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.