"Guilt is petty bourgeois crap. An artist creates his own moral universe."
-Rob Reiner, in Bullets Over Broadway, by Woody Allen
October 31, 2006
Ruffles
"Look, Bitch. I've been published longer than you've been breathing."
"The fact that you think quantity equates quality is exactly why I'm here." He doesn't ruffle me. This doesn't ruffle me.
He's in his early 50's, therefore unless he signed a deal at age 10, he has not been published longer than I've been breathing. But the point is taken, just not seriously. This does not ruffle me.
He makes a gesture toward the papers I'm holding, and looks at his editor, "You brought in a ghost writer. I can't believe this!" Clearly, this ruffles him.
The editor is explaining that something is lacking, that the writing is poor, that it can not be published this way. He explains that this is a last resort, after 6 rewrites of the first 6 chapters of a book he claims, "would be an embarrassment, to you and to this publishing house."
He turns from the editor and looks at me again. "Bitch."
I received a comment once on my blog, which said maybe if I wrote better stories I'd be published. That didn't ruffle me. The useless little cunt can try to be as mean as he wants to be, it doesn't matter when what he's saying is bullshit. I start to think, maybe this writer is that useless little cunt. It sounds like him: Mean. Useless.
I stand and put my jacket on.
"Where do you think you're going?!" Ruffled. Like a chip.
"I'm going home to write my assignment, and collect my check." This is what I do.
The editor is not saying a Word.
He's angry. He's ruffled. "What do you think you can possibly do, to improve what I wrote?"
It's his contract. It's his story. I don't forget that. I'm the one that's ghosting. Faceless. I'm the one that isn't marketable. The humility in that isn't something I forget about easily. "It's hard to read. It doesn't invite the reader. It pushes the reader away. You're trying too hard."
He laughs. "You don't think a writer should try?"
I've met him before today. I met him at a book signing. I remember a young man, maybe 16 or 17, getting his book signed, asking this guy for any insight on how to write. The kid was wearing ripped jeans, and he spoke with a stutter. When he was ignored, he repeated the question.
This guy looked at that kid with such condescension. And he said, Think about trade school.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think the writer really needs to make an effort. When a writer makes the same grammatical mistake over and over, that's not poetic license. That's not his style. That's not his signature. That's laziness. A writer that just can not bring himself to use a gerundial phrase correctly, needs to try harder. Eventually, intelligent readers grow tired of tripping over mistakes. And then they go away.
But there is a line. You don't want the reader constantly feeling more intelligent than you are. But on the other hand, you don't want to make your reader feel stupid. All good grammar aside, if you use third person rather than second person plural, you are talking at your reader, not to them. Compound that with purposefully using vocabulary your reader doesn't know. You've only succeeded in preventing communication. You might as well just write, I don't care if you get what I'm saying or not. I just want you to think I'm intelligent.
And I try to explain this. "It's as if you can't stop clicking on the thesaurus."
"Is that the root of this? You're vocabulary isn't as good as mine, so you think I need to rewrite this?"
I smile, after all, I am not the ruffled one. "First of all, it's your publisher that knows this needs to be rewritten. I just happen to agree. Second, you're not listening. These are two different things. A reader arriving at vocabulary here and there that is unfamiliar, is a matter of the writer choosing the correct Word. That's not what you're doing. You're going out of your way to write over the reader's head. You aren't communicating. You aren't telling a story. You're trying to convince everyone that you are smarter than they are."
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - knowing the correct grammar and choosing to use poetic license to write more effectively. And, 2 - not knowing the proper way to write, and using poetic license as an excuse not to learn or try.
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - bringing the reader into your head with your Words. And, 2 - locking the reader out of your head with your arrogance.
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - the exquisite search for the perfect Word. And, 2 - the need to make your reader feel inadequate. Not once or twice. But constantly.
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - being a signed author. And, 2 - being a ghost.
And there is a difference between these two things: 1 - being ruffled. And, 2 - not being ruffled.
Writers have different styles. One isn't correct, one isn't incorrect. But there are subtleties. There are ruffles. There are readers. There are writers.
"I'm going to rewrite this, making the playing field level. I am not going to bend over backwards as you have, to lose the reader along the way."
And, at the same time, I am not going to make the reader trip over blundering grammatical errors that detract from the writing style. There is a place in the middle. I'm going to write to the reader. Not at the reader. Not in spite of the reader.
My hand is on the doorknob.
"Bitch!" He tries one more time.
He is signed.
I'm not.
He is ruffled.
I'm not.
"The fact that you think quantity equates quality is exactly why I'm here." He doesn't ruffle me. This doesn't ruffle me.
He's in his early 50's, therefore unless he signed a deal at age 10, he has not been published longer than I've been breathing. But the point is taken, just not seriously. This does not ruffle me.
He makes a gesture toward the papers I'm holding, and looks at his editor, "You brought in a ghost writer. I can't believe this!" Clearly, this ruffles him.
The editor is explaining that something is lacking, that the writing is poor, that it can not be published this way. He explains that this is a last resort, after 6 rewrites of the first 6 chapters of a book he claims, "would be an embarrassment, to you and to this publishing house."
He turns from the editor and looks at me again. "Bitch."
I received a comment once on my blog, which said maybe if I wrote better stories I'd be published. That didn't ruffle me. The useless little cunt can try to be as mean as he wants to be, it doesn't matter when what he's saying is bullshit. I start to think, maybe this writer is that useless little cunt. It sounds like him: Mean. Useless.
I stand and put my jacket on.
"Where do you think you're going?!" Ruffled. Like a chip.
"I'm going home to write my assignment, and collect my check." This is what I do.
The editor is not saying a Word.
He's angry. He's ruffled. "What do you think you can possibly do, to improve what I wrote?"
It's his contract. It's his story. I don't forget that. I'm the one that's ghosting. Faceless. I'm the one that isn't marketable. The humility in that isn't something I forget about easily. "It's hard to read. It doesn't invite the reader. It pushes the reader away. You're trying too hard."
He laughs. "You don't think a writer should try?"
