The Fortress of Solitude

Observations From the Gym

2009-01-06T18:15:00.007-05:00

—Or—

I’m Not Really Holier Than Thou, It Just Sounds That Way

As with a few of my previous blog posts, I have to begin this one with a caveat:

I am not a certified personal trainer. I am not a doctor. I am not an expert in physical fitness or exercise physiology. The observations I make below are for fun and good humor—at least, I hope it’s good. Where I poke fun at certain activities one tends to come across in gyms, I’ve also made a point to acknowledge the benefits of said activities, and pay lip service to all the counterarguments.

This post is intended to entertain and amuse, not to infuriate. I’ve written it in good fun, and I hope you’ll receive it in the same spirit.

Okay. Now that the business is out of the way, here we go…

Most of the jobs I’ve ever held were cushy office jobs. I’ve sat in front of computers, and I’ve sat in classrooms. Even when I worked inside airplanes, I still sat in front of a computer. Since most of the rest of my life was also pretty sedentary, I’ve deliberately made exercise a non-negotiable part of my life. Even if it just means walking to the library or post office instead of driving, I try to do some kind of physical activity every day. (That is, physical activity that involves more than picking up and setting down the remote control, or the rapid firing of my fingers across the keyboard as I type snotty blog posts about things I see and hear at the gym.) My devotion to exercise is also the result of my lifelong battle with what I see in the mirror, but if I go off on that tangent, this post will be about ten times longer than it is now, and it’s already ridiculously long.

In the interest of getting on with things, let’s just say I’ve been exercising regularly for about twelve years. (Not continually, of course. A girl’s gotta sleep! And eat! And daydream!) During that time, I’ve used gyms in California, Texas, Pennsylvania, New York, Washington, DC, Nebraska, and Iraq. I’ve been to enough gyms in enough places that think I’ve acquired a pretty good idea of how they’re supposed to work. Well, maybe not how they’re supposed to work so much as how I like them to work.

I like gyms that are gyms. Not health clubs, spas, or wellness centers. I have nothing against saunas and massage services (as long as that’s really what they are, and there are no “happy endings” involved). I don’t use them, but I realize other people do, so I’m not bothered by their mere existence. Still, for my purposes, they’re really just fluff.

I like gyms that are, for lack of a better word, manly. I like cardio machines, free weights, lifting machines, and benches. I don’t like fancy lighting, pretty carpet, or nice artwork on the walls. I prefer a bare bones approach to gym décor. It doesn’t have to be bleak and depressing, of course. No one wants to work out in a dungeon. But most frills are just that. Frills. It’s like the fancy packaging some high-end retail stores wrap your purchases in. Tissue paper, ribbons, and nice bags with rope handles are a nice touch, but they don’t change what’s in the bag.

I like gyms that aren’t meat markets. I like gyms where people go to work out, work hard, and go home. I don’t like gyms where guys spend a few minutes doing a couple of sets of this and that, and then spend the rest of the time shooting the breeze, as if the mere act of standing inside a gym is enough to gain results. As if they could get a better body through osmosis. (If only! If there are any engineers out there reading this, when you invent a way to do this, call me!) Gyms can be good places to meet people, but I don’t like gyms where people try too hard. I like gyms where women dress like they’re there to work out, not to whore themselves out. I know people sweat when they exercise. Believe me, I know. I have to hang my workout clothes up to dry before putting them into my laundry bag. (Gross, but true. Someone once told me sweating like I do is a sign of good hydration. So there!) Getting hot and sweating a lot are not reasons to wear skimpy clothes to the gym. A sports bra is not a shirt! It’s a bra! Put something over it! (Okay, who am I kidding? If I had a flat stomach, I would totally work out in a sports bra…)

Before I left for U.S. Air Force basic training, I belonged to a gym in my hometown. Now that I’m out of the military and back home for a little while, I joined again. Big changes happened there in the four years I was away. First, it’s under new ownership. Second, it’s been expanded. It’s almost three times the size it used to be. Third, whereas the previous incarnation was the classic bare bones gym I alluded to earlier, now they offer classes in traditional aerobics, yoga, boxing, spinning, and Zumba—whatever the heck that is. (Someone said it was some kind of Latin dancing or something? Whatever.) There’s a babysitting service. There’s a big, beautiful locker room, complete with showers and comfy benches, where there used to be nothing but two bathrooms—one male, one female—both the size of broom closets. There’s also a juice bar, where you can get pre-workout drinks, recovery drinks, protein shakes, fruit smoothies, and probably a handjob, if you asked the girl behind the counter nicely enough. (And if you’re a guy.)

All things considered, it’s a vast improvement. I imagine it’s especially welcoming to people who don’t like a bare bones gym. People who are, in fact, intimidated by places where there’s nothing but big, scary machines, and lots of big, scary guys with arms as thick as my thighs milling about. I like the new gym. It has frills for the people who are comforted by frills, and the main area of the gym is still perfect for people who want to work out and go home. It’s spacious and sufficiently equipped that I’ve never had to wait for a machine or a specific weight of dumbbell.

That being said, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t have anything negative to say. (Seriously. If you’re reading this, then you probably know me personally, and you know how I do so love to get disproportionately enraged over simple things. [Personal aside to M: *doot* RAAAAH!] But I try to do so in a funny way, and I hope I haven’t fallen short this time.)

And so, I offer the following treatise on gym etiquette. It does not contain the usual advice, which most gym goers should already be familiar with. If this category doesn’t include you, here’s a quick lesson:

1. If you sweat to the point that it drips onto the machines, grab a towel and wipe up after yourself.

2. Kindly remove the weight plates from the bars when you’re done and restack them in their proper places. It’s great that you can bench 250 pounds. I can’t, oh great Mr. Beefcake, so do the weakling girls like me a favor and don’t make me unload a bunch of your plates before stacking on a few of my own. Yes, technically, I could view this as an added bonus to my workout, but I’m more likely to view it as an inconvenience brought upon me by a rude meathead who lacks common courtesy.

And now, for my observations. We’ll start with…

The management

1. Why do you insist on pumping music through the PA system (or whatever it’s called—the speakers that make up the surround-sound system in the main area of the gym, that encompasses everything but the aerobics room, boxing room, and locker rooms)? After looking around and taking note of my fellow gym goers’ listening habits, I’ve come to the conclusion that most people prefer to work out to their own music. Most people on the treadmills, bikes, and elliptical machines have earphones in their ears and a long wire attached to some sort of listening device that is either strapped to their arm, nestled in a pocket in their pants or shorts or, as is the case with my poor man’s mp3 player, placed securely in the holder on whatever machine I’m using.

Furthermore, why do you insist on keeping this music so loud that even with my own tunes turned up almost to the maximum volume, I can still hear yours in the background? Even though I don’t walk, run, or bike to the beat of any of the songs on my workout playlist, it still bothers me that my sheer enjoyment of the music is sullied by the relentless pounding bass of whatever you call the stuff you play. I can’t focus on the rhythm of my own music for the insistence of yours.

I’d like to say something to you about this one day. I’d like to walk up to the front desk and politely ask if you would mind turning it down. You don’t have to kill the music. Just make it low enough that the few people who want to hear it can, and the rest of us can enjoy our own carefully selected playlists that much more. The thing is, I’ve only been a member of this gym for about three weeks, so I don’t feel right asserting myself yet. Besides, maybe I’m the only one who has a problem with the loud music. After all, if other people were bothered by it, they would have already said something, right? Right?

2. If you’re going to go through the trouble of printing flyers and notices, and wasting a ton of colored ink in the process, couldn’t you at least have someone who knows something about punctuation take a quick look at them before plastering the gym with them? I appreciate the sentiment behind your year-end wishes, but Happy Holiday’s? Really? Really? A possessive s? I admit that I am not an expert on grammar and punctuation—as should be obvious to anyone who’s ever read this blog. I use those big dashes far too often, and also probably use parentheses too often, and incorrectly at that. But, like I told my friend, S, who’s a professional writer and editor, I write the way I talk. (Or is it speak? See? I don’t even know which is correct, and I’m not sure I care.) Outside of this blog, I mostly write fiction. I create characters, settings, themes, and sometimes, when I’m feeling ambitious, plots. But I don’t get hung up on where the commas go, or the em- and en- dashes. That’s for people like S, who know what they’re doing. Still, I know something about punctuation, even if it’s just a little something, and I know the phrase Happy Holidays does not require an apostrophe. (For a hilarious exploration of the few other things I know about punctuation, with a few jabs at spelling and grammar thrown in for kicks, wait on the edge of your seat for a future blog post. I promise lots of chuckles and nods of recognition when I bring up things like all the people who’ve resolved to “loose weight” in the new year, and other classics.)

Other than that, I have no complaints about the management at my gym. In fact, I’m pretty fond of the people who run the place. The gym is always clean and smells nothing like a gym. (This is an especially welcome change, as it’s the opposite of the gym I worked out at in Nebraska. Said gym was not air-conditioned. You can imagine how much fun that was in the dead of summer.) I like that I’ve never entered the building and swiped the membership card on my keychain without being greeted by someone at the front desk, and that I’ve never left after my workout without someone wishing me a good day.

Now that I’ve addressed the management, I’ll move on to…

The Men

1. Do you really need to put cologne on before hitting the weights? I appreciate that instead of smelling like sweat, you’d rather smell like the latest concoction being peddled by David Beckham, Kenneth Cole, Calvin Klein, or whatever new formula was dreamed up by the chemical engineers behind Axe and Old Spice. The thing is, you’re at the gym. People expect you to smell like sweat. That’s a good thing. That means you’re working. (Then again, let me be honest: if you did smell like sweat, I’d probably complain about that, too. But unless you have some unfortunate glandular condition that causes your individual brand of body odor to reek so stupendously, most guys get by just fine with a normal application of deodorant. [May I recommend Axe? Or Old Spice? Heehee.])

Seriously, though. If your cologne is so strong that it causes other gym goers—namely, me—to actually get dizzy when you walk by, you’re wearing too much. (By the way, going back to the grammar bit, I can’t believe I just used the word namely. I HATE namely! But I think the use was appropriate there. If not, I’m sure S will let me know.) If you applied your cologne in the morning, and it just happens not to have faded all that much during the day, I could see where that could be an acceptable excuse. However, if you applied your cologne in the morning, and it hasn’t worn off throughout the day, you probably put way too much on in the first place! (Either that, or you reapplied it during the day, in which case you’re worse than most women I know!)

I understand that a gym—even one that’s not a meat market—is a decent place to meet members of the opposite sex. However, do you really want a potential date’s first impression of you to be waking up to your hand waving in front of her face, with you asking if she’s okay, because she passed out when you walked up to her and she caught a whiff of your love spell (available at fine stores everywhere)? Furthermore, if she’s going to survive a date with you, she’s going to have to be able to breathe around you, so my advice is, go easy on the cologne and/or body spray.

2. Don’t be a hero. My gym has a wonderful and brilliant sign near the dumbbells and weight plates: If you can’t set the weight down gently, you can’t handle the weight! I respect the concept of working a muscle “to failure.” I respect the concept of pushing yourself beyond what you thought were your limits. And yet, every time I hear a stack of weights clanging fiercely into place, or a pair of dumbbells being dropped on the floor, I can’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, you went a little too far.

There are several weightlifting philosophies out there, each with its own core concepts and areas of emphasis. Some of these suggest that the eccentric and concentric portions of weight lifting are equally important. That is, the work your muscles do as you lower a weight is just as important to building strength as the work they do as you lift that weight. If this is true (and I would imagine anyone who lifts slooowly will tell you it is), I’m not sure you’re getting the full benefit from that last rep when you barely lift the weight at all, and then drop it like a hot rock. (And now, I have to make sure I clarify things here. I admire anyone who pushes themselves hard, and who tries to lift more than they did the day, the week, or the month before. And if this means that on that last rep, it takes everything in you just to get the darn thing up—and maybe not even all the way—and you’ve sapped yourself so completely that you have no choice but to let go and let the weight fall where it may, I really have no problem with that. I’m impressed by it, in fact. After all, I think I read somewhere that Arnold Schwarzenegger once said something like, “It’s that last rep that really builds the muscle, when you’re exhausted and the only thing that gets the weight up is your sheer force of will.” Take my criticism in the spirit it’s intended. I’m just trying to be funny. Give me a break. It’s only a blog.)

