhouse effect is in part a result of a layer in the atmosphere where all the wrong words we've ever spoken or written rise and collect, choking out the clean air. Many times 'in real life' I wish I had just kept quiet, so it's no wonder that I want to gift my characters with this quality. This ability to not talk a thing to death. And, unlike Norm McDonald, I don't want to use silence to get a laugh. I want to peel back the padding words provide like barriers between us and show the tender spots. The bruised fruit beneath the skin. I want to look at what hurts. Analyze it like a scab.
On the other hand, sometimes I don't say enough. Sometimes I keep too quiet. I don't stay on top of emails to people I care about. Or out of fear of confrontation (which I am getting better at as I age) I retreat. Wave the white flag and say nothing when a situation clearly calls for the opposite. Even this blog goes stale for weeks at a time, waiting for the 'right' words to fill my fingers. Perhaps I should ponder what Mr. Myiagi might say: "Balance, Daniel Son."
The last thing is this: I often dream about people who are long gone from my life. Those who have died or departed in other ways. I wonder why their faces appear in my unconscious thoughts. I like to think it means they are are thinking of me at the same time. That our words sleep walk and venture into a world we can't travel by foot. A place where we meet and hold hands. Sing songs and say all the things we didn't say when we had the chance. Probably a bunch of baloney - but who doesn't like a little balogna from time to time? White bread and a squirt of ketchup and Voila. Happiness.
Here is a great song by Allison Krauss and the Union Station. It came into my head last night and so I send it on to you.
November 2, 2011
Happy New Year
No, I am not operating from the calendar of an alternate universe. I realize that January 1st is a ways off, but aren't calendars man-made devices? Don't the trees see this as the end of their year? Thus, the beginning of another? And trees, like chickens, have strength in numbers, so who am I to argue? Therefore, I have decided to acknowledge November 1st as New Year's Day.
Since last October, I have felt as though I have been walking around with a sign that reads "Kick Me" taped to my forehead, and although my family and I have been spared serious illness and catastrophic loss, I am a little sore. But now that Halloween has passed, I am ready to approach the new year, armed with the lessons I have learned over the course of the past 12 months. I share them now in the form of a numerated Note to Self:
1. Inspect your bank statements. Don't allow them to pile up in a laundry basket. Open them, for the love of Mike. Or better yet, join the information age and enroll in online banking. Make certain that $4.99 is not being deducted from your savings account each month as a result of carrying a balance less than $300. Do this before your account dwindles to $14.99. Before the bank manager tries to sell you a low-interest rate mortgage when tasked with closing said savings account. When she tells you she is trying to do you a favor, offering you a great deal on a home-equity loan because you seem to be experiencing 'cash-flow' problems, speak to her as you would the dog: "Shame on you. Deep shame."
2. Do not assume it is safe to cross the parking lot of a grocery store, even after looking both ways. Remember that demons drive at the speed of sound. You will not hear them until after they've almost flattened you. Until they've unfurled their forked tongues. Shouted "You're a little too fat to be running out in front of traffic," in your general direction. In the future, park your car next to the cart return, thereby avoiding the crossing of any lanes on foot. Or better yet - stand in the middle of the road and wait for that woman to return. Wait through rain and sleet. Drive to the same store every damn day, and wait.
3. When someone in a position of power offers you 'the opportunity of a lifetime', say, "No. Back to the depths with ye!" Worship no one but the Hero upstairs.
4. Write thank you notes to guest editors who give sage advice to aspiring authors in the forewords of yearly anthologies. Be grateful for gems like these:
Go see the world. Stay there for as long as you can - maybe then, after you've shaken off the stink of your own living room - your preoccupation with food allergies and infidelity - when you've taken on the odour of foreign living rooms and become sickened by foods native to far-off lands - sickness which is inherently more interesting because it is co-opted - you will become a real writer.
Rush to the nearest travel agent. But, alas, remember that you are experiencing cash-flow problems, and a plane ticket to the world probably costs more than $14.99. Try not to despair. Eudora Welty said, "Write what you don't know about what you know." Remember that Alice Monro (hailed as the greatest short story writer since Chekov) writes almost exclusively about her native Canada. And Chekov, for that matter, was a Russian writer who wrote about Russian people. Russian babies and a Russian Lady with a Dog who runs off with a Russian man - not, by the way - her Russian husband.
