If you're interested, I also contributed to this anthology, compiled by the same editor:
Ah heck, let's go for broke. I'm in this, too:
Thursday, October 1, 2009
P.S. What I Didn't Say
Today is release day for the latest anthology to which I contributed. Here, I get to say what I never got to say to a former friend who dumped me.
If you're interested, I also contributed to this anthology, compiled by the same editor:
Ah heck, let's go for broke. I'm in this, too:
If you're interested, I also contributed to this anthology, compiled by the same editor:
Ah heck, let's go for broke. I'm in this, too:
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
on bad design
I don't know when I first published this. I do know that we got a new DVD player and are free of that damn remote.
----
Today’s topic for discussion is design.
Not cool design. Bad design. Specifically, bad industrial design—the kind of design that makes you aware of design, since unless industrial design is intrusive, we barely notice it.
I will start with bad design as it relates to my morning toilette.
In my shower is a metal corners shelf. I bought at Bed, Bath and BEYOND (insert echo here). It’s got a tension pole and we store our shampoo and conditioners and multiple rusty disposable razors on it. The other day, I noticed large unsightly black flakes in my tub. The tension pole was rusting and large pieces were flaking off. You would think the designers would have considered the possibility that a shower shelf would get wet. I mean, I’m not a professional, but….
Out of the shower, on to the sink. For some reason (so they can sell more toothbrushes) toothbrushes have undergone a renaissance. I can only imagine the toothbrush-related problems that inspired this ...toothbrushing-related carpal tunnel syndrome? Toothbrushes flying out of people’s hands, causing injury to spectators? Fortunately, new-model toothbrushes are ergonomically designed, with all sorts of strategically placed bulges and grips. Toothbrush holders, however, have yet to catch up with these new-generation toothbrushes. The bulbous toothbrush handles don’t fit in holder holes.
Clearly, this industry needs a confab to discuss the future of bathroom organization. Our toothbrushes lie willy-nilly around our sink and that annoys me.
Time to dry my hair. My hairdryer has an on-off switch right where my hand wraps around it, so that I’m continually accidentally turning it off mid hairdry. It’s a small annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. Ugly words are spoken.
And now, to dress. I found a pair of wide-leg low-ish slung pants at Ann Taylor that fit so well, I bought three pairs in different colors. The pants fit wonderfully but they require a belt. So, why no belt loop in the center back of these pants? They have loops on the sides, but in the back, where you really need to keep things in place—nothing. Was it really worthy saving the fraction of a cent it would have cost to put another belt loop on when you consider the hours of irritation this causes your customers?
That concludes the grooming part of our discussion, but now I would like to give a special award to the remote control for our Memorex DVD player which, I learned from customer service, is “for some reason” not compatible with any universal remotes.
This remote is about 1.5 inches wide by 4.5 inches long. Tiny. It has itty-bitty buttons marked with itty-bitty type that, even if I fetch my Walgreen’s old lady magnifying glasses, is hard to read. I have to stand under a light and peer.
In addition, there is nothing intuitive about the placement of the buttons. The on-off button is on top, the open-close button is somewhere in the middle, the pause button is nowhere near the play/start/rewind buttons.
And, oh yes, the remote is the only way to access menu buttons on the DVD player, so that’s not an option.
Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I think of things I’d like to say to the rocket scientist who designed this remote.
----
Today’s topic for discussion is design.
Not cool design. Bad design. Specifically, bad industrial design—the kind of design that makes you aware of design, since unless industrial design is intrusive, we barely notice it.
I will start with bad design as it relates to my morning toilette.
In my shower is a metal corners shelf. I bought at Bed, Bath and BEYOND (insert echo here). It’s got a tension pole and we store our shampoo and conditioners and multiple rusty disposable razors on it. The other day, I noticed large unsightly black flakes in my tub. The tension pole was rusting and large pieces were flaking off. You would think the designers would have considered the possibility that a shower shelf would get wet. I mean, I’m not a professional, but….
Out of the shower, on to the sink. For some reason (so they can sell more toothbrushes) toothbrushes have undergone a renaissance. I can only imagine the toothbrush-related problems that inspired this ...toothbrushing-related carpal tunnel syndrome? Toothbrushes flying out of people’s hands, causing injury to spectators? Fortunately, new-model toothbrushes are ergonomically designed, with all sorts of strategically placed bulges and grips. Toothbrush holders, however, have yet to catch up with these new-generation toothbrushes. The bulbous toothbrush handles don’t fit in holder holes.
Clearly, this industry needs a confab to discuss the future of bathroom organization. Our toothbrushes lie willy-nilly around our sink and that annoys me.
Time to dry my hair. My hairdryer has an on-off switch right where my hand wraps around it, so that I’m continually accidentally turning it off mid hairdry. It’s a small annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. Ugly words are spoken.
And now, to dress. I found a pair of wide-leg low-ish slung pants at Ann Taylor that fit so well, I bought three pairs in different colors. The pants fit wonderfully but they require a belt. So, why no belt loop in the center back of these pants? They have loops on the sides, but in the back, where you really need to keep things in place—nothing. Was it really worthy saving the fraction of a cent it would have cost to put another belt loop on when you consider the hours of irritation this causes your customers?
That concludes the grooming part of our discussion, but now I would like to give a special award to the remote control for our Memorex DVD player which, I learned from customer service, is “for some reason” not compatible with any universal remotes.
This remote is about 1.5 inches wide by 4.5 inches long. Tiny. It has itty-bitty buttons marked with itty-bitty type that, even if I fetch my Walgreen’s old lady magnifying glasses, is hard to read. I have to stand under a light and peer. In addition, there is nothing intuitive about the placement of the buttons. The on-off button is on top, the open-close button is somewhere in the middle, the pause button is nowhere near the play/start/rewind buttons.
And, oh yes, the remote is the only way to access menu buttons on the DVD player, so that’s not an option.
Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I think of things I’d like to say to the rocket scientist who designed this remote.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
a new you!
It's kinda like the old you, minus accessories. Not so exciting, really.
It's been a long time since I mocked Dillard's. But this one touched my heart.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
alzheimer's and other forms of dementia
I learned so much while working with Audette Rackley, of The Center for BrainHealth on the book I Can Still Laugh: Stories of Inspiration and Hope from Individuals Living with Alzheimer's. The 13 individuals with dementia whom we profiled, and their caregivers, were warm and friendly, smart and determined, open-hearted and unforgettable.
The book profiles members of the Stark Club, an intervention program at the CBH named for the charismatic Temple Stark, one of the people whose story we tell (and who is quoted in the book's title). The CBH focuses on strength-based intervention--in other words, they figure out what skills and strengths people with dementia retain and help them do those things as long as possible. For example, because Temple retained his ability to read for a long time, the CBH arranged for him to read to children at the Callier Center for Communication Disorders, also part of the University of Texas at Dallas. The children, many of whom had hearing impairments, adored Temple, who joked that it was a perfect set-up, "Because I can't read and they can't hear." It was this sort of humor and good nature from Stark Club members that helped make what could have been a depressing writing job inspiring instead.
The Stark Club brought together a group of people with early-onset Alzheimer's--they developed the disease in their 50s and 60s, while they still held jobs, had children in college, looked forward to continuing long, active lives into retirement and beyond. The club met on a regular basis for guided discussions, led by Audette and graduate students, slowed down and targeted to allow everyone to contribute. This helped maintain members' cognitive functioning as long as possible and helped stave off the isolation and depression that exacerbate the symptoms of dementia.
But the book is not just about the meetings; it also is about the individual members, each of whom had his or her own strengths. The chapters look at the many ways they lived active and engaged lives for as long as possible. As Audette said to me at our first meeting about the book: "When you've met one person with Alzheimer's ... you've met one person with Alzheimer's." People with dementia are no less individuals after the disease than they were before.
What the CBH hadn't really expected when they formed the Stark Club was the intense and very important bonding that developed among the members, who understood each others' challenges and fears in ways even the most compassionate and knowledgable caregivers never could. Support groups for caregivers are common, but members of the Stark Club (as well as the caregivers) became a tightly knit group. They grew to rely on each other for emotional support, understanding, and fun--they had parties, outings, a couple of the couples even took a cruise together.
The members of the Stark Club were all very successful professionals before the disease struck. I was terribly nervous about my first Stark Club meeting, but that anxiety dissipated the minute I entered the room--it was like entering a boardroom while a conference was in session. The conversation was more free form, but everyone in the room contributed to his or her ability and the warmth and camaraderie were palpable.
This book, self-published by the CBH, was actually released last year, but it was kind of unattractive and expensive and I was a little reluctant to promote it. But now it has been redesigned and the price is right and I am proud and happy to spread the word. I learned tons from the members of the Stark Club and you can too. We included not only inspirational profiles, but also practical tips and advice.
Many of the people in this book are no longer with us but, as the title says, they wanted their stories to bring hope and inspiration to others facing this terrible, still-incurable disease. I think of all of them often and feel grateful for having had the opportunity to meet and work with them. In fact, many of the lessons they taught me about living with Alzheimer's apply to life in general--lessons about living in the moment and appreciating the here and now.
Working with Audette was also a great pleasure--she taught me so much, our writing styles were compatible, and she was lots of fun.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
love songs i love
First published November 15, 2007
--
A friend sent me a video clip of The Beatles singing "‘Til There Was You" (quick--what Broadway musical is that song from?) and it got me thinking about a live performance of "This Boy" we have on a Beatles documentary. The first time I watched it, I melted right off the couch. A young friend was visiting at the time and laughed at me and at my very special lovable moptops—she found them “goofy.” But the Beatles were, absolutely, my first true love and I will never see them as anything but transcendent.
That John, Paul and George could step up to a microphone and produce harmonies so exquisite is a miracle. Plus, this is one of those songs I liked to imagine they were singing just to me. I have watched that performance many times and it makes me swoon every time.
So this got me thinking about other love songs that touch a soft spot for me and "You're Gonna Lose That Girl" comes to mind immediately. (Does that count as a love song? No matter.)
I could probably list a dozen Beatles songs that should have been written for me but let’s give others a chance.
Steve Earle’s "Fearless Heart," if only for this line in the chorus: I got me a fearless heart, strong enough to get you through the scary part.
Goofy as it is, "Make Believe," from Show Boat.
Also goofy, Billy Joel’s "She’s Got A Way About Her."
James Taylor’s "Something in the Way She Moves." (James Taylor was great before he became Raffi for adults.)
Simon and Garfunkle’s "Why Don’t You Write Me." (Obscure, I know, but I grew to love it back when I was in summer camp pining for a boy back home.)
"Planet of Love," which was written by a Nashville songwriter guy named Jim Lauderdale but which Mandy Barnett sings the crap out of. You can listen to it on her website—look under Listening Room and the 1996 album Asylum.
Hm, and while we’re in the country vein, "My Secret Flame" by The Mavericks.
I also like a sassy little version of "Slow Boat to China" that Bette Midler and Barry Manilow do. Maybe that’s more lust than love, but it makes me tingle even with those two cartoon characters (and I say that with affection) singing it.
I could probably go on and on but I’ll stop here. Tell me your swooners. (And next time, we’ll do heartbreak songs.)
--
A friend sent me a video clip of The Beatles singing "‘Til There Was You" (quick--what Broadway musical is that song from?) and it got me thinking about a live performance of "This Boy" we have on a Beatles documentary. The first time I watched it, I melted right off the couch. A young friend was visiting at the time and laughed at me and at my very special lovable moptops—she found them “goofy.” But the Beatles were, absolutely, my first true love and I will never see them as anything but transcendent.
That John, Paul and George could step up to a microphone and produce harmonies so exquisite is a miracle. Plus, this is one of those songs I liked to imagine they were singing just to me. I have watched that performance many times and it makes me swoon every time.
So this got me thinking about other love songs that touch a soft spot for me and "You're Gonna Lose That Girl" comes to mind immediately. (Does that count as a love song? No matter.)
I could probably list a dozen Beatles songs that should have been written for me but let’s give others a chance.
Steve Earle’s "Fearless Heart," if only for this line in the chorus: I got me a fearless heart, strong enough to get you through the scary part.
Goofy as it is, "Make Believe," from Show Boat.
Also goofy, Billy Joel’s "She’s Got A Way About Her."
James Taylor’s "Something in the Way She Moves." (James Taylor was great before he became Raffi for adults.)
Simon and Garfunkle’s "Why Don’t You Write Me." (Obscure, I know, but I grew to love it back when I was in summer camp pining for a boy back home.)
"Planet of Love," which was written by a Nashville songwriter guy named Jim Lauderdale but which Mandy Barnett sings the crap out of. You can listen to it on her website—look under Listening Room and the 1996 album Asylum.
Hm, and while we’re in the country vein, "My Secret Flame" by The Mavericks.
