Pipe Dreams of the Past

I've never written about a film on my blog before, but today I saw one that was so in-tune to my inner being that I wanted to share it. Like many of Woody Allen’s films, Midnight in Paris relies on an imaginative universe, a main character's phobias becomes it's charm. It may not be one of his best films, but it's easy, graceful, shares a similar soundtrack of flamenco guitar to Vicky Cristina Barcelona and is a pleasure to watch.

The hero, Gil, is played by Owen Wilson, a successful Hollywood screenwriter who considers himself a hack and wants to write novels, preferably in Paris, where he’s on holiday with his fiancée, Inez played by Rachel McAdams. And if he had his druthers, he’d be doing it in Paris in the twenties, alongside Scott and Zelda, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Cole Porter, Picasso, Dali, Cocteau, and all those giants creating enduring works of art.

Gil considers Paris in the twenties as its golden age and finds disappointment at living in the here and now (something I identified with) while Inez scoffs.

The mechanism by which Gil travels back in time to his beloved era is through a vintage automobile at midnight and this goes happily unexplained. Allen breezes past all that, the way he did in his great The Purple Rose of Cairo– another one of my favorites.

The Hemingway character looms so large and his lines are so good, I wish I would have had a pen in hand. And Adrien Brody as Salvador Dali was such brilliant casting and a greater treasure than a thousand clowns– his rhinoceros line was pure Allen schtick.

Marion Cotillard plays a mistress to the star-artists of the twenties, and she fits in so well to the era that she creates her own cinematic presence. But her character Adriana also fantasizes about another time period and for her Paris was in its' heyday during la belle epoque.

Like many of Allen's films it's beautiful to look at; a visual feast with characters looming larger than life and ends with a moral, this time vaguely self-deprecating, with an anti-nostalgia kick: Everyone wishes that he or she lived in another era, even people in that other era.

What would you say to that?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-5RFMiFQpc&feature=fvst 

All About You

Sometimes I'm asked where I get my ideas–quite honestly coming up with ideas has never been an obstacle undoubtedly because my mind is so active and I believe the best writing is personal.

What happens between a writer who gets personal and the reader is like an intimate friendship, where you exchange secrets, share emotions, and feel your friendship growing. It comes from inside, a certain vulnerability that you expose on the page.

I was talking to a student the other day who shared a personal discovery with me. Early in the class, she couldn't think of any ideas for a short story. I suggested she journal daily as a way of forming story ideas. After a few weeks she reviewed her entries and realized that she had gone years without pen-in-hand and not tapped into her emotions. It was the reason she’d not been able to write anything other than school- taught structured pieces that lacked any creativity. While she didn’t unearth any big secret from childhood, or recover any repressed emotion she did have an epiphany the equivalent of a literary breakthrough. And her writing and confidence level improved tremendously.

Personal writing can help unplug wound up tension and will get you started. It’s an avenue of writing that never gets old and never fails to reward. It’s about you and even if you choose not to share, you will produce pieces that are true, unique, and ultimately self-satisfying.     

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdopMqrftXs

Set Yourself Apart

One of the things I disliked during my time in Europe was the lax attitude toward cigarette smoke. What was the point of bathing, washing and styling my hair, putting on clean clothes and lint-brushing my coat to go out, if in a couple of hours I'd return home reeking of cigarettes, from my skin to my clothes. I'd have to air out my clothes on the balcony, jump back into the shower all over again and go to bed with wet hair, to avoid smelling like a stink bomb.

I’m grateful that my parents didn't smoke and that I never picked up the nasty habit, but it’s not hard to see why millions of people did. They thought they were being cool.

I can’t even imagine some of my old favorite black and white movies without smoking, it was such an essential and glamorous element. In many old films, smoking was a romantic mating ritual. Try to imagine Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in a cigarette-free world. Or what about one of the most famous smoking scenes of all time—between Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in Now, Voyager. Henreid’s gesture of lighting two cigarettes and handing one to Davis is, in my opinion, is rather sexy and inviting. Clark Gable, Joan Crawford, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, and many others actors used cigarettes as an effective prop. Of course a good many of these folks squandered their good looks and health and had hideous deaths from cancer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-KGiwGn1d8

And then came the massive anti-smoking campaigns, but despite them, smoking didn't fade and it made a strong comeback. I welcomed the ban on smoking in planes and restaurants and in many cases, even outdoor venues.

