Mean girls

I’ve been accused of having a problem with women.

To be honest, there have been many times when I’ve been disappointed, hurt, dismayed, betrayed, bewildered and utterly crushed by females. I’m not alone in that experience. Entire books have been written on the phenomenon of mean girls.

But in all fairness, I think I’ve come a long way toward acknowledging the root of my particular problem and doing my best to overcome its inherent limitation on my growth.

My own story stems from a junior high incident (don’t they all). For a period of two weeks none of my female friends would speak to me. Not in school, not at track practice, not on the phone at home. I was and I suppose still am a very sensitive person and rather than force myself to ask, “What gives?” I kept my hurt and silence to myself, convinced that somehow I brought it all on.

Eventually my mom caught wind of the incident. I broke down and told her I had no idea what I had done (still convinced on some level that this was my own doing). Given my despondent behavior, my mom decided to call the mother of one of my friends. After some back and forth it turned out that this incident of not speaking to Wendy was all a game.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” one friend told me. “We just wanted to see how long we could go without talking to you.”

That incident has colored my relationships with women ever since.

I don’t easily open up to anyone. I’ve not nurtured lifelong friendships. With the exception of my younger sister, I had not found women reliable or trustworthy as friends. It was always easier for me to relate to guys as friends. They weren’t petty, didn’t require constant attention and solved conflicts more openly. They accepted me for who I was, not who they expected me to be.

Of course, being friends with guys opens you up to all kinds of attacks from women. And so the cycle of mean girls continued. If you are well-endowed you must be a slut. If you laugh easily you must be a tease. If you smile a lot, you’re not cheerful, simply a flirt.

These same narrow-minded gaggles that ruled the halls of high school and college didn’t understand that you enjoy arguing politics with a guy on the opposite side of the political spectrum. Or that you find their belief in you and your talents exactly the kind of supportive friendship you require. Or that they push you to become the intellectual person you knew you always were. Or that they have no expectations of you to dress a certain way or hang with certain crowds. In essence, they let you be yourself without pretense.

I thought for a long time that I didn’t need close female friendships. My sister has always been my closest pal and I believed that enough. I had plenty of acquaintances, personally and professionally. My first editor was a woman and she taught me how to be a reporter, but not without first breaking me down emotionally. I've had some who have supported and mentored me and some who underestimated my determination. Though I'm surrounded by four loving, supportive guys who have shaped me into wife, mother, writer and friend, I realize that I miss the company of women.

It’s not easy for me. I’ve told a trusted few friends of my experience with women friends. I tell them I’m not good about calling regularly, that the maintenance of friendship is not something that comes naturally to me, probably a by-product of having moved around a lot as a kid. But I also tell them that simply because I don’t call daily or remember every special event in their life doesn’t mean they are not in my thoughts and close to my heart.

The experience of growing older and, one hopes, wiser has provided me with some wonderful female relationships, some more personal, others more professional. I treasure them all. They don’t throw my mistakes in my face and as a result have helped me to grow as a human being. I’m immensely flawed, lacking in patience, prone to excessive multi-tasking, borderline workaholic, passionate to the point of being defensive and my own worst enemy. But I have a corps group of women in my life who, along with my guys, accept me flaws and all.

And that group continues to grow, sometimes when I least expect it. I am grateful for the growing influence of women I admire personally, intellectually and spiritually. They all have shared with me in a piece of this infinitely strange yet wondrous journey we call modern womanhood.

I don’t have a problem with that at all.

Drawn into the war on terror

First do no harm.

I suppose that’s the very least we should expect from medical professionals whose reponsibility it is keep us well and safe. But I was greatly disturbed to read this latest in today’s New York Times describing the use of military mental health professionals exploiting fears in the hopes of making detainees at Guantanamo Bay more cooperative and willing to provide information during the interrogation process.

In one case, a military doctor said a prisoner’s fear of the dark could be used. Reports of such unethical behavior on the part of medical professionals was first reported in this week’s New England Journal of Medicine through interviews with military doctors.

It seems we’ve now forsaken medical ethics, or at the very least stretched the boundaries, in our fight against terrorism. The Pentagon, in its customary fashion of excusing every questionable practice at the behest of the Bush Administration separates medical doctors treating the ill and injured from those physicians who “may have other roles.”