I also like a sassy little version of "Slow Boat to China" that Bette Midler and Barry Manilow do. Maybe that’s more lust than love, but it makes me tingle even with those two cartoon characters (and I say that with affection) singing it.
I could probably go on and on but I’ll stop here. Tell me your swooners. (And next time, we’ll do heartbreak songs.)
Monday, September 7, 2009
my life, circa 1970s
First published 5/9/07
If only I’d known then how cool my life was, I’d have taken better notes.
I kept a diary every night from the time I was 12 years old until I was 28. I’ve been rereading my diaries from the 1970s, when I was a teenager in New York City. While many of the entries are hilarious in the way of adolescent profundities and trauma, they also are a microcosm of a time and place.
Some samples:
April 6, 1972
I’m going to see the Allman Brothers, Edgar Winter and Dave Mason.
April 16, 1972
Jesus! What a concert! Berrie Oakley is absolutely fantastic! They’re so good!
November 12, 1972
Berry Oakley is dead. And thus endeth the Allman Brothers. That’s awful.
(I’m going to skip a few particularly self absorbed years here)
April 20, 1976
Tonight was Max’s (Kansas City). It was OK. (One of many, many references to Max’s—although I rarely bothered mentioning the bands I saw. Mostly I wrote about boys I had crushes on.)
April 30, 1976
I went to see Monte Python tonight. The show was great.
May 1, 1976
We went back to the City Center. Got all the rest of the (Monte Python) autographs. Terry Jones picked me out of the crowd and spoke to me. He was really nice.
July 4, 1976
I had a shitty bicentennial July 4th.
July 21, 1976
A pleasing evening. I came home & watched Nadia Comaneci win the gold medal. I idolize that girl.
August 25, 1976
We went to see the Laughing Dogs at CBGB tonight. (Again, one of many references to what I usually called “GBs”)
Sept. 20, 1976
The most amazing thing happened today! Robbie Gordon came to my counter. (I was selling designer handbags at a long-gone departments store called Franklin Simon.) He was looking for a friend of his, but when I recognized him he stayed and talked to me for a couple of minutes. He’s leaving, left, actually, the Tuff Darts. I can’t believe it. No more Darts. They were just on the verge of being incredibly famous, too.
Sept. 22, 1976
It is actually Thursday morning. We stated at C.B.G.B. all night. The Eels didn’t record until 5:00 a.m. (The Eels was my brother’s band.)
Nov. 26, 1976
I saw Ella Fitzgerald tonight. She was great. I am really glad I stuck around. In the beginning, when Oscar Peterson and Joe Pass were playing, I was so depressed I felt like just walking out. But Ella was worth it.
Dec. 23, 1976
Nick’s at a hot shit party tonight running the sound. Barbra Streisand’s new movie’s opening night party. I’m so jealous.
Jan. 7, 1977
I saw “A Chorus Line” tonight.
Feb. 3, 1977
I saw the Ramones tonight. They totally knocked me out. I may go see them tomorrow night, too. They were just great.
March 11, 1977
I saw the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” with Monte tonight. It was the best fucking movie. I have to take Sue to see it. I loved it.
March 18, 1977
I saw “Rocky Horror” again. I love that movie. I lust after Tim Curry. I want to see it again tomorrow night.
March 25, 1977
I had a shitty day at work but saw “Rocky Horror” tonight.
April 1, 1977
Saw “Rocky Horror” at the Waverly.
April 2, 1977
Sue and I took Oliver to see “Rocky Horror” at the New Yorker.
April 7, 1977
Tomorrow night should be great. First Laughing Dogs, then “Rocky Horror.”
April 22, 1977
Sue & Lynn & I made a really good dinner at Lynn’s house & then walked over to the Waverly and saw “Rocky Horror.”
April 27, 1977
I saw “Annie Hall” tonight.
July 13, 1977
I am in Denver, midway through my first cross-country trip—three girls in a baby blue Plymouth Duster.
There’s a blackout in New York tonight. I feel so far away. A NY disaster & I’m not there. An American chopper was shot down over North Korea. War peeks up. Scary.
July 25, 1977
Tonight we went to the Whiskey a Go Go to see the Dictators. I really like that club. The people are completely trendy, but entertaining. The Dictators were great.
July 28, 1977
We hung around the Tropicana today and watched the punks. The Dictators, the Nuns and the Ramones were all staying there.
Aug. 26, 1977
I saw an absolutely spectacular Talking Heads/Laughing Dogs gig tonight. Amazomatic.
Oct. 17, 1977
I saw the Talking Heads tonight with Dave & Chris. C.
Dec. 27, 1977
Nada much to say. I bought “Young Americans” and a John Lennon album.
Feb. 11, 1978
I went to the Ice Palace with Monte & Bert tonight.
Feb. 19, 1978
Annie Golden is on the cover of the “News” magazine. It’s so strange to start seeing my contemporaries make it.
Feb. 25, 1978
It’s 5 a.m. and I feel exhilarated. I had a wonderful night. First I went to Jerry’s party, which was dull, & I left before his band played. Then I went to CBGB where I just watched everybody go by & cruised and got cruised & fended off pick-ups and listened to “The Shirts.”
April 11, 1978
I saw Crystal Gayle tonight with Alice & Bruce.
April 20, 1978
I went to CBGB to see Jerry’s first gig as a Void Oild
May 20, 1978
I went to The Bottom Line tonight to see Lou Reed. It was a less than satisfying experience. I waited in line to pay seven dollars to be mashed in with the rest of standing room to see a mediocre show that started 3 hours late.
Well, that’s enough for now. I sure had fun.
If only I’d known then how cool my life was, I’d have taken better notes.
I kept a diary every night from the time I was 12 years old until I was 28. I’ve been rereading my diaries from the 1970s, when I was a teenager in New York City. While many of the entries are hilarious in the way of adolescent profundities and trauma, they also are a microcosm of a time and place.
Some samples:
April 6, 1972
I’m going to see the Allman Brothers, Edgar Winter and Dave Mason.
April 16, 1972
Jesus! What a concert! Berrie Oakley is absolutely fantastic! They’re so good!
November 12, 1972
Berry Oakley is dead. And thus endeth the Allman Brothers. That’s awful.
(I’m going to skip a few particularly self absorbed years here)
April 20, 1976
Tonight was Max’s (Kansas City). It was OK. (One of many, many references to Max’s—although I rarely bothered mentioning the bands I saw. Mostly I wrote about boys I had crushes on.)
April 30, 1976
I went to see Monte Python tonight. The show was great.
May 1, 1976
We went back to the City Center. Got all the rest of the (Monte Python) autographs. Terry Jones picked me out of the crowd and spoke to me. He was really nice.
July 4, 1976
I had a shitty bicentennial July 4th.
July 21, 1976
A pleasing evening. I came home & watched Nadia Comaneci win the gold medal. I idolize that girl.
August 25, 1976
We went to see the Laughing Dogs at CBGB tonight. (Again, one of many references to what I usually called “GBs”)
Sept. 20, 1976
The most amazing thing happened today! Robbie Gordon came to my counter. (I was selling designer handbags at a long-gone departments store called Franklin Simon.) He was looking for a friend of his, but when I recognized him he stayed and talked to me for a couple of minutes. He’s leaving, left, actually, the Tuff Darts. I can’t believe it. No more Darts. They were just on the verge of being incredibly famous, too.
Sept. 22, 1976
It is actually Thursday morning. We stated at C.B.G.B. all night. The Eels didn’t record until 5:00 a.m. (The Eels was my brother’s band.)
Nov. 26, 1976
I saw Ella Fitzgerald tonight. She was great. I am really glad I stuck around. In the beginning, when Oscar Peterson and Joe Pass were playing, I was so depressed I felt like just walking out. But Ella was worth it.
Dec. 23, 1976
Nick’s at a hot shit party tonight running the sound. Barbra Streisand’s new movie’s opening night party. I’m so jealous.
Jan. 7, 1977
I saw “A Chorus Line” tonight.
Feb. 3, 1977
I saw the Ramones tonight. They totally knocked me out. I may go see them tomorrow night, too. They were just great.
March 11, 1977
I saw the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” with Monte tonight. It was the best fucking movie. I have to take Sue to see it. I loved it.
March 18, 1977
I saw “Rocky Horror” again. I love that movie. I lust after Tim Curry. I want to see it again tomorrow night.
March 25, 1977
I had a shitty day at work but saw “Rocky Horror” tonight.
April 1, 1977
Saw “Rocky Horror” at the Waverly.
April 2, 1977
Sue and I took Oliver to see “Rocky Horror” at the New Yorker.
April 7, 1977
Tomorrow night should be great. First Laughing Dogs, then “Rocky Horror.”
April 22, 1977
Sue & Lynn & I made a really good dinner at Lynn’s house & then walked over to the Waverly and saw “Rocky Horror.”
April 27, 1977
I saw “Annie Hall” tonight.
July 13, 1977
I am in Denver, midway through my first cross-country trip—three girls in a baby blue Plymouth Duster.
There’s a blackout in New York tonight. I feel so far away. A NY disaster & I’m not there. An American chopper was shot down over North Korea. War peeks up. Scary.
July 25, 1977
Tonight we went to the Whiskey a Go Go to see the Dictators. I really like that club. The people are completely trendy, but entertaining. The Dictators were great.
July 28, 1977
We hung around the Tropicana today and watched the punks. The Dictators, the Nuns and the Ramones were all staying there.
Aug. 26, 1977
I saw an absolutely spectacular Talking Heads/Laughing Dogs gig tonight. Amazomatic.
Oct. 17, 1977
I saw the Talking Heads tonight with Dave & Chris. C.
Dec. 27, 1977
Nada much to say. I bought “Young Americans” and a John Lennon album.
Feb. 11, 1978
I went to the Ice Palace with Monte & Bert tonight.
Feb. 19, 1978
Annie Golden is on the cover of the “News” magazine. It’s so strange to start seeing my contemporaries make it.
Feb. 25, 1978
It’s 5 a.m. and I feel exhilarated. I had a wonderful night. First I went to Jerry’s party, which was dull, & I left before his band played. Then I went to CBGB where I just watched everybody go by & cruised and got cruised & fended off pick-ups and listened to “The Shirts.”
April 11, 1978
I saw Crystal Gayle tonight with Alice & Bruce.
April 20, 1978
I went to CBGB to see Jerry’s first gig as a Void Oild
May 20, 1978
I went to The Bottom Line tonight to see Lou Reed. It was a less than satisfying experience. I waited in line to pay seven dollars to be mashed in with the rest of standing room to see a mediocre show that started 3 hours late.
Well, that’s enough for now. I sure had fun.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
please protect me from motormouths
Originally posted September 29, 2006
----
“It’s like you have a sign on you that says, ‘Tell me about it,’” Tom marveled.
Something about me attracts people with way too much to say.
I went to a new hairdresser yesterday. He was a lovely young man who did a great job on my hair. However, his monologue started the minute I sat in his chair and didn’t stop until I fled the salon two and a half hours later. Not only that, but he talked fast and he mumbled, forcing me to strain to hear him.
He talked about his techniques, his talents, his artistic aspirations, his job. He left me alone for a while to let my color set up, but soon returned and started poking at my head and talking again. While cutting my hair, he frequently paused to gesticulate with scissors and comb. By the time I got out of there, my head hurt and I was so stressed as to be a danger to myself and others in rush hour traffic.
This was first thing on my mind when I woke this morning and I may choose not to return to the salon because of it. I have ill will towards the guy—perhaps he was nervous about a new customer or felt obligated to entertain me—but I can’t endure that again.
For some reason, I find it impossible to extricate myself from one-sided conversations. I’m a sitting duck for chatterboxes. And chatterboxes seem to know that. I’m a magnet for them.
In similar situations, Tom has a way of staring into the distance and becoming nonresponsive until the chatterbox falls silent. But I do all the wrong things—I make eye contact, encouraging noises and murmur appropriate responses—even as I become increasingly desperate for the words to stop. For the love of god. Please.
Being a good listener and having an ability to draw people out are skills necessary for a reporter. I just don’t know how to put people back again when I’m done.
It’s difficult for me to imagine producing that many words in a stream. I can hold up my end of a conversation and love lively discourse. But I am bumfuzzled by people who can stretch an anecdote to 20 minutes, with digressions to god knows where, around the block a few times, downtown and uptown and crosstown before bringing it home--and then take a deep breath and start again. When a chatterbox starts in on me like that, I’ve lost the battle before it even starts. I go conversationally limp.
My policy is: Say what you have to say and then stop talking. Sometimes I even have to force myself to finish sentences, if I feel the gist has already been aired.
I like the short form, in conversation and writing. That’s one reason I enjoy blogging. (Maybe this is my way of getting my monologue in—but I’d prefer a conversation. Yes, that’s a hint.)
