Yeah.
Perhaps the safer thing to do is make desserts.
Friday, June 4, 2010
"So What?"
I had dinner with some friends the other night—writers, all—and one of them admitted that the thing that is scariest about writing is the idea that the response will be, "So what?"
Yeah.
Perhaps the safer thing to do is make desserts.
Yeah.
Perhaps the safer thing to do is make desserts.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Weather
The air today drapes over everything, impossible to ignore. There are some interesting things going on in the sky, things that command my attention when I really ought to be writing.
When I went out to the back deck for a smoke* the clear blue was giving way to clouds; pristine, wispy, the kind of clouds children lay on their backs in the grass to study and name. I gave in to the curve of the chair, let my head rest—for a change—on the long swoop of seat back, and stared at the passing white. “What do you see?”
It took me a while to let my mind shape those clouds into images; it was stunning to realize how hard it is for me to allow myself that kind of play. But then, suddenly, I could see them: a woman dancing, the joy of movement and twirl; an old man relaxing in a bathtub, mouth agape, feet bobbing on the bubbled surface; a horse galloping, front hooves raised, a rider hanging on, hair streaming just like the horse’s mane.
The white clouds gave way to darker, denser gray overcast; a thunderhead formed.
For the past hour or so a thunderstorm has been lumbering through the neighborhood, asserting itself once in a while with a sort of absent-minded rumble. “I’m here,” the rumble seems to say. “I could wreak havoc if I felt like it.”
The cats are taking refuge in sleep—Mr. Handsome Man is stretched out along my laptop. How can that be more comfortable? The heat coming off the casing is making my palms sweat. But he also has his paws wrapped around my left forearm; I can’t move without disturbing him. “I’m here,” his paws seem to say. “Are you here, too?”
* I don’t need any lectures about this. Honestly. I’m well aware of how awful this is.
When I went out to the back deck for a smoke* the clear blue was giving way to clouds; pristine, wispy, the kind of clouds children lay on their backs in the grass to study and name. I gave in to the curve of the chair, let my head rest—for a change—on the long swoop of seat back, and stared at the passing white. “What do you see?”
It took me a while to let my mind shape those clouds into images; it was stunning to realize how hard it is for me to allow myself that kind of play. But then, suddenly, I could see them: a woman dancing, the joy of movement and twirl; an old man relaxing in a bathtub, mouth agape, feet bobbing on the bubbled surface; a horse galloping, front hooves raised, a rider hanging on, hair streaming just like the horse’s mane.
The white clouds gave way to darker, denser gray overcast; a thunderhead formed.
For the past hour or so a thunderstorm has been lumbering through the neighborhood, asserting itself once in a while with a sort of absent-minded rumble. “I’m here,” the rumble seems to say. “I could wreak havoc if I felt like it.”
The cats are taking refuge in sleep—Mr. Handsome Man is stretched out along my laptop. How can that be more comfortable? The heat coming off the casing is making my palms sweat. But he also has his paws wrapped around my left forearm; I can’t move without disturbing him. “I’m here,” his paws seem to say. “Are you here, too?”
* I don’t need any lectures about this. Honestly. I’m well aware of how awful this is.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Random
I've mentioned, I think, that I sometimes work onsite writing copy about "consumer goods." One of the benefits other than the money, of course, is that there is a certain social aspect of being on site; not that it's a cocktail party, but...one talks, you know?
Another benefit is that the company provides lunch; most of the time we go to the cafeteria, get our food and bring it back to eat at our desks. For a change of pace, a group of us decided to sit together instead. At one point in the conversation, one of my co-workers asked if I'd read Isabel Allende's memoir. I have; in fact, I've read both "Paula" and "The Sum of Our Days," both lovely pieces of work. And how nice, I thought, to talk about books.
Except.
"Now, I understand why Isabel Allende would write a memoir that everyone would read," the coworker said. "But why would someone want to read your memoir?"
I ask myself the same thing every day. In part I'm asking in hopes that the answer will be a clear, "There is no reason, so you don't have to write it. Go do something else, for pity's sake."