3. Don’t be a caveman. What am I referring to? The grunting, of course. I’m not going to lie; I’ve been known to grunt and growl on my last few reps now and then. But can’t we agree that there’s a fine line between exerting yourself and going off the deep end? Just like challenging yourself to lift a weight you might not be quite ready for, I acknowledge that there’s a method behind the madness of grunting while trying to eek out that last rep or two. For some reason—and I’m sure there’s a fitness magazine or physical training trade publication somewhere that can tell you in exacting detail exactly what it is—letting go of your vocal inhibitions while you lift seems to make lifting easier. I’ve experienced this myself. I don’t know why, but those unintelligible grunts of exertion actually help me get through those last few reps, and with better form and focus than if I was just going through the motions until I hit the magic number. In my mind, I’m thinking, “Do it, do it, DO IT!” or, “Come on, come on, COME ON!” On especially dark occasions, after ninety minutes of staring at the impossibly lithe, thin, and perfectly proportioned gym pixies has really gotten to me, my saddlebags, my stretch marks, and my gut, I might be thinking, “You F-ing fatass, you F-fing fatass, you F-fing FATASS!” (Yeah…the growl from that last one can get out of hand pretty easily.) But whatever the words in my mind, what actually comes out of my mouth is a sound that could pass for either someone in the throes of passion, or someone being beaten with a baseball bat. Still, I manage to keep that sound relatively quiet. Can the guy next to me hear it? Yes. Can the guy all the way across the gym hear it? No. So why can I sometimes hear other people’s grunts all the way across the gym, even over the music blasting out of the wall-mounted speakers?!

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate that you’re pushing yourself. I understand that those caveman sounds may very well help you to perform one or two more reps than you thought possible. And yet, I can’t help thinking those sounds could come out of your mouth just a little more quietly. You could argue that my own grunts are quieter because I am quieter. My 5’2” hm-hm-hm-pound body probably isn’t capable of producing the same volume or power of projection as your 6’3” 200-pound body is. (To M, whom I’m sure will read this eventually, did you actually think I was going to reveal my weight? HA! You know me better than that, don’t you?) But I’m not sure that argument holds much weight—no pun intended. Ever seen Celine Dion live? Well, neither have I, but from what I’ve seen on TV and heard on the radio, that tiny woman has got one BIG voice.

Another reason you might feel entitled to grunt much louder than me is that you’re lifting much more weight. Of course you are. If you were doing bicep curls with the same amount of weight I was, I might laugh at you. (No, I wouldn’t. Believe me. If you looked like that was all you could handle, I’d respect you for doing it, and for even being at the gym in the first place. We all have to start somewhere. But if you looked like you could lift two or three times as much as me, well then, yeah, I might laugh. Not at you, of course. I would chuckle softly to myself, as if recalling something funny from earlier in the day. But really, it would totally be because of you.)

This argument doesn’t hold much weight, either. After all, lifting is a relative thing. What’s heavy to me would be a joke to, say, Mario Lemieux. (Lest you think I’ve abandoned my love of hockey…I’ve gotten away from it in the past few years, and I know it’s been several seasons since Mario last donned a jersey with a big penguin on the front and the number 66 on the back, but I would imagine he’s still in fine male form, if ya know what I mean.) If I can lift something that’s heavy to me, and grunt only a little, can’t you lift something that’s heavy to you, and also grunt only a little? I mean, let’s face it: Isn’t there a fine line between vocalizing the effort you’re putting forth, and sounding like a total idiot?

Now that I’ve sufficiently emasculated the men, I’ll move on to…

The Women

1. No cell phones while on the cardio equipment! And now that I think of it, no cell phones in the gym at all! Unless you’re a brain surgeon, a heart surgeon, a first-responder who’s on-call, or your mother/sister/daughter/friend is nine months pregnant and likely to pop at any minute, KEEP YOUR DAMN PHONE IN YOUR LOCKER. That’s what they’re for, y’know: your car keys, your coat, your purse, maybe a change of clothes, AND YOUR FREAKING PHONE. This applies to women and men, of course, but I see women violating the rule much more often than men do.

If you can hold a conversation while you’re on the treadmill, sweetie, you’re probably not working hard enough. I’ve read that a good measure of exertion is whether or not you can keep up a conversation. If it’s easy, you’re not working hard enough. If you’re gasping for breath and speaking is nearly impossible, you’re working too hard, right? Pardon my language, but, BULLSH*T. What’s all this hullabaloo about HIIT (high intensity interval training)? Do you honestly think you could tell your “BFF” all about the party you went to last weekend, or all about how Cindi, the nail tech—who not only spells her name with an “i,” but dots it with a heart—screwed up your manicure and it was the absolute end of your life, and still put forth your highest level of perceived exertion? I’m no expert, but, ahem, I think not.

I’ll make allowances for women who aren’t looking to go all-out. Plenty of people just want to walk or bike at a calm pace to get their heart rate elevated, but not too elevated, and that’s fine. Not everyone wants to go all-out every time. In fact, it’s not even good for you. Sometimes your body needs you to take it easy. If you’re working at a relaxed pace, you can hold a conversation without getting out of breath at all, and there’s nothing wrong with that. BUT THAT STILL DOESN’T MEAN THAT EVERYONE ELSE IN THE GYM WANTS TO HEAR WHATEVER YOU’RE YAPPING ABOUT. If what you need to say absolutely, positively cannot wait, GO OUTSIDE AND MAKE YOUR DAMN PHONE CALL. Or at least go into the locker room. But if you do go into the locker room, FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T USE THE PHONE WHILE YOU’RE IN A BATHROOM STALL! Pardon me, but seriously? SERIOUSLY?! (Sorry…someone’s been watching a little too much Grey’s Anatomy.)

2. Stop kidding yourself. You can lift more than that. I know you can. Listen, sweetcheeks, you’re not doing yourself any favors by sticking with that 5-pound dumbbell. You are NOT going to “get big” or “bulk up” if you lift heavier weights. You could, if you wanted to, but it would involve ingesting massive quantities of protein and drugs—some legal, some not—and possibly injecting those slender little biceps of yours with steroid cocktails. And if you do that for long enough, it’s likely that eventually, the perky, cheerful boobs you’re so proud of would deflate like the helium balloons on the centerpiece two weeks after your sweet sixteen. It’s not a road you want to travel.

It’s not easy for women to build and maintain muscle in the first place, let alone wind up looking like a longer-haired Mr. Universe. It requires a relentless workout and feeding regimen. Lifting a little more than you’re used to isn’t enough to do it, so relax. Take a look around sometime. In my experience, the women with the nicest bodies lift a surprising amount of weight. (And by “nicest bodies,” I don’t mean they’re overly muscled and have veins popping out of their forearms. I mean they still look like women, and more, they look like hot women. They’ve got curves and valleys in all the right places. They’re strong and they’re toned, but above all, they’re feminine.)

Challenge yourself. Lift more than you think you can. To clarify, I’m not suggesting you go crazy and lift something that’s obviously out of your reach. Don’t go getting yourself injured and then try to sue me. But do challenge yourself. I think you’ll be surprised at what you’re capable of. I realize that many people, with much more expertise than I have, have hammered it into our heads that if we want to look “toned” we should stick with low weight and high reps. That idea’s not without merit and, despite the snarky tone of this entire post, I’m humble enough not to try and argue with people who have PhDs in exercise physiology. BUT, in my experience, lifting a little heavier builds muscle pretty nicely, and if what those same experts say is true, muscle burns fat. Muscle is metabolically expensive tissue. It takes a lot of calories to maintain it. So if your goal is to lose fat, you probably want to gain some muscle. And I’m not sure lifting a 5-pound weight fifty times is going to do that as quickly as lifting a 25-pound weight ten times.

All that being said, if you’re lifting at all, you’re doing pretty well for yourself. You’ve stopped being a cardio queen and you’ve embraced the beauty of strength training. Maybe you’ve even gotten over your fear of the “guy area” in the gym. You know the place. The one where the free weights and scary, manly machines are. It takes a lot of courage to conquer that fear. If you’ve managed it, I applaud you, and at the risk of making myself vomit, I can’t resist offering you a good, solid, YOU GO, GIRL!

3. Stop holding on to the handrails on the treadmill. You’re not getting as intense a workout. Believe me. I’ve tried it both ways. Let go, honey, and if you go flying off the thing, perhaps you’re not quite ready for that level of incline. (But before I go any further, let me acknowledge my friend S again. She explained to me that she will actually fall off if she doesn’t hold on. I used S’s treadmill last week, and I will concede the point—for that particular treadmill. It was a good machine, but narrower and a little less sturdy than most other treadmills I’ve used. I managed to pump my arms like I usually do, but I admit it took some getting used to. I will also concede the point that some people might have balance issues no matter what kind of machine they’re on. I applaud anyone who makes an effort to do any kind of exercise. If they need to hold on to the rails, or the handles, or any other part of a machine in order to keep exercising, then so be it. Good for them for exercising at all. But I think it makes the workout easier. Not easy, just easier.)

I’ve held on and I’ve not held on. When I held on, I could feel right away that my legs (specifically my quads and glutes) weren’t working as hard as they were when I wasn’t holding on. This can be remedied pretty easily, though. All you have to do is deliberately squeeze those butt muscles with every stride. And maybe the delicate young things I see holding on are doing that. Maybe I’d be able to tell if I wasn’t so distracted by the fact that they’re ON THE PHONE! (By means of an earpiece, of course. They have to have their hands free to hold on, remember?)

4. You’re probably expecting me to say something about the skimpy outfits some women work out in. The showing off of bodies that look like the results of winning either the gene pool lottery or the plastic surgery lottery. But this type of clothing is blissfully absent from my gym. So with all the cynicism I’ve spewed in this post, I want to take this opportunity to applaud the women of my gym for dressing for comfort, not for a fashion show. Yes, some of their outfits are more form-fitting than necessary, but I have to admit, if I had a body like some of them, you can be darn sure I’d show it off, too.

Maybe it’s from all those high reps with low weights… :D

Maybe they do know something I don’t…

Maybe I’ll call you from the stair machine tomorrow…

Fences

2008-12-24T19:02:00.006-05:00

I’ve never felt like I belonged in the world. I’ve never felt at home in my own skin, never quite felt like I fit in. During high school, it was for the usual teenage girl reasons: I wasn’t thin enough, pretty enough, or perky enough. In college, I was a creative writing major, complete with the requisite melancholy score that played in the background of even my happiest moments.

After a period of unemployment and then some time spent working in the financial planning industry, I went to graduate school to study international relations. It was immediately clear to me that I was out of my league among my classmates. Some of them had been missionaries overseas, some had done stints in the Peace Corps, and others had diplomats for parents. I must have gotten on the wrong bus; I was a novice compared to these seasoned veterans of international cultural and educational experiences.

My school was in Washington, DC, just a few metro stops away from the Pentagon. Going to evening classes, I saw members of the armed services on their commute home. I stared unabashedly: the uniforms, the meanings I imagined behind the ribbons, the air of competence, of confidence those men and women radiated. I wanted the same aura to surround me. As an added bonus, the military was someplace I was sure to fit in. Someplace where being part of a team would be drilled into my mind from the first frenzied moments of basic training.

Three years after I enlisted in the Air Force, I found myself on a six-month deployment at the largest military base in Iraq. I saw the time away as an opportunity to shed the couple of pounds I’d been trying to lose since those awkward high school years. My efforts were successful, thanks to a rigorous exercise routine at the base’s well-appointed gym, and a nearly religious avoidance of sugar and starch. After a long day, while my brothers and sisters in arms rewarded themselves with French fries, fried rice, and chocolate cake, I would bypass the main entrée line and go directly to the salad bar, where I would fill a to-go container with mounds of iceberg lettuce, dry tuna, sliced cucumbers, bell peppers, olives, and carrots.

After a while, I began to wonder if the employees at the dining facility—mostly third country nationals from South and Central Asia, where, presumably, they had signed on for jobs in a war zone because they could make more money there than they could at home—thought I was snubbing them, turning my nose up at the food they had painstakingly prepared, refusing to partake of the kind of bounty some of their countrymen could probably only dream about. That certainly wasn’t my intention. Avoiding the corn, pasta, and warm biscuits wasn’t an insult to their cooking; it was my way of blocking temptation, even as those savory wonders called my name with their sweet, buttery aromas.

The male employees at the dining facility—I don’t think I ever saw a female—were friendly, outgoing, and eager to practice their English with the female service members. Even in the digital age, where images from around the world are at our fingertips, it seemed that fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and blonde women were a bit of a visual draw for them. We were anomalies. Fascinatingly out of the ordinary. They saved us the best fruit: the sweetest, juiciest watermelon hearts; the ripest chunks of cantaloupe. After several weeks of watching me eat nothing but salad, and taking notice of what I put in it, one particular worker would fill a container, piling it high with my favorites, and set it aside for me, if he didn’t see me come in at the usual time.

