Real-Life Superheroes

Now that I’ve told the world about my Superman obsession, I’d like to talk a little about real-life superheroes...


During the summer before my senior year of college, in a desperate attempt to make enough money to pay for rent and books when the semester started, I worked two jobs. I had a full-time job at an insurance agency, and worked three nights a week at the campus library. I remember being completely drained on the two-job days. I left my apartment at 7:30 in the morning and, except for a quick stop to change clothes and grab something that passed for a dinner I could eat on the bus, I didn’t see it again until 11:30 in the evening. During what little “down-time” I had on those hectic days, I remember daydreaming about what I would do with all the free time I’d have on my next “easy” day. I imagined myself reading stacks of books, experimenting with all kinds of recipes, or, as always, writing the great American novel.

In reality, more often than not, even on the easy days, I was so wiped out from the long hours on the previous day that all the energy I could muster went toward whipping up some kind of instant noodle or rice dish from a box, and eating it right out of the pot in front of the television. I did this for just three months, and the physical and emotional exhaustion sapped me of all desire to accomplish anything, go anywhere, or do anything.

My parents did it for ten years.

It is only recently, as I’ve gotten older, that I’ve been given access to small amounts of the truth about what happened during the ten years in which my parents were the owners and sole employees of an ice cream store in our hometown. And it is only now, that I am armed with what is surely not even close to a full account, that I’ve come to understand the kind of people M & M really are.

It was the mid-1980s. My father was a junior high school teacher in Brooklyn, New York – in heavy traffic, easily an hour-long commute from our house in Staten Island. My mother was a stay-at-home mom. (At least, that’s what she’d be called today. At that time, long before political correctness banished the term from our country’s vocabulary, she would have been called, simply, a housewife.) In the summer months, during the school vacation, my father drove an ice cream truck. (A profession almost as noble as teaching, any kid with fifty cents and good hearing can tell you. Then again, maybe these days, it’s up to a dollar, or even two. I’m not sure…it’s been a long, long time since I heard the bells of a Good Humor truck jingling in the distance and ran out the door to wait for it.)

As I understand it, my father was looking for something more lucrative and more fulfilling to do with his summers than drive an ice cream truck for someone else’s business. He got the idea to start his own business, and the only thing he felt confident in his knowledge about, was ice cream. Against my mother’s loud and insistent opposition, he purchased a location that, with time, a lot of labor, and a lot of money, would become their literal and figurative prison for the next ten years.

I remember watching week after week, month after month, as the site was transformed from an empty, dingy box that looked more like an unfinished basement than an ice cream parlor, into a bright, cheerful place that practically screamed sugar, smiles, and happiness. The concrete floor was covered with white and blue tiles; the walls were painted white, with a border of colorful balloons. They hired several kids from the local high school to work in the store, along with children of friends, and even my sister. (I was a little too young at the time, never mind the fact that I couldn’t see over the counter!)

Unfortunately, the cheerful, inviting atmosphere failed to draw the crowds my father had anticipated. The store wasn’t in the best location. It was a bit out of the way for most people; unless you knew it was there, you never would have noticed it.

It didn’t take long before a big problem surfaced: the bills kept coming; the business, however, did not. This is one area where my full knowledge of the situation is full of holes, but as I understand it, there were a lot of hidden costs associated with starting a business that my parents, being novices, did not foresee. Unable to pay minimum wage salaries anymore, one by one, they had to let all the employees go. From bits and pieces I’ve overheard through the years, things got so bad, that at one point, we were in danger of losing our house.

Thus began a fight any comic book superhero wouldn’t dare go near. A struggle so long, so exhausting, that not Batman, not Spider Man, not even Superman, would have the courage to face. Only two real-life superheroes could walk through this deep, dark tunnel, starting their journey with no end in sight, and come out on their feet. Only my mother and father.

The two of them were the sole employees of the store for the better part of ten years. No weekends off, no holidays except Thanksgiving and Christmas. No sick days, no paid vacations. I guess we should be grateful that the teacher’s union had such a solid health plan, because the business certainly couldn’t provide one. And, even so, both of my parents had health problems they neglected for years, just because they never had time to see a doctor. My mother would wake up early, to make sure me and my sister got off to school all right, and then she would open up the store, where she would work by herself until my father got there, but not without once again battling the traffic back in from Brooklyn. They switched places when my father got there; my father would work there in the evening, and my mother would come home, to face a night of cooking dinner, doing laundry, and helping with homework.