5. Trust that despite the kicks to the head, the year will provide many wonderful surprises as well. Gracious, gifted writers who share their time and stories with you. Goodness in the form of unexpected emails from editorial assistants at large commerical magazines. People will like you. Really like you - you (and Sally Fields) for exactly who you are.
Since last October, I have felt as though I have been walking around with a sign that reads "Kick Me" taped to my forehead, and although my family and I have been spared serious illness and catastrophic loss, I am a little sore. But now that Halloween has passed, I am ready to approach the new year, armed with the lessons I have learned over the course of the past 12 months. I share them now in the form of a numerated Note to Self:
1. Inspect your bank statements. Don't allow them to pile up in a laundry basket. Open them, for the love of Mike. Or better yet, join the information age and enroll in online banking. Make certain that $4.99 is not being deducted from your savings account each month as a result of carrying a balance less than $300. Do this before your account dwindles to $14.99. Before the bank manager tries to sell you a low-interest rate mortgage when tasked with closing said savings account. When she tells you she is trying to do you a favor, offering you a great deal on a home-equity loan because you seem to be experiencing 'cash-flow' problems, speak to her as you would the dog: "Shame on you. Deep shame."
2. Do not assume it is safe to cross the parking lot of a grocery store, even after looking both ways. Remember that demons drive at the speed of sound. You will not hear them until after they've almost flattened you. Until they've unfurled their forked tongues. Shouted "You're a little too fat to be running out in front of traffic," in your general direction. In the future, park your car next to the cart return, thereby avoiding the crossing of any lanes on foot. Or better yet - stand in the middle of the road and wait for that woman to return. Wait through rain and sleet. Drive to the same store every damn day, and wait.
3. When someone in a position of power offers you 'the opportunity of a lifetime', say, "No. Back to the depths with ye!" Worship no one but the Hero upstairs.
4. Write thank you notes to guest editors who give sage advice to aspiring authors in the forewords of yearly anthologies. Be grateful for gems like these:
Go see the world. Stay there for as long as you can - maybe then, after you've shaken off the stink of your own living room - your preoccupation with food allergies and infidelity - when you've taken on the odour of foreign living rooms and become sickened by foods native to far-off lands - sickness which is inherently more interesting because it is co-opted - you will become a real writer.
Rush to the nearest travel agent. But, alas, remember that you are experiencing cash-flow problems, and a plane ticket to the world probably costs more than $14.99. Try not to despair. Eudora Welty said, "Write what you don't know about what you know." Remember that Alice Monro (hailed as the greatest short story writer since Chekov) writes almost exclusively about her native Canada. And Chekov, for that matter, was a Russian writer who wrote about Russian people. Russian babies and a Russian Lady with a Dog who runs off with a Russian man - not, by the way - her Russian husband.
5. Trust that despite the kicks to the head, the year will provide many wonderful surprises as well. Gracious, gifted writers who share their time and stories with you. Goodness in the form of unexpected emails from editorial assistants at large commerical magazines. People will like you. Really like you - you (and Sally Fields) for exactly who you are.
October 5, 2011
Clarity, Brevity, Simplicity, Humanity
For most of my adolescence, I idolized Barbra Streisand. Long before the talented young actors on Glee began popularizing songs from Funny Girl and Yentl, I was the Greatest Gtar...I was Second-Hand Rose...I was singing to Papa by candlelight and Nobody, No Nobody was gonna Rain on my Parade. In this way, I was sort of a weird kid. I can't explain exactly why I felt such a kinship with Babs, except for maybe I recognized that I, too, have a nose of distinction. But that isn't all. It was her strength that I admired. Her ability to entertain and her sense of the world. Even now, I can't help but weep when I watch her sing. It's involuntary. Like love. And I realize the real reason I related to Barbara is that she gave voice to every feeling I had - even as a small girl. She made it okay to be a clown. To laugh at yourself and at the same time to be a strong woman. To say what you want and expect to get it. And most of all, to speak out against injustice. To not apologize for your convictions.
