Valentine's Day

A few minutes ago, I was checking out a friend's Facebook page, and lo! there was a old boyfriend. Old would be the word--white haired & kinda creaky looking. Well, it has been a few years. I'd say probably 35. Funnily enough, I remember breaking up with him more than dating him. I guess I'd describe him as cute (back then), but a little too pleased with himself and solidly "disco-lite,"which would not be complimentary even for vintage 1978. I recall the day we parted company better than the year. Valentine's Day. The guy forgot to get me a gift, which was not why we broke up. I could forgive that. He did not get me a card, which I could also forgive. (Or maybe I just didn't care that much.) Promising to atone for his thoughtlessness, he took me to the mall, handed me his wallet and told me to go buy whatever I wanted. Damn. I should have run his credit card to the moon, but as it was, I was speechless. Until I told him where to put the wallet. Until now, when I will write about him because this is good grist for a really sleazy character in one of my stories.
Never piss off a writer, Billy.

Is It Spring Yet?

Every year it seems to get worse. Once the holidays are over, I have to steel myself to maintain mental equilibrium through the remaining weeks of winter. The older I get, the harder it becomes and the less tolerant I am of the Pollyannas among us. 
Pollyanna says, "The freshly fallen snow is so beautiful."
Yeah, but after two hours of shoveling, the white stuff kinda loses its glamor. Then, it turns from white to crusty, malevolent gray like the young beauty in a horror flick morphing into an old hag.
"Don't you just love cozy nights by the fire?"
Sure, except it plays havoc with the thermostat. Frankly, I prefer summer campfires where it doesn't matter if marshmallows fall into the flames because the fire is where it should be--OUTSIDE the house.
"Hot chocolate?" Polly asks.
Yes, please. And bring on the cakes and cookies, too. Lots of carbs to keep us warm. Lots of carbs to build another layer of fat. I need that.
Then there's my favorite Pollyanna line of all time. The thermometer reads 5 degrees above zero (that's 50 below zero with a Lake breeze), there's a three-inch layer of ice on all roads, sidewalks, and cars, I write checks for my gas bill using scientific notation, and someone has the audacity to say, "At least it's sunny outside."
Anyone got an ice pick?

Mothers & Daughters

It's not happenstance that so many of my stories depict the tempestuous relationship between mothers and daughters. (An editor, who ultimately proved herself a complete fool, once told me that the mother/daughter conflict was overplayed. Yeah, duh. So are love stories and murder mysteries.)
My mother was not very good at the mommy thing. From the day I was born, she had no clue what to do, other than put me in the hands of a nanny.
Mom left her childhood home at seventeen. She arrived in Chicago in 1944, and promptly got a job as a free-lance commercial artist. She was quite successful with her career, eventually working for all three of the major advertising agencies. It was at J.Walter Thompson that she met my father. In the early 1950s, most women succumbed to social pressures to marry, move to the suburbs, and produce two children. Mom followed that path, but I guess parenthood was not quite what she imagined. Enter the nanny. A few years later, after my brother was born, she decided to work from home. The loss of Nanny Kelly was something of a disaster for all of us, and I ended up spending a great deal of time at my grandmother's house.
Once I started school, however, the real trouble began. I went to a private school, which meant no bus service, and my mother never learned to drive. That alone put me in the "freak" category. Mom was never a room mother, Brownie leader, tennis player, or even friends with my friends' mothers. Super freak. When I was nine, my beloved grandmother moved away, and I had a particularly vicious 4th grade teacher. The double whammy made my life hell. Mom either didn't understand or didn't care. She'd never gotten along with her mother-in-law, and she refused to come to my defense at school.
Mostly, I remember her sitting at her drawing table for hours on end, oblivious to anything my brother and I did, unless it involved copious amounts of blood. When she did step away from the drawing board, it was to party. Mad Men? She and my dad were the real deal.
The "Greatest Generation" was certainly great when it came to booze, and Mom could knock back beer, wine, and scotch with the best of 'em. Unfortunately, she often didn't know when to quit.
I rarely saw her do housework, laundry was sent out, and while she eventually became a very good cook, my childhood dinners were rife with Velveeta and Chef Boy-Ar-Dee.
Today, I went to visit Mother in the nursing home. She's a pathetic shell of her former self. The woman who could recall entire guest lists and all items of apparel from every party she'd ever attended is no longer able to tell you the color of the nail polish on her gnarled, arthritic hands. In the past four years, I've spent more time caring for her than she ever did for me, but that's okay, because she's given me something she never intended to impart: a lifetime's worth of stories.

