Reading

It's true I am a voracious reader. As my husband likes to point out, it's not simply the volume, but the breadth of what I read that he finds astounding. It is one of those annoying traits that I can, and usually do, refer to something I'd read when we're in discussion about whatever topic. What's worse for him is when I, not only refer to the article or book, but then tell him he should read it as well. My need to read, or always have things to read, can sometimes feel more like a compulsion than simply a life long passion.

If I had nothing to read, I would read the box of any food item from my cupboard, taking in the ingredient and nutritional information. I know I've read more than many people I've met, except for my professors from grad school. Actually, it was the first time I'd met people, who could recommend books to me.

In any given week, I will have plowed through the current New Yorker, the Economist, the daily paper, the Sunday New York Times (which gets delivered on Saturdays here), a quick perusal of the Wall Street Journal and through the two or three books currently on my nightstand. If I'm getting my nails done, you can count People and UsWeekly into that list. I also purchase Vogue and Elle, not only for the pictures, but to actually read the articles. I've been known to rip out articles from those glossy magazines of female aspirations and mail them to friends who might find them interesting. Yes, it is a sickness. The one thing I don't read, which I'm quite proud, is any book that sounds remotely like self-help. Pop psychology with titles like "Chicken Soup for the Soul," never, thankfully, enter our home, ever.

When I was in LA, I had to do my reading during the day, usually at lunch. If I wasn't completely exhausted from the day, I could read before bed. Despite the very little time during the day for reading, I did still manage to read more than most people I knew--not a real challenge in LA.

However, now I find I can read on any bus or subway, which means I can get through the New Yorker in two days versus the five it took me in LA. What does this mean? It means I'm reading more, faster, including books. And since we have such limited space for books, this is a challenge, indeed. I try to avoid going to book stores weekly, but allow myself a monthly visit, which usually means sheer gluttony as I make my way through each section.

This Saturday was a designated book store day. After getting my son and husband off to their activity, I headed to Barnes and Noble in Union Square. I prefer the Strand, but the nice people from Barnes had sent me a coupon, which I'd carted around with me for over a week. The first thing that struck me was how busy it was inside. True, the weather is cold, so an afternoon spent at Barnes and Noble can be highly enticing. Unlike the Barnes and Noble at the Grove, it wasn't the magazine section or the cafe that was the center of activity. But rather, each section had people browsing, or better, reading a page of a book that had caught their attention. You know that stand and read position people take at bookstores or libraries.

I made my way through each section, finding the new book by J.M Coetzee and Bernhard Schlink among the treasures. It was, all in all, an intensely satisfying day at the book store. As I left with my bag, I emerged from the doors of Barnes and Nobles, falling into step with others headed east. Now, the question remains how I am going to store all of these new books that seem to enter our apartment on any given month. For me, it is a good worry to have since the alternative would mean scouring box labels for insight and inspiration. Even for me, this would border on the absurd, signaling a long stay at a place where I would make arts and crafts out of Popsicle sticks.

Weekend in Brandywine Country

A group of writers I met at Juniper have been getting together annually for the last three years. The last two years we have been meeting at a charming Bed and Breakfast in the Brandywine country outside Philadelphia, a pastoral property owned by Grace Kelly's nephew. This annual get together with writers, but more importantly women writers, has become an event I look forward to with greater anticipation. This year's meeting was no less enjoyable, all of us settling into the ebb and flow of conversation, meals and drinking wine in front of a fire place.

This year, unlike last year's red eye flight, I traveled on Amtrack from Penn Station, the entire trip taking just over an hour. It was remarkable to see how dramatically my life had changed within this one year since last year was spent, aside from discussing the writing, with my ceaseless complaints about living in LA, yet again. And how I felt exiled, marooned in this place that was so foreign to me.

On the train ride down, I noticed the splendor of leaves that had turned color without the notice of any of us. The vista of reds, orange, and yellow was a startling splash of color amid the gray of the day as the train chugged its way down the short corridor from New York City to Philadelphia.

This year I was able to catch the train at 30th Street station, a place I know as well as any after so many years traversing the Northeast corridor by train, for Penn Station. Before I could get truly comfortable, the train was pulling into the city. A quick cab ride later, I was putting my key into our front door where my son and husband were waiting. Again, I couldn't help but be taken back by the dramatic difference of our lives within a few short months.

Procrastinate--A Lifetime worth

It's well known most writers fight their own inner demons and find many ways to distract from the work at hand. This act of avoiding the work can take the form of the mundane to the creative. Some are known, including this writer, to clean their desks, organizing papers, receipts, contact lists, ipod music libraries, photo files, basically anything that can be categorized or organized.

