why i'll never listen to another writing teacher again...

by some stroke of fate or good luck i happened to discover last week that Jhumpa Lahiri, one of my favorite authors, was reading at Barnes & Noble in Union Square last night. i was still in the process of reading—and enthralled by—her most recent book, a collection of stories called Unaccustomed Earth, which was released a few weeks ago in paperback. i was thrilled to have a chance to hear her read from it. 

i think i've mentioned here that i've been a truly voracious reader for the last eight months or so. at the end of August i stopped reading the Daily News everyday and dove back into novels full time. it's made a world of difference, both on my outlook (who needs to read about death and taxes at eight in the morning?) and on my creativity. each book i read inspires me more.

Unaccustomed Earth was no exception. even though Jhumpa's books are widely, excessively praised, some readers and critics call her writing austere, too stark. i couldn't disagree more. i find her stories refreshingly clean—her plots and characters are compelling enough without tricks and tinsel. i read a few interviews with her the other day in which she spoke about what inspires her, and addressed the fact that she basically writes about the same thing, all the time (the Bengali immigrant experience in America)—she said she writes what she knows. that's all. and it freed a part of my creative mind i hadn't realized needed freeing. 

i was in a writing workshop two years ago that i loved. i wrote two short stories that were about the rawest and most honest work i've ever produced—they came from my gut, i was writing what i knew, what i had experienced. the teacher and the other writers in the class gave me great, positive feedback. but the teacher also said to me, at the end, "no more sad stories." 

in the next workshop i joined, i tried to write things that weren't "sad." i'm not sure why i cared what that teacher thought, except that i have always been and will forever be an inherent people-pleaser. but it didn't work. the stuff i was writing was clunky and forced and not really me. the feedback was lukewarm, i felt frustrated and i lost the desire to write. every time i sat down with my laptop i felt defeated before i even began to type.

since i started reading again so feverishly, i've been mentally gearing myself up to get back to writing. being immersed in so many fictitious worlds and getting to know so many fascinating characters has re-whetted my appetite. i feel the passion building again, the itch is getting itchier, i know i'm on the brink of not being able not to write again. 

and last night inspired me further. i got to B&N just before the reading started and it was standing room only. i shifted from foot to foot amidst a sea of sweaty people, wondering how many of them were like me—frustrated-but-hopeful writers, secretly entertaining the thought that perhaps one day that many people will gather to hear us read, but also knowing that just publishing anything will be more than enough.

Jhumpa arrived and stood at the podium, briefly explaining the background of the story she was going to read from (my favorite one, i was excited to discover) before she began. she read as i thought she would—almost in a monotone, to match her straightforward but affecting writing. she struck me as slightly nervous, stumbling over some words, muttering apologies when she did. i thought about how she probably still wakes up most days in disbelief that she makes a living writing fiction, let alone that millions of people buy and read her books. 

after she was done, the B&N guy passed a mic around for questions. i was prepared with one (i wanted to know her process—i'm always curious about how writers write, early in the morning, late at night, alone in an office, always with certain music playing, etc) but alas those of us in SRO were excluded. and it was really unfortunate because the questions asked by people in the seated section were ridiculous. 

one woman asked why she "always" writes from the male perspective. another asked if she'd ever considered writing a bi-lingual book. yet another asked why there are no happy endings in her stories. 

Jhumpa had an excellent answer for that last one, and it bolstered my courage to get back to writing. she said everyone strives for happy endings in real life, but they're not so easy to come by, they're elusive, intangible. she said she'd always turned to fiction to make sense of her life, her problems, her struggles. she wanted to read about characters she could relate to, imperfect people dealing with imperfect lives. and so that's what she does with her own writing. she follows characters on their journeys, wherever those journeys take them.

she is clearly unafraid of writing "sad stories" and, hello, the woman won a Pulitzer for the first book she ever published. 

so i left B&N with my brain buzzing, ideas hurtling through my mind like they haven't in a very long time. i may never pack a bookstore the way Jhumpa did last night—hell, i may never see my novel in print on a shelf—but feeling free to write exactly what's inside me, what i know, what's in my gut—that's really all i need right now.

mb 

opinions are like you-know-whats

so i read this blog on glamour.com. i forget how i stumbled upon it, but i read it daily, pretty much, as does my Aunt Val. the girl who writes it lives in the same town as Val and she sometimes sees her from a distance in the park or at the grocery store. anyway, Val and i have chatted about this girl and how her blog gets tedious sometimes. it's my opinion that she can get a little self-important and awfully redundant. i'm intrigued by her life situation—and the fact that she lives where she does—which is why i've kept up with it for so long. but today i felt compelled to leave a comment suggesting—gently! i swear i did it gently!—that perhaps the blog has run its course. i even blamed it on glamour.com for making her post something every single day. no one has a life worth writing about that often. 

