per iscritto (in writing)

Blackboard vs blackout

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Mon, 20 Oct 2014 04:02:00 +0000

Recently, I read Blackboard: A Personal History of the Classroom by Lewis Buzbee, and now I'm obligated to write about it—because my teacher told me to. OK, not exactly. But in the book, Lewis asks questions of his readers; he wants to know what experiences they shared, or didn't share, with him. And since Lewis was one of my instructors when I was in grad school, and since I usually scored well in the "follows directions" category on my elementary school report cards, I reacted to his request like my conscientious kid-self did to homework assignments. I'd do what was asked.

Lewis went through elementary and secondary school during California's educational golden age. He has glowing memories of schools that were designed to help children learn, absorb what they learned, apply what they learned; memories of teachers who made a difference, who gave infinitely of their time and knowledge and wisdom, who actually saved him when he was a teenager teetering on the edge. The emotion he conveys in the book has a warm tint to it. I envy that.

My memories of school? A tad different. Please take out a piece of construction paper and your crayons.

Scene 1: a suburban private kindergarten (nope, Virginia didn't think public school needed to start until first grade) with a big garden, one big room with high windows and a black-and-green tile floor and a trough-like sink and clay and Play-Doh and cardboard bricks and a piano. And my first boyfriend, Vince Antonioli, who made it into a Life magazine spread at our white-cap-and-gown graduation by blowing a gigantic bubble at the exact moment a photographer captured him receiving his diploma. (My mother didn't allow me to chew bubble gum, but we won't go there.)

Paper and crayons ready? Draw a little house that looks happy. Draw it close to the left edge of the paper. It was a happy place, so put a rainbow over it. There. Kindergarten love.

Scene 2: Near the right edge of the paper (leave some room, please) draw a colonial-looking building. Brick, please, with a wall around it. Decorate it with the masks of the theater. This was college, of which I remember not much that didn't happen within the walls of the theater department. And what happened there was much joy and heartache and offstage drama, like getting dumped by my boyfriend for a gorgeous blonde (I do believe it was Valentine's Day) and falling in love with a married man and wearing a white, pearl-strung bikini and a feather headdress and fishnets as a showgirl (aka Cloud) in a musical version of Aristophanes' play The Clouds. As for my classes, I loved Shakespeare and directing and voice and modern dance, but I got the first D of my life in European history (pure kindness on the professor's part), barely survived a survey course in art history, and had to drop my Italian class because the prof wouldn't stop hitting on me. I'd say the good outweighed the bad, but college was a pretty mixed bag. Hold the rainbow.

Now for Scene 3. On the far right edge of the paper, next to the college, draw a big yellow building with a church next to it. Two bell towers on the church, please. No rainbow; we're too old for that, because this is grad school. Oh, what the hell. Add some smiley faces. Add a red cross too, because I began that program in a pretty damaged state, and along with making me a better writer, it helped me heal.

Now color in the space between the buildings in black crayon, as heavy and shiny as you can make it. Go ahead, lay it on thick. That void is the rest of my education. Yeah, I learned stuff, but I don't remember that much of it, and most of what I do remember is not good. Like getting glasses in second grade. Like being five-foot-six in fifth grade (taller than any boy in the school) and given the nickname "Jolly Green Giant." Like being expected to be a brain because I was my brother's sister. Like being good at things I didn't care about and not particularly good at the ones I desperately wanted to excel in. Like struggling with math, getting tutored, and then being pushed into an advanced class I wasn't ready for. Like going to the prom with a boy I knew was gay.

But it's not all bad. I have fond memories of spending significant amounts of time in the cloakroom (yes, that's what we called it, which proves I'm old) in elementary school, where the smell of wet wool and muddy rubber boots and baloney sandwiches was overpowering, but I didn't mind. I was sent there for talking in class (usually to Larry what's-his-name, as I recall; he was pretty cute), but it didn't shut me up; I'd keep mouthing words and semaphoring to whoever was within range.

I remember the annual book fair, and the thrill of perusing table after table piled with books. Lucky me—my parents were generous. (The book that sticks in my mind? Misty of Chincoteague, in picture-book format. I read it until the cover fell off, and then some.) I remember the Scholastic book club, cheesy little paperbacks that got handed out to us in class. God, I loved those books. I remember the Fall Festival. I remember Madame Slack, who theoretically was teaching us French via TV.

I remember nothing of junior high except the chemistry lab, the scene of nightmares. Oh, how I envy Lewis and his Physics for Poets class.

In Blackboard Lewis says that each of us carries an image of school with a capital S. For me, it's that kindergarten where we sat on the green tiles when it was time to sing, and where I ran to the far reaches of the garden every day to a tiny playhouse barely big enough for one child. From the playhouse to the cloakroom to the college-theater stage to the grad school classrooms that fed me so much of what I needed—I guess along the way I got a good education. And some of it was schooling.

Five points

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 25 Sep 2014 06:46:00 +0000

A while ago, I started a new practice in an attempt to combat the effects of aging and far too much time spent hunched over a computer—Gyrotonic/Gyrokinesis (like Pilates, an exercise modality that is done with and without machines). I'm experiencing less back and neck pain, which was the goal, but its effects, for me, go beyond the physical.

GT/GK is based on spirals, and one concept I try to carry with me is the idea of a long, shallow arc that extends from the back of my head to some distant point in front of me. This idea of elongation is nothing new; it's found elsewhere—ballet and Pilates, for example. You pull to push, push to pull—opposition in everything, in a full, fluid way. But in GT/GK, we go beyond that reach in two directions to the concept of a continual, simultaneous reach through five points of the body: head, hands, and feet. I'm finding it a good metaphor for how to live.

Bear with me; I'm still a little fuzzy on what this means to me. But as Forster said, "How do I know what I think until I see what I say?" So here goes. It has something to do with perceiving life in a fuller way, which I can't help but think about in the context of the last four years. What happened during those years—much of it traumatic, much of it glorious—has changed me, certainly. I wasn't sure I would survive. And now I find that I'm left with a kind of richness, a sense of peace; an openness to what is to come—which may not be what I think it is, or what I would have said I wanted; a recognition that what's in my heart is mine, and it brings me happiness. Already in my 50s, I grew up during those four years.

Today's wisdom dictates that we live in the moment, ignore the temptation to multitask (an effort doomed to failure) and focus on one thing. Yet by visualizing being present in those five points of the body, by putting energy into them, we become more aware of the layered contexts of our lives. We are many things, an accumulation of emotions and experiences. Focus on one thing perhaps, but be aware of the rest. It's grounding, in a way. Balancing.

This image of reaching, lengthening, through these five points of my body seems like an expression of the growth I've experienced; I envision myself creating an elongated parabola that arcs from what I have now to what I hope for. The hand and feet points embody a kind of shifting balance: pain opposed by joy; loss opposed by love, which are smoothed and evened and topped by a sense of potential. I don't know what's ahead, but I no longer need to know.