There is nothing worse than sitting at the desk, the computer on, your hands on the keyboard, and your mind stuck on a particular word, a word that would make whatever sentence perfect. What's interesting about this process is how hard the work actually is, even if you aren't literally breaking a sweat. People assume writing to be this passive ephemeral act where inspiration will strike and a writer will type away furiously as if possessed by divine intervention. This may happen in Joyce Carol Oates' office, but I'm pretty confident when I say most writers work sentence by sentence, sometimes word by word. It is a process that can be exhilarating but also excruciating.

I have been, for the past five days, working on a particular passage of my book, chapter two in fact. It has been a laborious process of making sure the right words are used to evoke the mood and emotional landscape of the world I've created. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which happens a great deal, I switch over from my book to any number of shopping sites. It can be a dangerous distraction, indeed, as I browse the sites of Net a Porter, salivating over the latest designs by some of my favorite designers. But of late, with the holiday season fast upon us, I find myself shopping on line for holiday cards (yes, we are those annoying people who send out adorable photos of their child), toys from Santa for our son, and just general holiday gear. I wonder how I procrastinated before high speed DSL and before the advent of the plethora of shopping sites. I mean, what did I do before Ebay?

When the mental blockage is really bad, it is better to get up and simply read. Read anything from cookbooks to a 'how to' manual. Sometimes the mere act of reading words put together by someone else can unlock whatever it is that had prevented your own mind from unleashing all of those stopped up words. Or it can serve as a way to pass the remaining hour of your work day. When I had my entire library at hand, I used to browse my own collections, usually taking down a collection of poetry. This was not always a good thing since I would get so caught up in whatever collection I'd taken down for perusal that a few hours would slip by, unnoticed by me. Yes, a lifetime of fine tuning the ways to procrastinate can certainly take the reading of one poem to a few hours wasted.

One of the most amazing things about being here is the limitless opportunities to go hear some of the great writers of our age read their own work. John Ashberry, whose poetry is sublime or simply obtuse, is reading down the street from us tomorrow. I'm astounded he will be down the street, this poet whose work is discussed, dissected, misunderstood in many writing programs across the country. Perhaps today when I am stuck, which will surely happen, I will find a John Ashberry collection, if only I had my library.

Writers on Strike!

I can only imagine how the news must be assiduously covering this Hollywood Crisis! I'm sure they must have reporters decamped to Paramount and other studios, getting sound bites of people, writers, holding up picket signs and chanting for more money.

I am usually a supporter of unions, having had to join one as an adjunct at SMC. But somehow mustering up sympathy for Aaron Sorkin, Darren Starr, or Dick Wolf seems a bit, well, against the principles of what unions are supposed to do: protect the worker. If, in this case, the worker earns millions of dollars does that mean our sympathies should be any less fervent than our sympathies for, say, the auto workers union? The New York Times reports the average paycheck for the union membership is $200,000, while the average earnings for a family in LA is $52,572.

The writers' are also grumbling about being treated poorly by the big bad studio and television networks. Somehow this whining for respect seems, again, just a bit like the baby whining about not getting another sweet treat. Hollywood's abuse of writers is well documented in many, many books. F. Scott Fitzgerald's beautiful, heartbreaking memoir, "The Crack-Up," documents his mental break down while in Hollywood, getting paid as a studio writer. This industry's abuse of writers is not new and is on par with its abuses of all workers in its own industry.

Everyone has heard about the legendary screamers in this business, those bosses who scream at their underlings because their Latte didn't arrive with enough foam. This is the only industry where such unorthodox behavior is not ignored, but in some cases applauded as some masochistic machoism. Don't get me wrong, some of the power brokers, who happen to be women, are as notorious as their male counterparts for all sorts of abusive behavior, behavior that would in any other industry be grounds for major lawsuits and firings.

I've often wondered why this particular business--key word since those 'creative types, who like to delude themselves into thinking they are in a creative industry should check their naivety at the door once entering the business--seems to draw out such meanness. After living in LA, it started to dawn on me that those attracted to this business were, most likely, those kids ignored or picked on by their classmates in high school. (I'm talking about those behind the scenes since most of those in the higher profile end tend toward the super jocks, cheerleaders, and beauty queens.) Instead of licking their adolescent wounds in private, they set their sights on HOLLYWOOD where they lick the bottom of every boss's shoe until one day they are, ta da, the bosses themselves.

It is once they are in this position of power, sycophants at every turn, that their true misanthropic tendencies get free reign. They then set out to seek revenge, think, "Revenge of the Nerds," on all those that had somehow done theme wrong. From the parent company's perspective, well, who cares when this abusive, pathological person is making them money, that being the only thing they truly care about.

