Entry #31: 7/22/23: What the Hell Happened Here?

Although I’m not a pessimist by nature, I do have to admit that this is what I find myself saying every morning when I look in the mirror. Out loud, if the truth be known, though no one can actually hear me except possibly my husband who is the next room, and he just says “what?” Which is pretty much his response to everything I say, so it doesn’t really count. The reason this statement has become a daily ritual is not because my reflection has become vastly altered in the previous eight hours (during which I was mostly sleeping), but in a more generalized sense, I never cease to be amazed that the aging woman in the mirror is actually me. 

My children, who are 52 and 49, both clearly have a 25 year-old inside of them frantically trying to escape their middle-aged bodies. Primarily this comes in the form of strenuous daily exercise routines (both), frantic work and intense social schedules (my daughter), and 50 mile hiking and camping trips with other like-minded age deniers (my son). Also, having watched me care for their 90 year-old grandmother before she died 10 years ago (and remembering it well), they seem to be practicing potentially caring for me, a process which alternates between solicitous behavior (which I confess is kind of nice), and, I suspect, what amounts to a fear of their mortality. What they don’t realize, of course is that when I’m 90, they’ll be 67 and 70, and having similar expectations of their own children.

But what they truly may not understand now is that there is 40 year-old woman inside of this 72 year-old body who desperately yearns to escape as well.  In other words, just because my knees hurt and I forget things, doesn’t mean I don’t still dance around my living room to the 60s music I have secretly stored on my iPhone. 

So now, you are asking what does this have to do with writing…since this, in fact, is a blog about writing. Quite a bit, actually. Because to be taken “seriously” as a writer, I’ve discovered that you have to be under 30, have a weird haircut, a troubled life, or be male. When you’re a 72 year-old woman, and your life is actually quite pleasant, and your hair (while not cut in the traditional senior citizen style) looks fairly normal, the average reader is not especially interested in what you have to say. What your granddaughter thinks you want to hear, for example, is that her friend said, “oh your grandmother writes novels? That is so cute!” 

What I’ve discovered about my own writing (now that I just published novel #10) is that my protagonists are suddenly quite a bit younger. My first two books had 60-something main characters (which is what I was at the time) with grown children they are frantically trying to understand and/or create a bond with (no comment). One was divorced with grown children who worshiped the discarded spouse (not commenting here either, but suffice it to say it wasn’t hard to write). The other was recently widowed with grown children who were also worshipful of the deceased husband, but none the less devoted to the remaining parent (a more hopeful, albeit perhaps imaginary scenario). 

Suddenly in novel #3, the protagonist becomes a snarfy 20-something, a pattern that repeats itself a number of times afterwards, including the most recent book. Psychologically speaking, what does this indicate? That I am trying to relive my youth? Appeal to a younger audience? Create the illusion that I am one of the above mentioned successful writers? Or possibly just admit that there is nothing too interesting about my current age and lifestyle that is worth writing about?

That final statement, by the way, is not true…in case anyone younger than 60 happens to read this blog. This is evidenced by the monthly Zoom chat I have with my high school classmates; a group that numbers less than 40 and are all women. I’m hesitant to reveal the content of some of these chats, but suffice it to say these are well-educated, well-read, well-travelled women in their early 70s, who did not find a discussion of a recent picture of their male counterparts (from the boys’ school across the street) beneath the intellectual nature of their discussions. 

Novel #4 (Taking Flight), by the way has a male protagonist. Oddly, it’s my favorite book I’ve written, and now that I think about it, I also like my hair the way it is.

What To Do When There's Nothing To Do

          When my brother, Mark and I were kids, we spent our summers in a cottage on a lake; a cottage my parents had actually built themselves from a pile of pre-fab components that fit together (mostly). It was a large A-frame construction, with a huge front porch and was perched on a forested hill overlooking our very own stretch of lakefront. Halfway down the path leading to the water was a stone fireplace where we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows and a picnic table where we devoured our efforts.

    We had a wooden dock that had to be slid into the water every spring and pieced together in order to moor our rowboat and sailboat. The canoe was flipped over on the shore nearby, its paddles tucked securely underneath, and anchored a short distance out in the water was a raft my father and grandfather built the first summer we lived there. My parents built the cottage the summer I was five and although we took many vacations and sightseeing trips other places in the years that followed, I pretty much spent every June, July, and August at the lake until I went away to college 12 years later. 

     You would think that this would be the most idyllic way to spend one's childhood, and for the most part, Mark and I would agree. Every day we would wake up to some new adventure that generally involved hiking through the woods, sailing, canoeing, fishing, and long afternoons of swimming and lazing around in the sun. But there were also days when it rained, or, in the pre-global warming era, times when there was a distinct chill in the air (since we were, after all, in the foothills of the Adirondacks). Not only that, but when we were teenagers and the need for social contact reached beyond the limits of our sibling companionship and childhood amusements, we'd often spend many restless hours trying to figure out what to do with ourselves all day. 

    I should point out that this was not only a computer-less/cell phone-less era, but also our cottage had neither a TV nor a phone that wasn't a party line, and was out of range of most popular radio stations. It was for this reason (or perhaps the sanity of my mother) that my father first devised the "What To Do When There’s Nothing To Do" list. 

      Although I don't remember precisely how the idea came about, I'm guessing it originated one especially rainy Saturday when both my parents were attempting to patiently endure the restlessness of their offspring. I do recall, though, that after several hours of listening to the dramatic sighs and unrestrained whines of two preteens, my father handed us each a sheet of paper with the heading "What To Do When There's Nothing To Do" printed across the top in red ink. Although I don't recall whether we ever consulted our completed lists for the remainder of the summer, at least it gave us something to do that afternoon (and, no doubt, gave my parents some peace and quiet).

     I've thought about that list quite a lot over the last few months, when the triple whammy of a pandemic, my recent retirement, and the no-one-reads-what-I-write-anyway-so-why-should-I write-it syndrome struck simultaneously. I even went as far as digging through a box of childhood mementos to see if I could unearth that old list (which, I should add, did give me something to do for an hour or so). 

     Failing this, I made an effort to recreate the list, with somewhat mixed results, considering the number of years that have passed in the interim, and the current irrelevance (or perhaps impossibility) of the activities that might have been on that list.

     Here, for example, are some of the original entries that came back to me: add to my paper dolls' wardrobe choices by cutting more outfits from the Montgomery Ward catalogue; practice blowing bubblegum bubbles until I’m as good as Mark; try to win 10 games of Solitaire in a row for the new family record; work on my goal of reading all the Louisa May Alcott books; practice doing the jitterbug for when my friends and I watch American Bandstand together in the fall; learn to play more Beatles songs on my guitar; and practice Hula Hooping on the front porch (or in the house if Mom says it’s okay). Then suddenly I remembered my final entry on the “What To Do When There’s Nothing To Do” list: Write a story.

     Huh! Write a story? Now there’s a thought.

