Nothin' Ain't Worth Nothin' But It's Free*

I've seen a lot of Facebook posts about "women get it free"--then there's usually a URL that takes us to a site that promises all sorts of free goodies. All one has to do is sign up. I must reiterate what I've suspected for many years: beware of "free" offers--anything free is worth what you pay for it. Here are a couple of paragraphs from the user agreement at worldwide web dot get it free dot us:

"...you generally provide: your name, mobile phone number, zip code, e-mail address, postal address, date of birth, gender, user name, password and other registration information; (b) transaction-related information, such as when you make purchases, respond to any offers, or download or use applications from us; (c) information you provide us when you contact us; (d) credit card information for purchase and use of the Site; (e) information you enter into our system when using the Site, such as contact information which is clearly labeled at the time you submit it; and (f) information you post on our Site." (PLEASE note two things: "mobile phone number"--which renders your cell phone available to marketing calls; "credit card information for purchase and use of the Site"--Yikes.)

They then explain how your personal information is used: "We do this by transferring, licensing, and/or sharing your personal information with Our Companies and hope you will be interested in the marketing materials and/or promotions with which you are presented. Our Companies also transfer, and/or share your personal information with unaffiliated list brokers, affiliate marketers, and/or companies that want to advertise other products and/or services. Once a third-party obtains your personal information, its subsequent use is controlled by the business practices of the third party, which is beyond our control."

Is it free? Or are we being persuaded by the idea of getting something for nothing, especially when those "somethings" are products that have been pushed at women for decades--makeup (myriad ways to make us look "better, more desirable"--whitening toothpaste, anti-aging cream, lipstick, "intimate lubricant" (pink, of course); soap (laundry & bath products); chocolates and "get in shape" CDs; baby products; craft books & supplies, etc. All offers end with an exclamation point.

I'm done. This is my warm-up writing for the day.

 

*Title is from "Me and Bobby McGee" by Kris Kristofferson.

Ray of Light

I'm slowly going through my correspondence with Ray, my friend of 26 years, upon his death on October 20, 2012. On his Death Certificate the cause should be: "His body couldn't keep up with his spirit."

Age in years, 67. Age in wisdom, infinite. Here's a letter he wrote about writers' block or being in a fallow place (as my teacher calls it). This is the letter he wrote, with one sentence deleted because it was too personal:

AJ—

   My impulse is to try and fix your reality for you. And, of course, I know better.  (Pretend I did not suggest the following.)

   Sit down and write about not wanting to sit down and write. Write about not knowing why you don’t feel like writing.  Write about not knowing why or what it is that’s the problem.  Write about not wanting to know. Write about not caring. Write about not writing about not writing about not writing about not writing.

   Pretend that you’re going to throw it away.  And so, write about what you do not want to write about.  No one has to know.  Decide to write poorly.  Choose to write inefficiently.  Lead with your chin. Botch it. Fuck it up purposefully.  Wallow in it.

   Misspell words.  End sentences with prepositions.  Dangle infinitives.

   Write about the child, sitting there refusing to participate. Hold your breath until you get your way.  Lay on the floor, kicking and screaming.  Be ugly and vituperous [sic—vituperative].  Tell God to eat a lump.

   Trick yourself.  Write letters.  Write as if you were hiding in letter writing.  Write about this powerful broad who rocks with intelligence and a capacity for caring, and is merely eaten up with low self-esteem, wasting away there, ego-tripping.  Banality itself.

   Write about not wanting to write about not wanting to write, and about why you don’t want to write about that.  Or throw that out and start a good science fiction story with lots of sex in it.  Wherever the bouga-bouga is hiding—whatever is taboo—wherever is the darkest shadow, write about that.  Fill it with light.  Radiate light into the darkness of your angst.  See the situation being illumined with the light of your very resistance to seeing your way to the solution.  See the resistance as the right course of action.  See the light increasing to the level of functional blindness.  The whole planet of beings, surrounded with so many suns they are all blinded by the light, and having to develop sense organs within their skin to compensate for being blinded by the light; beings who are intuiting through their skin, who feel beyond the wall of light and sense the entire universe, past, present, future.  Be the earthling receiving their signal.  What are they saying to earth?  And who are you to be receiving these intergalactic images?  What drama does that set up?