I used to say I wanted to be the first 'woman' President of the United States, and amazingly, at age 9, I believed in earnest that this was possible. Even when another girl - a friend of mine, who was ever so slightly thinner and therefore more popular announced that she also planned to one day throw her hat into the ring, I wasn't deterred. Such was the power of my fantasy that when Geraldine Ferraro ran for Vice-President, I secretly rooted against her. I saw myself at a podium. Reasoning with Gaddafi, whose bombs I spent many many hours worrying over. World War III, we were told in elementary school, would be the last War. The nuclear war from which only the cockroaches would be left to write about. But on my watch, there would be no war. On my watch, there would be peace. Peace the way Barbra described it in her 1986 ONE VOICE concert.
Walter Mondale and Geraldine Ferraro - who started out as a school teacher in Queens - lost by a landslide to Ronald Reagan, but upon accepting her nomination, addressed a crowd of cheering, tearing supporters with these words: "I stand before you to proclaim tonight: America is the land where dreams can come true for all of us." Indeed, she went on to do great things. As the Ambassador to the United Nations Humans Rights Commission in 1993, she condemned (for the first time) anti-semitism as a human rights violation. After suffering with an extended illness, Geraldine Ferraro died last March. She was only 75, and I wonder what she would have to say about Alabama's new immigration laws. Laws which permit police to "Stop and Ask" individuals within its borders to produce their 'papers'. Legislation which gives the green light to racial profiling and feels eerily like a movie set in Nazi-occupied Europe. Except it's real, and it's happening here - in the Land of the Free.
Today, I get to stand at a podium. I get to talk about human rights and raise awareness about social issues. I get paid to read and write, and maybe I don't have the qualifications - the Ivy League education or the bank account to run for President, but ironically, I am doing exactly what I envisioned. My dream, though in disguise, came true. And I never forget, despite my outrage, that because I live in America, I am allowed to question the leaders of my country. To run my classroom on the following platform: clarity, brevity, simplicity, and humanity. A fortune cookie's description of the basic premises of writing and not too shabby a mantra for life.
Here is a video from Barbra's 1986 concert. I dare you not to cry.
I used to say I wanted to be the first 'woman' President of the United States, and amazingly, at age 9, I believed in earnest that this was possible. Even when another girl - a friend of mine, who was ever so slightly thinner and therefore more popular announced that she also planned to one day throw her hat into the ring, I wasn't deterred. Such was the power of my fantasy that when Geraldine Ferraro ran for Vice-President, I secretly rooted against her. I saw myself at a podium. Reasoning with Gaddafi, whose bombs I spent many many hours worrying over. World War III, we were told in elementary school, would be the last War. The nuclear war from which only the cockroaches would be left to write about. But on my watch, there would be no war. On my watch, there would be peace. Peace the way Barbra described it in her 1986 ONE VOICE concert.
Walter Mondale and Geraldine Ferraro - who started out as a school teacher in Queens - lost by a landslide to Ronald Reagan, but upon accepting her nomination, addressed a crowd of cheering, tearing supporters with these words: "I stand before you to proclaim tonight: America is the land where dreams can come true for all of us." Indeed, she went on to do great things. As the Ambassador to the United Nations Humans Rights Commission in 1993, she condemned (for the first time) anti-semitism as a human rights violation. After suffering with an extended illness, Geraldine Ferraro died last March. She was only 75, and I wonder what she would have to say about Alabama's new immigration laws. Laws which permit police to "Stop and Ask" individuals within its borders to produce their 'papers'. Legislation which gives the green light to racial profiling and feels eerily like a movie set in Nazi-occupied Europe. Except it's real, and it's happening here - in the Land of the Free.
Today, I get to stand at a podium. I get to talk about human rights and raise awareness about social issues. I get paid to read and write, and maybe I don't have the qualifications - the Ivy League education or the bank account to run for President, but ironically, I am doing exactly what I envisioned. My dream, though in disguise, came true. And I never forget, despite my outrage, that because I live in America, I am allowed to question the leaders of my country. To run my classroom on the following platform: clarity, brevity, simplicity, and humanity. A fortune cookie's description of the basic premises of writing and not too shabby a mantra for life.
Here is a video from Barbra's 1986 concert. I dare you not to cry.