More Real Characters

     Back to characterization...that nagging "make it or break it" part of most stories and novels, and at least for me as a reader (if not also a writer) the primary element that determines the success of said work. Back when I first started writing this blog, one of my early entries focused on this literary aspect, by referring to my grandmother's infamous evaluation of some of her various acquaintances as "real characters."
     I published my seventh book, Reunion, recently and am currently working on number eight, That Old Cape Cod. Both of these novels have unique characterization challenges, one that would fluster (her word not mine) even my grandmother.
     In the first one, I chose to write about a group of friends planning to attend a 50th high school reunion, which couldn't help but be based on my own experience, since it was one I just had. What better group to draw from, then, than my actual high school classmates? Most of the novel deals with the characters' memories, as well as the secrets they kept from each other. A parallel plot is the book one of the characters is writing, in which this experience becomes far more negatively exaggerated than the actual one (or does it?)
     Unfortunately, this raised the eternal dilemma: how to create flaws and frailties in characters modeled after people I love (because, of course, this is how one creates successful characters...at least according to the "how to" books). The villains were far easier...after all who doesn't have some leftover rage for the bad guys of our youth? Still, the question of potential insult (if not downright libel) definitely looms in those circumstances, thus restricting one's level of poetic license.
    The question is, how does one (as Hemingway so determinedly reminds us) "write about what you know," without crossing the line too far into what maybe not everyone you know wants everyone to know about them. I have concluded that no writer's characters are entirely fictional, despite the disclaimers, which even I have become guilty of including. But that doesn't mean you can't jumble up their personalities into composite beings (as I did in Reunion) or place older models in younger bodies, or make women you know into men and vice versa (a bit more of a challenge, but still possible).
     This method of characterization can, however, have some unexpected consequences. When my husband complained that in my first book (Scraps of Eternity) I immediately kill him off (sorry, spoiler alert), for example, my daughter countered with the observation, "well at least Mom didn't turn you into a gay male lawyer." On the other hand, the fictional family who endearingly populate the Seaside Restaurant in Home to Trout River, may one day be sought after by several readers who claim the book inspired them to travel there, and thus put the place on the map...okay, maybe in a few photo albums at best, but I can dream, right?
     The characters in my newest venture (still in its first draft), That Old Cape Cod, are a combination of old friends, lovers, and ghosts, and occasionally all of the above. Talk about challenging...imagine trying to create flaws for someone who is no longer living. I mean, what can they do about it at that point? And what possible message can come from the impossibility of change? This may take longer to write than I imagined.
    But what the heck? Heaven knows, I've got the time, what with the current constrictions of an epidemic to keep me home and typing away. On the other hand, there's nothing like a good quarantine to release one's inhibitions in regard to "fictional" character creation. On the one hand, it's made me more aware of whom I genuinely miss when I'm not allowed to see them, as well as who I really don't; and undoubtedly, there are many who have come to similar conclusions about me.
     Therefore, I rather expect there are other writers who have come to the same realization, even ones whose books are, shall we say, more widely read than mine, and perhaps this circumstance will inspire a whole new literary movement. I'm not talking about the inevitable flurry of apocalyptic novels (which I have to confess I might be looking forward to), but also (another result I happily anticipate) an abundance of fiction populated with more "real characters." My grandmother would be proud.
     
   

Here We Go Again...

     Time for the annual plunge into the fiction writing contest pool. It happens this way every year, but for some reason, I still fail to recognize the annual signs of potential disappointment. Here's how it happens: usually I have just finished a novel, or am in the final stages of editing one and now facing the daily boredom of reading, for the fourth or fifth time, something I was last excited about at least six months ago. Then it is February on Cape Cod...need I say more? Those idyllic scenes of fluffy white snow dusting the lighthouses and blowing gently across deserted beaches that you see on all the calendars are pretty much taken on a single afternoon when the one picturesque ocean snowstorm breezes through. The rest of the time the sky is this kind of steel gray and spits frozen rain, and the wind never stops blowing.
   But that's when they arrive: the cheery emails from a virtually unending stream of little known literary magazines and tiny publishing companies in Nebraska, offering you fame and recognition, as well as perhaps a $100 prize, and, more importantly, a subscription to said magazine. Occasionally, you are also given the "additional opportunity" for a "professional analysis" of your work, plus a "reduced fee" to attend their "renowned annual writing conference." This, too, is in Nebraska...where you'll share a rustic cabin "bonding" with three other "talented" attendees, and participate in "yoga and meditation groups, while watching the sun rise over distant mountain ranges." (Do they even have mountain ranges in Nebraska?)
     The reason you get the emails, of course, is not because somehow these literary experts have come across your obscure Amazon author page (after misspelling the name of a sports writer in the search engine), or picked up one of your novels on a recent trip to Orleans, MA, where it rained for four days and they ended up in the only bookstore kind enough to stock your work. Nope, they got your name and email from your previous futile attempts at recognition when you entered their contest last year...and the year before...and perhaps, the year before that.
    But my favorite sources for continuing to humiliate myself are not so much these ego-stroking communications (which basically, as my father used to refer to electronic birthday greetings, are "when you care enough to send the very least"), but publications and websites that I purposefully subscribed to. These insidious resources not only flood your brain with articles and links convincing you, the writer, that "you, too, can make a six figure income by just following a few simple tips," but also produce an annual list of how to further convince yourself that you can't.
     Nonetheless, we writers are a frighteningly optimistic bunch...either that, or we have definitively short memories...and I, like others, find myself reading through the lists of annual contests seeking and circling the perfect recipients to offer me the above mentioned fame and recognition.
      After being part of this potentially financially draining process for several years now, I now see myself as somewhat of an expert in the field. Here's what I've learned: (1) watch out for the fine print. One contest I entered seemed like an excellent choice, but it wasn't until after I sent my story about two sisters growing up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York (and paid the $20 entry fee) that I happened to notice the contest was based in Tennessee, and they were looking for stories and poems that reflected the "traditional values and lifestyle of Bible Belt culture."
     Next, I learned that (2) it is important to look at the contest website carefully and if possible, read the winning stories from the previous year's competition. I only learned this after sending off a story about gardening with my grandfather, and then noting that the most recent winner had written a sensitive portrayal of her love affair with a mass murderer. How I missed the illustration of the large ax dripping blood, I'm not sure.
    Finally (and please note I am only hitting the top three cautionary bits of advice): (3) just because you were one of the 120 semi-finalists in a contest where the promoters promised to make an Oscar winning movie out of the winning entry, doesn't mean you should send them three stories and a novel the very next year (at $50 a pop).
    I'm sure by now you think this cynical portrayal of the world of literary competitions means I have deleted all those email invitations, and tossed aside the list of potential entries culled from the pages of "professional" websites and inspirational publications. Unfortunately, having just sent my seventh novel, Reunion, to press, and sitting here looking out on steel gray skies in the midst of an extended "stay at home order," this is not the case. Yup, I think, as I sign into "Submittable" and open my PayPal account, here we go again.
    Maybe I should just sign up for the writing conference in Nebraska and be done with it.

Go Amuse Yourself Quietly

    My mother was not a typical 1950s woman...you know what I mean, the Barbara Billingsley (Beaver Cleaver's Mom) type who did God knows what all day long wearing a dress, heels, and pearls. Instead, my Mom spent her afternoons teaching piano lessons in our living room, and her evenings (and later mornings, after my brother and I were in school) teaching literature classes at the local college. She also spent a good portion of my childhood earning two advanced degrees and being more or less the entire secretarial staff for my grandmother's real estate and insurance business. (I should add that my grandmother was also not the typical 1950s woman).
    Thus this phrase ("go amuse yourself quietly") was frequently uttered in our home. And if the truth be known, my brother and I were pretty good at it...amusing ourselves quietly, I mean...unless you count the experiments we tried with the chemistry set he got for Christmas one year, or the bike horns my father gave us which sounded more or less like wounded geese as we raced our bikes up and down the street in front of the house.
    I don't mean to imply that my childhood was one long series of being chased out of the room so my mother could fulfill her professional goals...in fact, I often wonder how she was able to find the energy to also leave me with memories of vast amounts of quality time we spent as a family.
    But I also have to admit that somewhere in the early 1970s, I found myself also directing my own children to "go amuse themselves quietly," all the while having the distinct feeling I had heard this expression somewhere before. Being that it was the more permissive 70s, though, added to this directive was the promise that "if you play by yourself quietly for a little bit, then Mommy will play with you after."
    "Quietly," however was the operative term. Between my son's Star Wars battles and the unruly "students" in my daughter's doll-populated "school" (one I was quite convinced could be accredited by the state of Connecticut), this was not really the prevailing atmosphere that followed my decree. But mostly the concept worked fairly well, especially with the added invention of color TV.
     Because I had my children young, I spent a good portion of their early years in part time pursuit of my college degree and then continuing on to get my Master's. I also worked evenings as a newspaper reporter, and once the kids were in school, started my teaching career and became involved in local politics. Must be genetic. In my case, however, I was (and still am) far too easily distracted not to have ended up wandering down the hall to play with the so-called quietly amused kids, instead of doing my own work.
   So here we are again...being asked by a higher authority to go and amuse ourselves quietly, with the promise that if we'll be able to make all the noise we want later on. As writers, of course, why not just think to ourselves, let's make all the noise we want right now...but in a creative way. Since we can't go to those proverbial "day jobs" everyone says not to quit, or use the first moment of writer's block as an excuse to go to the mall, or pretend that going out to dinner with a bunch of friends could be considered "research," why not settle back on your comfy couch (or wherever you like to write) with your trusty laptop and do exactly that...write.
     Then write, and write some more, and write some more...cheerfully jumping back and forth between unrelated documents as if you could care less if they ever see the light of day on some editor's desk, or if your friends ever read what you've created, or if that pompous bookstore owner ever considers your work worth her front window display. Because who cares? You're making yourself happy in the way you always have (by writing) when lots of other people have never actually been able to do that...that is, go and amuse themselves quietly.