   Have a set back.

   Imagine someone taking advantage of you, and then kick their ass from here to Botswana.  (Write about the carnage of it all—the trail of blood and guts, bone and hair, snot and piss stains…)

   Write about two or three pages an hour.

   Don’t write.

[Signed] An early Happy Birthday!

                 Ray

Making Myself Up

A couple of weeks ago I shared time in the car with a friend who is also a writer and has a tremendous influence on my own writing. We were going to a fancy-dress event, and I'd taken great pains choosing what I would wear, tending to my hair, jewelry, and makeup. When I picked up my friend, I noticed how nice she looked, and for the first time in the 25 years of our friendship also noticed she had on no makeup. My skills at observation aren't bad...I love to write about details, and I tell my writing students to use details to further plot, setting, character, often citing Chekhov's gun: "If there's a gun in act one, it must go off by act three." Or some variation on that notion. I pride myself on my powers of observing and remembering details. So how is it that I'd never noticed that my friend doesn't wear makeup?

She and I are the same age, so it's not as if a youthful countenance makes it unnecessary for her to paint her face. Her skin is lovely, but not flawless. She uses her best feature to her advantage: a full head of curly black hair that she keeps dark, but allowing the gray at her temples to remain untouched. That evening I asked her if she'd ever worn makeup, and she said, "Oh, I experimented with it in college, but it always made me feel clownish, so I never used it again."

Lately, in addition to having new thoughts about makeup, I'm questioning pocketbooks (I will get to the point of this blog in a minute or ten, I promise). An acupuncturist who's been seeing me for shoulder pain has recommended that I rethink carrying a pocketbook...my go-to purse is a Baggalini, designed by flight attendants for ergonomics and efficiency. I carry it backpack style, one strap over each shoulder. It's filled with what's always felt requisite: in two outer zippered compartments are a calendar, a notepad (for random creative thoughts), a comb, a bib (don't ask) and a handkerchief; inside are 10-12 credit-card thingees (eg, three credit cards, my AAA card, my social security card, my library card, etc.), a change purse, checks (to keep from having to carry a checkbook), my cell phone, business cards in a fabric case, 3 pens, a small tube of hand lotion, a cloth for cleaning my glasses, folding money, bookmarks to advertise my novel, and my makeup bag (zipper closure, about 4x4", crammed full).

How do men do it? How do they survive without pocketbooks? For one thing, they don't carry as much as women do, and for another, they have pockets (many years ago I stopped buying slacks without pockets, but even still, my pants only have two, not the four that men count on, and I seldom have a pocket in my blouses). And for a third and most important thing, most men don't wear makeup (I know a couple of them who do, but I won't go there).

Back to my friend who wears no makeup...she carries a huge pocketbook that is almost always crammed full, so it's not true that giving up makeup will free me of pocketbooks.

TWO WEEKS LATER: For at least two weeks now I've gone without makeup, with one exception--a reading last week...in the car I put on makeup without even thinking about it. When I realized what I was doing, it was too late, and I shrugged off my feelings of having in some way let myself down. My title for this post came to me in several variations: "Making Myself Up" and "Making Up Myself" and "Making Up" and "Pretending." I'm keeping the first one, because it most conveys what's behind this ramble...when I cover my skin with concealer (aptly chosen Mad-Ave term), when I define my brows, thicken my lashes, add blush to my cheeks and color to my lips, I've made up someone I am not.

For now, I'm facing the world with what assets I have: good skin, clear blue eyes, hair that behaves most of the time. There's something honest about not enhancing myself, and I plan to continue this experiment until I have a definite take on how I want to live from now on (with or without my concealers).

I have a new Baggalini--a hip bag, no weight on my shoulders. Most important of all, it's too small for makeup.