While American Psychiatric Association is clear on its ethical guidelines, allowing for no such use, the American Psychological Association claims this is new territory. I don’t care how new the territory, the immediate response of the American Psychological Association should have been equally firm in its denouncing any exploitation of a person’s mental issues for military gain.

How can the United States ever hope to hold itself out as a standard-bearer for freedom if it continues to trample on the freedoms and the dignitary and respect for others? These are basic principles of a democratic society. I don't even recognize my country in light of these latest allegations.

While I was in Korea last year I had an interesting conversation with another Asian journalist who basically said the U.S. can no longer preach about human rights because it is a regular violator in the interest of the war on terror.

And now, according to the Times,

“A four-member team of United Nations human rights experts accused the United States on Thursday of stalling on requests over the past three years to visit detainees at Guantánamo and said it would begin its own investigation without American assistance.

"Such requests were based on information from reliable sources of serious allegations of torture, cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment of detainees, arbitrary detention, violations of their right to health and their due process rights," the four, all independent authorities who serve the United Nations as fact-finders on rights abuses, said in a statement.”

I say, "go for it." The Bush Administration’s ability to spin and weave, distort and lie, stall and divert has reached mythic proportions and I find it impossible to take anything it says as “truth.”

Are we in the “final throes” of insurgency as Vice President Dick Cheney says? Or are we still actively engaged in a battle to win this war? According to today’s Times:

Pressed repeatedly to choose between the two, General (George W.) Casey (top commander in Iraq) said: "There's a long way to go here. Things in Iraq are hard."

But General Casey insisted that the allied forces had significantly weakened the insurgency even though the number of attacks against American forces has remaining steady at about 60 a day for the last several weeks.

A weakened insurgency is 60 attacks a day!

We’d better watch what we say, though, because our esteemed Republican leaders fear that the loss of public support will surely mean withdrawal of troops and if that occurs too soon, it will spell defeat in Iraq.

As Senator Lindsey Graham, a Republican from South Carolina, told Mr. Rumsfeld at the Senate Committee hearing (yesterday): "We will lose this war if we leave too soon, and what is likely to make us leave too soon? The public going south. That is happening, and it worries me greatly."

The public didn’t get us here, Sen. Graham, George Bush & Co. did. But the public and the media have been complicit in turning a blind eye or the other cheek in the interest of defeating terrorism. But hopefully we're beginning to regain consciousness from the blow we sustained on Sept. 11, 2001.

According to Paul Krugman’s column today:

In a Gallup poll taken in early April - that is, before the release of the Downing Street Memo - 50 percent of those polled agreed with the proposition that the administration "deliberately misled the American public" about Iraq's W.M.D. In a new Rasmussen poll, 49 percent said that Mr. Bush was more responsible for the war than Saddam Hussein, versus 44 percent who blamed Saddam.

You hear that, Bush? The American public blames you, not Saddam, for this mess.

Amnesty International continues to push the U.S. on its human rights violations, specifically those foreign nationals being held in Guantanamo Bay. Nearly a year after the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Rasul v. Bush that federal courts do have jurisdiction to hear the appeals of foreign nationals held at Gitmo, none of the more than 500 detainees held there has had their detention judicially reviewed.

This administration continues to play dictator and has filed a brief with the Federal Court of Appeals fighting the same fight it lost in the Supreme Court case. It’s just another example of the supreme arrogance of this administration.

According to the May 13, 2005 report by Amnesty International, “the appeal brief shows an administration in unapologetic mood, in continuing pursuit of unfettered executive authority under the President’s war powers as Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, and maintaining a disregard for international law and standards.”

And further it is evidence of an administration whose:

Justice Department formulated the position, accepted by the White House Counsel, that the President – who apparently believes that there are people who are "not legally entitled" to humane treatment(8) – could override the national and international prohibition on torture;(9) and whose Secretary of Defense has authorized interrogation techniques that violate international law and standards.(10) This is an administration that has sought unchecked power throughout the "war on terror" and shown a chilling disregard for international law. The USA’s policies and practices have led to serious human rights violations and have set a dangerous precedent internationally.

We live in an international society and supposing ourselves exempt from being good citizens in that society opens us up to attack, militarily, politically, economically.

I hope the United Nations, Amnesty International, International Red Cross and others will investigate our human rights efforts. Because until we open ourselves up to the scrutiny with which we investigate other countries, we will continue to be perceived as the arrogant nation we’ve become.

