Category Archives: Writing Life

Searching for the right agent, the right word, the right phrase and frame of mind.

Check This Out

Well, this is the coolest.  Aliza Hausman — Dominican-American Latina and Orthodox Jewish convert (or as she says on her blog, a Jewminicana for short) is holding a Chanukah contest. The prize to three lucky winners — a copy of  my book, I Love Jewish Faces. 

Aliza and I got in touch the new fashioned way — blog to blog. Someone told her she should check me out; someone told me I should check her out. And now she is holding a contest: describe the Jewish face you love in a couple of sentences…whether it’s your loved one, a friend or a movie star. Start with “The Jewish face I love….” And end with “I love Jewish faces.” She’s already getting quite a few responses.

So all evening I’ve been thinking about the Jewish faces I love. Time has taken my husband’s hair but not the deep green of his eyes, nor his smile or high Russian cheekbones. Aliza’s contest has me thinking of my children’s faces: Emma’s mane of ebony hair and those dark brown eyes that laugh and smolder; Elliot’s dreamy hazel eyes and killer smile; the  hair that is kind of brown but not exactly, kind of smoky dark but not really.  When he was a child there were glints of gold, too.

Can’t remember who said that the book she wrote wasn’t necessarily the book that some of her readers read. I loved that observation because it revealed the partnership between author and reader. We put our work out there, heart, sweat and hopes. In the receiving of it our words are transformed by our readers, who see insights we never intended or imagined. I never dreamed my book would inspire the beautiful reflections that Aliza has prompted. What a wonderful alchemy.

This and That

Were I a Greyhound driver I could say our vacation’s a real busman’s holiday, as we are staying in 6 different locales during this ten-day car trip. But I’m a writer so I guess I’ll call it a writer’s holiday since I’ve been taking notes for future work and going over the last details of the children’s book that will finally go to print, hopefully before the next new moon.

And then there is this space here that needs filling. Figuring you, my loyal readers, are out and about, at BBQ’s or sunning yourselves, you are not inclined to sit inside reading these nuggets of wisdom.  So I shall simply share a few passing thoughts and experiences.

Popped into a vintage clothing store yesterday when visiting the quaint NJ riverside town of Red Bank.  There on a sweet little table was a wide elasticized gold belt with bright gold clasp.   I have one just like it hanging in my closet.  No longer do I see vintage items and remark, “Oh… I used to play with something just like that!” Or, “Oh, my mother had a bowl/glass/blouse just like that.” No.  Now I mumble to myself, “I have (notice present tense) one just like it. It’s still hanging in my closet.” I am vintage.  Hear me roar.

James Frey of  I’ll-embellish-my-memoir-to-the-point-of-fantasy fame has just signed with Harper Collins. The four-book series for teens will be written by Frey and  a co-author. (Wanna guess which one will be the fact checker?) The manuscript was offered to editors anonymously.  I wonder why. Don’t ya just love it? The guy who scammed agents, editors, readers and Oprah the first time around will be paid “under seven figures.” Should tell agents my novel is non-fiction? Or reveal that my name is really James Frey?

And onto another literary jaunt — Jodi Picoult’s novel My Sister’s Keeper has made it to the silver screen.  Was thinking about Jodi last week what with this dream-come-true event coming to a theater near you. Her books have been translated into more languages than were spoken pre-Babel. Her bank account likely approaches pre-Madoff proportions. She was written up in the NY Times just last week.  Not so glowingly but then there’s that silver screen thing for comfort.

However. And this is a big one. Hollywood changed the ending of her wonderful book. Eviscerated it. Ruined it as far as I (and 72 percent of AOL respondents) are concerned. How must JP feel? To have written a great book, the ups, the downs, the cuts and the rewrites.  The coming up with an ending that you know will make your readers gasp. A resolution from left field that is an outta the ballpark home run.  And to have Hollywood turn it blander than oatmeal! Can’t feel good. 

And now dear readers, I am off to play a few rounds of Scrabble with Cousin Gary, a formidable and worthy opponent. (Although Emma did happen to trounce him, twice.) Go Emma!

The Old Man and the C

Reading the program notes at the symphony last weekend, my husband wondered about music prodigies versus writing prodigies — the former often burst upon the stage before their twelve-year-molars come in; the latter are often having bridge work and root canals before their talents are recognized.