Fame and Fortune

     When we were kids, my best friend, Sue and I were always waiting to be "discovered;" you know, a la Lana Turner at the soda fountain. Never mind that we lived in a tiny suburban town nearly 3000 miles from Hollywood and even if I flashed my most endearing smile, there would be no disguising my pathetically crooked teeth. Somehow we just knew that one day, while we sat gently twirling back and forth on the soda fountain stools at "Bo-Bo's" a California talent scout would appear and beg us to accept roles in his newest block buster film. Nowadays, of course, should this occur, our pictures would be more likely to show up on the side of a milk carton than a theater poster, but back then it was every young girl's dream.
     Needless to say, neither one of us (nor any of our friends, for that matter) were ever "discovered," and despite the fact most of us went on to have successful careers and raise happy families, the nagging sense that this opportunity somehow passed us by never truly goes away. Even now, when I read People magazine in the waiting room at the dentist, I can never quite convince myself that those celebrities "aren't truly happy." I'd even settle for being able to wear that tiny bikini, the heck with snagging the staring role in a major film.
     But I do think that basic recognition, and the attainment thereof is a whole different thing, as well as one that is not always beyond our expectations. Why else would refrigerator magnets been invented, for example, if not with the idea that some A+ spelling quiz  or "Student of the Week" certificate would need this item to display such achievements to anyone passing through the kitchen? And what mother doesn't have (tucked away in a drawer somewhere) the first (if not one and only) super-sentimental birthday card given to her by the least likely child to have purchased one?
     Writers have that same need for acknowledgement, and it usually takes very little time before one who cheerfully plunges into this creative field to recognize this painful reality, as well as become familiar with the roller coaster of emotions that accompanies its arrival. This amusement park analogy ranges from the initial outpouring of support (and purchases) of your first published novel, to one of your once closest friends announcing he/she never reads fiction, to the email identifying one of your short stories as a semi-finalist in a literary contest, to discovering one of your novels (complete with a personalized "signing" inside the front cover) selling for fifty cents at the local church bazaar.
    But of all the ego-busting, recognition struggling experiences for a writer, I would have to rank the bookstore consignment process at the top of the list. For those of you who have not yet entered this maelstrom of rejection, it is probably one of the most humbling experiences of what you may previously have considered your writing "career."
    My first venture into the world of bookstore marketing began with a small local bookstore, with a strong connection to the school in which I used to teach. Not only did they offer teacher discounts, but also participated in the annual Parents' Association fundraising book sale. The owner, who appeared to be a kindly gentleman, welcomed me warmly, introduced me to his dog and then firmly refused to carry my books because they only purchased books through their "distributer," the reason being that then they could return unsold copies. This might have made more sense to me had I had not been standing there with a physical box of books (which could come or go as often he wished) and also had not just mentioned that I lived in the same town.
     Ah well, onward, I thought, as I patted the dog's head and departed. My next stop was a larger bookstore in a popular local shopping complex. Here the owner spent considerable time touring me around the store in what appeared to be some sort of educational effort on her part, which would ultimately culminate in my understanding of how inferior my books were to the ones she carried. Then for some reason, she thought I should leave her one of my lame attempts at literature as a sample, keeping in mind of course, that she "has very little time for reading so probably won't" (read it, that is.)
     Thinking that a more touristy locale might work better, I then drove to the Cape's most historically prestigious enclave of summer visitors and stopped by the main street's charming book seller. After working my way through several underlings whose main job seemed to be to cluster around the cash register and smile inanely, I was finally introduced to the manager. He examined my novels briefly, then smiled pleasantly and told me that even though he would not be stocking my books, I would be welcome to come and sit on the sidewalk outside the shop's front door and accost passersby in an effort to sell autographed copies of my work (provided I brought my own chair and card table, of course).
      "You'll be surprised how many people stroll past here every day," he added encouragingly. It was currently mid-February and the temperature outside was a balmy 25 degrees.
      I don't mean to suggest that all the responses to my marketing efforts were completely negative. For example, one book I wrote takes place in Northampton, a good three hour drive from where I live. Nonetheless, though, I thought it was worth the effort to try and sell it in one of that town's local bookstores...the fact that I even used this particular bookstore (in a rather complimentary way) as one of the settings in the novel itself, also made it seem like the proprietors might be interested. After immediately turning me down, they did, however, suggest that perhaps I could make a "poster" advertising my book and "drop it off the next time I was in the area"...which, as I previously pointed out, is three hours from where I live.
    Then there was another Cape bookstore that cheerfully accepted my books as a "welcome addition" to their "local author section." Later I found out that in order to peruse this "special section" you had to be no more than three feet tall (as it is on the very bottom shelf next to the floor) and possibly bring a flashlight, (as it is located in the darkest corner of the back room). Nonetheless, they have sold some of my books, in particular one they displayed briefly in the front room, which was actually purchased the day after they moved it there. One would think this might be an incentive to try this approach again, but so far (based on my subsequent visits) this does not seemed to have occurred to them.
     My work also was equally welcomed at another Cape bookstore, the owners of which were actually the parents of two of my students. "We love local authors!" they declared, and even suggested I might hold a reading and a book signing at their store, an event for which they would contact me "soon after the holidays." Perhaps I should have asked which holidays they were referring to, since a number of them have since passed since then and the only communication I have received is a recent form letter requesting me to come and pick up my books as they have been on the shelves "for more than six months" as their "space is limited." Keep in mind these books have been selling regularly and I have even been asked to bring replacements along the way.
      So now, lest you think my attitude has become completely pessimistic regarding this marketing approach, here's my favorite thing to do on a sunny Cape Cod afternoon...drive to Orleans where in a relatively obscure shopping plaza there is an independent bookstore called The Booksmith. On the door is sign that notes how dogs are welcome and once inside, a spacious display of attractively arranged reading material of a variety of genres immediately appears...one that is frequently rearranged to highlight the store's diverse inventory. There is also a massive collection of music CDs on one side of the front room, and in a second room at the back of the store, an impressive collection of what is now known as "vinyl" (or what we aging hippies refer to as records). The rack of dog treats near the cash register is another added bonus.
      And guess what? My books are here too, with the covers that all the above bookstores raved were "impressive" (after which the only part of the books they ever had facing outward were the spines) are, in fact, fully visible facing the customers. I sell a fair amount of books in this store, but as for fame and fortune, I have to admit I have yet to achieve that long awaited moment of "discovery" in Orleans, MA. What I can say, however, is that whenever I drop off more of my books at the Booksmith, the owner smiles at me and says "thank-you for allowing us to sell your books!" Eat your heart out, Lana Turner. This is what it's really all about.

Truth or Dare

      Back when we were kids (and later when my kids were kids), we (and then they) used to play a game called "Truth or Dare." As I recall, though, the rules of this game degenerated somewhat from the decidedly tame and inhibited 1950s and early 60s, once it was the 1980s. But the basic idea remained much the same. When it was your "turn," you had to decide whether you would tell the "truth" about something another player asked you, or whether you preferred to take "a dare" and do something they told you to do.
     The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
     I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
     As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
      But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
      My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
     Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
     I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
     I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
   This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
    Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
    So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
    Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
     So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?

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If a Tree Falls in the Forest...

     ...and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Everyone who ever took a high school biology class, or for that matter, perhaps simply a walk in the woods, has pondered this question at some point. In fact, I can remember having a number of philosophical debates on the subject, back when I was young enough to actually have the time or inclination for such conversations.
     In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
     It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
    Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
      Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
      Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
       Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
     Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?

