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Keep it light.

On a quiet morning last summer, I ran my fingers along the row of books on a shelf in our living room. I stopped at one heavy-weight: The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, 2nd edition. I scanned the table of contents. James Baldwin, Ernest Hemingway, Franz Kafka, Flannery O’Connor. Over fourteen hundred pages of classics written by heavily-studied authors. But, it wasn’t the classics that made me walk to the table and sit down with the book. It was the very first story, right there on page one: Woody Allen’s “A Giant Step for Mankind.”

Bound alongside “The Metamorphosis” and “Hills Like White Elephants” is Woody Allen’s story about three scientists who almost discover the secret behind the Heimlich Maneuver. I laughed out loud the first time I read it, with its high register language describing the research behind “dinner-table choking.” But, beyond the humor, Woody Allen’s writing is a great example of how to show, not tell. My favorite introduction to one of the characters presents a picture so clear I can almost see the smudges on his glasses:

His beard is of a medium length but seems to grow with the irrational abandon of crabgrass. Add to this thick, bushy brows and beady eyes the size of microbes, which dart about suspiciously behind spectacles the thickness of bulletproof glass. And then there are the twitches. The man has accumulated a repertoire of facial tics and blinks that demand nothing less than a complete musical score by Stravinsky.

I love this story. If you haven’t read it, you should — even if you can’t stand Woody Allen.

Sometimes classic literature reads heavy and dark to me. I often wonder if, to be a truly successful writer, you have to be a depressive. Reading Woody Allen’s short fiction counteracts that myth. His story not only drew a hearty belly laugh from me today, it reminded me that I don’t have to take my writer self quite so seriously.

What’s hiding on your bookshelf?

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  • The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, 2nd edition. Copyright 1981 by W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. [ISBN 0-393-95178-2]
  • Woody Allen, “A Giant Step for Mankind,” copyright 1980. Originally published in Side Effects by Woody Allen (Random House, Inc.). [ISBN 0-345-34335-2]
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Writing as Evidence

Every few days, the little voice inside my head confronts me with the same question: why write? What follows is a brief battle between several pros and one very strong con – you’re wasting your time.

Julia Cameron devoted an entire book to debunking that creative crusher. Plenty of well-known writers have published their own essays on “why I write.” Margaret Atwood lays out her reasons in her book, Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. * After a page and a half, she refers to monetary reasons only once. And, so much of what she says speaks to my own writer self. She writes:

To set down the past before it is forgotten.
To excavate the past because it has been forgotten.
To produce order out of chaos.
To say a new word.
To justify my own view of myself and my life, because I couldn’t be ‘a writer’ unless I actually did some writing.
Compulsive logorrhea.
To cope with my depression.
To bear witness….

To bear witness.

Sometimes, I write to unravel my past.  I write essays about experiences that hold me hostage, still. Words fall onto paper, and I see the event with more clarity. Even when I write fiction, I scatter pieces of me throughout. The characters differ, the details vary, but the rise and fall of emotion mirrors my own. I revisit the pain, dissect the details, and find resolution. Once in a while, I even let go.

I may never get paid for one story. That novel might never make it to the galleys. But, I still have to write. If I succumb to my critic who says I’m wasting my time, I will forget the experiences I want to remember. Or, I will fester in the haunts I wish to forget.

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* Margaret Atwood. Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. Copyright 2003 by Anchor Books (isbn 1-4000-3260-1)

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What’s the Word?

cagey: adj. evasive. shrewd. crafty.
(from wordsmith.org, today’s word)

Smells sweet. Looks clean. Plays dirty.

******

She sees me at the sink, filling the coffee carafe with water. She knows I can’t escape. She strolls up to me, and I sense her even before I turn to look. I stiffen. We’re still getting to know each other, this cat and I, and I’m not so sure she likes me.

I invaded her territory, fell into bed with her lover. I understand her disdain.

Still, I’m bigger than her. Eventually, I figure, I’ll win.

She weaves in between and around my ankles and purrs. I relax.

“Morning. Rob’s gone already. So, either you’re feeling lonely. Or, you’re coming around after all.” I reach down and scratch just behind her ears. Her nose turns up and she leans into my leg. She trots back and forth across the kitchen, following me as I pour water into the coffee maker, walk to the drawer for a filter, head back to the beans. I press start on the machine and bend down for one more caress.

“You’re sweet this morning.”

She squeaks out a faint meow.

After the coffee’s done, I sit at the table with a cup and the paper. She jumps into a chair and up onto the table, directly across from me. I predict a stare down. Instead, she curls up into a ball and closes her eyes. So, I sip my coffee and flip through the morning headlines. When I head off to the shower, I ease my chair out so as not to disturb her slumber.

I get dressed and run through my day: 8am project meeting, outline new proposal, schedule interviews for new assistant. For once, I’m not even thinking about the cat. We had such a good morning; she was civil, even affectionate.

I turn from my dresser towards the closet and debate, flats or pumps. After one, two, three steps along side the bed, my legs shiver. I move sideways, out of habit. But not fast enough to avoid her paws as they jut out from under the bed. With claws extended, she grabs my leg. I recognize that squeeze, the prick, the burning scratch. I jerk my leg and she follows, hissing. Her eyes are red. She lets go, runs to the window and bounces off the wall onto the bed. She sits upright.

“Dammit, cat!” I grab my shoes, back out of the bedroom, and slam the door shut.

It’s only because of Rob that I go back, turn the handle, and let the door fall open just a crack.