In spite of all the training I’d been through, all the times when, indeed, I was part of a team, the military had not cured me of my chronic out-of-placeness. (In retrospect, I should have known I wasn’t cut out for the military; I look ridiculous in hats.) Feeling like an outsider in everything I’ve ever done has led me to retreat into myself. I don’t talk much. I avoid eye contact. In the service, I often walked with my head down, and my eyes attuned upward only so I didn’t miss a passing officer and fail to salute. I worry that people mistake my shyness and introversion for coldness. For standoffishness, or—worse—for arrogance. Nothing could be further from the truth. I want to be cordial. I want to be friendly and outgoing. But I’m not. The burden of my perceived flaws causes me to close myself off from the world. If I can barely stand myself; how could anyone else possibly stomach me?

Despite my avoidance of most of the foods they toiled to prepare, the workers were always friendly and seemed happy to see me. Maybe it was my fair skin and blue eyes, but I like to think they somehow sensed that hiding underneath my scowl, buried behind my cold expression, was someone who could use a kind word and a smile. I was touched and grateful to receive both of these on the rare occasions when I braved the main food line to get broiled fish and steamed broccoli.

I started to wonder if the men at the dining facility had a nickname for me. Maybe it was Seinfeld-esque: instead of a "low-talker," I was a no-talker. Or, maybe they had dubbed me, simply, The Salad Girl.

When I wasn’t eating or exercising, I was working. In month after month of combat sorties, looking out the aircraft window at the country below me, I never grew accustomed to how stunningly green the landscape was. Not all of it, of course, but parts of Iraq were far more verdant than I expected when, in my ignorance, I had departed the United States with images of nothing but tan, dry, lifeless earth as far as the eye could see. From the concrete jungle that was the base, I would never have guessed there was fertile soil all around me.

From my limited perspective on the ground, all that separated “us” from “them” were concrete, chain link, and barbed wire fences. Once airborne and ascending, however, those barriers got smaller and smaller, until the landscape struck me as unified and unfettered. Like an astronaut gazing back upon Earth, I was awed by how idyllic it looked. By how the dirt, the noise, the cacophony of seemingly insoluble conflicts disappeared, and what was left was simple terrain, free of political borders and cultural boundaries.

Now, safely back home, I regret that I wasn’t more friendly toward the men who prepared our food. I regret that I let my own self-consciousness and lifelong self-doubt close me off from other people. Most of all, I regret that the emotional fences I’ve erected in order to keep myself in are far more insurmountable obstacles than the physical ones anyone could ever build to keep others out.

YourSpace

2008-10-23T21:52:00.005-04:00

—or—

I Wish I Didn’t Suck at Life Quite So Much

Before anyone accuses me of being anti-technology, or of downplaying the importance of the Internet for communication, let me preface this post by making it clear that while I am an admitted technology dinosaur, it’s not because I’m afraid of technology. It’s because I’m good at simple things: writing, making music, cooking, daydreaming, and making plans I’ll never follow through with. Regarding technology, beyond finding a close enough electrical outlet to plug my laptop’s charger into, I’m helpless. I don’t know the first thing about advanced connections, routers, networks, servers, motherboards, RAM, ROM, or any of the other scary words and acronyms that pepper the conversations of those more savvy than I (which is pretty much everyone).

That being said, there are a few stops along the Internet that I look forward to pulling into daily. I like keeping in touch with friends via email. When I was deployed to Iraq, I liked that news of home was never further away than my fingertips. Years ago, the men and women of the armed forces waited weeks to receive letters from their loved ones, and when they did, they’d be lucky if it hadn’t been steamed open, censored, and resealed. I like listening to the live music stream from my favorite independent radio station out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (WYEP-FM, in case anyone’s curious…you’ll find a link in the list on the right.) I like looking for recipes, I like skimming the news headlines, I liked that I wrote entire term papers based on nothing but information I found online, and I love being able to buy pretty much anything from the comfort of my house at three in the morning.

I spend enough time twiddling around online that it wouldn’t be fair of me to judge anyone for the amount of time they devote to sites like MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, and the myriad others that surely exist, but which I have never heard of. I’m not willing to admit how many hours a week I spend glued to my favorite forum for all things low-carb. (And for those of you who know me, you know I usually have no problem admitting to some pretty wacky stuff, so that should give you some idea of just how much time we’re talking about here.)

A few years ago, when I had a job where I was in front of a computer for most of the day, I did my share of instant messaging and chatting. (My boss was very cool about it. As long as I got my work done, he didn’t mind. Although…there was one time [just one] that he had to gently remind me that while sending instant messages was fine, it was not actually the top priority for which he was paying my salary.) I understand completely that it’s difficult not to spend a lot of time on those personalized sites, particularly when you have your own computer and a decent amount of down time at work.

The thing is, I’m not sure these sites are everything they’re cracked up to be. To be fair, I admit I have accounts on all three of the sites I mentioned above. However, it’s been at least a month since I logged into Facebook, longer than that for MySpace, and I honestly couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I did anything on Friendster. I keep getting emails that so-and-so, whom I haven’t seen or spoken to since elementary school, has requested me as a “friend” on Facebook.

I can’t deny that it’s interesting to see what people are up to—where they moved to, where they went to school, whether they’re married or have children. I also can’t deny that these friend requests have put me in touch with a handful of people I wish I’d gotten to know better years ago.

On the other hand, I wonder if we aren’t eroding the concept of "friendship" when we accept as “friends” people whom we weren’t really all that close to in junior high, let alone seventeen years later. It’s not that I have anything against any of these people. (There’s only one person on the planet against whom I hold a grudge, and she knows better than to try and be my “friend.”) In fact, some of these people were the “cool kids” in high school—or, at least, I thought so at the time. They were the people whom I wished I could be friends with. But it’s been a long time, and while I’m still not completely comfortable in my own skin, I have enough peace with myself that I no longer long for superficial relationships, and I don’t define myself by the clothing my friends wear, or by whether they partied Friday night or sat home with a good book. I didn’t go out of my way to fit in with them then. Why would I, now?

I hope I’m not coming off as arrogant or uppity. Like I said, I’ve heard from a few people whom I was genuinely happy to get back in touch with. The others, though…well, I don’t know how to say this delicately, so I’ll just say it. There are only so many hours in a day. I have a hard enough time staying in reasonable contact with the people I truly care about; I’m not sure how much I can spare for people who’ve resurfaced after twenty years (in some cases), and with whom I was never really chummy in the first place. It’s not that I dislike them, or that I ever had a falling out with any of them. I guess it’s simply like I said: there are only so many hours. We pick and choose how we spend our time, and some pursuits are more valuable to us than others. (This is one of the nicer things about growing up, I think. You have a firmer idea of what you like and what you don’t, and you get over feeling like you need to apologize for either of them.)

Another reason I’m not the biggest fan of these sites—although I’ve changed my mind about this recently (and will explain why in a minute)—is that I thought they give people a false sense of self-importance. Oooh, look how many friends I have! I *must* update my page, so that everyone knows where I am and what I’m doing at all times. Call me crazy; I just don’t think I’m that special. (Again, before I inadvertently offend anyone out there who’s addicted to these sites, I do understand the immediacy they can take on. I’m addicted to plenty of stuff on the web, so I’m not looking down on anyone who cannot tear themselves away. I’m merely explaining why, for the most part, these personal sites aren’t for me.)

I think it’s neat that people can post pictures, personalize the background music, all the graphics, and fill their pages with everything from personality quizzes to blogs, to messages from friends. In a way, it’s like email on crack. You post your news, your successes, your failures, your plans, pictures from your vacation to Jamaica, and a detailed account of your trip to the bathroom when you got home from dollar burrito night at the Mexican joint down the road. It’s a one-stop-shop where all your friends can get the play-by-play of every minute of the incomprehensibly awesome thing that is your life.

Okay, sorry…I started doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do, which is get judgmental. ;-)

Back on track now.

I said that I recently changed my mind about the false sense of importance these sites risk instilling in some people. After giving it a respectable amount of thought, I realized that maybe people need these sites. Maybe they need to feel in control of something, even if it’s only a tiny section of cyberspace. I realized that some people live under a great deal of constraint—some that they put on themselves, but plenty that are more or less beyond their control. If you have a job, you’re automatically not in control of everything. You have a boss you’re accountable to (maybe more than one), and maybe you have clients you’re accountable to as well. Even if you’re your own boss, you still have constraints—time, money, customers, logistics. If you’re married, and most certainly if you have children, you’re constrained. (For a good cause, no question, but constrained nonetheless.) As for the constraints we place on ourselves, well, some of us make sure we spend time working out every week. Some of us make sure we get to church or temple every week. Some make sure we put away some money every month, or spend time volunteering somewhere. It’s hard to imagine anyone being 100% free to control every aspect of their life. And with that realization came the understanding that these personalized sites are the quickest and simplest way to exercise some degree of autonomy. Granted, you might not be able to customize and post everything you’d like to (what with those pesky pornography/obscenity laws and such), but you can get pretty close.

Furthermore, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the need to feel important now and then. Beyond the desire to “own” a little piece of cyberspace, maybe people need to exercise some autonomy over their very existence. Maybe they need their sites to remind themselves that they are more than some company’s employee, more than another cog in the machine, and yes, more than so-and-so’s wife, or so-and-so’s father. And if posting pictures and writing opinion pieces helps them do that, how could I possibly have anything against that?

And now, lest I leave you with the impression that I’ve fully embraced these sites, let me get into the final reason why I’m wary of spending too much time on these sites—or any time, as the case has been for the last several weeks. Frankly, there’s just too much potential for discovering depression-inducing facts about people with whom I would otherwise never have contact.

Case in point: I was on the phone with a friend the other day (a real friend, not one in name only on Facebook). She mentioned that she was checking out an old acquaintance’s page on one of these sites. (Okay, he was more than an acquaintance. He was the object of many an erotic fantasy for her, and plenty of non-erotic ones, too, that simply involved him falling head over heels in love with her, marrying her, and the two of them living happily ever after in the most blissful wedded bliss in the history of wedded bliss.) Anyway, this young man is now engaged to someone else, and my friend discovered that they registered at a nationwide department store for a china pattern that costs—get this—138 dollars per place setting. Maybe their friends all have money trees in their backyards, or maybe the fiancé’s family is loaded and will settle for nothing less than their daughter eating off of solid gold plates with diamond dust sparkling on the edges. (Okay, in all fairness, I have no idea what the pattern really is, but seriously, for $138 per setting, it had better have some diamonds in it. Or ivory from the tusks of an endangered breed of elephant. Call me crazy, but you can get cute “everyday” dishes from most discount stores for around $30, or a little more if you need more than four place settings. Yes, I’m talking about Corelle, the dishes of champions, the dishes everyone I grew up with had, because our parents all bought them in the mid-seventies because they were cheap, nearly indestructible [though not entirely], and microwave-safe, which would come in handy a few years later.)

Why did I bring up REDI (the Ridiculously Expensive Dishes Incident)? It’s just one example of how these personalized sites can affect the psyche of someone who’s not in the best frame of mind to see how old friends are getting along these days. (This particular situation affected my friend, not me, but you get the point.)

Before I go any further, let me offer a caveat: I’m thirty years old, unemployed, and living with my parents. (Go ahead, just call me George Costanza. Or, if you’ve never seen Seinfeld, then just call me pathetic; it’s equally effective.) I haven’t been “at the top of my game” in eight years. When I graduated from college, I was ambitious, hardworking, dedicated, and poised to take the world by storm. Too bad I didn’t do anything about this, and instead, let my life go ker-SPLAT. From the ensuing years of spotty employment at jobs I hated, and the quitting of not one but two master’s degree programs, I now resemble nothing so much as a wad of gum that someone spit onto the sidewalk ten years ago, and is now black and petrified from a decade of being stepped on, rained on, snowed on, skated over, biked over, and generally considered an eyesore to anyone who happens to notice it. (Okay, it’s not quite that bad. I’ve faced no hardships that can be likened to being rained on or skated over. All the feelings of inadequacy I have are the product of nothing but my own laziness, fear, and self-doubt. I have no one but myself to blame for my current position. Still, the fact that it was my own doing, and not someone else’s, that led me to this point doesn’t change the fact that at this moment, my life is less noteworthy than that blob of decade-old gum that’s become a permanent part of the concrete.)

When I talk about why these websites make me uncomfortable, I am, of course, basing things on my own feelings. That being said, I’d be surprised if there weren’t plenty of people out there like me, for whom MySpace and its ilk are just one more venue for other people to advertise how much less they suck at life than you do. Look, here are pics of me and my entourage in Puerto Vallarta! Here’s a picture of me receiving my PhD in microbiology; don’t I look great in the cap and gown? Here’s an excerpt from my novel that just won the National Book Award. (Copies available at fine bookstores everywhere!)

Okay, so maybe this, too, isn’t quite that bad. Obviously, I’m exaggerating. Most people just post pictures of themselves, their spouse, their kids, and family vacations. And I can’t even claim to be jealous. The fact is, I’m not. I do want to get married at some point, but I’m not interested in raising kids, and even if I was, at the moment, what with being unemployed and living with the folks, I can’t say I’m ready for either one of those.