Why is this? What is it about music that produces, or reveals genius, at such young ages? Does music come from a part of the brain easily accessed by the Little Tykes set but the brilliant writing brain can only be unlocked by those who’ve pedaled around the block at least a couple dozen times or so? Found some interesting articles and posts on the topic that offer up a few insights.

Prodigal writing demands not only mastery of language but insights and experiences not easily, or naturally, gained. A ten-year-old couldn’t have written Slaughterhouse Five; had a sixth grader penned In Cold Blood he’d probably be taken into protective services.

It’s not that writing prodigies don’t exist, but that
writers need time to come into their gifts; the creative well is primed by the stuff of life churning and replicating in its depths. This should give us hope. Hemingway’s first book was published when he was in his twenties; Helen Hooven Santmeyer was eighty-eight. And that’s just age at publication, not age at writing.

You can only be a prodigy once. But you can be productive for years on end. Which is the more prodigious goal?

Anniversary

Well folks, ‘This Writer’s Life’ turns one year old this week — 72 posts, 8000+ visitors, nearly three hundred comments. When I was toying with entering this world of posts (can you tell I’m avoiding the ‘b’ word) I wondered what would be the point of it. Could I keep it up with any sort of regularity? What would I write about? Would it be the e-quivalent to the one-hand clapping koan — What kind of sound does an unread web-log make?

Industry wags say “Do you have a blog?” is one of the first questions book editors ask, using that ‘b’ word I have never grown to love, or even like. Alas, I wish I could testify to that one but I cannot. We’re still working on the agent angle that precedes the editor angle. But this space did bring me to the attention of the wonderful people at Good Housekeeping. That right there has brought a huge professional leap. Thank you K.K. Schmier and the terrific staff there at GH.

I surprised myself by enjoying what has shaken out to be a weekly endeavor. You all have turned it from one-hand clapping emptiness into a two-handed partnership. We are all busy, pulled by various media competing for our eyeball time — newspapers (remember them?), books, magazines, the internet. And so I am deeply grateful to each and every one of your for visiting my virtual word room, for leaving wise comments and praiseful emails. Thank you.

Have decided to celebrate this one year anniversary with a look back. Listed below are links to seven favorites. If you’re new to This Writer’s Life you can catch up. If you’re a longtime reader, revisit some you might have missed. No pressure, just pleasure — which is what this new writing experience has turned out to be. Thank you for making it so.

Debra

ps I think I’ve just might have coined an alternative to the detested ‘blog’ word. Up there in paragraph three I referred to this space as a ‘word room.’ What about ‘droom?’ Kind of has a Stranger in a Strange Land feel to it. Rhymes with ‘vroom.’ ‘Droom’ might even be ‘dream’s’ ramped-up cousin. As a noun — I wrote a droom. OR– I read a great post on someone’s droom. As a verb — I droomed on the state of the world today. I’ve been drooming for a year. What do you think? And wouldn’t it be a hoot and a half if it sticks???? Droom on!

The Super Seven:
In Memory of McKenzie
Memories on the Halfshell
Burgess Meredith & Me
Animal School
Strike While the Thought is Hot
Paper Chase
Morning Glories Lost

What’s a Word’s Worth?

“I really appreciated that she came to me for a filling. She needed x-rays, too, but I wasn’t sure I should charge for them. I don’t want to scare her off and lose her as a patient down the road. So I just did them for free.”

“Well, he’d already agreed to pay me to draw up the documents. Then he called for more advice; I spoke with him for another hour or so. Do you think he’d be insulted if I charged him for the phone consult?”

Can you imagine a dentist or an attorney saying either of the above? Of course not! But you wouldn’t believe the times I have had similar conversations with fellow writers. On second thought, if you are a writer, I suppose you would believe it. Because you’ve probably had similar worries somewhere along the way. I know I have.

What is it about creative fields that makes us devalue our work, taking little or nothing as payment and being grateful to boot for the opportunity? Why is it so hard to set a price on our talents? And why do so many assume that we will give it away simply for the joy of being asked? Or for the promise of “exposure.” Or the thrill of seeing our byline.