A baseball fan is (was) born

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Mon, 01 Sep 2014 02:49:00 +0000

It happened 32 years too late, but I've become a baseball fan. Well, let's say a Giants fan—that would be more accurate, since I doubt I'll be "collecting" stadium visits in other cities. But a Giants fan indeed, and my dad, if he had lived to see the day, would be ecstatic—after he got over the shock. I can see his face now—the incredulity giving way to the joy. But he died in 1982, never thinking for an instant that the daughter who'd developed a baseball phobia—after enduring years of Little League games and incessant talk about baseball and radio broadcasts and televised games, which to me were so boooooring—would become a fan.

It happened, Dad. I hope you know it.

The question is why. I suppose it's part of the "turning into your parents" syndrome of aging. My body and behaviors are becoming more like my mother's, and now I can say that I'm turning into my dad as well. The baseball fanatic gene passed down to me from my dad has gone from latent to active, it's true—but why now? I've gone to games occasionally over the years—Wrigley Field with my dad when he visited me in Chicago, Giants games with my brother (whose fault it is that I had to suffer through those endless, Virginia-heat-soaked Little League games) when he comes to town. Fun enough, but I was merely being social.

Then I went to a Giants game in April with my son, and something clicked. I got it. The game captured me, sucked me in, negated all those dusty, hot afternoons spent stripping leaves off trees and studying caterpillars—anything to avoid watching a bunch of dumb boys hit a ball with a stick, my dad coaching them as if it were a matter of life and death. I wanted to know what an RBI was, why a missed catch was called an error. I was outraged when the Mets closed in on "Panda" Sandoval when he was at bat and force-walked him. Charmed with beginner's luck, I declared Angel Pagan would be the game's savior, and he was. I announced that a pitcher should be replaced, and he was. I was hooked.

My son and I went to another game today, and the past flooded back. It was Star Wars Day, and we took pictures of a Wookie en route to the game via BART, got there early to get our R2D2 beanies, fell in line with Darth Vaders and Storm Troopers as we climbed to our seats. The cantina song was playing, and later the organ tossed fragments of the same tune among the traditional baseball songs. And I teared up.

The Star Wars movies are as defining a presence in my sons' lives as Little League was for my brother, and indirectly for me. I was in the stands doing what my dad loved—watching the field being groomed, feeling the sun on my face, anticipating the rituals, the drama, the fun of the game. And thinking about the dozens of times I watched the original Star Wars Trilogy with my sons, the hours spent playing with Star Wars Legos and Playmobil sets.

It was all there today—baseball and my dad, Star Wars and my sons. Past and present, a shifting mix of emotions. The loss of childhood, of a parent, of a grandfather for my sons. The joy of sitting next to my son and sharing with him something my father had loved, something that was in fact essential to him.

My dad would have loved it that we were there today, cheering on the Giants. He would have thought all the Star Wars stuff was a bit nuts, a distraction from the important work at hand: baseball. But I think he wouldn't have minded it. He'd have downed a couple of dogs and beers, adjusted his ball cap, and cupped his hands around his mouth. I can hear his voice now: "Play ball!"

All our storms

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sat, 30 Aug 2014 17:12:00 +0000

I grew up in northern Virginia, but Vermont claims my childhood. My family spent 14 summers in Westmore, on the shores of Lake Willoughby in the Northeast Kingdom. Those years have marked my brother and me in indelible ways. I don't get back there very often, time and distance being the obstacles they are, but recently, and suddenly, and insistently, Willoughby has been calling me. I'm going back when I can, hoping to figure out a way to stake my claim, perhaps on a piece of land my family owns. And to my surprise, the lake has staked its own claim, one that I'm powerless to deny: it's the setting for my next novel, a story that began invading my semi-consciousness a few weeks ago.

For my brother and me, Willoughby has a grip on our hearts that's eternal, fueled by memories, emotions, and friendships. We're not alone in that, of course; many people share our feeling that the place has a kind of magic. Here's what Robert Frost had to say about it in his poem "A Servant to Servants":

"[. . .] You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straightaway through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! [. . .]"

Unfilled spaces

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 23:35:00 +0000

My dog died today. Or rather, I orchestrated his death, arranging the day and hour with the figure-of-death-in-the-guise-of-a-vet. Poor man saw the door open to my haggard, tear-streaked face, as he must on a regular basis, and for a fleeting second I felt sorry for him. But I'm not writing about him. I'm not even writing about my dog. I'm writing about me.

No matter how much you know the time has come, that keeping that beloved furry friend around is selfish if not downright cruel, saying the words, "Yes, it's time," just feels hideously wrong, like inviting someone to take a knife to your heart or plunge your spirit into ice water. But before that comes the agonizing, the "should I do it? should I do it now? tomorrow? next week?" debate, followed by the inappropriate hope that the long, slow decline that has left your pet unable to enjoy food and walks will somehow reverse itself. Yes, you say, ignoring your inner ridiculing voice, your dog, who is the equivalent of 90-something years old, will have another few good years yet. The legs that no longer hold him up, the bowels that reject food with astonishing speed, the vision that prevents him from seeing you standing four feet away, the hearing that is nonexistent, the lack of balance that sends him reeling into walls and door frames—all will reverse themselves, give him a few more good years.

Then you set aside the bargaining and the self-delusion and you stop thinking about how hard it is to play god and how wrong it seems to willfully bring on grief, and you do it. You let him go, because he's no longer living; he's existing, and mostly miserable. And you cry more than you thought you would, even though you've been through this before and you know it's always worse than you imagine. The dog goes peacefully. You bury your fingers in his thick furry neck and kiss his nose and watch him go with anything but peace.

My cousin Beth, who has a husband and twin boys and thus a far-from-empty home, said this in way of sympathy: Pets "fill in the spaces somehow." She's right. They do. Right now, with just my petite cat to keep me company, my life has too many unfilled spaces.

Where's that vlemq?

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 20:28:00 +0000

There's a new word in my vocabulary: vlemq. I made it up, an acronym that enfolds the five qualities by which I now, post-reading Italo Calvino's Six Memos for the Next Millennium, judge all writing. They are visibility, lightness, exactitude, multiplicity, and quickness. If you've got those, well, you've got something. I won't describe them because Calvino does it infinitely better—and besides, I want you to read the book.

The acronym really should be LQEVM, because that's the order in which Calvino introduces these qualities, but it's too damn hard to pronounce. And it doesn't really matter, because they overlap, in a heap-of-sleeping-puppies sort of way, so that looking for one leads you to another, and another, and—well, you get the drift.

Reading Calvino involves a certain amount of ego bruising—I couldn't stop thinking, "Calvino makes me feel stupid," while reading Six Memos and his novel (of a sort) Invisible Cities. But he's forgiven. Because how could he not be when his work is so head-shakingly brilliant? And besides, now I know enough to look for the vlemq.