A standard-length newspaper column is 700 words. Love it. David Remnick has a 20,000-word profile of Bill Clinton in the current New Yorker. I couldn’t write that. I’m not even sure I can read it. I’d rather read a book (average 60,000 to 80,000 words). I’d rather write one, too. At least the reader knows what he or she is getting into. Getting ambushed by a 20,000-word magazine piece is like a surprise phone call from a long-winded friend.
And now, I think this blog has gone on too long. So I’ll let you go.
----
“It’s like you have a sign on you that says, ‘Tell me about it,’” Tom marveled.
Something about me attracts people with way too much to say.
I went to a new hairdresser yesterday. He was a lovely young man who did a great job on my hair. However, his monologue started the minute I sat in his chair and didn’t stop until I fled the salon two and a half hours later. Not only that, but he talked fast and he mumbled, forcing me to strain to hear him.
He talked about his techniques, his talents, his artistic aspirations, his job. He left me alone for a while to let my color set up, but soon returned and started poking at my head and talking again. While cutting my hair, he frequently paused to gesticulate with scissors and comb. By the time I got out of there, my head hurt and I was so stressed as to be a danger to myself and others in rush hour traffic.
This was first thing on my mind when I woke this morning and I may choose not to return to the salon because of it. I have ill will towards the guy—perhaps he was nervous about a new customer or felt obligated to entertain me—but I can’t endure that again.
For some reason, I find it impossible to extricate myself from one-sided conversations. I’m a sitting duck for chatterboxes. And chatterboxes seem to know that. I’m a magnet for them.
In similar situations, Tom has a way of staring into the distance and becoming nonresponsive until the chatterbox falls silent. But I do all the wrong things—I make eye contact, encouraging noises and murmur appropriate responses—even as I become increasingly desperate for the words to stop. For the love of god. Please.
Being a good listener and having an ability to draw people out are skills necessary for a reporter. I just don’t know how to put people back again when I’m done.
It’s difficult for me to imagine producing that many words in a stream. I can hold up my end of a conversation and love lively discourse. But I am bumfuzzled by people who can stretch an anecdote to 20 minutes, with digressions to god knows where, around the block a few times, downtown and uptown and crosstown before bringing it home--and then take a deep breath and start again. When a chatterbox starts in on me like that, I’ve lost the battle before it even starts. I go conversationally limp.
My policy is: Say what you have to say and then stop talking. Sometimes I even have to force myself to finish sentences, if I feel the gist has already been aired.
I like the short form, in conversation and writing. That’s one reason I enjoy blogging. (Maybe this is my way of getting my monologue in—but I’d prefer a conversation. Yes, that’s a hint.)
A standard-length newspaper column is 700 words. Love it. David Remnick has a 20,000-word profile of Bill Clinton in the current New Yorker. I couldn’t write that. I’m not even sure I can read it. I’d rather read a book (average 60,000 to 80,000 words). I’d rather write one, too. At least the reader knows what he or she is getting into. Getting ambushed by a 20,000-word magazine piece is like a surprise phone call from a long-winded friend.
And now, I think this blog has gone on too long. So I’ll let you go.
Monday, August 31, 2009
on visiting india
Please check out my latest story on World Hum, titled The Bucket and the Cup. It's all about how India kicked my traveling ass.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
cute geeks in love
This one dates to May 2007. I still like it.
I am so charmed by this little story of band geeks in love that I had to share.
I’m not sure what my favorite part is. That they were first and second chair oboists in their high school concert band. That their first date was dinner at ZuZu and their second was a lecture about Stravinsky (and Kiira, both times, had to be the pursuer). That Barry wowed her with conversation about one of his favorite pastimes: backgammon. Or that he finally popped the question at a rehearsal of her bell choir by putting the ring under her bell and that when she accepted, the rest of the choir “broke into a round of Ode to Joy.”
The photo is cute, too.
Mazel tov, Kiira and Barry.
I am so charmed by this little story of band geeks in love that I had to share.
I’m not sure what my favorite part is. That they were first and second chair oboists in their high school concert band. That their first date was dinner at ZuZu and their second was a lecture about Stravinsky (and Kiira, both times, had to be the pursuer). That Barry wowed her with conversation about one of his favorite pastimes: backgammon. Or that he finally popped the question at a rehearsal of her bell choir by putting the ring under her bell and that when she accepted, the rest of the choir “broke into a round of Ode to Joy.”
The photo is cute, too.
Mazel tov, Kiira and Barry.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
blogging, introversion, and me
Because three blogs aren't enough...
I'm now blogging about introversion on the Psychology Today website. Please visit, comment, make me look good!
The Introverts Corner.
I'm now blogging about introversion on the Psychology Today website. Please visit, comment, make me look good!
The Introverts Corner.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
wisdom
My first few years of blogging were on MySpace which, I realize, has become so annoying and impossible to navigate, that those posts have become essentially inaccessible. So I have decided, for my own entertainment and yours, to go back through my MySpace blog archives and revisit some evergreens. It's the lazy gal's blogging, but maybe it will juice me up to find more new stuff to say.
We'll start with some of the motivational mantras I use to get me through life.
One of my favorite motivational quotes comes straight from the mouth of Ricky Martin. I found it in the newspaper and had it on my bulletin board for years. I no longer have a bulletin board by my desk but the quote is seared into my brain and still comes in handy. He said, “You have to dare to suck in order to be great.” Yes, Ricky Martin, yes. You are so correct. That may be my life's guiding mantras, but some others that I use regularly:
Suit Up and Show Up. Not only is it the name of one of my other blogs, it's also the best exercise advice EVER. No matter how reluctantly I suit up and show up, once I start the workout, my heart says “Yippee!” and I start enjoying myself. Of course, these days the pleasure lasts only about 30 minutes before I lose interest but that’s where the axiom “Better than nothing” kicks in.
Apply Ass To Chair. A corollary to Suit Up and Show Up. People often tell me, “I have an idea for a novel…screenplay…article.” The only way writing gets done is if you sit down and write.
That’s Not a Problem It’s a Message. I’m thinking about this today because this morning I received an email from a friend that is so full of negativity and anger (not directed at me), it startled even me, the Queen of Surly. I see in this email a road map to a happier life if she can see the messages in the problems.
Life Is Too Short To Work For Assholes. I’m a prima donna. Everyone should be. When an employer treats me disrespectfully, I take a hike. There’s another job around the corner.
That Which Does Not Kill Us Makes Us Stronger. This is a musty old saw but I live by it. Hard times are hard but they put steel in your spine and, I think, teach us compassion.
Do Other Things. You think Ricky Martin is a silly source of wisdom? These words come from Jenna Elfman, who continued, “I don’t just act. It starts to feel like you’re digging into an open wound when you do the same thing all the time. It becomes achy, sore and tiresome.” I have to remind myself of this so that I get up from the computer sometimes and do things that don’t involve words.
Got words that get you through the day?
We'll start with some of the motivational mantras I use to get me through life.
One of my favorite motivational quotes comes straight from the mouth of Ricky Martin. I found it in the newspaper and had it on my bulletin board for years. I no longer have a bulletin board by my desk but the quote is seared into my brain and still comes in handy. He said, “You have to dare to suck in order to be great.” Yes, Ricky Martin, yes. You are so correct. That may be my life's guiding mantras, but some others that I use regularly:
Suit Up and Show Up. Not only is it the name of one of my other blogs, it's also the best exercise advice EVER. No matter how reluctantly I suit up and show up, once I start the workout, my heart says “Yippee!” and I start enjoying myself. Of course, these days the pleasure lasts only about 30 minutes before I lose interest but that’s where the axiom “Better than nothing” kicks in.
Apply Ass To Chair. A corollary to Suit Up and Show Up. People often tell me, “I have an idea for a novel…screenplay…article.” The only way writing gets done is if you sit down and write.
That’s Not a Problem It’s a Message. I’m thinking about this today because this morning I received an email from a friend that is so full of negativity and anger (not directed at me), it startled even me, the Queen of Surly. I see in this email a road map to a happier life if she can see the messages in the problems.
Life Is Too Short To Work For Assholes. I’m a prima donna. Everyone should be. When an employer treats me disrespectfully, I take a hike. There’s another job around the corner.
That Which Does Not Kill Us Makes Us Stronger. This is a musty old saw but I live by it. Hard times are hard but they put steel in your spine and, I think, teach us compassion.
Do Other Things. You think Ricky Martin is a silly source of wisdom? These words come from Jenna Elfman, who continued, “I don’t just act. It starts to feel like you’re digging into an open wound when you do the same thing all the time. It becomes achy, sore and tiresome.” I have to remind myself of this so that I get up from the computer sometimes and do things that don’t involve words.
Got words that get you through the day?
Sunday, August 23, 2009
P.S. What I Didn't Say (the book)
A little shameless self-promotion here ... this is a trailer for an anthology coming out October 1 in which I finally get to say something I never got to say. Other women wrote heartwarming letters to the special women in their lives, but I indulged in a final, satisfying, "fuck you" to one who did me wrong. Because that's what I needed most to say.
Friday, July 31, 2009
road trip songs
Want to buy any of the road-trip songs from my Flyover America road-trip music post? Here they all are, to preview and download from Amazon.com.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
trucks: a short story
Here's a new post for you, though it's an old story.
I've been thinking about this short story, written when I was in my 20s, because of the story about which I wrote this blog post, for The Introvert's Corner, my Psychology Today blog. Life imitates fiction. Like the character in this story, the author of Spiral Jetta thought she would find romance and poetry in a roadside bar but ended up sneaking out and fleeing when the exotic started feeling threatening.
Trucks
By Sophia Dembling
There was almost no one on the highway but Elizabeth and the trucks.
It was the dinner hour on a lonely stretch of Interstate between Arkansas towns. Elizabeth had been driving since morning. The beginning of the journey was receding, but its conclusion was still distant place at the end of a long road. She was neither here nor there.
It had been pretty easy. She got in the car and got on the road. A small street led to a big avenue, to a state highway, to the Interstate. But there she was struck by the distance she had to travel and the solitude of the journey.
The Interstates are a place in themselves, but that is no place. Designed for passing through, they allow no leisurely meanderings. Elizabeth was in new places before she even realized she had left the old ones. Signs led her from city to city, and in between was mostly billboards and nothing. The houses that sat by the Interstate were stripped of their intimacy, exposed to millions of passing eyes. Some had probably been cozy until the Interstate plowed through and changed everything.
This time of day, when the world is bathed in gray, always made Elizabeth feel as though she was dying -- as if it were not the light that was slipping away, but her life. Even with her headlights on, she made no impression on the darkness that descended on Arkansas. The radio was a tinny rattle. She had it on for company, but it made her feel lonely and far from home.
After the jilting -- an ugly, painful affair -- she had sold what she could, packed the rest in her old blue Chevette, said a few tearful good byes, and begun her journey. She thought it a brave adventure, when she didn't think it a foolish gesture or a cowardly retreat.
While the Chevette held the road with determination, the trucks possessed it with assurance. They shook the car as they passed, sucking it into their wind, pulling it faster and faster until it broke free with a shudder and the trucks sped off into the distance, points of red light disappearing into the twilight.
They moved with purpose, carrying America's products: Levis, Oreos and toilet paper, Jiffy Pop and Pontiacs and widgets and gears and cows packed nose to butt on their way to becoming burgers. Next to the trucks, Elizabeth felt inconsequential in her little car full of clothing and small mementos.
She could see nothing of the drivers but an occasional arm hanging out a window or a shadowy face in a side mirror.
She passed a roadside rest area where a dozen of the great machines were parked. Elizabeth imagined the drivers napping in the little bedrooms behind the cab. She wondered if they hung pictures of their wives and girlfriends inside. Thinking about it made her feel less nowhere. Even the road is somebody's home.
She turned the radio to a country-western station and sang along loudly with Johnny Paycheck, but her voice was immediately swallowed by the highway. She passed a sign welcoming her to Tennessee and imagined another chunk of land falling between her and who she had been.
As the last light faded, she was overtaken by a convoy of five trucks. They came up behind her suddenly, then ground and rumbled into slower gears as the road began to climb. Carefully arranging themselves on the road, they settled in at the speed limit, surrounding the Chevette. It was like driving in a school of buildings. Elizabeth's car seemed practically lifted off the road by the great wind and roar.
When they reached the top of the hill, the trucks reorganized with a series of signals, flashes, crunching gears and lane changes and Elizabeth lost them as they barreled down the other side. But climbing the next hill, she caught up with them and rode their wind again.
This went on for miles. It was a game, a dance. Elizabeth moved aside politely when a truck came up behind her, flashed her lights to let him know when he had cleared her and could move into her lane. Sometimes the drivers honked in appreciation and Elizabeth would wave, but she didn't know if they saw her.