September 14, 2011
Fowl Mood
I'm feeling a little bit better today; thanks for asking. My head doesn't feel like an excavated mine this morning, which is nice. Although, a bit of the ugly mood - the residual funk that accompanies phlegm - remains. Which is not so nice or I'm not so nice. And while I'm thinking about it - Please stop inserting commas before the conjunction in a sentence consisting of one independent and one dependent clause! You know who you are: you newspaper columnists, novelists and other so-called 'famous' writers. You seriously undermine my work as an educator when you whip those commas around like so many boomerangs. As if grammar were some kind of horseshoe match - as if being close counts. I'll tell you what I tell my students: Read the damn handbook. How hard is it, really? If the parts of the sentence that come before and after the comma can each stand alone - by all means, plop that comma down in there. Otherwise, keep your unwieldly punctuation to yourself.
And another thing: When visiting a bookstore near you, take note of the numerous jacket covers prominently featuring chickens. As I wandered through my local Barnes & Noble last evening, waiting for my daughter to finish with her dance lesson, I couldn't help but feel a bit of hope at the sight of so many books about these plucky birds. I thought - I have a story about a chicken. Maybe I've finally done it - written a literary short story about something people might pay money to read - I mean just look (I thought to myself) look at all these stinking chickens! Free-range, cartoon, vintage...certainly there's room for one more feather among the flock? But then I remembered that there are more chickens than humans walking the earth, so they can afford to be choosy.
For all I know, chickens are running the publishing houses. Chickens scratching behind the desk at the New Yorker. Chickens gathered around a table, discussing my story. "What does this chicken want? Has this chicken earned that cliche? This chicken has not been fully realized..."
Can't you just see the rejection letter? "Dear Fowl Writer:..."
Oh well. Cover your mouth when you cough. Keep your hands clean, and don't forget to say God Bless You.
And another thing: When visiting a bookstore near you, take note of the numerous jacket covers prominently featuring chickens. As I wandered through my local Barnes & Noble last evening, waiting for my daughter to finish with her dance lesson, I couldn't help but feel a bit of hope at the sight of so many books about these plucky birds. I thought - I have a story about a chicken. Maybe I've finally done it - written a literary short story about something people might pay money to read - I mean just look (I thought to myself) look at all these stinking chickens! Free-range, cartoon, vintage...certainly there's room for one more feather among the flock? But then I remembered that there are more chickens than humans walking the earth, so they can afford to be choosy.
For all I know, chickens are running the publishing houses. Chickens scratching behind the desk at the New Yorker. Chickens gathered around a table, discussing my story. "What does this chicken want? Has this chicken earned that cliche? This chicken has not been fully realized..."
Can't you just see the rejection letter? "Dear Fowl Writer:..."
Oh well. Cover your mouth when you cough. Keep your hands clean, and don't forget to say God Bless You.
August 31, 2011
From Poetry to Prose
Ten years ago, John Mayer performed a set from his debut album Room for Squares in the WYEP studios - an independent radio station in Pittsburgh. I heard a recording from that session this morning. "Will you want me when I'm not myself?" he sings. As it turns out, my answer is Probably Not.
I used to say that he was the poet nearest my heart - a line stolen from the movie Shakespeare in Love. A movie about the imagined life of Shakespeare and the reckless love - 'come ruin or rapture' - that inspires him to write both Romeo and Juliet and Twelfth Night (from which comes my favorite line in all of Shakespeare's writing..."If music be the food of love, play on.") And I really loved John Mayer. Before he made it to commercial radio. Before he became the playboy of the western world - before his words went from 'poetry to prose' -- to borrow a line from "Not Myself".
But then, as a writer of prose, how can I stand in judgement? Further, as a writer of fiction - creator of unreal realities - why can I not separate the man from the artist? Why should I care that he dated Jessica Simpson? That poor girl likes a doughnut as much as me - but at least I'm not on the cover of every magazine with the words 'Wide Load' plastered across my ass-end.