Back to High School

Last week in Clinton, NY, I returned to high school. First in two senior creative writing classes taught by the phenomenal Deb Hepburn, Clinton High School. Her energy and enthusiasm are amazing. I don't know how old she is, but I think she's close to a contemporary of mine, and I'm 71. I'm tall-ish (5'9") and she's short-ish (I'm guessing 5' even); I'm bountiful and she's trim...physical polar opposites, but meeting her was like meeting an old friend. If I could be a high school teacher, she'd be my model. When she welcomes a visitor to her class, she rings gongs, over and over. I never saw her sitting down, and when she walks, she bounces. She introduced me to the kids and stepped back, letting me take over. The only time she spoke up was on the one or two occasions when no one was coming up with a question for me...she prompted her students and they responded immediately to that. When I appeared at Barnes & Noble the next day, she bought 21 of my books because she wanted to give them to her students. I'm still stunned by her generosity and dedication. She wants to teach until she drops!

My second experience with high school students was having dinner with the ABC Scholars of Clinton and the Mohawk Valley...seven young men: two freshmen, one sophomore, two juniors, and two seniors; four are from New York City, one from New Jersey, one from Connecticut, and one from Massachusetts. Their newsletter says: "Since its inception in 1972, A Better Chance of Clinton & the Mohawk Valley has graduated more than ninety young men from Clinton High School. They have continued their education at colleges such as Clarkson University, Cornell University, Columbia, Fordham, Gettysburg, Hamilton, Ithaca, Macalester, MIT, Princeton, Rollins, Siena, St. Lawrence University, University of Rochester, and Union." The boys are welcomed into the community and assisted by students from Hamilton College. I had such a great time with them. Had one humorous exchange as a result of a generation gap: A young man introduced himself, "Hi, I'm O'Neal." Simultaneously we spoke...he said, "Like Shaquille" as I said, "Like Eugene." I know who Shaq is, but had to laugh when he said, of Eugene, "Who?" So a conversation ensued in which I explained about my love of O'Neill's plays.

Then, over the weekend after I returned to North Carolina, I went to Banner Elk for a reunion with a senior high group I was adviser to at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Charlotte from 1977 to 1979. Those “kids” are now in their late 40s and early 50s...what a remarkable experience.

And yesterday I went to a senior honors English class, via Skype, at Charleston High School in Charleston, IL, with another fine teacher, Dawn Drake. I met her when she put a review of my book on youtube...another example of the internet bringing people together. The 40 minutes of Skype in her classroom sped by. The students had read the first four chapters of my book and their questions were great.

Bottom line is this. After my experiences in Clinton, NY, Banner Elk, NC, and Charleston, IL, I want more time with high school students! And would love it if I could follow up with them 30 or 40 years later…of course, given my current age, that’s not going to happen. But I never again want to deprive myself of their curiosity, their vitality, their thoughts and ideas. They live in a world of the future that I can never inhabit, as Kahlil Gibran notes in the poem, “Children,” in THE PROPHET:

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Bogue Inlet Beach Tree

How lonely, how confusing it must be for one small cedar that now sits on a slight rise ten yards north of ocean’s edge at high tide, taller than anything on the vast beach for a thousand yards to the east, west, and south. Though it seems firmly seated, the certainty of rootlessness makes mockery of the green branches. How can something so young and sturdy in appearance be already dead, sap no longer flowing, without memory now of the forest or⎯for certainly this is why it appeared on a beach in early January⎯of ornaments that glittered on it just a week ago? By surmise and evidence its trunk was severed at least a month before its debut as a beach ornament.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But how do I know whether it died when its roots were cut? Maybe it retains sensibility until all green goes brown and needles blow away, leaving only stick limbs and gray trunk.
And why does it amuse me to anthropomorphize a tree?