It made her feel safe to see the same arms hanging out the window, the same license plates, the same "Wash Me," written in dust on the back of a truck with a load covered by a filthy blue and white striped tarpaulin. It was a mobile neighborhood.
An arm with a tattoo and blue shirt hauled a massive piece of machinery, or maybe it was just piece of a piece of machinery. It was round, it had valves and bolts. Elizabeth couldn't even guess at its purpose and the scale was almost frightening. She admired the muscles of the arm. The man who dumped her had slender arms and serious eyes and a million excuses for not making love. She didn't imagine the arm with the tattoo made or needed excuses.
A load of boat trailers was hauled by a beefy arm with hair that was turning white. The cab was painted with elaborate gold scrolls and identified the owner as Arthur "Bud" Uerlich of Tulsa, Oklahoma. A skinny arm with thick, black hair drove a moving van.
She imagined that from their high perches, the truckers could see only her legs. In shorts and barefoot, Elizabeth felt exposed. It seemed so intimate to be witnessed in her little pod, all her dials glowing.
And it was exciting. She was aware of the size of the trucks, the size of the men driving them, the size of the country she was crossing mile by mile in the deepening darkness. She had only ever driven as far as she needed and no further. She had only ever loved boys with skinny arms and no tattoos. She had only ever done the sensible thing.
Now she was Interstate. Everything was dark and fast and she was part of something big.
After about an hour, the trucks began a ponderous set of maneuvers that put them single file in the right lane. Elizabeth let them all pass and dropped in behind the last truck to see what they would do, as they were obviously working in unison. Ahead glowed neon announcing the Hi Way Truck Stop, a huge, brightly lit plaza that offered Food! Showers! Clean Restrooms! and Diesel. Dozens of trucks rested out front.
Elizabeth flipped on her signal, retaining her place behind the van as the line of trucks exited the highway. She would eat at the truck stop among the truck drivers. She was one with the road.
While the trucks pulled around to the side of the restaurant Elizabeth parked out front, next to the four or five other cars that had ventured into the land of the behemoths. Her legs were a little wobbly and the lights of the plaza were jolting after the soothing darkness of the road.
The walls of the dining room were decorated with hundreds of gimme caps bearing the names of trucking firms and horse ranches. Under the clatter of silverware and rumble of conversation, a small television droned on the end of the counter and a jukebox played Hank Williams, Jr. Along one wall was a row of huge booths with seats covered in red vinyl. Formica and chrome tables and chairs filled the rest of the room.
Elizabeth sat at a small table against the wall. There were just four other women in the room -- two waitresses, a fat middle aged woman sitting with a fat middle aged man, and a woman at the counter who might have been pretty before life got hold of her. Otherwise, the room was about half filled with men who surely belonged there.
A waitress with ratted blonde hair slapped a menu in front of Elizabeth.
"Coffee?" she asked, not looking up as she swabbed the table with a soggy grey rag.
"Please," said Elizabeth.
She opened the menu. Behind her, she could hear new customers entering.
"Hey, Texas" said a voice close behind her.
Elizabeth froze. What had revealed her point of origin? Then she remembered her license plate and looked up to see the tattoo, a grinning skull, standing by her table. Attached to the arm was a young man with a sunken chest, angular face, dark shock of hair and a day's growth of beard.
"You eatin' all alone?" said a bearded man in thick glasses and a cap.
"I reckon we'll sit right here and keep you company," said the tattooed man. "Since you been keepin' us company for so long."
He sat at a table across a narrow aisle from Elizabeth and the others joined him.
"My name is Ray," he said. "This here's Charlie." The bearded one grinned. "That's Bud," -- Arthur "Bud" Uerlich looked to be in his fifties and wore a sharp flattop. Another man, muscular and with mournful eyes and a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, walked up to the table. - "An' this here's Don," said Ray. Don sat at the table with the others.
The waitress returned with Elizabeth's coffee. "Are you boys bothering this young lady?" she asked.
"No we ain't," said Ray. "We're just gettin' acquainted."
"Well don't you bother her none," said the waitress. "What'll you have?" she asked Elizabeth, without displaying any sign of being an ally in the strangeness.
Elizabeth ordered a cheeseburger and the waitress turned to take the orders of the truckers. When she was gone, Ray turned back to Elizabeth.
"Where you goin', Texas?"
"New York."
"New York, eh? New York City?" Elizabeth nodded. "I been to New York City. That's a helluva place. A helluva place."
"A helluva place to git ripped off is what it is," said Charlie. "What you wanna go there for?"
"I'm moving there," said Elizabeth
"Where you moving from?" asked Ray.
"Dallas."
"Dallas," said Charlie. "Now Dallas is all right. I've had some real fine drunks in Dallas."
"I think," said Bud quietly, gaining the immediate attention of the rest of the men at the table, "I'd rather live in Dallas than New York City any day."
"That's the truth, Bud," said Ray, and the others nodded in agreement.
"It's awful crowded there," Bud continued slowly. "And I never seen any place so dirty."
"I've got a friend there," Elizabeth explained.
"Must be a special guy to get you to drive all that way," said Ray.
"It's a woman."
"You drivin' all that way for a woman?" Ray was incredulous.
"I thought it would be fun to live in New York," said Elizabeth. "She talked me into it. She needed a roommate."
"Don't seem like a very fun place to live to me," mumbled Bud.
"Ain't you got no husband?" said Charlie.
"No," said Elizabeth.
"You're pretty cute not to have no husband," said Charlie. "What's the matter with you?"
The men laughed.
"Maybe she don't wanna get married," said Don. "Maybe she likes being a free woman."
"I do," said Elizabeth. "I like being free."
"How free are you?" Charlie said, and the men laughed again.
Elizabeth, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the men, was relieved to see the waitress approaching with an aluminum tray heaped with food. She served up the dishes like a dealer flipping cards. The men's table was laden -- great steaming mounds of mashed potatoes, slabs of roast beef in thick brown gravy, bowls of yellow green broccoli, baked potatoes, hamburgers, eggs, bacon, grits, French fries, pie, coffee and Coca Colas.
Elizabeth bit into her cheeseburger. Ketchup, grease and blood oozed out, forming a small pool on her plate.
The men didn't say much while they ate. Don commented on the good weather they'd been having and the others grunted in assent. Bud gave his opinion on gun control, prompted by a news item on the television.
"Somebody comes after something that belongs to me," he said quietly. "I'm gonna blow his head off. I don't care what the law says."
Elizabeth ate silently. The burger had little bits of gristle in it and her soda was flat. The smell of the truckers' food was making her queasy.
"What you gonna do in New York City?" Ray asked through a mouth full of roast beef.
"I don't know. Get a job I guess," she said. "I sold clothes in Dallas."
"You work in a mall?"
"No. In a boutique on Greenville Avenue."
"Ain't that where all the bars are?" asked Don.
"There are bars there. There's other stuff, too. Stores. Restaurants."
"I just been to bars there," said Charlie. "Met a real nice girl there, once. Texas women is the best lookin' in the country."
"You drivin' that whole way by yourself?" asked Don.
Elizabeth nodded.
"You gonna drive all night?"
"No, I'll stop somewhere."
"Shoot," said Charlie. "You can stay with me. I was just about to catch a few winks here. Course, we wouldn't have to sleep."
Ray laughed.
"Shut up, Charlie," said Don. "She don't wanna catch none of your diseases."
Elizabeth looked at Don, her savior. His face was puffy and his dark hair dirty, but he was attractive. He caught her staring and winked at her.
"You got a nice wife at home," said Bud.
"I guess I'll have to go to a motel," said Elizabeth, trying to play along, hating the conversation.
"Don't you mind us," said Ray. "We been on the road a long time. A pretty girl just gets us thinkin'."
The thought of their thoughts frightened her a little.
Elizabeth left her hamburger half eaten and ordered another cup of coffee.
When the men finished eating they leaned back, lingering over their coffee, smoking cigarettes and complaining about someone named J.J.
"That sumbitch has his head up his ass," Bud said. "Pardon my French," he said to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth nodded.
"Shit,'' said Charlie, without even an apologetic glance at Elizabeth. ""He's too busy worrying about his dick to worry about his job."
"Well, a man's dick is his best friend,'' said Ray. "Ain't that so?" he said, turning to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth knew women who would know what to say to such a statement; she knew there was a certain bantering tone required, a way of joking back that would let them know she'd been around and could take their nonsense, but wasn't going to. Except she didn't know how to do all that and so she just turned red. Ray grinned and turned back to his conversation.
Suddenly, Elizabeth was embarrassed by the incongruity of her presence in the restaurant. The truckers' mystique seemed to have been left outside in their rigs.
Why had she expected poetry from them?
In their eyes she was just an unwanted salesgirl driving across country to a crummy place for no particular reason.
Ray's tattoo leered at her.
Elizabeth got a five dollar bill from her wallet and tucked it under her plate. She stood up.
"Where you goin', Texas?" said Ray.
"I've got to get back on the road," she said. "New York's a long way away." She attempted a friendly smile.
"Well, don't go yet," said Charlie. "I was just gonna take a shower."
While the men laughed, Elizabeth slipped away. As the door closed behind her she heard Ray shout, "So long, Texas."
The parking lot was loud with the roar of idling trucks and the buzz of neon. Her car was quiet and warm. It smelled slightly of the apple she had eaten earlier that day. She turned the key and flipped on the headlights. The dashboard lit up. She pulled out of the bright plaza and onto the highway, the road unfolding before the small pool of illumination her headlights cast. The Hi Way Truck Stop slipped into the darkness behind her.
Elizabeth drove another two hours that night. She stayed in the right lane and let the parade of trucks rumble past her.
Copyright 2009 Sophia Dembling
I've been thinking about this short story, written when I was in my 20s, because of the story about which I wrote this blog post, for The Introvert's Corner, my Psychology Today blog. Life imitates fiction. Like the character in this story, the author of Spiral Jetta thought she would find romance and poetry in a roadside bar but ended up sneaking out and fleeing when the exotic started feeling threatening.
Trucks
By Sophia Dembling
There was almost no one on the highway but Elizabeth and the trucks.
It was the dinner hour on a lonely stretch of Interstate between Arkansas towns. Elizabeth had been driving since morning. The beginning of the journey was receding, but its conclusion was still distant place at the end of a long road. She was neither here nor there.
It had been pretty easy. She got in the car and got on the road. A small street led to a big avenue, to a state highway, to the Interstate. But there she was struck by the distance she had to travel and the solitude of the journey.
The Interstates are a place in themselves, but that is no place. Designed for passing through, they allow no leisurely meanderings. Elizabeth was in new places before she even realized she had left the old ones. Signs led her from city to city, and in between was mostly billboards and nothing. The houses that sat by the Interstate were stripped of their intimacy, exposed to millions of passing eyes. Some had probably been cozy until the Interstate plowed through and changed everything.
This time of day, when the world is bathed in gray, always made Elizabeth feel as though she was dying -- as if it were not the light that was slipping away, but her life. Even with her headlights on, she made no impression on the darkness that descended on Arkansas. The radio was a tinny rattle. She had it on for company, but it made her feel lonely and far from home.
After the jilting -- an ugly, painful affair -- she had sold what she could, packed the rest in her old blue Chevette, said a few tearful good byes, and begun her journey. She thought it a brave adventure, when she didn't think it a foolish gesture or a cowardly retreat.
While the Chevette held the road with determination, the trucks possessed it with assurance. They shook the car as they passed, sucking it into their wind, pulling it faster and faster until it broke free with a shudder and the trucks sped off into the distance, points of red light disappearing into the twilight.
They moved with purpose, carrying America's products: Levis, Oreos and toilet paper, Jiffy Pop and Pontiacs and widgets and gears and cows packed nose to butt on their way to becoming burgers. Next to the trucks, Elizabeth felt inconsequential in her little car full of clothing and small mementos.
She could see nothing of the drivers but an occasional arm hanging out a window or a shadowy face in a side mirror.
She passed a roadside rest area where a dozen of the great machines were parked. Elizabeth imagined the drivers napping in the little bedrooms behind the cab. She wondered if they hung pictures of their wives and girlfriends inside. Thinking about it made her feel less nowhere. Even the road is somebody's home.
She turned the radio to a country-western station and sang along loudly with Johnny Paycheck, but her voice was immediately swallowed by the highway. She passed a sign welcoming her to Tennessee and imagined another chunk of land falling between her and who she had been.
As the last light faded, she was overtaken by a convoy of five trucks. They came up behind her suddenly, then ground and rumbled into slower gears as the road began to climb. Carefully arranging themselves on the road, they settled in at the speed limit, surrounding the Chevette. It was like driving in a school of buildings. Elizabeth's car seemed practically lifted off the road by the great wind and roar.