i know from reading Dooce that people who leave comments on blogs can be—often are—crazy. (thankfully none of them read this blog.) i've read through comments on other glamour.com blogs and people get ridiculously defensive and quarrelsome over nothing. someone dares to critique a writer or a writer's topic and you can hear the claws come out for the catfight. 

i truly intended for my comment today to be read by the author and perhaps given an ounce, just a nanosecond of thought. when i read her entry today i just couldn't help thinking, "this girl needs a new angle" and felt i might actually be doing her a favor, writer to writer. 

an hour later i clicked back on the link and several people had already responded, pissed off that i was even reading the blog, assuming i hadn't been reading all along and, as one commenter put it, that i had "rained on [the author's] parade." someone else suggested that, "perhaps you've run your course as a reader." even the author herself chimed in with a comment that was either vapid or ironic (not sure): "guess you didn't buy my book?" she punctuated her response with an unhappy emoticon.

to quote my dad: "oh jeez." but such is life in the "blogosphere" (i'm so sorry for using that word, but i guess it applies). number one, blogging for most people is basically like having a public journal. of course people are going to get irritated with what you blather on about from time to time. (i do think it's in a blogger's best interest to be self-deprecating rather than self-congratulatory whenever possible, but what the hell do i know?)

number two, what's the big effing deal with suggesting a writer might need a break from her subject matter? there came a time when i knew i had to stop writing about American Idol and the Yankees. big whoop.  

anyway, it all makes me think of my favorite Charles Durning moment from Home for the Holidays. at the Thanksgiving dinner table he says to his daughter: "Well, opinions are like assholes, honey. Everybody's got one and everybody thinks everybody else's stinks."

uh-huh.

mb 

she dreamed a dream

i love Susan Boyle. i absolutely love her. i've watched her sing "I Dreamed a Dream" about eight times now and i'm still not tired of it. (if you haven't seen the full Britian's Got Talent clip yet, please click on Susan's name in the first line of this post and watch it now.) 

this is what i'm thinking when i watch:

1. when i was 16, i used to sing that song at the top of my lungs when no one else was home and pour my heart into it. i understood the lyrics, i felt them. i also had majorly unwaxed eyebrows.

2. Susan Boyle was the only person in that theatre who didn't think she was a joke. yet she seemed oblivious to this fact—or maybe emboldened by it. to have that kind of chutzpah is something i aspire to.

3. most people are jerks. seriously, they are. maybe it was always the case and i was just naive, but it seems that there is such a pervasive, Mean Girls mentality these days—among adults! it's shameful, really. what's it to you if a 47-year old woman lives with just her cat named Pebbles, has never been kissed, and doesn't make weekly trips to the salon? how does that impact your life? it doesn't, so what gives you the right to judge her? 

i'm guilty of it myself, from time to time. but for the most part i tend to think people who would be categorized by most as homely are among the most beautiful—because they're not trying to be beautiful, they're not trying to live up to some ridiculous image of who they think they should be, and true beauty comes with self-acceptance. when you just are who you are, there's nothing more breathtaking, in my opinion. that's the wonder of Susan Boyle.

4. i hope the American media leave her alone now. i feel like they poison innocent, unsuspecting people and this lady doesn't deserve to be poisoned. 

anyway, the clip put a lump in my throat and lifted my spirits. hope it moves you, too. happy friday.

mb

no such thing as rest in peace?

heard something a little disturbing on the Today show this morning. a 21-year kid died after being hit in a bar fight in Texas a couple weeks ago, and his mother was able to convince a judge to harvest his sperm so she can someday raise the grandchildren he might have given her. she claims he talked about wanting three sons and had their names already picked out.

i find the situation odd and sad. odd because where exactly is that sperm going to go now? this mother wants to take action sooner rather than later, though i can't imagine it's easy to ask a woman, "will you be the surrogate for my dead son's baby?" and sad because it seems like this is nothing more than a way for a mother to avoid having to deal with the fact that her son is dead. avoidance, denial, severe grief—whatever you want to call it, she's playing with nature and science to avoid experiencing awful feelings. she even admitted as much. "this will help to heal my heart somewhat," she told Matt Lauer.

again, no one is thinking about the baby that may be born as result of this. he may bring comfort to his father's family initially, but i guarantee you someday that kid will not be thrilled to know he came to being after his grandma retrieved sperm out of his dead father's body and paid a woman x-amount of dollars to give birth to him. come on! who wants that story? on top of the fact that this baby will have zero parents! i don't care how loving his soon-to-be grandmother is, or how pure her intentions may seem. i just really believe it's wrong to bring a child into the world in such complicated, emotionally-charged circumstances. 