Everywhere I go I see misguided kids lighting up, begging for life threatening diseases. I can't help but wonder if they have ever seen the effects of a smoker afflicted with emphysema or heard how they labor at speaking from all their wheezing and hacking. 

So why do I care? I think youth mistakenly believe they are infallible.  In time, they come to understand that we all have health ills that we meet as we go along, through a pre-disposition and our genes, self-inflicted diseases need not add to the list.

The Rich Innner lives of Women

My book buying methods are unconventional; I tend to browse bookstores without an agenda, don't necessarily pick up what's on a table and pay no heed to titles that make it to a particular list. For me, book purchases are all about being in-the-moment and my mood. A few months ago I read the poignant, evocative, and unforgettable, The Space Between Us (http://amzn.to/jQ9135) by author Thrity Umrigar. Since I tend to gravitate toward books on the inner lives of women, it was the promise of friendship that piqued my interest. Set in modern-day India, it is the story of two compelling and achingly real women: Sera Dubash, an upper-middle-class Parsi housewife whose opulent surroundings hide the shame and disappointment of her abusive marriage, and Bhima, a stoic illiterate hardened by a life of despair and loss, who has worked in the Dubash household for more than twenty years. A powerful and perceptive novel, it demonstrates how the lives of the rich and poor are intrinsically connected yet vastly removed from each other, and how the strong bonds of womanhood are eternally opposed by the divisions of class and culture.

In August 2005 I was at the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena, I also go to museums based on mood. Walking through an exhibition, I learned that writer Lisa See would be discussing and signing her new book. Entranced by Ms. See's delivery, I didn't buy or read the book until early 2006. Not only was I transported but I couldn't get it out of my mind long after I read it. The literary masterwork– Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, ( http://amzn.to/koK1QG) is an extraordinary novel set in nineteenth-century China, in a remote Hunan county, a girl named Lily, at the tender age of seven, is paired with a laotong, “old same,” in an emotional match that will last a lifetime. The laotong, Snow Flower, introduces herself by sending Lily a silk fan on which she’s painted a poem in nu shu, a unique language that Chinese women created to communicate in secret, away from the influence of men. As the years pass, Lily and Snow Flower send messages on fans, compose stories on handkerchiefs, reaching out of isolation to share their hopes, dreams, and accomplishments. Together, they endure the agony of foot-binding, and reflect upon their arranged marriages, shared loneliness, and the joys and tragedies of motherhood. The two find solace, developing a bond that keeps their spirits alive. This well written tale is related with clarity, sentiment, and remorse. And it's through remorse that the reader comes to know the true character of Lily, as she reflects upon a misunderstanding she had with her one true love.

To read more on footbinding review this fascinating article:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=8966942

Clothes Make the Man

A weather pattern typical of southern California that results in overcast skies formed by the marine layer is June gloom. This condition left me with a perplexing question; what do I wear? I would change multiple times to adjust to the temperature rising. Now in Las Vegas, I see the same pattern emerging and experience the same dilemma–which brings me to my question–does anyone care about looking nice?

Seems a pity that living in what some call the “entertainment capital” that most folks walk around like they rolled out of bed. Last night, on our wedding anniversary we went to see Jersey Boys (http://www.palazzo.com/jerseyboys.aspx). It seemed that everybody was in flip-flops, shorts, and t-shirts; beach frolicking attire. An odd choice given that it was an evening show where you smack down anywhere between 101-161 dollars for a front Orchestra seat–and that’s the discounted price.

I use to think it was a local blunder being under-dressed, a combination of desert heat and lack of aesthetic stemming from roots in the Wild West. I’ve since changed my mind. Last year in Spain I was amazed at how European style had changed since the days when I lived there. In fact, I wasn’t surprised at the recent violence in Spain since I witnessed little if any contrast between Europe and the U.S.

On the fashion front; Europeans went from mink to sneakers. Back when, they faulted Americans for being loud and for wearing jeans. They can’t blow the fashion police whistle for American poor taste; since they have embraced dingy and become a portrait of sloppiness. I think it’s why Kate Middleton’s wardrobe is such a big deal– putting on real clothes makes headline news.