Taking the Challenge

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the challenge of writing a college essay and promised that I would write one myself, if only to better understand what my students face each year. It was a very tough assignment. I restricted myself to the standard 500 words, and to writing only something that I would have been aware of at age 17. For the sake of accuracy, the only concession I made to my advanced years was writing in the past tense.
 I knew it would be a lot of work for no reason, since I have no intention of applying to any schools, but I discovered more than I bargained for, and as an exercise in writing discipline and self-awareness, it was interesting...and humbling. I've had students write far better essays. But for what it's worth, here is my effort:

“There’s a dragon in the refrigerator!” My four-year-old self ran shrieking into my parents’ bedroom early one Sunday morning. The racket didn’t rouse my mother. My father opened one bleary eye and, without lifting his head from the pillow, muttered, “It’s a lobster. Dinner. Leftover.”

            My parents were party people. Rarely did they have a weekend without a party. Even weekday events were not unheard of, and some Saturday nights, they had two or three parties to attend. They were of the “greatest generation” who seemed to do nothing in half-measures, including having a good time. When they weren’t out for the evening, they entertained at home. There was a strict format to adhere to: cocktails were served one hour before dinner, careful thought was given to table seating, place cards were provided for each guest, and after-dinner coffee was served in the living room where the chairs were more comfortable.

            Their only deviation from traditional etiquette was that my brother and I were expected to be present whenever they hosted a party. We helped in the kitchen, passed hors d’oeuvres, and most importantly, talked with our guests. My parents did not employ outside help; we did all the work ourselves. If Mom and Dad were busy in the kitchen basting meat and tossing salad, my brother and I chatted with our guests. Rule #1: no guests were ever, under any circumstances, to be left unattended.

            What I learned from these evenings has been more valuable than much of my formal education. Organization was critical. Preparing dinner for ten in a kitchen the size of a breadbox is tricky and can’t be faked at the last minute. Cooking skills were mandatory. I could make a soufflé by the time I was twelve. I can set a table with multiple knives, forks and spoons, eat with chopsticks, and toss around terms like amuse bouche, al dente, and mire poix.

             However, the greatest skills I acquired have nothing to do with food. My parents’ many friends ranged in social stature from a high-ranking Washington diplomat, to an illegal immigrant carpet salesman. Opinions varied dramatically. Because conversations often centered on art, literature, religious philosophies, politics and current events, I learned early to formulate and express (and sometimes modify) my views on a variety of topics.

            I listened to the adults debating the issues of the day, watched their interactions, and decided for myself who had the best rhetorical abilities, the best social talents, and even the best fashion sense. One gentleman showed up wearing pink flowered trousers, a red plaid jacket, a yellow shirt, and a green necktie. I also learned that excess alcohol consumption can have disastrous effects on otherwise intelligent people.

            These parties, which to some might seem frivolous, taught me how to walk into a room full of strangers with ease. They were an early testing ground for understanding myself and the contributions I could make. Above all, they helped hone my skills in critical thinking, communication, and human interaction.

Double the Fun

I am sulking.

Following in the steps of other serious writers, instead of having a temper tantrum ( which I would really LOVE to do), I'll just pen out my frustrations.

