On the Periphery

2011-09-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

I normally shy away from politics, but the recent situation in Washington has caused me great anxiety, and more, embarrassment. With all the backbiting and infighting between Democrats and Republicans (all branches) more befitting a tacky reality show than a governing body, our rulers appear as simply rival gangs engaged in a turf war, and the results could be devastating. The most recent and, I think, most alarming, example is the upcoming presidential speech on employment. We all know that we are in a dire situation, and the President has announced he will present a major plan to get us out of this fix. However, his speech was scheduled for the same day the Republicans were holding an election debate. They whined, and THE PRESIDENT BACKED DOWN, changing the date of his speech. By doing that, he appeared weak, giving the impression that their debate was more important than his speech, and so lost much of his presidential power. Wrong move. Mr. President, we need a leader—a Michael Douglas to stand at the presidential podium and declare with steely gaze, “I AM the President.” Conciliation is no longer effective. We have become a fragmented nation of perplexed sheep. Please, Sir, take command and lead us.

2011-02-20T07:34:00.000-08:00

It’s been interesting watching the recent demonstrations both by and against teachers. Yes, against teachers. People have been wielding signs suggesting that teachers have it pretty great, and why should they be able to negotiate better conditions. There seems to be a misconception about teachers—that their jobs are a breeze, they get summers off, paid a lot, and basically have a smooth ride.

Let me offer some illumination: I was a teacher in Wisconsin, and left because I was burned out and tired of spending every waking hour outside of the classroom either grading papers, attending meetings, or developing plans for parents. After listening to people who begrudge the people who raise their children a decent living or the chance to negotiate for it, I have the perfect solution.

Let’s eliminate teachers and schools completely.

Instead, we will shift the raising and educating of our children back where it belongs: on their parents, making parents responsible for their kids’ studies. They would be required to track their kids on a regular basis with the state, submitting lesson plans and progress reports, working to state standards and being responsible for test scores. Let the parents teach the kids social skills, and deal with inattention and recalcitrance. Of course, the parents would be required to rack up continuing education credits (at their own expense), and pay for materials out of their own pockets. For this, the state would provide a stipend for each child at the level accepted by the state legislature, requiring from the parents a detailed listing of how the funds were used (with receipts attached). For that, the state would provide health insurance (with a large co-pay and deductible required). This would be considerably less expensive than having all those greedy teachers and their exorbitant salaries!

Of course, if both parents work, they would have to figure out how to fit in the students’ time. Maybe one could work third shift, and teach during the day? (I know teachers who have a second job at night to make ends meet.) Hey, piece of cake, right? After all, how hard can it be to teach a child not only academic courses but citizenship, manners, cooperation, and tolerance?

After all, that’s what teachers do. And their reward? A salary that's a third of what they might make applying their skills and intelligence in the private sector. And the "appreciation" of the parents who think they have it so easy. So let the parents do it. I dare them.

2010-11-05T14:06:00.000-07:00

Don't let anyone tell you ageism is no longer a factor in employment. I was just turned down for a job for which I was supremely qualified, and when I suggested that the person they hired was younger (and less qualified), the answer was a silent affirmation. I was shocked--for this I spent my life building my career, going to grad school, learning, doing, being, creating a solid background coupled with a true love for my calling? To be cast aside because I am too old, even if I have more enthusiasm, more energy, and more sheer ability than someone half my age? Oh, it's there, my friends, that insidious bigotry, that sniggering bias, that outdated idea that age is hampered by infirmity. My wish? That the person who interviewed me someday has to find another job when she is my age (which really wouldn't be too far from today).

Do I sound bitter? Sorry, folks, but I am.

2010-11-04T08:59:00.000-07:00

REFLECTION

I love autumn. I love seeing the sun shimmering through golden leaves, and then the gentle flutter of those same leaves as they patter to the ground or whirl in dusty eddies across field or street. There's something comforting in the melancholy of fall, in the final harvest of green-veined tomatoes, of the crisp hoar of a killing frost, of the longer evenings that beckon with the promise of rest. I welcome the excitement of change promised by the seasonal shift that comes with a kiss and a promise.

We all need change in our lives. Sometimes it's terrible change, as with the death of a spouse, yet even the worst can encourage the best as the human spirit, dampened with despair, rises once more and turns to hope. That's the spark that we need to keep going, even when it seems life holds no joy. It is our nature to accept change and keep going through the coldest winter, preparing to embrace the coming spring.

2010-06-20T18:45:00.000-07:00

Well, the end of an era. I started this blog when I started graduate school as a chronicle of my time struggling through with all those younger students. Now it's time to think about a new direction with my online presence. Yesterday was my graduation, my MFA in Creative Writing, a day that happened to fall exactly (to the day) four years from the day I began.

It felt pretty darn good to walk across that stage with all those hopeful young people, knowing that despite our age difference, I shared their enthusiasm, their hope for the future. There's something about completing a project, a poem, a life's ambition, that lifts you beyond the norm, and I was thrilled and lucky to share the day with my proud sons and the amazing daughters they brought me.

I've always felt a little--no, a lot--on the periphery of life. I always seemed to be a facilitator, someone who sets groundwork\ and then watch others achieve. Even one of my life's greatest enjoyment--directing theater--involves getting everyone else prepared to be "on," while I watch from the sidelines. That's always been fine, though--I'm not so much of a spotlight person, and I loved what I did.

But graduate school was something different, something just for me, something I wanted to do if only to prove I could do it. And it was something for Richard, too, something he originally encouraged me to do, something of which he often told me he was very proud.

Now it's finished; I have climbed mountains both literally and figuratively, and I look forward with renewed enthusiasm to more peaks (and valleys) in my life. It's all exciting, it's all good, and I hope now it will all be happy.

2010-06-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

Goodbye, my Buddy.

Last week I had to say a final goodbye to my Buddy, the little dog who got me through five years of confusion, of hell, of changes. He was a comfort when I lost my job, then my father. He was familiarity when I moved from my lifelong home, and he was warmth when my Richard died. Yes, my children are my strength, but they have their own lives, which is as it should be. Buddy was completely mine, a constant presence. No matter what, he was waiting for me at the door, wriggling with joy when I came home; he made me get out and walk, to face the world when I wanted to curl up and die. He loved me unconditionally, the way children love you before they grow into the larger world for which you prepared them. Yes, he was old, his heart and lungs were giving out, and just breathing took so much effort. Yet every hard-earned breath was a joy for him, even in his last hours, as he stretched into the breeze. He had a look of acceptance, of contentment.

Buddy's life was a lesson for us all. His first eight years, before we got him, were difficult, his life less than ideal. Yet he was still willing and able to trust and love. I know this all sounds maudlin, but I can't be distant. He was my Buddy, and I miss him.

2010-05-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

One year.

Today is the anniversary of my husband's death. It still all seems unreal, and sometimes when I look at the two dates across the difference, it's like a tesseract and I am back at the moment, feeling the same awful feelings. Then other times, that year stretches beyond times, and I find myself looking across a grand canyon of emotions. I look to the past, and everything is a confused mash of love and anger, of devotion and deception, of hope unabashed and pain unimaginable.

Despite all, Richard, I miss you. I feel like Linda Loman who, at the end of Death of a Salesman says she feels as though Willie is "just off on another trip." Before, though far apart geographically, we had the connection of daily phone calls and emails. If only I'd known how truly far the distance was.

Now the emptiness is real as I consider all the future "missing hims" I'll have: He won't see me receive my MFA next month, an accomplishment he had suggested and encouraged. He won't be here to walk with me down the aisle when our younger son marries next year. He won't hold the eventual grandbabies or coach their Little League games. We won't grow old together, as planned.

Plans change, anger abates, and love remains beyond disappointments and lies. Perhaps that was the only thing that was real, afterall--the love.

I hope you are at peace, Rich.

2010-03-26T13:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, yesterday morning I heard a furor going up on the Wake County SC schools to stop busing kids to increase diversity. The cost is too high, and there are many arguments for keeping kids in community schools, close to their homes.

Of course, the argument is divided once more between the rich and the poor--the wealthy people want their children in neighborhood schools because, frankly, the schools are better, supported by the hefty property taxes. Meanwhile, kids (most black or Hispanic) in poor neighborhoods are stuck in poor schools, giving them an even rougher road to the future.

I understand both arguments, but it seems to me the answer is so simple: simply make the schools in poor neighborhoods better. In fact, make them so good that people in wealthier neighborhoods will WANT their kids to go there.

This has been done in many cities, in the form of magnet schools, with some success. Of course, then we have the problem of funding--if we depend on property taxes (which we do), then how do we get poor schools more equitable funding? And what about safety of neighborhoods? I know many teachers who opt to move out of a city or even a state, rather than teach in dangerous inner city schools.

Boy, whoever can solve this one will certainly have my vote next election. But it's a problem that has to be solved. We are losing any ground we have gained through busing, and we are losing children--and that's one resource we desperately need to mine well or all of our futures are bleak.

2010-02-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, time for my rant about the three top stories of the past couple of weeks:

1) Sarah Palin, please, get a job and stop bothering us. Why is the media covering this woman’s whining? You don’t hear Obama complaining about “Family Guy” or “Saturday Night Live” jokes—he has more important things to do.
2) Plushenko—Grow up. You lost. Deal with it. Your program wasn’t that great—all you had was the quad. Lysacek had the grace, the style, and the joy. That's why he got the medal.
3) Tiger—Apologize to Elin and move forward. You don’t owe anyone else anything. And stop trying to explain to the world. For God's sake, man, grow a pair and deal with your own problems in private!

Okay, I’m done. Thanks for letting me rant. Now if only the media would let me forget about these three!

2010-02-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

A while back, the medical community sent out the call that the MMR (Measles, Mumps, Rubella) vaccine that children received could actually be the cause of some cases of autism. Panic reigned throughout, and many parents opted, on the basis of that study, to refrain from immunizing their children. Now, we are told, “Oops, my bad”—that this is actually not the case. Oops indeed. Many children went without that preventative.

But there is a larger issue at hand from this debacle—trust. Who do we believe? Personally, my first thought upon hearing the retraction was: “I bet the pharmacies that made the vaccine got after the doctors to make that statement.” I still don’t know whether to believe the first study or the second. My kids got the MMR, and they grew up just fine.

The crux here is that we have become, through experience, a cynical society, willing to accept that our doctors, our lawyers, our businessmen, our politicians, all have ulterior motives for everything, with those motives usually hinging on money. Unfortunately, that fact has been proven so often, driven home with a sledge hammer, that we accept deception as the way of the world.

Sad.

2010-01-04T07:05:00.000-08:00

What's happened to comedy?

I have several old comedy LPs, including vintage Smothers Brothers, Steve Martin, and Bill Cosby, and they still make me laugh. They never graphically refer to bodily functions or sex, they don’t advocate the use of drugs, and they never swear more than the occasional hell or damn. And they’re funny, really funny. So when did funny become replaced by filth?

Many of the new comedians base their routines around heavy-duty drug use or sex, and frankly, it makes me uncomfortable. I used to love Robin Williams, but on his recent HBO show, every other word was F-this and F-that. Not necessary. When did our language get reduced to a series of references to body parts and sex acts? When did graphic swearing become accepted as part of our everyday vernacular?

Now I'm no prude. I swear, but that part of my vocabulary is very limited. (If I ever use an upper-tier swear word, you can be sure I am really angry.) There are words I simply do not, can not bring myself to say—words that are beyond cursing, that are disrespectful, disgusting, or demeaning. Why do we think these words are funny? Is it the shock of hearing words our culture has taught us are taboo? Is it nervous laughter? Or are we simply brainwashed into thinking that crassness is cool, that flaunting convention is hip, that being disgusting is youthful? (Keep in mind that bathroom humor is the preferred mode of 12-year-old boys.)