As a result, I didn't take offense (and I believe none was intended—it's an honest question, after all). Instead I muttered some catch phrase that I've been practicing in preparation for developing my "elevator pitch."
"Mostly, though, I guess that will be the test of how well I've written it. People will only care if the writing moves them in some way."
Which is the truest thing I had said all day.
Another benefit is that the company provides lunch; most of the time we go to the cafeteria, get our food and bring it back to eat at our desks. For a change of pace, a group of us decided to sit together instead. At one point in the conversation, one of my co-workers asked if I'd read Isabel Allende's memoir. I have; in fact, I've read both "Paula" and "The Sum of Our Days," both lovely pieces of work. And how nice, I thought, to talk about books.
Except.
"Now, I understand why Isabel Allende would write a memoir that everyone would read," the coworker said. "But why would someone want to read your memoir?"
I ask myself the same thing every day. In part I'm asking in hopes that the answer will be a clear, "There is no reason, so you don't have to write it. Go do something else, for pity's sake."
As a result, I didn't take offense (and I believe none was intended—it's an honest question, after all). Instead I muttered some catch phrase that I've been practicing in preparation for developing my "elevator pitch."
"Mostly, though, I guess that will be the test of how well I've written it. People will only care if the writing moves them in some way."
Which is the truest thing I had said all day.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Intention
This afternoon as I drove around the curve in the road I glanced toward the gorgeous flowering tree in my neighbor's yard and espied a female Mallard strutting across the lawn. It became clear that she had no intention of stopping at the curb, looking both ways, waiting for a crossing guide or any human intervention.
I was already going slow so I eased to a complete stop to witness this mama lead her seven ducklings across the road at a pace that broadcast a certain urgency. Those babies were running, keeping up, their little webbed feet tearing up the pavement. Through the open window I heard them calling to one another, maintaining some sort of ducky conversation amongst themselves. Their mother appeared to take no notice, head pivoting as she hurried along, keeping an eye out for danger (or opportunity?).
They paraded across the other neighbor's grass, making a beeline for the broad expanse of pachysandra that rings the front of yet another neighbor's house. I drove on, pulled into my driveway and jumped out of the car, sat on my front steps and watched to see what happened next.
The mother slowed once she had her babies safely under cover, though she kept moving. She maneuvered along the foundation and, a few feet short of the front stoop, emerged through the greenery which was, subtly yet distinctly, quivering with the movement of those seven little feathered bodies. She paused at the edge of the pachysandra, gave one short, decisive "quack" and, one by one, the babies tumbled out, gave themselves a little shake and off they went again, into the small wooded patch in that final neighbor's backyard.
And I sat in the sun for a few minutes longer, wondering how long it had been since I'd taken the time to simply watch ducks.
I was already going slow so I eased to a complete stop to witness this mama lead her seven ducklings across the road at a pace that broadcast a certain urgency. Those babies were running, keeping up, their little webbed feet tearing up the pavement. Through the open window I heard them calling to one another, maintaining some sort of ducky conversation amongst themselves. Their mother appeared to take no notice, head pivoting as she hurried along, keeping an eye out for danger (or opportunity?).
They paraded across the other neighbor's grass, making a beeline for the broad expanse of pachysandra that rings the front of yet another neighbor's house. I drove on, pulled into my driveway and jumped out of the car, sat on my front steps and watched to see what happened next.
The mother slowed once she had her babies safely under cover, though she kept moving. She maneuvered along the foundation and, a few feet short of the front stoop, emerged through the greenery which was, subtly yet distinctly, quivering with the movement of those seven little feathered bodies. She paused at the edge of the pachysandra, gave one short, decisive "quack" and, one by one, the babies tumbled out, gave themselves a little shake and off they went again, into the small wooded patch in that final neighbor's backyard.
And I sat in the sun for a few minutes longer, wondering how long it had been since I'd taken the time to simply watch ducks.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
At This Point
I'm back to working on the memoir and realizing once again that I truly have no idea how to pull this off.
How am I going to avoid telling this story without appearing to whine about all that happened, without making myself out to be a victim of circumstance? Because while things happened—awful things, painful things, confusing things—and I was, of course, affected by those things, I was not (am not) a victim. The fact is I made my choices about how to respond to what life presented and I want that to get on the page.
