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.
Saturday, 10 August 2019
Sunday, 28 July 2019
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?
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?
Friday, 19 July 2019
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.
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.
Saturday, 13 July 2019
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.
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.
Thursday, 4 July 2019
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.
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.
Wednesday, 26 June 2019
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.
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.
Saturday, 8 June 2019
How Much Is Really In That Glass?
The first time I actually heard that explained, the difference between the glass being half full and half empty, that is, was in the Tick Tock bar in Canton, New York when I was attending St. Lawrence University. It was in the beginning of my sophomore year and I had just discovered that I was intellectually helpless when it came to the Philosophy course I had so eagerly signed up for a few weeks prior to this occasion; a fact now evidenced by the large red "D" scrawled across the top of my first assigned essay.
"The whole course content is just too vague," I complained to my friend, Bob, as we sat at the bar drinking some low grade, albeit cheap, draft beer, an activity which, I should point out, was pretty much our solution to every academic or personal disappointment in those days.
Bob simply shrugged and took another gulp of his beer.
"This, too, will pass," he said, which, I should also point out, was also pretty much his response to all above mentioned disappointments in my life.
"Okay for you to say," I replied, in a somewhat snarky tone, I must admit. "You have the same last name as the campus administration building, whereas I...I must actually pass all my courses to graduate."
Bob just sighed and reaching across the bar, he pulled my glass toward his and lined the two of them up, side by side. Then he proceeded to drink half of his beer, after which he leaned over the edge of the bar and poured half of mine in the sink on the other side. Then he placed the two glasses next to each other again.
"What do you see?" he asked, turning his bar stool to face me.
"I see two half empty glasses of beer, " I grumbled, "one of which used to be mine, and both of which I paid for. What's your point?"
"Ah," he replied, "that's where you're wrong. Yours is half empty because I poured half of it in the sink, but mine is half full because I drank the first half and completely enjoyed doing so, and now I have the same amount to drink again."
At this point, I did the only logical thing: I chugged the rest of the beer in both glasses (after which, as I recall, I felt infinitely better about everything, even my essay grade).
But despite my intellectual limitations when it came to studying Philosophy (I dropped the course, by the way, and signed up for a British Literature class instead), I did understand what Bob was trying to tell me; that no matter what the situation, one's response all depends on how one looks at it. Whereas I was seeing my college career as half empty at that point, ultimately my realization that I should take classes I was really interested in (instead of the ones everyone else said were so cool), was a realization, in fact, that led to many happy years as a high school English teacher. In other words, the half full glass filled all the way up all because of my changed perspective.
As an aspiring author, I subscribe to several "trade" publications as a way to discover new ideas and gather advice on how to effectively approach this pursuit. One of these is a newsletter written by a talented, and apparently quite successful mystery writer. I have to admit I mostly read this publication because she researches writing competitions and publication opportunities, and lists them at the end of each newsletter. But Hope Clark also writes a column every week or so, offering sound advice and practical thoughts, so sound and logical, in fact, that they even make me miss my grandmother a little less than usual.
A recent column was all about the exact subject I mentioned above: the whole half full/half empty syndrome, specifically when it comes to writing. Although I have communicated with this author several times, complimenting not only her novels (which I have read several of and enjoyed, even though I'm not much into mysteries), but also her words of wisdom, I am hoping I am not one of her readers who, as she points out often happens, complain about my lack of success as being someone else's fault.
The truth of the matter is, it's not only that I am a terrible marketer, as well as entirely too sensitive when it comes to criticism from (or worse yet when I feel completely ignored by) friends or family members, but quite honestly, I'm just not that good. I'm not saying this because of the pile of rejection letters I've accumulated, or the lack of sales/glowing reviews/ best-selling status of my novels, but also because as a writer, I do what all writers should do: I read voraciously. And let me just say this: there are some incredibly well-written, well-crafted, and compelling works of literature out there, books that are also significantly humbling to those of us attempting to produce the same.