A Tisket, A Tasket

       Okay, I admit it, I'm one of those people who loves Christmas letters...and Christmas cards with pictures. I don't know if it's because I love reading and writing, or if I simply need to get a life. Whatever the reason, I honestly look forward to getting these communications every year, despite all the jokes about "brag letters" and "is that really the best picture you have?" type comments. I even like getting these from my kids...what does that tell you, right? It isn't that my kids don't tell me about their lives, I just like getting the official version that everyone else hears as well.
      I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
      Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
      Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
     But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
     Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
       I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
      My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
      Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.

The Infinite Expectation of the Dawn

      I published my sixth novel last week and it was received with sensationally minimal fanfare and applaud. I don't mean to negate the enthusiastic response I did receive from the kinder members of my family and friends, but for those of you who spend many waking hours on your literary creations, I'm sure you know what I mean. The elation one feels at typing the last word, correcting the last error, rewriting the last awkward paragraph, and then making the grand announcement to everyone you know and love, can quickly fade away in the virtual silence that follows this triumph.
     Okay, the truth is that I'm the world's worst marketer, so possibly this has something to do with the continuing turn of events regarding my so-called writing career. I'm not on Facebook for starters, a fact which my children continually remind me of by trying to chat with me concerning major family events and then adding, oh yeah, you don't know about that because you're not on Facebook! I used to claim it was because I was a teacher, but the truth is, like everything else technical, I'm simply afraid of trying to make it work.
      It's also true that every time I go in a Bookstore and try to talk them into stocking my novels, I panic and run out the door as soon as they say no...or even, hmmm...I'm not sure if we can do that. My other response is to try and console them when they explain how hard it might be to carry my books. Suddenly I'm on their side and I don't understand why. Weren't these the same people who just a few minutes ago basically told me that a 60-something Indie writer is not worth their time or energy?
     My personal favorite in response to my efforts are the old friends from my youth who tell me they never read fiction. Do they not recall the smutty novels we all passed around as teenagers? And what self-respecting, late 60s St. Lawrence University student never read the Electric Kool Aid Acid test?
     And if you're a struggling writer like me, I'm sure you've also had a friend call and ask to drop by, then just happens to bring along an "edited" copy of one of your published novels to "help you out." Help you out with what? Expanding your already shattered ego?
      Or the published mystery writer, whose books (even though you don't like mysteries) you bought and reviewed, hoping for some of the same in return, only to have said writer tell you they would, but they didn't want to pay for them. I've personally also read and reviewed glowingly five poetry books by old friends I haven't seen since the Bush era (the first Bush), but I'm pretty sure they don't have an Erni Johnson first edition of their very own.
      Okay, this is the post-publication downer we all experience...at least the "all we" writers that I know and talk to (let's just say that neither John Grisham nor Anne Tyler have invited me to tea recently). It can be a bummer, right? But certainly not the end of the world, especially when one's world is, as mine is, pretty damn nice otherwise.
     When I taught American Literature, I used to drag a fair amount of unsuspecting high school juniors through parts of Thoreau's Walden (I knew better than to assign the whole thing!) You know Thoreau, right? He's the guy who led the protest against paying government tax and then built a "rustic" cabin on his friend Emerson's property (for which Thoreau paid no taxes), and then walked home several nights a week to eat dinner with his mother (who also did his wash, by the way).  But I have to admit, he was incredibly quotable. Okay, not the "simplicity, simplicity" stuff, but when he pointed out that true happiness lay in an "infinite expectation of the dawn."
      I must confess, I am a sucker for that concept. But fortunately, equally so, for what Kurt Vonnegut noted in Slaughterhouse Five, when he wrote "and so it goes."  Yup, it sure does.

Great Expectations

      Recently, two close friends of mine became grandparents for the first time. Granted we just visited our first grandchild at college, and in two weeks our youngest grandchild will officially become a teenager; but I still remember the feeling when the first one arrived...and each successive one, for that matter, because that unfamiliar feeling of elation never changes, no matter how many come along (one of my friends is expecting grandchild #18...).  Maybe it's because you've been "Mom" for so long (albeit spoken in various tones of voice over the years), that it startles you when, rather abruptly, you realize you will now be someone else as well. Even though it will be at least a year or so before someone actually calls you that, from that moment on, you have become Grandma (or Grammy, or Nona, or whatever has been decided your alter ego will be).
      When my oldest grandson, Evan, was about three and he was in the process of learning letters and numbers, I gave him a set of alphabet blocks. Turning over the "E" and handing it to him, I cheerfully pointed out that both our names began with the same letter. He looked at me with some confusion and then inquired, "Grandma begins with an E?" It was then I realized my transition to this new identity was complete. This was further emphasized when my next-in-line granddaughter, Brooke, at age four was beginning to sort out all her grandparents (she had nine at that point, including "Greats"). She looked at me rather quizzically one day, then asked, "what was your name before it was Grandma?"
      Actually, the most interesting aspect of becoming a parent or grandparent is etymological; i.e., the way in which our society (or at least the English speaking part) has chosen to express the impending arrival of new offspring...we say that So-and-So is "expecting." This is followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs and occasionally hugs from people you would just as soon didn't.
      I think my father expressed it most symbolically when, on hearing my brother and his wife (who already had two children, a boy and a girl) were "expecting" their third child remarked, "what are they expecting to get?" Of course, my brother and sister-in-law did go on to acquire three more kids, and I ended up with a third by default when said additional child was already 10. Interestingly, though, my parents...those staunch believers in the idea that everyone should simply have one boy and one girl, as they did...never stopped bragging about all nine of their grandchildren.
     But "expecting" what? I want to ask in my most cynical moments. Eighteen years of sleepless nights up to and including when they are driving your car around in the dark or waiting tearfully by the mailbox for college acceptance letters? When you are "expecting," of course, none of the potential frustrations and downsides of parenthood (or grandparenthood) ever occur to you. For some unknown reason, in all your pre-baby daydreams, the weather is always perfect, everyone is always smiling and laughing, you receive endless declarations of love and appreciation, and no one ever has the flu.
     So what does all this have to do with writing? (Because this is, after all, a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing...). There is actually a connection, believe it or not, and a rather strong one at that. While it's true that no one actually "decides" to become a writer (since most of us can't help ourselves), there still is a moment when one admits or maybe even announces to someone else that they officially are one...and then hopes for a response that meets one's expectations. Not unlike, if you think about it, becoming a grandparent.
      For many years, I hand wrote my poems and stories, usually in old college notebooks, or on large yellow legal pads, when I sat in interminable faculty meetings pretending to be listening and taking notes. So for me, the first admission of truly being a writer came when I actually typed something and perhaps even let someone else read it. The latter, by the way, is an incredibly humbling (if not downright depressing) experience equivalent to the first time you try to put your grandchild in a modern car seat.
    The next time I let it be known that I was an actual writer came when I submitted a story to a competition I felt sure I would win...and two days later received a cheerfully worded rejection letter encouraging me to try again another time (and pay another entry fee while I was at it). I equate this to buying six tickets for Disney on Ice with the expectation of taking your whole band of merry little grandchildren to this event (and thus winning Grandma of the year award); only to find out that they already went to see it with their other grandparents.
      But the ultimate acceptance of my new identity (i.e., as an author) came when I began to publish my novels. Again, the feeling of seeing your name on the cover of an actual printed book is one of immediate euphoria: could this really be you? The woman who once had reams of unfinished stories and mediocre poetry stashed in a dozen cardboard boxes in the attic, now truly has something out there for everyone to read and admire?
      The expectation, of course, is that your book will be a best seller, with any number of publishers and agents banging on your door and demanding more of the same. And the movie rights? To whom will you finally award this honor? Ron Howard? Hallmark? Spielberg? So many choices. The reality, of course is far different, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone reading this blog who writes...and to those who are aspiring to...sorry, spoiler alert.
     This is similar, actually to when your granddaughter sends you a homemade Valentine, even though she's 13 and this would be decidedly uncool if anyone found out, so you're not allowed to tell anyone. Or, when your grandson at age 10, informs you that you are his "favorite Grandma" even though you didn't even buy him anything recently, but you had no idea there would come a time when he'd live so far away that you wouldn't see him for two years. Euphoria, yes, but fulfilled expectations, not so much.
     The bottom line, of course, is that we writers are a delightfully unrealistic breed. Otherwise, how would we survive in a vocation where one is supposed to be incredibly imaginative and creative, at the same time one is dealing with some of the most discouraging realities? Like one's children or grandchildren, an author's work is a source of love and pride, and frequently   a sense of personal accomplishment that in the long run generally exceeds the not so rewarding moments. As for the rest of it? Well, what was I really expecting anyhow?
 