I worked two jobs for only one summer, and I spent a lot of that time planning all the fun things I would do on the weekends, when I didn’t have to spend sixteen hours working and commuting. I can’t imagine what it was like for my parents, to spend ten years waiting for “someday.” That distant, magical someday, when they would have time…time to travel, time to read the hundreds of books that had come out in the past few years that they’d been adding to the reading lists in their heads. Or time to just sit in front of the TV and enjoy a program freely, without thinking about the eight million things they had to take care of before they went to bed. I’m absolutely certain living that way was not how either of my parents imagined their life would be. I still sometimes wonder what their childhood dreams were, and how terribly far away from them they found themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few months ago, I completed USAF survival school. After the most difficult part of the training, I rewarded myself with all kinds of junkfood, and endless hours in front of the TV. The toughest part of the training was only two days long. Hell, the entire course lasted only three weeks. For what my mother and father had to endure and survive through for ten years, I’ve decided they can do whatever they want, for as long as they want.

Thanks to the endless, grueling days, during which she put her family before herself, my mother now faces a series of health problems. My sister and I used to criticize her for spending so much time playing computer games, or watching television. But the more I comprehend how hellish it must have been for all those years, the more I realize my mother deserves as much down time as she wants. Lord knows, she’s earned it.

As for my father, on the rare Sundays when my mother would work to give him the day off, he would collapse on the couch and sleep most of the day away. (A habit he still holds dear.) Again, the more I think of how he worked himself almost into dust, the more I believe my dad can take as many naps as he wants. Lord knows, he’s earned them.

The store’s been closed for eleven years now, and my father still likes to take all-day naps. My mother still likes to relax with a cup of coffee and a good TV show. And it’s only taken me eleven years to finally shut up about it. They’ve earned it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have many friends who come from broken homes. Some are well adjusted; some are not. With very few exceptions, all the friends I grew up with lived in homes where their parents were still together. It is so foreign to me now, when I hear so many people I work with talking about their stepmother, stepbrother, half-cousin, or mother’s new husband’s half-sister.

With all the problems my parents faced, and the dire straits they were in, it would have been easy for things to fall apart in their marriage. I can’t say whether they ever came close, but there was never any indication that they were less than in love. I never remember them fighting, though I’m sure they did. With all the stress, the money problems, tensions must’ve run high. But I never remember a raised voice, and certainly not a cross word. Minor disagreements, yes. Backseat driving, yes: on the rare occasions, like Thanksgiving, when the store was closed, and the four of us would get in the car and drive upstate to visit cousins. But all-out insults, accusations, and fights were completely nonexistent. (At least, in my presence.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My family was never rich, but my sister and I never wanted for anything. There was always food on the table. There were always gifts at Chanukah. I’ll probably never know how much of that is due to the generosity of my grandparents on both sides. I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much effort, how much scrimping and saving it took to buy the clarinet I received as an 8th grade graduation present. (But it might make my parents feel better to know they’ve gotten their money’s worth, for sure. After all, I’m playing the same instrument now, fourteen years later, and every time I take it out of its case, I still remember how surprised I was when they gave it to me.)

All I know is, when my sister and I needed something, it was there. Somehow, we never had to go without. Looking back, for a family that was so financially strapped, we had a ridiculous amount of Barbie dolls and accessories. In addition to ice cream, my parents sold candy, magazines, homemade frozen treats, and novelties in the store. How much of their potential profit did I rob them of, every time I took a magazine home with me, because it had the absolute best poster of the New Kids on the Block, and I could not live without it? (We’re talking early 1990s, remember!) How much of their profit did I eat, literally? How much ice cream did I help myself to? How many bags of chips? (It’s too bad they didn’t stop me, really, because now, at the ripe old age of 28, I’m still trying to work all of it off my hips and thighs!)

I wish I would have known. I would have asked for less. I would have been perfectly fine making do with fewer dolls, fewer nights at the movies with my friends. I know I was young, but I was intelligent. I think I would’ve understood the situation, if they had tried to explain it to me. The thing is, they never did.

I’ve never talked to my sister about it, so I don’t know how much of the real situation she was aware of, but I was completely ignorant of what was happening around me. It never occurred to me that my mother didn’t want to work there every day, or that my father didn’t want to be a slave to two jobs. Maybe I was too naïve to see it for myself, but I wish they would have explained. Hindsight being what it is, I am now sure they hid the worst of it from me because they didn’t want to scare me. And maybe they were right. Maybe I had a carefree, happy existence because I had no idea how bad things were outside myself. Then again, maybe that’s exactly why my parents worked so hard in the first place: to give me and my sister that carefree, happy existence that all parents want for their children.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday nights usually meant Chinese food in our house. I looked forward to it all weekend. I was so proud of myself, because I would sometimes set the table. Looking back, I can’t imagine why I didn’t do it every night. It was five minutes’ worth of my time, and it would have meant one less thing my mother had to do when she got home, already exhausted from spending all day on her feet, only to face the prospect of cooking dinner for four, and preparing school lunches for the next day. Apologies over something that happened so long ago seem pointless now, but if it means anything, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too young, and too ignorant and naïve, to realize how just a small change in my behavior could have had such a profound effect.