I've met him before today. I met him at a book signing. I remember a young man, maybe 16 or 17, getting his book signed, asking this guy for any insight on how to write. The kid was wearing ripped jeans, and he spoke with a stutter. When he was ignored, he repeated the question.
This guy looked at that kid with such condescension. And he said, Think about trade school.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think the writer really needs to make an effort. When a writer makes the same grammatical mistake over and over, that's not poetic license. That's not his style. That's not his signature. That's laziness. A writer that just can not bring himself to use a gerundial phrase correctly, needs to try harder. Eventually, intelligent readers grow tired of tripping over mistakes. And then they go away.
But there is a line. You don't want the reader constantly feeling more intelligent than you are. But on the other hand, you don't want to make your reader feel stupid. All good grammar aside, if you use third person rather than second person plural, you are talking at your reader, not to them. Compound that with purposefully using vocabulary your reader doesn't know. You've only succeeded in preventing communication. You might as well just write, I don't care if you get what I'm saying or not. I just want you to think I'm intelligent.
And I try to explain this. "It's as if you can't stop clicking on the thesaurus."
"Is that the root of this? You're vocabulary isn't as good as mine, so you think I need to rewrite this?"
I smile, after all, I am not the ruffled one. "First of all, it's your publisher that knows this needs to be rewritten. I just happen to agree. Second, you're not listening. These are two different things. A reader arriving at vocabulary here and there that is unfamiliar, is a matter of the writer choosing the correct Word. That's not what you're doing. You're going out of your way to write over the reader's head. You aren't communicating. You aren't telling a story. You're trying to convince everyone that you are smarter than they are."
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - knowing the correct grammar and choosing to use poetic license to write more effectively. And, 2 - not knowing the proper way to write, and using poetic license as an excuse not to learn or try.
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - bringing the reader into your head with your Words. And, 2 - locking the reader out of your head with your arrogance.
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - the exquisite search for the perfect Word. And, 2 - the need to make your reader feel inadequate. Not once or twice. But constantly.
There is a difference between these two things: 1 - being a signed author. And, 2 - being a ghost.
And there is a difference between these two things: 1 - being ruffled. And, 2 - not being ruffled.
Writers have different styles. One isn't correct, one isn't incorrect. But there are subtleties. There are ruffles. There are readers. There are writers.
"I'm going to rewrite this, making the playing field level. I am not going to bend over backwards as you have, to lose the reader along the way."
And, at the same time, I am not going to make the reader trip over blundering grammatical errors that detract from the writing style. There is a place in the middle. I'm going to write to the reader. Not at the reader. Not in spite of the reader.
My hand is on the doorknob.
"Bitch!" He tries one more time.
He is signed.
I'm not.
He is ruffled.
I'm not.
October 28, 2006
How Exciting Is My Saturday Night
Him - "There's been a Fruit Loop on the middle of Leo's back for about a half an hour now."
Me - I'm going to quote you on that.
Him - "It was a green one."
Me - I'm going to quote you on that.
Him - "It was a green one."
October 25, 2006
There's That.
"It's supposed to be a blog. You're supposed to be blogging."
Yes. And there's that.
Sometimes,
just sometimes,
there's that.
I sip my martini. Tastes like Absolute. I ordered Grey Goose. "OK. So, what is it that I am doing then?"
She shakes her head, "You know! Blog about movies, TV shows! People that piss you off on the subway! Pet peeves! Don't you have any every day conversations you can just rant about??"
Yeah... this is definitely not Grey Goose. And there's a bit too much Vermouth. But it's still good. I don't really like the shape of the glass though. It's one of those with the bend in the stem. "Sure I do. I just don't blog like that."
"Exactly!!" She slams her hand down on the bar as if we've just stumbled across the secret to cold fusion. "That's what you're problem is!"
"I wasn't aware I had a problem." I tried that Blavod vodka. It's black. It looks gothic and sexy. Unfortunately, it tastes awful.
She is checking out the bartender's ass while he bends over the deep fridge. "Of course you have a problem. You want a publishing deal, but no one is interested in your blog."
A bad olive can just ruin the taste of a good martini. Funny thing is, the more expensive the vodka, the better. But the cheaper the olives, the better. "I am not necessarily hoping for a blogging publishing deal. I write novels. I write... anything. Everything." And then, there's that.
The bartender is now looking back at her. He looks nervous. "See? That's what you're problem is."
Again, with my problem.
"Seriously now. What pisses you off. What really pisses you off?" She levels her stare at me as if it will pry open my reservations.
Ok, I'll play along. I've got half a martini and no plans for another hour. "What pisses me off. Let's see. I get pissed when people are in the left lane not passing."
"What?"
"Slower traffic keep right. Left lane is for passing. Is any of this familiar?"
She's looking at me as if I'm insane. "What are you talking about?"
It's amazing how quickly you can finish your martini when you have to. "When driving on the highway, it pisses me off when there are people in the left lane, that aren't passing people in the right lane. The left lane is for passing. It pisses me off when people are just crawling along in the left lane, for no reason."
She raises and eye brow and looks away. The bartender is out of range. She looks toward the window.
She is one of them. I can tell. She is one of those non-drivers. She's in the left lane blocking up the road. "This is the kind of thing you think I should blog about to attract an agent?" Because, there's still that.
The bartender reappears, fresh from the kitchen with a bucket of ice. It's only 6pm, no bar backs are on yet. I would like another martini. I push my empty glass forward; the universal sign for, "More, please."
"I'm just saying you don't talk about every day things. It's hard to read your blog sometimes. And that's why you don't get many comments." She sharpens her look.
And there that is.
I have to bow my head for a moment. She hit her intended target with that one. It does bother me sometimes. I have had 900 hit days, with not one comment. I think about that often. I think about that, and I wonder. About many things. About disconnection. About missing it. About every publisher or agent who has ever told me I'm not marketable. And sometimes I take pride in that. And sometimes I don't. Sometimes I am acutely aware that I am on the outside. Not fitting in. Not belonging. And as great as my life is, as great as the comments I have received have been,
sometimes there's that.
There's that.
"Absolute martini, right?" The bartender is taking my empty glass.
