What is it about?

Last week in class I spoke about a blurb being the book description you find on the back of a book to describe a book's contents. I included my professional stint at Newsweek http://www.newsweek.com/ in New York http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York as a temp and how I'd see a pile of books amassed in a corner waiting for someone's endorsement. 
 

Blurbs similar to a jacket are an important selling tool for a book; written as a review by either a newspaper, or someone well-known aimed at grabbing the reader's attention.

During my short tenure at the magazine, when the book “Bridges of Madison County” came in, it had been scoffed at by the publishing elite in New York City, like a stray cat it sat on the windowsill.

The story is about two people, one is married the other is not, who find the promise of perfect personal happiness, and understand, with sadness and acceptance, that the most important things in life are not always about making yourself happy.

I asked to take it home to read and offered to report back on it. One person noticed my literary enthusiasm; an influential columnist, and we became friendly. She trusted me and eventually offered me a job working from her home in Westchester County. Although I appreciated the offer; remaining honest with myself, I turned it down, since it was in an area that wasn't in the arts which would have a better fit for me.

So how can you condense all that important information?

Here's what I did.

Introduce the hero and heroine, giving a simple plot set up or conflict. Next what is the exterior conflict of the novel? What must both achieve or defeat and what do they have to lose?

Reread paragraph four–and there you have it!

Under the covers

It is not once nor twice but times without number that the same ideas make their appearance in the world.

–Aristotle

Last night I asked students what mechanisms they use to determine whether or not they will buy a book. The majority said they read the inner flap. So what is flap copy?

Flap copy is the blurb that appears on the flap of the dust jacket for a book. It’s written by the publisher or most likely an editorial assistant, often as a “hook,” trying to persuade the reader that they will enjoy reading this book, so buy it! Sometimes, it’s referred to as jacket copy.

It is the second most important marketing tool for a book, and as a reader, it's used to influence you. As a writer, you probably want to monitor what the publisher writes and suggest revisions as needed. Sometimes, writers also play around writing flap copy as a way to help focus a story. I've actually seen on a few literary agent websites an area where a writer is asked to write their own flap copy, in an effort to get a writer to think about marketability before sending their manuscript off to them.

The last Harry Potter book, published in the U.S., was remarkable for the absence of any flap copy. They didn’t need to persuade the reader to read the book with teases about the story. Those who would read Harry Potter were going to do it anyway.

On the porch swing

I'll be teaching Creative Writing this summer for CSN, one of the trickiest and most enjoyable classes I teach. The classes tend to be small, and students tend to be at various levels, which means gauging backgrounds and lots to discuss. But that’s not the problem.


The scope of the critiquing is difficult in a small class. Not only are we reviewing the pages under submission, but we’ve got to consider them in the context of what came before and what should come after. If we’re discussing lesson four, for example, you really need figure out how that builds from lesson one, which we engaged in three weeks ago. However, even that’s not the problem.

The problem, at the moment, is that I added to the lectures and exercises, a discussion of Harper Lee's book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Everyone writing today should be familiar with To Kill a Mockingbirdhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Kill_a_Mockingbird. Certainly if you’re writing a literary novel. This has been widely reviewed as one of the 20th century classics for it's excellent writing.

But how on earth to incorporate reading a novel into a ten-week class? This has been what’s preoccupying me over break. I can’t assign the entire book to read. There’d be an insurrection. We could read part of the book. Normally I’d suggest reading the opening 50 pages, but I think the beginning of Lee's book while interesting is not necessarily the most inviting part of it. Quite honestly, I think only think she as a Southerner could get away with a slow paced beginning. I considered having each class member read a different twenty pages and report back, but that would deny us all a certain narrative thrust. So this summer, I will be re-reading along with my students one of the great American classics.

The home of the brave

Life in the United States has taken on a different meaning since 1776. Today its walking around with your iPhone, and checking the internet right on the street. Having a career your parents never heard of and they don’t understand what you do. Internet investing and/or dating. Driving a Hybrid and for some it is growing their own food and living green.

People around the world are in various stages of independence, some predating the kind Americans sought in 1776; freedom from over taxation and religious discrimination. In today's world–food, medical care, poverty, child and marital abuse, women’s rights, education, religious and spiritual misunderstandings and differences, are still unresolved issues.