I guess it boils down to the grass being greener. I don’t know why it should affect me so strongly that so-and-so moved to wherever and is doing whatever for a living. Some of my friends seem pretty impressed by what I’ve done in the military, but to me, most of it was no big deal. It sounded good to other people, but I knew better. Maybe it’s the same way for everyone else. Maybe everyone’s just trying to muddle through as best they can, wondering when they’re going to get their head screwed on straight, and each one of them has somebody they look to and think, Damn, now *that* is something.

The fact is, my life pales in comparison to some. My lack of direction and even a remote sense of certainty makes me feel threatened by other people’s accomplishments. I have no right to feel this way. I’ve put myself in the position I’m in. It’s not my friend the successful lawyer’s fault that my head is up my you-know-what. It’s not my friend the engineer’s fault that I can’t seem to figure out what the heck I want to do with myself. It’s not my friend the ex-cop’s fault that I got out of the military without a job lined up, and it’s not my friend the senior software designer’s fault that I’m so afraid of being unhappy that I’ve prevented myself from even being content. (Shout-out to you if you recognize yourself here! You’re probably the only four people who ever read this thing! Wheee!)

I’m pretty sure I’ll feel less overshadowed by other people once I get my act together. When I’m able to say, “My name is Amy, and for once, I’m earning my paycheck.” Or, “My name is Amy, and my first novel is being published next month.” Or even just, “My name is Amy, and my job isn’t the fulfillment of all my life’s hopes and dreams, but I’m back out here, among the living, being a productive member of society, and chipping away at something that will be a novel if I keep working hard, and I watch funny movies when I need cheering up, and a good, strong cup of coffee is one of my go-to pick-me-ups, and I love going for walks near pretty scenery, and a while back, I turned into a girly girl who likes shoes and perfume, and I no longer want to vomit when I see myself in a mirror, and I love fudge brownies and exotic trail mixes, and Danielle Steel books are my guilty pleasure, and I may not be where I’d like to be, but I’m moving in the right direction.”

Yeah…something like that.

But until that happens, I’ll stick to my favorite websites, where like-minded people preach to the choir, and I don’t have to read tidbits about people from my third grade class that make me feel worthless.

MySpace? No, thanks. It’s your space, and you can have it.

Disclaimer: MySpace, Facebook, and Friendster corporate-type people, please don’t sue me. I *did* acknowledge the good things about your sites, didn’t I? Let’s all play nice and leave our lawyers out of it, shall we? :D

The White Noise of Autumn

2008-10-04T17:48:00.002-04:00

There’s something about autumn that makes me feel alive. I assume this puts me in the minority, though I have no statistics to back this up. I imagine most people cite spring as the time they feel renewed. They list every clichéd thing about the season traditionally known for rebirth and new beginnings: the weather warming up; flowers blooming; those first, intrepid blades of grass peeking out from soil that has just begun to thaw. I cannot ignore the simple beauty of those things; they’re a reminder that, no matter how long, dark, and difficult the winter, Nature herself has reawakened to claim the earth. These sensory changes that accompany the transition from cold to warmth, from long, bleak nights to slow, warm days, are perhaps even better markers of the cyclical nature of our existence than are diagonal lines slashed through calendar days, and the holidays and annual rituals we’ve created to root our place in time.

And yet, as cozy as all that sounds, I’ve always found that I awaken in the fall. For me, the novelty and simple beauty of a tiny pink bud venturing to open itself on the branch of a tree has never quite matched the sight of a street lined with trees whose red, yellow, and orange leaves create a Technicolor canopy unrivaled at any other time of year. I’ve always preferred bold, deep colors to washed-out pastels, so maybe that’s why the dark, insistent shades of fall speak to me more than the pinks, lavenders, and butter yellows of spring.

Even supermarkets offer a feast for the eyes in fall. Eye-catching displays of red and pink foil-wrapped candy at Valentine’s Day are trivial compared to bright orange pumpkins arranged casually on bales of yellow and brown straw. Sweet temptations covered in every shade of red and green for Christmas don’t hold a candle to impossibly shiny, perfectly formed Red Delicious apples, on display next to rich, sweet, buttery caramels, reminding shoppers to combine the two into a classic fall treat. Even the cheerful Easter displays, complete with pastel colored eggs, white bunnies with pink ears, and baskets padded with cellophane Easter grass in bright colors Mother Nature never intended, pale in comparison to rugged, weathered, wooden barrels filled with decorative gourds in astounding shapes and colors. (At least, they look rugged and weathered. No doubt they’re mass produced for just such a purpose, but commercialism is a topic for another time. Right now, I’m talking about autumn, and I will not be stopped!) Round, oblong, asymmetrical. Some with smooth, shiny skin, others rough and knobby. White, green, yellow, orange, sometimes all four. Some striped, some solid, some that look like Nature’s try at abstract painting.

As addictive as those colors and shapes are to my eyes, my love of autumn comes as much from the smells as from the sights. There’s a distinct change in the air at the border between September and October. The air starts getting cooler, and though the days are often still warm—sometimes hot, even—the nights are chilly. Not cold. Not uncomfortable. Just cool enough to warrant a fuzzy, boxy sweatshirt while you sit on your back porch and wrap your hands around a cup of spiced cider or mulled wine, look up at the stars and try to spot Orion, whose first appearances in the wee hours herald the colder weather and longer nights to come.

I don’t know if the temperature drop has anything to do with the uniquely invigorating smell in the autumn air, but I’ve always taken the two hand in hand. The distinct, smoky smell streaming from distant fireplaces is surely part of it, but I grew up in New York City, where very few homes had the luxury of a fireplace, so I doubt this is the sole ingredient. Maybe the chemical reactions taking place in the leaves themselves, as they shift from green to the array of other colors, is part of it. Maybe it even has something to do with where the earth is in its revolution around the sun when it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere. Maybe someone set out a few unfathomably enormous bowls of potpourri in this particular neighborhood of the solar system. Or maybe I just love so much the foods that are traditional this time of year, that I imagine their aromas into existence, even when they’re not being prepared right under my nose.

Whatever the pinches of this and dashes of that that blend so seamlessly into what I call the smell of October, they only come together this time of year. People who prefer spring might claim the warm sun on their face is what makes them feel renewed, or that birds singing as they fly from branch to branch remind them that there’s a world out there, and it’s much, much bigger than the daily grind. I don’t dispute that these things are at once empowering and humbling, and fill those who experience them with a clearer sense of purpose. For me, though, a long, slow, deep breath of October evening air is better than any thrill, any runner’s high, and any endorphin rush, for making me believe I can do it. Do what? Anything. Anything I dream, anything I want, anything I work for, because this is October, and this is when things happen.

Crisp is a word we use to describe everything from potato chips to starched laundry, from military salutes, to the final bars of a symphony, to the perfect landing in a gymnastics maneuver. Crisp lends itself easily to physical movement, sound, and the sensation of touch. Smells can be crisp, too, but not all of them. The smell of brownies baking is delicious, but not crisp. It’s warm, comforting, and even pacifying. Can you imagine anyone arguing about anything—except maybe who gets to lick the batter off the spoon—when there are brownies baking nearby, and the smell of rich, fudgy chocolate fills the air? (Perhaps we should have “brownie smell” pumped into the ventilation systems at the U.N. and in the Capitol Building. Considering all the hot air that already fills those places, what’s a little more, especially if it smells like dark chocolate? I’m not sure, but I may have just come up with the key to world peace.) The smell of the air after a rainstorm is muted. It’s not crisp, it’s quiet. It’s slow. Heavy and lethargic with the weight of the moisture still surrounding everything, as if the intensity of the entire world has been turned down. The smell of an old flame’s cologne or perfume is heady and deep, alive with memories of times both better and worse. It causes you to revisit those moments, to take your time and slowly swim through the milieu of people and places that inhabited that era. It’s anything but crisp. The smell of October, however, is crisp.

The smell of a chilly October evening is invigorating. It cuts right through you. Leaves you no time to wander through the past, taking a leisurely stroll along the paths you’ve forged, stopping to ponder sculptures of who you used to be. The smell of October allows for nothing but unbridled possibility. Maybe this rejuvenation is hard-wired in me. Maybe, somewhere deeply embedded in my DNA, is the knowledge that it’s harvest time, and this is when the world turns wonderful.

The smell of October has a unique ability to revive the spirits of those who spent the spring dreading the heat and humidity summer would bring as each day got warmer than the one before, and who spent the summer waiting for said heat and humidity to fade. For those of us who prefer cooler weather, the smell of October is to our psyches what the sights of spring are to others: a sign that we’ve made it through. That our time is upon us. That lemonade, bathing suits, and trips to the beach have given way to apple cider, sweaters, and cold Sunday mornings spent pajama-clad, lingering over newspapers and magazines.

I’ve always liked cold weather. Not the relentless, bone-chilling cold that makes your eyes water and leads you to question why humankind ever left the temperate zones, but the dry chill that wakes you up and makes you want to take a deep breath and go do something out of character. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t related, in large part, to the poor body image that has plagued me throughout my life as a young woman in the western world. Cold weather means bulky sweaters and sensible shoes. Banished to a storage trunk are sleeveless tops, shorts, Capri pants, mini-dresses, and that most dreaded of the dreaded, the bathing suit. Exiled to the back of the closet are flimsy sandals and even flimsier flip-flops. (When, by the way, did the latter become acceptable footwear in public? Never, that’s when. If you’re in violation of this policy, stop. Yesterday.)

Cold weather means sheathing myself in layers, and blissfully covering every inch of arm and leg that was painfully exposed during summer. It also means a return to the classic fall clothing colors, which tend to flatter both my facial features and my body better than the bright, happy yellows, pinks, mint greens, and powder blues designers seem so fond of for the warmer months. October brings with it the dark, royal shades of burgundy, plum, hunter green, and burnt-orange, along with the black, charcoal gray, and navy blue every woman knows are slimming.

More important than my favorite type and color of clothing, however, fall brings with it my favorite foods. Despite the fact that pumpkin is available all year long—albeit only in cans in late winter, spring, and summer—very few people seem to realize this amazing ingredient can be used in things other than pumpkin pie. I love pumpkin pie, and would never dismiss such an integral part of American holiday cuisine, but it is far from the only delivery mechanism for this wonder food’s incredible taste, not to mention impressive amounts of fiber and vitamin A. Fall in general, and Thanksgiving, in particular, are when pumpkin recipes appear in magazines, on television, and in seasonal cookbooks. They range from the sweet—cookies, cheesecakes, and breads—to the savory—pureed in soups, mashed with sweet potatoes, and roasted with root vegetables. I have never understood why so few people take advantage of this amazing orange squash during the rest of the year. Perhaps people don’t realize it’s available in a form that doesn’t require you to buy one, lug it home, cut it open—which is a workout—scoop out the seeds, and then first cut it up or roast it. At that rate, I can’t blame them for steering clear most of the year, but canned pumpkin is a true gem.

Pumpkin is, of course, only the beginning. There’s a whole world of other ingredients that, like pumpkin, are available year-round, but seem to get their due only around the fall and winter holidays. Cinnamon, clove, ginger, and nutmeg can be found in supermarket spice aisles all year long, but are sadly underappreciated until it’s time for apple crisps and pumpkin pies. These spices create an autumn smell that is entirely different from—but no less invigorating than—the smell of October.

Fall has unique sights, smells, and tastes. Last, but certainly not least, are its sounds. Breezes blow throughout the year, but only in fall do they rustle leaves that are beginning to dry out, creating that scratchy sound that can only be described as muted maracas in the music fueling the dance between the air and the trees. Only in fall can you hear the crackling and crunching underfoot of leaves that, having finished their summer performance, fell to the ground in a final curtain call. Only in fall do the dried leaves skip across sidewalks and streets, making a sandpapery sound that is staccato, precise, and, of course, crisp. On a clear fall night, you can see the three stars that make up the unmistakable belt of Orion, the hunter, and Canis Major, his dog, identifiable by Sirius, the brightest star in the winter sky. There are times when it’s so dark and so quiet you swear you can hear the stars twinkling.

This is the quiet symphony that underpins the season. The miracle that gets overlooked because of its ubiquity, like the scraping of snow shovels against the ground in winter, like the grinding of lawnmower motors in spring, and like the cheerful, major-key-toned bells of ice cream trucks in summer. The soundtracks of other seasons accompany their own sights, smells, and tastes, and they’re all mesmerizing in their own ways. But until the very last leaf has fallen, and ice turns the bare tree branches into a crystalline dream world, I’ll sit out back in my cable knit sweater, with my hands wrapped around a warm mug of mulled apple cider, with my head tipped back to spot the constellations, while I take deep, generous breaths of the spicy, smoky fall air and listen to the white noise of autumn.