When I’m in the supermarket now, and I see all the “shortcut” foods, designed, I assume, for busy working moms I find it hard to believe that so many women depend on them. We ate our share of TV dinners, but mostly because we liked the taste. I remember very few nights when my mother didn’t cook something “real.” I have very vivid memories of her stirring pots on the stove, or outside on the deck, basting ribs on the barbecue.

Relatively speaking, my parents weren’t around a lot. My sister and I were home alone very often. To date myself again, I guess you could call us “latchkey kids.” And yet, my sister and I turned out fine. We’re both honorable, smart, law-abiding, and hard-working. Unlike so many stories you hear nowadays, we’re not using our childhoods as an excuse to be anything less than decent human beings.

Then again, we really have no excuse. On a day when there was never time – time for my mother to get her hair done, or swim in our pool, or go see the latest movie, there was always time for us. On days when there was no time for my father to buy himself new clothes, or take my mother to dinner, there was always time for us. My sister and I were both very active in extra-curricular activities in school. No matter how busy our parents were, someone was always there for us, cheering from the audience. At band concerts, SING, science fairs, graduations, someone was always there.

Maybe we didn’t take family trips to the Grand Canyon, or even all eat dinner together most nights. Maybe we didn’t see all the sights in New York City or go to Yankees games every summer. I didn’t miss it then, and I don’t, now. I never felt unheard, or unloved. I never felt like I had anything less than a perfect childhood. If my parents are reading this, and I know they are, please read this paragraph again. Did you hear me? I never felt like I had anything less than a perfect childhood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I once heard that at the darkest point, when my parents were in danger of losing our house, and the future—if they had the courage to think about it at all—no doubt looked unbearably bleak, my father considered committing suicide. I can only hope that seeing me in my uniform, seeing P in her wedding dress, and seeing his grandchildren in whatever adorable outfit they’ve got on, is enough for him to be certain that the more difficult decision—hanging on, sticking with it—was the right one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s only one thing—one big thing—that I remember my parents not being able to give us. It didn’t affect me, but at the time, it was my sister’s greatest wish. She’d been accepted to Boston University, and it was, to use a phrase any high school senior is familiar with, her “dream school.” She had the grades, she had the credentials, she had the SAT scores. What my parents did not have, however, was the money. In what was probably the biggest disappointment of her life until that time, my sister ended up going to a state university. But, if my parents ever felt any guilt over this, and I’m sure they have, I hope that their son-in-law and two beautiful grandchildren are living proof that, in the end, things happened for a reason, and in fact, probably happened exactly the way they were supposed to. If P had gone to Boston, she never would have met S, and they would not have gotten married, had children, and created another family being run in the shadow of my parents’ own example: hard work, smarts, commitment, sacrifice, and love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few years ago, my mother and I were riding in the car. Kenny Rogers’ Through the Years came on the radio. My mother told me it was one of her favorites; the song reminded her of all the struggles she and my father had faced, how they got through them, and how they were still together, still intact, on the other side. Oddly enough, the song had always been one of my favorites, too, but my reasons were far less profound. I simply liked the lyrics, and Kenny Rogers has a way of singing that makes it difficult for me to find a song of his that I don’t like. After hearing my mother talk about it, Through the Years is still one of my favorites. Now, though, instead of reveling in the raspy, yet rich, deep voice of one of America’s great country music icons, I cry every time I hear it. I cry because it reminds me of my parents, and how much of themselves they sacrificed for the sake of two little girls whom they never, ever disappointed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


On November 21, 1971, in a small ceremony in a rabbi’s office in Brooklyn, M & M spoke the vows they would adhere to for the rest of their lives. The vows to stay together, no matter what.

Happy 35th Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

And, thanks.

There's Something About Superman...

I read somewhere that the red and yellow Superman emblem is one of the most internationally recognizable symbols of American pop culture. The “S” insignia Superman wears on his chest, juxtaposed against the bright blue of the rest of his costume, is the nearly universal sign for, dare I say it, truth, justice, and…I hate to say it, but it’s true...the American way.

Superman was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, two young Jewish men, who decided the world needed a light in the darkness that World War Two had cast upon the world. A light that would never go out. A light that would shine from the deepest pit, through the blackest night. A light that peaceful, freedom-loving people could look to when their very way of life was threatened by the murderous, imperialistic Nazi and fascist regimes in Europe and Asia.