The entire industry, much like else in life, is high school redux. The caveat being more money, more toys, and meaner games being played out. There are those who are popular--think George Clooney--, those who are most likely to succeed--think Ang Lee--, the class clown--think Steve Carrell--, etc.

So, forgive me as writers go on strike if my compassion for their plight is not there. Again, just as it was difficult for me to muster up a great deal of sympathy for those Malibu beach front properties in danger during the fires, the same applies here. Perhaps with television shows in reruns, people will spend more time reading or talking to their family instead of zoning out on that black box that seems to take up so much room in any house.

Writing--Not an Autobiography

All writers write from their life, not about their life, that is unless you are a memoir writer. And memoirs, I've always felt, are some of the best fiction out there on the market. I think writers, when working on something that is supposed to be biographical, will exaggerate for dramatic purposes, not concerned how the obfuscation may alter the situation as it had truly occurred. In contrast, I think fiction writers reveal more of themselves emotionally in their writing, feeling a freedom that the guise of fiction allows.

I don't think a great deal about how much I reveal myself in my work. There can be no censor for any artist to create and writing is a method for me to figure out the truths of my life. It is a way, consciously, to connect the dots that seem to swirl around me. I can't worry about how something I write will, or can, affect those around me, particularly my family. My husband has had to contend with the reality that a portion of our life gets revealed either explicitly in language, or worse, in the emotional tone of how something is written.

I doubt I'd ever want to write a roman a clef, skewering those that I find incomprehensible, or worse, reprehensible. The pettiness of doing something like this has never interested me. And most people I find so loathsome don't deserve the creative efforts and endless hours that a book requires in the creation and in the fine tuning.

I am hard at work on this revision of my novel. As when I had written the original draft of this book some of the passages are incredibly sad and painful. There are times when I've reread or worked hard at a passage that the emotional weight of what's on the page hits me hard and I am sobbing, literally, my face buried in my hands. This book is not a factual rendering of everything in my life, but it is more of an emotional diary of something that I had experienced. It is as if I had stuffed all the pain and grief of my estrangement from my parents into this one book. And perhaps that is why I was able to deal with this incredibly painful situation. True, I wrote this book long after my parents and I had started the process of healing and forgiving. But instead of letting the residue of this painful episode cloud our relationship, I was able to put the grief of this period into a book. It is these 300 some pages that bears the brunt of the emotional morass of the pain that families can inflict upon one another.

When I had finished writing this book, a book my father had encourage me to write, I let him read the first chapter. I waited for his response, unsure how he would respond. I know it must have been painful for him to read those thirty some pages, but he never once discouraged my work. He said it was beautifully written and left it at that. I know when people read this book, they will read is as biography. When in truth, the realities of any writer's life gets fractured in their work. The voice of a writer is where the truth lies. And trying to decipher that is an impossible task, even for the most experienced reader.

I'm now living inside this book, easily distracted by ideas, thoughts, that occur throughout the day. As painful as this book was to write, I now have the distance of time to see what I was able to create from something that may have brought others to their knees, or worse, made them embittered.

Workshop...The End

This festival has been reassuring for so many reasons. The writers around this particular table, for the most part, are good, accomplished. I've read a few things that I will remember. That is encouraging. By this point, the jockeying is over since we all know who is what, and more importantly, where you are in the pecking order. Each of us are a strange hybrid of ego and humility. It is something I find in all writers...and at this point in my life I know quite a few really talented writers. It's also refreshing to sit around and talk about writers, books, and have the other person a) have read what you are referring to, b) offer you books or writers you may not have read.

The most important element in a workshop of this caliber is the knowledge that each person is a writer. And not someone who has decided to be a writer because he/she is a proficient letter writer. Someone I know once said she could write a book, if she wanted. I didn't quite know how to respond to such a ridiculous notion. See, she assumed the book she would/could write would be good. Her point was that she was so capable in all the other areas of her life the jump to writing a book didn't seem ludicrous. You can just imagine how the eyes would have rolled to the back of my head, if I weren't raised to be so polite. Oh yes, she's also someone who has said she doesn't read fiction and claims to read nonfiction, which means she doesn't read much of anything.

My teacher will become another mentor for me. I'm so grateful to have had such good writers guiding me. Now, I just have to make sure nothing I publish is an embarrassment. I also reconnected with an author, who is here as a teacher. We had dinner many years ago with her mentor from Grad school, who had become my mentor during my time. We've promised to stay in touch, which is nice. I had read her second book with curiosity since she had made such a splash with her first book.