People enjoy doing what everyone else is doing– it’s effortless and has made grunge popular. Just as the recession has everyone talking about their woes and lack, it becomes a cycle–folks claim poverty, and in turn, think, act and look poor– which brings to mind the quote by Persian poet Hafiz- “The words you speak become the house you live in.”

Mind you, I enjoy comfort, and spend most of my mornings in P.J.’s but once I get dressed, as a woman, I think it’s fun to think of myself as a canvas and all that I can create- a mood of sorts. And I don’t find any redeeming quality in looking poor, I like looking rich. But I am hopelessly old-school, proper, and fashion addicted.

Bouncing on the Scene

Actor Tom Selleck lives up to being handsome with the same good looks internally as he has outwardly.  He's someone I'd want to be friends with. I heard his interview the night of May 18 on PBS The Tavis Smiley Show. He spoke about risk being the price you pay for opportunity and success. He had a fear of failure message; he said not only does fear hold people back but it prevents them from growing. And of course it leads to being stale. As a former athlete he heard far more no's than yes. In writing, the same principles apply. How many times do we get turned down without an explanation, without the benefit of reading a facial gesture, hearing a tone of voice, before we get a positive reaction.

Rejection is a way of life for the actor just as it is for the writer and not for the light-hearted. Some say that the actor him/herself is the instrument, as for the writer, isn't the mind and imagination also the instrument?

An artist has an escape clause–when rejected you can rationalize by saying– I should have tried harder or you can blame others–that person didn't have the insight to see my talent. But clauses don't lead to learning the lesson. Navigating your down time and coping with rejection dictates whether an artist will have future success, failure, a short or long career, or even a happy or unhappy life.

If one needs anything it's persistence, and other than a willingness to stick to a goal, a plan until such time as it proves itself successful or a complete failure.  Failure is not the cue to feel sorry for yourself, but a time to reset your plan in another direction. 

So it's up to "you," not up to "them" how things turn out for you, which brings me to one of my favorite quotes: 

“Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan "press on" has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.”

–Calvin Coolidge

Literacy the hidden light

A Kennedy has been making headlines recently. I do not adhere to name dropping nor do I care about celebrities in the media, or about their private lives; but the name brought back images of meeting her cousin.  

Three memorable authors I met a decade ago were Pulitzer Prize-winning Doris Kearns Goodwin (whom I liked very much), Dexter Scott King, and Christopher Lawford.

Although the three of them wrote non-fiction books they wrote each book in a different way, in one case, Ms Goodwin started off with a feeling that she wanted to convey about her father and baseball. 

In another case, Kennedy knew the low point of his life and what I found interesting was that he described structuring as though it was a whole separate process—just as you might set aside time to consider a particular character, he set aside time to think about structure. Where should the book begin? End? This seems obvious, and yet it’s very different from the organic approach that many people, myself included, use, which is to set a character in motion and see where she goes.

In the case of Scott King, knowing the ending scene and needing to figure out how to get there. I recall he said how as a filmmaker he needs intersecting ideas to get his creative juices going. 

Interestingly, all three became most enthusiastic when responding to the question I posed- which authors had influenced them—it reminded me, at the end of the day, then as now what I share with my students; writers are people who like to read. And that’s the best process of all.

Dreams that you dare to dream

I went out with my camera the other day after some rain trying to catch a rainbow. No luck. I know it’s crazy for southern Nevadans who enjoy blindingly intense sunny days about 363 days a year to freak out about a six-hour stretch of rain but one more day of wet weather like that and we may have started growing gills.

Speaking of rainbows, did you know that the American Film Institute voted “Over the Rainbow” the greatest movie song of all time? And the Recording Industry Association of America deemed it the number one song in its “100 Best Songs of the Century” list. And to think MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer tried to cut the song from “The Wizard of Oz” because he thought it made that sequence in the film drag and he had an issue with an MGM star singing in a barnyard.

A reprise of the song later in the film, when Dorothy is locked in the witch’s castle, was shot and then deleted. Dorothy is sobbing her way through the reprise and finally ends with the line that is still in the film, “I’m frightened, Auntie Em, I’m frightened!” at which point the image of Auntie Em in the witch’s crystal ball turns into the cackling witch at her most terrifying. According to an NPR interview that’s the image that even Margaret Hamilton, the actress who played the witch, said was just too much.