And I firmly believe that arrogance lies at the heart of why we’re engaged in a war on terror. It seems as if the Bush Administration will stop at drawing no one into the fight, military, judiciary, public, media and now those on whom the first charge is to do no harm.

If this is something about which you feel strongly, consider how you can make your voice heard through Amnesty International.

Finding the fire within

It was bottom of the seventh and last inning, bases were juiced and the next batter was strolling to the plate. Oh no, it was my Patrick. I knew from the way he hung his head on the short walk from the dugout to home that he was defeated before the first pitch.

Patrick is battling himself these days. Mostly, he has set unreasonable expectations for himself. He gets it honestly. I’ve been doing that all my life and when I disappoint myself or others disappoint me, I can reel for days.

He has this mix of confidence and no confidence that is best seen on the basketball court. He forcefully drives down the court with the basketball only to hesitate for a moment before shooting for fear he won’t make the basket. This baseball season, despite having made the 9-10 all-star team last weekend, he has walked off the field in tears after walking batters or striking out. And when his father and I give him that, “Don’t you dare start crying” look, he collapses in tears. It’s become so bad that his emotions have affected his team and his coaches.

Last night I was just wishing Danny would put anyone else into that clean-up spot but him. But the reality is that he has to learn to deal with disappointment. Whiffing is not the end of the world.

So after he was showered I sat him down last night to talk to him about why he plays sports. He says he likes it and I hope he’s right. But from all appearances this year, he’s not enjoying himself.

“When you were walking out to the plate tonight you were convinced you’d whiff, right?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes still red and rimming with tears.

I told him how it showed and how all he really had to do was either walk, which is highly probably in the 9-10 kid pitch league, or get a base hit. No one expected him to get up there and hit a grand slam. But he had psyched himself out.

Patrick is my most sensitive kid. It’s what endears him most and simultaneously causes no end of frustration. But as I explained to him last night, and as his father has done repeatedly, he cannot expect to get better at sports without practicing.

He’d rather spend his free time playing war in the neighbor’s woods with Mikey and his buddy, Christopher. And that’s fine. But he can’t expect to go out on the ball diamond and hit a grand slam if he doesn’t swing the bat except during a game. And he can’t expect to strike out batters unless he throws more pitches. And he’s not going to make that travel basketball team if he doesn’t shoot around in the driveway. I just don’t want him to give up so easily, to be so defeated by his own mind.

How do you teach a kid to have that inner fire? I’m not sure you can. But I do know Patrick knows what it takes to succeed. He did it this year with reading. He’s been in the Title I program and improved his reading test scores by 31 percentage points over last year. That’s huge and that’s awesome and he did it because he was determined, he practiced and, perhaps most of all, he enjoyed reading for the first time.

Censorship = isolation

”The politics of censorship attempts to isolate us from each other. That suppression diminishes our lives, reduces our knowledge, stifles our humanity, and maims our ability to learn from each other.” Amartya Sen, Indian economist, 2004 Nobel laureate

I love the father in you

When you meet and start dating someone, you really have no idea what kind of mother or father he or she will be. Maybe that’s the farthest thing from your mind. But at some point, the question will start to seep into your brain.

So you learn as much as you can about that person, you find out what makes their motor run and what they value in life and if it matches what you value. Then you roll the dice on marriage and pray really hard for the best. In essence, it’s a crapshoot.

I’m sure in my college naiveté, I had all manner of preconceived notions about what the father of my children would be like. But when I met Danny, I knew from the first moment he asked me if his ice cream smelled funny and then shoved it in my nose that his playfulness was always going to be an important part of my children's life.

He endeared himself to me when as we sat on our first date eating burgers at The Pub in Athens, he asked, “Do you get nervous eating in front of someone for the first time?” I laughed, and said, “No,” but clearly he did. Just as he was terrified of giving the best man’s toast at his brother, Jimmy’s wedding. I was there, and he did fine with a little writerly help from his new girlfriend. He and I went on to compose many more best man toasts over the course of our marriage, with me helping less and less each time.

But all the young-woman dreams never fully prepare you for the first time you see your firstborn in your husband’s arms. The moment Ryan was born I was exhilarated by the accomplishment. Never had I done anything so difficult. But seeing my Danny, with his very broad shoulders and strong arms, cuddling this tiny (okay, he wasn’t that small, almost 10 pounds!) baby boy made my heart sing! This is what love is all about — the family unit.