The lovely kind of limbo

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 01:51:00 +0000

I'm in limbo—that lovely meditative state that comes when you've just finished a damn good book. You know the feeling—it's when you're glowing with a mixed bag of pleasures: admiration for the writer's craft and creativity; the emotional tug-and-release of a story that has characters you can connect with, potent meaning, and a skillful blend of literal text and subtext; and a dash (or maybe a heaping cup) of envy.

In this case, the book just consumed was Everything Matters by Ron Currie Jr. It's the kind of book that leaves you feeling a bit stranded, a bit aimless, while you process the experience. You can't start another book right away—oh no, that would dilute the post-consumption pleasure. You give in briefly to negativity, drawing unfair comparisons between Currie's writing and your own, then remind yourself that a) you're not him, and b) this is a published novel and you've only got a first draft. And besides, you've got your own story to tell.

But mostly you glory in the absolute joy of experiencing art. You'll give yourself some time—an evening, perhaps, or maybe a couple of days—and then you'll return to your own work with renewed energy. Because that's how art is—it lights fires inside us, shows us what we didn't know (or what we knew but didn't appreciate), and reminds us of the complicated, strange, and wonderfully mysterious vastness of the creative spirit. And the truth that like everything else, art matters.

Tonight, in my post-reading mood of introspection, I'll enjoy a glass of wine or cup of tea a little bit more than I might have. I'll appreciate my newly rearranged house and the fact that my two sons were generous enough to spend most of a weekend hauling furniture around (with more laughs than complaints). I'll be glad that my friend's 86-year-old mother has made it to 86 and that my friend, after housing her mother for months, is now taking a well-deserved vacation at a New Jersey beach.

Because part of the glow that lingers after reading this book is the realization that Currie is absolutely, 100 percent correct. Everything matters. Every bit of knowledge, every instinct, every choice, every virtue, every shortcoming, what we do with every day we're given.

Serendipity and that damn 17th

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sun, 20 May 2012 03:03:00 +0000

It's hard to silence my emotional side when reason tells me that things I'm tempted to chalk up to fate or serendipity or just plain weirdness can be explained as mere coincidence. I admit I'm open to seeing connections where perhaps there are none; I've been told I'm an expert at reading into things. (Probably guilty as charged.) Still, I prefer to think that, sometimes anyway, something in the cosmos has a hand in life's odd convergences.

fearnotrout.com/gallery.php

Take, for example, the sequence of events that began last weekend, when I went to Manzanar, in Owens Valley, on a research trip for the novel I'm writing. If a friend hadn't come with me, I wouldn't have discovered the story about the Manzanar Fishing Club, a group of WWII internees who defied barbed wire and armed guards to sneak out of the concentration camp and go trout fishing in the Sierra foothills. The story was in a fishing magazine supplied by our motel. (Apparently the primary reason anyone goes to Owens Valley is to fish. I lost track of the number of times the motel owner or a waitress or a store clerk said, "So, you going fishing tomorrow?") The last time I picked up a fishing magazine was, well, never. But my friend did.

In the article, which I read when I got home on Sunday night, mention was made of a movie about the Manzanar Fishing Club, which had been screened for the first time in January. Hmmm, I thought, I wonder if it will get any kind of general release. My question was answered on Thursday night, when I interrupted work on my novel to check the movie listings for a film my friend and I had seen previews. I couldn't remember the title, so I scanned down the list—and stopped at in disbelief at Manzanar Fishing Club.

fearnotrout.com/gallery.php

It was 9:10. The movie's only showing, a 10-minute drive away (and a parking challenge) was at 9:15. A quick look at Friday's listings revealed that the movie was about to disappear from the entire Bay Area. If I wanted to see it, I had one chance—right that minute, and no time to lose.

I missed the first 15 minutes, but what a treasure the film was. I scribbled notes in the dark, cursing silently every time I looked up to see an image slip away before I could absorb it, in between marveling at my last-minute discovery. How odd was it that this film had opened in the Bay Area while I was away researching that very topic, and that pure chance (or was it?) had allowed me to see its last showing. With plans for a DVD still in the production company's works, it might have been many months before I'd have another chance to see it.

On Friday, when I told my longtime friend Molly the story, she said, "You know what yesterday was, right? The 17th." So many significant events in my life have happened on the 17th of various months over the years—births, deaths, weddings, joyous beginnings, tearful endings. Of course, I thought. Of course I'd see this movie on the 17th.

Coincidence? Maybe. Serendipity? You bet.

The Pina Principle

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 06:27:00 +0000

The other day I saw the documentary film Pina, and I left the theater feeling overwhelmed with an emotion I couldn't identify at first. Then I realized that it was longing. I'd just seen the kind of full-out embrace of dance and art and human interaction that I seek in my own life and creative work.

www.pina-film.de/en/about-the-movie.html

Pina Bausch's choreography and the way her dancers inhabit it have a no-holds-barred feeling to them, an appealing abandon, even a desperation. The dancers throw themselves (sometimes literally) into Bausch's work physically and emotionally, investing every movement with conviction and emotion and purpose. Even a conga-line-like bit of dance humor comes across as absolutely unquestionable. Of course a string of formally attired dancers doing unison hand gestures would walk the edge of a cliff wearing knowing smiles that say, "Yes, we look overjoyed and absurd, and isn't it lovely?"

That's what life should be made of—moments when beauty and absurdity and emotion collide. And to have them means taking risks. That's a scary thing. Most people seem to want to play it safe, hold something back. But when we choose a more tempered, controlled existence, we give something up. The flip side of pain is joy, so if you want highs in your life, you're also inviting in the lows. But risk-taking doesn't have to mean dysfunction and distress; it can also yield spontaneity and playfulness and exhilaration. Stepping outside the bounds to do something surprising or fun or touching can make the recipient's life—and our own—a bit, well, livelier.

So I resolved to try to live—and write—by what I'm dubbing the Pina Principle. Here it is: Live with abandon, fully invested. Consider all options. Just say no to whatever is tired and unrewarding; life is too short, too damn mercurial, to settle. For anything. In writing, let go. Let whatever is in your head live on the page, at least for a little while. Look at what you wrote and then flip it, change it, play with it. And yes, maybe cut it because you've discovered something better. Learn the rules well so that you can break them well. Put your heart and soul on the page. Bleed on it. Dig so deep that you feel your toes curl, and then dig a little deeper.

If we don't feel, what's the point? If we don't connect, why are we here?

Pina told her dancers, when they asked for direction in learning a role, to keep searching. She offered no answers, perhaps because she knew that her answers weren't theirs.