When they reached the top of the hill, the trucks reorganized with a series of signals, flashes, crunching gears and lane changes and Elizabeth lost them as they barreled down the other side. But climbing the next hill, she caught up with them and rode their wind again.
This went on for miles. It was a game, a dance. Elizabeth moved aside politely when a truck came up behind her, flashed her lights to let him know when he had cleared her and could move into her lane. Sometimes the drivers honked in appreciation and Elizabeth would wave, but she didn't know if they saw her.
It made her feel safe to see the same arms hanging out the window, the same license plates, the same "Wash Me," written in dust on the back of a truck with a load covered by a filthy blue and white striped tarpaulin. It was a mobile neighborhood.
An arm with a tattoo and blue shirt hauled a massive piece of machinery, or maybe it was just piece of a piece of machinery. It was round, it had valves and bolts. Elizabeth couldn't even guess at its purpose and the scale was almost frightening. She admired the muscles of the arm. The man who dumped her had slender arms and serious eyes and a million excuses for not making love. She didn't imagine the arm with the tattoo made or needed excuses.
A load of boat trailers was hauled by a beefy arm with hair that was turning white. The cab was painted with elaborate gold scrolls and identified the owner as Arthur "Bud" Uerlich of Tulsa, Oklahoma. A skinny arm with thick, black hair drove a moving van.
She imagined that from their high perches, the truckers could see only her legs. In shorts and barefoot, Elizabeth felt exposed. It seemed so intimate to be witnessed in her little pod, all her dials glowing.
And it was exciting. She was aware of the size of the trucks, the size of the men driving them, the size of the country she was crossing mile by mile in the deepening darkness. She had only ever driven as far as she needed and no further. She had only ever loved boys with skinny arms and no tattoos. She had only ever done the sensible thing.
Now she was Interstate. Everything was dark and fast and she was part of something big.
After about an hour, the trucks began a ponderous set of maneuvers that put them single file in the right lane. Elizabeth let them all pass and dropped in behind the last truck to see what they would do, as they were obviously working in unison. Ahead glowed neon announcing the Hi Way Truck Stop, a huge, brightly lit plaza that offered Food! Showers! Clean Restrooms! and Diesel. Dozens of trucks rested out front.
Elizabeth flipped on her signal, retaining her place behind the van as the line of trucks exited the highway. She would eat at the truck stop among the truck drivers. She was one with the road.
While the trucks pulled around to the side of the restaurant Elizabeth parked out front, next to the four or five other cars that had ventured into the land of the behemoths. Her legs were a little wobbly and the lights of the plaza were jolting after the soothing darkness of the road.
The walls of the dining room were decorated with hundreds of gimme caps bearing the names of trucking firms and horse ranches. Under the clatter of silverware and rumble of conversation, a small television droned on the end of the counter and a jukebox played Hank Williams, Jr. Along one wall was a row of huge booths with seats covered in red vinyl. Formica and chrome tables and chairs filled the rest of the room.
Elizabeth sat at a small table against the wall. There were just four other women in the room -- two waitresses, a fat middle aged woman sitting with a fat middle aged man, and a woman at the counter who might have been pretty before life got hold of her. Otherwise, the room was about half filled with men who surely belonged there.
A waitress with ratted blonde hair slapped a menu in front of Elizabeth.
"Coffee?" she asked, not looking up as she swabbed the table with a soggy grey rag.
"Please," said Elizabeth.
She opened the menu. Behind her, she could hear new customers entering.
"Hey, Texas" said a voice close behind her.
Elizabeth froze. What had revealed her point of origin? Then she remembered her license plate and looked up to see the tattoo, a grinning skull, standing by her table. Attached to the arm was a young man with a sunken chest, angular face, dark shock of hair and a day's growth of beard.
"You eatin' all alone?" said a bearded man in thick glasses and a cap.
"I reckon we'll sit right here and keep you company," said the tattooed man. "Since you been keepin' us company for so long."
He sat at a table across a narrow aisle from Elizabeth and the others joined him.
"My name is Ray," he said. "This here's Charlie." The bearded one grinned. "That's Bud," -- Arthur "Bud" Uerlich looked to be in his fifties and wore a sharp flattop. Another man, muscular and with mournful eyes and a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, walked up to the table. - "An' this here's Don," said Ray. Don sat at the table with the others.
The waitress returned with Elizabeth's coffee. "Are you boys bothering this young lady?" she asked.
"No we ain't," said Ray. "We're just gettin' acquainted."
"Well don't you bother her none," said the waitress. "What'll you have?" she asked Elizabeth, without displaying any sign of being an ally in the strangeness.
Elizabeth ordered a cheeseburger and the waitress turned to take the orders of the truckers. When she was gone, Ray turned back to Elizabeth.
"Where you goin', Texas?"
"New York."
"New York, eh? New York City?" Elizabeth nodded. "I been to New York City. That's a helluva place. A helluva place."
"A helluva place to git ripped off is what it is," said Charlie. "What you wanna go there for?"
"I'm moving there," said Elizabeth
"Where you moving from?" asked Ray.
"Dallas."
"Dallas," said Charlie. "Now Dallas is all right. I've had some real fine drunks in Dallas."
"I think," said Bud quietly, gaining the immediate attention of the rest of the men at the table, "I'd rather live in Dallas than New York City any day."
"That's the truth, Bud," said Ray, and the others nodded in agreement.
"It's awful crowded there," Bud continued slowly. "And I never seen any place so dirty."
"I've got a friend there," Elizabeth explained.
"Must be a special guy to get you to drive all that way," said Ray.
"It's a woman."
"You drivin' all that way for a woman?" Ray was incredulous.
"I thought it would be fun to live in New York," said Elizabeth. "She talked me into it. She needed a roommate."
"Don't seem like a very fun place to live to me," mumbled Bud.
"Ain't you got no husband?" said Charlie.
"No," said Elizabeth.
"You're pretty cute not to have no husband," said Charlie. "What's the matter with you?"
The men laughed.
"Maybe she don't wanna get married," said Don. "Maybe she likes being a free woman."
"I do," said Elizabeth. "I like being free."
"How free are you?" Charlie said, and the men laughed again.
Elizabeth, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the men, was relieved to see the waitress approaching with an aluminum tray heaped with food. She served up the dishes like a dealer flipping cards. The men's table was laden -- great steaming mounds of mashed potatoes, slabs of roast beef in thick brown gravy, bowls of yellow green broccoli, baked potatoes, hamburgers, eggs, bacon, grits, French fries, pie, coffee and Coca Colas.
Elizabeth bit into her cheeseburger. Ketchup, grease and blood oozed out, forming a small pool on her plate.
The men didn't say much while they ate. Don commented on the good weather they'd been having and the others grunted in assent. Bud gave his opinion on gun control, prompted by a news item on the television.
"Somebody comes after something that belongs to me," he said quietly. "I'm gonna blow his head off. I don't care what the law says."
Elizabeth ate silently. The burger had little bits of gristle in it and her soda was flat. The smell of the truckers' food was making her queasy.
"What you gonna do in New York City?" Ray asked through a mouth full of roast beef.
"I don't know. Get a job I guess," she said. "I sold clothes in Dallas."
"You work in a mall?"
"No. In a boutique on Greenville Avenue."
"Ain't that where all the bars are?" asked Don.
"There are bars there. There's other stuff, too. Stores. Restaurants."
"I just been to bars there," said Charlie. "Met a real nice girl there, once. Texas women is the best lookin' in the country."
"You drivin' that whole way by yourself?" asked Don.
Elizabeth nodded.
"You gonna drive all night?"
"No, I'll stop somewhere."
"Shoot," said Charlie. "You can stay with me. I was just about to catch a few winks here. Course, we wouldn't have to sleep."
Ray laughed.
"Shut up, Charlie," said Don. "She don't wanna catch none of your diseases."
Elizabeth looked at Don, her savior. His face was puffy and his dark hair dirty, but he was attractive. He caught her staring and winked at her.
"You got a nice wife at home," said Bud.
"I guess I'll have to go to a motel," said Elizabeth, trying to play along, hating the conversation.
"Don't you mind us," said Ray. "We been on the road a long time. A pretty girl just gets us thinkin'."
The thought of their thoughts frightened her a little.
Elizabeth left her hamburger half eaten and ordered another cup of coffee.
When the men finished eating they leaned back, lingering over their coffee, smoking cigarettes and complaining about someone named J.J.
"That sumbitch has his head up his ass," Bud said. "Pardon my French," he said to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth nodded.
"Shit,'' said Charlie, without even an apologetic glance at Elizabeth. ""He's too busy worrying about his dick to worry about his job."
"Well, a man's dick is his best friend,'' said Ray. "Ain't that so?" he said, turning to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth knew women who would know what to say to such a statement; she knew there was a certain bantering tone required, a way of joking back that would let them know she'd been around and could take their nonsense, but wasn't going to. Except she didn't know how to do all that and so she just turned red. Ray grinned and turned back to his conversation.
Suddenly, Elizabeth was embarrassed by the incongruity of her presence in the restaurant. The truckers' mystique seemed to have been left outside in their rigs.
Why had she expected poetry from them?
In their eyes she was just an unwanted salesgirl driving across country to a crummy place for no particular reason.
Ray's tattoo leered at her.
Elizabeth got a five dollar bill from her wallet and tucked it under her plate. She stood up.
"Where you goin', Texas?" said Ray.
"I've got to get back on the road," she said. "New York's a long way away." She attempted a friendly smile.
"Well, don't go yet," said Charlie. "I was just gonna take a shower."
While the men laughed, Elizabeth slipped away. As the door closed behind her she heard Ray shout, "So long, Texas."
The parking lot was loud with the roar of idling trucks and the buzz of neon. Her car was quiet and warm. It smelled slightly of the apple she had eaten earlier that day. She turned the key and flipped on the headlights. The dashboard lit up. She pulled out of the bright plaza and onto the highway, the road unfolding before the small pool of illumination her headlights cast. The Hi Way Truck Stop slipped into the darkness behind her.
Elizabeth drove another two hours that night. She stayed in the right lane and let the parade of trucks rumble past her.
Copyright 2009 Sophia Dembling
Thursday, July 9, 2009
flyover america hits the road
As many of you know, my old Flyover America gig with World Hum succumbed to the economy. But the good news is, Jenna Schnuer and I, with the addition of Matt Villano, have launched Flyover America independently.
Y'all know I haven't been a good little blogger here for a while. That's because I've been two-timing you. My energy has been going into Flyover America ... and that is likely to continue, though I will turn up here sometimes.
So please, drop in on Flyover America, bookmark it, join the conversation. K? And we'll meet here again down the road. Promise.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
bitching and moaning: friend or foe?
Where do you stand on bitching and moaning to friends?
Some people staunchly refuse to gripe. I suppose that’s partly temperament. They’re all sunny-side-up 'n' shit. As an enthusiastic griper, I have trouble relating to that. It seems cockeyed to me. And when people reflexively deflect legitimate gripes with some sort of Suzy Sunshine crap, I put a little checkmark next to their names in my head: Doesn’t Want to Hear About It. Which is certainly their prerogative, but it will also change the nature of our friendship. That’s just the way it is for me. I don’t get optimism, they don’t get pessimism, and that’s an essential truth.
Which is not to say I’m proud of my gripiness. I’m sure I wear my friends out, as my friends sometimes wear me out. I suspect we all have friends who turn up mostly when something is wrong, and friends who get stuck in negativity until you feel like running for cover when you see them. I remember one particular time like that for me, when I was deeply dissatisfied with my job at the newspaper. My gosh, my poor friends. I could tell they wanted to dive under their desks when they saw me coming.
I suppose it’s a matter of finding that balance between griping and rejoicing. I know I wore some friends out during a particularly long brutal stretch of my life, so I try really hard to be upbeat with them these days. I don’t want to be That Person, Debbie Downer, the Well-Known Buzzkill. No really, I don’t. And I find myself enjoying recreational bitching and moaning less than I once did, both doing it and listening to it.
Does complaining serve a purpose? I actually found some research on this, by a Robin Kowalski of Western Carolina University Her article, “Whining, Griping, and Complaining: Positivity in the Negativity,” was published in the Journal of Clinical Psychology. While Kowalski acknowledges first all the drawbacks of complaining (including the diving-for-cover factor), she also lists some of the benefits.
For one thing, she says, complaining can make you feel better. It's a little pressure release. And a well-placed complaint can also have financial benefits, such as when you complain about poor service or product defects.
Complaining also is a “social lubricant”-- when you’re uncomfortable in an unfamiliar place or situation, you can connect with others by sharing a gripe about the temperature or the length of the wait or whatever. And, she says, in close relationships, complaining can improve a situation and it can help you assess the other person’s commitment to the relationship—does he or she care about your dissatisfaction or just blow it off? Good information to be mined there.