My mother's curses were creative and funny: "You should grow like an onion with your head in the ground" (even funnier in Yiddish) is my favorite. Those curses were actually meaningful curses, not just random words inserted for shock value. Very effective, and never tiresome, as is repeated swearing.. There are a number of comedians out there who understand that you don’t have to be dirty to be funny. Find them. Encourage them. Shun the filth and let’s get back to what is really funny. And as for the filth-mongers, they should each lose all their teeth but one, and that one should ache. Now that's a curse!

2009-12-31T14:49:00.000-08:00

Okay, folks, I am now convinced we are completely crazy. Tiger Woods has lost yet another sponsor on the basis that he is not a good role model, thanks to his admission of infidelity (multiple infidelities, but who's counting? Oh yes, the paparazzi.). Meanwhile, Michael Vick is being REWARDED for his courage in the face of adversity (remember him? He's the puppy-killer.) So what are our children learning? Murderous torture can be forgiven, but multiple lovin' can't be. (Sounds like a Country-Western song to me!) No, I'm certainly not one to praise the golfer for his lack of control and his failure to follow accepted moral standards. But his career is being destroyed by a zealous press ready to crucify him, while Vick is patted on the head and told "Good boy" (yes, the irony is intended) for his ability to "overcome his adversity."

Let's hope in the New Year that common sense prevails everywhere.

For a more in-depth look at this travesty, I encourage you to follow the enclosed link to Megan Lee's editorial in the Chicago Tribune. Her comments are what got me on this tirade anyway, and I tip my hat to her for her clear-eyed view of a ridiculous situation.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/editorials/chi-1231edit2dec31,0,2257217.story

2009-12-21T06:51:00.000-08:00

With the year coming to an end, I mount my soapbox. Hang on, folks: it's a long tirade, and not a pleasant one.

Studies have recently shown that there is an alarming rise in the number of autistic children. This in itself is a disturbing fact, but it makes one wonder as to the why of the statistic. Some say that there are simply more children, hence higher numbers. Others suggest that diagnostic techniques are just better, so more children are being diagnosed (after all, many autistic children show little outward indications of the condition). Still others say that the percentage of autistic children is simply higher. It does make one wonder as to possible reasons for the spike. Personally, I wonder if the rise has anything to do with the increased use of drugs in our society--both recreational and prescription.

Of course autism can be unrelated to drug use. There has been found to be a genetic factor that has nothing to do with drug use. But the surprising rise in children with autism could be related to drug use by parents and even grandparents. It would be interesting to see tests done to see if there is a correlation.

Although marijuana and other drugs were popular among the more “arty” set as far back as the Roaring 20’s, the increase in drug use really began to grow with the 1960’s. (It’s said that if you remember the 60’s, you really didn’t experience the 60’s.) Drug use continued, and even grew, with such drugs as LSD, ecstasy, cocaine, and even heroin becoming as common as pot. If you think about it, imagine what those drugs—even casual use—did to the users. What do you think those effects were on future generations?

Nowadays drugs are a way of life. Every other TV commercial hawks some pill or other that will cure impotence, reduce urinary urgency, stop dry eye or even eliminate toe fungus. We’re so anxious for the “quick fix” that we have come to rely on the actual chemical fix, and I have to wonder about the effects on our bodies and those of future generations. Of course, most prescription drugs carry the warning “do not take if pregnant or planning to become pregnant,” but what about the drugs taken prior to pregnancy? Reports have shown that the effects of drugs remain in the body and can be passed on to newborns long after use has been discontinued. And the effects come not just from the woman—drug use has been shown to affect sperm as well. Don’t you think that maybe this could account for the rise in birth defects and conditions such as autism?

I have no scientific expertise, of course, and all this is speculation on my part. (I am sure the theory has been advanced by others.) I have no desire to put down anyone for life choices. But I do wish people today could consider the possible consequences before they rush to take drugs to make their lives “better.” They may be affecting the lives of generations years down the line, and also affecting the larger community. Yes, this has become a rant against drug use. It's a personal choice that goes beyond stupidity, all the way to gross negligence that affects us all.

2009-10-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

When I moved from a small town to a city suburb, I was shocked to discover that it takes at least twice—often three times—as long to get anywhere as it did back in the country. More, I have discovered a part of me I don’t really like—ROAD RAGE. When I am in a rush to get somewhere and traffic is keeping me from my appointed rounds, I can feel my heart start pumping faster as my hands ache from alternately clenching and pounding the steering wheel. I have even discovered the efficacy of the “F” word (yes, my children, even I). Still, I keep my rage safe within my car: I have never flipped off another driver, or yelled at one (well, almost never) through an open window, or even made eye contact. At one time, I would have credited my innate niceness for this enormous self-control. But then I realized there was another reason for my unwillingness to engage with other drivers.

I am afraid.

Yes, I have faced the realization that this is not a safe world. Drive-by shootings are common, and who’s to say the guy I insult won’t pull an uzi on me across the lanes, or even follow me home? It’s happened. Isn’t that a shame—that a person might be pleasant or patient not because of decency, but because of fear? Some might say hey, polite is polite, but I don’t know. It seems to me that fear is not the best motivator for civility or self-discipline. Maybe I need to delve deeper into myself to purge that fury. Maybe I just need to allow more time to get somewhere so I can relax and enjoy the ride. After all, life is a journey, too, and I’m certainly in no hurry to reach that end.

2009-10-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

Well, it's flu season again, and again panic has taken over. I haven't gotten my flu shot yet, and I am debating whether to even get one this year--I never have, and I have never had the flu, that I know of. I have had upper respiratory problems, mainly colds, and never to the extent where it would be called the dreaded "flu." I get a stomach virus every few years, but that's it. Even when I was teaching, no matter how many kids were out sick, I almost never missed a day from sickness. In fact, my illnesses were so few and far between I can remember each precisely. (There were two. Each time I passed out when I stood up, and figured I'd better not drive to school.)

So why are some people more immune than others? I tend to attribute my basic health to the fact that I grew up on a farm and "ate a bushel of dirt" as my mother put it. We ran barefoot outside, swam in a really polluted lake (it's since been cleaned up), and pretty much ignored most health rules. We let our dogs lick our faces and never washed with antiseptic soap--in fact, we never had antibacterial anything. We didn't wear latex gloves or face masks when collecting eggs or handling farm animals, and cuts just got a washing and a dab of mercurechrome that cast an eerie orange shadow along the wound. I wonder now if all that dirt didn't help build antibodies. Nowadays we obsess about cleanliness, but our kids seem to get sicker easier, and stay sicker longer. Something's not right.

Of course you know, by writing this I will no doubt come down with a horrible case of the flu. My mother would have called it an "einhora," saying I tempted the evil eye. Maybe I'd better go wash my hands after typing this, or spritz some antimicrobial on my keyboard. Not likely.

2009-09-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

Sex sells. We know that, and for a long time we've seen the subject become an integral part of every TV show, movie, magazine ad and billboard. But this past week I noticed sex was used in two different TV series, House and Glee, both excellent shows; yet there was a marked difference in the presentation of the subject in each.

Let's start with Glee. The show itself is hilariously over the top, yet the writers shrewdly comment on many aspects of high school life, examining student insecurities and difficulties. One of the strongest story lines follows a male student who has been trying to hide being gay (and, being deliciously flamboyant, failing miserably). After trying to show his macho father that he can be a football hero, he finally and painfully comes out, whereupon the father gently tells the boy he has always known, and has always loved him. The father admits it's not what he would have chosen for his son, but only wants him to be happy, and is glad the boy told him. It's an honest moment, and I thought the scene touching and realistic, sensitive without being cloying, indicative of a parent's true love and a child's ability to finally recognize and accept himself for who he is.

Then we move on to House, the season opener in which House is in a mental hospital following his drug rehab. He meets a woman visiting her sister-in-law, and we have a quick, gratuitous scene in which the pair sneak into a dark room and have quick, hot sex in a chair. I got the idea that the scene is supposed to show House's growth as a human being in his new ability to connect with others, but frankly I was insulted by the implication that sex is the only way to true connection between people. The scene was unnecessary and actually diminishes his later connection with other residents of the hospital and his ultimate "salvation." Sorry, guys, the scene offered no more insight than previous suggestions of House's liaisons with prostitutes, and was obviously inserted as pure titillation. Pity--I've always enjoyed the clever play of relationships in the show, and I hope that will continue through the coming season, leaving this opening as just one of those "shocker" episodes designed to hook people in. As it is, the House season opener left me feeling like I'd just had a meal of cotton candy--slightly empty and somewhat nauseated.

Sex has become the suggested carrot for everyone's journey, and I don't buy it. True intimacy is more than a physical connection, and life is more than hookups. If TV writers were all as sensitive and insightful as the group from Glee, TV shows would all be richer and truer, and the viewing experience much more satisfying.

2009-06-12T07:11:00.000-07:00

Losing my husband has been the most devastating experience imaginable, and I don't know if I am ready to come back yet--if I will ever recover. The past month has been an exercise in "one foot and then the other." The love and respect shown by all has been heartening, but when the clamor fades, the pain continues, intensifying in short bursts, then subsiding in laughter. I miss the laughter, the booming voice, the little half-smile when he was putting on the world--and me. I wrote a while back on how much the human soul can handle before disintegrating. I know I walk that edge now, and pray for the strength to keep my balance. Thank God for my children, my family, my friends, who check on me, keep me smiling, keep me moving forward. Thank God for my classes and homework, for my job, for the sun that rises every morning. Thank God for my innate optimism and my belief that I will see him again someday, somehow.

2009-04-24T07:03:00.001-07:00

I don't watch reality shows including shows like American Idol (although I admit, I often tune in to the final shows, just to get water cooler ammo). But when I heard the furor over Susan Boyle, I was intrigued enough to check YouTube to hear her for myself. I have two things to say about it all.

First, although I think she does have a wonderful voice, I truly believe that had she not appeared as she did--a somewhat frumpy, middle-aged woman--there would not have been the reaction there was. Surprise was the deciding element there, and it was completely understandable. We have come to expect that great talent will come in a great-looking package. That's why Paul Potts, a somewhat plain-looking man, was such a sensation. Still, he possesses a magnificent instrument and certainly deserved the accolades, as does Susan Boyle. Personally, I believe this type of hubbub is somewhat insulting to normal-looking people.

My second comment on this subject relates to the more recent uproar over whether or not Susan Boyle plucked her eyebrows, dyed her hair, and dressed fashionably. How ridiculous! Why shouldn't she want to look good? Frankly, looking great comes hand-in-hand with confidence, and she should certainly be confident at this point, becoming a media darling overnight. But it does sort of make one wonder if her dowdy appearance wasn't totally calculated, designed to create exactly the effect she did.

It all comes down to this: what is real, what is not, and do we really want to know? What if Susan Boyle is actually a savvy, self-confident woman who decided to create a sympathetic character specifically further her career--the Underdog effect? Does it really matter? Cheez, people, just close your eyes and listen to the voice. The rest is just so much show.

2009-02-26T12:22:00.001-08:00

I think life could be endlessly improved if someone would think to maybe put little sinkers in teabags, to keep them from floating and steeping properly.

2009-02-26T12:22:00.000-08:00

I think life could be endlessly improved if someone would think to maybe put little sinkers in teabags, to keep them from floating and not steeping properly.

2009-01-25T06:44:00.001-08:00

My husband teases me that my world revolves around my dog, Buddy. And while I like to think the animal is merely an occupant in my home, the truth is he does rule. And this is not a bad thing.

Having Buddy is like having small children again. There's a pleasure I get from the simple joy he gets from everything. For example, we've discovered a couple of dog parks in the area. I'm a good owner, (I was a good mother, too) so I make it a habit of taking him to one around noon every day. I've discovered the good this does for me as well, getting me away from work to clear my mind, exercising my body. The trail is exhilarating, up and down wooded slopes, through dense stands of trees, and even on the coldest days I am loathe to go in.