I knew it. "Dirty martini, Grey Goose please."
She's smiling at him. He's trying to avoid eye contact with her. I understand. I understand his not wanting to look, I understand her wanting to. Sometimes this is it. She's looking, he's avoiding. And I am on the outside. I'm on the outside.
Sometimes, there's that.
Yes. And there's that.
Sometimes,
just sometimes,
there's that.
I sip my martini. Tastes like Absolute. I ordered Grey Goose. "OK. So, what is it that I am doing then?"
She shakes her head, "You know! Blog about movies, TV shows! People that piss you off on the subway! Pet peeves! Don't you have any every day conversations you can just rant about??"
Yeah... this is definitely not Grey Goose. And there's a bit too much Vermouth. But it's still good. I don't really like the shape of the glass though. It's one of those with the bend in the stem. "Sure I do. I just don't blog like that."
"Exactly!!" She slams her hand down on the bar as if we've just stumbled across the secret to cold fusion. "That's what you're problem is!"
"I wasn't aware I had a problem." I tried that Blavod vodka. It's black. It looks gothic and sexy. Unfortunately, it tastes awful.
She is checking out the bartender's ass while he bends over the deep fridge. "Of course you have a problem. You want a publishing deal, but no one is interested in your blog."
A bad olive can just ruin the taste of a good martini. Funny thing is, the more expensive the vodka, the better. But the cheaper the olives, the better. "I am not necessarily hoping for a blogging publishing deal. I write novels. I write... anything. Everything." And then, there's that.
The bartender is now looking back at her. He looks nervous. "See? That's what you're problem is."
Again, with my problem.
"Seriously now. What pisses you off. What really pisses you off?" She levels her stare at me as if it will pry open my reservations.
Ok, I'll play along. I've got half a martini and no plans for another hour. "What pisses me off. Let's see. I get pissed when people are in the left lane not passing."
"What?"
"Slower traffic keep right. Left lane is for passing. Is any of this familiar?"
She's looking at me as if I'm insane. "What are you talking about?"
It's amazing how quickly you can finish your martini when you have to. "When driving on the highway, it pisses me off when there are people in the left lane, that aren't passing people in the right lane. The left lane is for passing. It pisses me off when people are just crawling along in the left lane, for no reason."
She raises and eye brow and looks away. The bartender is out of range. She looks toward the window.
She is one of them. I can tell. She is one of those non-drivers. She's in the left lane blocking up the road. "This is the kind of thing you think I should blog about to attract an agent?" Because, there's still that.
The bartender reappears, fresh from the kitchen with a bucket of ice. It's only 6pm, no bar backs are on yet. I would like another martini. I push my empty glass forward; the universal sign for, "More, please."
"I'm just saying you don't talk about every day things. It's hard to read your blog sometimes. And that's why you don't get many comments." She sharpens her look.
And there that is.
I have to bow my head for a moment. She hit her intended target with that one. It does bother me sometimes. I have had 900 hit days, with not one comment. I think about that often. I think about that, and I wonder. About many things. About disconnection. About missing it. About every publisher or agent who has ever told me I'm not marketable. And sometimes I take pride in that. And sometimes I don't. Sometimes I am acutely aware that I am on the outside. Not fitting in. Not belonging. And as great as my life is, as great as the comments I have received have been,
sometimes there's that.
There's that.
"Absolute martini, right?" The bartender is taking my empty glass.
I knew it. "Dirty martini, Grey Goose please."
She's smiling at him. He's trying to avoid eye contact with her. I understand. I understand his not wanting to look, I understand her wanting to. Sometimes this is it. She's looking, he's avoiding. And I am on the outside. I'm on the outside.
Sometimes, there's that.
Quoting Love
"No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark."
- Death Cab for Cutie
"I've never loved anybody this way. Never looked at a woman and thought, if civilization fails, if the world ends, I'll still understand what God meant."
- Jack Nicholson, Wolf
"I'd like to run away
From you,
But if you didn't come
And find me ...
I would die.
- Shirley Bassey
"I have been on the back burner for ten years, and it is great to have someone who is so into me.
I feel like I am in 7th grade.
We are texting each other
and calling
and laughing
and missing each other
after only 12 hours.
Wow.
I guess I forgot what it was like to be loved."
-EFM
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark."
- Death Cab for Cutie
"I've never loved anybody this way. Never looked at a woman and thought, if civilization fails, if the world ends, I'll still understand what God meant."
- Jack Nicholson, Wolf
"I'd like to run away
From you,
But if you didn't come
And find me ...
I would die.
- Shirley Bassey
"I have been on the back burner for ten years, and it is great to have someone who is so into me.
I feel like I am in 7th grade.
We are texting each other
and calling
and laughing
and missing each other
after only 12 hours.
Wow.
I guess I forgot what it was like to be loved."
-EFM
October 23, 2006
A Different Kind of Eulogy
"Right. Thanks for meeting me here. What do I owe you." Jim is matter of fact, his cell phone in one hand. He's got the ear piece in, the Hermes tie. The distraction.
I review my price. It was a simple set of business letters. I've worked for him before, writing or reworking things for his company. Simple jobs, fair pay. He's always been professional with me, and has referred me several times. I had no problem when he asked me to meet him here instead of at his office in Jersey City. Actually, I was relieved. I thought this was closer. I thought this would be easier. I had no idea.
"Fine. I'll get my checkbook." He moves to the coffee table and opens his briefcase. I can hear two women speaking in the kitchen. I think there's even more people upstairs.
I'm looking around the old house, with the lace curtains and the peeling wallpaper. Doilies. Old ginger jar lamps. A collection of Wedgewood. Good Oriental rugs. Framed needlepoint. An afghan. "Who lives here?"
He is digging through his briefcase, not looking up. "My grandmother. My grandmother used to live here, she passed last week."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thanks." He does not seem upset. He does not seem cold, he just doesn't seem... in any way, any different than the other dozen times I've met with him.
We are interrupted by one of the voices from the kitchen. "Jim! Do you want the every day dishes?!"