So griping does have its benefits, which is good to know because I’ll always be a griper. I try to be less random about it than I once was and limit it to legitimate problems. Perhaps to some of my previous partners in griping, I’m getting a little Pollyanna. On the other hand, I’ll never be a total happy face because if I were, I’d find myself intolerable.
Some people staunchly refuse to gripe. I suppose that’s partly temperament. They’re all sunny-side-up 'n' shit. As an enthusiastic griper, I have trouble relating to that. It seems cockeyed to me. And when people reflexively deflect legitimate gripes with some sort of Suzy Sunshine crap, I put a little checkmark next to their names in my head: Doesn’t Want to Hear About It. Which is certainly their prerogative, but it will also change the nature of our friendship. That’s just the way it is for me. I don’t get optimism, they don’t get pessimism, and that’s an essential truth.
Which is not to say I’m proud of my gripiness. I’m sure I wear my friends out, as my friends sometimes wear me out. I suspect we all have friends who turn up mostly when something is wrong, and friends who get stuck in negativity until you feel like running for cover when you see them. I remember one particular time like that for me, when I was deeply dissatisfied with my job at the newspaper. My gosh, my poor friends. I could tell they wanted to dive under their desks when they saw me coming.
I suppose it’s a matter of finding that balance between griping and rejoicing. I know I wore some friends out during a particularly long brutal stretch of my life, so I try really hard to be upbeat with them these days. I don’t want to be That Person, Debbie Downer, the Well-Known Buzzkill. No really, I don’t. And I find myself enjoying recreational bitching and moaning less than I once did, both doing it and listening to it.
Does complaining serve a purpose? I actually found some research on this, by a Robin Kowalski of Western Carolina University Her article, “Whining, Griping, and Complaining: Positivity in the Negativity,” was published in the Journal of Clinical Psychology. While Kowalski acknowledges first all the drawbacks of complaining (including the diving-for-cover factor), she also lists some of the benefits.
For one thing, she says, complaining can make you feel better. It's a little pressure release. And a well-placed complaint can also have financial benefits, such as when you complain about poor service or product defects.
Complaining also is a “social lubricant”-- when you’re uncomfortable in an unfamiliar place or situation, you can connect with others by sharing a gripe about the temperature or the length of the wait or whatever. And, she says, in close relationships, complaining can improve a situation and it can help you assess the other person’s commitment to the relationship—does he or she care about your dissatisfaction or just blow it off? Good information to be mined there.
So griping does have its benefits, which is good to know because I’ll always be a griper. I try to be less random about it than I once was and limit it to legitimate problems. Perhaps to some of my previous partners in griping, I’m getting a little Pollyanna. On the other hand, I’ll never be a total happy face because if I were, I’d find myself intolerable.
Monday, June 22, 2009
chicken
Howdy. Today, we’re talkin’ farm animals.
We’ll start with a story I enjoyed in this morning’s paper about a couple of Vermont dairy farmers who changed what they feed their cows, thereby reducing the amount of methane their cows emit via burps. (I guess that whole cow farting thing is overplayed; according to this article, most of the gas actually comes from the front end.)
Also according to this article, the Coventry Valley Farm “has reduced its cows’ belches by 13 percent.”
I hate it when news stories leave out the stuff I really want to know—in this case: How do you measure cow belches?
I found a couple of good chicken stories in the paper this weekend.
One is about a guy who is studying the language of chickens to see what all their clucks, chortles and squawks mean. I’m astonished this hasn’t been done before, considering how much chicken we eat. The UConn researcher, Ebenezer Otu-Nyarko (and what a grand name that is) points out that figuring out when chickens are stressed will help increase egg and chicken meat production. (OK, that’s kind of a sad sentence. But we farmers are very matter-of-fact about such things.)
The other story is a biggie if you happen to be in the poultry industry: California has passed a law that egg-laying hens must be able to stretch their wings without touching walls or another chicken. It’s a big kerfuffle, but apparently, what animal rights people are really pushing for is free-range chickens. Personally, I think that’s great. Free-range chicken tastes so much better than the tortured kind. The eggs, too. Look at this photo. The two eggs on the right are from my friend Michelle’s chickens. The anemic little thing on the left is a regular supermarket egg.
And since I’ve been hanging around Michelle and her chickens, I’ve grown to really love the sight of them free ranging.
Chickens are, in many ways, pretty revolting. I had a friend who grew up on a farm and as an adult refused to eat chicken because she had grown to loathe them so. I mean, they’ll eat anything, including each other. But Michelle’s chickens are so pretty and fun to watch—little dinosaurs bustling around the property, living in their little chicken alternate universe. Every now and then, something will spook them and they’ll all run this way or that way, then it’s over and they get back to their scratchin’ and peckin’. And, as night falls, they all take themselves home to their roost and tuck themselves in. Endearing, even if they do eat their young.
I can’t wait to learn what they have to say.
We’ll start with a story I enjoyed in this morning’s paper about a couple of Vermont dairy farmers who changed what they feed their cows, thereby reducing the amount of methane their cows emit via burps. (I guess that whole cow farting thing is overplayed; according to this article, most of the gas actually comes from the front end.)
Also according to this article, the Coventry Valley Farm “has reduced its cows’ belches by 13 percent.”
I hate it when news stories leave out the stuff I really want to know—in this case: How do you measure cow belches?
I found a couple of good chicken stories in the paper this weekend.
One is about a guy who is studying the language of chickens to see what all their clucks, chortles and squawks mean. I’m astonished this hasn’t been done before, considering how much chicken we eat. The UConn researcher, Ebenezer Otu-Nyarko (and what a grand name that is) points out that figuring out when chickens are stressed will help increase egg and chicken meat production. (OK, that’s kind of a sad sentence. But we farmers are very matter-of-fact about such things.)
The other story is a biggie if you happen to be in the poultry industry: California has passed a law that egg-laying hens must be able to stretch their wings without touching walls or another chicken. It’s a big kerfuffle, but apparently, what animal rights people are really pushing for is free-range chickens. Personally, I think that’s great. Free-range chicken tastes so much better than the tortured kind. The eggs, too. Look at this photo. The two eggs on the right are from my friend Michelle’s chickens. The anemic little thing on the left is a regular supermarket egg.And since I’ve been hanging around Michelle and her chickens, I’ve grown to really love the sight of them free ranging.
Chickens are, in many ways, pretty revolting. I had a friend who grew up on a farm and as an adult refused to eat chicken because she had grown to loathe them so. I mean, they’ll eat anything, including each other. But Michelle’s chickens are so pretty and fun to watch—little dinosaurs bustling around the property, living in their little chicken alternate universe. Every now and then, something will spook them and they’ll all run this way or that way, then it’s over and they get back to their scratchin’ and peckin’. And, as night falls, they all take themselves home to their roost and tuck themselves in. Endearing, even if they do eat their young.
I can’t wait to learn what they have to say.
Friday, June 12, 2009
flotsam friday
First, for no particular reason, here’s a totally random photo from my last trip to Oklahoma. I have a lot of photos. Might as well toss some out there from time to time.
OK, so, what’s on my mind today?
Well, I’ve had a semi-crappy week and I’m stressed out, so I’ve been watching this awesome interactive music video a lot. It’s a guaranteed stress reducer. Really, go watch it. Use your cursor to move the line. The song is lovely, too. (Worth the wait for it to load, I promise.)
***
Every now and then I get to write an article that makes me very happy. This article, in Southwest Spirit magazine, about the benefits of nostalgia, is among those.
***
Oh hey, check out the polite umbrella.
***
Speaking of nostalgia, this blog of photos of NYC in the 1970s (my NYC) moves me to tears. Look how little the skyline is!
***
And finally, some interesting research:
Here’s research into our friendship networks—evidently, although the size of our networks tend to stay stable, the contents change about every seven years, when we cut and replace half the people Hm. Having undergone a great deal of churn in my friendships recently, this makes perfect sense to me. I’m sure proximity and other environmental factors have a lot to do with friendship turnover, but it’s also a matter of my ongoing re-evaluation of what I need, want and don’t want in my relationships. Also, sometimes I really piss people off. And sometimes, I don’t care when I do.
***
Expanding further on the ever-fascinating introversion theme, here’s research into the social brain, although I kind of resent the way this blogger divides us into “socialites” and “curmudgeons.” Oh, I suppose I’ve called myself a curmudgeon, but it does have negative implications and I contend that there is nothing wrong with liking solitude.
***
And finally, research into a subject I have gone back and forth on a thousand times: couples staying together for the kids, something I’ve seen my parent friends wrestle with. It sounds right, it sounds wrong, it sounds right, it sounds wrong. I don’t know. These researchers say that if the marriage is truly contentious—lots of fighting—kids tend to drink, smoke and do poorly in school by adolescence. I suppose that’s kind of a no-brainer. I wonder, though, about homes with unspoken tensions.
Have a nice weekend. I plan to drink heavily.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
the burdens of stuff
I am recently home from three weeks in New York City sorting through my late parents’ possessions with my brother.
Wow. I have something to say to all you parents out there: If you have a lot of stuff, as a loving gesture to your children, get rid of some, OK? My parents had a lot of cool stuff but they also had a lot of junk. A lot. See the photo? Multiply it by an eight-room apartment. Where they lived for nearly 45 years.
Books. Books. Books. My dad loved books. “Dark brown books,” my mother called them. Hundreds of them. Some might have been valuable if they had been cared for, but they spent their lives in steam heat, drying out. When I visited last year, Dad gave me a book I’d wanted to read, but when I opened it on the airplane home, it crumbled to dust in my hands.
I know that people who love books love having lots of them. “Too many books? No such thing!” I understand the wealthy feeling a full bookshelf inspires. But friends, hear me now: There is such thing as too many books. Really. They are bulky and heavy and nobody really wants most of them. No, not even libraries. Not if they’re old, brittle, out of date. Sure, I took a few of Dad’s books. Not many, though. Just a few. We threw a lot away. We’re not sure what to do with the hundreds remaining. We organized one roomful, more or less, and then grew exhausted and left the rest, and further decisions, for another day.
Going through the detritus of a long life is fascinating and depressing—and not depressing just because it is related to loss. Here are notes for books my father never wrote, books he wrote but didn’t sell, hopes and dreams crammed into a filing cabinet. Here are souvenirs of trips that no one remembers anymore, heirlooms with stories lost to time (although my brother is doing an amazing job assembling our family history), bits and threads that mean nothing to us but might have been rich with sentimentality for Dad. Have we thrown out his “Rosebud”?
We had appraisers in and found treasures that had been buried from sight behind decades of indiscriminate accumulation. We found treasures of value only to us, flotsam that coaxed out memories from the deepest corners of our minds. And we found junk, worthless and ugly bric-a-brac kept only because Dad’s default was “keep.”
I am having nine cartons of stuff and several pieces of furniture shipped home and the apartment is still crammed. I barely made a dent.
Back home, my attitude towards my own stuff has changed. I’m not half the pack rat Dad was, but I still have shoes in my closet that are never worn but with sentimental value, a file drawer full of aborted creative endeavors, bric-a-brac kept for no particular reason. I brought two cartons of books to the library yesterday. I have put some clothing on e-bay. I’m just getting started.
But then there are the photos. My gosh, the photos. What’s to become of them? They are the most haunting aspect of my stuff.
My brother and I love looking at photos of our youthful parents and their friends, at photos of our own childhoods, and at the rarer photos of the generations before our parents. But we have no children of our own, so no one will care about the photos we leave behind. I have thousands of photos, not just of friends and family, but also of my travels. Photos that will mean nothing to anyone after I am gone.
Perhaps, when I see the end coming, I will build a bonfire of my books, photos and failed manuscripts and let them flame out with me.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
mother's day 2009
This is such a festive time of year! Sunday is Mother’s Day, which means it’s time for the parade of identical, badly dressed Dillard’s MILFs.
This year, get your three moms expensive and wildly unflattering “patio dresses.” Nothing says “I love you” like a paisley tent.
(Take a little walk down memory lane, through Dillard's posts past.)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
five tips for introverted travelers
"I just stumbled on your article 'Confessions of an Introverted Traveler' and I just wanted to tell you how pleased I was to read it. I am in my second year of college and hope to travel extensively after school. I've been scouring the internet reading countless articles, blogs, personal accounts, etc about traveling and a vast majority of them speak of the great experience of meeting people around the world. As someone who can't even strike up a conversation with the cute girl in english class or approach someone at a show, I have been plagued with anxiety for traveling overseas. Reading your article was a breath of fresh, encouraging air."
I have received a lot of emails about the column mentioned above but this one particularly touched me because it’s someone whose life could be affected by the pressures of the extroverted masses.
I told this young man that first of all, approaching cute members of the opposite sex is doctoral-level extroversion. I’m not even sure I trust guys who can easily chat up that cute girl in English class. No, that kind of confidence is suspect to me. Give me the awkward blurter any day.