Buddy loves to run, and he grins as he goes, plowing through the powder, chasing squirrels, dodging through the bare tangle of brush and bush, making me laugh at my very old dog acting like a puppy. Then I feel myself growing lighter and younger. I find myself marveling once more at sun-sparkling snow, at the canopy of bare branches stretched across a blue sky, at the soughing of wind through trees. These are all things I had pushed aside in pursuit of grown-up goals, and now they are back, fresh again, reminding me of things forgotten.

Like a child, buddy's sadness is unbearable when I have to go without him. He deigns to take an offered biscuit, as though the taste is dross because I'm going away. That sad face weighs on me while I'm gone, even though I know he will spend the day stretched out in bliss on the couch. Then he is always so delighted when I return, his entire butt wriggling with joy.

I've missed that adulation.I think it's the joy inherent in children and pets that can help us as we age, that can give us fresh perspectives and keep our juices flowing.

2009-01-21T06:31:00.000-08:00

A new president. A new era. Like all Americans, I am hopeful that this change in regime will mean better times for us all--if nothing else, the past eight years have shown us the importance of intelligence--and the danger in its absence. Our leaders must be well-educated, and not just to go to a prestigious school. We all know that there are always ways for unqualified people to sneak into those bastions of education (look at all the named wings of every venerable institution). Honest intelligence should always win out, and unfortunately, that's not always the case.

But honest intelligence is nothing without tenacity, sacrifice, and hard work. These are the tests of character, and the American character has been sorely lacking. Let us pray that change will really happen, that with honesty and decency we can rebuild all that we have lost.

We've learned a lot about ourselves these past eight years, and it's been humbling. We've been arrogant, proud, truly "Ugly Americans." Maybe now we can look at ourselves in a new light, rejoin the world and work together to create a global nation. It's a lot to ask, but knowing how truly terrible we can be might inspire us to be better.

It's a start, and we've nowhere to go but up.

2009-01-20T08:05:00.000-08:00

Ah, the job search. Embarrassing, degrading, ego-crushing, deflating. And here I am again, embarrassed, degraded, crushed, deflated. Why is the sun shining?

I won't try to belabor the obvious point that youth is king in today's world, but, as with every universal truth, it feels new when it happens to you. Prejudice on any level is illegal and insidious, anomalous in that it's a dirty little secret everyone knows but pretends isn't there.

The biggest frustration is knowing that if I could meet with an employer person-to-person, I could get the job, but interviews are elusive at best. I possess a lifetime of skills, experience, education, and acquired wisdom, but the bottom line employers see is the number of years it took for me to reach this point and disgard me like a used tissue.

Damn.

2009-01-12T08:38:00.000-08:00

My world has never been so white.

It took a long time, a lot of hard work, and 14 pounds that needed to be lost anyway, but we're moved in and, it appears, settled into a world of white.

I don't remember ever having seen so much snow (I know I have, but it's like childbirth--you forget the pain), and I am thankful my new driveway is shorter than the old one. The repeating blizzard pattern is blinding, and the constantly refreshed snow cover keeps things bright. Unfortunately, that unceasing whiteness is carried over into our new house.

I don't discount the idea of painting your entire house in neutral colors in order to sell it, but my sellers really took that idea to heart. Everything is in tones of blah. The walls are white, the carpet, which has seen better days, is beige, and even the wallpapered areas are done in a nondescript, patternless pattern that fades off into nothingness. It's depressing--even more so when I realize that I have to paint (and peel) so much!

I need color--we all do. It heightens our emotions and defines our lives. That's one of the reasons I do love winter, at least to a point: it clears my mind, lets me rest a bit, and readies me for change. The stark black of trees against the purity of white is soothing. The blend of earth and sky makes everything feel more expansive, and I can breathe easier, even if I am breathing in icy needles.

But enough is enough. I was finished with the cold and the snow before New Year's Eve. I'm tired of white walks, boring walls, pasty skin, my eyes bouncing from white to beige to eggshell in the desperate search for a bright spot. I am looking longingly at Fauvist art and craving bright colors I would never otherwise have considered for my rooms.

It's been a long winter, and we all are ready for the colors of optimism and joy and the eternal hope that spring brings.

Reading back, I realize this entire entry could be considered a metaphor for our current political situation. It wasn't meant to be that, but it works, and that's okay, too. That's the writing lesson for today: the wonder of words. They possess whatever meaning the reader sees in them, and if they inspire, provoke, or give thought in any way, then you as a writer are doing your job.

Your words are powerful, too. Use them wisely.

2008-11-11T05:25:00.000-08:00

I'm getting nostalgic, and I'm not even gone yet.

Yes, we are moving in a couple of weeks. We're not going far, so I've been hauling carloads of smaller and fragile items to the new house a few times a week. The dog is getting used to having a yard rather than a limitless field. I've hooked up the phone, TV, and Internet, and have started stacking things in the various closets. I've even put up a few curtains. It's starting to feel like home.

But it will be hard to go for good, and I have come to realize that it's not so much the house and land I will miss (although my dreams will continue to take place here), but the familiarity and, most of all, the friends.

We need that circle of friends. It's what makes TV shows work, from "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" to "Cheers" to "Sex and the City." We get a peek into a circle of friends, and they become our friends as well. In real life, our lives are no so closely entwined with those of our friends--we often go days or even weeks without seeing or talking to each other, while on TV, they are constant (Didn't Mary have any friends other than Rhoda and Phyllis? Didn't Diane have a life outside of that damn bar? How much time did it take for Carrie to keep all three friends updated on absolutely every aspect of her life?)

While we don't really have that crunch of closeness necessitated by TV, we do have a knowledge and familiarity that makes our lives comfortable. If I need help, I know when Sue goes to the health club, what Mary's work schedule is, when Anne babysits her granddaughter, and how to track down Suzanne anytime, through her children. I can joke on the phone with Joan's husband, and commiserate with Pamela about teaching. We share hilarious stories about children, theater, and jobs, and listen to each other when we are frightened or angry or sad. I know they will come through for me, and I think they know that I am always available for them as well.

And that, my friends, is what I will miss the most, but I'm not so far away. Friends will be friends no matter what, and I carry that comfort with me when I go.

2008-08-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

It's been hard to write this summer. The weather's been so indulgent, the dog so insistent, I have found myself outside more often than not. It's not that I have writer's block--just the need to putz around outside, trimming trees, hauling brush, weeding the sidewalk, digging through the treasure trove of memories stored in the old sheds that are slowly being cleaned out by a junk hauler in preparation for our leaving.

And there it is. We are planning to move from the old homestead, hoping to be gone before the end of the year. It will be hard--my roots go nearly a hundred years deep in this land. With the exception of about six years, I have spent my entire life calling one of the three houses on this property home. That's a strong bond to break, but it's time. The fourth generation will never again live on this land--they have lives in the city now, and so that's where we will head as well. The ties of family go deeper than soil and rock, grow stronger by proximity. My parents were here for my grandparents, and I stayed for my parents. No one will stay here for me, but that's really as it should be--they have formed their own roots elsewhere, places we know we are welcome. Our ties are there now, and so we will move.

Knowing that change is coming has allowed me to enjoy this land a little more, to languish a little longer in the dappled woods shade, to feel a little keener the unfettered breeze on my skin. I will move on, as we all must. And I will take with me a large store of things to write about, when I start writing again, which I will. And when I do, this land will be once more beneath my feet.

2008-06-21T06:36:00.000-07:00

If you are lucky in this life, you find a job that you love. Sometimes, as with any love, your passion for a job may die and you must either remain in an unfulfilling relationship or leave to seek another.

I have been very lucky in my lifetime. Every job (well, almost every one) I have had has begun with bright promise. I taught high school. I ran a newspaper. I worked as a radio commercial writer, a legal secretary, a textbook editor. But each ended. Sometimes the job became boring--I had learned all I could in that position, and each day became rote and monotonous. Sometimes I gave too much, crashed and burned, and had to leave for my own health and sanity. Once I was laid off when the work ended. Each time I left a job, I found another with bright promise, and began the cycle again.

The only job that has remained a constant passion (other than motherhood) has been freelance writing. After 40 years of putting pen to paper, the thrill is still new each day as I face a new page. I may be frustrated with many things--with the housing market (will I ever sell my house?), with politics (how did that moron ever get elected?) or even sometimes with my family, but writing never disappoints me. It is always there, ready to embrace me, bolster me, entertain me, and remind me that I am indeed very lucky.

2008-04-09T06:40:00.000-07:00

I had a student who was struggling. His essays were a mish-mash of words and phrases, with hidden kernels of some good ideas that were lost in the chaos. There was no sense of organization, no flow of ideas, nothing made sense. Then one day, after weeks of struggle, he brought in an essay that was miles beyond what he had done before--so much so that I thought perhaps it had been plagiarized, until I examined it closely and saw his obvious style within.

Okay, it was his own work. So why was it suddenly so much better? I pulled him aside in class.

"This essay is so much better than your others. What did you do differently?"

He looked a little sheepish. "I did the prewriting," he explained.

Prewriting. That critical step to good writing. Suddenly, I felt vindicated as both a writer and a teacher.

What is prewriting? It is simply all the work a writer must do before he or she does the actual writing of a piece. Prewriting involves collecting your ideas and maybe researching support. It involves organizing those thoughts and facts, arranging and rearranging them like puzzle pieces to create a clear, flowing outline. Only when you have a well-assembled skeleton can you begin to flesh it out and write the finished piece.

Writing is indeed a process, and if that process is followed, a student can't help but write a coherent essay. The trouble is, too many people think that writing is something that comes easy, and that brilliance can come from simply dashing down thoughts. After all, how hard can it be? You think the words and they come out the end of your pen or on your computer screen.

It is hard. It's enormously difficult to get our thoughts on paper so that they communicate clearly. Prewriting allows a writer to collect information and arrange it in the most effective way, to look at his or her ideas and decide if more or less is needed for maximum impact. It is a crucial step to good writing.

2008-03-23T06:53:00.000-07:00

I completed my Master’s work last week, sent if off, sat back, and breathed a free breath for the first time in nearly two years. The moment of freedom allowed me to reflect on what I have learned about my writing—and about myself.

Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” Langston Hughes wrote about the consequences of “a dream deferred.” In any drama—and writing fiction is writing drama—obstacle, and the struggle to overcome it, is the essence of the work. When I began in the Program, my stories were relatively upbeat, the conflicts trivial. Sure, the language was usually good, but I relied on stock situations, two-dimensional characters and the obligatory (and predictable) upbeat ending.

I always thought this need for happy closure was because of my inherent optimism. Through this program, however, I learned to evaluate my writing on a stricter scale, and from that I have come to realize that my “optimism” and desire for that blissful wrapup stems from a psychological need to bury a darker place within me, a place riddled with unhappiness and dreams deferred. When life is beyond your control, the printed word can conform to your wishes, smoothing out life's wrinkles, even for a while. It's the difference between a trashy romance novel and Cormac McCarthy's The Road.

Yes, Sandi, there is a darkness in my soul, and perhaps by recognizing it I can root it out, examine it, transfer it to paper. Maybe it will be cathartic. Maybe, as suggested by Hughes, I will explode.

Maybe I would be better off keeping the darkness hidden away, remaining couched in my euphoric laminate, letting pain be a song unsung to die with me. But I can no longer do that.

I am a writer.

2008-01-30T14:07:00.000-08:00

In between all the things you HAVE to do and all the things you SHOULD do runs a quiet flow of things you LIKE to do.

I like the analogy of water. Think of a small stream, easing through a landscape. It seems innocuous enough--just there, never intrusive. Yet as time and erosion go by, that stream cuts deeper and wider, until you have a fissure, a gully, or even something akin to the Grand Canyon.