He opens his check book. "What are they? Who's the maker?" He raises his voice to carry. He's thumbing through the check register.
"Homer Laughlin! Looks like Virginia Rose pattern!" The voice is matched by a face, as a woman comes into the room holding a dinner plate. "I want these."
"Fine." He is writing my check, he isn't looking up. "Then, I want the Spode Christmas dishes."
As they talk about the good china, and the good good china, I am drawn to a small teddy bear, sitting on the rocking chair, on the afghan. I pick it up and look at it. It's ancient. It's worn. It looks like it has been loved. Sweet face, repaired seam. I'm reminded of innocence. The purity in the way you can love. Like the way you love a teddy bear when you're little.
"That bear was hers when she was a baby." I look at the other woman from the kitchen, who is now standing in the doorway. "She loved that bear. It meant more to her than anything else in this house, if you can believe that."
I put it back down with great care. I am reminded of innocence. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." How much this bear must mean to this family, if the grandmother treasured it so much, for so long.
Jim rips the check from the portfolio and says, "Don't be. It has no value."
I look at him. I look at the good china woman. I look at the woman in the doorway. None of them flinch. Not at all.
He's handing me the check, his arm extended toward me.
I'm reminded of innocence. "You can keep that, if I can take the bear."
Jim squints at me kindly, "My sister deals in vintage toys. She knows. It's not worth anything." He has a genuineness to his face. He doesn't want to rip me off. I don't know him, but I am reminded of innocence, and he has always seemed fair.
"I understand. I still want it."
He shrugs and looks at the women, holding up the check. "If we split this three ways, it's $400 a piece."
One of the women looks confused. She steps towards me as if she wants me to understand. She tries to say something to me, but I stop her. "Our grandmother-"
"Is none of my business." I raise a hand in a gentle stopping motion. "I don't want to know. I don't mean to intrude. No judgments. Really, it's none of my business." I'm reminded of innocence. "I just want the bear." The bear she loved.
Jim picks it up and tosses it to me. "It's yours."
****
He notices the new face quickly, as he comes into the bedroom. "Cute. Where did you get the little antique teddy bear?"
"It belonged to the grandmother of my client."
He picks up the bear and he smiles as he looks at it.
I watch him as he does. His smile. The quiet. I am reminded of innocence.
"I took in lieu of my pay."
He raises an eyebrow. "Wow. You must really dig this bear."
Someone did. Someone really loved this bear. A child, a person. A heart. Someone who's grandchildren didn't value it.
Maybe it does not remind them of innocence. Maybe this woman had been awful to them. Maybe their only memories of her were painful. Maybe they have every reason to be dividing up her good china, and not caring about the teddy bears.
And maybe not.
I have no idea. And I will never know. And that's how I want it. She wasn't my grandmother. I would not presume to judge these people. Or her. For better or worse. It is not my legacy. It's not my place to eulogize her.
I look at the little teddy bear on my bed. I didn't buy redemption, or salvation or damnation. I bought a teddy bear. I am reminded of innocence. I bought something someone cared about. I bought a memory. A place in time where someone was innocent. Her loving this bear, saving it all these years, her entire lifetime, is an act of innocence. No matter what else occured. Or didn't occur.
This is pure.
This is innocent.
I review my price. It was a simple set of business letters. I've worked for him before, writing or reworking things for his company. Simple jobs, fair pay. He's always been professional with me, and has referred me several times. I had no problem when he asked me to meet him here instead of at his office in Jersey City. Actually, I was relieved. I thought this was closer. I thought this would be easier. I had no idea.
"Fine. I'll get my checkbook." He moves to the coffee table and opens his briefcase. I can hear two women speaking in the kitchen. I think there's even more people upstairs.
I'm looking around the old house, with the lace curtains and the peeling wallpaper. Doilies. Old ginger jar lamps. A collection of Wedgewood. Good Oriental rugs. Framed needlepoint. An afghan. "Who lives here?"
He is digging through his briefcase, not looking up. "My grandmother. My grandmother used to live here, she passed last week."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thanks." He does not seem upset. He does not seem cold, he just doesn't seem... in any way, any different than the other dozen times I've met with him.
We are interrupted by one of the voices from the kitchen. "Jim! Do you want the every day dishes?!"
He opens his check book. "What are they? Who's the maker?" He raises his voice to carry. He's thumbing through the check register.
"Homer Laughlin! Looks like Virginia Rose pattern!" The voice is matched by a face, as a woman comes into the room holding a dinner plate. "I want these."
"Fine." He is writing my check, he isn't looking up. "Then, I want the Spode Christmas dishes."
As they talk about the good china, and the good good china, I am drawn to a small teddy bear, sitting on the rocking chair, on the afghan. I pick it up and look at it. It's ancient. It's worn. It looks like it has been loved. Sweet face, repaired seam. I'm reminded of innocence. The purity in the way you can love. Like the way you love a teddy bear when you're little.
"That bear was hers when she was a baby." I look at the other woman from the kitchen, who is now standing in the doorway. "She loved that bear. It meant more to her than anything else in this house, if you can believe that."
I put it back down with great care. I am reminded of innocence. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." How much this bear must mean to this family, if the grandmother treasured it so much, for so long.
Jim rips the check from the portfolio and says, "Don't be. It has no value."
I look at him. I look at the good china woman. I look at the woman in the doorway. None of them flinch. Not at all.
He's handing me the check, his arm extended toward me.
I'm reminded of innocence. "You can keep that, if I can take the bear."
Jim squints at me kindly, "My sister deals in vintage toys. She knows. It's not worth anything." He has a genuineness to his face. He doesn't want to rip me off. I don't know him, but I am reminded of innocence, and he has always seemed fair.
"I understand. I still want it."
He shrugs and looks at the women, holding up the check. "If we split this three ways, it's $400 a piece."
One of the women looks confused. She steps towards me as if she wants me to understand. She tries to say something to me, but I stop her. "Our grandmother-"
"Is none of my business." I raise a hand in a gentle stopping motion. "I don't want to know. I don't mean to intrude. No judgments. Really, it's none of my business." I'm reminded of innocence. "I just want the bear." The bear she loved.