Ryan spent a few days in the NICU when he was born. As I sat rocking and admiring him one morning, a nurse asked me where he got his size. At that moment, Danny walked through the door and she said, “Oh, from dad!” All three boys have his very broad shoulders and, as my pediatrician says, “the big Irish head.”

Danny wasn’t always hands-on with the little ones, though he was the master at getting them to nap. He wasn’t the guy to bath them (“it hurts my back”), though I could get him to feed them and even change his share of diapers. (“Wen! I need some backup!”)

He’s not a late-night guy and so we had a system for those middle-of-the-night feedings. He’d go to bed early, I’d stay up for the midnight or so feeding. He’d get up and do the three or four o’clock feeding and let me sleep until seven or so.

It worked well, except for Mikey. I was nursing him and had slept so poorly during the end of my pregnancy that I would sleep near unconscious after he was born. I’d awake to a crying baby and Danny standing next to me holding him saying, “He’s hungry.”

We used to tease each other about who would get to hold little Patrick in church because he loved to put his soft little face up against ours. He was our cuddler. Though when Danny held him, I used to laugh out loud because Patrick would put his little blanket over Danny’s face. We never did that with Mikey because he was always so darned heavy and fidgety.

They all resemble him quite strongly. I’m often asked what I had to do with their making. But Mikey, of them all, is Danny’s twin, his mini-me as Ryan says. He has the same deep dimple, cowlick and smile that my boyish-faced hubby has. Ryan has his playfulness in spades and Patrick has his compassion and sensitivity.

I may be the one to help with homework and teach them to read, but I’ve noticed that as the boys get older, he’s so much more in tune with them and their needs.

And quite frankly, if the boys have a choice of who will make dinner, they vote for dad every time. Why? Because he makes GUY food — chili, ribs, steak, wings, burgers. I make chic food and use too many green foods. Danny appreciates it though, and someday the boys will also.

He loves to sing stupid songs and recite inane comments, but the kids love him for this. Even Ryan, who is rapidly approaching teenager-dom can’t help but laugh when dad gets in his grill and asks him if he wants a piece of him.

Danny’s better at handling Mikey’s meltdowns and Patrick’s insecurity than I am. He has this ritual at dinner of asking everyone how their day was and what they learned at school. He's a natural-born teacher and has ingrained himself in the lives of many other boys through coaching baseball and baskteball.

He’s taught our guys to value the opportunities they receive, the importance of hard work and to never take anything — or anyone — for granted.

Danny lost his own dad to a heart attack a few weeks after he turned 14. He wishes he could have known his dad as an adult, wishes he could ask him questions — about being a father, about his career, about being a husband. But he can’t. And so he’s found his own wonderful way.

He always tells the boys that he hopes they are smart like me. I hate when he says that because he is very smart in one of the most important ways — he’s people smart. He understands the value of nurturing relationships, whether it’s lifelong friendships or work relationships.

I call Danny “Ed.” Not sure why exactly. It started in college when he used to compare himself to the infamous rotund car dealer, Ed Stinn. His middle name is Edward and his dad’s name was Ed. Just all seems to work.

So Happy Father’s Day, Ed. We love you very much!

(And by the way, what’s for dinner?)

Seeing green

Can’t believe it! As soon as I find ways to simplify my life while simultaneously keeping my home clean, I see this article by Karen Klages at the Chicago Tribune.

It seems that convenience in the form of Swiffers and Clorox wipes are not readily biodegradable. And my purchasing them in bulk from Costco and using them indiscriminately, and encouraging my family to the same, is doing nothing for the Green movement.

My sister, Jen, called me yesterday to tell me the article she saw in The Columbus Dispatch and she was mortified that she didn’t know of this issue sooner. We both lament the piles of dog hair that accumulate on our hardwood floors. Though a Swiffer cloth may resemble some sort of natural fiber, in actuality it is a synthetic — “nonwoven polymers, sometimes mixed with wood pulp.”

Sadly, I’m not alone in my use.

If someone were to load all of the disposable wipes purchased by consumers in North America last year onto 18-wheel semis, the caravan would number 9,000 trucks and stretch for 68 miles. And it would be carrying 83,000 tons of these seemingly ephemeral cloths - which are anything but fleeting.

I wouldn’t classify myself as a tree-hugger, but I am very concerned about the environment, and regularly recycle newspapers, magazines, cardboard, glass, plastic and aluminum. I prefer to use organic fertilizers (though I’ve largely lost that battle to my hubby who longs for green, weed-free grass).