Kudos to Toto for his stupendous performance, and keep those rainbows coming, Dorothy, maybe next time I'll catch one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhzbzwPNgXA

Passion–Food for the Soul

It’s not often you witness passion, but I got a firsthand look when in Los Angeles I visited a group of singers. My husband was classically trained for Broadway and the Opera, and although he seldom hits a note on his piano at home, he sings doing dishes, but when he's among other professionals at his level, he lights up.

I see it so well, because I also feel this beaming transformation. Although I don't engage with other writers in the desert, I have writer friends elsewhere, and when I lead my classes, I feel like I'm taking students of a field trip and I become Joan of Arc. A writer will quiver with excitement as they speak and they know the story behind each piece of great work (and there are wonderful stories) and almost fall over from delirium, since the passion becomes somehow miraculous.

One of the things I encourage my students to do is write about their obsessions, but not until I watched Steven with his group of fellow singers am I reminded how important passion is for a writer. For one thing, you want to share your passion and you desperately want to draw the reader in. Much like a performer; they cannot fully enjoy their art unless they know the audience is enjoying it too, and in order for that to happen, they want you to understand the dynamics of the music. Isn’t this the impulse that makes us want to write—the desire to shout, “You have to hear this story!”

Also, passion is big-hearted. Literally, I think your heart swells when you feel strongly about something, and that great-heartedness is the foundation of great writing. Passion is also specific. I don't enjoy writing because I think it's nice or it gives me a title. I adore it because of the specific language and emotions evoked, a gift of spirit, and as an expression of the way my mind works, and in a way that life can be explained. Passion is an energy, that can't be faked, it doesn't reside within an imposter. It it will beckon you to work continuously, tirelessly, with honesty, simplicity and depth–and that is what makes it special.

n is a gift of the spirit combined

terally, I think your heart swells when you feel strongly about something, and that great-heartedness is the foundation of great writing. Passion is also specific. I don't enjoy writing because I think it's nice or it gives me a title. I adore it because of the specific language and emotions evoked, a gift of spirit, and as an expression of the way my mind works, and in a way that life can be explained. Passion is an energy, that can't be faked, it doesn't reside within an imposter. It it will beckon you to work continuously, tirelessly, with honesty, simplicity and depth–and that is what makes it special.s a gift of the spirit combined

Days on San Antonio Drive

Spring is the best time to be a kid in Las Vegas: school may not be out, but daylight stretching past usual, makes a playground right outside my front door. True, our concrete street doesn't cushion a fall, and narrow streets, plenty of rocks, and gated communities are the backdrop; still it's the meeting place with home plates, chalk marks, and kids ride their bikes preferring it over our neighborhood park.

Yesterday evening while walking to get my mail, my soon to be five year-old neighbor Kayla came running over. She still comes to greet me, marvels at my lipstick and jewelry and asks for the key so she can open the mail box, to do so she stands on her tippy-toes.

Visually it's different from my street when I grew up with splendid shade trees, fragrant blossoms, big lawns with rhythmic sprinklers, and the scents that assaulted our noses were cooking odors from open kitchen windows or grilled meats wafting from backyards.

All sorts of games took place on the pavement: Boys hurled pink Spauldings over nets that hung over their garages for basketball, and girls played tether ball, jumped rope, hopscotch, or roller skated and everyone cast yo-yos, rode Schwinns, skateboarded and played kick-the- can.

I don't see many differences between the play of children then and now, except that now adults believing they are enlightening share too much and limit their children's golden age of innocence. I overheard Osama bin Laden name called mentioned.  I can't imagine why an adult would speak about the war on terrorism with a child. I can only hope that most kids think of a no-fly zone as a place where flies can't gather and leave it at that.

My child-sized play seemed to be far from the world events that had gripped our country. I was untouched by the Johnson years–like most of my playmates. Despite some clues, I felt safe on my turf, believing that my world was a million miles from civil rights, and the impending war, a million miles from danger.

As I sped to the can, I pretended I was Jane in the jungle, free and fearless, flying through the air on a ropy vine. With Tarzan’s imagined yell trumpeting in my ears, I turned my hands into fists and pumped my arms as hard as I could.

But as I neared my goal, Alan Kaufmann, came flying in from another direction. Like a fighter plane, the ones that explode in midair combat, Alan and I smashed into each other and fell backwards to the merciless pavement. As we lay groaning, our siblings sprung and sped to our splayed bodies.