Use what you've got

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 00:48:00 +0000

The Balnchine foundation via Wikimedia Commons

One of the most frequently quoted bits of wisdom uttered by beloved and prolific choreographer George Balanchine is "Use what you've got." He said it about creating ballets, referring to making the most of the dancers and ideas at his disposal, but it's a great motto for writers to adopt. Some days we find that what we have is very little indeed, but there are ways to keep working anyway.

So yes, we all agree that step one is putting the ol' butt in the chair and keeping it there. Putting in the time, getting words on the page. But if you're like me, sometimes not much is happening in the creativity department. In my job as a magazine editor I find that there are days when I simply can't do big-picture stuff; my brain is in small-view mode. So instead of forcing myself to do planning or other less-finite tasks, I find whatever it is that my brain can handle—maybe cleaning out my email, revising my to-do list, transcribing an interview, or doing some proofreading or research. It might not be what I'd hoped to achieve that day, but at least I'm still moving forward.

As writers, we sometimes beat ourselves up for having those less-than-creative moments. Sure, we've all got our tricks, things we do to inspire and motivate ourselves. But if we're not facing a deadline (or even if we are) it's easy to lapse into an endless cycle of non-productivity and self-flagellation.

Forget that. If I can't put new words on the page, then I'll reread, revise, or research. I'll print out my pages and make stream-of-consciousness notes in the margins. A wise teacher I know suggests writing letters to our characters, asking them key questions about their history, motivations, fears, and desires and insisting that they write back. (I'm going to try this, I swear!) I'll make a scene list and refuse to worry about the blank spots, paper my walls with notes and images. Whatever.

So, self, take a memo. On those frustrating, seemingly futile days, I resolve to "do a George" and use what I've got—that day, that hour, that moment.

Why I need to live in Italy

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 04:31:00 +0000

I've been home from Italy for a week now, slowly reacclimating myself to California time and American methods. But Italy is shadowing me, refusing to relinquish her grasp entirely. She may only be holding on with a pinkie, but that finger's got damn strong muscles.

I've thought about living there, or somewhere in Europe, ever since my best friend's mother set an impressive example of independence and nerve by moving to Paris at age 70. I mean, who wouldn't be inspired by the image of a grandmotherly woman waving a giddy goodbye to her seven grown children and their phalanxes of kids and dashing across the tarmac to a waiting plane? (No, there was no tarmac, nor accompanying days-of-yore rolling staircase for boarding, but doesn't that sound more romantic than saying she went through security and waited, sheeplike, with a horde of other travelers at the gate?) So anyway, I've thought about going, and hopefully before I'm 70. But those thoughts have been idle ones, as if moving to another country were something that only other (read: braver) people do.

No, this isn't an announcement. I'm not going anywhere—yet. But there are reasons to go, and here are a few of them.

My body likes it in Italy. Fewer, less intense headaches. (Yes, it's true; I was on vacation. But still.) Absolutely no—how shall I put this?—body-temperature-regulation issues, whereas here at home I'm constantly careening from hot to cold and back again. My skin looked better, and that was even before I started using the luscious soap I brought home. (Fortunately, I only bought one bar, so I'll just have to go back for more.)

Aesthetics. Italians make things beautiful just because. Take this nutcracker, for example. Nice, huh? Simple, streamlined, and it really pulverizes those nuts. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but really, I've never seen one like it in the States. Stop laughing; these things really do make a difference in your day.

A history vibe. I get a charge out of walking on stones that are many centuries old and seeing artwork painted on walls and in churches instead of only hanging in museums. There's just nothing like standing in a room where Leonardo da Vinci painted The Last Supper or Michelangelo frescoed the Sistine Chapel. Yeah, those places are essentially museums now, but the experience is still different. You can sense the artists' presence, imagine them coming and going through those doors over there or sitting up against a wall munching on a panino and chatting with their assistants. And then, everywhere, there are the remains of Roman-built walls and roads and arenas and other old-as-hell stuff, constant reminders of not just the past but of previous civilizations. Those are hard to come by in, say, Emeryville.

Fantastic wines. Enough said. (No offense, California, I do enjoy yours too.)

An attentiveness, for lack of a better way to describe it, to the small things that make up a day. Like taking time to sit down for meals, and acting not at all in a rush during unexpected encounters with friends. I guess you could call it being in the moment, and plenty of Americans are good at that, at least way better at it than I am. But I have to say I noticed it more in Italy, maybe because my vacationing mind wasn't pulled in as many directions as it is here at home.

And finally, who wouldn't want to live in a place that has electric polenta makers? Smart, utilitarian, and a damn work of art.

Travel wars

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 21:39:00 +0000

"It's too warm in here; I'm falling asleep."
"Don't touch that thermostat—I'm freezing."
"I need some fresh air." [throws open window overlooking canal; 35-degree air pours in]

"You're going to bed? Already?"
"Uh, yeah. It's 11 and I'm exhausted."
"You've got earplugs, right? 'Cause I'll be up for a while."

"I'm starving."
"We just ate."
"So? I could use a slice of pizza. Oh look, gelato!"

This, my friends, is what traveling with one's adult son is like—at least when economics demand that you share a room. If it sounds like a traveling-with-young-children scenario, that's because it's exactly the same. OK, not exactly—there's no whining about having to go potty. But that's about it.

Not that I'm complaining. In fact, when you haven't seen your son for four months (he's in school in Prague) and won't see him again for another five, the male/female, 20-something/50-something, son/mother differences don't matter a bit. And when they're buffered by the charms of Italy, well, va bene.

We've had lunch outside on a sunny Verona day, shivered our way through Venice's dark streets, shared opinions on glass while shopping in Murano, and caught up on each other's lives in assorted "rias": pizzerias, trattorias, osterias. We've climbed every available tower and braved cold winds on boats while elbowing each other aside in our mutual quest for the perfect photo. We've studied a phenomenal number of streetside menus and gloated about our ability to find our way around Venice quite easily (despite our guidebook's claim that it's damn difficult). He's taught me about digital photo editing, told me some things that made me smile and some I'd rather not have heard, and said (about 9,000 times) he misses Prague. I've taught him nothing and have sprained fingers from opening my wallet too many times. But my new favorite saying is "Come viene, viene," which basically means "whatever."

So far we have only one piece of evidence that both of us were here at the same time: a photo taken atop Basilica di San Marco. But heck, we've got all the memories, and once he gets back to the States we'll have plenty of stories to retell. In the meantime, he left today, headed for Trieste and points east, and I missed having a rival photographer. I even missed buying too many slices of pizza, so I had one without him. I left the train station and walked the neighborhoods of Venice, wandering through Santa Croce, San Polo, Dorsoduro, San Marco, and Castello for hours. On my way back to my hotel I stopped at a produce stand in Campo Santa Maria Formosa and bought a perfect apple. In the night air, its skin felt cool and dewy against mine. Letting its weight settle in my palm, I headed home.