I don’t drive an SUV, but do drive a used mini-van. I’d love to trade it in for something smaller, more fuel-efficient, but the fact is that my three guys cannot sit next to each other without annoying my husband and I — and each other.

So what can we do? I mean, I need to simplify my life, but I don’t want to be environmentally irresponsible. I could rage against the corporate machinery that took advantage of my need for cleanliness and efficiency above all else to market those time-saving methods specifically to me. But who has the time? I prefer to wage my battles with my wallet. Fortunately, the article offered some alternatives.

Microfiber dusters/cleaning cloths made by 3M and Casabella are machine-washable and available at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Casabella also makes a wet mop.

Mr. Mister is similar to a Swiffer WetJet (which has been my cleaning tool of choice until now) and uses a microfiber cloth that can be machine-washed and reused. Search for Spray-N-Wipe Mop.

Microfiber dry mops are kind of like Swiffers or Grab-its but also feature washable cloths. The article recommends the one from Quickie Manufacturing. And it recommends the Tub and Tile Wizard for bathroom cleaning and also made by Quickie, which is available in stores in July. Home Depot reportedly carries a better sponge mop also made by Quickie, that doesn't harden and disintegrate into tiny bits on your floor.

And then there’s Method, a small San Francisco-based maker of green cleaning products, offers biodegradable wet wipes that people can toss into their compost pile after using. Method does not call them disinfecting wipes; they contain no antimicrobial agents. Instead, they're billed as surface cleaners. Consumers can find them at Linens 'n Things stores or at www.lnt.com online.

Method products are also found at Target, along with everything else in the universe.

And then there’s this piece by Heather Havrilesky on Salon.com about the Dirt Devil Sweeper Vac. Wonder how it Green it is?

The sky is falling

There are times when being a homeowner is a downright drag. Like when you look up at the kitchen ceiling and notice a faint line and the early indications of buckling.

Water. Must be water coming from somewhere. And then over the course of a year or years the buckling becomes even more pronounced to the point when the paint cracks and you’ve got unmistakable damage.

My ceiling, my kitchen ceiling that was completely renovated in 2002 is coming apart. And we can’t figure out why. All we know is that the fix has big dollar signs all over it.

Anyone who comes into our house notices it right away. “Do you have a leak?” Yes, we do, but it’s anybody’s guess as to its origins. It’s not constant and not a gusher, just the effects of slow dripping winding its way through the path of least resistance.

At first, we blamed it on the boys taking 20-minute showers. Then we blamed it on them not tucking the shower curtain in properly. Then we saw the problem worsen just below our master bathroom above our family room.

And this morning, Patrick yelled while I was in shower: “Mom, a chunk of the ceiling fell down!”

Sigh

It’s not a chunk, just a two-inch piece of paint, revealing years of damage. Clearly, this is a problem that will not correct itself. It’s not that we are careless homeowners lacking pride, it’s that we’re in denial about the need to rip open the kitchen and family room ceiling and plunge thousands of dollars into repairs.

It will have to be done, but I swear I’ve just recently recovered from the trauma of having my kitchen torn up for four months during the renovation process. Nothing prepares you for the mess, the disruption, the disorganization and chaos.

There was a day during that process when our contractor warned me: “When you come home today it’s going to be bad.” That wasn’t the half of it. I was working downtown at the time and came home to my house filled with drywall dust, in every conceivable and inconceivable place. My mom came in the door behind me and voiced what I was unable to utter: “Oh my God, honey. Are you okay?”

I wasn’t. I just sank to the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to live this way. I’m a control freak and clearly my home, my sanctuary was utterly out of my control. I wish I could say I took it all in stride, that we were fortunate to be able to afford such a massive renovation. But it felt as if I was carrying a load of drywall on my back and the weight of it was suffocating me. The pain rested in between my shoulder blades, a pain that no amount of Motrin could touch.

It all came to a head one morning before school when my son told me he was supposed to bring in his 25 cents for Popsicle day earlier that week. I cracked.

“What’s with all this nickel-and-dime bullshit?! Don’t they (meaning the school) know working parents are doing their best just to stay on top of everything? Who needs this shit at this time of year? It’s this kind of crap that can send parents over the edge!”

Clearly that’s what it did to me. I had lost my marbles over a quarter. During that process I began to suffer from anxiety and panic attacks. It wasn’t all due to the remodeling, but it was certainly aggravated by that chaos.