Jim picks it up and tosses it to me. "It's yours."
****
He notices the new face quickly, as he comes into the bedroom. "Cute. Where did you get the little antique teddy bear?"
"It belonged to the grandmother of my client."
He picks up the bear and he smiles as he looks at it.
I watch him as he does. His smile. The quiet. I am reminded of innocence.
"I took in lieu of my pay."
He raises an eyebrow. "Wow. You must really dig this bear."
Someone did. Someone really loved this bear. A child, a person. A heart. Someone who's grandchildren didn't value it.
Maybe it does not remind them of innocence. Maybe this woman had been awful to them. Maybe their only memories of her were painful. Maybe they have every reason to be dividing up her good china, and not caring about the teddy bears.
And maybe not.
I have no idea. And I will never know. And that's how I want it. She wasn't my grandmother. I would not presume to judge these people. Or her. For better or worse. It is not my legacy. It's not my place to eulogize her.
I look at the little teddy bear on my bed. I didn't buy redemption, or salvation or damnation. I bought a teddy bear. I am reminded of innocence. I bought something someone cared about. I bought a memory. A place in time where someone was innocent. Her loving this bear, saving it all these years, her entire lifetime, is an act of innocence. No matter what else occured. Or didn't occur.
This is pure.
This is innocent.
October 19, 2006
My First Interview 10/15/2006
TRANSCRIPT:
>(It is only after much convincing that I get Veronica to meet me for an interview. I had to make promises and agree to a list of conditions. We met at a diner on Rt 17 in New Jersey. When I arrived, 30 minutes early, she was already there.)
>How long have you been writing the Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths blog?
I've been on blogspot a year. I did some other blogging prior.
>How old were you when you began writing?
I do not recall a time when I wasn't writing. I was probably 6 when I started my first diary.
>Have you ever wanted to do anything else?
That's a Catch 22 question. I've wanted to do other things, yes. But always the recurring theme in the background of my mind was how, for example, if I became a lawyer, what great material that would be for my writing. I've wanted to do other things, so that I could write about them.
>What was the worst comment you ever got on your blog.
There were two. One sadly compared me to another blogger and just showed the commenter's lack of reading, and the other stated "I hope you get the help you need". Basically, these would be great examples of why I don't want to publish under my name; just pen names and ghosting work.
>You smile a lot. You seem like a very happy person.
I am a very happy person. I have so much. I am very lucky. I am completely in love with my life. I have Words to express, I have unconditional love, I have comfort, and mountains. I have good health, and great dogs. I'm in a truly solid and wonderful marriage. I do what I love to do. I have just about everything I have ever wanted.
>What don't you have?
A publishing deal.
>You like to ask people what they fear. What do you fear?
Other people's insanity. Other people's stupidity. Seriously. Scares the shit out of me. It's why I ghost. I am afraid of sociopaths. I'm afraid of psychopaths, I'm afraid of terrorist religious cults, especially the ones that don't think of themselves as cults, I'm afraid of brainwashed people. I'm afraid of people who judge. I'm afraid of people that can't deal in reality, I'm afraid of people that think they know you when they can't possibly. And meanness in people scares me, too. It would never even cross my mind to be mean to someone who's done nothing to me. I would never think to make a gesture at someone to make them feel bad. I would never think to post a comment on someone's blog attacking another commenter, or the blogger. That kind of behavior really disturbs me. I fear what someone that lacking is capable of. There is a world of difference between inviting someone into a healthy exchange of differing ideas, and in attacking someone. The first is intelligent. The latter is just mean. And I have no tolerance for mean. I just have no use for mean people. Life is too short to deal with anyone who wants to make you feel badly about yourself. Anyone who has that in them, scares me.
>A lot of your blogs are about past experiences. But you don't specify the time frame on things. Why is that.
I think it's irrelevant. I think it over-explains. That's not my style. Sometimes I will throw in a year or the number of years passed if I feel it is relevant to the mood. But backstory and documentation and timelines are journalist' tools. I'm not a journalist. I'm a writer. I just want to give you Words. I just want to paint this one moment, in my light, the way I saw it. The way I felt it.
>Is your blog a memoir?
No. I just had this conversation with a friend, so I can articulate my feelings on this pretty clearly. I would never put myself through any kind of scrutiny that would come from stating everything is the truth. But everything on the blog comes from someplace. I did not just pull anything out of my ass. I take things that have happened to me and I write them on the blog. I change names, cities, years, businesses, bands. I change enough to protect things. I have also pushed things together. For example, what I write as having happened in one conversation, may have actually been two or three conversations, that I have spliced together. Or, I may have a composite person, representing something two different people participated in. Once I wrote out a conversation I had with someone, but switched our sides in it. Then again, many entries are exact. The Courtyard, for example, is pretty much Word for Word true, I do not think I changed a single thing. I like to quote Dorothy Parker about this. "I never let the truth get in the way of a good story." For legal reasons, I want to make this clear: I am a fiction writer.
>But the blog, it's not really fiction, in the literal sense. It's really more correct to say, "Inspired by a true story."
Say whatever you want to say. I wouldn't use that phrase because it's much more than "inspired by." Truly, nothing came out of no where. I have experienced all these things. I just don't feel the need to prove that by stating this is a memoir. I like my poetic license, and I enjoy my ability to rearrange, delete or enhance the details. You don't get that freedom when you use the term memoir.
>What author has had the most profound effect on you?
Chuck Palahniuk has had the most profound effect on me. I disagree with a tremendous amount of things he has said, and I haven't loved every one of his books. But in general, over all, he is my inspiration-author, and his journey has been very influential on my own. I would tell anyone they need to read Choke, and of course Fight Club.
>(Veronica smiles brightly from ear to ear.)
Everybody NEEDS to read Fight Club.
>(She shows me her Fight Club ankle tattoo).
I want a copy of this interview, transcribed. I'm publishing it on my blog, so that I can be sure if you take something out of context I can prove myself.
>Done.
I love Brett Easton Ellis. I slept with a baseball bat underneath my bed for months after reading American Psycho. He's my favorite author. He's the best thing out there. Hands down.