But for him and any other introverts out there who are trying to decide if they should hit the road or just stay home where nobody will bother them, I thought I’d offer these five tips for traveling introverts.
Be open to conversation when it’s offered. I rarely initiate conversations but I will talk to almost anyone who talks to me first. People like talking to introverts because we tend to be good listeners, and listening is the point in travel conversations, anyway. That’s when we learn. Once the conversation is started, you can ask lots of questions and learn lots of stuff. In her book Introvert Power
, Dr. Laurie Helgoe points out that introverts generally prefer deep conversation to superficial chitchat. I’m never afraid to turn conversations to worldview, personal goals, politics and other Deep Thoughts. Ask things you truly want to know. Grab conversation when it comes, make it work for you.
Don’t be shy about ending the encounter when you’re ready. A lot of times, random conversations lead to invitations to parties, to travel companions, to meet the gang. This sort of invitation can lead to raucous good times. I hate raucous good times. I rarely accept those “let’s take it to the next level” invitations. I may have missed out on a lot that way, but maybe not. The few times I have accepted have not convinced me otherwise. Drunks in bars are pretty much the same the world over. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed to say “no” if you’re not feeling it. Then again, say “yes” sometimes, too. You never know.
Carry a book. There’s an interesting debate going in response to an article about travel books on World Hum—a couple of people contend that reading while you travel is a waste of experience, that you can read at home and you should be out LIVING and MEETING INTERESTING PEOPLE when you’re traveling. Yes, well, fine for those people. I always carry a book when I travel for when I need to create a quiet place for myself. Travel is wonderful and exhausting and over-stimulating. Sometimes I need to escape into the tranquility of reading.
Develop the art of sitting and watching. In her book, Dr. Helgoe talks about the French term “flauneur” (feminine, “flaneuse”) which means passionate observer. Yes, yes! I am a flaneuse. I love just sitting and watching people doing what they do when I travel. I do it in parks, I do it in museums, I’m finally able to do it in restaurants. That ability took a while to develop but I can now just sit alone in a restaurant and eat and watch people around me, rather than immediately burrowing into a book. Mind you, I always have a book nearby during my sitting and watching, just in case I need to escape the world for a bit or suffer a bout of self-consciousness, but it often remains unopened while I watch and eavesdrop.
Take a walking tour or, even better, hire a guide yourself. I have found this controlled interaction is a great way to get some conversation in with a local. A professional guide—you can find one through the local tourist board—is a wealth of both official and personal information about the place you’re visiting. Once again, make the interaction work for you. Ask things you want to know even if they’re not part of the official spiel.
I have received a lot of emails about the column mentioned above but this one particularly touched me because it’s someone whose life could be affected by the pressures of the extroverted masses.
I told this young man that first of all, approaching cute members of the opposite sex is doctoral-level extroversion. I’m not even sure I trust guys who can easily chat up that cute girl in English class. No, that kind of confidence is suspect to me. Give me the awkward blurter any day.
But for him and any other introverts out there who are trying to decide if they should hit the road or just stay home where nobody will bother them, I thought I’d offer these five tips for traveling introverts.
Be open to conversation when it’s offered. I rarely initiate conversations but I will talk to almost anyone who talks to me first. People like talking to introverts because we tend to be good listeners, and listening is the point in travel conversations, anyway. That’s when we learn. Once the conversation is started, you can ask lots of questions and learn lots of stuff. In her book Introvert Power
, Dr. Laurie Helgoe points out that introverts generally prefer deep conversation to superficial chitchat. I’m never afraid to turn conversations to worldview, personal goals, politics and other Deep Thoughts. Ask things you truly want to know. Grab conversation when it comes, make it work for you.Don’t be shy about ending the encounter when you’re ready. A lot of times, random conversations lead to invitations to parties, to travel companions, to meet the gang. This sort of invitation can lead to raucous good times. I hate raucous good times. I rarely accept those “let’s take it to the next level” invitations. I may have missed out on a lot that way, but maybe not. The few times I have accepted have not convinced me otherwise. Drunks in bars are pretty much the same the world over. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed to say “no” if you’re not feeling it. Then again, say “yes” sometimes, too. You never know.
Carry a book. There’s an interesting debate going in response to an article about travel books on World Hum—a couple of people contend that reading while you travel is a waste of experience, that you can read at home and you should be out LIVING and MEETING INTERESTING PEOPLE when you’re traveling. Yes, well, fine for those people. I always carry a book when I travel for when I need to create a quiet place for myself. Travel is wonderful and exhausting and over-stimulating. Sometimes I need to escape into the tranquility of reading.
Develop the art of sitting and watching. In her book, Dr. Helgoe talks about the French term “flauneur” (feminine, “flaneuse”) which means passionate observer. Yes, yes! I am a flaneuse. I love just sitting and watching people doing what they do when I travel. I do it in parks, I do it in museums, I’m finally able to do it in restaurants. That ability took a while to develop but I can now just sit alone in a restaurant and eat and watch people around me, rather than immediately burrowing into a book. Mind you, I always have a book nearby during my sitting and watching, just in case I need to escape the world for a bit or suffer a bout of self-consciousness, but it often remains unopened while I watch and eavesdrop.
Take a walking tour or, even better, hire a guide yourself. I have found this controlled interaction is a great way to get some conversation in with a local. A professional guide—you can find one through the local tourist board—is a wealth of both official and personal information about the place you’re visiting. Once again, make the interaction work for you. Ask things you want to know even if they’re not part of the official spiel.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
doing the prairie chicken dance
I left my comfort zone this weekend and spent it with a bunch of hard-core birders at the Lesser Prairie Chicken Festival in Woodward, Oklahoma. Because I’m a wee bit of an idiot, I didn’t realize until I’d committed exactly how hard-core the event would be. It was the kind of event where I met people for whom seeing the prairie chickens dance was the culmination of a lifelong dream. No, really. Sometimes, I sat in on conversations in which I had no idea what people were saying. Imagine sitting in on chitchat with a bunch of rocket scientists. That’s what it was like, except the topic was birds.
I had to rally all my powers of interpretation every time Bird Chick (a k a Sharon Stiteler), the keynote speaker, talked about birds in casual conversation. Once, I just turned to her and said, “I have no idea what you just said,” which made her laugh and she explained. It had to do with banding raptors.
Artist and speaker Debby Kaspari, whose topic was sketching nature, was more my speed in some regards—art talk I understand—but she, too, knows more about birds than I know about anything. When she talked art, I was with her. When she talked birds, I was lost.
Fortunately, these were very nice people who never laughed at stupid questions and took the time during bird watching excursions to actually point out birds to me as I flailed around with my low-rent binoculars. If I asked, they let me peek through their real binoculars, and Bird Chick set up her scope for all to look through. Wow. Our guide also brought a scope, so from time to time I actually got to see what everyone was talking about, as opposed to the blurry silhouettes my binoculars provided.
For the most part, I walked around all weekend feeling kind of bumbling and clueless.
Which is OK, actually. Sometimes it’s good to get in over your head. It’s kind of like lifting weights. When your muscles start failing, that’s when the muscle building occurs. I learned a lot about birds this weekend. (And bees, actually, since Bird Chick also is a beekeeper. Really fascinating stuff. Bees lead complicated lives.) Plus, I enjoyed immersion in a subculture.
And most important, I got to see the dance of the endangered lesser prairie chicken.
This was my kind of bird watching, even though it involved getting up before dawn and sitting in tiny blind for hours. But you couldn’t miss the birds—as I so often do.
They were right there, just a few feet in front of us, doing their dance, singing their song, making every attempt to propagate their species. (I didn't even try to capture on film. Click through to Debby's and Sharon's sites to see images far better from anything I could have produced.) I found the whole thing genuinely moving. Dance, little chickens, dance. Stomp your little chicken feet and keep on keeping on!
Among the pressures on the fascinating little fellas’ survival are barbed wire and windmills--this was a close encounter, for me, with the implications we have to consider before we hoist T. Boone Pickens on our shoulders as the savior of the environment. Not that wind power is bad, but it needs study before we plunge right in.
And after we spent the morning watching the chickens dance, we spent some time tromping around on the glorious Oklahoma prairie, marking barbed wire fences to help the chickens out, which just involves clipping little pieces of plastic onto the fences. Evidently, dead prairie chickens are rarely found on fences that have been marked, unlike unmarked fences. Good enough for me.
Dance for your lives, little prairie chickens. There are a bunch of people who care whether or not you survive. And, entirely by accident, I’m now among them.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
gay goobers in sweaters: a souvenir
Just got home from a road trip through southern New Mexico. Our favorite stop was Truth or Consequences. (Read a little more here.) Not much going on in the little town except hot springs, which is good enough. We loved it.
The whole downtown pretty much shuts down on Tuesdays, which is why a thrift store was a highlight of our sightseeing. And I don't mean vintage (though T or C has lots of those, too.) I mean thrift store.
There, we found our favorite souvenirs of the trip, a collection of 1950s and '60s knitting pattern books.
Behold a sample, a little slide show I call Gay Goobers in Sweaters. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
The whole downtown pretty much shuts down on Tuesdays, which is why a thrift store was a highlight of our sightseeing. And I don't mean vintage (though T or C has lots of those, too.) I mean thrift store.
There, we found our favorite souvenirs of the trip, a collection of 1950s and '60s knitting pattern books.
Behold a sample, a little slide show I call Gay Goobers in Sweaters. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
one sad bad ad
You know I have only the greatest respect and affection for newspapers, for my former employer (well, mixed feelings there, but generally positive), and certainly for the brave souls who go to work each day under the darkening cloud of desperation, layoffs, and now pay cuts.
And so it is with deep regret that I am forced to mock this sad, ill-advised in-house ad.
These are fine reporters doing a fine job for the business section. But really, is it not a plea for fashion intervention? Stacy and Clinton, where are you?
The ad is supposed to instill our confidence but instead, it breaks my heart.
Do you suppose the paper even told this gang that they would be posing for a photo that day? Or did they just round them up from their desks--where they sat overworked and bleary-eyed—and hustle them into the photo studio?
This just confirms journalists’ schlumpy reputation. I mean, it's OK to be schlumpy. They have other things on their minds. But what does this ad accomplish?
I’m also frustrated with the paper, which has long tried to stifle personality in the writing it publishes in an era when personality rules the media. Now, this is how it tries to promote its fine employees? With this sad-sack line-up of beleaguered writers? How much wiser it would have been to nurture voices and stars all along. This Hail Mary falls far short and only serves to emphasize how desperate and out-of-touch newspapers are.
By the way, I do like the new feature they're promoting, a page called "The Economy and You." If I could find it on the Web site, I'd link to it, but don't get me started on that...
Friday, March 27, 2009
return of flotsam friday
Ah, here’s just a wee bit o flotsam for ya, friends. Because it’s been a long time, it has…
To start, some research that caught my attention:
I like this study from the University of Toronto that points out that many people find uncertainty much more stressful than clear negative feedback. Oh yes, oh yes. It’s true. I would much rather know the worst than wonder. Of course, I much prefer praise and strokes to negative anything, but if you don’t like something I did or said, fergawdsake just tell me. If you waffle or leave me to wonder, my overactive imagination is likely to put far harsher words in your mouth than you would ever manage, unless you’re a real SOB, which I know you’re not. No, don’t argue. I just know it.
Another study, this one from the University of Michigan, considers whether we’re better off ruminating or forgetting and moving on when we’re depressed or upset. Well, OK, they don’t use the word “ruminating.” They use “analyzing.” But really, I find that unless we have learned tools for analyzing our own feelings, we’re much more likely to ruminate (and by that, I mean just chew things over in an unproductive manner) than analyze.
Anyway, what these researchers find is that the best thing to do is try to step back, disconnect your emotions from the problem, and analyze if from a psychological distance. Which is easier said than done, I know, but it’s a worthwhile skill to develop. Or perhaps it comes naturally as we get older.
I try to use a technique like this when I receive a writing critique. No matter how kindly spoken or written, a negative critique of any kind initially is a knife through my heart. So the first thing I do is just acknowledge the ripping, bleeding pain of it, then I think, “OK, so I’m not perfect, nobody is,” and then I literally think about taking a step back, setting emotion aside, and just listening. It’s actually an exercise in visualization and it helps me.
Then, when the critique is over, I sob quietly into my pillow for a few days, and get back to work.
Try it.
***
Here’s a nice item about a couple of New Yorker cartoonists who are a couple—as in, married. Watch the video. They’re just lovely. I’m always on the lookout for good depictions of long-time marriage and this is a great one.
