A great miracle happened here. Fears fell to pride. Anthology finally removed from envelope. I’m on page 72. “Toilet Paper and Sympathy.” Two essentials needed in the era of Covid. (And always.) Can’t have one without the other.
Earlier today, I attended an online webinar on Jewish-American writers in a #MeToo era. (Their description. Not mine.) Philip Roth was a hot topic. To be clear: The conversation was not so much focusing on Roth but rather writer Blake Bailey, the author of Roth’s recent biography. On the eve of publication, Bailey’s personal history of allegations of sexual misconduct resulted in a “disappearing” (again, their description) of the biography.
The paragraph above is a long and winding road gateway to wondering about women authors. Are we “disappeared” in a similar fashion? Do our personal lives get in the way of our work? You don’t have to answer. I am just thinking out loud.
An editor once wrote my writing “was like ya Philip Roth.” It took me hours to bask in the glow of this curious “compliment” or what I thought was a compliment. What editor says “like ya”? Sounds like a phrase straight out of an Archie comic book.
And then. Eureka! The lightbulb went off! I was not a “like ya” anything. He meant I was “like Young Adult” (“ya”) Philip Roth.
Oh my g-d. So it was….Goodbye, Columbus and Hello, Capital Letters!
I don’t think anyone could have a good day after an imaginary gang of little kids taunt me and mock me, calling me PIG VOMIT over and over and over. One of those Bad Toddlers deliberately drooled schpittle down to splash my skin.
Waking up was the best part of my day. That’s a good thing. But as of 6:16 pm, I cannot say I see anything on the horizon to make me feel like swinging from the chandeliers. If I had a chandelier.
The night is young. There’s still time to turn my blahs into blessings.
(Who am I kidding? This day is done and it’s going to take a miracle to turn this day around. If pig vomit could fly…)
I lost a few hours of life and gained mounting anxiety by the endless buzz saw of a tree next door facing its final hours. It’s none of my business but I did not expect to say good bye to an old friend. Why did you leave me this way? Big Trees Make Better Neighbors.
Take the cannoli. The Trees Stay in the Picture.
I’m not the Boss of the Cul-de-Sac but… wouldn’t it be nice?
As Tevye would shout: “TREE-dition!”
There goes the neighborhood. 👿 I can’t bear to look. Oops, I did it again. Baring my soul. Barking up the wrong tree. Digging myself into a hole of bad puns. Logging out. Oy.
Do not tell me what you feel. I want to feel what you feel. First lesson learned in every writing workshop.
I like to have the last word in an argument. I cannot be the only one to confess to this personality trait. We may differ in opinions. The measure of success is how persuasive one can be without sliding into vitriol or emotionally violent tactics.
This is why political arguments will never end well. There may be two sides in the room but facts are not talking points. You may feel something I don’t feel. Fair game. When we are challenged to defend the truth by a dark soul consumed by angry lies, it’s time to be the better person and turn away.
Words are precious. I choose to use them as a gift. I do not have time to waste sharing them with the heart of darkness. A mind is a terrible thing to waste.
“Words are finite organs of the infinite mind.” Thanks, Ralph Waldo Emerson. You nailed it.
I believe most writers envy artists. As painful as it is to concede to this truth, a picture tells a thousand words. If I could paint, I’d put my brush down now and just let the beauty of nature show you what I feel.
I will go down with -this- ship. Words are forever in flight.
Let the ink flow like waves in the ocean. The pen is mightier than the sword!