Superman made his debut in 1938. It is now sixty-eight years later, and his fan club has sprouted out of Metropolis, to include the entire world. His popularity has waxed and waned, but his image has never disappeared. Batman and Spiderman have come to the forefront in recent years, and have had new life infused into their stories. Filmmaker Bryan Singer hoped to do this for Superman, with Superman Returns, which was released this summer. The thing is, Superman was never really gone. In the movie, he had been away from Metropolis for five years, but in “real life,” for his fans, he has always, and will always, be around. Real or fictional, I can’t—and wouldn’t want to—imagine a world without him.

Let’s face it: when worn by an actor in prime physical shape, the costume leaves little to the imagination. Superman is, without question, a fine male specimen. The source of the attraction, however, is much deeper than his appearance. What is it about the Man of Steel that so many people all over the world cling to?

I can’t claim to speak for the whole world, but, speaking for myself, the very idea of Superman is as comforting as a rainbow after a violent thunderstorm. He’s a sign that you’re safe; that nothing will hurt you. He’s a reminder that, like Patrick Swayze’s character says in the movie Dirty Dancing, “there are people in the world who are willing to stand up for other people, no matter what it costs them.” Superman will never let you down. He’ll never let you fall. (Or, if you’re Lois Lane, he’ll let you fall, but he’ll always catch you before you hit the ground!)

I’ve always loved Superman. Some of my friends have only recently learned this about me, in the wake of Superman Returns. Seeing it reminded me of just how much I love Superman. (It has also led to many a discussion about the finer points of Batman, the X-Men, the Avengers, and the Fantastic Four, the best result of which was killing time at work.)

My love for Superman has never died, but from time to time, it has fallen off the radar. Now, in the wake of the movie, I am having what my sister would call a “Supermanaissance.” (As in, the Renaissance. Didn’t you know you could just add that ending to any word, and transform it to mean a reawakening? A rekindling of something that hadn’t completely disappeared, but needed to be infused with new life? This comes, of course, from my sister’s recent conversion to a tomato lover. She used to hate fresh tomatoes, and now, she loves them! She coined the word “tomatossance,” and I’ve stolen it to describe the rebirth of my feelings about Superman.)

It is my good fortune (and the toy manufacturers’ and marketing people’s even better fortune) that a host of new Superman-themed merchandise has flooded stores. Now, a whole new generation can celebrate the Caped Wonder by spending mom and dad’s hard-earned money on everything from magnets to action figures, to Superman pajamas, which, as a 28-year-old, I’m not ashamed to admit I own. (The pants came courtesy of my friend, Susie; the T-shirt was all me!)

I haven’t given in completely to the mass marketing, however. I may love the Man of Steel, but I’m still a discerning consumer. I buy things that make me happy when I look at them. The problem is, there are very few Superman-themed items that don’t make me happy when I look at them. Maybe it’s the bright, cheery primary colors; maybe it’s the fact that Superman is so damn handsome, in just about every incarnation there’s been. (At least, during my lifetime. I mean, we’re talking about Christopher Reeve, Dean Cain, Tom Welling, and Brandon Routh. Find me one man among those, who didn’t do justice to that costume!)




Most likely, though, it is that just seeing Superman’s face, or even the famed “S” symbol, that was Kal-El’s family crest back on Krypton, is a reminder of everything Superman means to me. (And, of course, now that, for the first time in my life, I have a steady income, and am no longer spending dear ol’ mom and dad’s money, if I want to treat myself to a few things that will make me smile at the end of the day, I don’t feel guilty for indulging. [Case in point: the welcome mat that sits just outside my door. It has a classic image of Superman on it: serious expression on his face, cape flowing regally behind him, and it says, “All Friends and Heroes Welcome.” A little childish? Maybe. But it makes me smile every time I walk through the door.])

But I digress...
(And, if you read my previous post, about why I haven’t written anything in a while, you’ll recognize that I do this a lot. In fact, I think this is going to be “my thing.” Y’know, like Johnny Carson’s golf swing, or Dennis Miller’s trademark rant ending, “But that’s just me; I could be wrong.” I’ll have a few paragraphs that are only slightly related to the topic at hand, and then I’ll saw those three little words. Hmm…what an interesting challenge for myself, to see if I can include an entertaining, if not intelligent digression in every post. Then again, that’s not a challenge at all. This entire thing, since the mention of the “tomatossance,” has been a digression! Okay, so it won’t be challenging. At least it’ll be fun. It’ll be like a Where’s Waldo, in every post! Where’s the, “But I digress,” hiding this time?)