Today has been extra special--TWO rejections in the space of one hour and 49 minutes. A good friend (or so I thought) posted links to three blogs she deemed "exceptional" and while I agree they are, I am feeling like chopped liver.
I hardly had time to smooth the scowl lines off my face when, lo! another rejection appeared, this time from a bona fide agent. The SASE sat there in my mailbox like some malevolent toad, and the minute I touched the damn thing, its poisonous skin secretions seeped into my pores, blackening my humor.

I really don't care how many rejections J.K. Rowling had, or that even Maugham struggled to get published; I want an agent, I want my novels and stories published, and I want it NOW.

Okay, I feel better. Now I can get back to my current project, which is a 66, 000-word mess. The characters are stupid, the plot is dumb, the sentences are pathetic.
Somebody please remind me why I am doing this. Oh, yeah, because I think I'm a writer.

No Short Cuts

Yesterday, even though it was a perfect late summer day, I spent the golden afternoon indoors listening to a successful author read from her best-selling book and answer questions about her writing process. She was very articulate and interesting, but I left feeling a bit disappointed. Where was the advice that would help me achieve similar success? Where was the magic formula that would propel my writing to New York Times critical acclaim? What exactly is that elusive key to getting the writing right?

Actually, she did mention the key, and the formula is simple. I've heard it before from almost every author I've ever heard speak. The one message they all have in common is: sit down and write. Then rewrite. Then rewrite more until it's good.

There just doesn't seem to be any way around the sad fact that this business of writing takes a hell of a lot of time. There are no easy paths, there are no short cuts, and when you are finally finished, there certainly are no guarantees that anyone will give a damn.

I have been reading Selina Hastings' excellent biography of Somerset Maugham. Author of dozens of short stories, plays, and novels, Maugham is one of my writing super-heroes. "Mr. Know-It-All" is a wickedly amusing little tale, and Of Human Bondage is a recognized classic. But even Maugham had a rough start. Like all the rest of us, he struggled to get published. He was broke and forced to fake his way through expensive social events before he achieved recognition for his work. Even after financial success, he had to endure vicious criticism, not only for his work but for his life-style.

As Christopher Vogler points out in The Writer's Journey, we all travel our own writing paths, encountering heroes, guides, adversaries, allies, and shapeshifters along the way, but no where does he mention anything about shortcuts.

Writing Assignment

As the new school year begins, college-bound seniors are faced with what is likely the most challenging writing assignment they've ever had: the application essay. Even in its friendliest form on the common ap, the task is daunting. At the ripe old age of seventeen or eighteen, how does a kid sum up the best of his/her personality, indicate his/her future goals and aspirations, and write a bang-up, reader-grabbing narrative in 500 words?
As a tutor, I've seen confident, well-adjusted, highly intelligent students sweat, squirm, and quiver on the verge of tears with frustration as they grapple with this essay. Fortunately, I've also seen many of them produce dynamite stuff that gives me hope for the future of fine writing, even as I feel slightly intimidated by their abilities. Was I that self-aware at their age? I doubt it. I have no recollection of the essay, the ACT, the SAT, or all the other hoops kids have to jump through these days to put themselves and/or their parents in a serious financial commitment with the ever-dwindling hope of being gainfully employed someday.
Last week, as I sat across the tutorial table from yet another youngster writhing over which of the six questions on the common application to tackle (including "Topic of your choice"), I began to wonder what I would write about if I were given the assignment. Whatever I chose, it had to be something from the first seventeen years of my life. The playing field should be level. No reflections on several decades worth of existence on this planet, marriage, parenthood, or anything else absolutely beyond the scope of a typical teenager.
Five days later, I finally discovered my "topic," and I have to say even that first step in the process makes for some interesting introspection. And writing about oneself without being a colossal bore is quite the challenge. I wonder, how many admissions officers have ever put themselves to this test?
As for my essay, it's going kind of slowly. I'm on the third draft. Hey, I have until January. I'll get it done.