The kindness of new friends

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 19:51:00 +0000

I'm in Italy, where I spent the first six days of my time here being hosted by someone I'd never met. Sure, Carmela and I have been Facebook friends for a while; she is one of the many Ossolas I've friended in my search for family connections. (No, we're not related.) But being a Facebook friend is quite different from opening your home with genuine warmth and then doing everything possible to accommodate the wishes of a near-stranger.

Carmela, with boundless energy and enthusiasm, served as tour guide, genealogy research expediter, chauffeur, cook, and translator. She suffered my mangled Italian without flinching (offering gentle corrections or just ignoring the butchering) and humored me when I "had" to take yet another photo (so what's wrong with 700 in one week?). She wouldn't let me do a thing to help with meals or cleanup, took me to some of her favorite places, and made me keep my wallet in my bag by avoiding the Bancomat I needed to visit to exchange dollars for euros. Most important, she gave me an inside look at Italy.

We exchanged stories and marveled at our similarities and differences, and I felt instantly at home. Equally warm were her gentleman friend Aldo (who spent hours with us, often over meals, discussing everything from food to politics to memories of his childhood, and schlepped around Milan without complaint despite a bum knee) and daughter Paola (who cooked a fabulous lunch for us one day and served as my personal shopper when I wanted to buy some wine for Carmela). I even met Carmela's parents, both 91, who didn't let a language barrier stand in the way of a friendly visit. Carmela's father had heard of the monument to the Italian stonecutters that stands in Barre, Vermont, and I was so happy that I could whip out my phone and show him a photo of it.

I will never forget my week in Varese. Thanks to the kindness of strangers, I now have new knowledge about my family. The lovely and eager-to-help Simona in the Viggiù comune didn't let the holiday week stop her from finding more information than I'd dared hope for, and she promised to send more research results via email. A friendly woman we met in a grocery store walked us to the home of Giovanni, who in his retirement has made documenting the people of Viggiù his hobby. He invited us into his home and spent a solid half-hour or more going over his lists of births, deaths, and marriages. All he wants in return is a postcard from San Francisco. I think I can handle that.

Everywhere, people greeted each other with affection, courtesy, or respect. I don't know quite how to explain the difference, but it's a far cry from how most Americans treat each other. I felt such a strong connection to Italy during this week, and I'm sure part of it came from walking the village streets of my grandfather's childhood. But more of it came from a kind of recognition. I saw myself in Carmela in many ways. But there are differences too, big ones, and I left Varese with the resolve to live more like an Italian from now on.

And yes, I cried when I waved goodbye to Carmela and Aldo on the train platform. I only hope I can return their generosity someday.

Taking the "V" tour of Italy

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 16:57:00 +0000

Lest anyone think, after reading my last blog post, that my life is a complete wasteland, here's evidence to the contrary: my upcoming trip to Italy. I'm calling it the V tour: Varese, Viggiù, Verona, Venice, and—dang it, there goes my alliteration—Milan. I suppose I could call part of it the C tour, because I might go to Como and Crenna—the first because I'll be a stone's throw away from that gorgeous lake and have never been there, and the latter because I have relatives from Crenna and I'll be doing some genealogy research.

The trip has three purposes. On the genealogy end, my unbelievably generous Facebook friend Carmela, who has never even met me, has offered to put me up in Varese and help me with my genealogy research. Not only that, but she's already arranged for tickets to see Leonardo's Last Supper in Milan. I am blown away by her generosity and am looking forward to hours of conversation with her—over a few glasses of wine, of course.

Part of my genealogy research will be done in Viggiù (in case you were wondering why I'd go to such an obscure place in Italy). We'll see if I've got it right this time—I went to Domodossola in 2005, since my father had thought our family came from there. Since then, I've found documentation here that they in fact came from Viggiù.

Another reason for my trip is to see my son who is studying abroad this year. He'll be traveling on his break, heading west and south from Prague to meet up with me in Verona. Then we'll go to Venice to see the city we got only a glimpse of in 2005.

My son will leave me in Venice to continue his travels, but I will stay put. That's goal #3 for the trip—some downtime in which I have no agenda. I plan to wander as much of Venice as possible, seeking out art and music (but letting chance and spontaneity, not excessive planning, be my guide). I want to see the city in its misty, quiet, relatively tourist-free state. Instead of my customary pack-it-all-in travel mode, I plan to walk and think and read and write and appreciate being in a place of phenomenal beauty, so resonant with history. Perhaps, while I'm there, this blog will turn into a travel diary.

The thought of being half a world away from a difficult situation at home makes the prospect of this trip as stressful as it is pleasurable, and I probably wouldn't be going if it weren't for the desire to see my son midway through his year abroad. But I can't stop living my life, as my wise friends keep telling me. If the last two years have proved anything, it's that I have not only wise but resilient, generous, and kind friends. And I'm about to make my virtual friend Carmela a real one. As she has said more than once, "I am waiting for you."

Italy, here I come.

Luminous grief

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 14:57:00 +0000

The Mourners

Healing is such a dynamic process, one that takes its own time and follows its own rules. The human spirit is miraculously resilient; history is laden with the stories and footprints of people who have survived incomprehensible losses. I saw a powerful reminder of that in the movie Incendies (which means "scorched"), an important and devastating story about a family dealing with personal fallout from the Lebanese civil war. There's a nearly indestructible woman, Narwal Marwan, at its center, played with astonishing depth by Lubna Azabal. The film is painful to watch, but then important messages often come with an accompanying stab of emotional duress.

Compared to the profound suffering of so much of humankind, I've lived a gentle life. Yet the last two years, with a succession of devastating twists, have turned me inside out. What I now carry with me every day is omnipresent and living, at times dormant and dulled, at times startlingly present and raw. The traumas (a strong word, but to me they are that) are so entwined with what I love in life that every pleasure brings its accompanying pain. The reminders of what once was and what is now forever changed accost me daily, in ways I didn't expect at first. But I know now where they wait. I expect them, and sometimes I even greet them fondly. They are, after all, reminders of what once brought joy.

And I'm adapting. I can't change what's beyond my control. I'm learning to let go, and I've evolved to a new level of what I suppose is acceptance. I carry my grief inside me like a sort of buried treasure, as fragile—and in an odd way, as precious—as the contents of a bird's nest. Because it's tied to memories I treasure, I don't want to leave my "egg" of entwined love and joy and grief behind.

And now, after going to the Legion of Honor yesterday, I have a new way of thinking about my "egg." I went to the museum with friends who wanted to see the Pissarro exhibit, but what really drew me was a collection of 15th-century alabaster figures, ornaments on the tomb of John the Fearless, now part of the Musée de Beaux-Arts de Dijon. Called "The Mourners," they are beautiful, their soft stone as fluid as the lines and folds of their robes. Many are hooded, but if you bend down and peer into their shrouded faces, you see sadness etched into the stone. These figures, 37 of them, and each one different, serve as expressions of grief and reminders of loss.