Think of that stream as your suppressed WANT TO DOs. If all you do are the things you have to do or should do, that stream continues, cutting deeper and deeper, until one day you have a hole that can never be filled.

That's why people take vacations. That's why the Orthodox Jewish idea of a Sabbath of absolutely no work or earthly care is refreshing. That's why people who never slow down enough to feel the joy of pure relaxation go crazy or grow bitter.

Life's short. Write about it, yes. But live it, too.

2008-01-18T07:26:00.001-08:00

Killing my Babies

I haven't logged in for a while now because I have been in the throes of thesis revision, "killing my babies," as my advisor puts it. One of the hardest things for a writer to do is to cut a scene or passage he or she lovingly crafted and feels is so beautifully written it makes the reader cry. Unfortunately, often that very passage is dead weight, and must be eliminated or heavily revised in order to work. I know, intellectually, that every passage, every sentence, every word must actively do something to earn its place: it must either reveal character or move a story along or provide a necessary sense of setting or tone. If it doesn't, cut it out or make it useful.

In the process, I have made an interesting discovery in one of my stories: by eliminating much of the deadwood, I have found my story actually has a focus different from what I originally thought it was! Fascinating! That's when writing is fun for me--when my story takes on its own life and pulls me along for the ride. The ensuing rush is worth the pain when new, stronger "babies" pop up.

2008-01-04T06:59:00.000-08:00

Well, the latest hoopla has been about that poor mom who wrote a "made up essay" (an oxymoron) to get her kid tickets to the Hannah Montana concert. The woman has been on the news all week, and this morning was even on "The Today Show." To tell you the truth, (ironically), I felt sorry for the poor woman. I do believe she honestly thought what she was doing was okay--simply because she did not know that an ESSAY is a FACTUAL STORY.

Kids write essays all the time in school. I wonder how many teachers actually say that it has to be a true story, though. As a teacher, I assumed my students already knew that (I taught high school), and by my instructions, truth was inherent. But this woman did not realize that there was a difference between a (nonfiction) essay and a (fictional) short story. So who is at fault? The woman for being uninformed? The school she attended or her English teachers for not being clear? The contest for not stating that an essay is factual writing, not fiction?

This situation typifies the importance of education in our daily lives. In a society that is so literal-minded that a hair dryer carries the warning, "Do not use in the shower," perhaps the contest should have been more specific, as in, "An essay must chronicle true events."

I'm just getting warmed up. Let me think about this and come back to it another time.

Happy New Year to all, and may all your writing, fiction or non, bring you joy and satisfaction (and maybe even publication).

2007-12-20T05:29:00.001-08:00

Where you find fresh story ideas?

I am often asked by students how to find fresh story ideas. The answer, of course, is this: everywhere. Newspaper or magazine articles, friends, other people's blogs, just look around you.

Ah, but where do you find fresh ideas? That, my friend, takes a little more effort. Sometimes it simply means looking beyond the obvious.

Take, for example, a story I heard on the news this morning. A soldier who had been on his second tour in Iraq comes home dressed as Santa Claus to surprise his family. Perfect premise for a story, right? But everyone does that--unfortunately, there's plenty of fodder for that one! (Insert political statement here.) But there is another, even sadder angle. As the soldier, who had been away since May, hugged his happy wife and daughter, both of them crying and laughing at once, tears welled up in my eyes. Then I heard a small voice, ignored by the hordes of press snapping pictures: "Who is that?"

It was the voice of the soldier's four-year-old son, who did not recognize his father. I felt my blood turn to ice.

And there's your angle.

How many children are growing up with a parent overseas in the military? How do they watch the news? Or discuss the war in school? What does that fear do that will affect the child's future? Take the story as a whole and you have a thoughtful article. Look at it from one perspective and you have a short story or even a novel.

As a writer, you must look at the details. Probe the outer edges of a story, a relationship, a mind. There are only so many "plots" in the world, but there are billions of people, and each one has a unique perspective. Find it and tell it, and you can't help but connect with your reader.

2007-12-04T07:19:00.000-08:00

Talk About Fallen Angels!

In the course of my research for an article, I examined a Web site for the company I was featuring. Imagine my surprise when I found grammar and punctuation errors on the site! This was a professional site for a major corporation, yet there was the glaring misuse of apostrophes, a sin intensified by erroneous agreement and even a typo!

How does such a discovery affect me as a consumer?

I guess there is a negative impact. Whether I am surfing for a summer camp for my kids or looking for someone to remodel my home, I would be less inclined to delve further or put money into a company that didn’t care enough to proofread its site content. It makes me somewhat sad to think that the desire for perfection in writing isn’t strong. While I always stressed to my students that “good enough isn’t,” too often--it is.

However, on the positive side (and I do tend to mine for silver), I felt somewhat elevated by this discovery. Hey, I could write for a major audience, and with greater accuracy! It sort of made me feel a little less lowly as a writer, knowing that others, higher up, make mistakes as well. It sort of leveled the playing field and renewed my desire to keep plugging away, not just to write, but to write well.

2007-11-15T07:14:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I'm finally getting to the whole latest Harry Potter thing--Rowling's sudden and unexpected declaration that Dumbledore is gay.

Huh? I can't help but wonder what brought this on? There are no clues throughout the series, and the statement after the fact seems somewhat suspect. Had there been some reference to the fact in the books, it would have made perfect sense, but there really aren't. Dumbledore's friendship with Harry appeared to be just that, and any suggestion otherwise would have been pedophilic. His relationships with other wizards or even muggles offered no clues to this claim.

So why now, after the series is over? And why insert any sexuality into a children's book anyway? It appeared to me to be a desperate bid by the esteemed J.K. to grab the spotlight one last time. Chances are she will never again hit it as big as she has with Harry Potter. (If she does, well and good, but I feel that this is a phenomenon that will not be repeated.) Frankly, as a writer, I feel it's embarrassing and unnecessary. Well, it worked. People are talking about her again. But I am disappointed that she would suddenly spring this simply as a way of extending her time in the media spotlight. This does not lend any credence or dignity to gays, but is simply a Deux ex machina of sorts, to resuscitate her fame.
What a shame.

Why would she make that statement? And is there really a place for sexuality in a children's book? Part of the charm of the Harry Potter books is Harry's and his friends' innocence in the face of evil, the idea that they can battle evil with good. It's an innocent, some may say naive, idea, but it's right for children. They grow up fast today anyway. Let them be children a little longer.

What do you think? Should writers verbally add character traits after their work is finished? When should a writer let the story end?

2007-11-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s fall. When I take the dog out in the morning, the grass is coated with frost and the nip in the air is fresh and clean. Sweet air is quiet, the sky dome so high that sound from the highway just goes straight up and doesn’t wash over my yard. When a car or truck does pass, it’s a quick, sharp engine sound that quickly disappears. Nice. I noticed this morning that the leaves are still falling, one at a time, but with their early morning ice coating, they fall hard, and instead of a soft, rustling sound, they hit the earth with a definite “thunk.” Interesting.

That "thunk" got me thinking. (Notice the alliteration?) It presented a different way of viewing and describing that eternal metaphor, the leaf gently breaking from its branch and wafting away into the air, floating toward death and a cold eternity. A rapid descent to hard ground, thunk, and it's over. That's what we as writers strive to do--to look at the world and refashion the images with which we are presented, twisting them to represent an emotion or an opinion.

Here's an exercise for you: Look around you for a common image. Nature is good, because it is constant, yet not consistent. Then write your scene, describing it in an uncommon way. Pick a mood or a personal epiphany and write to it. Then, when you are finished, do it again, but pick the opposite mood. It's fun, and you might find yourself looking at something you barely noticed before in a whole new way.

2007-10-25T06:40:00.000-07:00

A new biography of Charles Schulz suggests that all of the angst-driven philosophy of the Peanuts characters was drawn from Schulz’s own self-tormented life.

Well, duh.

Any literature (and Peanuts is great literature) is in fact drawn from the author’s own life—the doubts and insecurities and hopes and dreams of the writer flow through the pen, adapting to fit the characters and the story, but rooted nonetheless in the writer’s own reality. The fact that perhaps Charles Schulz was not the kind, moral, cheerful person he presented, that he was tormented by his own (real or imagined) demons, matters not. What counts is that he could channel that inner turmoil to a higher level, projecting that humanity through his characters, profoundly touching and affecting others.

That is what writing is all about—the need to express and connect, to tell a story that touches another person, to create a feeling of “yeah, I feel it, I’ve been there.” Good writing transcends time and space to communicate human emotions, to connect our lives with others. This connection is the real string theory, the meaning behind all life, the knowledge that we are not alone in our own personal darkness. It makes the universe a little less vast, our own lives a little less puny.

2007-10-12T07:10:00.000-07:00

Fun (and Challenging) Writing Exercise

I know I will be thrilled to finish my degree, but I will miss classes like this term's fiction workshop. Last week we were given a wonderful writing exercise I'd like to share. I'd done this in the past with theater students as a lesson in listening, but this was a little different as a written exercise. Try it sometime. It might free your mind!

1. Quickly think of three unrelated events, places, or situations. Any kind. Jot them down.
2. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Then pick one of the things you listed and develop it into a story.
3. When the time goes off, stop writing. Finish whatever thought or sentence you were on, and set the timer again.
4. Try to incorporate a second item from your list into the first story. When the timer goes off, stop writing, finishing up your thought or sentence. Set the timer again.
5. Try to incorporate your third item into the story. When the timer goes off, stop. Set the timer for 5 minutes.
6. Go back and revise as much as possible within those last five minutes.

I really enjoyed this. I also learned I can't just shut off my mind or separate the three items. I couldn't help thinking, while writing the first section, just where the second might fit in and working toward that. It was a lesson to me on how I write--I look ahead, formulating plot and arc in my head. Interesting self-awareness!

2007-09-22T07:26:00.000-07:00

I'm starting a weather journal. In it, I daily (or thereabouts) jot down quick notes on the weather that day. Dumb? Not for a writer. It's amazing how the weather can affect us. For example, yesterday was warm for September, with a lazy, hazy feel to the slanted sunlight. The air was humid, mind-drugging, yet the wind was strong, and it was slightly cool. I found myself daydreaming about similar days--I could remember lying on the raft in the lake after school, probably the last swimming day of the year. I recalled similar afternoons when we went outside for marching band practice, and I could feel the slight trickle of sweat between my breasts under the starched cotton of my Peter-Pan-collared blouse (yes, I'm old).

Such sensations are mere stepping stones to deeper human emotions, triggers to half-forgotten events that could be distorted and reused in my writing. By writing such clues and cues down, I will have a source to check when trying to evoke a sense of environment in a story or novel. And who knows? A weather-related memory might even spark a whole new story.

This is just one way you might use a journal. For a writer, it can be an invaluable asset.

2007-09-17T12:45:00.001-07:00

What's your passion?

Where does your comfort greet you best? Some people feel most at ease in their homes, some at church of synagogue. Still others feel their minds click in a classroom, some come alive at the local pub. For me, my optimum playing field has always been a theater: not a movie theater, but a stage theater, where live performers elicit laughter and tears.

I first discovered my affinity when I was 15--up until then, I'd always enjoyed performing--in school skits, accordion recitals, band concerts. But that year I joined the local community theater and found an entire new world, one where my bones relaxed, my juices flowed, my soul felt free, all in that space divided into "stage" and "house." This feeling--let's call it an obsession, a fancy, a fetish, a consumption, a compulsion--has never gone away. When I am in a theater, I am home.

So what's your passion? More important to a writer, what passion drives your characters? Even if you never fully explore the idea, you must know what moves your characters' wheels. A woman who enjoys fly fishing has some different fires than the one who lives to shoe shop. Or does your character love both? Whatever drives your creation, you must understand it, or at least appreciate and respect it, and write that into your work.