I realize how much I like those who do this thing I do. They are all individual, funny, smart, and sensitive. And as I look around my circle, I see how many are writers.

Wynton Marsalis-Ghanian Drummers-Aspen-Under a Starry Night

Wynton Marsalis unveiled his newest collaboration between the Lincoln Center Jazz and Yacub Addy, a master drummer from Ghana, last night in Aspen. The music was sublime, the evening perfect since I sat behind Wole Soyinka, whose hands and feet kept time with the Ghanian drummers. This seemingly odd combination of Africa and Jazz, the one true American art form, is not so surprising, really. Marsalis is showing us, for those who don't know, the connections between this "primal" art form of African Drumming and its legacy in this country, having crossed the Middle Passage, survived slavery, and benefited from the hodge podge of American life...Blues, Jazz, R&B, and good old Rock and Roll. Sitting there last night, I could see all the threads of influence that goes to the dusty villages of Africa that are in the voices and instruments of all the music that can make the dreariest day feel less so. I love Wynton Marsalis, who was getting it on that stage. I've never seen him so loose, enjoying himself, truly playing to this mostly white crowd. I admire not only his prodigious talents as a trumpeter and music conductor, but also for his music eggheadedness. He is someone who is inside his art form, continually seeking to make connections, to draw divergent threads together, the outcome better than the original discrete pieces. I suppose all artists do that--steep themselves inside their art form, whatever that form is. Writers will talk about writing, but spend half their time drawing the threads of their work to those who have come before.

I also remembered the History of Jazz Music Class I took in undergrad. The old woman, who taught the class, played music on a turntable, desperate for us to hear these musical connections across so many continents.

I missed my husband last night since this was the kind of evening he would enjoy, one we would share. How I had the foresight or insight about my craziness to have picked the man who would allow me to "be," is still something I find remarkable. I know some women need to feel needed, to feel the protectiveness of her spouse. For me, not so much. Yes, I do want to feel secure, but what I need is freedom to think, to be alone, to go when the urge overtakes, and to not feel hampered. And he is the man that has always allowed me to be. I know this book and every other one I write will be dedicated to him since he is the quiet current that helped make my sails billow, propelling me forward to do my own thang.

Robert Bausch brought me to tears during my workshop. It is one thing to have your peers tell you how beautiful they found your book, but quite another coming from the teacher. He read one sentence from my book. At the end, he said that was stunning. Yup, I almost wept, but held it together enough to get through the rest of the discussion.

This workshop was the very elixir I needed. I also think I have the idea for my next book, which is a huge, huge, deal for me. I've been so stuck, unsure what I would write next. Nothing I'd written made me want to spend the next two years working so diligently. But last night during the concert, I had a thought. A thought that could carry me to sit down for the next two years. Amen. I am also more focused about getting my finished novel sold, so I know my parents and my husband will be thrilled by this renewed focus. Amen to that, they are all saying, I'm sure.

The Workshop

The workshop, for the writer, is the one place where your work will get the serious attention that so few find in their every day lives. It is not because our friends, those people in our immediate circle, are stupid or ignorant. But rather, they are not versed in the process or processes that a writer goes through with one piece, one essay, one book. It is disheartening when your friend, who is not a writer, reads an essay and tells you how much they enjoyed your story. It is semantics, but an important distinction for a writer. It's like telling a sculptor you found his picture beautiful. So, the workshop becomes crucial to your understanding your process, and the validation that your process is not unique to a writer's life.

The first day is always full of anticipation and hope. It is much like the first day of school where everyone gathers with no history or baggage from the year before. Each encounter, this first day, is each of our attempts to assess the other person. It's just that in a workshop the usual measuring sticks are a tad different than in any other social environment. First, assume that all of us know we are odd, eccentric, and full of our own quirks--the very things that may set us apart in our "normal" lives. Here, these oddities are about as important as whether or not you're wearing tennis sneakers or sandals. The normal social niceties are cast aside as a way to judge since, again, we are all odd, in our own ways. Yes, there are those that are really odd, bordering on crazy, but they tend to crop up more among the poets than among fiction writers. I think this is because fiction writers are better at pretending to be "normal," since so much of what we do is observe our lives around us, which becomes impossible if we are drawing unwanted attention to ourselves. See my point? Poets, on the other hand, well, they are different for so many reasons.