~~And now, we return to our regularly scheduled essay~~

In my praise of Superman, I don’t mean to disparage or ignore other superheroes. The fact is, Superman is the only one I’ve ever felt strongly about, and he’s the only one I feel qualified to discuss. Based on other movies that have come out in the past few years, I’ve learned that Batman and Spiderman both have interesting origins, and abilities that undeniably put them in the same league as Superman. Other superheroes have neat nicknames, like the Emerald Archer (Green Arrow), and the Scarlet Speedster (the Flash). They all have wonderfully creative alter-egos: Ace test-pilot Hal Jordan became Green Lantern; police scientist Barry Allen became the Flash; gangster Eel O’Brien became Plastic Man. Still, for me, none has ever measured up to Clark Kent, Superman, and the Man of Steel. I’m sure the others have internal qualities that are similar to what I see in Superman, but, for reasons which I’m about to explain, Superman is the only one I’ve ever gravitated toward.


I’ve heard people say Superman is a flawed superhero, because he can never lose.

Some people say the interesting thing about watching superhero movies, or reading the comic books, is seeing how the heroes overcome their weaknesses, and still go on to kick serious adversary butt. I’ve thought about this a lot since Superman Returns came out this summer, and I’ve come to agree. With this mindset, it’s easy to see why some people think Superman is boring. He has no weaknesses. He can never lose. He’s faster and stronger than anything or anyone. He flew around the Earth fast enough to reverse its orbit, for crying out loud. (The original Superman movie, 1978.) He has x-ray vision, cold breath that can freeze anything, and laser beams that shoot out of his eyes! No enemy could possibly stand a chance. Where’s the fun in that?

However, the more you learn about Superman, the more you begin to understand that he does have weaknesses. The catch is, his weaknesses aren’t physical. They’re emotional. Every time he hears a cry for help, or a siren in the distance, he has to fight himself. He has to stifle the part of him that wants to be a normal man. He has to bury his carnal and temporal wishes and force himself to do what’s right.

Superman’s weakness is his morality. It’s his integrity. (That is, if you consider those two things to be weaknesses.) I’ve heard integrity defined in many ways, but my two favorites are: doing what’s right, even when no one’s looking; and, doing what’s right, even when it hurts.

Superman can’t ignore someone in need. It goes against everything he believes in, and everything he stands for. He does what’s right, even when it hurts, and, if you can see even the slightest bit of humanity in Superman, it’s obvious that it does hurt. In the television series, Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, poor Clark Kent had the world convinced he was a complete scatterbrain. Thanks to his super-hearing, he could always hear when he was needed. He was constantly leaving the office in the middle of meetings to go rescue someone, and he walked out on more than one heart-to-heart talk with Lois Lane, claiming he forgot to return a video, or had to pick up his dry cleaning.

Clark Kent, as portrayed by the late (and truly “super”) Christopher Reeve, was a total nerd. He was nervous, fidgety, and a klutz. The revelation of his true identity had so many dangerous possible outcomes that he had to hide his true self from the world. He had to maintain a secret identity that was such a polar opposite of his true self, that no one would ever suspect they were one and the same. No one can claim Superman has it too easy, or that he has no weaknesses. In a world that loves Superman—and, despite what he thinks, embraces him as one of its own—the poor man is completely, tragically, alone. If that’s not painful, I don’t know what is.


In an essay in the June 2006 issue of Wired, Neil Gaiman and Adam Rogers talk about “the internal war between Superman’s moral obligation to do good and his longing to be an average Joe. Other heroes are really only pretending: Peter Parker plays Spider-Man; Bruce Wayne plays Batman. For Superman, it’s mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent that’s the disguise – the thing he aspires to, the thing he can never be. He really is that hero, and he’ll never be one of us.”

Superman’s greatest desire is to fit in. To be accepted. He feels so different, so out of place. He feels he’ll never truly fit in, because he’s not human. What he doesn’t realize is, the thing that he thinks sets him apart is the very thing that makes him most like us: a sense of not belonging. A sense of being trapped on the outside, looking in. And this is why I love him. This is why I sense a kindred spirit in a fictional character. Does that make me pathetic? Maybe. But, more likely, it makes me undeniably human, the same way it does for Superman, himself.

Who hasn’t ever felt that way? Hell, I know people who feel that way all the time. This is why we join internet forums, or support groups, or book clubs. We want to feel like we belong. We flock to like-minded people, because they understand us. They help us feel less alone. They make it safe for us to brave the world. Safe for us to leave the sanctity and comfort of our own, personal fortresses of solitude.



