Witnessing Life Its Own Self

One of the joys of Facebook is that one sometimes reconnects with a special person from the past. This happened recently and, in addition to the particular pleasure of finding a friend again, I learned about an incredible project.

Richard Howe, artist and photographer—and truly great company in this great adventure of Life Its Own Self—has been working on "New York In Plain Sight," which is described as "a large-scale photographic survey of everyday life on Manhattan's great public commons—its streets and sidewalks."

It is magnificent in scope. It is fascinating. I highly recommend that anyone who loves NY, is interested in "the captured moment," or is simply interested in...well, life check it out.

Here's the link:
http://www.newyorkinplainsight.com/

Enjoy!

Seasonably Happy

Earlier this afternoon I took a break from writing (or, more accurately, reading the manuscript) to do some errands. Just the ordinary things from the ordinary places — Staples for paper and more ink; Penzy's for herbs and more vanilla; Party City for some truly random stuff; the super supermarket — making my usual rounds through the regular stomping grounds.

I was riding the slipstream of I-95 when it suddenly occurred to me that I felt...joyful.

Maybe it was the sunshine (so strange, so welcome).

Perhaps it was the music — my friend Mikey recently gifted us with the remastered Beatles' "Revolver;" listening to it felt like sitting with an old friend recently returned from a long journey far away.

It could be the fresh green of trees whose buds glow lemon and chartreuse, unleashing a sort of mouth-watering hope in my winter-logged soul.

I don't know what sparked this, but I do know this: I am grateful.

That Creaking Noise You Hear...

is me opening the door and stepping back into this empty space.

There is no excuse for my not having blogged lately, but there is a reason: I'm working on a semester-long project for my MFA project. This requirement is, clearly, one of the things that separates the Masters of Fine Arts from the writing workshop. Well, this and the tuition.

Tonight, however, I was with my MFA friends, my fellow writers, and one of them—James M. Chesbro—suggested that I might be well-served by...blogging. Having read one of his posts that left me with goosebumps, I thought, "Well, right."

I'm going to suggest that you run right over and read Jamie's piece. I can call him Jamie because we're friends and fellow writers, something I'm proud to claim. Read it and you'll see why. Here's the link: http://jamesmchesbro.blogspot.com/2010/02/stranger-at-gas-station.html

Duly inspired, I'll be stopping in more often. Hope you'll still be here.

Speed of Write

So, I'm sure that Sean and Leigh Anne Tuohy are lovely people, and I'm sure they have much to say. After all, they are the people who adopted Michael Oher and thus inspired "The Blind Side." News that they are writing a book to be published by Henry Holt this summer makes me think, "What?"

This isn't because I doubt the commercial value of such a book—I understand that it's the best-selling blockbusters that help make more literary books possible. It's the time involved.

I'm already been working on my memoir for a year; writing, shaping, thinking, revising, deleting, inserting, reconsidering, etc., etc. It's a little disheartening to realize that a book which will take about two months to write (maybe) has already secured a publisher, will probably get a huge advertising push, and is almost guaranteed to hit the best-seller list.

Oddly, all of this makes me understand, again, the reasons I write.

World Famous Writer (or Poet)

At least once a day I receive an email with the subject line, “Do you have a story to tell?”

“Yes,” I think. “Yes I do have a story to tell.” Then I delete the email, along with those offering free motorized wheelchairs, amorous liaisons, and vacations in Cincinnati and Niagara Falls.

This morning I decided to open the “story” email, just to see if there was something I should do about having a story to tell. Other than what I do every day, I mean.

Am I ever glad I did! Because here’s what I found: an offer to learn how to be a world famous writer or poet. But wait, there’s more! With a simple click, I would learn how to be an author and get published—which I always thought was the first step in becoming a world famous writer or poet, though based on the design of the email it is apparently secondary. .

I’ve been wondering how to go about doing this. So I clicked. Turns out one becomes a world famous writer or poet by self-publishing. One learns how to be an author and get published by paying for book packaging services.

What a wondrous thing to consider. Instead of writing and revising in hopes of creating a piece of work that might inspire an agent to take me as a client, instead of that same piece of work being deemed worthy of publication by a publisher, instead of the resulting book finding an audience through the usual channels, it turns out that the path to success as a writer (or poet) is actually straight and relatively flat. If I just play my cards right, I could be as lucky as Fede Alvarez, who parlayed his $300 YouTube video into a $30 million Hollywood movie deal.

The truth is, however, that either way I have to finish the memoir. So I guess I’ll go back to work now.

A little glass-blowing

That was when we lived in that cottage perched at the crest of a steep hill on the grounds of a small defunct summer camp, when we were biding time.

Halfway down the hill a rope swing dangled from the branch of a shagbark hickory. Three knots studded the waxen surface—the first in just the right spot for feet, the second placed for the hands of children of middling height, the third for boys nearly men.

The way it worked best was this: You ran down the incline, grabbed hold just above your knot as you passed down then hoisted yourself up, slamming your soles against the bottom knot as you swung out, the arc carrying you high enough to see the bay glittering by on the far side of the house at the bottom of the hill. Gravity pulled you back just when it seemed you’d go flying over the rooftop, past the seawall, alongside the wooden dock.

But as you were soaring up, just before the Earth forced you to be human again, you believed—almost—that you could perform a swan dive into that diamond-paved water.

Exercising

It’s taken me way too long to understand that, in order to have the stamina to write, I need to spend some part of my day moving. Which is why I’m grateful to my family for the gift of Wii, a device that makes “exercising” feel like play (another thing I’m beginning to understand is essential).

The details would be too boring to write about, much less read about, though I may decide to do just that the next time I need to stretch the writing a little. For now, however, it’s challenging enough to actually sit down to the assignments I’ve given myself. My body conspires against it, as does my mind. There are so many reasons to not write: laundry, a crossword to complete, some TV show, the swarf of everyday life. There are so many reasons to not write this specific thing: fear of exposure, fear of not getting it right, fear of not discovering the essential truth that will raise my memoir over the swamp of solipsism. Plus, who cares?

So many reasons not to write, and only one reason to write—I simply must.

Yet there are days when settling into the words is challenging and I must exercise that most flabby of muscles, my resolve.

My friend Jamie Cat Callan—whose books include the charming French Women Don’t Sleep Alone—developed a wonderful thing called The Writer’s Toolbox. It’s full of first line prompts, non sequesters and these cool little spinning wheels, all designed to help writers exercise the “write” side of their brains.

It makes me wish I were focusing on fiction right now. As I’m putting most of my energy into writing my memoir, I don’t have a lot of time left over for fiction but I’m warning you: it may happen and it may happen here. This is, after all, a thing I’m doing to help me get the words out—an exercise, much like the games I played with the Wii this morning.