I've decided that's what my little "egg" is to me—a personal mourner. I envision it now as alabaster, and sometimes I feel overwhelmed by its stony weight. But alabaster is a soft stone, one that permits delicacy and can seem lit from within. Now, sometimes, when I think of my "egg," I can see its luminosity.

Back at it

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 02:06:00 +0000

Wow, more than a month since my last post. It's been a crazy busy time, with my full-time job, freelance work, and grad school all clamoring for more attention than usual. Add to that a cancer scare (I'm fine) and some soul-crushing personal stress that isn't going to end anytime soon, and something had to give. Bye-bye, blog. But I'm starting to be able to breathe again. I think.

As always, my sanity saver has been writing. My journal has been languishing along with the blog, but I'm 100 pages into my novel and gaining clarity at a pace that's making me more and more eager to push forward. Sometimes little things, like semantics, can make a big difference. After a conference with my workshop instructor, I've found a way to think about what I'm doing with my novel by focusing on character arc. It's not a new concept to me, but her words were. She said to think about characters in terms of their core instability and the external forces that bear on them, and that fresh perspective really clicked for me.

I'm taking some time this week to decompress, get my office in order (and maybe my head), do a little much-needed playing, and plow through the 600 or so pages I have left to read of Skippy Dies. And my reading list keeps growing, with the new Murakami and Ondaatje topping the list, along with a stack of books on craft.

In the meantime, I'll wish a happy Thanksgiving to the paltry few who actually read this blog. I hope it's filled with family and friends, love, and generosity of spirit. And if you have a bit of time for reading, here's my advice: Jim Harrison's The Woman Lit by Fireflies (a collection of three novellas). I think I've already gone on endlessly about Joan Didion's Run River, but if you missed me spouting off on that, read that one too.

Enjoy that turkey.

Freedom of fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 18:46:00 +0000

Since I have neither time nor brain cells available to me right now, here's an interesting and inspiring article by Geoff Dyer on the freedom of writing fiction. To get you started, here's his first paragraph:

The great thing about this cat – the writing one – is that there are a thousand different ways to skin it. In fact, you don't have to skin it at all – and it doesn't even need to be a cat! What I mean, in the first instance, is feel free to dispute or ignore everything in this introduction or in the articles that follow. As Tobias Wolff puts it in his masterly novel Old School: "For a writer there is no such thing as an exemplary life … Certain writers do good work at the bottom of a bottle. The outlaws generally write as well as the bankers, though more briefly. Some writers flourish like opportunistic weeds by hiding among the citizens, others by toughing it out in one sort of desert or another."

And you can read the whole thing here.

Enjoy.

Letting go

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 08:45:00 +0000

I have a wise friend who shared with me a coping method she uses for letting go of stress. She cups her hands and envisions, nestled there in her palms, whatever it is in her life that's broken and that she has no power to change. She doesn't visualize the broken thing becoming whole again; she just lets herself hold it for as long as she needs to and then she lets it go—opens her hands and gently releases whatever is troubling her. And then she goes on.

Death, and love, and love and death

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 17:39:00 +0000

Yesterday, during a rehearsal at San Francisco Ballet, it occurred to me that there's a fair amount of onstage death in the company's upcoming season. I point this out not because I think it's a bad thing; nor is it depressing. In fact, it's great, because death is a frequent plot point in creating drama. So let's take a look at some of its occurrences in both ballet and literature.

On Program 1 we've got John Cranko's Onegin. Yep, death by duel (written by Pushkin, who himself died in a duel, in a sort of art-meets-life denouement). Program 2 is a no, although one ballet hasn't been created yet, so that could change. Program 3, though, is a triple-whammy: Le Carnaval des Animaux has a dying swan; Yuri Possokhov's new ballet is based on a story in Dante's Inferno (need I say more?); Helgi Tomasson's Trio, though not literal, has a death figure who lures a young woman away from life and love. Program 4 is Tomasson's Romeo and Juliet, the epitome of love-and-death tragedy. Program 5 includes a new piece by Edwaard Liang that is decidedly spiritual, so I'll stretch the boundaries of definition here and say it qualifies. Program 6 includes Possokhov's RAkU—another version of a triple-whammy, with three deaths. No death in Programs 7 or 8, but out of 18 ballets this season, 7 include death in some form. That's a pretty hefty percentage.

Moving on to the books I've been reading lately, it's apparent that death is everywhere. In William Maxwell's So Long, See You Tomorrow, a murder is a focal point. Michael David Lukas' Oracle of Stamboul? Yep, a boat accident. Eugene Gaines' Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman has death all over the place, mostly of a murderous or violent nature. Joan Didion's Run River includes both murder and suicide. Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Bear It Away and Jayne Anne Phillips' Lark and Termite? Multiple deaths, some natural, some violent. And the title of Junot Díaz' The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao says it all. Heck, even my brand-new manuscript has a death in it, right there in chapter 1.

What does all this mean? Whatever you take away from it, I suppose, but to me what it points to is the high-stakes nature of great drama. Ballet is in a different category since it doesn't have to tell a story, and we watch dance for other reasons, primarily aesthetic ones. But even when a ballet isn't overtly telling a story, there's emotion in the movement and in what the dancers bring to the performance. Maybe they don't depict death or anything else that smacks of realism, but the ballets we remember and want to see over and over again do in fact touch our emotions in some way. And I've yet to meet someone who doesn't like a story ballet.

But in writing, drama is essential. Stories can be about ordinary people with ordinary lives doing ordinary things, but if some sort of emotion-laden drama doesn't come along to shake things up, chances are we, as readers, won't stick around. And what are the things that touch us the most? Obviously love, but its course has to traverse obstacles, sometimes many. And sometimes it faces the biggest obstacle of all: death. What's that Woody Allen film that satirizes 19th-century Russian novels? Oh yeah—Love and Death.

Patience, my fatigued brain

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 16:41:00 +0000

Thomas Nugent, via Wikimedia Commons

Over the past few days I've realized that I'm not very good at taking my own advice. And with that realization comes some degree of comfort. (Recognizing the problem is the first step to solving it, after all.) There are indeed ways to overcome one's personal writing demons, and for me the biggie is patience.

As I mentioned last week, I'm in the very early stages of novel #2. Since I have to submit 30 or 40 pages to my workshop group on Tuesday, I've been spending a lot of time trying to turn what's been a vague, shifting concept into something concrete. We're taking close looks at first chapters in school right now, and it's a very useful practice. I'm under no delusion that I won't revise these early pages later, perhaps drastically, once the entire first draft is done. But I have a more complete sense of this novel's trajectory than I did when I started my first one, and so I'm looking carefully at what I'm setting up in chapter 1.