maybe i'd feel different if this 21-year old kid knew he was dying, if he was married, if he and his wife had discussed plans for a family and made arrangements for it to still happen after his death. but he was just a kid, still so young, dreaming of a someday-life, and this is all being done posthumously, without his permission.

or perhaps it'll never amount to anything. perhaps that sperm will sit in a freezer somewhere (is that where they keep sperm?) for years and years—a sort of security blanket for a mother who lost her son, who can't bear the idea of having lost all of him, forever. 

for the sake of that unborn, wished-for baby, i hope that's all it is. 

mb

youth is wasted on the dumb

one thing i can't get over is how ridiculous and un-engaged i was in school. like, all of school. i'm not saying i didn't enjoy it or get anything from it. but, largely, i believe i was educated in the wrong phase of my life. i sort of believe everyone is educated in the wrong phase of their life. 

i was just flipping through my old, battered AP Stylebook, which i purchased circa August 1996 when i was finally a full-fledged journalism major. i still use it now because i can never remember the rules about numerals and even though i'm far from writing for a newspaper, i still like to follow AP style. 

just now, on my way to the numerals page, i started reading about libel—there's a whole libel guide in the back of the book—and i found it so fascinating. i know i was taught all about that back in Journalism 1: Ethics & Principles. i just didn't retain a damn thing. in my defense, i had a real douche bag of a professor (no, he seriously was—he had two or three favorites and the rest of us he considered seat fillers) and it's hard to learn well when you're worried about being berated in front of the class or saying something "stupid." but, i was 20 years old back then. if anyone tried to belittle or mock me now, i'd give it right back. 

my point is, i was too meek and distracted and overwhelmed back then to really absorb much in the classroom. same with high school—i cared about drama club and AP English and who gave a frig about the Treaty of Versailles. i find this incredibly sad now, but there was no way to convince my 15-year old self that there was anything more important than when the Barnum cast list would be posted. 

sometimes i want to go back for my masters not because i need one, but simply so i can do it right this time—i know i'd be an awesome student now. i still would procrastinate on projects and papers, of course, but i would sit at that desk with rapt attention. i would revel in the acquiring of knowledge instead of counting the minutes 'til class is over. 

i have a feeling i'm not alone in this—not at all—which makes me wonder if there's a better way to do things. obviously there are certain things young people need to learn to function in life—how to read, how to write, color, shapes, manners. but perhaps high school and college should come after some real life experience—a little part-time job, a little community service. with that kind of stuff on their resumes, i think subjects like American History, Biology, Sociology—even Journalism 1: Ethics and Principles—would feel much more relevant and interesting to people under the age of 30.

provided, of course, that Professor Knowlton is not the one doing the teaching...

mb

ahh, life...

...it keeps me from doing many things i mean to do, like update this blog. i have bouts of blog stress, mentally counting the days since my last update. it's not like i don't think about writing. i do. often. 

last week i wanted to write about something i heard about 40 being the new 20 and how it's basically just a way to keep talking about the actresses and other celebrities who have hit 40 and are nicer to look at than the 20 year olds, mostly because they're a lot classier. the 20 year olds these days just seem to wear less and less clothing—this correlates to a conversation i had with my gram a couple weekends ago, about how it used to be women wouldn't be allowed many places—like hospitals and churches—unless they were wearing a skirt. finally women were allowed to wear pants. now they're allowed to wear basically nothing. after that chat i really noticed how many ads—billboards, print ads, the posters plastered in subway stations—feature mostly-naked people. gross.

i also wanted to write about my attempt to get tickets to a game at the new Yankee Stadium. just a random Sunday game in early June versus Tampa Bay. i chose "best available" on Ticketmaster and the seats that popped up were $900. each. NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS. for a baseball game. that the Yankees would undoubtedly lose if i went. it just depressed me, seriously. what the eff is wrong with people? who was in that meeting when they decided charging hundreds (and thousands—i saw seats, on Ticketmaster, for $2600) of dollars for a BASEBALL GAME was okay. and then, of course, Sabathia sucked ass yesterday—karma's a bitch, Steinbrenner family.

i also wanted to write about the surprise birthday party i threw my mom on Saturday. she turns 60 this Sunday and i figured she'd be more game for a surprise party than my dad was. it was a somewhat foolish thing to do, considering i'm already planning a wedding, but the minor stresses were worth it—it was a really nice event, my mom felt loved, it was great to have my family together and the food was yummy. the best part, though, i think, was Scotty. he arrived in a tee shirt that looked like a tux and by the end of the party he'd given himself a second face (in the form of a paper plate, with eyes, nose and smile drawn on, taped to the back of his head) and turned his shirt, jeans and sneakers around backwards. he called his alternate personality "Scott Junior." i keep looking at pictures of him in the get-up and laughing. the kid continually surprises me. 

anyway, look at that. i updated my blog. the guilt is subsiding. 'til next week.

mb