***
Not married or coupled? Here’s a great article from New York magazine about living alone and how urban alienation is a myth. (I wrote a World Hum blog post about big city vs. small town life, see here)
Jennifer Senior writes,
“In American lore, the small town is the archetypal community, a state of grace from which city dwellers have fallen (thus capitulating to all sorts of political ills like, say, socialism). Even among die-hard New Yorkers, those who could hardly imagine a life anywhere else, you’ll find people who secretly harbor nostalgia for the small village they’ve never known.
Yet the picture of cities—and New York in particular—that has been emerging from the work of social scientists is that the people living in them are actually less lonely. Rather than driving people apart, large population centers pull them together, and as a rule tend to possess greater community virtues than smaller ones. This, even though cities are consistently, overwhelmingly, places where people are more likely to live on their own.”
***
And we’ll wrap up today’s flotsam with the cartoon du jour. It’s so me.
To start, some research that caught my attention:
I like this study from the University of Toronto that points out that many people find uncertainty much more stressful than clear negative feedback. Oh yes, oh yes. It’s true. I would much rather know the worst than wonder. Of course, I much prefer praise and strokes to negative anything, but if you don’t like something I did or said, fergawdsake just tell me. If you waffle or leave me to wonder, my overactive imagination is likely to put far harsher words in your mouth than you would ever manage, unless you’re a real SOB, which I know you’re not. No, don’t argue. I just know it.
Another study, this one from the University of Michigan, considers whether we’re better off ruminating or forgetting and moving on when we’re depressed or upset. Well, OK, they don’t use the word “ruminating.” They use “analyzing.” But really, I find that unless we have learned tools for analyzing our own feelings, we’re much more likely to ruminate (and by that, I mean just chew things over in an unproductive manner) than analyze.
Anyway, what these researchers find is that the best thing to do is try to step back, disconnect your emotions from the problem, and analyze if from a psychological distance. Which is easier said than done, I know, but it’s a worthwhile skill to develop. Or perhaps it comes naturally as we get older.
I try to use a technique like this when I receive a writing critique. No matter how kindly spoken or written, a negative critique of any kind initially is a knife through my heart. So the first thing I do is just acknowledge the ripping, bleeding pain of it, then I think, “OK, so I’m not perfect, nobody is,” and then I literally think about taking a step back, setting emotion aside, and just listening. It’s actually an exercise in visualization and it helps me.
Then, when the critique is over, I sob quietly into my pillow for a few days, and get back to work.
Try it.
***
Here’s a nice item about a couple of New Yorker cartoonists who are a couple—as in, married. Watch the video. They’re just lovely. I’m always on the lookout for good depictions of long-time marriage and this is a great one.
***
Not married or coupled? Here’s a great article from New York magazine about living alone and how urban alienation is a myth. (I wrote a World Hum blog post about big city vs. small town life, see here)
Jennifer Senior writes,
“In American lore, the small town is the archetypal community, a state of grace from which city dwellers have fallen (thus capitulating to all sorts of political ills like, say, socialism). Even among die-hard New Yorkers, those who could hardly imagine a life anywhere else, you’ll find people who secretly harbor nostalgia for the small village they’ve never known.
Yet the picture of cities—and New York in particular—that has been emerging from the work of social scientists is that the people living in them are actually less lonely. Rather than driving people apart, large population centers pull them together, and as a rule tend to possess greater community virtues than smaller ones. This, even though cities are consistently, overwhelmingly, places where people are more likely to live on their own.”
***
And we’ll wrap up today’s flotsam with the cartoon du jour. It’s so me.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
midlife crisis du jour
If you’ve been hanging with this blog a while, you may remember my 50th birthday. Ah, ‘twas a grand weekend. My nearest and dearest gathered to pay joyous tribute to my 50-ness. I wore a tiara, ate chicken fried steak. By the end of the weekend I’d concluded that if that was 50, then I was just fine. Life was good.
OK, so now I’m looking down the barrel of 51 and you know what that means, don’t you? I’m almost 60.
Life is still good but I really hate the birthdays after milestone birthdays. The anticipation (fear, loathing, horror) of the big birthdays is so great that when I get through them without the world crashing around my ears, I feel I should be allowed to simply stop aging—at least for a few years. OK, I survived 50. Now let’s take a breather. We can resume the aging process in a year or two. Or not. I’d be OK if we stopped here.
This is the first year I’ve noticed stuff hurting. The first thing to go is the feet. I enjoy looking at the blog about stylish seniors, Advanced Style (although I think they often set the bar a little low). But I’ve noted that no matter how stylish (or not) these advanced stylistas are, they all are wearing comfortable shoes.
It seems a little rude that my feet should hurt since I’ve never been one for cruel shoes. I didn’t wear heels at all for many years and I haven’t tottered around on anything higher than about three inches since I was a teenager. Am I paying a penalty for my five-inch disco heels now, all these years later?
A friend told me that lose fat on the bottom of our feet as we age, which is why they hurt. Somehow the fat defies gravity and moves up, I guess, to our bellies. But if this is the case and our feet do lose a comfy layer of fat, how about all those people who are perfecting ways to inject fat into our lips start concentrating on fattening up our feet instead? Much more practical.
Not that I would wear them out of the house or anything, but I’m wearing Crocs as I write this. They’re comfortable. And a sure sign that I’m pushing 70.
OK, so now I’m looking down the barrel of 51 and you know what that means, don’t you? I’m almost 60.
Life is still good but I really hate the birthdays after milestone birthdays. The anticipation (fear, loathing, horror) of the big birthdays is so great that when I get through them without the world crashing around my ears, I feel I should be allowed to simply stop aging—at least for a few years. OK, I survived 50. Now let’s take a breather. We can resume the aging process in a year or two. Or not. I’d be OK if we stopped here.
This is the first year I’ve noticed stuff hurting. The first thing to go is the feet. I enjoy looking at the blog about stylish seniors, Advanced Style (although I think they often set the bar a little low). But I’ve noted that no matter how stylish (or not) these advanced stylistas are, they all are wearing comfortable shoes.
It seems a little rude that my feet should hurt since I’ve never been one for cruel shoes. I didn’t wear heels at all for many years and I haven’t tottered around on anything higher than about three inches since I was a teenager. Am I paying a penalty for my five-inch disco heels now, all these years later?
A friend told me that lose fat on the bottom of our feet as we age, which is why they hurt. Somehow the fat defies gravity and moves up, I guess, to our bellies. But if this is the case and our feet do lose a comfy layer of fat, how about all those people who are perfecting ways to inject fat into our lips start concentrating on fattening up our feet instead? Much more practical.
Not that I would wear them out of the house or anything, but I’m wearing Crocs as I write this. They’re comfortable. And a sure sign that I’m pushing 70.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
women and writing
I’ve been thinking again about chick lit vs. lit lit since reading this Salon review of Elaine Showalter’s history of American women writers, A Jury of Her Peers
. (That the book is called “monumental” in this review is, frankly, a deterrent for me to take it on. Some words just scare me off a book: monumental, lyrical, postmodern, magical realism. I’m stodgy that way. And linear. But I am interested so I might give it a shot.)
One interesting point Showalter makes, as discussed in the review, is that historically, European women writers tended to create greater works of literature because they had servants. American women writers were so busy with housework, they had less time for writing and their field of experience was proscribed by the demands of their lives. Reviewer Laura Miller writes:
The obvious subject for such women was what they knew: home life. But, as Showalter observes, "Domestic fiction has been the most controversial genre in the literary history of American women's writing, an easy target for mockery and an embarrassment to feminist critics who wish to change the canon." Margaret Fuller articulated that ambivalence when she announced that she wanted to "not write, like a woman, of love and hope and disappointment, but like a man, of the world of intellect and action"; she never managed to pull it off. … Even socially influential writers, like Harriet Beecher Stowe (teased by Abraham Lincoln for starting the Civil War), got sniffed at by the critical establishment, and it only got worse when the 20th century ushered in the cult of the he-man novelist as personified by Ernest Hemingway. (The leftist writer Meridel Le Sueur complained that an editor rejected one of her stories for lacking the requisite amount of what she called "fishin', fightin' and fuckin'.")
And that,
… many critics and editors, especially male ones, make a fetish of "ambition," by which they mean the contemporary equivalent of novels about men in boats ("Moby-Dick," "Huckleberry Finn") rather than women in houses ("House of Mirth"), and that as a result big novels by male writers get treated as major events while slender but equally accomplished books by women tend to make a smaller splash.
This is clear and obvious to me—and the review points out that critical acclaim leads to the kinds of grants and gigs that allow writers to support themselves to write, and those go primarily to men.
I’m still sorting out in my mind, though, the difference between women’s literature and chick lit and what allows traditionally told female-centric stories to transcend the chick lit label. Jane Smiley has broken out, has Anne Tyler? Annie Proulx, definitely, although I struggle with her. I read her book Postcards on a trip once and found it relentlessly bleak. I left it in an airport when I was finished (I often do that when I travel) and then felt guilty because someone else would pick it up and end up as depressed as I.
Is Nick Hornby chick lit? Was Edith Wharton chick lit in her day? As I recall from the monumental biography of her that I half read, she saw greater success than her friend and contemporary Henry James, but did she get the same critical respect? (I don’t remember off the top of my head. Anyone? She certainly has my respect. I adore her.)
And I recall a friend telling me about being told by agents and publishers that because her novel was about a teenaged girl, it could not be sold as an adult novel and needed to be recast as a young adult novel. Yet the male coming-of-age novel is a literary institution.
I’m confused.
Of course, Showalter points out that changing attitudes about domestic fiction is only one way for women writers to gain more respect. The other is for us to seize the big canvases.
Sigh. I don’t think I have the big canvas in me. (And of course you realize, this is all about me. It’s my blog.) Maybe I do. Maybe I have to get all my little stories out of me first and eventually the big story I have to tell will coalesce.
I guess I just have to live long enough and keep writing.
. (That the book is called “monumental” in this review is, frankly, a deterrent for me to take it on. Some words just scare me off a book: monumental, lyrical, postmodern, magical realism. I’m stodgy that way. And linear. But I am interested so I might give it a shot.) One interesting point Showalter makes, as discussed in the review, is that historically, European women writers tended to create greater works of literature because they had servants. American women writers were so busy with housework, they had less time for writing and their field of experience was proscribed by the demands of their lives. Reviewer Laura Miller writes:
The obvious subject for such women was what they knew: home life. But, as Showalter observes, "Domestic fiction has been the most controversial genre in the literary history of American women's writing, an easy target for mockery and an embarrassment to feminist critics who wish to change the canon." Margaret Fuller articulated that ambivalence when she announced that she wanted to "not write, like a woman, of love and hope and disappointment, but like a man, of the world of intellect and action"; she never managed to pull it off. … Even socially influential writers, like Harriet Beecher Stowe (teased by Abraham Lincoln for starting the Civil War), got sniffed at by the critical establishment, and it only got worse when the 20th century ushered in the cult of the he-man novelist as personified by Ernest Hemingway. (The leftist writer Meridel Le Sueur complained that an editor rejected one of her stories for lacking the requisite amount of what she called "fishin', fightin' and fuckin'.")
And that,
… many critics and editors, especially male ones, make a fetish of "ambition," by which they mean the contemporary equivalent of novels about men in boats ("Moby-Dick," "Huckleberry Finn") rather than women in houses ("House of Mirth"), and that as a result big novels by male writers get treated as major events while slender but equally accomplished books by women tend to make a smaller splash.
This is clear and obvious to me—and the review points out that critical acclaim leads to the kinds of grants and gigs that allow writers to support themselves to write, and those go primarily to men.
I’m still sorting out in my mind, though, the difference between women’s literature and chick lit and what allows traditionally told female-centric stories to transcend the chick lit label. Jane Smiley has broken out, has Anne Tyler? Annie Proulx, definitely, although I struggle with her. I read her book Postcards on a trip once and found it relentlessly bleak. I left it in an airport when I was finished (I often do that when I travel) and then felt guilty because someone else would pick it up and end up as depressed as I.
Is Nick Hornby chick lit? Was Edith Wharton chick lit in her day? As I recall from the monumental biography of her that I half read, she saw greater success than her friend and contemporary Henry James, but did she get the same critical respect? (I don’t remember off the top of my head. Anyone? She certainly has my respect. I adore her.)
And I recall a friend telling me about being told by agents and publishers that because her novel was about a teenaged girl, it could not be sold as an adult novel and needed to be recast as a young adult novel. Yet the male coming-of-age novel is a literary institution.
I’m confused.
Of course, Showalter points out that changing attitudes about domestic fiction is only one way for women writers to gain more respect. The other is for us to seize the big canvases.
Sigh. I don’t think I have the big canvas in me. (And of course you realize, this is all about me. It’s my blog.) Maybe I do. Maybe I have to get all my little stories out of me first and eventually the big story I have to tell will coalesce.
I guess I just have to live long enough and keep writing.
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