For those of you who are unfamiliar with Superman canon, the Fortress of Solitude is Superman’s home. (I’ll spare you the details of how he built it.) It is a crystal ice palace, somewhere in the Arctic, somewhere inaccessible to humans. It’s his escape; his refuge. It’s the only place he can go to truly get away from the pressure of maintaining two separate lives. We all have a Fortress of Solitude, even if it’s not a place you can point to on a map. For some, maybe it is a physical location, like a coffee shop you like to go to with a good book, settle into a comfy chair, and forget about your problems and your shortcomings for an afternoon. Or, maybe it’s an activity, like running. Maybe, when you need an “escape” from everything, you put on your sneakers and hit the pavement. Maybe, for that bit of time, all that exists in the world is you, and the sound of your footfalls, and no one’s there to tell you you’re not good enough, or fast enough. Maybe, if you’re like me, your Fortress is those few minutes you lie in bed, just before you fall asleep. It’s the time of day when you can imagine anything: be anyone, anywhere, doing anything. No matter how crazy they would seem to anyone you described them to, your daydreams and fantasies are your escape from the temporal world, and no one can take them away from you.

I’m slowly learning to open my Fortress a little bit, and let the outside world trickle in. I’m starting to write again, and I’m starting to tell people I’m writing again. This is no easy feat, as my writing has always been an extremely personal endeavor. (So much so, that I hate having people read my works in progress, or see my outlines, because I’m so afraid of being laughed at, or being thought silly—or, worse—untalented.) But, this blog, The Fortress of Solitude, is a step in the right direction. These are still my feelings, and my personal thoughts on whatever I choose to write about, but, the more I let them out, the more I see how closely in tune they are with other people’s feelings.

I had a poetry professor who always said that a good poem takes the very specific, the very personal, and makes it universal. I’m finding out more and more that this is the case with just about all writing. The more specifically you describe something, the more everyone else will see themselves in it.

And now, we get to the heart of matter: how I feel when I think about Superman. The personal, the specific. The things that are so unique to me that, if that professor was right, they will translate flawlessly to you.

When I think about Superman, and all the connotations he brings with him, I feel the same way I do when I think about writing: my heart speeds up, I breathe more deeply. I feel like things are falling into place in the universe.

Superman does the right thing. Every time. He’s fast, he’s strong. He represents that good will win over evil. That no matter how long the fight, no matter how bloody the struggle, Good. Will. Win. Superman won’t sleep until it does.

I’ve read in many places that Superman is a symbol of hope. That the bad guys will be punished, and that peaceful, freedom-loving people can go to sleep feeling safe and secure, because they know Superman is somewhere out there, up there, flying around to make sure things stay that way.

So, tonight, sleep tight. Nothing’s going to hurt you.

Not on his watch.



Next up: An essay on real-life superheroes.


PS: For the full story from Wired, see: http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.06/myth.html. Special thanks to Mark for sending me the link, and for always encouraging my Superman obsession. (And for buying me all four movies on video! And that awesome book! And the notecards! I never forget stuff related to Superman…Too bad everything’s going to DVD now…but it is coming up on the holiday season. Maybe this is one time I can ask dear ol’ Mom and Dad to spend some money on me…I think they’re releasing some kind of collector’s box set this month, LOL!!)
PPS: Love the Man of Steel as much I do? Check out the amazing site I found this week:
http://www.supermanhomepage.com/news.php

*The images here are from The Superman Homepage, and are being used with permission from the site owner.

The Tyranny of the Blank Page

The Tyranny of the Blank Page*


For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. While other kids fantasized about careers of fortune and fame—little boys playing little league, with visions of themselves, years later, knocking the ball out of Yankee Stadium, or little girls playing dress-up, posing for imaginary cameras that were snapping pictures of them to appear on the cover of Glamour or Vogue—my dream was to be an author. Not just any author, but an author who wrote the kind of novels people tell their friends about. The kind of novels that people trapped in jobs they don’t love, look forward to reading on the bus or the subway, on the way home. Or, better yet, look forward to reading as part of an evening ritual through which they reward themselves, for making it through another day: a cup of hot coffee, a comfy chair, and my book. Many, many times, I have taken refuge in relaxing moments with a favorite book, and my dream is to give that gift back to other people.

The other, much more concrete, part of my dream, is having a book signing someday, and have a long line of people waiting to meet me, to tell me how much they enjoy my work, and how much it means to them. (Okay, so, maybe my dream isn’t so far from those childhood visions of fortune and fame…) I would have aspiring young writers approach me, and ask for advice. I would have busy working moms, or doctors, or students, with the most unbelievably hectic schedules, tell me they’ve always wanted to write, but just can’t seem to find the time. They’ll ask me how I managed, and I’ll tell them what I have heard from successful authors: If you want to be a writer, you have to write. It’s that simple, and that irrefutable. As the old saying goes, “Use it or lose it.”

One of my favorite authors, a novelist whose work I so greatly admire, tells aspiring writers, “I’ll believe you’re serious about being a writer when you sit down and write.” A friend of mine once told me Stephen King’s philosophy is the same. Mr. King says you have to write every day, without fail. No matter what. No matter how busy you are, or how angry, or how tired, or how “not in the mood” you are. You. Must. Write.