Three days after Christmas I saw a car on the causeway with a tree tied to its roof, heading onto the island instead of to some landfill on the mainland. I thought the tree was destined for the dunes, where it would serve as part of a groin⎯I read somewhere that beach authorities devised that fine idea for the disposal of Christmas trees. Maybe that was the car that brought this small cedar onto the island for one last upright fling⎯certainly it cannot long withstand the wind at ocean’s edge, and it will die of loneliness, if not of a gale, lacking as it does the companionship and shelter of its fellows.

Was thought given to where the tree would be left? It is planted naturally enough, trunk in the sand, but was that a conscious decision? Did the prankster who left it there by the water consider that it might be even funnier⎯odder⎯if the tree were put into the sand top down, with its trunk exposed as my butt would be if I were planted on the beach head-first? No, I think the intended joke was just a lone Christmas tree (for surely that’s what it was, for one glorious month of its several years of life) on an isolated beach. And whatever its orientation is to the sun, that, too, had to be random, for I can’t imagine any thought was given to what exposure would be most comfortable for the tree. Does something so perfectly round have a side? And if so, is its east side now facing north? Are branches that used to greet the dawn now astonished by sunsets?

Is it at all comforted by parasites remaining within it, bugs or worms who’ve clung to it steadfastly through uprooting and decorating and bells and music and oohing-ahing over gifts and squabbling at dinner about who will do the dishes or why Grandma doesn’t like Uncle Joe? Do sandpipers occasionally sit on it and remind it of the robins and wrens and crows and cardinals that flew in and out of its branches, or the occasional nest that housed a feathered family for a brief season?

If a tree falls at the edge of the sea and no one is there, does it cry out? Does it yet retain enough life that it can hear the incessant moan of the offshore buoy, a forlorn mourning every minute or so, always the same monotonic call, day in and year out?

The circle drawn in the sand around the little tree seems to say “keep your distance”⎯did whoever abandoned it intend that it should have its own DMZ, a delineated territory five feet in diameter, on a beach that is itself a demilitarized zone fifteen miles from the daily mortar practice at nearby Camp LeJeune? The constant booming, at a safe distance, almost comforts me in its thunder-like rumblings. Does the tree feel the trembling of the shore that follows every detonation? Does it fear a misjudgment by rookie marines with the power to blow up an offshore island just for practice?

Or is my supposition totally wrong? Did someone bring a sapling, complete with root ball, and plant it as a solitary sentry at ocean’s edge, just to see what would happen?

Well, little cedar, while you stand you have solitude and a great view. Maybe seagulls love your berries. Who am I to know?

A Month at the Beach to Write...

A promise from On Writer’s Block by Victoria Nelson, made in the context of giving oneself permission not to create, to take a planned break from writing: “The rewards of such deliberate procrastination, of complete and trusting surrender to the needs of that other side of the self, have been summed up by Eugene Delacroix: ‘When one yields oneself completely to one’s soul, it opens itself completely to one.’”

I'm writing about this promise because of what I’ve experienced here during my month on Emerald Isle, in the context of being both a writer and a compulsive overeater in recovery. My food has been highly imperfect, bordering on bingeing from time to time; I have gone to bed and waked without an alarm clock (for a month!); I have spent most of a month alone (except for 3 days with two of my sons, and 3 days with a good friend). I've been swimming at the local gym 26 of my 28 days here, but am a stranger at the gym, hardly ever have interaction with anyone else as all of us there are so intent on working out. During this four weeks of solitary time (not isolation, such a huge difference) I’ve learned that I am a social animal. I crave contact with others. This past Thursday night I went to a 12-step meeting in a nearby town where I knew I’d be just one of two or three (there were three of us), but went because I so craved contact with others. Many days it’s been just me and the ocean, the birds, occasional beach walkers and their dogs, and the bulldozer that's been dredging the beach (for ten days now, though it's blessedly quiet this morning...sitting out there on the strand, sleeping, and I find that I no longer dread it roaring to life...I can work or not as I choose, regardless of the dozer...MUCH progress). If I hadn’t left home to come here, I wouldn’t have read the three books on writing: The Faith of a Writer by Joyce Carol Oates, For Writers Only by Sophy Burnham, and On Writer’s Block by Victoria Nelson. I’ve learned something important from these books, ie, that all writers go through what I’ve been going through (even Stephen King, who writes 363 days a year, and who is fast becoming the most widely published and—one assumes—most widely read writer in history). All writers go through the dark night of the soul when the words simply won’t come. And in spite of the block, the dozers, the loneliness, I’ve written 50 pages in the past month here...mostly one or two at a time.