Between the Lines

      I'm not sure when it was I started reading again...I mean really reading, not just reviewing what I had to teach the next day; e.g. the 25th time I reread The Great Gatsby or Death of a Salesman, searching for some inner meaning I might possibly have missed the first 24 times I read either one. What I'm talking about is actually going to the bookstore or the library and picking out something I just want to read.
      I'm thinking now that it might have been right about the time I decided to finish writing my first novel...which I never did, by the way, or at least haven't yet, even though I did finish the second, third, fourth, and fifth ones I subsequently started. There is something about suddenly identifying oneself as a writer that, whether you like it or not, makes you part of the club; that club of semi-egotistical, semi-terrified, semi-disillusioned band of brothers (and sisters), who through some form of temporary insanity begin attempting literary recognition.
     And as part of this club, one quickly recognizes that one must also read what the other members, past and present, have written. Granted having been an English major throughout some 11 years of college and graduate school (not to mention teaching the subject for over 30) did give me a leg up, so to speak, when it comes to consumption of literature. But if you ever think you are more than an average reader, all you have to do is walk through the tiniest local library or bookstore to realize how many books are out there that you haven't read.
     I don't recommend this "test" by the way, if you have just recently begun to think of yourself as an author, because it will most certainly cause you to throw up your hands in despair over the possibility of ever being published. Still, you do find yourself doing simple math problems, like if I read a book every five days and there are approximately 5,000 books in the fiction section of the library I am walking through, then will take me 25,000 days to read them all, which is approximately 68 years, not including the library's other branches that might carry different books...oh never mind, it's time I simply don't have, regardless. Besides, the chances of me reading through eight shelves of Danielle Steele novels when I couldn't even get through one, is pretty minimal.
      So what about the books one does decide to read? And how does one go about making that decision? They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but often the truth of that statement is not so quickly discerned. It wasn't until I was at least 40 years old and had been teaching for some time, that I learned the covers of most books are not actually chosen by their authors. In fact, a friend of mine in the publishing business informed me that this task is usually handed off to some young intern whom the editors assume will read the book, then search through a collection of templates for just the right artwork (electronically, of course) to attract the appropriate reader to his or her most enjoyable reading experience.
      If you have ever taught teenagers, you will instantly recognize the obvious flaw in this approach. Let me give you a hint: it starts with "read the book," and ends somewhere between "artwork" and "electronic." Try to imagine, for example, what the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird might look like were said non-reading intern to have designed it, or worse yet, Lord of the Flies. "Look Mom," your eighth grade son says cheerfully, "here's the book we have to read this summer. Can we buy it?" You look at the cover, gasp in horror, then quickly drag your son out of the bookstore, vowing to attend the next school board meeting...or at least, to send your husband.
      But let's just assume that the book you take off the library shelf does have a cover that at least partially suggests its contents. What next? The title, of course. As a teacher, I usually challenged my students to find the title within the text of what we were reading...okay, maybe more liked bribed them with the promise of extra points. Granted my original goal was to get them to read at least that far, but many good discussions often sprung from this pursuit as well. Now, having become a writer, or at least claiming to be one, I realize that most authors chose their titles from something in the novel that expresses the point or even overall theme of the book. More often than not, it is something one of the characters actually says. Since my publishing friend says that the authors generally do chose their titles, then I'd say this a good place to start.
      Then there is the inside cover or back of the book blurb that can be helpful...or not... Sometimes the information here is just a glowing list of reviews from semi-well known other authors who were paid, cajoled, threatened, or otherwise convinced to comment on this novel. Since they are probably all over 30, one can be relatively sure they actually read the book. However, I don't know about you, but adjectives like "spellbinding," "compelling" and "emotionally charged," along with assuring me I will "not be able to put it down," don't totally convince me I will love this novel.
     Fortunately, the actual descriptive blurbs (I have learned through my own publishing experience) are generally required to be provided by the author (and then are read by the aforementioned intern, which can be good news or bad news). They are supposed to include plot details (without giving it away totally), information on the setting, and basic character analysis. I've found this works pretty well overall, though I have had an occasional letdown. Who knew, for example, that a young man who goes "searching for his destiny in unknown territory," only to "unknowingly murder his own father" and "fall into an incestuous relationship without his knowledge" was actually a translation of Oedipus Rex.
       I have finally realized, though, that the library is the best source for random reading. If you choose the wrong book, it didn't cost anything, and no one will ever know whether you actually read it, or just kept it for a couple weeks, and then tossed it casually in the return bin. So far, though, I have to admit that my new reading binge has been a humbling experience. Granted I sometimes read a book and say what the heck? Why is this writer so famous and I can't even get my friends to read my work? But other times, I finish a novel and just sit there and say, wow, I wish I could write like that. Humility, I must admit, is truly the best inspiration.

So Long And Thanks For All The Fish

      This is the title of the deliberately humorous sci-fi novel of a once very trendy author named Douglas Adams. The majority of we once hippies own the whole series, now yellow with age, gathering dust on our bookshelves...or, at the very least, we all have the initial volume in the series, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Generally, neither I, nor anyone I knew back when this was written, would have gravitated toward this type of reading material, the premise of which is that a superior alien civilization is controlling all of human life, not with evil intent, but for its own simple amusement.
     But as it turns out, this novel, and the ones Adams wrote as sequels, are actually designed as commentary on the absurdity of human society, observed through an objective perspective, i.e., an advanced alien culture. In other words, that's what makes them funny, as well as offering philosophic comment on modern society.
    It occurred to me recently, that all writers do this, including me, though not necessarily via this particular genre. In fact, most of us (and I include myself somewhat tentatively in the author category), do not envision ourselves as aliens looking down on the earth with mocking sneers; but we cannot resist, nonetheless, imparting certain philosophic truisms via the foibles and epiphanies of the characters that populate our fictional worlds. The problem seems to be that the average readers (should you acquire any) tend not to notice your philosophic intent, much less the effort with which you put it out there.
    If you've ever tried to teach Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to suburban Connecticut teenagers you would understand what I mean. Initially, the kids simply lose track of Twain's point because they are too confused by the fact that Huck (who appears to be only about 13 or 14) leaves a perfectly comfortable home to go live on an island where there are snakes and homeless people; and then goes rafting without even wearing a life jacket. The fact that this character drinks and smokes and is eventually guilty of identity theft, makes it even harder for the students to understand where Twain was going with this.
     In other words, said teenagers completely miss the fact that Huck spends months running away from someone who, unbeknownst to him, is already dead. Not to mention when he comes to the conclusion that it is his "Christian duty" to succumb to government authority and turn in a runaway slave, he suddenly defies the law, and rips up the evidence, while declaring (rather than turn in his friend) "then I'll just go to Hell!"
     I had more hope of an integral level of understanding from the foreign exchange students, many of whom came from quite philosophically based cultural backgrounds. Sadly, instead, most of them spent the majority of that literary unit typing Twain's carefully constructed Southern dialect into their translators with the inevitable frustrating results.
    Then there is, once again, Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea. Sadly, this is generally a book of which even teenagers living on Cape Cod can miss the author's point. But anyone who's ever tried to be a writer certainly shouldn't. What I didn't mention when I brought this book up before was (spoiler alert again), that after the old man gets  back to the dock with the shark-chewed fish remains, and no one really notices or cares, he shrugs, goes back to his shack, lies down and simply fades away. Imagine, after all that fishing, having nothing to show for it, not even the appreciation for his efforts.
     When I was a kid, we had a cottage on a lake where we spent all our summers, a true gift my parents (through considerable time and effort) offered to my childhood that I'm sure I didn't truly appreciate at the time. A significant part of these summers, though, was fishing with my Dad. The lake was stocked with bass that seemed to get more enormous every time we recalled the latest catch, most of which we unhooked and threw back in the water.
      But my father would keep a certain amount of these fish, and bring them back to the cottage sink, where in a great flurry of flying scales and guts, he would behead and clean them. Then my mother would wrap the results in foil and resign them to the depths of our giant, free-standing freezer; storing them beneath the boxes of fat-ridden frozen burgers, nitrate packed hot dogs, and sugar-infested popsicles that compromised the summer diet of the average American kid in the 1960s.
     The idea, of course, was that we would cook and eat the fish at some point, but the reality was that I couldn't possibly eat anything that once stared pathetically at me from the end of a hook, and that my father actually hated the taste of fish. And my brother, though he claimed to like the taste of fish, would generally arrange not to be home for dinner when my mother briefly considered thawing one that afternoon. Then, at the end of the summer, when my mother cleaned out the enormous freezer, the eight or ten frozen fish would be unwrapped and become sacrificial offerings to the local raccoons in exchange for them not tearing apart our trash cans once we had returned to our city lives.
      It wasn't until I was significantly older and my parents, as well as the lake house, were long gone, that I realized what I liked best about fishing was simply riding around in the boat with my Dad. In other words, like many other things in my life, fishing with Dad was a lot like trying to be a writer has turned out to be. For the most part, it required a fair amount of effort (i.e., getting the boat in the water, rowing to a good spot, baiting the hook, making a successful cast, catching the fish and reeling it in, etc.), for something that produced very little recognition or reward, and in the end, served no real purpose.
    Philosophically speaking, however, fishing actually did...have a purpose, I mean, in that it created some important memories for me...of summer, of my Dad, my Mom, my brother, and of what it means to spend time doing something that can be important to you, even if it doesn't matter to anyone else. It often makes me wonder that if I'd never been given this childhood gift (the summers on the lake, that is), would I now be able to keep trying to be a writer? To be able to just accept riding around in the boat, as it were, as the ultimate reward? We'll see.
     After my brother and I grew up, and eventually after even our kids grew up, it became time to sell the cottage on the lake, and I went there one last time. There, I stood on the rocky shore and looked out at the tranquil water that held so much of my childhood in its grasp. So long, I said (I think actually out loud), and thanks for all the fish.
   