I tried to hold back tears as my brother asked me if I was alright. “Get up,” he said, after assuring there were no broken bones. I knew what my mother would say, “that's what you get for playing rough.” Afterwards, I wore my Mercurochromed-bruises proudly, unlike some of the other scars I collected later that year on San Antonio Drive.

Life is all about chances

I get irked when a former student sends me an email asking a loaded question and expects a fast answer when it requires hours of instruction in return. Creative writing and blogging require time and effort. I understand they have allowed time to lapse to take action, and their incentive has died, but looking for a short-cut indicates how much they value the subject matter and what they’ve been taught.

A pattern I have witnessed is many students do not fulfill commitments made to themselves. They invest in education (writing classes, books, seminars, etc) and then don’t use the tools they’ve been given, or they put it off and implement what they learned in the future when the material is stale, or they make an attempt get discouraged by the labor involved and give up prematurely. Rare is the student who applies what they’ve learned and puts it into practice.

Here’s a caveat to how creativity works– you get an idea and the unknown tempts you but you need to act quickly otherwise the mind sets in a fear of failure that will creep in, scare you, and immobilize you. But if you don’t play the game you’ll miss all the shots. 

In your endeavors, act quickly, trust yourself because there will be someone with you, to celebrate your success and stand by your failures– and that someone is you!

April showers, April flowers

Today's post not only honors family members long gone, such as my uncle Ruben who would have celebrated a birthday today, but also celebrates those hale and hearty–specifically my mother, his sister and only remaining member of his immediate family.

My uncle passed away last July. I gave and wrote a bi-lingual eulogy, and considered it a honor. Most of all, I did it to praise his dignity, intellect, and accomplishments and thereby give him something in return.

His corporeal absence doesn’t stop me from considering the sorts of gifts I’d like to bestow on him. For nostalgia’s sake, there would be the aftershave, and, uncle Ruben gleefully accepted my perennial gift as if it was the cleverest choice on earth.

There were many more gifts I could think of that would have pleased him, but his library was full of books and although we did have a common quest for esoteric material, my uncle was always rather hard to shop for. He didn't just like anything. It’s wasn't just disdain for all things pedestrian; a lot of popular gift items got lost on him. He went from suits to no longer wearing anything more elaborate than jeans and button down shirts. Not even to his Masonic meetings. And this ruled out fancy ties.

Last year, on what we perceived might be his last birthday, after we ate the mango cake that I had brought along, my uncle, reached over to me, sated, impressed, touched, and, I can only hope, adequately loved said, “You’re a good niece, and a nice girl,” after draping a leaden arm over my shoulder.

With remains of my cake before me, I was glad to have something to look at because I couldn't look at him. It made me feel too influential and I hadn't done anything to warrant his statement but to pay him an occasional visit. I was both embarrassed and touched by his remark and I didn't know what to answer and to keep myself from choking up, “I'm glad you liked your cake, because your hard to shop for” I returned.

We both smiled.

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb

Today is my father's birthday and if he were alive to celebrate, we’d be figuring out how to place colorful candles atop his cake, a cake he wouldn't eat. But he died in 1987, freed from his body on July 4^th, a few months after his 62^st birthday.

I’m certain Dad would not have chosen to succumb to a debilitating massive stroke at 51, but I do know he never wanted to be “old.” And something about him was youthful, in touch with his inner child. His traits comprised of high energy, fiery, bold, and he was full of surprises and excitement.

We started out with a love affair that grew into a ouchy relationship by the time I was a teen. He loved me, and I felt it; but in my mind, I never measured up. I always thought I wasn’t practical enough, didn't excel in math as he expected, wasn't as proficient in languages as he was, didn't play the piano with finesse and basically was not good enough to please him.

I often wonder how my father would critique his only daughter today–would be proud of me or not? Would he see my persistence as a reflection of his persistence. For his part, Dad was successful and he earned it, a born leader, confident and competitive he always had a goal, and the drive and determination to see it through. He never worked for anyone but himself, took risks and wanted to win to prove something to the world, with a sense of fair play- he wasn't interested in envy, deceit or cheating. No time spent frustrated, moping, just go, go, go.