So back to the patience. Last week's wrestling match has turned into something much more rewarding in the last few days, and the reason is that I gave myself time to simply plug away without judging what I was writing. And slowly the story has revealed itself to me. As usual, I'm already deviating from my synopsis, but that's OK. My characters have things in hand, and they've taken mine, leading me down their paths.

The idea of diverging paths reminds me of an interesting article in the New York Times about decision fatigue. Man, do I have an advanced case of that. My editing job is one long string of decisions, from minutiae to long-range planning, day after day. But what's even more interesting is that I experience absolutely no decision fatigue when I'm writing, and God knows writing (a novel in particular) involves literally millions of decisions, from style to diction to plot to characters and beyond.

True, those writerly decisions can sometimes seem overwhelming, but more often they seem like fun, an exploration of infinite possibilities. For me writing is a process unlike any other, and maybe it's because of those transformative moments that pop up, usually unexpectedly. You know you're "in the zone" when five hours go by and you don't want to stop writing but the hour is late and duty calls in the morning. You know you're in the zone when the glass of wine you poured to loosen your imagination is still sitting at your elbow five hours later, untouched and forgotten.

It's a hell of a feeling, one that I wish I could summon at will.

Wrestling match

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 16:08:00 +0000

By Love Krittaya, via Wikimedia Commons

If you've ever written a novel, or started to, you'll know what I'm talking about when I say I'm wrestling with an unwieldy blob that's about as easy to grasp as fog. Ghostly fragments form and slip away; ideas that seem top-notch at 3am prove to be nothing but puffery on the page. And my protagonist? Who the hell is she anyway, and where is she leading me? I know what she looks like, and she's beginning to reveal herself in other ways—but, like me as a child, she's expert at hiding herself (though not in the men's suits racks in a department store, in a nook behind a seat of a train, or in any available cupboard, as I did). But hide she does, and I'm at her mercy right now. She's skipping ahead of me, bearing the full knowledge of her story and taunting me with it.

I'll catch up with her eventually, but in the meantime I have to play by her rules. It's so tempting, reading masterful first chapters by writers such as Flannery O'Connor and Jayne Anne Phillips (the most current on my grad school agenda) to keep reworking the 18 or so pages I have of this new novel. But since I can't know how it should begin until I've written the ending, that pleasure is a very long way off. In the meantime, my task is to keep pushing forward, following my protagonist as she reveals herself to me and discovering her truth.

Right now, working on my novel is sometimes like chipping away at a block of stone and sometimes like herding cats. (And occasionally, when I really get into it, it flows.) It's alternately fun and frustrating, and always accompanied by doubt. Is my story worth telling? Is my protagonist worth spending time with? Is the concept unworkable? It's too soon to say. But in the meantime, I'm trying to replace those images of unyielding stone and elusive cats with something more appealing—a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I'm not talking about publication, but the joys of seeing my whisper of an idea become grounded on the page.

Back to school

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 01:02:00 +0000

St. Ignatius, not at night and sans fog

On Tuesday I showed up at USF's Fromm Hall with at least 100 other grad students to mingle (supposedly—it was clear that friends pretty much stuck with friends), eat samosas and shrimp rolls and cheese, and indulge in a rarity: school-supplied beer and wine. Hanging around near the entrance waiting for a friend, I watched an event worker descend on me with a tractor-beam smile. She glanced at my blue-striped nametag and said, "Oh, Arts & Sciences? Which program are you in?"

"MFA in writing," I said, to which her response was, "Oh, you look just like a writer."

WTF?

I asked her if that meant I looked clueless and she said, no, that I seemed to be hanging back and observing the goings-on. Maybe she expected me to whip out a notebook and start scribbling. And maybe she wasn't as far off as I silently accused her of being—because here I am, writing about it.

Negating the purpose of such events, I spent the next 40 minutes talking only to people I knew. Then it was on to the MFA in writing program reception on the rooftop patio of Kalmanovitz Hall (more cheese, no wine), where our attempts to segregate ourselves by first- and second-year rank was dealt with by firm hands on shoulders steering us away from our friends into forced introductions. OK, maybe the teaching staff really does know best.

After class, I slipped out the side door into the drifting fog. It trailed long fingers across the twin bell towers of St. Ignatius Church and slipped past me, staining the sidewalks wet like silent rain. I never tire of that sight, the towers lit up like gaudy showgirls, refusing to let the fog dampen their spirits. I'm tired at 9:30, after a long work day, a drive into SF in heavy traffic, and a three-hour class. But I always stop to feel the fog, cool on my skin, and look up at the spires splitting the sky.

Memory: the story left behind

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 18:47:00 +0000

I have been thinking about memory a lot lately, so this passage in David L. Ulin's book The Lost Art of Reading struck me. I will share it with you without comment. He's quoting a 2009 essay by Rich Cohen in the Los Angeles Times.

"Facebook, with its flow of useless particularity, makes it impossible to forget, thus impossible to remember. Memory is really the story left behind by forgetting—the essence that remains when the years have stripped away all that useless particularity. You remember as much by forgetting as you do by remembering. But on Facebook, the past becomes the wound that is never allowed to heal so never scars into deep experience.

"The Buddhists say do not describe the water until the mud has settled and you can see its true essence, but the mud never does settle online. The water is continually stirred up, making remembering impossible. The memory in your mind is replaced by a detail posted on a Web page, which may be more accurate but is probably less true. Gone is the friend you knew from home. Gone is the sled and the lake and the winter. Gone are the stories that existed in the gap between imagining and knowing and, with them, the distance that turned the particular into the universal and the mundane into the romantic.

"In this way, the past, seeming to get closer, actually gets further away."

Then Ulin:
"Impossible to forget, thus impossible to remember. There it is, the point precisely, the place where memory, technology, and the self intersect."

Tennis wisdom

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Unlike Wimbledon champ Dorothea Douglass (over there on the left in her fashionable 1903 athletic attire), I'm a novice tennis player—as in I've had three lessons, which maybe makes calling myself a player a bit of a stretch. But never mind that. I might not amount to much on the court, but I sure as hell am going to try to apply some of what I've learned there off the court.

The following bits of wisdom, as delivered by Berkeley Parks & Rec tennis pro Greg (OK, he calls them rules), can be applied to just about any part of life. So yeah, that means they're good for writers. Check 'em out. Number 4 should really be number 2, but I saved the hardest one for last.

1. Be ready. You want racquet to meet ball? You'll increase your odds a whole bunch if you're in a ready stance, racquet up, ready for a forehand or backhand shot, knees bent (a plié in second, for all you dancer types), poised for action.

Life: Preparation helps, for a lot of things. Unfortunately.

Writing: Ditto, in the sense of learning craft. As for creativity, just let it fly.

2. Follow through. Don't choke up. Your arm stops, the ball stops (do that enough and you might hurt your shoulder).

Life: Complete the task, whatever it is. Don't give up unless you've decided it's truly not worth doing. But maybe follow through this one time anyway so you don't hurt your arm (or whatever).