Hidden Meaning

     A couple of posts ago, I created an analogy between a common household task (cleaning out the refrigerator) and the writing process. Ever since, of course, I keep finding other equally comparable occupations everywhere I turn. Either I'm incredibly insightful, or spend entirely too much time working around the house.
     It occurred to me in the process, however, that perhaps many, if not all writers incorporate such analogies in their work; in other words, they create plots and characters designed, perhaps unintentionally even, as analogies to the writing process. Having been an English teacher for over 30 years, it was relatively easy for me to come up with some prime examples once I got the idea in my head. (I think I was folding laundry at the time...or was it weeding the garden?)
     If you go as far back as Sophocles, for example, and his play "Oedipus Rex," you've got this guy who is given this terrible prophecy, so he runs away from his kingdom to try and avoid his fate; i.e., killing his father and marrying his mother (as my teenage students would say, "ewwwww"). I should mention here, as a heads up to other teachers, that this is an excellent choice of literature to include in your high school curriculum, as you can be sure the kids will read the whole thing. Anyway, spoiler alert, Oedipus ends up accidentally fulfilling this tragic prophecy. As writers, we learn from this that no matter how hard you try to avoid it (by say, majoring in business), if you are destined to be writer, you will never be able to escape your financially insecure fate.
      Then there is Henry David Thoreau. His entire literary reputation (as well as his appeal to 1960s era hippies) is based on two things: living on Walden Pond by himself and divining words of wisdom from his natural surroundings, and creating the concept of civil disobedience by refusing to pay the poll tax in protest of the Mexican American War (and other government expenditures). Never mind that he regularly went home for dinner with his mother (who we must also assume did his laundry while he ate) when he dwelled in the wilds of Walden Pond, but also that the land on which he lived belonged to Emerson, so Thoreau probably wasn't paying any taxes in the first place.
      From Thoreau's work, I'm thinking that we writers are meant to understand, sadly, that it is the image an author projects rather than the actual truth of what he writes that is paramount to literary success. This could also account for the fact that Ernest Hemingway, a self-proclaimed and politically-incorrect male chauvinist (and well-known heavy drinker) managed to win a Pulitzer prize.
     He achieved this literary honor, by the way, for writing The Old Man and The Sea, every teenager's favorite summer reading book because it is so short. Here, however, the analogy to the writing process is also noticeably strong. This old guy goes fishing, even though no one really thinks he's any good at it. Determined to prove them wrong, he spends many long and tedious days at sea, eventually hooking a huge fish that he is extremely proud of. After hours of grappling with the creature, he hauls it in and straps it to his boat in order to bring it home so all his friends will see and admire it. However...sorry, spoiler alert again...sharks eat the fish on his way back to the dock, and no one is really interested in his great achievement. I doubt this analogy needs much explanation, especially if you write.
    Nonetheless, I have to admit that there are a few, possibly more optimistic literary analogies to the writing process. The Poet Robert Frost, for example, wrote about the joys of "The Road Not Taken" as well as the fact that "one could do worse than be a swinger of birches" (aka, a dreamer).
     But one of my favorites is embodied in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which yes, was actually a novel written in 1900 by a guy named Frank Baum, long before Judy Garland donned the ruby slippers and skipped into a "technicolor world" with her dog and some other dubious companions. (Baum is also best known, by the way, for penning the favorite expression of all teachers working with teenagers: "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto.")
    Anyhow, in this novel Dorothy and her odd collection of friends (and by the way, doesn't she ever wonder why a scarecrow and a tin man can walk and talk or why a lion doesn't simply eat them all and be done with it?) travel down a proscribed path (i.e., a yellow brick road) under the assumption it will solve all their problems and make them successful in their quest. They are, of course, thwarted along the way by such things as flying monkeys (the source of innumerable childhood nightmares after the movie came out) and a wicked witch determined to belittle them and undermine their optimistic efforts. (See where I'm going here?)
     In the end, however, Dorothy and her companions surmount all these challenges and reach the Emerald City (okay, another spoiler, but who doesn't know this story?) only to find out that the "Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz" is a middle-aged man speaking through a microphone. The good news is, that even though the guy is a fraud, his wise words are easily applicable to the writing process; i.e., no matter how many times your work is rejected or criticized (aka thwarted) by contest judges, publishing companies, literary agents, relatives, or former best friends, your literary achievements are still valid, and also, no matter what "experts" say you need to do differently, you really have everything you need to succeed right inside you all the time.
    My only concern about this powerful and positive analogy is this: why hasn't anyone ever heard of Frank Baum?

Fifty Years AgoToday...