In the years since I’ve learned to let go of things that used to send me to the moon. If the house is messy, I’m not going to become apoplectic. If I have the chance to go to the pool or wash the kitchen floor, I’ll grab the pool bag and go.

But I do worry about panic relapse. I spent a good portion of my life as a stress junky. I’d like to think I’m recovered and reformed. Hopefully, living through this repair doesn’t cause me to fall off the wagon.

Heard in the hallways

Fresh from another engaging weekend at SPJ's Ted Scripps Leadership Institute I am struck by how much I learned from the wonderful participants in this program.

I was there to talk to them about chapter programming, funding and leadership continuity. I did those three things, but the real gem of the weekend funded by the Scripps Howard Foundation was the conversations in the hallways and over meals.

Several themes emerged and I'll likely spend some time writing more about them later. But what I learned is that there is increasing interest in freelancers in SPJ, there's a lot of concern about a federal shield law, a growing desire to work with bloggers, an almost overwhelming need to discuss the watchdog function of the press with the public and great frustration over newsroom burnout. Said one journalist: "No one ever retires from the newsroom anymore."

None of these subjects had anything really to do with what we discussed in the formal sessions of the retreat, but they are concerns the journalists leading SPJ are addressing. There are no easy answers and no quick fixes for the challenges that face our profession. But I was inspired simply by the wonderful, incredibly smart and compassionate human beings whom we call leaders.

Successful failure

Courage arrived this week and I took advantage by sending out a number of essays to various pubs. Delightfully I received a wonderful rejection letter from an editor at Better Homes & Gardens less than an hour after I submitted my essay.

Here’s an excerpt from his wonderful e-mail:

Hi Wendy,

Thanks for this. It's well written and plenty evocative, but not quite right for T&N. Our editor is very big on these essays having some kind of nugget of activation or inspiration for readers as they live their lives. We're tending to avoid pieces that hinge too much on reminiscence, however well told, and not enough on how that memory or recollection of the past can be brought to bear on life today, the "now" of Then and Now.

He then went on to share an example of an upcoming piece that was adjusted to provide some call to action at the end. It was essentially a road map on how to get published and it has not fallen on deaf ears.

But I liked your piece and should think you'd be able to find a home for it.

That comment alone made my day. And so now I’m in the process of finding another market for the piece. I’ve been duly warned by him and others not to get spoiled by his quick response.

If you have any other T&N ideas for us, please pass them along. I can't guarantee I'll always be able to respond as promptly as this, but I'll do my best.

This is about as gracious and encouraging a rejection as I could ever hope for. In order to ensure that this editor made the right decision in thinking I was worth spending time on, I’m going to follow-up with another piece I’ve been working on for him next week.

Last fall I saw that Writer’s Digest was planning to interview writers about their blogs for its pub, Personal Writing. In a flash, I fired off an e-mail about Creative Ink and what it has given me personally and professionally.

So it was quite a serendipitous occurrence this week when I received an e-mail from a writer at Personal Writing saying they wanted to profile Creative Ink in a future issue (probably September or October). I had a nice conversation with the writer, talking about how I got started blogging and why, what it’s done for my writing and my process for posting.

At the end of our conversation, I asked him why he contacted me about my blog (of the many he could have interviewed). He said it was my pitch, which sadly I no longer have a copy of, and the blog itself.

Creative Ink is my writing laboratory. Although I note the blog on my e-mail signature and on my letterhead, I never know how seriously to reference it as an example of my writing to editors. I’m not sure how they view maintaining a blog as an example of writing.

But a colleague of mine wisely noted that editors take seriously what you take seriously.

Visceral run

Running in this heat and humidity just kicks my ass. I should’ve known better than to venture out mid-morning in the blazing sun. And yet, I needed the physical release and distance after having written extensively this week.

The writers of the thirties and forties used to find inspiration in a bottle. When I need to figure out how to fix a story, I sometimes find clarity while exercising. Such was not the case today. I’m lucky I finished four miles.

Was reminded of a column I recently wrote in Quill magazine about extreme journalists. One of the women I interviewed said:

”In many cases, the writer on an expedition has a harder job than the expedition members themselves. Not only does the writer have to participate, but he or she also has to take notes and viscerally experience each and every detail.”

I was thinking about that comment while I was running and so I tried to experience my run viscerally.