Originally, I was angry that he'd chosen her. I had imagined him with a girl who'd broken his heart in 6th grade. A plain but pretty girl who (as he sings in "Comfortable") could distinguish between Miles and Coltraine. The One. So, seeing him posed next to the platinum Simpson was a blow. But the real problem for me occurred when he started saying ugly things about Jessica and the other high-profile women with whom he'd paraded down the red carpet. How could this callous misogynist be the same man who wrote "Daughters"? Who seemed to keenly understand the complications particular to girls who'd been abandoned by the first man they ever loved? Who wrote about watching his parents age with unparalleled tenderness in "Stop This Train"? About high school reunions and St. Patrick's Day; hope and heartbreak? Who left track #13 blank - just in case. How John? Please, if you're out there, I really want to know. How do we know if we'll want you when you're not yourself if we don't know which self is really you?
Alice Walker once said, "Deliver me from writers who think the way they live doesn't matter..." I agree. And I disagree. Let's say I was to make it to the big time as a writer. Let's say readers were out there imagining my life - idealizing a set of ideals for me. Absorbing my words like gospel - holding me to an unattainable standard - and then one day, I was exposed. Caught in a contradiction between my public and private life - billed as a fraud and a liar and a jerk. But what if I really meant everything I'd ever written? In that moment in time, it was true - I felt every emotion that had plucked the soulstrings of those once faithful followers? Who could say which moment was me being 'myself' and which was me as 'somebody else'?
Maybe it's best not to know too much about the artists whose work inspires us to lift our lighters in a dark sky. I don't know. But I do know that when I heard him singing this morning, I couldn't stop it - that old reckless love.
Listen to "Heart of Life" and decide for yourself:
I used to say that he was the poet nearest my heart - a line stolen from the movie Shakespeare in Love. A movie about the imagined life of Shakespeare and the reckless love - 'come ruin or rapture' - that inspires him to write both Romeo and Juliet and Twelfth Night (from which comes my favorite line in all of Shakespeare's writing..."If music be the food of love, play on.") And I really loved John Mayer. Before he made it to commercial radio. Before he became the playboy of the western world - before his words went from 'poetry to prose' -- to borrow a line from "Not Myself".
But then, as a writer of prose, how can I stand in judgement? Further, as a writer of fiction - creator of unreal realities - why can I not separate the man from the artist? Why should I care that he dated Jessica Simpson? That poor girl likes a doughnut as much as me - but at least I'm not on the cover of every magazine with the words 'Wide Load' plastered across my ass-end.
Originally, I was angry that he'd chosen her. I had imagined him with a girl who'd broken his heart in 6th grade. A plain but pretty girl who (as he sings in "Comfortable") could distinguish between Miles and Coltraine. The One. So, seeing him posed next to the platinum Simpson was a blow. But the real problem for me occurred when he started saying ugly things about Jessica and the other high-profile women with whom he'd paraded down the red carpet. How could this callous misogynist be the same man who wrote "Daughters"? Who seemed to keenly understand the complications particular to girls who'd been abandoned by the first man they ever loved? Who wrote about watching his parents age with unparalleled tenderness in "Stop This Train"? About high school reunions and St. Patrick's Day; hope and heartbreak? Who left track #13 blank - just in case. How John? Please, if you're out there, I really want to know. How do we know if we'll want you when you're not yourself if we don't know which self is really you?
Alice Walker once said, "Deliver me from writers who think the way they live doesn't matter..." I agree. And I disagree. Let's say I was to make it to the big time as a writer. Let's say readers were out there imagining my life - idealizing a set of ideals for me. Absorbing my words like gospel - holding me to an unattainable standard - and then one day, I was exposed. Caught in a contradiction between my public and private life - billed as a fraud and a liar and a jerk. But what if I really meant everything I'd ever written? In that moment in time, it was true - I felt every emotion that had plucked the soulstrings of those once faithful followers? Who could say which moment was me being 'myself' and which was me as 'somebody else'?
Maybe it's best not to know too much about the artists whose work inspires us to lift our lighters in a dark sky. I don't know. But I do know that when I heard him singing this morning, I couldn't stop it - that old reckless love.
Listen to "Heart of Life" and decide for yourself:
August 23, 2011
We're Closer Now Than Ever Before
This song was originally featured in Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas. Listen to this terrific version of "Our World" as performed by My Morning Jacket. What a treat for us all!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)