2007-11-15T02:23:00.000-05:00

The Tyranny of Choice

—or—

Why I Love Crappy Weather

Anyone who’s known me for even a short amount of time knows that I love the kind of weather other people, bless their misguided little hearts, might call “crappy.” I can’t pinpoint a time when this started; I’ve loved rainy days for as long as I can remember. And until recently, I couldn’t pinpoint why. During the past few months, however, thanks to more down time at work than anyone with a paycheck as respectable as mine has any right to, I’ve been able to devote a healthy amount of time to pondering the answer.

I’ve come up with two reasons why I love dark clouds, thunder and lightning, and that most beautiful of sights, that harbinger of cold fronts, the squall line, where ominous, steel-colored thunderheads contrast so sharply with the innocent-looking sky in front of them. The first reason is simple and, if I do say so myself, almost anti-climactic. Why do I love crappy weather?

I just do.

Were you hoping for something more profound? Sorry. That’s all there is to it: I just do. Why do you like your favorite color? Maybe there’s some long, complicated story behind it, like your first memory as a child is of holding on to your dad’s leg while you tried to stand up and walk. He was wearing blue jeans, and forever after, blue was the only color for you. Maybe you believe in color as therapy, so you wear yellow to cheer yourself up when you’re depressed. Or maybe you just really, really love carrots, and your entire existence would be fundamentally altered without orange.

My guess, though, is that the reason you like your favorite color is, you just do.

I don’t just like stormy weather, though. I love it. I experience it. I invite it into my soul and serve it coffee and biscotti.

By “analyze,” I don’t mean that I see a cloud and then rush inside to consult the National Audubon Society’s Field Guide to Weather, desperate to identify what I saw. Stratus? Cumulus? Cirrus? Altostratus? (I admit I do, in fact, own this book, but honestly, I bought it because I thought looking at the cool pictures would be a better way to pass my occasional boredom than lying in bed, feeling guilty for how rarely I blog. It was in no way an indication of some strange, deep obsession with weather. Trust me, if I was going to have a fetish, it would not involve cloud formations. Donuts come to mind, though, or possibly brownies. Or peanut butter. Okay, I’d better stop. This could get ugly...)

(But as long as we’re on a tangent anyway, let me say that I learned early on not to ask my father—a retired science teacher whose original goal was to be meteorologist—questions about weather. It’s not that he wouldn’t know the answer; he knows too much. You want the Wikipedia version, quick and easy to skim, and you’re willing to accept the risk that their fact checkers haven’t quite gotten around to every single entry. My father, however, wants to go up to the attic, hunt down the hard-bound Encyclopedia Britannica (yes, not the World Book, which was the “easy” encyclopedia we all used for research projects as kids, until we hit high school and that wouldn’t fly anymore, and we were forced to transition to the scary Britannica), blow the dust off the cover, and sit you down for an hour-long lecture on the subtle differences between altostratus clouds and altostratus undulatus. (My mother learned long ago that every question she asked my father needed to start with the words “In fifteen words or less…”)

Where was I? Oh, right…how I analyze weather.

I’ve never told this to anyone before, so you millions of people out there who are addicted to this blog should feel privileged to be the first to hear it. (But if you are addicted to this blog, first, that’s a shame, and second, considering the rate at which I seem to post new and interesting “essays,” it’s a good thing you don’t need this blog to sustain you, like food and water, because, let’s face it: you’d have shriveled up and died a long time ago.)

And it’s kind of embarrassing, so you should feel even more privileged to be getting the information you are about to receive.

I have a kind of “scale” I measure weather with in my mind. It’s not a 1-to-10 scale, or a 100-point system. To be honest, I don’t know what the criteria is. All I know is, it’s rare that a single element will rate over a three, but occasionally, in the cases of unimaginably cool storms, the clouds alone could go as high as four or five.

Overcast skies are nice, but for me, really hideous skies are where it’s at. In fact, if it’s genuinely “stormy,” that’s usually good for two or three points before I even start counting the individual elements.

What do I “grade” when I decide how high a day scores? I usually start with the sky itself. How does it look? Is it overcast? Is there a general grayness hanging low over everything? Probably good enough for a two, maybe a three, depending on whether it looks like there’s a silver-colored sheet spread out over the whole sky, or whether there are patches here and there that are darker, and whether the clouds are moving so fast I can actually see them changing shape against each other. The bottom line here: the darker, the better. Whitish-gray, good. Silvery-gray, better. Bluish-black, damn near perfect. Grayish-green? JACKPOT, BABY!

Green? A green sky? Yes. I hate to be a fan of such “ugly” skies, because they’re usually associated with tornados, and I am, of course, not a fan of the destruction they can bring. Still, we can’t help what we love, right? These skies are really a sight to behold. I’ve been living in Tornado Alley for about a year and a half, and I’ve had the privilege of seeing these skies in all their glory. To give Nature the reverence and respect she deserves, I do have to say, these skies are as scary as they are beautiful. (Kind of like a dozen donuts. Beautiful, but deadly. Best admired from afar.)

I’m a coastal city girl, so forgive me for offending you if you happen to be partial to the Plains, but the most impressive thing I’ve been able to identify about this part of the country is the sky before a storm. I’ll take an Omaha sky over an Omaha steak every time!

The good news is, you don’t have to live in this part of the country to experience the—forgive the triteness—awesome power of a good storm. A few years ago, I was living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I worked on the 47th floor of the tallest building in the city – high up enough to feel the building sway in really strong winds. It was from one of the office windows that I watched one of the most awesome storms I’ve ever have the privilege of seeing. In fact, this is where I came up with the idea of a sky so black it’s green—the standard against which I've come to judge all other skies. These green skies ruined it for the regular ol’ overcast ones. The workhorses. The old faithfuls. The ones who usually bring rain and wind, even if only in amounts that fail to break the threshold of breaking news updates and constant Doppler radar weather maps. You know the ones…the ones where the screen shows only green, the “light” weather, never approaching yellow, pink, or, dare to dream, the red “severe” zone.

Still, there’s something to be said for a simple rainy day, or even an overcast day with no rain at all. You get all the benefits of a more dangerous storm, with few to none of the real threats. You can still drive your car, use your computer, and not worry that the plants you worked so hard to re-pot and make pretty will be destroyed. You don’t have to search your house for a flash light, attempt to turn it on, and then proceed to search your house for some D-batteries. You don’t have to have candles at the ready. You don’t have to pull onto the shoulder of the road because you can’t see a bloomin’ thing and you can’t even follow the taillights of the guy in front of you, because from what you can tell, he just hydroplaned into the oncoming traffic.

So that was the sky. What else do I use to “grade” weather?

Rain.

Rain, rain, rain, and more rain.

Is it raining? Good for at least two points. (A light drizzle might be good for only one.) Is it pouring? Can I hear it coming down on the roof of my house? Good for three.

Is it foggy? And, by “foggy,” I don’t mean the chintzy-ass fog some places get in the early morning, only to have the sun burn it away half an hour later. I mean a heavy, lingering fog. A San Francisco fog. A Monterey fog. The fog of legend. The kind of fog that’s been immortalized in postcards. (“San Francisco on a Cloudy Day” – the postcard is basically blank. White. As if someone forgot to put the actual picture there. But then again, as long as we’re on the subject, I think in the case of SF, it’s more like smog, which is definitely not as cool as fog. As for Monterey, I’m pretty sure it’s far enough away from the big city pollution that it’s all legitimate fog.)

But I digress. (I know…big surprise.)

Is it foggy? Good for at least two points, although the Monterey fog went as high as four on a fairly regular basis.

How about the wind? Is there a breeze blowing at all? If I go outside, can I feel air circulating around me? Good for one. If I stay inside, can I hear it blowing through the trees? Can I hear the screens rattling against my windows? Good for two. Are car alarms going off? Are small children being swept off their feet and blown down the street? Are shingles ripping off the roof? Not so great. Insane winds scare me. No extra points for making me think my house is going to be torn off its foundation. (Plus, ever since I moved to Nebraska, where there are no tall buildings and no mountains to block the wind, strong winds do nothing but aggravate me, especially when I’m in uniform. You see, despite the fact that the U.S. military has some of the most advanced protective gear for chemical and biological warfare, someone has yet to invent a cap that WILL STAY ON YOUR GODDAMN HEAD WHEN IT’S WINDY.)

And now, at last, the smell. Oh, the smell. Come on, don’t look at me like that. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The air smells different when it’s stormy out. In fact, it smells different before, during and after a storm. My personal preference is the way the world smells before a storm. (After a storm, it sometimes smells like wet dog, which is definitely not worthy of any points.)

With all the writing tools I have at my disposal, all the similes, the metaphors, the alliteration, you would think I could come up with some way to describe the smell. But I can’t. All I can say is, for me, it’s the smell of glory. The smell that all is right with the world. The smell that everything’s going to turn out perfectly. (You’ll understand this much better after I get to the second, more complicated reason why I love stormy weather. Also, as long as we’re here, in case you’ve ever wondered if there was a word for the general category of things like similes, metaphors, onomatopoeia, etc., there is. They’re tropes. My favorite, in case anyone cares, is zeugma—a way of connecting two or more things, usually some figurative and some literal. Examples: 1. Take your coat, and your attitude, and get out! 2. After their divorce, all they had between them were twenty years and two children. And, as always, since we’re so deeply entrenched in this tangent anyway, it pleases me to inform you that this train of thought has planted the seed for a future blog post. I’ll talk about tropes, and how they can be both a blessing and a curse for writers. [Or, at least, for “serious” writers, or writers who hope to one day be taken seriously, like me.] I’ll address the famous ones, such as simile and metaphor, but I’ll focus on the fun ones. The ones most people have probably never heard of: synecdoche, synesthesia, metonymy, etc.)

And now, for the second reason I prefer “bad weather.” The more complex reason. (Remember? Way back a few paragraphs ago, I said there were two reasons. The first was that I just do.) The second one goes much deeper than the feeling I get when I see gray clouds, feel the heaviness in the air, the foreboding.

Bad weather makes the world smaller. To understand why I see this is as positive thing, you first have to have understand something about me: I have trouble making choices. (Hence the title of this post.)

I’ve always been a pessimist. A glass-is-half-empty/grass-is-always-greener kind of person. I’m pleased to tell you that I feel I’m making pretty good strides toward changing this about myself, but my natural inclination is still toward the negative. (And maybe the gradual shift in my perspective will turn up sometime as yet another future blog post?)

I’m not sure where this attitude comes from, but it’s mine, and I’ve been living with it for as long as I can remember. I haven’t studied psychology much, but as far as I can tell, the reason I have such a hard time making decisions—even seemingly insignificant ones—is that I’m afraid I’ll make the “wrong” choice. I’m afraid that whichever way I go, the other way would have been better.

This, of course, begs the question, what is “better?” On my rare (but increasingly more common) optimistic days, I take to heart the last few lines of the poem Summer Storm, by Dana Gioa. It appeared in Writer’s Digest, with an exact publication date of…a while back:

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried.
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
for places it never went
As if life would be better
just by being different.

Better for whom? And in what circumstances? Little details can change everything. If you were in a survival situation in the desert, which would you rather have: plain water or a margarita? Would your answer be different if you were in a survival situation at a wedding with an open bar? Details, people. Details.

Bottom line: I’m afraid I’ll regret whatever it is I chose, and wish I had tried the other path.

This is pretty understandable when it comes to big decisions. How would my life be different if I hadn’t enlisted in the military? How would my life be different if I had gone to Northwestern University, instead Carnegie Mellon? (Not that I regret these things. I’m just making the point.) How would things have turned out if I had slept with Andy Garcia instead of Jimmy Smits? (Oh, wait…that didn’t happen. [Yet…I’m still holding out hope. See what I mean about trying to be more positive?])

The funny thing is, my debilitating “decision disease” seeps into every aspect of my life. You should see me at the grocery store. Choosing a toothpaste should not become a twenty-minute ordeal, and yet, that’s what happens every time I’m faced with the big questions in life: baking soda or hydrogen peroxide? Whitening or extra whitening? Peppermint or spearmint? (And now, of course, the toothpaste manufacturers have gone and made my decision even more difficult, having added flavors like cinnamon mint, vanilla mint, citrus mint, and extreme herbal mint. *sigh.* A while back, Crest came out with a sampler pack that had baby sizes of all four of these. A dream come true!)

I used to be terrible in restaurants, too. Buffalo chicken sandwich or blackened catfish? What if I get the fettuccine alfredo, but wind up jealous of the delicious looking linguine with clam sauce the guy at the next table ordered? Thankfully, this problem has been greatly reduced, thanks to a mostly low-carb way of eating. I do “cheat” here and there, but in general, I’d say I consider about 85% of a typical restaurant menu off limits for me. Even for the dishes I can order, I still usually have to customize them: no potato, double broccoli; no rice, extra veggies. I’m nowhere near as bad as Meg Ryan’s Sally in When Harry Met Sally, but still. I make a small nuisance of myself. I don’t mind, though, and the wait staff never seems to, either.