Last night as I lay in bed contemplating today—my last full day here—I found that in spite of yesterday’s tearful homesickness, I have mixed feelings about going back home. Yes, I want to see my husband and our cat, Stilla (my husband reports that Stilla is not herself, that she wanders the house in what seems discontent, demands much more of him than she usually does. I’m not surprised, she’s not getting her nightly scratching, isn’t falling asleep curled up next to me—and I’ve missed that more than I can say...wish I could communicate that to her). So I'll wrap up this messy post by saying I've survived and thrived here at the beach, and I go back home with about 105 pages of my new book. I'll wait a month or so (hope I can do that) before I read over the 50+ new pages. I can judge my work so harshly, and I think that letting the new stuff cool down will soften the way I regard what I've done here.

Was the month here worth it, and was it worth the $2000 or so it cost me? Beyond doubt, yes. Even with the bulldozers grating away at my peace of mind, the erratic helicopters flying by, rattling my little house in their wake, the distant thunder of bombs from the nearby military base, I've had more peace of mind here in a month than I get in a year at home. So the trick is going to be to take some of the peace with me as I wend my way across Eastern North Carolina tomorrow.

I'm not going to edit this...seems important to just let it flow and let it be as it came through my fingers.

My Book Will be Published--Now What?

Now that I know my book will be published—a two-book deal is on the table—what my writing teacher promised (see my 1019/07 post) has come true...I've started writing again and it's good. I’m well into the second novel, the one I couldn't write for almost two years. Told a friend yesterday that as long as I was in labor with the first one (before it was accepted for publication), I was unable to get pregnant with the second one. Conception, pregnancy, labor, delivery, these threads are in my writing; I've stopped trying to escape them...so it's no wonder that my metaphor about writing follows this theme.

I have the perfect place to write, the BEST computer—built for me by my supportive and mostly quiet husband, a decent cat who makes few demands, and a life filled with other writers. But for two years the words wouldn't come...not true...I started half a dozen things, but what wouldn't come was going into depth, getting to the point where I could do what I love most, which is revise. The characters were one-dimensional, the settings under-developed, the plot invisible. What I've come to accept about my writing is that I start—ALWAYS—with character. If I will just keep plugging away, regularly, those people I've created will share their stories. (On the paradox of creating characters who then take off on their own, doing things differently from what the writer planned, heading in unimagined directions, saying surprising things in unique voices, Anne Lamott commented: “What’s a god to do?”)

During a writing retreat in a friend’s two-room cabin—so remote I could skinny dip al fresco—I spent two weeks with no TV, no phone, no internet/email, rolling in words. Various sections of my novel covered the dining table, the couch, the floor. It came to life and I began to see that it was good. Above the kitchen sink in the main room was a wooden plaque: “Trust the Process.” In that two weeks I came to grok the full meaning of that statement (so common it’s become psychobabble). Now, three years later, I know that my job is to trust the process of writing. That an outline would kill my creativity. (I once knew a writer who mapped out her plots, putting them on pages she taped to a nine-foot wall, floor to ceiling; she wrote by that map, seldom deviating from the outline. The product was wooden, event-driven, almost indigestible. When she gave up the outline, her writing soared.)

So I’m into my second novel, pregnant again, with a mandatory gestation period of no more than two years (yikes! the first one took eighteen). But what I’ve learned in all that time has my fingers flying on the keyboard; I’m a mature, confident writer, filled with joy that my life has become what I’ve longed for it to be: I make my living writing and teaching writing. Amazing!