     I hate seeing that headline. Not that I don't find these newspaper articles or TV specials well-researched and fascinating; many of them lately, in fact, have been some of the best reading or watching I've done all summer. After all, how many newspaper recipes where the main ingredient is eggplant (because no one knows what to do with it once they've grown some) can one plow through, or how many TV game shows can one watch, where the main thrill seems to be the bleeping of words the host "accidentally" let slip out?
    The problem I have with anything that begins with the phrase, "fifty years ago today" is that I was there. Well not there, there, exactly, as in hovering around "Mission Control" in Houston during the 1969 moon landing, or hanging over the edge of the infamous bridge in Chappaquiddick, but there in terms of being alive at the time. There is just something about opening a history textbook and being able to read about an event that occurred in one's own lifetime that is a little disarming...especially when the chapter describing said event is only about halfway through said volume.
     Back when I was in high school, my history textbook ended with a picture of General MacArthur returning to the Philippines almost a year before he accepted the Japanese official surrender on a ship in Tokyo Bay. Never mind that by the time I was a senior (and the same book was still in use) four more presidents had passed through the Oval Office, the Korean War had been fought, and thousands of soldiers were currently entrenched in Vietnam. There was also a wall built in the middle of Berlin, a so-called Cold War waging with the Soviet Union and when they weren't burning bras or draft cards, most American teenagers spent their time listening to Rock 'n' Roll. All of these things, by the way, have now had at least a 50th anniversary celebration.
      According to my granddaughter, history textbooks are now electronic, thus eliminating the dilemma of how to "keep up" with the latest historical events. While I have to admit this is an excellent solution to the educational gaps of the past, there was something to be said for kids having to find out some of this information on their own. Once, when I was teaching in a small private middle school, one of my advisees came to me in despair over a history project he'd been assigned.
      "What do you have to do?" I asked sympathetically.
      "Well," the boy groaned, "we're studying the Vietnam War and I have to interview someone who was alive at the time and get their perspective on the events."
     "That seems interesting," I said. "What seems to be the problem?"
     He groaned again, then threw up his hands and sank miserably into a chair across from my desk.
     "Where am I ever gonna find someone like that?" he complained. "I don't know anyone that old!"
      Then there was the time I was teaching in a girls' boarding school...my first teaching job, actually...and several of my colleagues and I were playing "where were you when..." in the dining hall one evening. Depending on our assorted experiences and ages, we were comparing memories of Kennedy's assassination, while our students bolted their unidentifiable food, fascinated by this adult conversation.
      Finally, one of them looked up excitedly and cheerfully added, "when Kennedy was assassinated, I was in the hospital!"
     Alarmed, I turned to her and anxiously asked, "In the hospital? What was wrong with you?"
     She looked at me somewhat confused, then stated proudly, "I was being born!"
     Age is truly relative.
     So, here's what I'm thinking. In 2069, there will be a 50th anniversary celebration of the Best Selling novels from 2019...the only reason this has not happened before being that this year saw the publication of more truly exceptional works of literature than any in the past. Among these books, of course, was the newest novel by the now well-known American author, Erni Johnson, whose books, because her writing skill was not truly recognized at the time, had gone out of print. (Hey, if you're thinking this is a stretch, it's not...the same thing happened to F. Scott Fitzgerald, you know.) Now of course, all six of Johnson's novels have been republished and are flying off the shelves.
    At a special ceremony on Cape Cod, Johnson's granddaughter (now 65) accepts a plaque to be placed on Long Beach in Centerville in her grandmother's honor. When asked what she thought of her grandmother's literary contributions, Johnson's descendant replies, "well, I wasn't much of a reader at the time...in fact, few of us were...but now I, like everyone else, truly appreciate how talented she was!"
    "If only she were here to see this," the reporter responds sadly, as a respectful silence blankets the crowd.
    Not really sure why I imagine this happening...or for that matter why I even wish that it does...unless, of course, there really is an afterlife and I can be hovering above Long Beach to see it.
    A few weeks from now is the 50th Anniversary of the original Woodstock Music Festival and I was there. I mean really there, there. We had to park two miles away and it rained for three days; or at least for the day and a half we were at Woodstock before my friends and I gave up and went home. I actually bought a ticket... for $6...I imagine it would be worth a fortune today; however, it was in the pocket of the jeans I immediately threw in the washer (and dryer) as soon as I got home. Maybe that 2069 literary achievement celebration is not such a great idea after all.

Cleaning out the Frig

       Every Friday morning, I clean out the refrigerator, because that's the day we go to the dump...and, if I'm feeling especially ambitious, I peruse the freezer as well. Don't let anyone ever tell you, by the way (as my mother once did) that you can freeze something and "it will last forever." I label everything that goes in there and there are times when I pull something from the back that even I don't recognize in its current state.  It took me a while, for example, to recognize that a completely frosted over, somewhat grayish lump labelled "ORP" was actually Oven Roasted Potatoes as opposed to, say, Old Rotten Pork.
     Then there are the "special treats" I buy for my grandchildren when they come in the summer...that are still there the following spring: "Buffalo Chicken Tenders," which when thawed and cooked are an even more gross color orange than they were when they were frozen; and "Pizza Bagels," which according to the label are "best by" a date three years in the future. (What is in those things anyhow, that makes them potentially last that long?). And did you know that if you keep popsicles in the freezer for more than a year, they gradually separate into chunks of clear crystal that literally drips some kind of colored slime as soon as you remove the wrapper?
      These are things that as a mother I never experienced, because anything that goes into a refrigerator or freezer in a house with three teenagers is usually gone by the following afternoon. Not only did our kids eat everything in sight, often not knowing exactly what it was, but our house, being centrally located, tended to be a gathering (and eating) place for their friends as well. We started keeping a shopping list on the front of the refrigerator so as not to be accused of forgetting one child's "favorites" over another's. It wasn't long, though, before we began to notice a number of additions in unfamiliar handwriting; i.e., the kids' friends wanted to make sure we didn't forget to buy their favorites as well.
      These days though, it's just the two of us, and when I plunge my head into the refrigerator on Friday morning, I tend to pride myself on how little food we waste, as generally, there is very little to "clean out." I'd like to credit this to our frugal method of grocery shopping or careful meal planning, but the truth is, our lack of waste is more attributable to our children becoming adults and moving out on their own. Gone are the days when we had to alternate the vegetables we served each night so that at least one kid would eat them; nor do we have to remember who has suddenly become a vegetarian, or which kid is now on the "rice diet," or notice when the biology teacher has recently warned his students of the dangers of nitrates in hot dogs.
      In other words, if it's in our refrigerator nowadays, we can probably make some sort of dinner out of it, and with the perfection of microwaves, it's also possible to be serving currently frozen meat a short time later without having to plan hours in advance or run it through the dry cycle in the dishwasher first.
      So what does this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Because after all, this blog is supposed to be me writing about writing, remember?) There are actually more similarities than you might imagine. First of all, the search through the refrigerator for items that need to be thrown out is much like editing a short story or the manuscript of my latest novel. There are some aspects that are just simply no good and need to be completely eliminated, while others, if combined or used more creatively could be even better than they were originally.
      A similar analogy can be extended to the freezer, if you compare it to the computer file I keep of half written stories and novels; i.e., I'm not going to use what's in it right away, but they seem like real possibilities for the future, so I'm making sure they don't go to waste. Of course, as a writer, I also have to recognize what I have stored here won't be good forever, and at some point, I either have to take them out and put them to good use, or toss them altogether to make room for new ingredients.
      And the special treats I buy for my grandchildren (who, I should add, are rapidly becoming teenagers)? You know, the ones they liked last summer but are no longer interested in this year? This is similar to the various competitions a writer enters again, because the first time he/she made the shortlist and the entry money seemed well spent. It is only after you submit again (and once more pay the hefty fee), then receive an immediate rejection notice, that you wonder what you were thinking trying this same thing again.
       Then there's the fact that my children are grown and planning or preparing meals is a lot different than it used to be. What I now place on the table for the two of us is no longer greeted with such encouraging comments as "what's this stuff?" or "Chicken again?" or my personal favorite, "I'm not hungry, I ate at Jen's house." When I was taking courses in college and graduate school, someone (a professor) was always evaluating my work based on his/her subjective view, which if you think about it, is a lot like cooking for teenagers. But now when I write something (just like when I cook dinner) the only critique potentially comes from me...well, or from my husband, who in both cases knows better than to be anything but positive about my "work."
      So is there a moral to the story? A lesson to be learned from the refrigerator analogy? Sort of. As far as food goes, it seems as if I should now buy only what we (my husband and I) want to eat and not worry about what anyone else thinks. Then, when I clean out the frig or the freezer, I should consider whether these items can be combined or recreated effectively, or whether I should just throw them out. And if I decide to buy or make something specifically because I think someone else will like it, I need to be prepared for my efforts to be spurned or ignored completely, but still be happy that I made the effort. Get the connection? Not bad, huh?
      But wait, there's more; there's also the food in the refrigerator that I leave in there, even though I know I probably won't use it (or suspect no one will eat it if I do); or the stuff in the freezer I'm keeping because I'm hoping someone will appreciate my efforts in putting it there or perhaps even creating it in the first place. Yesterday was Friday, so I cleaned out the frig before we went to the dump; but today is Saturday, so I think I'll start working on a new novel. After all, I've got a whole week before I have to think about whether or not to keep what's in the frig.
     