So now you’re thinking, what on earth does this weird decision disease have to do with this weird girl’s weird love for crappy weather?

Simple: It makes the world smaller. You knew you were going to work out, but weren’t sure if you were going to jog on the trail near your house, or go to the gym. Good news—it’s raining. You’re not going to jog outside. Decision made.

You got home early from work. Are you going to catch your favorite cooking show on TV, or stay outside and clean out your car, which has somehow managed to accumulate more string cheese wrappers and empty Starbucks cups than you’re willing to admit to having put there? (Maybe that’s just me, though. Then again, if it’s not string cheese and coffee cups, I’m willing to bet all of you have some kind of junk in your car, and no clear idea of how it got there.) Guess what? It’s raining. No car cleaning for you. Cooking show it is.

This is only a small part of the deeper meaning crappy weather has for me. The larger part is that the world is so big. It’s so overwhelmingly enormous, and there are so many things I’d like to do. Never does the world seem so expansive as on a clear day. One of those days with no clouds, when the bright blue looks like it goes on forever. (The kind of sky pilots call “severe clear.”) As my perspective shifts toward more positive thinking, I have to admit, I enjoy sunny days much more than I used to. Nevertheless, I feel intimidated by the endlessness, by the infinite possibilities.

On the other hand, when the sky is overcast, visibility is reduced. You can’t see as far, so the world literally appears smaller. More manageable. This makes me feel like maybe I can do everything I need or want to do. Maybe the things I’m working toward will happen. Maybe I will be a famous novelist someday. Maybe I will have a flower garden someday. Maybe I will feel like I’m “earning my keep” in the universe. Maybe I will feel at home in my own skin someday. And if I don’t get started on those things right away, if I’m not plugging away at them constantly, every second of every day, maybe that’s all right, because maybe it’s raining, and it’s okay for me to make some hot chocolate and curl up on the couch with a good book.

No, Really ... I'm Okay!

2007-03-01T17:18:00.000-05:00

For any of you who might have read my previous post, and are concerned that I'm:
A) Depressed
B) Crazy
C) Suicidal ...

Please don't worry. I'm fine. I was having a terrible day, and I let it get the best of me. The truth is, I don't even know why I was having such a bad day. I can't identify any reasons to justify the way I felt. For now, I'm chalking it up to hormones. (Those blasted two X-chromosomes!! There must be something in the Y-chromosome that prevents men from flipping out the way women do, regardless of what "time of the month" it is.)

Anyway, rest assured, I'm currently working on a list of "Things that Make Me Happy." (And, believe you me, it will be much longer than the list of "Things I'm Sick Of.") :D

Until then, my friends, I'll catch you on the flipside.

Things I'm Sick Of

2007-02-27T00:25:00.000-05:00

1. Listening to my inner monologue.
2. Skinny women who wear spandex at the gym.
3. Skinny guys who eat horrendous crap and stay skinny.
4. Being lonely.
5. Being lonely in a roomful of people.
6. Living in my own skin.
7. People who can't hold clicky pens without clicking them all the time.
8. Making excuses for myself, instead of actually having the courage and energy to change things inside me and around me.
9. Being useless to the outside world; having no real “skills.”
10. Being so far away from my friends.
11. "Analysts" on news shows. I wish they would get real jobs, and stop criticizing other people for the way they do theirs.
12. Stretch marks – old ones and new ones, which seem to popping up every day, despite the fact that I’m trying to lose weight, and therefore, have my skin not be pulled so tight over my insides that it actually stretches.
13. Doing homework (I’ve been doing it since I was six years old. I’m 28.)
14. Processed "food" (and I use the term loosely). Do yourself a favor and read The Omnivore’s Dilemma, by Michael Pollan.
15. Overmedicated children and adults. If your kid can’t sit still, he might not have ADD/ADHD. Maybe you should get him/her off sugar, for crissake.
16. A society that wants quick fixes from the medical establishment. "I don’t want to change my diet, so give me some pills." "I don’t want to start exercising, so give me medication instead." "I’m sad, so instead of me making changes in my life to have a happier, more fulfilling existence and get rid of the things that are causing me to be sad, just give me some “uppers” that will make me happy in the short term, but in the long run, do nothing to actually solve the problem." (Caveat…I know clinical depression is a real thing, and that in some cases, medication is a true godsend.)
17. Suffocating under the unbearably heavy burden of the same fears and insecurities that have been crushing me since I was twelve years old.
18. Feeling like a fatass, even while I’m running at the gym to remedy this exact problem.
19. Feeling the saddlebags on my hips jiggle while I run.
20. Old men lapping me on the track, especially on days when I feel like I’m doing really well, and running at a good pace.
21. Days when I have no choice but to get out of bed, get dressed, go to work, and be part of the world, when I want nothing more than to stay in bed all day, with the covers over my head, pretending like this isn’t actually my life. After all, if I don't see anybody, they don't see me.
22. Crying at the same damn things that made me cry when I was a teenager.
23. Sitting down, and noticing how my hips and thighs span the entire width of the chair.
24. Feeling trapped in my own body.
25. Being unable to escape from myself. Life is rough when the person you hate most in the world is yourself. Where can you go to get away from her?
26. Looking at myself and hating every single thing I see.
27. People who are naturally thin.
28. Being scared that it’s always going to be like this.

(Sorry...I'm having a bad day. [Can you tell? ;-)] Nothing a cigarette and a large glass of wine won't fix. Well, that, and a generous serving of ipecac syrup. [Just kidding. I wish I wasn't, but I am, so don't freak out. I'm just too level=headed for my own good when it comes to things like that.])

The Prison of Imagination

2007-01-07T03:11:00.000-05:00

***This post is dedicated to M., who said, and I quote, "Blog more." :-)

“All my life I’ve been frightened at the moment I sit down to write.”

So said Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez, whose fear of writing did not stop him from winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, for One Hundred Years of Solitude, a masterpiece of fiction and magical-realism known the world over.

It is nice to know that in my fear of the blank page, in the gripping terror that engulfs me when I sit down to write, I am in good company.

In the two months since I posted “The Tyranny of the Blank Page,” in which I wrote about the mental and emotional obstacles to writing fiction, I am ashamed to admit I have not written much of anything. A few more blog posts, yes. (Few being the operative word.) But nothing that will start me along my slow, long struggle to reach the bestseller lists.

Like I said in that first post, I’ve had nothing but gobs and gobs of free time to write. And yet, I’ve done gobs and gobs of just about everything but write. (Well, no, that’s not really true. All I've really done is watched gobs and gobs of The X-Files, and Quantum Leap, thanks to a week and a half of leave time, and a subscription to Netflix, which, I hereby declare, is the greatest thing since Nutella. (Why Nutella? Well, let’s face it folks, “sliced bread” isn’t really all that great, is it? You could easily buy a whole loaf of bread and slice it yourself. But how would you possibly get all that chocolately and hazelnutty goodness whipped up so smoothly on your own? … I rest my case.)

In my defense, during all this time in which I haven’t been writing, I’ve at least been thinking about writing. In fact, I’ve done so much thinking, and so much introspection, that I may have finally discovered exactly what it is that has kept me from putting pen to paper (or hands to keyboard, as it were), more often.

It’s my imagination. I’m a prisoner of my own imagination.

(This, of course, is a natural sequel for “The Tyranny of the Blank Page,” but I have to admit, I’m beginning to wonder what it says about me, when I resort to using such violent words in association with something I claim to love so much…)

If you’ve ever seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption, you might remember a character named Brooks Hatlen. Brooks was a white-haired, older gentleman, who had spent his entire adult life inside the Shawshank facility. At one point in the movie, he gets released. (I don’t remember if he was paroled, or if his sentence was up. It’s not important. The point is, he got out of prison.) Brooks got a job bagging groceries at a supermarket, and found himself a small apartment. The thing is, he had spent so much of his life at Shawshank, that he didn’t know how to function anywhere else. Inside the prison walls, he was safe. The minute he stepped outside, however, everything fell apart. Nothing was what he expected it to be, and he simply couldn’t adjust. He was so frustrated and so scared by his failure to adapt to the outside world, that he wound up hanging himself.

You must be thinking, how could this possibly be related to writing? Well, let me see if I can explain what I mean when I say my imagination is a prison.

When I get an idea for something, whether it’s a poem, a short story, or a novel, it’s always perfect. At the moment of conception, when my mind gets the very first inkling of something that would be worth writing, the entity is complete, whole, and pristine. It’s almost as though the start, the middle, and the end, are all wrapped up in a little ball, or better yet, a single point.

The Italian writer Italo Calvino wrote a story called “All At One Point.” It was set during the time just before the Big Bang, when everything, and I mean everything, was converged in a central, infinitesimal point. People were always fighting, because there was no room to move around. Everyone, by definition of the point they were trapped in, was invading everyone else’s personal space. There were plants, and animals, and houses, and everything else we think of when we think of the world, even though it was before most of those things had evolved, or were invented. The story required a great degree of suspension of disbelief, but if you could manage to put aside your questions and doubts, and your junior high school physics, it made for really entertaining reading.

I mention Calvino’s story to try and explain what an idea looks like in my mind. It’s all converged in a point. A tiny speck. And yet, it’s all there: characters, a plot, lines of dialogue, a great opening sentence, and an even better closing. All the symbols, all the wonderful descriptions, all the joy, all the heartbreak, is wrapped up inside itself, around itself, in this beautiful, pristine form.

The difficulty starts when I try to take the ideas out of my head, and put them on paper. To take something that exists in a perfect, untouched, abstract state, and give it a physical shape. To take these incredible visions, this amazing potential, and transform it into letters and words, and hope that none of the greatness gets lost in translation.

My imagination is a prison because, just like old Brooks inside Shawshank, my ideas are safe inside my imagination. As long as they stay there, they remain perfect. They have the best possible opening line, the best possible final sentence, and, most important of all, everything in between conveys exactly what I wanted to express, in exactly the right way, so that the reader takes away every single nuance, and every single feeling I wanted them to have.

The minute I start to actually write, however, things can only go downhill. If an idea is perfect inside my mind, then when it leaves, and starts to take shape as not a notion, but a novel, it can only get worse. Maybe I won’t find just the right word. Maybe I won’t be subtle enough. Maybe I’ll be too subtle. Maybe the way the character looks to me in dim light, or moonlight, or broad daylight, won’t be the way he looks to my readers, because I’ve failed to describe him the right way. Maybe they won’t laugh when I want them to. Or maybe they’ll laugh when I don’t want them to. Maybe they won’t cry, because my writing doesn’t convey the torturous, soul-sucking emotional agony my character is in.

And now, for a fun break, here are two quotes that summarize this feeling, and also show me I am not alone in this neurosis:

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it. – Jules Renard

Every creator painfully experiences the chasm between his inner vision and its ultimate expression. The chasm is never completely bridged. We all have the conviction, perhaps illusory, that we have much more to say than appears on the paper. – Isaac Bashevis Singer

I know that this fear is a big part of why I don’t write as much as I should. What I don’t know is where it came from, or how to make it go away. Making it go away is probably very simple. I would think that writing more is the only way to make it go away. The more often I overcome this fear, the less I’ll have to fear, right? Once you’ve slain six dragons, slaying the seventh is a piece of cake.

As for where it came from, well, I’m not really sure how to answer that. I suspect it has a lot to do with what I talked about in “The Tyranny of the Blank Page.” The rest of it, though, has to do with my own expectations.

In all the time I’ve spent thinking (and not writing) in the past few weeks, I realized there’s more to it than what I said about living up to the standards of other writers. The fear of falling so far short of my personal literary idols is very real, so I don’t want to dismiss it. However, I have come to realize that what has stopped me from writing is actually the fear of living up to my own standards. The ideas in my head are so beautiful in their undisturbed state, and the heart of the issue is that I doubt my ability to make them as good when I put them on paper.

The thing is, I don’t know why I question my talent. I’ve proven to myself over and over again that I can do it. During the past four years (and I can NOT believe it’s been that long), I’ve written an impressive collection of JAG fan fiction stories. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of fan fiction, in a nutshell, you take the characters from a TV show (or movie), and write your own stories with them in it. Some people try to make their stories just like regular episodes. Others, like me, take a more literary approach. We use the characters, stay true to their backstories, and stick to show canon, but we write as if it’s a “normal” short story or novella. (Go ahead and laugh … how do you think those old Star Trek novels got started? And I bet some of those people have made plenty of money over the years!)