Know thyself, but more important, know thy characters. The more real they are to you, the more real they will be to your reader.

2007-09-06T05:35:00.001-07:00

It's been a bad year for opera aficionados. Beverly Sills, Jerry Hadley, and now Luciano Pavarotti. After each death I felt as though a particle of light had flickered and disappeared. Beverly Sills had been an inspiration to me in my youth--she was, like me, Jewish and not conventionally pretty. She also, like me, had a sassy candor with a fresh sense of humor. Yet she possessed the confidence I lacked, the ability to charm, the ability to see and create great beauty. I wanted to be like her--I wanted to be her. I loved her exuberance, envied the joie de vivre she brought to every role she sang. Even before I loved opera, I loved "Bubbles."

I had the great good fortune to work with Jerry Hadley at the University of Illinois Krannert Opera Theater back in the late 70's. He was totally dedicated to his music, but he also, like Sills, had an irreverent quality, a sense of humor that made his characters real and accessible. From my view in the wings, I, along with the rest of the opera chorus, watched, entranced, as he played Rodolfo, Nemorino, Tom Rakewell, des Grieux, with grace and versatility. He was electrifying, his characters vivid and troubled and sexy, his voice powerful and emotional. In later years I listened to him on "Prairie Home Companion," bought his tapes, watched him on TV. He never failed to please an audience. I guess he had his own demons, though. How sad that he could not transcend his personal pain to immerse himself in the pleasure he brought others through his great talent.

Pavarotti. The name says it all. He is the gold standard for tenors, each high note a gift from heaven itself. He could be silly or serious, and played all roles as though his heart were in his voice. I would listen to his recordings and be transported by the purity of his sound, but there was more. There was a connection, a desire to communicate through the music, to create a perfect moment through a perfect note.

All three giants projected humanity through their voices and their acting. Their roles stick with us because they went beyond the technical aspect of producing notes, finding a spark of reality that made their characters live. They took chances and so entered our hearts. They are missed.

2007-09-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

Recent AP headline found online: "Less M.D.'s Hours Doesn't Cut Death Rate."

What's wrong with this picture? The whole thing, from "less" (which should be "fewer" as in "fewer hours") to the use of the singular possessive for M.D. (which probably shouldn't be possessive anyway, as the M.D. could be used as an adjective describing the kind of hours) to the lack of agreement from "doesn't" ("fewer don't). It could be argued that the "doesn't" refers to the entire subject phrase, used as singular, but the rest is just wrong, wrong, wrong! The whole title should have been rewritten to be clearer and more accurate.

Sigh. If you can't trust the AP. . .

2007-08-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

When the Model T automobile was first developed, Henry Ford declared it came in a choice of colors: black or black. You know, I often think he had the right idea.

Choice is nice, but nowadays there are so many choices it can get pretty overwhelming. Let's stick with the automobile (does anyone say that anymore?) example. Nowadays you have to decide if you want a subcompact, a compact, a mid-size, full-size, SUV or truck. And there are all the little catagories in between--small SUV, big-cab truck, etc. Then there are about 20 different car companies all offering their unique versions of each category. Never mind the color, how the heck do you pick a model?

How do you make a decision? How do you decide what field to enter, or a specialty? As a writer, I am also faced with a wealth of options. Do I want to write a play? A novel? A short story? And if I write a short story, is that the right form for my idea? Maybe it should be a movie script or a full-length book.

Decisions, decisions. Sometimes I wish we were back in the good old days, when we didn't have so many choices. Ah, well. On to the short story. Or book. I haven't decided yet.

2007-08-14T19:17:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe it's over a year since I began grad school, and now I have only one more course to take before completing my thesis and graduating. I will be 56 years old when I receive my Master's in Creative Writing, and I am damn proud of it.

How many times have you thought of doing something, joining something, trying something, and backed out because you thought it would take too long, or you'd be too old, or it was simply too much effort? Know what? The time passes even if you don't do anything. Only if you don't make the effort, you have achieved nothing.

What do you want to achieve? Do you, like me, hanker to go back to school? Do you want to get a better job, but need further education or training? Do you wish to write a novel/learn needlepoint/create a family memories video/learn to use a computer program, but keep putting it off because you don't have the time/don't have the money/are too tired? I am living proof that all you have to do is get up off your dead end and--start. Just start it, progressing one step/one class/one hour/one day at a time.

Oh, and stop whining. It accomplishes nothing and uses good energy you will need when your goal seems so far off you think about quitting. One foot in front of the other and before you know it you will have achieved your goal. Then set another one. This, too, shall pass, but look what you'll have to show for it!

2007-07-24T07:52:00.000-07:00

My writing students were appalled when I was grossly overcharged for some auto work. We got off track in class, and started trading stories about fixing cars (many of them are mechanics--it's a tech college), and they demanded I write the story about the time I "tucked in" my first car.

It was a very cold day in central Illinois, and my 1968 VW bug was chugging as I went to work. There, thinking to hold in whatever engine heat I could, I wrapped a big pink felt blanket over the engine and went in, confident my engine at least wouldn't freeze.

After work, I was supposed to be presiding over a local junior high school drama club, so I jumped in the car without thinking, started the engine, and began backing up. The car stopped dead.

I ran to see what was wrong and was greeted by the sight of my pink blanket, which had been sucked into the mechanism, woven throughout the engine. Thinking quickly (or really not thinking, as I was in shock--I had wrecked my engine!) I ran into my office and borrowed some tools from the custodian. I then proceeded to pull parts of the engine off, piece by piece, as I yanked out whatever blanket I could, snipping off bits at a time, working my way through the engine. I removed belts and pullies and whatever else looked like it could be easily dislodged. After I got the (now shredded) blanket completely out, I put everything back the way it was. (I had laid it all out on a towel in the snow in the order in which I had removed it.) I returned the tools, turned on my engine, and got to Drama Club just as the kids were giving up and leaving.

I ran the car for another two years after that--without any further engine work needing to be done. Needless to say, I never tucked in my engine again.

God, the good old days/cars! I wouldn't try that again! What is a fuel injector anyway?

2007-07-17T05:57:00.000-07:00

I cannot tell a joke to save my life. In fact, no one in my family can--we are missing the gene that regulates the ability to set up and tell specific jokes. We invariably forget to give some vital detail, or mix up or telegraph the punchline. Or we forget everything but the punchline, or even the punchline itself! My mother, especially was famous for going on and on, painfully trying to reconstruct a joke's narrative, while we stood there, like gapers at an accident, appalled by the horror but unable to look away. Unfortunately, my husband's family also lacks this gene, and we have passed the ignoble trait on to our sons. And, as like attracts like, I'm afraid my daughter-in-law is cut from the same cloth. My future grandchildren are doomed.

But that's not to say we're not funny people--when we get together, we crack each other up. Constantly. We all have very sharp, yet very warped senses of humor, and our general conversation is filled with witticisms, puns, and hilarious retorts, all punctuated by raucous laughter.

Why is it so hard to tell a plain, ordinary joke? I have studied, taught, and participated in drama my entire life, and I understand the principles for effective joke-telling. I have directed comedies where I am able to pinpoint the timing and inflection necessary in funny lines and can instruct actors how to maximize their impact, yet I myself cannot tell a joke without sounding like my mind is oatmeal.

My great-uncle was a vaudeville comedian, telling jokes on the same circuit as his friend, Jack Benny. Benny once suggested to Uncle Ned that as a comedian, he was a great insurance salesman. He took the hint and left the stage behind. And he was a great insurance salesman. He made his clients laugh, he made his friends laugh, he made his family laugh, just by being who he was: a funny guy who couldn't tell a joke.

2007-07-05T18:05:00.000-07:00

It sucks to get old. This was brought home to me the other night in class. I'm taking this awesome (do people still say that? I'm so out of touch) class on Writing Humor, and a fellow classmate had turned it a hilarious essay about a game called Halo2. The game sounded so preposterous, I automatically assumed she was making it all up--after all, it was ridiculous, right? So we were critiquing, and everyone was talking about how she captured the feeling of the game--and I said, "Wait, you mean this is a real game? Seriously?" Everyone laughed, but the instructor (who is at least 10 years younger than I) made some comments about writing for an audience, and it was all good. Still, I felt ridiculous.

I think I got revenge this week, however. We are reading a piece on Keith Richards, and I am pretty sure most of the people in my class will either have to look him up or will miss some of the subtle references within the piece--references I get because I actually lived through the time, and Richards' memories are part of mine as well.

Yeah, it sucks to be old. Still, it all evens out in the end.

2007-06-06T12:10:00.000-07:00

I’m not one for “reality” shows, but I succumbed and watched “America’s Got Talent” last night. What I saw shocked me: people booing those on stage. It was bad enough that “American Idol” has perpetuated the acceptability of people cheering for every high note or trill a singer attempts (can’t they just listen to the song and cheer later?), but to see them booing those poor souls who had the sheer guts to get up there and (in many cases) make fools of themselves, just made me feel sick. To quote Kander and Ebb, “Whatever happened to class?”

What does this have to do with writing?

I see a great contrast to this trend in my writing workshops, where we write something, then sit mute while the class discusses it. It has been my experience this past year that my classmates (and I) are unfailingly positive, eager to find the good in my writing. In fact, we almost apologize when we have to make negative comments. I for one appreciate that consideration, and at times even hope for a little more pummeling to help me find what aspects of my writing are lacking. Still, it's nice to see that courtesy can prevail--wish I could say that it does all over, but I see a growing trend toward brutality in the form of honesty. Are people just getting meaner? If so, I am doubly grateful for the students in my classes.

Oh, and I don't think I will watch that TV show again.

2007-05-31T06:34:00.000-07:00

How to Think Like A Writer

Do you think like a writer? To me, that means I am always thinking ABOUT writing.

For example, let's say I am stopped at a light watching people cross the street. My mind starts to wonder, Where is she going? What’s in his backpack? Who’s she talking to on the phone? Why is he wearing camouflage/a tutu/a bathrobe? Where does she work? Who is he meeting, and why? Do her shoes hurt? Is he going commando? What did she have for breakfast? Did he just get a negative medical report? Did she just win the lottery? Is he planning to troll the gay bar scene that evening? I love to juggle the possibilities in my head, to make up little vignettes, then twist them around to see how they play. Example: the girl on the phone. I imagine she’s talking to (a) her mother, who is nagging her to quit her job and follow her heart to Hollywood; (b) her boyfriend, who is breaking up with her through a message on her voice mail; (c) her best friend, who called to say goodbye before she killed herself; (d) her lawyer about suing her doctor for botching her boob job. (And what if her doctor is also her boyfriend? Or her lawyer is her boyfriend? Her sister? His mother? Or . . .)

You get the idea. Now go find yoru own "what if" and write it.

2007-05-23T16:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, back to writing. Here's a kinda neat exercise I thought up recently (on a Saturday night, actually. I have no life).

Imagine you have been asked to host Saturday Night Life. Write your opening monologue. (And please, God, make it funny!)

2007-05-10T06:32:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, but I must step away for a moment from the purpose of this blog--writing--to vent. Please bear with me.

Tony Blair is stepping down. He has ignited a political firestorm in his own country, jeopardizing his own career, to stand beside his friend, the President of the US. So it appears that Bush may well accomplish what all the suicide bombers cannot--the demise of democratic brotherhood among nations, and the United States' eventual but certain fall from world power.

We of the U.S. have become a synonym for arrogance, a bastion not of freedom but of self-deluded smugness. And now, Blair, a loyal friend to this country, has suffered for it (never mind the thousands of our soldiers who have been and are suffering in an unwinnable war; never mind people facing home disasters such as the tornado damage in Kansas, who will suffer because there aren't enough National Guard members to help them; never mind the political parties that have been split between loyalty and good sense, leaving them in too much of a shambles to lead).