Today I realize I know very little about what he was thinking or feeling, I never asked him what was in his head before he got sick because he was always so busy. Maybe he intuited his time was short and sickness would be long so he tried to do as much as he could.

Dad did not live long enough to see me become a writer or my brother a civil engineer.

Sometimes I wonder if he reincarnated, where and who he is? Or if he entered the Gates of Heaven.

As he surely reads my words from his special balcony seat, I can almost hear him asking, “What's happening with your writing?”

I have conversations in my head with him. “Listen, Dad,” I say. “I have to apologize. I think I was too hard on you in my book.”

“You think?” he repeats. The tone sharp, but he would smile. His gray eyes twinkle confirming that he is kidding.

“Writers embellish,” he says. He tosses a hand upward, as if to fling my apology away. “That’s what I tell the angles here.”

He had to have conflict, drama. And of course, he gives the orders.

“What kind of author would my daughter be, if the book didn't have sadness to contrast joy and it would be blah, with no fights.”

“Whew, I’m glad to hear that,” I add. “I’ve been worried about your reaction. By the way, you look wonderful as always,” I say.

I'm telling the truth. In all the 62 years of his life, I doubt if he had a less than polished minute. Impeccably groomed, tall and slender, even when he lay in the hospital, up to a few days before he drew his last breath, he remained one of the handsomest men I had ever seen.

I like to imagine that wherever he is, all the good deeds and caring for others that he demonstrated gives him a pay-back in either a healthy life or a sunny existence. And that he holds onto his good looks and the child in him.

Happy Birthday Daddy!

I'm expensive but worth it

Pull up a chair; I'm here for you. Don't be shy because you find yourself turning to me for a writing consultation. Many other souls–lost, confused, or indecisive– have made the very same pilgrimage. But before you submit your writing, be forewarned there’s a hitch in my mode of problem solving. 


First off, while I have had my share of writing experiences, rejections, let downs, highs, and acknowledgments, I know my strengths. If you stick to fiction, short stories, plays, screenplays, memoirs, ghost writing, social media writing, letters, spirituality book edits, non-fiction, business writing, sales letters, press releases, media alerts, proposals, grant writing, it'll be smooth sailing.

But if instead, you looking for me to skim your piece of writing and eye-ball it, and give a one or two blurb or superficial comment on what I thought–sorry but I do not work that way. I can't do anything half way, it offends my sensibilities and the love of what I do. I'd suggest you do a Google search to temporarily bandage your writing woe instead. (I could go on, but am trying to limit this to 350 words.)

Now, as to the forewarning I hinted at: If you turn to me for a writing consultation, analysis, critique, developmental edit, or writing assignment, do not expect that my work comes gratis. Who works for free? Time is money and my time is valuable. I teach writing and I'm not cheap. While you may think your writing issue will be resolved with me giving you a few minutes of my time, think again.

I, on the other hand, am a perfectionist and take my fifteen years of paid experience seriously. And it will not end there. My job is thorough and I may have to press on, refuse to dislodge even when you plead, "That's fine, that's all I needed to know." Well, maybe that's fine for you, but I have to get to the root of the problem and fix it. And I will, to make sure your work like mine, shines.

Fear is only as deep as the mind allows~

Japanese proverb.

I’ve been posting on this blog more often. But most bloggers digress. I teach blogging (http://www.click-here-now.to/getblogmoney/) and tutor privately having just finished a series of sessions with a student blogger, and counseled him, “The hardest part is to fulfill your self-promises. Now do it!”

I realize that for many, that a blog before created, spends months of existing only in an imagination.

Suddenly, one day, without warning, a shift. Perhaps even, a life altering discovery. A day to break a pattern.

In my case, I stepped out of my cozy but still uncomfortable denial just long enough to ask myself exactly how many more days of my life did I plan to fritter away running my eternal reasons why not story to myself.     

Foot poised, but, always finding an excuse to never take the step forward into the possibilities which await me. Sound familiar?

Confronted with the fact that I could continue, change nothing, rest upon my excuse filled with all the reasons why not story and knew that I would watch the rest of my life stay exactly the same, one day ticking into the next, and the next.

A slow death by procrastination.

A funny thing happens when you get honest with yourself. You are confronted with the face of self sabotage masking as writer’s block and procrastination, and in it is nothing but plain fear. Nothing special. Just fear of being known, seen, heard, visible, vulnerable, bared, authentic and accountable.

