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?
Sunday, 3 November 2019
Monday, 14 October 2019
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.
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.
Saturday, 10 August 2019
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.
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.
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.
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