How much more of this insanity can we take? And how can we wait for a far-away election for this to change? Fasten your seatbelts, everyone. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

And now back to our regularly-scheduled postings.

2007-05-06T07:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve started reading “Peanuts” again, drawn back to those characters of my youth, and of my children’s youth.

There’s something soothing in the perpetual efforts of Charlie Brown to kick that football; in Lucy’s attempts to woo Schroeder away from Beethoven; of Linus’ wisdom beyond insecurity; in Snoopy’s ability to dance with bunnies and communicate with birds. I can connect once more with Sally's cynicism, Woodstock's innocence, and Peppermint Patty's unstoppable moxie.

We’ve all laughed at the antics of the characters, and connected with their philosophies and dreams. After more than 50 years, the wit still rings true, the deep-seated fears and desires still touch a deeper, human place in our souls. There is joy and pathos in their efforts, and sagacity in their optimism and insight. They give us laughter, they give us empathy, they give us hope.

That’s good writing.

2007-04-13T07:08:00.000-07:00

A while back we had the foofarah over Mel Gibson’s “accidental bigotry,” but when it appeared his movies would still make money, the fuehrer (had to say it) died down. The unacceptable became a brief joke on late night talk shows. (And Gibson continues to be a bankable force in Hollywood.)

Now racism in the media has again reared its ugly head in the form of Don Imus and his unconscionable comments about female African American basketball players. Everyone gasps, the ubiquitous Reverends Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson mount their pulpits, and the evil is decried as unacceptable. Well, duh.

Still, did Imus have the right to say what he did? Absolutely.

Should he have gotten fired for it? Absolutely.

There’s a difference between what you can say and what you should say. The media has long known that with freedom of speech come responsibility. (Whether or not it always practices that restraint is open to question.) The influence of the media can be a force for right—or a spectacular disseminator of wrong. Let me give you an example.

I was teaching in a high school when the whole rap culture exploded on the scene. Suddenly, I had students emulating rap artists, strutting down the halls in baggy pants and chains, busting moves they copied from music videos, quoting ghetto lyrics that included racist remarks about sticking it to Whitey.

The punchline? These kids were small-town Wisconsin kids. Some of them had never been to a city larger than Racine. All of them lived in relative comfort and familial securty.

And every one of them was white.

The impact of celebrity on the masses is obvious. The responsibility of the media in presenting these celebrities is enormous. So yes, Don Imus had the constitutional right to spew whatever garbage was generated in his mind. But MSNBC and CBS had the moral right to drop him from the airways. It was the correct decision. Like Mel Gibson, Imus can appear contrite, can say the right apologetic words. But in both cases, their true beliefs have been "outed." Unless those beliefs are presented as the negatives they are, unless such thinking is condemned and is punished, it will proliferate, and we will all be diminished.

2007-04-04T18:55:00.001-07:00

What are your limits?

I have often thought of myself as a strong person, and I do believe that I can handle any trouble or sorrow that comes my way. But is that true? Yes, I am strong: I got through the shockingly sudden death of my mother and the lingering decline and death of my father. I suffered, I mourned, but I survived and moved on. I have lost relatives and friends, and I grieved and kept going.

Still, I know that I have a breaking point, and I pray I never reach it. We all go through some measure of grief in our lives—some decidedly more than others. What is it within us that decides how much we can stand? What about you? What makes you strong? How much could you stand to lose? How do some people walk away from a tragedy and continue their lives while others experiencing the same tragedy crumble and dissolve?

I do believe that there’s a spark of life deep inside that keeps us going. Some of us let that spark die, and so we die with it—sometimes emotionally, sometimes spiritually, and yes, sometimes physically. Still, I feel sure we all have the ability to transcend tragedy. It’s a matter of being able to look into our hearts to find that spark, to fan it until it is a refulgent flame to warm our souls through the coldest, darkest night.

2007-03-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

Gloria Steinem is quoted as saying, “I hate writing. I love having written.” While I do indeed enjoy having written, lolling in the magical world of “Ain’t I Grand,” I have to take umbrage with her thought. I love writing. I love putting pen to page (or fingers to computer keys) and seeing my thoughts appear, miraculously tangible. Then I love the revision, the constant striving to make my work better, brighter, more praiseworthy. I love rearranging clauses and phrases, checking a thesaurus and feeling my own vocabulary grow as the just-right word is found.

But I believe sometimes that the best part about writing is the anticipation of the act. I love twisting ideas around in my mind even before I start the actual writing. Sometimes I spends days, weeks, months just imagining the piece. There’s a pure joy in possibilities; just ask anyone who plays the lottery.

I think the world turns on anticipation: first dates, when you wonder if this will be the great passion of your life; a new job, filled with the possibility of fulfillment; a new home, which might provide a safe harbor filled with love, laugh, and comfort; a new government administration, full of promise for peace. That anticipation is often so much better than hard, icy reality: the guy/girl is a psycho; the work is the same ol’ same ol’; the roof leaks and the toilets don’t flush; the promises are the same old lies.

If I never sell a novel, if I never win the Pulitzer or the Nobel or the Newberry, if I never again see my words in print, I will at least have those nebulous motes of anticipation, when anything is possible. We all need that in our lives, for the dates that go wrong, the homes that fall apart, the jobs that bore, and the governments that fail us. We can anticipate the next one will be better. Forget Gloria Steinem. Quote me instead Scarlett O’Hara: “Tomorrow is another day.”

2006-12-29T16:48:00.000-08:00

What makes writing literary?

One of my professors, apparently at a loss to find something more specific upon which to comment, suggested I try to elevate my work to a more “literary level.” But I really don’t know what that means. Does that mean I should try to write stories like those found in The New Yorker? To tell the truth, I find most of the fiction in that august journal to be boring and pretentious, often depressing, sometimes even missing a plot. In fact, the lack of plot seems to be a common occurrence among modern writing, yet that doesn’t seem to eliminate the piece from the ranks of “literary fiction.” Indeed, it seems to be chic and cool, as though transmitting, "look at me, I am a modern writer. Who needs boring conventions?"

One of the books I recently bought on writing describes the “plotless story.” The author suggests that something, whether it be tone or language or idea or atmosphere or character must be present to be considered good writing. Still, the author goes on to say that even in such a work there must be a story somewhere. Good writing is writing that keeps the reader engaged, that makes him want to turn the page to find out what happens. I also believe that good writing leaves the reader with something more than confusion, whether that be a sense of satisfaction. A good story has a beginning, a middle, and an ending that keeps the reader thinking long after the story has ended.

That’s the kind of story I want to write. “Literary” or not.

2006-12-08T11:04:00.000-08:00

I don’t get writer’s block, but still, I am not getting any writing done: I’ve got the hazy lazies: feeling enervated, wanting to do anything that doesn’t involve actual thinking.

Oh, I do check my email fifty times a day, and I have sent out scads of job applications. I even sent a story in to a magazine. But it’s just so tempting to put off writing in favor of checking the various news sites, sending emails to friends, doing crossword puzzles, or comforting my poor puppy (a 9-year-old cocker I inherited last year) who just had surgery and has to wear one of those outrageous plastic funnels. (They are useful, though. He shovels snow very well.)

When I had a job and was caring for children, I always thought when I had time to write I would be the most prolific writer ever. Well, the kids are grown, I’m out of work with lots of free time, (not much going on in the substitute teaching department) and I still am not getting anything done. I seem to find other things to take me away from writing: laundry, knitting, making and wrapping gifts. (Who said you need money to shop? I am very creative.)

I have tons to write, and once I get started, I go like mad—it’s the getting started that’s hard. But maybe the hazy lazies aren’t so bad. Ooo, there’s a neat video clip on the MSNBC site! That video clip might spark the idea for a short story. Hmmm, think I’ll Google some of my old co-workers from 30 years ago. Maybe I could get a movie script or TV pilot out of my memories of that job. I’m going to memorize a city map of New York. If I write a story that takes place in New York, I could create an authentic-sounding setting. What’s the latest theory on the extinction of the dinosaurs? I could fashion a poem relating my life with that of the dinosaurs. A true writer uses everything: nothing is wasted, even “wasted” days of non-writing.

The hazy lazies. I need a cookie. Or a pie. Maybe I should bake. Better I should go do some yoga. Or clean the family room before the family descends for Christmas. Or . . .

2006-12-03T14:10:00.000-08:00

Entitlement.

It seems to be a disease sweeping our country faster than that avian flu. It’s that sense that we deserve better than the hand we’ve been dealt, and I believe it’s a major contributor to the decline in morals and basic humanity that we’ve been experiencing.

We’ve all seen it. A friend of mine, as she purchased a fistful of lottery tickets, sighed, “I have to win this. I DESERVE it!” I said nothing at the time, but her remark haunted me She deserved it? This was a woman with a loving husband, a good job, and three average, normal kids. Sure, they had a couple of outstanding bills, but who doesn’t? She would be able to pay them eventually, maybe by cutting corners a little, but she probably wouldn’t learn any lessons about frugality from the pinch. Why did she deserve to win the lottery any more than anyone else?

During the holiday season we all hear the bell ringers, see the buckets and barrels stationed at every street corner and store entrance, asking for loose change and nonperishable food. Those collections are for the families who have lost jobs, homes, and dignity, surviving on the meager leavings of an overfed society. Many of those families have done nothing to deserve their painful fates, other than fall victim to bad luck or a blind national economic plan. Why does my friend think she deserves a windfall more than these people? What about those families with members afflicted with debilitating diseases acquired through unfortunate pairings in their genetic code? Did they deserve such tragedy? Wouldn’t they be better, more deserving candidates for a lottery win?

More than mere selfishness, it’s that latent sense of entitlement that bothers me. Lately it seems we are more and more suffering from that skewed viewpoint: people bring lawsuits against bosses who demand a day’s work for a day’s pay. Others slack off or pilfer office supplies, claiming they can do these things because they are not being paid what they think they deserve. On the other end of the spectrum, CEOs callously lay off workers to cut costs while at the same time accepting ungodly large sums as bonuses—money they claim they deserve simply for being lucky or devious enough to end up at the head of the corporate food chain.

This impaired sense of right extends to the streets: poor children steal from helpless victims because they feel they have been dealt an unfair hand and so deserve whatever they can take. Every power outage brings rampant looting, the thieves claiming entitlement simply because they don’t have something they want.

We have replaced hard work and honesty with laziness and greed: the desire for a better life is still there, but the means to achieve it have changed— children want—no, demand—good grades without working for them, fancy extras without earning them, jobs without being qualified for them. Our society has fostered this dangerous sense of entitlement. Many of our celebrities are talentless morons, revered for physical attributes or the ability to be as outrageous as possible. But, hey, they deserve their fame, right?

I would be happy if my friend won the lottery, but I don't think she necessarily deserves it. Better she give those dollars to a charity and thank heaven she could afford to do that. The only thing we deserve to get out of life is in direct proportion to what we put into it.

2006-11-04T12:54:00.000-08:00

The more I study writing (other people’s and my own), the more I get confused. What is really good? What is really bad? When do the rule apply, and when do they change? Must you write in a style that is not your own to satisfy someone else’s tastes? If so, maybe nowadays a writer has to be a whore to sell, a shape-shifter who has no real form of his own, but who writes to sell, not to tell.

My writing style has always been totally organic. I sit down and my gut takes over as the words appear on the screen, my fingers guided by some unseen force that integrates proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation, while logically moving from one sentence to another. Transitions. Clarity. Plot development all grow, designed to combine into a clear, cohesive piece. At least, that’s how it works most of the time. My real strength is in my revising, but even there, an innate urge to move and rework determines my style.