   

Okay This One is Kinda Sad

      I lost a friend today. Actually, I lost my friend over two months ago, but I didn't know, because no one he knew when he died, knew me. And so, no one told me he was gone. What happened was, that I knew he was ill, and because we corresponded regularly, when I stopped getting any response to my emails I became concerned. I found the obituary online. Sometimes technology is frighteningly informative.
     We met when we were in college; he was a tough city kid who was there on a scholarship and I was a clueless prep school product who went to college because I was expected to. As it turned out, we both loved poetry, and for opposite personal reasons, were careful not to admit this to the wrong people. The difference was that I loved reading it and he loved writing it, which if you think about it, was probably the reason we became friends.
    I tried writing poetry, but it was truly awful. I just had too much to say in what seemed like way too small of a space. But the thing about his poetry was he could take that small place and fill it so full that it was always a surprise to realize that his complex thoughts actually fit perfectly. So I gave up and wrote stories instead, and we both heard the universe breathe a collective sigh of relief.
     After college, we went our separate ways, largely because in those days that's what men and women who were friends did; in other words, you couldn't just be friends, you had to be something else...or else nothing at all. But the fact that we were both writers in a world where this craft is largely misunderstood (or mostly ignored) led to our continued communication in letter form.
     This correspondence followed him as he lived and studied in England and Ireland, and me through marriages and children and a wide range of potential careers. Our literal paths crossed only once when we found ourselves occupying the same teaching position in the same school, not at the same time, but in immediate succession. He had moved on to a new job in another nearby prep school and I, in my first real teaching job, opened my new desk drawer to find a folder of notes on the Shakespeare play I would be teaching, in an all too familiar handwriting.
      Our correspondence was by no means regular; sometimes years passed with neither of us being in touch, or periodically, not even in possession of an accurate address with which to do so. But then, one day, I'd get an envelope with some poems enclosed and a note saying, "Tell me what you think of these." Then I would check the return address, and package up my latest story and respond in kind. He always remembered my birthday as well.
      Email, of course, made all this easier and more immediate. But the relationship remained much the same. Though we lived closer now, we still never saw each other in person or even talked on the phone, preferring instead to communicate as we always had, through our love of writing. There is just something about stringing words together in this expressive connection with each other that makes what you have to say more specific, more poignant, more perfected than anything could be spoken out loud. I tried my best to do this well, but he always did it better.
     When my friend published his first and only volume of poetry, he told me that he did it because he wanted to leave some evidence that he had walked on this earth. I started writing novels for the same reason, and together we joked about how all six people who bought our books would certainly remember us well. Just to be sure we remembered, though, we included each other's names in the book dedications, where they would always confirm our long friendship. But as more and more people disappear from my life, I've come to realize it isn't being forgotten that's the hardest, it's being remembered.

Continuing Education

      There are days when the rejection notices pile up faster than the written pages...today was one of those days. When I first started my so-called second career as a writer, I instituted a complex filing system that consisted of a folder for acknowledgements of submitted work, another for acceptance letters, and another for rejections (not to mention I created lists and pertinent information in digital form). Guess which folder is overflowing?
     As a result, last week, I had a temper tantrum and viciously deleted the digital file in which I had stored the pertinent information for competitions I had entered (and been rejected from) in case I wanted to enter again...right, like I'd do that, I thought furiously. Has hell frozen over? I asked myself. Of course, I also have to admit that less than a minute and a half later, I "recovered" the file from the "Trash" and put it back on my desktop. You never know, right? I might just write something so incredible that no contest judge or editor could ever resist publishing it. It's that half full glass again.
      So today I decided it might be time to do something a little more productive about the situation, other than just assume I'm simply not that good a writer...because I am...I think. For Christmas one year, right after I first plunged into this whole authorship thing, my thoughtful daughter-in-law gave me a subscription to The Writer magazine, a publication that offers many informative (and thankfully, encouraging) articles on writing skills, publication, and marketing, among other helpful topics. Every month, the magazine also highlights a conference one can attend to improve one's skills.
     However, the conferences cost money; i.e., there's no such thing as a free lunch. Added to the basic registration cost, there are also travel expenses, meals, accommodations, and "extras," such as a 15 minute conference with a "professional editor or literary agent" who will happily "critique" your work, for a "small additional fee." Like this is something I need...I can just call some of my friends (or read through my bulging rejection file). There are "scholarships" available, of course...like if you work at a nail salon and speak fluent Norwegian, or if you are the CEO of a plastics manufacturing firm looking to improve your environmentally conscious image...but nothing I really qualify for.
      And here's the Catch-22: where does one get the money to attend a conference where one can improve one's writing skills? From the income one has received as a successful writer, of course. But if one had received such payments, then why, one asks, would one need to attend a conference to improve one's skills?
    Sadly, I'd still like to go to a writing conference. In the first place, it's hard to come up with a viable excuse for not going (other than the lack of cash), when as a teacher, I spent years telling my students that "learning is a life-long process." And secondly, in my past careers as innkeeper and teacher, I have to confess that I did actually learn something during such events.
     At the innkeeping conferences my husband and I attended, for example, I learned that literally anything can be monogrammed (even toilet paper), you need at least six rooms to make a profit (we had four), you can buy a mix for making "homemade" muffins, and that economy rental cars cannot successfully negotiate the hills in San Francisco (at least the one leading to the Fairmont Hotel where that particular conference was held). The Saturday night parties are also fun, as long as no one makes me wear a Hawaiian shirt.
      I have to admit that the teaching conferences I attended were a bit more productive. At the first one I went to, I was scheduled for the workshops my school signed me up for (after all, they were footing the bill, so who was I to complain?). With my trusty notebook and pen in hand, I entered the first such session and sat down expectantly in the first row. In the front of the room sat the panel of experts, one of whom turned out to be my brother, a piece of information that had somehow passed me by during the registration process. "We could have just talked on the phone," he told me afterwards. This was at the pub down the street where we had lunch together, instead of eating the "complimentary conference buffet," which my brother, a veteran presenter at such events, wisely advised against.
      Overall, though I did acquire a number of new teaching skills at the assorted conferences and "in-service" days I attended during my teaching career. The latter type of events are the ones that take place at one's own school. This gives the kids a day off, and thus successfully stresses out all the mothers in their pink sweats, who have happily dropped their children into your care each morning, and gone off to exercise class...because they now have to find childcare. Somehow this made me feel vindicated, so these days always started out well, even though after a day off the kids were always more hyper and had never done their homework.
     I do have to give the in-service planners at my most recent school credit, being that it was a K-12 school and coming up with an inspirational, educational, day-long program that would apply to the teachers of this vast age span was probably more impossible than squeezing toothpaste back into the tube. Nonetheless, one of the earlier workshops on "bullying" was not exactly what I'd call a rousing success.
     While the leader of the session, a very talented first grade teacher, was patiently explaining the various "models" used to teach the "bully" empathy for the child he was tormenting, all I could think of were the names my high school students called each other on a daily basis. One time I had to look up one such name and by the time I had become truly horrified by the definition, and come up with a way to negotiate the situation, the two kids were already laughing and happily throwing ice cubes from their Dunkin' Donuts drinks at each other across the room.
     What I used to dislike the most about any of these educational opportunities was ending up in a workshop where they expected you to participate...you know, role playing and whatnot. Or the ones where you had to break into small groups and make lists on gigantic drawing pads with partially dried up markers. I just wanted to sit there and listen, or pretend I was taking notes that quite possibly I would never refer to again, and you know, just be inspired, without making any real commitment. Kind of like the way I approach life in general.
      I learned this approach to educational situations from my students, in fact. One time, I actually confronted one of them, who, despite the fact that I was delivering what I thought to be a detailed, fact-filled, and intellectual lecture on the Lost Generation in Paris, simply sat there staring at me. "Don't you want to take some notes?" I asked him at last. "This will be on the test, you know." He simply smiled at me and tapping the side of his head said, "I'm absorbing. It's all up here."
     Then there was the kid who appeared to be seriously concentrating while taking voluminous notes on his laptop. Suddenly, about halfway through my lecture, he threw his hands up the air and shouted "all right!" The kid next to him leaned over and peered at his screen. "Hit a new level?" he asked. I'd like to say both kids failed the test, but sadly, not. At least there aren't any tests at conferences.
     So, bottom line, I may just go to a writing conference sometime soon...what can it hurt? I might actually learn something that would make me a better writer. So I'm going to sign up...right after I make enough money as a writer to cover the registration fee.