>Do you have any Words of advice for any would-be writers out there?
Well, being that you're interviewing me for your High School newspaper, I'm going to gear my answer toward your audience. The best advice I can give is this: There are three things in life you have to get right: What you do, who you do it with, and where you do it. In that order. If you can get all three of those right, you're golden. If you can get two out of three, that's not so bad.
In what you do, if you can, by all means, love what you do. Pursue a career or a job or a hobby or charity work that you completely love. Don't waste your time doing something you hate. It will kill you slowly.
In who you do it with, if you can, by all means, surround yourself with people that support you and believe in you, and let you support and believe in them in return. Don't waste time with people that hold you back or don't treat you correctly. Don't cut yourself off from new people and new ideas. Find the love of your life. And until then, experience all the other facets of love that there are. If someone is mean to you, walk away.
And in where you do it, don't stay small town if you are big city. Don't stay in the city if you long for the countryside. Don't stay in the closet about your faith or your love or anything else – go to where you can prosper. Go to where you don't just live. Go to where you can thrive. Don't dread the winters, fucking move to Nevada. If you're a would-be actor and you're living in a town with no theater, there's something wrong. It always floors me how many people are born and die within a few hundred mile radius. It's a big planet. Don't make your world small. Think about that before you make your home and plant your roots.
>And how have you done with these in your own life?
>(Veronica smiles again.)
I've nailed all three.
>(It is only after much convincing that I get Veronica to meet me for an interview. I had to make promises and agree to a list of conditions. We met at a diner on Rt 17 in New Jersey. When I arrived, 30 minutes early, she was already there.)
>How long have you been writing the Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths blog?
I've been on blogspot a year. I did some other blogging prior.
>How old were you when you began writing?
I do not recall a time when I wasn't writing. I was probably 6 when I started my first diary.
>Have you ever wanted to do anything else?
That's a Catch 22 question. I've wanted to do other things, yes. But always the recurring theme in the background of my mind was how, for example, if I became a lawyer, what great material that would be for my writing. I've wanted to do other things, so that I could write about them.
>What was the worst comment you ever got on your blog.
There were two. One sadly compared me to another blogger and just showed the commenter's lack of reading, and the other stated "I hope you get the help you need". Basically, these would be great examples of why I don't want to publish under my name; just pen names and ghosting work.
>You smile a lot. You seem like a very happy person.
I am a very happy person. I have so much. I am very lucky. I am completely in love with my life. I have Words to express, I have unconditional love, I have comfort, and mountains. I have good health, and great dogs. I'm in a truly solid and wonderful marriage. I do what I love to do. I have just about everything I have ever wanted.
>What don't you have?
A publishing deal.
>You like to ask people what they fear. What do you fear?
Other people's insanity. Other people's stupidity. Seriously. Scares the shit out of me. It's why I ghost. I am afraid of sociopaths. I'm afraid of psychopaths, I'm afraid of terrorist religious cults, especially the ones that don't think of themselves as cults, I'm afraid of brainwashed people. I'm afraid of people who judge. I'm afraid of people that can't deal in reality, I'm afraid of people that think they know you when they can't possibly. And meanness in people scares me, too. It would never even cross my mind to be mean to someone who's done nothing to me. I would never think to make a gesture at someone to make them feel bad. I would never think to post a comment on someone's blog attacking another commenter, or the blogger. That kind of behavior really disturbs me. I fear what someone that lacking is capable of. There is a world of difference between inviting someone into a healthy exchange of differing ideas, and in attacking someone. The first is intelligent. The latter is just mean. And I have no tolerance for mean. I just have no use for mean people. Life is too short to deal with anyone who wants to make you feel badly about yourself. Anyone who has that in them, scares me.
>A lot of your blogs are about past experiences. But you don't specify the time frame on things. Why is that.
I think it's irrelevant. I think it over-explains. That's not my style. Sometimes I will throw in a year or the number of years passed if I feel it is relevant to the mood. But backstory and documentation and timelines are journalist' tools. I'm not a journalist. I'm a writer. I just want to give you Words. I just want to paint this one moment, in my light, the way I saw it. The way I felt it.
>Is your blog a memoir?
No. I just had this conversation with a friend, so I can articulate my feelings on this pretty clearly. I would never put myself through any kind of scrutiny that would come from stating everything is the truth. But everything on the blog comes from someplace. I did not just pull anything out of my ass. I take things that have happened to me and I write them on the blog. I change names, cities, years, businesses, bands. I change enough to protect things. I have also pushed things together. For example, what I write as having happened in one conversation, may have actually been two or three conversations, that I have spliced together. Or, I may have a composite person, representing something two different people participated in. Once I wrote out a conversation I had with someone, but switched our sides in it. Then again, many entries are exact. The Courtyard, for example, is pretty much Word for Word true, I do not think I changed a single thing. I like to quote Dorothy Parker about this. "I never let the truth get in the way of a good story." For legal reasons, I want to make this clear: I am a fiction writer.
>But the blog, it's not really fiction, in the literal sense. It's really more correct to say, "Inspired by a true story."
Say whatever you want to say. I wouldn't use that phrase because it's much more than "inspired by." Truly, nothing came out of no where. I have experienced all these things. I just don't feel the need to prove that by stating this is a memoir. I like my poetic license, and I enjoy my ability to rearrange, delete or enhance the details. You don't get that freedom when you use the term memoir.
>What author has had the most profound effect on you?
Chuck Palahniuk has had the most profound effect on me. I disagree with a tremendous amount of things he has said, and I haven't loved every one of his books. But in general, over all, he is my inspiration-author, and his journey has been very influential on my own. I would tell anyone they need to read Choke, and of course Fight Club.
>(Veronica smiles brightly from ear to ear.)
Everybody NEEDS to read Fight Club.
>(She shows me her Fight Club ankle tattoo).
I want a copy of this interview, transcribed. I'm publishing it on my blog, so that I can be sure if you take something out of context I can prove myself.
>Done.