Maybe you’ll come up with five hundred words of quality, usable material. Or, maybe you’ll end up with five thousand words whose destiny lies in a crumpled heap in the garbage can.

The point, Mr. King emphasizes, is that, good or bad, you’re writing. The writing skill in particular, and the creative process in general, is like a muscle, that must be exercised constantly in order to strengthen and improve it. To neglect those skills is akin to a marathon runner who stops training. In no time at all, his endurance gets shorter, his muscles slowly atrophy, and worst of all, his mindset begins to change. He starts to wonder if he can really finish a marathon. He finds himself questioning the strength of his dedication. He wonders what the heck ever possessed him to even imagine he could run 26.2 miles. So many people are faster than he is, or in better shape, or have trained harder. He knows he has no chance of winning this marathon: he’s slow, he gets shin splints easily, and, the most telling sign of all, he’s not from Kenya. So, instead of sticking with it, stepping up to the starting line, and doing what he can do, he decides to quit. He’s never going to be the best, so why do it at all?


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This, my friends, is what has happened to me, with writing. I want to be a novelist so badly that I even went so far as to major in creative writing in college. (A specialty that, while admirable in an artsy, “human family” kind of way, does not exactly ensure a steady paycheck. It also does not ensure that your parents will not disown you, and disavow themselves of all signs that they ever even knew you. Fortunately, my parents accepted that their daughter’s only goal in life was to write books and, if they had doubts and misgivings, they hid them very well, bless their hearts. And bless their good health, too, because I think finding out your daughter wants to study creative writing at a school that charges over $30,000 a year, and is known the world over not for its humanities programs, but for electrical, computer, and mechanical engineering, is about the most legitimate justification for a stroke I can imagine.)

I want to write. I have the desire. Fortunately, I even have a job that affords me tons of free time to do nothing but sit down and write. So, naturally, the big question now is, WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN WRITING?

The answer is at once very simple, and very complicated: FEAR. I haven’t been writing because I’m scared. I’m just like that marathon runner, who’s not sure he’ll make it to the finish line. I’m letting my fear of failure stop me from ever even getting started. It’s easy to recognize that this is what’s happening inside me. It is a Herculean task, however, to do something about it.

I wonder if people who don’t write have any idea how scary it is to stare at a blank page, or a blank screen, knowing all the while, it’s waiting for you to fill it with something. (I would even go so far as to say it’s “terrifying,” but, as a writer, or at least, an aspiring one, I try to choose my words carefully. Using “terror” in everyday speech robs it of the gravity it deserves – like people who swear all the time – how will you know when they’re really pissed off, if they say the F-word all the time, constantly dropping it into casual speech, as in, “Pass the ****ing salt.” But I digress…)

I chose the title for this essay/blog entry because I think it effectively describes how writers feel when they sit down to start something new. The blank page is a tyrant, staring back at you just as hard as you stare at it. It dares you to show it what you’re made of. Dares you to try to be half as good as all the thousands of writers who’ve gone before you, and to whom, there is no doubt in your mind, you don’t stand the slightest chance of measuring up.

What on earth makes me think I can do it? Who am I, to think that I can describe 1920s Brooklyn better than Betty Smith? (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; Joy in the Morning.) Or the lives of ordinary women in small towns all across America better than Debbie Macomber? (The Shop on Blossom Street; Thursdays at Eight.) Or how intrigue, espionage, and super-cool military toys play out in international affairs better than Tom Clancy? (The Hunt for Red October; The Cardinal of the Kremlin.) Or how mysticism, mythology, and history shape the lives of Chinese immigrants in the U.S. better than Amy Tan? (The Joy Luck Club; The Kitchen God’s Wife.)

Talk about standing in the shadows of giants...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I could go on and on listing authors whose work has set the bar so high, that people like me, who are just starting out, wonder why they should even bother. But, the thing is, I can’t not bother. I love to write, and, at the risk of tooting my own horn, I think I’m pretty good at it. In fact, it’s one of the only things I’ve ever given credit to myself for being good at. And it’s what I love to do most in the whole world.

I feel most in tune with the world while I’m writing. My heart beats faster, my senses are more acute, and I feel a sense of peace and contentment that nothing else has ever brought me. Even when I’m ripping my hair out, or pacing the room, because I’m stuck on a particular block of dialogue, I’m still at my happiest, because I’m writing. There is a very short list of things I believe I’m good at. Writing has always been at the top. I’ve come to believe that God gives us all talent. I think He’s made me good at writing, because He wants me to be a writer. (Whereas, for example, he made Mario Lemieux good at hockey, because he wanted him to play hockey.)