I used to be embarrassed about my obsession with JAG. It was all I talked about, all I thought about, and all I wanted to think about. I got hooked on it in early 2002, and wrote my first “fic” in October of that year. I watched it as often as I could, which, courtesy of syndication on the USA Network, was about three times a day. JAG had been on the air since 1995. Thanks to those reruns, and also to being unemployed, I caught up on six seasons in about six months. Through not having a job at all, to having a job I hated, to being in graduate school, to hating graduate school, and through joining the military, JAG was the one thing I could always count on to cheer me up. I scoured the Internet for JAG-related websites, and was certainly not disappointed. I came across a few fan fiction sites, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I used the phrase “used to be embarrassed” about my fan fiction hobby, because enough time has passed, and I’ve written enough stories, that I’m actually very proud of what I’ve accomplished. Since I do not own the copyright for JAG or any of the associated characters, I can’t have my stories published in “the real world.” I do, however, have a relatively large following on the Internet. (I post my stories to several websites, each time making sure that it is clearly stated that I do not own the copyrights, that no infringement is intended, and that no money is being made from my work. And, as I constantly had to tell myself during those years of writing nothing but JAG fanfics, it was better than writing nothing! … Kind of like when I write in this blog!)

I’m very proud of the JAG writing I’ve done. And, even though I can’t make a name for myself in the literary world by using characters someone else invented, the effort I’ve put into those stories has without question made me a better writer. I loved working on those stories, since they allowed me to be immersed so deeply in the JAG world. And now, when I look back on the pieces I produced, my heart gets warmer not only because I remember how there were days when JAG (and the online community it introduced me to) seemed like the only good thing in my life, but more so now because I see how much my writing has improved. My first stories were good. The ones in the middle were better. The latest ones are excellent. So, even though I won’t be able to buy a yacht off the royalties from them, the true payoff is the improvement in my craft. Writing so many of those stories helped me to fit the pieces of the puzzle together better. How did all the individual scenes fit into the bigger picture? Was one particular line of dialogue so essential, that I needed to build an entire scene around it? Or, my most hated, was a certain scene so good, and so well written, but just didn’t jell with the rest of it? Would I have to let it fall on the cutting room floor, and accept that just because it sounded good, didn’t mean it worked in that particular story?

Anyway, I mentioned my catalogue of JAG stories because they are proof not only that I can overcome my fear, but that the fear is unfounded in the first place. I wasn’t so afraid at the beginning, when I first started writing fan fiction. But maybe that’s because my stories were simple, and relatively short. But later on, during the last two years, as my writing itself got better, the stories I wanted to tell become more complex.

I’ve never been very good at coming up with plots. I’ve always relied on the notion that my writing was strong enough, and the JAG characters so well formed, that readers would hardly notice they were reading thirty pages of description, dialogue, and exposition, with nothing actually “happening.”

And it worked, too! Readers loved it! I had them fooled, bless their giant, JAG-loving hearts! The thing was, I wasn’t fooled. I knew I was going to have to learn how to write a decent plot, if I ever wanted to be a “real” writer.

I have since written two JAG stories with (if I do say so myself) very kick-ass plots. Both stories were extremely well-received. Readers liked them, and they told me so. And, more important, I liked them. I was quite satisfied, and not a little impressed, with how they both turned out.

The funny thing is, I remember how terrified I was while I was writing them. I had a very clear picture of certain scenes in my mind, and I was convinced I’d never be able to do them justice on paper. The pivotal moments wouldn’t be as dramatic as I wanted them to be. As I had imagined they would be. I wouldn’t do a good enough job of leading up to them. Or they were so complex I couldn’t get a handle on them. I was like an interior decorator, working with a completely empty room. I knew I had a living room, but depending on what color I chose for the walls, and for the carpet, the room would have an entirely different feel. Putting a sofa on the left side could create a whole different look from putting it on the right. With these two stories, everything wound up in the right place, but it took a long time to move the pieces around. It took a lot of arranging and rearranging, before it sounded just right.

The great thing was, I did it by myself. I asked other writers, whose work I admired, for advice. I even went so far as to ask one of them if she would co-write one of the stories with me, since I doubted, even from the very first moment, that I could “pull it off.” She was too busy working on something else at the time, so I wound up writing it on my own. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. All the good ideas on those pages, all the drama, the suspense, the joy, and the sadness, came from me. There are a few specific scenes that come to mind when I think of these two stories. A few scenes, around which everything else was hinged. They were pivotal moments, and I didn’t want them to fall flat. The good news is, general consensus by my “fans” said they didn’t. And, even better, I say they didn’t. Even now, months and years later, when I reread them, I don’t think I could have done a better job.

When I go back and read some of those old stories, I’m often surprised at how good they are. (When I go back too far, though, like to junior high school, or even elementary school, I’m embarrassed by most of what I wrote, and if bits and pieces of book reports or very early attempts at short stories ever turn up in the Enquirer, or on the E! network, when I’m famous, I’ll deny everything.) But seriously, at the risk of singing my own praises, I’m usually pretty impressed when I read my work. I sometimes even say to myself, “Damn, this is good! I can’t believe I wrote this!”

Like Garcia Marquez, I am always afraid when I sit down to write. Even if I know what I want to say; even if I already know the ending. Even if I know everything that has to happen, I doubt my ability to string it all together in a way that anyone in their right mind would want to read.

My friend S’s favorite author, John Irving, said it best: “I don’t know how far away the end is – only what it is. I know the last sentence, but I am very much in the dark concerning how to get to it.”

My strategy used to be the same. I would come up with a fabulous ending, and then, all I needed to do was figure out how to reach it. This is still my favorite way to write, but my last few JAG stories were written very much out of order. I wrote scenes as they developed in my head, and then, when I had enough of the major scenes done, I wrote the little things necessary to connect them all.

I’ve realized I can write from start to finish, or finish to start, or completely jumbled up, and it’ll always turn out fine. The trick is keeping sight of the big picture. Where do each of those scenes fit in? What needs to happen before I can put a scene in its proper place? What needs to happen afterward? Is the plot strong enough to stand on its own, without a lot of character insight? Or, on the other side, are the characters, and their interactions with each other, so powerful that I don’t need an amazing plot?

I go through what I call a “simmering” stage, when I write. I get an idea, and it has to simmer in my mind for a while. I have to think about it before I can write about it. I have to have enough of it planned out in my head before I’ll be ready to start writing. I can come up with details anywhere: daydreaming at work (my favorite); laying in bed; reading someone else’s work. I’ve started carrying around a mini notebook, so I can jot things down before I forget them. At one point, while I was working on my longest JAG story (which weighed in at a whopping 224 pages—in a 9-pt font!!), my desk was covered in fluorescent-colored Post-it-Notes, each one with a few lines of dialogue, or the gist of a scene I had yet to write.

Sometimes ideas simmer for days, sometimes months, and in one rare case, it took two years. (I got a great idea for a story in August 2004, and even wrote a bare-bones outline. I got sidetracked by various things, including another story that I chose to write first (and which ended up at a not-too-shabby 176 pages, in 10-pt font). But, I never gave up on it. It was always in the back of my mind, doing what my ideas do best: simmering. I kept my notes in a safe place. I remembered the central theme I wanted to present, and I stayed true to it. I am pleased to report that the pot finally boiled over this summer. I started writing it in July, and finished in September. (Not bad, for 92 pages! It still tickles me to know I incorporated lines of dialogue I had written two years earlier! It just goes to show, you never know when you’ll use something. If not now, then maybe in something you write a few years down the road. If it’s genuinely good, it’ll be just as good later. And if it’s not, then you know it wasn’t that good to begin with…)

Besides the fear of living up to my own expectations, there’s one other thing that makes me question myself every time I sit down to write. It’s the little voice that tells me no one would ever want to read about _________. I don’t know if this is something all authors have to overcome, the “Who Cares Syndrome.”

I wonder if Betty Smith ever asked herself why anyone would want to read about a poor girl growing up Brooklyn in the 1920s. (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn). Or if John Jakes ever told himself that no one would read a saga about families torn apart by the Civil War. (North and South). Or if Terry Goodkind ever asked himself why anyone would give a damn about love, war, and one man’s journey to fulfill his destiny in a faraway, imaginary land? (Wizard’s First Rule).

I can only rely on the truth I find in my absolute favorite quote about writing:

“When I want to read a good book, I write one.” -- Benjamin Disraeli

Every JAG story I’ve written was a story I wanted to read. But, since no one had written it yet, it was up to me. If I wanted to read about __________, I was going to have to write it, myself. And, I must say, four years, and I-don’t-know-how-many-stories later, I’ve done a pretty good job. I haven’t done much writing, but I’ve done enough to know that I don’t trust anyone else to write the way I do. If I had given one of my ideas to someone else, they would have written the story in an entirely different way. Not necessarily worse, but definitely different. And it’s just like the quote says: if I want to read a certain kind of story, hear specific kinds of language, and form specific kinds of images in my mind, I’m going to have to write the story myself.

After all, I’m the only one who can read my mind. I’m the only one who can take those abstract images and transform them into the exact words I want, the exact pace, the exact tone. So, no matter how afraid I am to do it, I have no choice. I’m the only one who can.

And now, I’ll leave you with a selection of my favorite quotes about writing, taken from http://www.quotegarden.com/writing.html

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

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Easy reading is damn hard writing. ~~Nathaniel Hawthorne

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The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. ~~Mark Twain

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Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. ~~Gene Fowler

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Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. ~~Flannery O'Connor

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The coroner will find ink in my veins and blood on my typewriter keys. ~~C. Astrid Weber

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An author in his book must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere. ~~Gustave Flaubert

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A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. ~~Thomas Mann

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Having imagination, it takes you an hour to write a paragraph that, if you were unimaginative, would take you only a minute. Or you might not write the paragraph at all. ~Franklin P. Adams

**Also, if you're interested in the JAG stories, you can find them at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/StarTrailsJAGfic (There's a link in the list to the right on this page.) But, I have to warn you, some of the stories there are of an "adult" nature. If you're under 18, you might go blind if you try to read them!

Winning Big in...Oklahoma???

2006-12-08T03:30:00.000-05:00

If your hand has ever itched to pull the lever on a slot machine, or the thought of those three beautiful 7's perfectly aligned on the center line (with max credits bet, of course) has ever made your heart beat just a little quicker, then fear not, my friends! Just because you're thousands of miles from either Atlantic City or Las Vegas, doesn't mean you can't find quality gambling establishments nearby, that will certainly be just as eager as the big boys to take your money. (Only, they'll do it without the pretty boardwalk, and no awesome Hoover Dam just a short drive away. And if Jerry Seinfeld, or Celine Dion, or Tom Jones were to ever headline at one of these places, they would no doubt appear on stage not in their traditional performance attire, but in a straightjacket, tied to a chair, with a very large, very imposing, heavily-armed man positioned behind the curtain, stage-left, aiming an Uzi at their head, just in case they realize they made a wrong turn at the Grand Canyon and wound up in the wrong casino. But I digress...and it’s only the first paragraph!)

Gambling is fun for the whole family...

No, wait...that’s not how this was supposed to go.

Let’s try this again.

On my 21st birthday, my parents took me to Atlantic City, where they handed down to me their love, their happiness, and the family tradition of losing your shirt at the craps table.