Robert Bausch is our leader, the one who has published enough books to warrant the title of "teacher." And let me say, he is terrific. He is everything you would want in a workshop leader: funny, great stories, great writer, giving, and caring. He's not there for ego masturbation. He seems to like teaching, and therefore likes his students. During my MFA program, I was fortunate enough to work with great writers much like Bob Bausch. That must account for why I'm still plugging away, doing this thing that is economically so unrewarding. Anyway, he picked my chapter, the 1st chapter of my finished novel, as one of the first pieces to discuss. This is not a good sign, usually. See, the temperature of the room hasn't been taken, so you never know if the group is going to be constructive in their criticisms, or simply critical. And much like any other social milieu, well, chemistry is a big part of which rooms are constructive versus destructive.

Well, let me say I survived my workshop. And it was lovely to hear everyone say such complimentary things about my work. I've been doing this a long time, but I'm still waiting for that one person to tell me that I shouldn't be writing since I have zero talent, even if the slow progress of what I've accomplished, thus far, tells me otherwise. Yes, it has been tediously slow, my progress.

Now, in these rooms, each of us are jockeying for a place in this mental hierarchy of who is the really good writer versus a writer. See, this will determine who gets invited quickly to sit with a group at lunch, get invited out to dinner, etc. And much like high school, once everyone has read your work, the hierarchy quickly gets established. Those who reign are those with the most talent. It's funny how that happens. You can always tell where you stand by the comments on your manuscript. The writer that I found most promising wrote me a note telling me how much he loved my work and book, and how we should keep in touch to see how we are progressing. See how this works?

The rest of the day is filled with craft talks given by a panel of writers, who are here teaching. This conference has drawn some really great writers. You do understand that you are chosen to attend based on your work, not simply because you've applied. I love hearing how other writers do it--this thing that is so elusive, mysterious, vexing, and transcendent. It is more than half the reason why I come to these events. It's getting that affirmation that your process that can, sometimes, drive you witless is, in fact, quite common to every other writers' process whether you have one book or 20.

The day finished off with a panel of Pan African writers. This year's theme of The Aspen Writers' Conference was Africa. The highlight for me had to have been to hear Wole Soyinka, the Nobel Laureate, speak about his work and his activism. He looks like in his pictures, his hair a sculpture of shocking white. His voice had that lyrical lilt of someone, whose colonial power had been Great Britain. And he was passionate in a quiet, thoughtful way. The most striking thing he said was that the Africa of today, the Africa of beauty, poverty, disease, and genocide is not his Africa. His Africa has yet to materialize since everyone else in the world always has claims to Africa--its psyche, history, resources, people, and image.

His words made me reflect on this notion of how the world claims an entire continent and how complicit we are in all of this.

Aspen--No John Denver Here

I left LA this morning at 4:00 AM, the hour of the day when the roads were eerily empty. I was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to feel much of anything but just sheer fatigue. I am here in Aspen attending The Aspen Writer's Conference. The conference is being held at a large property called the Gant, which is a series of condominiums strung together around a common pool that is dirty with cottonwood flakes. The hotel, for some odd reason, had upgraded me into a large suite, one with a fireplace, kitchen, living and dining room. I was too tired to ask why, nor did I really care. It feels like I've spent the past month being shuttled from place to place, this place just another in a series of rooms, places where I've had to unpack my much used suitcase. I truly feel like a vagabond now.

Our temporary housing in LA now bears the mark of a life in transition. What few clothes remain, we've packed the few into awaiting suitcases. These past few weeks have been such a whirlwind, making it impossible to truly process the myriad of emotions I feel, and will feel in the coming months. We said our final good-byes last night to my adopted mom. As we drove away from her home, I found myself sobbing inconsolably. There is no way to delude ourselves into thinking that this move will not change each of these special relationships that are so specific to place, time, and now a part of our past.

Those that will fall away from the proximity to our lives are already fading into the background. It's a subtle thing that's happened, and will continue to happen as the months gather, where our relationship to life in LA becomes a part of, not just our immediate past, but our past altogether. There is a clearing of the bush, as some would say. Bush, debris, clutter, all of these words for things that gathers in places, taking up space, most unnecessarily.

This conference is the perfect bookend to this transition, something I've felt building for some time now...the prominence of my writing life and my work. I had found it difficult to focus in LA, the cacophony of life there consuming me to the point of inertia. I always understood why I busied myself with so much commitment to other things, causes, friends, lunches, outings. These diversions were the excuse to why I wasn't able to work, when in fact, the truth was much more complicated.

This blog has fueled me to write. None of it is brilliant, none of it original. Yet, it has refocused my attention to my writing, to write every day, to think about writing each day, and to allow the space in my head to think, to mull, to obsess over those things that eventually will help your book, essay, short story or poem along.

And all I can say is "amen," to a new surge of energy about my work. It has been too long of a dry period.