As a writer, if you look at fear in the face for what it is, it evaporates. And you may find all the above-mentioned list of attributes unconsciously appealing.

My own take on it is that we move forward when we are ready and in perfect timing. Whatever the project. Whatever the dream. I, also plead guilty to have taken my sweet time to get here.

So, what are you waiting for? As for me, the blogging continues...

The 9 Greek Muses

When I'm not writing, I'm usually in a reading mode, but since I really don't like nor can I sit for extended periods of time, I augment my creative juices by dancing, baking from scratch or changing the color of my nails, on a daily basis. I may also on a whim make alterations on my clothes such as running out and buying vintage glass buttons at Joann's and replacing them in all of my sweaters. I've also been known to repaint a room in my home again or refinish a piece of furniture. 

Creativity has been a dominant force in my life. Before I started school, make-believe, dress-up and staging shows such as putting on a mock wedding with my father was my playtime. Later, it was painting and puzzles. As an adolescent bursting with angst, I wrote poetry and etched charcoals. By the time I was a teen, it was dance and I would change the furniture around in my parents home every few weeks. Normally I would do this when alone and surprise my family when they got home. My mother being a creative woman and possessing more talents than I, sanctioned my need for change with a smile. My father, somewhat indifferent would not be pleased that his chair was not in easy reach to the phone. My brother who was a year older than me, seemed to bark at everything I did, demanded to know why the sofa was not in front of the television set.

I love painting and creating unique things based on my love of color, design, interiors and mundane objects. This urge to express myself gives me a sense of arriving at the end of my artistic process with a work that engenders a great vibe or visual experience, so much so that the method, materials, or explanation of how I got there seem unimportant. One reason that I can't pin point it (nor do I want to) is this reckless creative drive is inspired by everything around me; my love of the Creator, nature, books, travel, different cultures, interior magazines, fashion design, and especially color!

What does this all mean? It means when you're brewing about to write something and you don't know what it is, you need to break away from monotony. I urge my students when they get stuck in their writing to dodge their computers, it's not likely to lead to much debauchery. By singing a song or taking a walk, they can get back to their feeling natures. By exploring new and different, worries drop which allows to start trusting the ideas that come to them. Creativity is not something that already exists, we need to find out how to bring it into being... and that requires a child's spirit, and at the same time allowing yourself to be a playmate with God.

“Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?”

–Benjamin Franklin

Fourteen Years Old

Today marks the second anniversary of my teaching in Las Vegas. If I were to convert that into dog years, I’d be a teen-ager. So, what have I observed in these last two years?

1. Students show up. This seems basic, but it doesn’t always happen. There is nothing more discouraging than expecting to see fourteen smiling faces and instead see four puzzled ones. My worst experience was the summer before last when only one woman showed up. She was pleasant, and I didn’t want to cancel the Blogging class as she had gone to the effort of attending. We should have gone out for drinks. This is not something CSN encourages, however.

2.Students submit writing. This also seems basic, but it is often the case, especially in a Creative Writing class, where people are too nervous about the final assignment. I would start the class by saying, “You choose the subject and I will give you the tools you need to write it.” But sometimes they panic and to take the edge off I’ve compared it to surgery, “The week before their will be a pre-operative assessment. When in the Operating Room (OR) you will go under the knife, all eyes will be on you but you will survive.”

3. Students are willing to revise. I always get a sinking feeling when someone hands out a story to be critiqued and says, “This is my first and final draft.” The fact is, you could always find ways to improve it. There is always something to say and it’s not always right, but a lot of the times it is. Several of my students this term have done a masterful job of revising, and have brought their stories up to a publishable level, which brings me to the next point…

4. The students are serious about their craft. Yes, this is continuing education and no one gets grades and no one, probably, is going to get thrown out of class. And yet, especially in the classes I taught this semester, I was struck by how seriously the students approached their writing. This is not a hobby. This is something heartfelt and beautiful.

5. The students like each other. It is very hard to teach a class in which students feel contempt for one another or just don’t care about each other. One of my more discouraging moments came once in a class when a man read an absolutely harrowing story about physical abuse and another man sitting behind him, for seven straight weeks, said to him, “And what’s your name?” Jarred, what felt like a walnut was lodged in my throat, I needed several minutes to compose myself and resume to speak. The best case scenario is what I saw last week as I approached my room, students forming friendships, talking, discussing and laughing, it made my heart sing. I hope that they will form a bond and continue after the class is over, and form writing groups. Or that they will re-enroll.