But here is the half full part: I don't seem willing or able to give it up, my writing that is. There is something in me that says I can do it, and when I go back and read what I have written in the past, it seems like the glass is filling rather than emptying out, and that quite possibly this means that the fuller the glass gets, the more likely someone else might notice it. We'll see.
I haven't seen or heard from my friend Bob in many years...like many of the important people in my life, I carelessly lost track of him. But one thing I know for sure is that if I ever run into him again, I think I'll buy him a beer, filled to the very top of the glass.
"The whole course content is just too vague," I complained to my friend, Bob, as we sat at the bar drinking some low grade, albeit cheap, draft beer, an activity which, I should point out, was pretty much our solution to every academic or personal disappointment in those days.
Bob simply shrugged and took another gulp of his beer.
"This, too, will pass," he said, which, I should also point out, was also pretty much his response to all above mentioned disappointments in my life.
"Okay for you to say," I replied, in a somewhat snarky tone, I must admit. "You have the same last name as the campus administration building, whereas I...I must actually pass all my courses to graduate."
Bob just sighed and reaching across the bar, he pulled my glass toward his and lined the two of them up, side by side. Then he proceeded to drink half of his beer, after which he leaned over the edge of the bar and poured half of mine in the sink on the other side. Then he placed the two glasses next to each other again.
"What do you see?" he asked, turning his bar stool to face me.
"I see two half empty glasses of beer, " I grumbled, "one of which used to be mine, and both of which I paid for. What's your point?"
"Ah," he replied, "that's where you're wrong. Yours is half empty because I poured half of it in the sink, but mine is half full because I drank the first half and completely enjoyed doing so, and now I have the same amount to drink again."
At this point, I did the only logical thing: I chugged the rest of the beer in both glasses (after which, as I recall, I felt infinitely better about everything, even my essay grade).
But despite my intellectual limitations when it came to studying Philosophy (I dropped the course, by the way, and signed up for a British Literature class instead), I did understand what Bob was trying to tell me; that no matter what the situation, one's response all depends on how one looks at it. Whereas I was seeing my college career as half empty at that point, ultimately my realization that I should take classes I was really interested in (instead of the ones everyone else said were so cool), was a realization, in fact, that led to many happy years as a high school English teacher. In other words, the half full glass filled all the way up all because of my changed perspective.
As an aspiring author, I subscribe to several "trade" publications as a way to discover new ideas and gather advice on how to effectively approach this pursuit. One of these is a newsletter written by a talented, and apparently quite successful mystery writer. I have to admit I mostly read this publication because she researches writing competitions and publication opportunities, and lists them at the end of each newsletter. But Hope Clark also writes a column every week or so, offering sound advice and practical thoughts, so sound and logical, in fact, that they even make me miss my grandmother a little less than usual.
A recent column was all about the exact subject I mentioned above: the whole half full/half empty syndrome, specifically when it comes to writing. Although I have communicated with this author several times, complimenting not only her novels (which I have read several of and enjoyed, even though I'm not much into mysteries), but also her words of wisdom, I am hoping I am not one of her readers who, as she points out often happens, complain about my lack of success as being someone else's fault.
The truth of the matter is, it's not only that I am a terrible marketer, as well as entirely too sensitive when it comes to criticism from (or worse yet when I feel completely ignored by) friends or family members, but quite honestly, I'm just not that good. I'm not saying this because of the pile of rejection letters I've accumulated, or the lack of sales/glowing reviews/ best-selling status of my novels, but also because as a writer, I do what all writers should do: I read voraciously. And let me just say this: there are some incredibly well-written, well-crafted, and compelling works of literature out there, books that are also significantly humbling to those of us attempting to produce the same.
But here is the half full part: I don't seem willing or able to give it up, my writing that is. There is something in me that says I can do it, and when I go back and read what I have written in the past, it seems like the glass is filling rather than emptying out, and that quite possibly this means that the fuller the glass gets, the more likely someone else might notice it. We'll see.
I haven't seen or heard from my friend Bob in many years...like many of the important people in my life, I carelessly lost track of him. But one thing I know for sure is that if I ever run into him again, I think I'll buy him a beer, filled to the very top of the glass.
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