*Furrows brow.* Wait a minute…that’s still not how this was supposed to go. *Sigh*

~~~Take 3...marker...aaaand...action!~~~

Growing up in New York City, the casinos in Atlantic City, New Jersey, were only about two and a half hours away. (Assuming, of course, you didn’t run into trouble with Jersey drivers, which could lead to anything from a serious case of potty-mouth and/or carpal tunnel in your middle finger, to a road-rage-induced aneurism, in which case, you might be hospitalized, and it would take you more like a week to get there.)

*Grrr…*
Damn it, muse, can’t you let me write something serious for a change?

Last time, and I mean it. (No, really!)
*Deep breath.*

I like to gamble. I like the sounds of the casino. I like the sights in the casino. I like the colored lights, the happy tunes in major keys, and the illusion it all creates that I, little ol’ me, just might walk out of there a whole lot richer than when I walked in.

I’ve been to casinos in Atlantic City, Las Vegas, New Mexico, and have recently added Council Bluffs, Iowa. I’m not what you would call a “high roller.” I’m not even what you would call a “low roller.” I’m what you could call “someone who takes a few dollars out of the ATM, because she wants to get the heck out of her room, off the base, and get a fun change of scenery, preferably in a place where there are free drinks and the potential to fatten her wallet.”

I never take more than a hundred dollars with me. Maybe that sounds like a lot, especially considering I generally lose it all, but I don’t go very often. Just every now and then, when I’m in the mood for the very best thing about a casino: complete anonymity. When you’re gambling, unless you’re surrounded by friends, or happen to bump into someone you know, you could be anyone. You could be a poor student. You could be a rich-whatever. You could be the personal assistant to Harrison Ford. (‘Cuz, let’s face it: if you were Harrison Ford, you would most definitely not be anonymous, and therefore not fit into this paragraph.) Or, you could be the night janitor in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo. The point is, whoever you are outside the casino, whether you’re “Mom,” or “Corporal,” or just, “Hey, you,” in the cigarette-smoke hazey world with the psychedelic carpet and no windows, clocks, or other signs of the outside world, you are whoever you want to be.

I’m not a courageous gambler. I’ve never sat down at a blackjack or poker table and assembled a stack of chips in front of myself. I don’t know the rules of casino card games well enough to not screw things up for the people around me. I don’t want to accidentally hit when I should stay, or whatever it is people mess up in blackjack. I’ve never placed a bet on a craps table, or taken my chances at roulette.

I’m a bit of a loner when it comes to gambling. (Not to mention a bit of a P-word, but you didn’t hear that from me.) I take my money, and I sit myself down in front of the video slots. If you sit there long enough, and are willing to be up and down, and up and down, you actually can come out ahead, even if you’re playing the nickel slots. (Not that it’s likely, mind you, just possible.)

Anyway, all of this was just a funny way (I hope) of setting the stage for what this essay is really about: hitting the jackpot.

In all the times I’ve been to casinos, I’ve only come out ahead two or three times. (And, as I am still working out like crazy and not eating sugar or starch, you can infer that in those two or three times, I did not come out far enough ahead to afford that elusive liposuction...) The most I’ve ever won is about two hundred dollars. Other than that, next time you see Donald Trump, tell him “you’re welcome,” for me, because I probably paid for his silk tie. (Or his shoes...or his kids’ college educations...LOL...no, not that much! I said I don’t gamble that often!)

The vast majority of times I’ve gambled (which, again, just to make sure we’re clear on this point, is not vast at all), I’ve exited the casino with less money than I had when I entered.

It wasn’t until just a few months ago (almost a whopping seven years after my 21st birthday), that I realized I had, in fact, been winning big all along.

Last April, several of my friends and I were stationed at Goodfellow Air Force Base, in San Angelo, Texas, for training. With the exception of a Wal-Mart, some seriously good steakhouses (Texas, remember), and an extremely kick-ass bar, San Angelo boasted few signs of civilization. (Except, that is, for its ideal location: three hours from San Antonio, and five hours from Dallas. Um...yeah, so maybe not so ideal. In all seriousness, though, I had a great time there, but it was much more the people I was with, than where we were, that did it, not to mention a fabulous instructor upon whom I had an enormous crush.)

Anyway, we were always on the lookout for fun things to do on weekends. One of the friends who was stationed with me had recently developed a slight interest (okay, total addiction) to gambling. Not that he was about to risk the deed to his house or anything; he just liked to play the video slots now and then, ever since he won $300 at a casino we stopped at while in transit from our previous base. So, for a few weeks, he’d been bugging a group of us to find a casino somewhere within reasonable driving distance.

After doing some research on the internet, he found one that sounded promising. Next thing I knew, it was 7:00 the following Saturday morning, and five of us were piling into my car, heading out to seek our fortunes at the fabulous, exciting (read: sarcasm) Comanche Red River Casino, in fabulous, exciting...

Devol, Oklahoma. (Read: more sarcasm.)

While it wasn’t exactly Caesar’s, (or the Venetian, or the Bellagio, or any other casino they’d ever make a movie about), it was still a casino, and offered just as big a chance as the famous ones, to either lose your shirt or buy five hundred new ones, spun with threads of pure gold that forty Sri Lankan seamstresses went blind to sew.

The Comanche Red River Casino was literally in the middle of nowhere. We got off the interstate, got onto a smaller highway to the middle of somewhere, onto an even smaller road to the outskirts of Podunk, and finally, onto a dirt path that took us to the casino. (We may have passed a church or two along the way, too, thus proving that Devol, Oklahoma, was, in fact, a legitimate “town.” Any place that has a church, right? Or is that, “strip club?” [Because we passed a few of those, too.] *Contemplates.* Never mind...I think I meant “post office.”)

To make a long story short, none of us drove home in brand new Porsches. No, the ride home was made pretty much the way the ride there was made: in my Saturn, with two people in front, and three squished in the back. And, by "squished," I mean that I, being the smallest of the five, was trapped in the middle of the backseat (of my own car!), between two guys who insisted on sitting with their legs wide open the entire time, while poor little A had all four of her limbs pressed firmly into the rest of her body. It's a good thing I was the only one back there with hips, or we really would have been in trouble! (On the other hand, I must say, the people I was squished between happened to be two very good looking gentlemen, and I'd had some wine with dinner, so, aside from the physical discomfort, it actually worked out quite nicely. I think they would agree, but that's a subject for another post!)

Only one of us came out ahead, and it wasn’t me. My friend, T, won about $80 dollars. The drive home was going to take about three hours, so we decided to stop for dinner before we got on the road. The thing was, the closest place to eat was an hour away, in fabulous, exciting...

Wichita Falls, Texas. (Read: yet more sarcasm.)

Wichita Falls, Texas has exactly three redeeming qualities: a really great used book store, an Olive Garden, and Sheppard Air Force Base. (And, really, that last one isn’t even necessarily a redeeming quality. Depends on what mood I’m in when you ask!) Anyway, you get one guess as to which one we chose for dinner.

Good spirit that he is, T offered to use his winnings to treat everyone to dinner. (A nice idea at the time, but one that he may have wound up regretting when the check came, since there’s no way $80 covered our five entrees, two bottles of wine, and dessert.)

We had a fantastic time at dinner. We’d all been training together for almost two years, and in that time, had become close friends – especially important, since all our “old friends” were back home, thousands of miles away. We’d become the kind of friends you can count on in a crisis. The kind of friends who help without being asked, and are glad to do it.

Spending time together was always fun, but factor in the wine, and you can imagine how much more fun it was. As individuals, we don’t agree on the big three: politics, money, and religion. But, as a group, we agree on what really matters: what it means to be a good person, and what it means to be a friend.

It was during dinner, and during the drive home (squished and uncomfortable though I was), while I was laughing so hard, and having such a good time, that I realized this -– being surrounded by people you love -– is the real jackpot.

Winning at life has nothing to do with winning money. Hitting the jackpot is laughing at the most off-the-wall things, and having the kind of conversations you can only have with people with whom you’ve faced hardship. Being in our particular specialty in the Air Force, I can’t legitimately say we’re brothers-in-arms. We’re about the furthest things you can imagine from combat veterans, but still, dismissing the amount of training we’ve experienced together would belittle the intelligence and dedication it took to get through it all, not to mention how it would neglect the most notable thing: that we all survived it with our sanity intact.

(Well, mostly. Some days, I wonder...)

Anyway, the more I thought about this, the more I came to appreciate how much and how long I’d been winning. I don’t enjoy my job. At all. It’s only saving grace is the people who suffer through it with me. And when I look around my “office,” and I see the faces of people I’ve known for only two years, but feel like I’ve known forever, I know I’m coming out a big winner. Maybe there are no bells and whistles; maybe no flashing lights. But seeing those people, laughing at their jokes, smiling at their happiness, and wallowing right alongside them in their misery, I can almost hear the reels clicking into place, in that magical spot where money pours out of the machine. (At least, it did in the old days. Now, you just get a printed ticket, which, I admit, is much faster and more convenient, but still, there was something promising about carrying around a bucket with eight pounds worth of quarters in it!)

If we consider big winnings not in money, but in love, friends, family, health, and dreams, I’ve been pretty damn lucky. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have incredible people in my life. If you’ve read the post about my parents (“Real-Life Superheroes”), then you know they were just about the most amazing parents a kid could ask for. Transfer the hard work, the decency, the intelligence, the caring, the integrity, and the physical and emotional support to my friends, and you’ll know the kinds of people I’ve been fortunate to have in my life. (Well, maybe not the integrity...who among us hasn’t “accidentally” taken a pad of Post-it-Notes home from the office, or “forgotten” to contribute to the office coffee fund? Or, in my fellow service members’ case, who among us hasn’t had “car trouble” on the way to a “mandatory” formation, or whose “alarm clock didn’t go off because of a blackout” during the middle of the night, before an early shift?)

(...I admit to nothing, by the way...)

But seriously, when it comes to dumb luck in friends and family, I’m about the highest roller there is. No one has ever, ever laughed at me when I told them I wanted to be a writer. No one said it was a pipe dream, or that I would never really do it. No one ever told me I was crazy, or asked how the heck I would pay the bills. In fact, it’s always been the opposite. People ask what I like to write about, or if they can read something sometime. If anyone thought I was nuts for joining the Air Force (and going enlisted, no less!), no one ever said so. I rambled on and on to many friends, for many hours, during the long months when I was deciding whether I would go to grad school or join the military. If any of them ever had any misgivings (and I know they did), once my decision was made—whether or not it was the one they agreed with—not one of them failed to support me.

So many of my close friends went to the kind of schools people “name drop” at parties, or networking events. I have friends who are lawyers, engineers, software designers, financial planners, and military officers. We all look really good on paper. The thing is, none of that really matters. What matters is how they treat people. The energy they radiate to the world. The good things they’ve been given, that they put back out there, in whatever ways they can.

Like I said in a previous post, I’ve had a very easy life. I’ve had no true hardships to speak of. I’m in great health. I have four working limbs, I’m not deaf, and not blind. On the other hand, I’m not good at everything. In fact, I’m not even good at most things, but I am good at the things I love to do (and, really, that’s probably why I’m good at them, because God wants me to do them), and when there was something I wasn’t good at, but still needed to accomplish, well, that’s where all those friends have come in handy. (Special thanks to M, who pulled me up a hill during survival training, and to B, who pulled me into the raft during water survival. Of course, those are two of the more vivid memories I have of a literal “helping hand,” but people who have loaned an ear to listen, or a shoulder to cry on, have made just as lasting an impact.)

I’ve never been let down in a big way. I’ve had some “learning experiences,” and some “opportunities for self-improvement,” but have never faced an insurmountable challenge. In some ways, I long for one, if only to prove to myself than I can do it, that I’m strong enough, and smart enough, and dedicated enough. And then, other times, I sit back and count my blessings that I’ve never been in a situation where I had to prove anything -- to myself, or anyone else.

There isn’t anything I long for that I’m not capable of achieving. Maybe not all on my own, and maybe not overnight, but everything I dream about, everything I imagine happening in my future, I’m perfectly capable of making happen. I have the time. I like to think I have the talent. (The fact that I’m not using it is completely my fault.)

The only thing I have ever desired, have ever worked and worked and worked for, and not achieved, is being thin. Two marathons, a million diets, and a spoonful of ipecac syrup later, I’m exactly the same shape I’ve always been. (And for those of you who might be thinking, “But you look FINE,” well, just pretend you see me the way I see me, and we’ll get along just great.) It is the only dream of mine that I don’t think I can make come true. I’ve tried everything I know, and when I find out something I didn’t know, I try that, too. Fitting into ___ size clothes, or weighing ____ pounds is the only big thing that has eluded me all my life. (And if you’re thinking it’s not a big thing, then you’ve probably never been a teenage girl...or a young woman in college...or a woman who’s too old to feel this way about herself, but still does.)

Some days I ask myself whom I’d be willing to trade. Who would I be willing to say goodbye to, to go into a store and pick a size ___ off the rack, and have it fit me? Who would I be willing to never see again, to have my name magically appear on The New York Times bestseller list next week?

Or, I ask myself what someone would have to give me, in trade for my family, or my friends. A huge yacht? Dream on. All the gold in Fort Knox? Not even close. There’s nothing. There’s nothing I can imagine (and I like to think I have a pretty wild imagination), that I’d accept as a fair exchange for the people in my life. Nothing.

My life isn’t perfect. But it’s not a tragedy, either. It’s not my fantasy world, but it’s a whole lot more than “just okay,” too. Then again, when I think of all I have – in material things and the people in my life, maybe it is my fantasy life. The writing will come. The book signings will come. The fulfillment will come. Everything else is already in place: the talent, the love of the creative process, the friends, the family, the support system. And, in that sense, I’ve been winning big all along.

"I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

"We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over." ~~Samuel Johnson

"Two may talk together under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet; and two others at first speech are old friends." ~~ Mary Catherwood

(And my favorite):
"It's the ones you can call up at 4:00 a.m. that really matter." ~~Marlene Dietrich

Next up: Possibly an essay on why Calvin Klein Escape perfume makes me smile when I think about the future.

Real-Life Superheroes

2006-11-21T00:52:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-11-12T19:39:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-12T18:17:00.000-05:00

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?

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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...

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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.

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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.

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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.

2005-06-03T14:13:00.000-04:00

This is a test. This is only a test. Had this been an actual blog post, it would have been funny, insightful, and artfully written. (But no annoying alarm sounds would have gone off.)

Just making sure this thing actually works.

-Amy