This has to be true. It has to be, because nothing has ever made me feel the way I feel when I write. It’s as if everything falls into place, and I’m doing what Fate, or Destiny, or whatever controls the universe, had intended me to be doing from the moment I was born.

I’ve had a very easy life. My family wasn’t wealthy, but I never wanted for anything. Whatever I needed, it somehow came. Most of the time, I wonder what I did to deserve this free pass through life. I’ve never felt worthy of how blessed I am, never felt like I worked hard enough to earn all the good things that surround me. I’ve come to realize that writing is how I earn my keep. It’s how I can put back into the world some of the positive energy that has been bestowed upon me. If something I write someday makes somebody else smile, or nod in recognition, or maybe just makes them forget their problems for a little bit, while they sit and read, I will finally feel myself worthy of sliding through life the way I have been.

I will finally enjoy a vacation, because I will have earned it. I will have worked hard to write something meaningful. It won’t have been physically demanding, but emotionally, it will have drained me. I will finally put forth an effort that is deserving of all the clothing in my closet, and all the books on my shelf, and all the trinkets on tables here and there that were purchased with income from my current job, which does not make me feel worthy, and if anything, makes me feel like I should go return all this junk, until such time as I’ve done enough writing to feel like I’m fulfilling my purpose on this planet.

Someday, when I’m doing what I know I’m meant to do, I will stop telling myself I haven’t earned it. I will savor every bite of a piece of cheesecake. I will go to Spain. I will buy myself an expensive perfume. These are all things I’ve done before, but the difference will be that I’ll finally feel like I earned them. I’ll put my feet up, close my eyes, and revel in the sense of accomplishment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have a ritual when I write: I light a candle, I put on soft classical music, and I get into what can only be described as “the zone.” It’s that otherworldly, non-temporal place, where nothing exists but me and the words and images in my mind. It’s the stage where the show takes place—that beautiful, choreographed ballet that takes ideas and turns them into stories. That takes abstract, amorphous images and transforms them into words, the words into sentences, and the sentences into paragraphs that will go on to fill page after page. It’s the place where the firing of synapses move ideas from my mind to my fingers, from my fingers to the keyboard, and from the keyboard to the page, in a hypnotic dance that, in a perfect world, would be second nature to anyone who thinks he or she has a story to tell.

This is, of course, easier said than done. I created this blog in April 2005. It is now November 2006, and this is the first real post. Since April 2005, I’ve had nothing but gobs and gobs of free time to write. And, I’ve had gobs and gobs of time during which I let the fear take over, and prevent me from getting started. I let that go on long enough that, like the marathon runner, I’ve begun to doubt making it to the finish line.

Marathons, however, are a piece of cake compared to writing. Are they easy? No. But, the strategy is laid out for you. Put one foot in front of the other. Do it long enough, and you’ll eventually cover 26.2 miles. Will it be painless? Of course not. Will it be pretty? Maybe, if you’ve spent your entire life training, and living, eating, and breathing running. Most likely, though, you’ll get there kicking and screaming, maybe even literally crawling over that finish line. But you will get there.

Not so with writing. Yes, you can put one word after another. Do it long enough, and you’ll have a novel-length work of…well, what, exactly? You might have just penned the next winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. You might have written your way to the New York Times bestseller list, or, at the very least, you might have written a book destined for modest success (as evidenced, of course, by its contribution to the daily sales figures of the behemoth book chains). Or, as is the stuff of every author’s worst nightmare, you might have two hundred pages of gobbledygook, whose sole redeeming quality is the indisputable proof it provides of the fact that you are not, in fact, meant to be a writer.

Who were you trying to kid? People like Amy Tan, Tom Clancy, and Debbie Macomber, whom I mentioned before, they are meant to be writers. You cannot possibly tell stories like them. They did it before you, and they did it better.

But, you know what? I’m coming to learn that that’s okay. The reason I can’t tell those stories is that they were their stories. The beautiful thing is, maybe I have stories of my own. Everybody has, since the beginning of time. Even before written language. We’ve all heard about mythologies passed down through oral tradition. Almost every culture, every religion, and every region, has some kind of creation story, and endless treasure troves of other stories to explain what was, at that time, the unexplainable: rainbows, earthquakes, eclipses.

Man has always had the instinct to tell stories. And, for all of us struggling to stay true to our dream of telling new stories, may man always have the desire to listen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next up: Essays on Superman (and why this blog is called “The Fortress of Solitude”); real-life superheroes; and hitting the jackpot.









*The title of this essay is (I hereby admit) a blatant rip-off of The Obsession: Reflections on the Tyranny of Slenderness, by Kim Chernin.