Writing: Do you say you write, but mostly you just talk about it? Do you start short stories, poems, novels, what-have-you, but don't ever do more than a first draft? Do you say you're going to write every day, or produce a certain number of words/pages per day/week—and then don't do it? Duh. Follow through.

3. Let it go. Made a bad hit? Ball flew back over your head, into the net, into the next dimension, perhaps? Or maybe you made one of those embarrassing swishing sounds as the ball zoomed by, thumbing its nose at you? It's tempting to throw up your hands, storm around the court, or swear at your own incompetence. Don't. Let it go and get ready (see #1) for the next one.

Life: Have a tantrum, mourn, cry, bitch and moan—whatever it is, indulge yourself until you feel better. Maybe even more than once. And then let it go.

Writing: Get a snarky critique? Another rejection? A skewering review? Yeah, let it go.

4. Keep your eye on the ball. Yes, even for a few seconds after you've hit it (I'm unbelievably bad at this). If you're looking all over the place, expecting to see the ball arrive wherever that is, you're going to be disappointed. Focus, focus, focus on the task at hand—which is, very simply, making contact. Yes, it's true—hand-eye coordination requires looking.

Life: It's great to see the big picture, have a plan, dreams, schemes, hopes. But sometimes you've got to just look at what's right there in front of you. Get through the day, the hour, the moment. Really tune in—to yourself, to those you're interacting with, to the truck that's bearing down on you at the speed of sound. That distant goal is only achievable if you take all the steps to get there.

Writing: Persevere. One word, sentence, or paragraph at a time. Dream big, and then do it.

I'm trying to do all this on the tennis court, so if you see me out there and my lips are moving, it's because I'm reciting these four impossible rules as if they were mantras. Which I suppose they are.

Get ready.
Eye on the ball.
Follow through.
Let it go.

Damn good advice, Greg, and someday I hope I can say I'm living by it.

Finding the real toads

noreply@blogger.com (Cheryl A. Ossola) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Via Wikimedia Commons

How do you get your writing engine started? Although most of the time I'm eager to write (I've even been to known to scoff at the concept of writer's block), sometimes the words seem to be buried in wet cement and I just don't feel like groping around in all that muck. How do you propel yourself into that "magic moment," as John Gardner calls it, when you find "a real toad in an imaginary garden"?

Well, you could try one of these strategies. Or you could read a book on writing by someone who knows what he/she is talking about, like maybe Anne Lamott or Robert Boswell or gee, maybe even John Gardner (see below).

Still reading? OK, here goes:

Plant whatever problem you're wrestling with in your head and then let it sit. If you're stuck on a plot point or character dynamic, letting it simmer on the back burner for a while can bring a solution bubbling to the surface. This often works especially well when you combine it with a meditative form of exercise like walking or running. Or you can try beating your head on your computer to shake up some ideas. (Those of you who write longhand will have to find some other form of entertainment.) I suggest combining the head-pounding with some colorful swearing—you know, to test the depth of your vocabulary. Consider it a warm-up. If all else fails, spike your morning coffee or tea with some high-octane grappa. That should get the words, or at least some gibberish, onto the page.

Read some great writing, the kind that makes you pound the table and shout, "Damn!" while simultaneously posting a rave review on Facebook and tweeting about it. It can be anything, but reading something in the same genre you're writing in or in a similar style is most effective.
As far as I'm concerned, there's no better way to get inspired. Yes, you do risk feeling like a drab brown wren compared to that glorious peacock of a writer, but deal with it. That peacock probably didn't have all that plumage once upon a time.

Read some really bad writing. Nothing like drivel to boost the old ego. Find something that makes you cackle and mutter insulting remarks under your breath (or post them on Facebook and Twitter). Then attack that manuscript with confidence that you can certainly write something equally bad if not a smidge better. Don't give in to the depressing thought that this garbage got published while admirable work by People You Know (or maybe even you) is languishing in desk drawers and on hard drives. Hell, if their garbage got published, why can't yours? Tell yourself it doesn't matter what you write because you're going to pitch it anyway. Telling yourself you can write absolute swill is remarkably freeing. You might, and then again, you might find that real toad.

Write a letter. If you're having trouble pinpointing what the story is about (which means, when someone asks you to describe your book or story, you're still talking while they're backing away from you with a glazed look or panic—or both—in their eyes), try writing it as a letter to someone. Anyone will do—except maybe your ex, since if you do that it could turn into a rant or confessional. Of course, you could come up with some fascinating plot points that way, and it could be quite therapeutic. But I digress. By telling the story simply (and briefly), often its heart will emerge. Feeling clear about what you're trying to say is sometimes enough to get the creative juices flowing.

Have a glass of wine. Maybe even a bit of vodka or whatever your preferred potion is. Not a lot, mind you, just enough. You'll know the difference—or at least you will the next day when you reread the incomprehensible mess you've written.

Be patient. Writing is a slow process. We live in a speedy world. These two things can be difficult to reconcile. Go ahead and hate the fact that such an atrocity is required and then do it anyway.

Be kind (the "don't do this" model): be kind to yourself, I mean, not necessarily the cat who keeps strolling across your keyboard or the neighbor who's pounding out techno music loud enough to turn your brain into a pulsing blob of Jell-o. That means not telling yourself you're the worst writer ever to grace the planet or that you must have gotten the idea for this book/story from a "Family Circus" strip. It means not swearing at yourself when you realize you've used the word "eyes" 14 times in one paragraph. (Just highlight them and go on. Really, it's fine to fix them later. OK, OK, fix some of them and then move on.)

Be kind (the "do this" model): reward yourself. Set a modest goal and then celebrate with something you like. Perhaps some chocolate every few pages? OK, how about every few lines? Every few words? Hey, whatever works.

Find inspiration in another art form. Listen to music, go to an art museum, see a play or a movie. There's absolutely nothing to joke about here. We all need more art in our lives, and all kinds of it.

Trance time. This one's a little less mainstream than all my "Yeah, heard that before" suggestions. It's from John Gardner's book On Becoming a Novelist, the chapter called "Faith," and in it he advocates self-hypnosis. Yep. Really. (See, I told you he'd come up again, and no, I haven't tried it). Here's how to do it:

Sit in a darkened, quiet room with your hands on the arms of a chair. Tell yourself that you are not going to move your arm, but that it is going to rise nonetheless. Concentrate equally on not moving the arm and on the conviction that it will rise. Gardner claims that you'll feel a lightness in the arm and then it will begin to rise. (One has to wonder what he might have dosed himself with before making this discovery, but hey, whatever works.) At this point you're in a light hypnotic trance, the perfect time to make positive suggestions to yourself about your writing. Someone try this and report back, OK?

What are your tricks? I could use a few new ones, so please add to this list.