What can we do about it? Start with yourself. Just as the Gottman Institute calls for five praises for one criticism for a healthy marital relationship, let’s use that five to one ratio in other ways.

Five steps of action for one neglect. Five amends for a mistake. Five good thoughts for one that doesn’t meet your standards. Five good words for someone you dislike. Five real smiles for a stranger.

Live your good intentions, now. That’s true independence– the independence from yourself to be yourself, right before your eyes!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pG1W7JDWv50 

Oedipus strikes again

                                        

Yesterday, I was expecting to see another televised wedding. Disappointed, I went on the Internet to quell my curiosity about the Grace Kelly swan(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Swan_%28film%29) look-alike marrying the all-time bachelor of the Monaco royal family.

When my expectations were not met, I found photos which got me thinking about men marrying their mothers.

There is a psychological theory that men marry their mothers, or maybe they marry their mothers and fathers. I once heard in a psychology class that a man and woman sharing intimacy is really like four people in bed since each one brings their parents to a relationship.

Men are often attracted to the physical type that their mother is– because that's the physical image of the woman they grew up with. The theory is that you try to create a home life with your spouse that is close to the home life you grew up in.

Unconsciously there is more than meets the eye. Let's assume a man marries a woman who doesn't act or look like his mother and has a completely different personality than his–this is what is known as our 'sexual personality'.

In relationships that flounder, when a couple seeks counseling, it is highly likely that a discovery will be made; that both parties will have the same, or at least very similar sexual personalities. As problems arise the couple need to understand why a clash is happening. It is likely that these similarities are the cause of the marital conflict. Only when this is understood can there be a more free-flowing understanding and/or tolerance of one another's behavior.

So the reference to men marrying their mothers, is really not a mystery after all.

Much ado about something

Last night I caught the last twenty minutes of a HBO special on tennis players John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg who played against one another at Wimbledon in 1980. I was astounded not so much by their emotional problems as much as I was by their similarities; despite at one time being rivals, both men came to share losses, one quit the game at age 26, and the other never won a major title after he turned 25, which implies certain talents die with age.

For the most part sports figures have short careers, nevertheless, it brought to mind two distinct ideas; whether you engage in a sport or a creative gift, it's an attempt to release and dissipate inner anxiety, and particular talents die with age, as opposed to others that enhance with time.     http://bit.ly/jataqM

 

Take writing for example; every writer knows about the labor involved in writing, some may even feel they have a cross to bear; the many hours of imagining, drafting, writing and re-writing that go into a novel. How many query letters are left unanswered, and when the world looks like an uncaring place–it's no wonder that many writers become alcoholics to dull the pain of being ignored.

But when you continue to polish your craft and your work gets recognized, it's like winning the Wimbledon Championship (http://www.wimbledon.com/en_GB/index.html) and kissing the trophy. Others speak of it; for weeks, or months, perhaps years, people may continue to read and talk about your work; and you look at letters or e-mails with compliments for giving an enlightening or entertaining read, how wonderful that feels, you're satiated and you return back to where you started–to write another novel, and another, and continue to throw words at the world with your thoughts, ideas, creations and stories.

Just one more thing

Recently, I was sent a package from Nielsen Media to participate in television ratings. What a golden opportunity for a selective viewer like me- here was my chance to have my opinion make an impact.

Yesterday I read that actor Peter Falk (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000393) had died. I vaguely remember watching a few episodes of the television show, Columbo, that he starred in. Never being much of a television viewer; I do recall the show being on the air when I was growing up and his signature role–the gravely voice, the squint in his eye, the cigar and the crumpled trench coat.

My husband occasionally makes reference to the character so I looked at him on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=leybGZjiqoE). As a police detective his interview technique was famously disjointed, and his inevitable awkward afterthought ("Ah, there's just one more thing...") that tries the patience of his suspect as he was halfway out the door. He was underestimated, patronized or simply overlooked by nearly everyone he met – especially the culprit. And yet he was quite the salesman making sure he got one last chance to make his close.

As a character, he also gave us something else, in his disheveled way, he proved that his mind was at work. Let's hope that television executives remember that viewers crave for intelligent characters like Columbo and have his legacy live on with more shows of caliber.

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.