I love Brett Easton Ellis. I slept with a baseball bat underneath my bed for months after reading American Psycho. He's my favorite author. He's the best thing out there. Hands down.
>Do you have any Words of advice for any would-be writers out there?
Well, being that you're interviewing me for your High School newspaper, I'm going to gear my answer toward your audience. The best advice I can give is this: There are three things in life you have to get right: What you do, who you do it with, and where you do it. In that order. If you can get all three of those right, you're golden. If you can get two out of three, that's not so bad.
In what you do, if you can, by all means, love what you do. Pursue a career or a job or a hobby or charity work that you completely love. Don't waste your time doing something you hate. It will kill you slowly.
In who you do it with, if you can, by all means, surround yourself with people that support you and believe in you, and let you support and believe in them in return. Don't waste time with people that hold you back or don't treat you correctly. Don't cut yourself off from new people and new ideas. Find the love of your life. And until then, experience all the other facets of love that there are. If someone is mean to you, walk away.
And in where you do it, don't stay small town if you are big city. Don't stay in the city if you long for the countryside. Don't stay in the closet about your faith or your love or anything else – go to where you can prosper. Go to where you don't just live. Go to where you can thrive. Don't dread the winters, fucking move to Nevada. If you're a would-be actor and you're living in a town with no theater, there's something wrong. It always floors me how many people are born and die within a few hundred mile radius. It's a big planet. Don't make your world small. Think about that before you make your home and plant your roots.
>And how have you done with these in your own life?
>(Veronica smiles again.)
I've nailed all three.
October 15, 2006
Conditionally
"He couldn't forgive me. And I can't forgive him for that."
-The Money Pit
You have to be able to be human. You have to be able to fuck up, and know that you'll be forgiven. You have to know that you can be who you are, and that those that love you, will do so without restriction. You have to be able to make your own way, even if it isn't the way they imagined for you. You have to know that no matter how far you have to go, that you can always make your way back.
I don't think you can love someone you fear. Not really. Not all the way.
And I don't think you can love someone who can't see you for who you are. Not all the way.
He looks like he hasn't slept, like he's in his early 40's, like he's resigned, like he's surrendered. "I need to hire you to write something."
"Seriously?" I'm surprised. He's a writer. He's not one that would ever look for a ghost. The waitress leaves my coffee and walks away.
He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and slides it across the table to me. He clears his throat. It's as if he can't speak about it just yet. He's trying, but it's not ready to come out yet. I read over the paper. Facts, and bio information. Name, place of birth. Date of birth, date of death.
"What are you hiring me to write?"
"My father's eulogy." He stares downward, into his coffee.
There's a silence that doesn't bend. There's a sadness that can't breathe. There's a crack in the Earth that knows no soul.
"By when do you need this." I know this crack in the Earth. I've been here. 11 years ago. I know this crack.
"Funeral is tomorrow at 3." He pushes the coffee cup away and says, "I've been trying to write something for this, for 2 days. I've never had this happen before. I can write anything. But I just can't hit this."
I believe him. I believe in him. And I believe I understand. I fold the paper in half and put it away. "Tell me how old you were when it changed."
He shrugs. "When what changed."
"When it stopped being unconditional."
He thinks. He sighs, and he looks away. He knows exactly what I'm talking about. He knows the moment. When something broke. "I was 16. He found out I was gay, when I was 16."
Everything is about the writing. Every moment I have lived, every crack in the Earth. Every glory and every failure. Emotional research. Everything. The only thing that's different with this is the deadline. He hasn't finished processing the storm. He's still out at sea. He hasn't washed up on the shore yet. He has fallen into this crack in the Earth, but he hasn't clawed his way out yet.
I drive. I sink back into it. It's 11 years, but it's a moment ago. It's over, but it will never be behind me. It's healed, but it can't ever really mend. It's a crack in the world I can find without effort. Different reasons. But the reasons don't matter.
"I got your email." He sounds relieved and upset at the same time.
I cradle the phone between my ear and the pillow. This is important. This matters. "Will it work?"
"Yeah. It's exactly,... it's..." He sighs. "Veronica, how did you come up with this?"
Because I had already done all of the research. I had already been loved with conditions, and dismissed without them. I had already clawed my way out of that crack in the Earth.
Some people can't find peace here.
They can't feel the warmth in the sunshine, and just be glad you're you.
All the happiness I really wish I could have brought to you,
All the happiness I wish we had shared,
All the happiness I wanted you to have in your life, and in your heart,
I hope you can feel that happiness now,
Wherever you are now.
-The Money Pit
You have to be able to be human. You have to be able to fuck up, and know that you'll be forgiven. You have to know that you can be who you are, and that those that love you, will do so without restriction. You have to be able to make your own way, even if it isn't the way they imagined for you. You have to know that no matter how far you have to go, that you can always make your way back.
I don't think you can love someone you fear. Not really. Not all the way.
And I don't think you can love someone who can't see you for who you are. Not all the way.
He looks like he hasn't slept, like he's in his early 40's, like he's resigned, like he's surrendered. "I need to hire you to write something."
"Seriously?" I'm surprised. He's a writer. He's not one that would ever look for a ghost. The waitress leaves my coffee and walks away.
He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and slides it across the table to me. He clears his throat. It's as if he can't speak about it just yet. He's trying, but it's not ready to come out yet. I read over the paper. Facts, and bio information. Name, place of birth. Date of birth, date of death.
"What are you hiring me to write?"
"My father's eulogy." He stares downward, into his coffee.
There's a silence that doesn't bend. There's a sadness that can't breathe. There's a crack in the Earth that knows no soul.
"By when do you need this." I know this crack in the Earth. I've been here. 11 years ago. I know this crack.
"Funeral is tomorrow at 3." He pushes the coffee cup away and says, "I've been trying to write something for this, for 2 days. I've never had this happen before. I can write anything. But I just can't hit this."
I believe him. I believe in him. And I believe I understand. I fold the paper in half and put it away. "Tell me how old you were when it changed."
He shrugs. "When what changed."
"When it stopped being unconditional."