My route is fairly consistent primarily because it affords me the opportunity to run without having to think about where I’m going. My mind can wander to other things. Though it’s a beautiful route, down Lake Road along the southern shore of Lake Erie and amid gorgeous homes, I tend not to really notice things.

Perhaps I should pay closer attention. I did so this morning and was rewarded. While enjoying my first sips of coffee at 5:45 a.m. and taking Riley out for her morning constitution, I saw a hummingbird buzzing around my newly blossomed poppies.

As I rounded the corner from Bradley onto Lake Road, I found myself swimming in a sea of cotton tufts floating around from the cottonwood trees. The yard on the corner has so many piles it looks as if it snowed on their lawn only.

I’m feeling pretty good, but I can feel the heat on my face as I head east toward Huntington Beach. Once I pass Bassett Road I make the decision as to whether I’ll run three, four, five or six miles. At this point, the heat isn’t getting to me too bad, so I’ll shoot for a respectable four.

As soon as I pass my three-mile turnaround, I realize that this may have been a mistake. But I take comfort in the rhythm of my breathing — step, step, breathe; step, step, breathe.

A good portion of the stretch to Huntington Beach is shaded by enormous oak trees, which are a welcome respite from the glaring hot sun. The beach has that summer organic smell of dead fish rising up the cliffs. Doesn’t seem to keep people from swimming in it though.

The sun is behind me as I head west toward home, but I feel its intensity on my back. Ahead are huge stretches of uncovered sidewalk and I concentrate on my breathing to keep me from thinking about the heat — step, step, breathe; step, step, breathe.

Honeysuckles, I smell honeysuckles, so sickeningly sweet they are making me a tad nauseous. Of course, the orange juice I had for breakfast is also not helping. Step, step, breathe.

As I approach the giant white home that was once owned by George Steinbrenner, I know I’m only a mile and a half from home. Huge stretches of sun again before I find the comfort of trees near Breezewood Drive. Too bad there is no breeze to speak of.

There’s a bit of cool air hovering around the sandstone retaining wall of the century home near Bradley and Lake. And then I round the turn and head past a heavily wooded yard, making it abundantly clear why they call it the “rain” forest.

On my final turn toward home I’m getting that light-headed feeling of having gone too far in this heat. But I turn up the pace and make a run for the picket fence on my corner. It’s good conditioning for the heat of the Firecracker Five in a few weeks.

Think I’ll get some lunch and then come back to the previously unsolved writing problem.

Mikey "graduates"

Call me a sap, but I simply cannot sit at my kids’ school events without a tremendous lump in my throat. Seeing that tiny handprint and the corny poem about love gets me every time. And if the kids are reciting anything in sign language, I'm toast.

This morning, Danny and I parked ourselves on the tiny chairs in Mrs. Eaton’s primary-colored classroom to watch our children “graduate” from kindergarten. Though they entered her classroom last August looking more like toddlers than school children, the past nine months have shown that they are indeed growing and ready for first grade.

They demonstrated their knowledge of the Pledge of Allegiance, their knowledge of ABCs, seasons, months and days of the week. They showed us how well they sit and listen to instructions from the teacher. And then they each received their “diploma” and portfolio containing examples of their work over the year.

When Mikey flashes that beautiful dimpled smile at me, I am positively certain my heart will burst with love. The tears instantly fill my eyes and I have to do my darndest to hold them back.

There’s something about the end of the school year that makes me melancholy. The end of so many happy memories — like the great candid shot of Ryan in his school yearbook seen cheering at the faculty/student volleyball game at Bay Middle School — and the support and encouragement from some terrific teachers, whose presence in my boys' lives I will miss.

Things could have gone haywire. All three of my kids started in new schools this year, but they all thrived in ways I could not have imagined last year. Patrick, in addition to serving on Safety Patrol, was his classroom representative on Student Council. And this after he suffered some pretty severe anxiety last summer.

Most importantly, all three of my boys are happy. I couldn’t ask for anything more as we begin our summer vacation.

The Bay Bubble

Tonight is Bay High School’s commencement. I haven’t been asked to give a commencement address and probably never will, but I do have a few observations about my adopted hometown.

In the coming weeks so many of you will want to flee the Bay Bubble as fast and as far away as possible. You’ll want to escape the saccharine nature of Bay Days, Family Fun Days and Rocket football games and the ridiculousness of not being able to use Cahoon Park on Sundays. You may crave anonymity, something so hard to accomplish in such a small, close-knit community.