Why is this? Because art is perceived as being optional? Or because there are so many of us creative folk that we’re a dime a dozen? And a devalued dime at that. Or is it because creative fields, by their nature, rise from a place of evanescence? How do we value materially that which springs from places deep within us, places that we cherish as the essence of our highest selves? Does it cheapen our spiritual and artistic gifts when we have the audacity to ask for payment? Or does putting a price on our gifts make others respect our unique talents?

I’ve asked a lot of questions here. And I have no answers, really. Each of us has to decide how far we will go to be known, how many unpaid articles we will write for the promise of paid ones down the road, how many “opportunities” we will turn down for lack of payment.

On the upside, this blog brought a surprise by way of publication for a past post. A wonderful editorial assistant at Good Housekeeping magazine read one of my blogs and has paid me for its use. “On Dogwoods and Daughters” appears in the May issue. On the stands April 14.

Will I write a freebie every now and then? Sure. There are sites I enjoy writing for. I appreciate the opportunity and the site owners’ enthusiasm for my work. And I’ll occasionally serve on a panel gratis or speak for a non-profit for a reduced fee. But more often than not, even in these challenging times, I expect to be paid for my expertise. And you?

Whats Up with the Kings English?

Seems that since the 1950’s, apostrophes have been dropping from Britains (uh ‘scuse me) Britain’s street signs. And now Birmingham, England’s second-largest city, is officially banning the apostrophe from all its street signs. Why? According to AP reporter, Meera Selva, they’re “confusing and old-fashioned.” Ah the poor misused, maligned and misunderstood apostrophe.

If you want to read a really good piece on the history of this wee mark, read How the Past Affects the Future: The Story of the Apostrophe. Seems it’s had its users up in arms from the start.

The apostrophe had its origins in the Greek word “apostrephein” which means “to turn away” and was a “rhetorical device in which a speaker turned from the audience to address another person.” Eventually the term came to refer to something that was missing.

I like the little guy. It matters. It lends clarity. It’s a litmus test winnowing those who know and care about language from those who don’t. Yet I learned that even G.B. Shaw refused to use the apostrophe in any of his plays; no one can challenge his skill with the quill.

The authors of the aforementioned History predict that as we move increasingly to electronic communication, which favors speed over careful composition of the English language, keyboard makers will eventually drop the apostrophe altogether, leaving us to gather meaning from context alone. Where will that leave our right pinky? Flailing impotently every time we write about the bells of hell or the lane of lovers? What might take its place  — a smiley face emoticon? 

I can imagine a future conversation with a grandchild — “Yes, sweetie, before you were born keyboards came with a little squiggle called an ‘apostrophe.’ It had many jobs — replacing missing letters in a contraction; indicating not one, but three kinds of possession; showing a quote within a quote. It even had a job for visual esthetics but that one, too, began to fade toward the late 1990’s. It’s a new world, now. No apostrophes.”  

And shell likely wonder, “Whats the big deal?”

Touched by an Angel

I bought an angel last week. Yes, an angel. Delicate porcelain face, cheeks blushed the palest shell pink. Deep red jacket, long swirly cerulean blue skirt. And wings! More than half her height, those white and gold wings rose above her shoulders and reached nearly to her knees. They looked less like wings and more like an enormous pair of heavenly hands cupping her slender form with Divine encouragement, as if urging her forward ever so gently. Did I mention she was reading a book? A book! So angels read. Who knew?

But I turned away. Jews don’t do angels. At least not sweet and comely female ones. The Hebrew word for angel, malach, is better translated as messenger. I always imagined God’s messengers as tall robed guys wearing Birkenstocks. They weren’t sweet. They wrestled with sleeping patriarchs. Took human form and went visiting. Or appeared in burning bushes.

I had no business bringing home an angel. What about the commandment against graven images and idols? But she had me. The gentle embrace of the wings, the lustrous colors of her clothes. And that book. Maybe the artist envisioned it as a hymnal. Or the New Testament. But why not Ann Patchett or Gwendolyn Brooks?

It had been a particularly grim week. Bookstores closing, publishing houses laying off staff, newspapers going up in smoke, literacy rates fluctuating from bad to worse. In a world of Chapter Elevens, I needed a tangible reminder of why I kept writing; I wanted a physical embodiment of hope. And so I brought her home. What better angel for a Person of the Book to have on her desk?

More snow fell over the weekend. For an update click here.