The section I'm writing now is pivotal in that sense so I am slowing down, coaxing memory to reveal myself—the self I was at that point—to me so I can see how the person I was, the child I was really reacted to the events of the time.
How do I do justice to the story? How do I make art out of the stuff of life?
The only thing to do, I suppose, is to keep writing.
How am I going to avoid telling this story without appearing to whine about all that happened, without making myself out to be a victim of circumstance? Because while things happened—awful things, painful things, confusing things—and I was, of course, affected by those things, I was not (am not) a victim. The fact is I made my choices about how to respond to what life presented and I want that to get on the page.
The section I'm writing now is pivotal in that sense so I am slowing down, coaxing memory to reveal myself—the self I was at that point—to me so I can see how the person I was, the child I was really reacted to the events of the time.
How do I do justice to the story? How do I make art out of the stuff of life?
The only thing to do, I suppose, is to keep writing.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
So, about Morocco...
I was, ostensibly, in Morocco to “cover” Earth Day-related subjects. My expectation was that I would be ferried around to see…environmental things like houses sporting solar panels or backyard windmills or community gardens irrigated by rain barrels. I expected that my mode of transportation would be biofuel-powered buses or maybe a camel.
Instead I spent a lot of time in the back seats of top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz sedans (though there was one trip in a tour bus). Which was fine with me—I like life’s luxuries and embrace them with enthusiasm whenever I get the chance—though it was also a little befuddling, because the things I saw were fascinating, but not directly related to, you know, “the environment.” (Again, this is not a complaint, I’m just sayin’.)
For instance, at one point I piled into a car with two of my new friends, The Famous Guy and The Diplomat. Of course, these people have names, but that doesn’t really matter—trust me when I say The Famous Guy was famous and The Diplomat was just that; both are delightful and I count myself lucky to have made their acquaintance. We were heading to “see the horses.” I had no idea why the horses were worth seeing but, what the hell, I was in Morocco, The Diplomat said this would be interesting and life’s an adventure, right?
As soon as we got in the car, the driver reached over to turn down the stereo. The Famous Guy told him that wasn’t necessary. “Play your music,” he said. And so the CD spun as we drove through city streets which gave way, almost immediately, to posh suburbs and then even more posh “country” homes. Our soundtrack? The Dixie Chicks “Taking the Long Way.”
There’s a kind of vertigo that takes over when one is in a completely foreign place. In Morocco I often felt invisible, without language, without connection, without the ease of knowing how to proceed.
When I needed a lighter, for instance, I wandered through the lobby of the hotel looking for the usual little shop where one buys such things. Finding it, I used a kind of sign language to communicate my need to the proprietor—I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and mimed lighting it. He pulled out a case of Bic lighters (Bic lighters?), I chose one and he said, “10.”I retrieved a bill from my stash of Moroccan money. He looked at it and said, “All you have, Madame?”
Was it not enough? Too much? The denomination meant nothing to me. But I dug out the coins I’d been given, offered them up. He moved them around and pulled out one clearly marked with a 10. “Merci, Madame.”
“Merci, Monsieur.”
Now here I was in this car with three people I didn’t really know, heading for a destination unknown to me, in a country where I didn’t know the language. This situation felt familiar, though not in that comforting way familiarity ideally works.
Except here were the Dixie Chicks singing songs I knew and the scenery slipping by looked sort of like parts of California and The Famous Guy and The Diplomat were funny and sweet and kind and I thought, “Well, now. Here I am.”
“The horses,” by the way, were amazing.
Instead I spent a lot of time in the back seats of top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz sedans (though there was one trip in a tour bus). Which was fine with me—I like life’s luxuries and embrace them with enthusiasm whenever I get the chance—though it was also a little befuddling, because the things I saw were fascinating, but not directly related to, you know, “the environment.” (Again, this is not a complaint, I’m just sayin’.)