6. The students like me. Well, I won’t go into that at length, except to say I have faced down my share of steely looks in the past, and it is much nicer to see a smile. And I enjoy when students participate and tell me what’s on their minds. More importantly through their stories they have trusted me enough to share very personal information–and that’s an honor.

It’s been a great ride and I can’t wait to see where it goes.

Who, What, Wear

I've been browsing through fashion magazines looking at pictures  and on the Internet for images of spring 2011 trends. One designer's creations piqued my interest, Yōji Yamamoto, an internationally known Japanese fashion designer based in Tokyo and Paris. He became influential after making his Paris début in 1981. His commercially successful main lines, are especially popular in Tokyo.    

Yamamoto is known for an avant-garde spirit in his clothing, far removed from current trends. I admire how different and forward his lines are. His signature silhouettes are a feature in drapery in varying textures. He swathes and wraps the body in non-traditional ways.

This dress is one from his spring 2011 collection. 

This dress doesn’t scream 'fashionista,' but it's a warm weather dress you can’t go wrong with. It’s strapless fitted bodice form is classic, and the peplum gives it a flirty fun retro 1940's edge. I would say because of its volume, it's suited for someone tall, and doesn't need jewelry. It would look well combined with a neutral wedge espadrille or wedge anklet, and Jackie O sunglasses. 

It can be worn on many occasions; from lunch, on a date, to the horse races with a big straw hat or even on a stroll, and its stripes give it a daytime flavor of fun and play.

Land, Sea, Sand and Sky

“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give”

–Sir Winston Churchill

This morning in my dream I saw writer Junot Diaz (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junot_D%C3%ADaz). I was in my apartment in New York trying on a new wool coat with satin lining that had been given to me as a gift, like a dervish dancer I twirled from delight, he then walked into my kitchen.

Mr. Diaz is a creative writing professor at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). The irony is that I don't read Mr. Diaz's books but I am familiar with his short stories through the New Yorker.

As a native of the Dominican Republic, his roots bring to mind my time in New York. I met Maria, originally from the Dominican Republic. She had fled an abusive husband and was revising her life. As a warm and congenial middle-aged woman she called me “Leendah” in a sing-song. She asked me to tutor her for a citizenship exam. Honored that she acknowledged me, it brightened my time in the cold concrete city. We covered English, social studies and American history. Since I was doing this without remuneration, it brought a smile back to my face. She wasn't the best of students, but we trudged on; most of the time she made me laugh, it was like teaching my mother also a native Spanish speaker, all over again. She would cackle at her mistakes just the way my mother does, so much in fact that it made my stomach ache from laughter. I went with her to take the exam the first time and she failed, but I wouldn't allow her to give up. The second time I didn't go with her due to work commitments, but she passed and we celebrated the victory.

Now back to the dream. Symbolically the kitchen can link to new appetites and may be linked to new plans and ideas. Also a new coat is a good omen. When I awoke it got me thinking about an exciting break from my routine.

As a creative writing teacher, normally I start the semester with a discussion of opening paragraphs, which seems a sensible place. And I don't get into revisions, until week 8. The last class is always about publishing and I know people want me to finish nattering on about revision so we can get to the good stuff. So I’m usually rushing through revision myself.

Revision in writing just as in life can be embraced. Specifically I want to move past the idea of revision as being “fixing errors.” I want a more holistic approach to revision. I want students to view it not as a necessary evil but as an opportunity to explore their stories and bring out deeper meanings that may have been dormant in early drafts.  Of course, the only problem is that it’s hard to teach. I can tell you what a good opening paragraph looks like, but a good revision is much harder to quantify.
So here are a few tips:

1. Have a title that works. Almost always, if the title’s good, the story’s good. The reason is that an author with a title knows what the story’s about.

2. Retype the story. From the beginning. Don’t try to squeeze every little correction into the draft. Take a bold approach and be open to start again from scratch.

3. Cut out a quarter of the words. You don’t need them. Trust me.

After you've done all that, have a good snooze, maybe we'll see each other in dreamland.