He thinks. He sighs, and he looks away. He knows exactly what I'm talking about. He knows the moment. When something broke. "I was 16. He found out I was gay, when I was 16."
Everything is about the writing. Every moment I have lived, every crack in the Earth. Every glory and every failure. Emotional research. Everything. The only thing that's different with this is the deadline. He hasn't finished processing the storm. He's still out at sea. He hasn't washed up on the shore yet. He has fallen into this crack in the Earth, but he hasn't clawed his way out yet.
I drive. I sink back into it. It's 11 years, but it's a moment ago. It's over, but it will never be behind me. It's healed, but it can't ever really mend. It's a crack in the world I can find without effort. Different reasons. But the reasons don't matter.
"I got your email." He sounds relieved and upset at the same time.
I cradle the phone between my ear and the pillow. This is important. This matters. "Will it work?"
"Yeah. It's exactly,... it's..." He sighs. "Veronica, how did you come up with this?"
Because I had already done all of the research. I had already been loved with conditions, and dismissed without them. I had already clawed my way out of that crack in the Earth.
Some people can't find peace here.
They can't feel the warmth in the sunshine, and just be glad you're you.
All the happiness I really wish I could have brought to you,
All the happiness I wish we had shared,
All the happiness I wanted you to have in your life, and in your heart,
I hope you can feel that happiness now,
Wherever you are now.
October 13, 2006
Pointed.
"This is where I was born." He points out the window, at a house. At a home. He points. And he remembers, "My brother and I shared the back porch for a bedroom. My mother worked at the Denny's on the corner just down here."
We drive a little farther. A little deeper. He points.
"I can't even tell you how many meals I ate at that Denny's."
He's a million miles away, right beside me. Looking at the Denny's. Pointing, at the memory. He's in his head, he's in his memory. And I am looking where he's pointing. I am looking.
"I would pull over, but I can't." He focuses ahead of us, on the road.
"I understand." I do, in a way. On a level. In a heartbeat. But I don't. Not really. Not where he is. Not what he sees.
He isn't magic. He's the normalcy. He isn't exploding.
He just is.
"When I was about 12 I wanted to play guitar."
I nod. "Didn't we all." I just don't want him to feel isolated. I just don't want him to be alone. I just don't. So I point. And he sees.
He stops at a red light on White Lane and Real Road. He stops. And he gestures towards the darker part of the night. "I used to walk this street. I used to know this place." It used to be home. It used to be. Now it's just a place. A place where he points and remembers. Where he drives, but doesn't stop. Where he can't. Where he just passes through.
I lay my hand on his thigh. "Do you want me to drive for a while?"
He doesn't answer. He lays his hand on top of mine. He's looking. He drives. He remembers.
"This is where it happened." He points ahead of us. At the road. With precision. "This is where I crashed."
And he drives. And we pass, through the intersection where it happened. No one knows the groove in the Earth like he does. Right here. No one knows it like he does. And then it's behind us. And we're driving. He remembers. He was born here and he died here. And he can't live here ever again. He just points, and he remembers. And I see it. Where he's pointing.
And I see.
Until he turns away.
Then it's just darkness, and Denny's. And an intersection.
We drive a little farther. A little deeper. He points.
"I can't even tell you how many meals I ate at that Denny's."
He's a million miles away, right beside me. Looking at the Denny's. Pointing, at the memory. He's in his head, he's in his memory. And I am looking where he's pointing. I am looking.
"I would pull over, but I can't." He focuses ahead of us, on the road.
"I understand." I do, in a way. On a level. In a heartbeat. But I don't. Not really. Not where he is. Not what he sees.
He isn't magic. He's the normalcy. He isn't exploding.
He just is.
"When I was about 12 I wanted to play guitar."
I nod. "Didn't we all." I just don't want him to feel isolated. I just don't want him to be alone. I just don't. So I point. And he sees.
He stops at a red light on White Lane and Real Road. He stops. And he gestures towards the darker part of the night. "I used to walk this street. I used to know this place." It used to be home. It used to be. Now it's just a place. A place where he points and remembers. Where he drives, but doesn't stop. Where he can't. Where he just passes through.
I lay my hand on his thigh. "Do you want me to drive for a while?"
He doesn't answer. He lays his hand on top of mine. He's looking. He drives. He remembers.
"This is where it happened." He points ahead of us. At the road. With precision. "This is where I crashed."
And he drives. And we pass, through the intersection where it happened. No one knows the groove in the Earth like he does. Right here. No one knows it like he does. And then it's behind us. And we're driving. He remembers. He was born here and he died here. And he can't live here ever again. He just points, and he remembers. And I see it. Where he's pointing.
And I see.
Until he turns away.
Then it's just darkness, and Denny's. And an intersection.
October 11, 2006
No Matter
It doesn't matter how sharp your tongue is or how strong your arms are.
Sometimes, you are just not safe.
No matter what.
No matter.
Because people get in. They make their way, across your moat and over your barbed wire. Passed your armor. They make their way.
No matter how hard you try to keep them out.
No matter.
That's what a broken heart does to you. You sing a song in the wrong key. And then you sing it in the wrong key, again.
That's the difference.
It's not just once.
You pattern.
No matter.
And then it fades. And that's alright.
The real poem is in the translation.
The real matter is not the momentary one here. It's not the loss. It's what remains.
I remain.
Richer for the experience, better for the sight.
Humbled by the honor.
And completely in love with my life.
Her - I am a broken record.
Him - You are far from broken.
This is for Clare
Sometimes, you are just not safe.
No matter what.
No matter.
Because people get in. They make their way, across your moat and over your barbed wire. Passed your armor. They make their way.
No matter how hard you try to keep them out.
No matter.
That's what a broken heart does to you. You sing a song in the wrong key. And then you sing it in the wrong key, again.
That's the difference.
It's not just once.
You pattern.
No matter.
And then it fades. And that's alright.
The real poem is in the translation.
The real matter is not the momentary one here. It's not the loss. It's what remains.
I remain.
Richer for the experience, better for the sight.
Humbled by the honor.
And completely in love with my life.
Her - I am a broken record.
Him - You are far from broken.
This is for Clare
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