For instance, at one point I piled into a car with two of my new friends, The Famous Guy and The Diplomat. Of course, these people have names, but that doesn’t really matter—trust me when I say The Famous Guy was famous and The Diplomat was just that; both are delightful and I count myself lucky to have made their acquaintance. We were heading to “see the horses.” I had no idea why the horses were worth seeing but, what the hell, I was in Morocco, The Diplomat said this would be interesting and life’s an adventure, right?
As soon as we got in the car, the driver reached over to turn down the stereo. The Famous Guy told him that wasn’t necessary. “Play your music,” he said. And so the CD spun as we drove through city streets which gave way, almost immediately, to posh suburbs and then even more posh “country” homes. Our soundtrack? The Dixie Chicks “Taking the Long Way.”
There’s a kind of vertigo that takes over when one is in a completely foreign place. In Morocco I often felt invisible, without language, without connection, without the ease of knowing how to proceed.
When I needed a lighter, for instance, I wandered through the lobby of the hotel looking for the usual little shop where one buys such things. Finding it, I used a kind of sign language to communicate my need to the proprietor—I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and mimed lighting it. He pulled out a case of Bic lighters (Bic lighters?), I chose one and he said, “10.”I retrieved a bill from my stash of Moroccan money. He looked at it and said, “All you have, Madame?”
Was it not enough? Too much? The denomination meant nothing to me. But I dug out the coins I’d been given, offered them up. He moved them around and pulled out one clearly marked with a 10. “Merci, Madame.”
“Merci, Monsieur.”
Now here I was in this car with three people I didn’t really know, heading for a destination unknown to me, in a country where I didn’t know the language. This situation felt familiar, though not in that comforting way familiarity ideally works.
Except here were the Dixie Chicks singing songs I knew and the scenery slipping by looked sort of like parts of California and The Famous Guy and The Diplomat were funny and sweet and kind and I thought, “Well, now. Here I am.”
“The horses,” by the way, were amazing.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Life...
There's so much more to say about Morocco, but since I got home I've been working on some assignments that are due this week (for which I am grateful). As a result I've been experiencing a certain sort of whiplash—emotional, psychic, intellectual—which reached critical mass during an interview for one of those assignments.
I'd sent an email interview request to Danielle Dimovski, a Canadian barbecue competitor (and champ) whose nom de 'que is Diva Q and when we got on the phone, she said, "Hey, are you the Elizabeth Hilts who wrote 'Getting In Touch With Your Inner Bitch?'" When I admitted I am that same Elizabeth Hilts, she told me she's a fan then asked me why, if I'd written that book, I was doing this piece (for which, again, I am grateful).
This is, of course, a question I ask myself fairly often. I ask this in spite of knowing that having published a book does not magically transform a writer's life, does not translate into financial stability, does not usher one through the automatic door to writing for "the big guys" (Vanity Fair has never called). When that book came out I had no idea how to parlay its existence into a big successful career, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know how to do that now.
So I take these assignments (for which, let me just reiterate, I am very grateful) and I do the best I can with them. And every once in a while someone knows my name because they've read one of the books or another article and I have to say, it's weird and it's wonderful and I guess the point is...I'm glad that life offers up these little surprises.
I'd sent an email interview request to Danielle Dimovski, a Canadian barbecue competitor (and champ) whose nom de 'que is Diva Q and when we got on the phone, she said, "Hey, are you the Elizabeth Hilts who wrote 'Getting In Touch With Your Inner Bitch?'" When I admitted I am that same Elizabeth Hilts, she told me she's a fan then asked me why, if I'd written that book, I was doing this piece (for which, again, I am grateful).
This is, of course, a question I ask myself fairly often. I ask this in spite of knowing that having published a book does not magically transform a writer's life, does not translate into financial stability, does not usher one through the automatic door to writing for "the big guys" (Vanity Fair has never called). When that book came out I had no idea how to parlay its existence into a big successful career, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know how to do that now.
So I take these assignments (for which, let me just reiterate, I am very grateful) and I do the best I can with them. And every once in a while someone knows my name because they've read one of the books or another article and I have to say, it's weird and it's wonderful and I guess the point is...I'm glad that life offers up these little surprises.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