But while my creativity is inborn, it is combined with my background as an English teacher. I have always taught that a story must have an arc: a beginning, a middle (complete with complications) and a satisfying, logical ending in which the hero either learns something or dies. Period. Nowadays, I find I am reading fiction that makes no sense, does not follow any specific pattern, and is basically a Kandinsky painting put into words: blobs of letters randomly placed for effect rather than logic. We are in an era of abstract writing, and a carefully-honed style is suddenly archaic.

I appreciate the fact that creativity changes, that we can no longer write in the same way Dickens or Austen did, that our changing society demands relevance in its literature. But, I ask again, what makes a good story? Stories lacking development, or even clarity, student stories that I would have handed back marked with a big “See me” sprawled across the top, are appearing in prestigious magazines and hailed as cutting edge. No character development, no plot, just mad ramblings of a disorganized mind are applauded, while stories with an arc and human meaning never make it past the slush pile.

So I come back to the initial question. What makes writing good, not just “modern?”

2006-10-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

Hey, I’m a writer. I’m used to rejection and abuse, right? Last night one of my stories was savaged by class and teacher, yet I’m still walking upright. Maybe it’s self-flagellation, my punishment for thinking I can communicate my feelings and thoughts—and that anyone else really gives a fig for either.

Which brings me to my narcissistic nature. Why do I feel I must share my life with others? Walter Wellesley Smith said that being a writer is easy: "You just sit down and open a vein." But what makes me think anyone is interested in the color of my blood? Everything I write has a grain of me in it, every character contains elements in myself that I find either admirable or repulsive. So how can someone else critique those qualities? How can they critique me?

The answer, of course, is that as a writer, I must write not boring realities but the universal truth that is somewhere within those realities. And, one may argue, it’s not what is told, but how it is presented. Therein lies the secret to good writing: does it touch the reader, strike a chord, make him or her say, “Say, I’ve been there” or, more often, “Geez, I’ve never been there, but I’m glad I had a glimpse of it!”

And so the learning process continues . . .

2006-10-07T07:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve always felt that life is ruled by the simple rule of balance. Plus and minus. Filling spaces. The great Mandala. Lately, I’ve really been experiencing that up and down fortune. A month ago I was at a really low point. My dad had died, and I had recently been “downsized” from my job. I was at odds with one of my kids. Some major bills were pressing, with no writing work in sight. I was frightened and disoriented, immersed in the anathema of depression and daytime television.

That lasted about a week. Bored by my self-pity, I began concentrating on my true love: writing. I wrote some short stories, cleaned up some poems, wrote essays, revamped my Web site.

Feeling better, My mind de-fuzzed, I started sending out stuff—including notes to editors that I was ready for more work, please. I signed up for substitute teaching, stopped panicking, and started enjoying my free time, reading, playing with my dog, mowing the lawn, walking. And you know what? Time passed, and things got better.

In September I started my second grad school term, got called for a long-term sub (more on that another time!), received three assignments from one editor and some freelance work for my old company. My son and I talked everything out, I paid the bills. Suddenly, there aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done!

How did I do it? I waited. Life continues, the wheel turns. No one dies without some sort of karmic balance—debts paid, love accepted. I do believe that.

But even more than waiting, I worked. Hard. I kept in contact with friends and family who love and support me no matter what stage I am at. And I didn’t give up. I didn’t lie down and wallow in self-pity, but kept going, convinced that things would get better if I worked to make them better.

Yes, life has a balance, and while we will always have lows, we will also always have highs. What some people don’t understand is that sometimes the highs need help. The Wheel of Life does turn, but the ups come easier if we give it a little push by having friends, faith, and, most important, the willingness to work.

2006-09-21T18:19:00.000-07:00

Once there was a constancy to the world. As children, we knew, among other truths, that the sky was blue, milk was good for you, that rain was pure, and that there were nine planets in our solar system.

But as we grew, we learned that the sky really wasn’t blue, that it was just the filter of our atmosphere that bent the sun’s light to make it look so. We learned that milk could contain Strontium-90 or BGH, and that rain was actually water vapor formed around dirt, and it could be acidic. That left the planets. There was some comfort in knowing that at last there was an indisputable constant. Shakespeare wrote of our unalterable fates that lie in the stars. The Greeks and Romans placed their gods in the skies as a reminder of constancy.

No more. Pluto has been demoted, and our personal universes reel. If there is no constancy in our stars, even, then what hope is there for the rest of our world?

2006-09-09T07:15:00.000-07:00

Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice: Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.
–Catherine Drinker Bowen

What makes a writer? Until my 9th grade English teacher said to me, “You are a writer,” I had never put a label on my love of language. Now, as I can look back, I can see the early signs that indicated my bent.

First, there was my love of story and my desire to know “what if?” In first grade, we were required to read out loud, one at a time. I would finish reading the entire book while a classmate struggled with “See Spot run.” Bored, I would daydream: What if Dick ran away and Jane had to find him? What if Spot got his head stuck in the rain spout? What if . . .

Then, there was my love of looking at maps, spending hours poring over them, imagining what it would be like to live in Philadelphia, in Biloxi, or in Salem, both Massachusetts and Oregon. I needed to explore the streets, familiarize myself with each area. I wanted details, the minutiae, to feel as though I were a part of the place. Now I realize it is part of my need to live more than my own life, to explore the similarities of human experience from different locations, to wonder how my own life would have been different had I lived in a major city rather than a small town.

I started my first novel when I was about nine. My protagonists were twin girls who lived on a farm in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin, a name I thought thoroughly romantic and obviously in some remote locale. (It’s actually a suburb of Milwaukee. I got it mixed up with the town of Menomonie, which is in the far northwest portion of the state.) But the writing was fun, and I moved to poetry, song parodies, and short stories, winning awards and accolades along the way. I read everything I could get my hands on, spent hours considering the impact of a book and how it was achieved. I learned to shape ideas, and, more important, to revise.

I had to write. Everything I heard on the news, every bit of gossip at school, every conversation caught in passing, started my mind whirring with possibilities. That old “what if?” continues to dominate my mind, causing me to twist words and situations that happen to me, shaping them into a new angle, a new viewpoint, a new ending. And that sometimes worries me.

I am afraid that I am submerging my own life into that of fantasy, that someday when I am very old, I will remember not the realities of my life, but the mutations I developed from them. This is not an unfounded fear. Year ago, my grandmother, senile in her 90’s, would talk about a second son, telling us detailed stories about him, even though we knew he had never existed. (Our family is very close, and very well documented. There are no secrets.)Yet he was obviously real to her in her dementia. Where in the recesses of her mind did he come from?

I wonder if she was a writer at heart, inventing stories, changing facts, exploring wisps of dreams. I wonder if the need, the propensity to write, is an inherited, genetic talent. Did I get it from my grandmother? If so, the beat goes on.

My son loves looking at maps.

2006-08-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

It’s been a rough week, but I'm better now. After losing my job, I went through all the steps of grieving—Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and, finally, Acceptance—but there’s another one that isn’t discussed: rejection. I discovered that losing a job is a lot like getting dumped by a lover.

The parting words were reminiscent to the ones you hear when ending a relationship: “We have to downsize” (It’s not you, it’s me), “We’d like you to work with us on a freelance basis” (I hope we can still be friends), and “We’ve prepared a severance package” (You can keep the ring).

Just like with ending a relationship, losing my job was a painful rejection. Now, I’m used to rejection—I am a writer, after all—but getting a form letter from an unmet editor is a lot different than looking at the faces of people with whom you’ve worked for years and having them give you the old heave-ho. It hurts a LOT more, and really sets you wondering about yourself: If I had been a better employee, they wouldn’t have cut my job. What did I do wrong? How should I change?

The fact is, I did nothing wrong. I was good at my job, I worked hard, produced excellent work, and for the most part, I felt I earned my salary and then some. I simply have to accept the fact that some things just don’t work out and move on.

I feel better about things now, and am not bitter. After all, I will still get some freelance work from my old company, and now I have more time to write my own things. I have a great support group (my husband, my kids, my friends) who constantly remind me that I am a worthwhile person. So that’s it. No more whining.

On to better things.

2006-08-17T15:31:00.000-07:00

Lost my job today.
Kinda.
The word used was "downsized." I'll continue as a freelancer on a part-time basis. Trouble is, my bills are full-time, and I'm on the "upsize" of 50! Finding a new job means entering very frightening, very unfriendly territory. To make matters worse, while my age had nothing to do with my situation now, that age is against me as I look for a different job. That's why I decided to go for my Master's in the first place: to make myself more marketable. But I don't know if it WILL make any difference.

My age and experience is the very reason I SHOULD be VERY marketable. I can do it all, because I HAVE done it all. But no one wants it anymore.

I have an enormous number of skills--skills I acquired through education, work, training, and life lessons. Skills acquired by learning on the job, keeping my ears and mind open, and working my fanny off. It's too bad I couldn't have had all that experience and learned knowledge when I was 25. I have them now, and have a good number of years left in which to put them to use, but employers still want someone young. They just don't understand that seasoned workers are the best.

Their loss.

2006-08-08T06:41:00.000-07:00

Why is a degree so important? I have more than 30 years of solid experience in writing and editing. I have proven myself over and over again, taking on new challenges and meeting them. I have lived many lives, and have learned from each, building on prior experiences, piling success on success. I have proof of these triumphs: photographs, framed awards, letters of gratitude from former students, employers, and supervisors. Yet if I want to share that knowledge on a higher level I must have that piece of paper with the words “M.A.” emblazoned on them like proof of my worth.

What does that degree really tell about me?

Does it mean I had the tenacity to see a project through? I have raised two children into productive, conscientious citizens. Doesn’t 26 years of dedicated parenting says something for my tenacity? As a teacher, I have been sad witness to parents who gave up, and we have all have seen the products: angry, sullen, destructive young people who never had models to show them how to persevere. Doesn’t my parenting success indicate something about my ability to follow through?

Does it mean that I showed the ability to learn? What about the variety of projects I have taken on in my life, challenges where I had to learn a new skill, all with successful outcomes? Do I need to take a class to show my cognitive abilities?

Does it mean that I was willing to lay out a great deal of money to attain an end? (Consider the costs of parenting.)

So what does a degree actually mean? Wait, I am getting to the point.

Our nation has become obsessed with objective assessment these past few years. What does all this testing actually show about our students? Teachers teach to the test, some even giving practice tests to help the students do better, taking time from general studies of ideas to studies of facts. What exactly are these students learning? That the results are more important than the process? That independent thinking won’t get you where you want to go?

How can children enjoy learning when they lie under the sword of Damocles? What about the joy of exploration, the thrill of understanding and questioning concepts? Where is the excitement of exploring one’s own ideas and how they connect with others—or how they differ? Can a prospective employer to look at scores and determine if a student will make a good employee? Are traits such as personality, reasoning, sensitivity, determination, cleverness visible through test scores?

Memorization is not learning. Learning is understanding the facts and then applying them in a generalized setting. Learning is opening the mind to new and strange ideas, changing preconceived notions, expanding the limitations of understanding. While I am thoroughly enjoying the challenges of grad school, I am saddened that it is a necessity—a test, a means to an end—rather than simply the end itself.

2006-07-25T12:34:00.000-07:00

I have learned much. It’s only been a short six weeks, but I have learned perhaps the greatest lesson I will ever know, and that is this: that I have much to learn.

When we are young, we think we know it all. I have to constantly remind myself not to argue with my son because he is so sure of himself and his views. I was in his position once, young and invulnerable. What has changed is that his surety in his ideas is not based on some archaic idea of black and white, good or bad, moral or immoral. He has more tolerance for imperfections and finds blame (and glory) in both sides of every issue. His truth is malleable. He will be a good lawyer.

I remember black and white: the world was divided into good and evil, into right and wrong. When did we discover those gray areas that creep insidiously like so much night fog curling around our feet?

Tom Brokow wrote of the Greatest Generation, the one that went through the Depression and World War II, as having the greatest courage and stamina. But they had it easy: the enemy was as clear-cut as a swastika. Today the enemy can be anyone, anywhere, can look just like “us.” Even those of us who denounce any bias walk a little more cautiously nowadays. Life is uncertain—that’s been proved again and again.

Knowledge is the key. The phrase “know thy enemy” has taken on a new meaning—not just to recognize our “enemy,” but to understand him. The more we learn about the world, about others, about how people think and how they become what they become, the closer we can move to peace.

But I digress. Back to my main point: School is great!

I look forward to discovering even more how little I really know, and then working to begin remedying the situation.

2006-07-17T12:18:00.000-07:00

I am Arnold Horshak.
At least I feel like him sometimes in class, like I want to shoot my arm up and blurt out, “Ooo, ooo!”

My classmates are like any students, reluctant to shout out answers and opinions, perhaps from the fear of being deemed "wrong," although I don't think this class has that stigma. Maybe they just have better manners than I. Not that I know all the answers, but I always have an opinion or a suggestion. Yet, being a teacher myself, I remember how awful it was to have one student always giving the answers. So I try to restrain myself. The instructor asks a question, calls for an opinion. I wait. Silence. I try, I really do. But I also know how awful it is for a teacher to be greeted by silence. I wait. Then my hand goes up, or my mouth exclaims.

My grandfather always said (I’m sure it wasn’t original) that when you are talking you are not learning anything. I listen. I am learning. I am trying, Mr. Kot-ter.

2006-07-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

Last night's class was a workshop: we discussed our first written assignment, a blank verse meditation poem a la Browning or Marlowe. It was exciting, interesting, and terrifying!

Everyone in the class is so nice, it made it a little easier. I was very proud of my poem--I had worked hard on it, struggling to make the meter work, to get some good images, and, most important, to put across my main idea. I was nervous, of course, about getting feedback.

Perhaps most interesting was my attitude going in--a true indicator or how I have changed since the last time I was in school. In the past, I would have been expecting everyone to simply rave about my perfect poem. I would have been crushed by the simplest suggestion for change. Now, I WANTED that suggestion. I wanted to learn how to make it better. I find myself much more open to criticism now. Why? Perhaps 30 years as a (often rejected) freelancer has toughened my hide. Perhaps 26 years as a mother has destroyed any illusions of perfection I may have had about myself (those kids are a tough audience). Perhaps simply living has pared and honed my self-image so that I am more able to accept criticism and suggestions. Whatever, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing how I could make my poem better, and intend to use what sounds right and not what doesn't.

I must admit, though, that I still have difficulty in such a situation. As an actor, I try to establish the best face as people are explaining their ideas. It seemed to me that we are all afraid of hurting the other person, so we couch our remarks with positives. That's a good thing. As a teacher and as a theater director, that's the method I always use. But that presents the alternate problem of how to receive those remarks. I found myself putting on my deer-in-the-headlights look, which I hate. I just wanted to assure my critiquer that I was open to his or her remarks, and not at all offended.

Anyway, on to the poem. The assignment was a blank verse poem (iambic pentameter, no rhyme), 25-30 lines (or thereabouts), presenting a situation that prompts a meditation. Here is the version I handed in:

South Shore, Chicago

The sidewalk buckles, yielding to the roots
Of gnarled trees that line the unkempt way
And loom above, their shadows specked with light.
Dry autumn breezes blend the city filth
With leaves that blow in swirls of russet dust.
My visit here is not a good idea;
The neighborhood has changed much since the days
when we could safely walk the streets at night,
But the synagogue is there, still square and stone,
Rejecting devastation, flouting time.
The changes have been many through the y ears:
The door that held a star now holds a cross,
And splintered boards replace some stained glass panes.
The choir begins rehearsal. Music plays.
Then rhythmic prayers blend with autumn wind,
To grace a graceless world with love and peace.
The soaring voices shift within my head,
Combining with the shards of long ago:
Of bending nasal tones and plaintive chants,
Sounds both I and the building recollect.
The dance of language lingers, drawing deep
Of autumn nights and prayers half-understood,
Where concrete and ethereal combined.
this sidewalk bore the tread of family feet.
One slab still bears my cousin's print, and mine,
Beside our names scrawled in a childish hand.
My mother, coming down the alley, saw,
And scolded us: "On Shabbos you do that?"
Then, laughing as she wiped our hands of shame,
She kissed our foreheads, lovingly as God.
So many years I walked the bidden path,
Behind strong walls of generations bound
By sound and soul, by threads of love and faith.
Though much is gone--my mother, youth, the chants--
that canon, even sleeping, stays alive.
The music of this place, today and then,
Combine as one sweet melody of hope.
The sound is strange, the purpose new, and yet
Not new, for faith is faith, in any form.
A policeman stops. He asks me if I'm lost,
And offers me a ride to somewhere "safe."
My car is near: I know it's time to leave,
And the road that brought me here will take me home.

2006-06-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

My apprehension was mainly for naught. I feel very comfortable in grad school, in part because of the teacher, in part because of the other students, in part, perhaps, because I am older and wiser than I thought, yet so much younger than I appear.

My class, “Writing Across Genres,” appeared at first glance to be a snap. Heck, I TAUGHT poetry—studying it should be review! Well, surprise, surprise! There’s a ton of information out there beyond the normal high school exploration. I am learning words I never came across before, methods and styles that surprise me with their seeming simplicity yet deep complexity. And that’s just form, not even content!

The most exciting thing is that I feel I am learning to think differently, to look at poetry—and, indeed, at words in general—with a new and fresh eye. How exciting that even at my advanced age, life can still surprise me!

There’s a line in a song from the show Pippin that I try to live by:

“I believe if I refuse to grow old,
I can stay young ‘till I die.”

I think surprise is what keeps a person young. When we are just starting out in the world, every day is an exciting surprise, a gift, a party. Somewhere along the way, we tend to lose that excitement in the day-to-day reality of making a living, raising a family, losing loved ones, and blindly barreling along our own road to that dark unknown. I think as long as I can keep a sense of wonder, I can keep a youthful outlook.

That’s what I loved about teaching high school: the daily surprises presented by my students. I could watch their highs and lows, listen to their delight and pain, and myself experience their contagious celebration of life. I especially love directing young people in theater. To see the light come on in their eyes when they suddenly grasp a concept is nothing short of thrilling. To watch them grow before my eyes feeds my need to share, to nurture, to encourage. I have letters from students thanking me for giving them a little knowledge, a little push, or a little courage. Little do they know that they give me back so much more than I gave them.

Lesson: Keep up the wonder, keep up the hunger. Look to tomorrow as a challenge and enjoy each surprise, and you will never grow old.

2006-06-20T07:51:00.000-07:00

I’m here. Actually, by the time I post this, I will have been there: my first class.

I left home early because I wasn’t sure how bad traffic would be in the city—it wasn’t, and I arrived on campus with 40 minutes to spare. So after being reassured by a campus cop that I wouldn’t be ticketed for parting in a permit-only lot, I began walking around the campus a bit. It’s a beautiful place, with many heavily-shaded green areas. One was right in front of K Hall, where I would have my class, so I sauntered around, trying to soak in the educational ambiance.

I walked over to a large concrete bench, mottled from time and weather. Just below the seat were engraved the words “Class of 1896.” A sudden emotion washed over me, and I sat down. I was connected, if only peripherally, to the past and to the thousands of students who had sat on that bench before me. I was bound to and part of the primordial need to learn and grow. The feeling was nearly overwhelming, and I wanted to grab every student who passed me, to shake them and demand that they understand how lucky they were to be here, and how important their place was. I wanted to shout, “Seize every opportunity, enjoy every minute!”

I didn’t, of course. Instead, I strolled around the mini-quad, enjoying the sounds of the trees, the smell of the lake, the cool depth of the shade. There were several sidewalk paths throughout, and it gave me satisfaction to see how they, too, were as interconnected as our lives. Everything fit, the stars were aligned, it was right.

It was time. I entered K Hall.

2006-06-16T14:50:00.000-07:00

Today I am a co-ed. Or is that word outdated, along with all my memories of college life? Once more, I am on the periphery.

I went to get my student ID card today, in preparation for starting classes next week. I remember ten (TEN?!?) years ago, one glorious spring day, taking my son to visit the same school so he could examine it and possibly apply. He was not enthusiastic, but I pushed, and he became more interested in the school as we followed the chirpy little tour guide who extolled various school advantages. Even more than piquing his interest, however, I found myself longing to be a student again, specifically at this school.

Well, long story short, my son went there, and loved it. And now, finally, I, too, will be able to call myself a student at that very university. Yet, somehow, it’s different: the feeling, I mean. As I walked through the student union after receiving my new ID with the regulation horrible photo, I still felt slightly out of place.

I am older, wiser, and my student years will not include frat parties, midnight movies, or pizza runs. I won’t be singing in the dorm shower at 3 a.m., nor will I eagerly check the school entertainment programs for suitable weekend fare. Instead, I will be commuting an hour-and-a-half each way, twice a week, to reach my goal, rushing home so I can get some sleep before getting up for work in the morning.

No, it won’t be what I felt stirring that gorgeous spring morning, but then again, how could it be? I was longing for the carefree, exciting life of a student, exploring new ideas, expanding my mind, meeting different kinds of people. But that’s for a youth I’ve long since passed. Of course, I will still be exploring, expanding, and meeting, but by the very token of my “advanced” years, it will be with eyes not so much open in wonder as wary in experience. My children are grown, but I still have responsibilities—a job, a house, a husband, and a dog, all of which need tending. Now I have an end in sight: a degree that will allow me to expand my opportunities for job advancement, along with a personal satisfaction that I can still “cut it.”

So it won’t be the same. It never can be. But on the plus side, I also have a lot more to offer this time around. I have experiences unmatched by youth. And I have opinions, forged by time. My mind is not the gooey mess it once was, sucking up ideas without first sorting them out. This time I will not go gentle into that good class; no, I will speak my mind as I accept new challenges. Not only will I absorb new ideas, I will know how to analyze them, shape them, change them and come up with something entirely new.

So I am still on the edge, the outside looking in. But this time, I am ready to fly.

2006-06-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

I'm starting grad school.

That might not sound so earth-shattering, but I am 54 years old, and nearly 35 years out of college. It is a big deal.

I applied as a lark--figured I'd never be accepted (it's a VERY prestigious school!), egged on by my husband who intoned, "The kids are done. It's YOUR turn! At least apply." Well, I did apply, and I got in, and now I face 2-1/2 years of classes taught by people younger than I, facing a new "peer group" (also younger, with a lot more brain cells!). Yes, it is frightening, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that I have certain advantages.

First, and maybe foremost, I am old enough to really appreciate education. I didn't the first time around--just thought of it as a means to an end. Now it is something for ME, and is the end itself. My grandfather (from the Old Country) always emphasized the importance of education to us, saying, "It's one thing that can never be taken away from you." Spoken by one who once had everything taken away, those words had an impact. I am heartened by the thought that even if I don't make it all the way to that terminal degree, I will have something more than I had before, something that will increase my personal worth.

Second, I have the advantage of experience. I am working toward a Master's Degree in Creative Writing, and I have years of developing into the person I am. As a writer--as a student of writing--that experience is invaluable.

Third, most important and perhaps tied to the first reason, I am studying something I truly love. I love to write. There, I said it. I have never had writer's block, I have never gone cold at the sight of a blank page. Indeed, there is too much to write, and too little time. I have written articles, poems, plays, songs, novels, short stories, reviews and columns. I taught writing in a high school, and now I write for a living, developing children's writing materials. I love, love, love to write. I hope these traits don't desert me when I am faced with assignments and deadlines, but I am confident I will get through it all. I want it, and I believe that if you want something badly enough, you will get it.

Time will tell. Meanwhile, wish me luck. I start next week.