This is a place where, in a matter of minutes, news of a drug search at the Bay High parking lot spreads like wildfire through the extended network of younger siblings. And if you were one of the unfortunate students who had your car searched for marijuana, you’ve likely had to endure the knowing glances and smirks of your parents’ friends who nod as if to say, “Sure it wasn’t yours.”

Escape from block schedules, Mr. McAndrews’ prying eyes on the smokers under the Wolf Road bridge, Brad Friedel soccer camps, after prom preparations and your parents’ warnings about the creepy people who lurk at Huntington Beach on summer weekends.

So go ahead and find yourselves. Go to the big city if it’s calling your name. Head to Hollywood if that’s your destiny. Fulfill your potential and find your heart’s desire. And if that’s far from Bay Village, so be it.

But mark my words, some of you will choose to come back.

That’s right. Someday when college is behind you and you’ve had the chance to sow your oats on bigger horizons, you’ll long for the quaint community that nurtured you throughout your youth.

It will be small things that will tug at you at first. You’ll be at some trendy bar, sipping a cosmopolitan and you’ll suddenly remember Mexican night when your parents and neighbors gathered in the backyard for fajitas and margaritas. Of how one dad would mix up a batch of virgin daiquiris (known to the kids as icees) that would be the most refreshing break after a game of manhunt.

You’ll remember how Mr. Lowry at Java Bay never tossed you out of his coffee shop, even when you arrived en masse after school let out. How he always seemed to remember everyone’s name and how he knew more about the high school basketball scene than anyone in Bay.

While jogging through same major metropolitan area someday you’ll remember how you could ride your bike from one end of Bay to the other (Bradley Park to Reese Park) and not get tired. And how Lake Erie provided a chill to every spring soccer game and a welcome breeze at a baseball game under the lights at Hartman.

You’ll remember how beautiful your community is — with its northern border as Lake Erie and the Huntington Reservation smack in the middle. You’ll remember Monty the Python at the Lake Erie Nature and Science Center and how cool it looked when he shed his skin. You’ll remember the day the wrecking ball tore down the old Bay Middle School and how half of Bay Village braved the January cold to watch it happen.

Winter will bring memories of sledding at Rose Hill and ice-skating at Cahoon. And you’ll never forget the summer the new pool opened, with its awesome slides and killer snack bar. You’ll crave Superman ice cream at Martin’s Deli, orange blossom at Honey Hut or Georgio’s $5.99 pepperoni pizza. And you’ll be able to remember the names of all the barbers at the Bay Barber Shop — Ken, Jim, Ski and Doug.

Then something remarkable may happen. You may realize as you start to settle down, that the Bubble wasn’t so bad. That it was really an ideal place to raise a family — maybe even your family. And then suddenly you find yourself searching the classifieds and then the real estate section, looking for that first starter home, which are so abundant in Bay.

You won’t care that the property taxes are high. You know there are some things worth paying for — phenomenal schools, fabulous parks, outstanding recreational opportunities and the comfort that comes from living in such a safe environment.

In your move back to the Bubble, you’ll suddenly be standing in the checkout line at Heinen’s and you’ll run into classmates, who have also made the same choice. And over beers at the Ironwood you’ll all reminisce about the creek water incident in which half of Bay High called in sick in the 1980s because someone had made Harry Buffalo using water from Porter Creek.

And you’ll howl until you cry remembering how your cousin skeeched in the snow off the back of the school bus all the way down Winsor Drive. Or how on a dare you jumped from the back of the concession stand at the stadium onto the pole vault mats below. You’ll remember with great fondness how Mr. McAndrews wasn’t so bad after all. He knew everybody’s game and really gave you the chance to change your ways. You’ll remember the sight of Mr. Knapp, with his long stride, running throughout the city. Or how Mr. Kozlowski was the best math teacher you ever had, always willing to go the extra mile for his students.

You’ll remember how beautiful the dewy grass was in the early hours at Bradley Park or how the red sunset filled the sky over Lake Erie. And as you wipe the Dairy Queen ice cream from your youngster’s face, you’ll recite the phrase your mother taught you years before: “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” And you’ll know why you came back.

But for now, go out and discover who you want to be, knowing that there's a community of well-wishers standing behind you.

Good luck, Class of 2005, wherever you may land.

How Wendy gets her groove back

Last Friday I was preparing a package of materials to send out for possible work. The opportunity is for some meaty articles, heavy on research and narrative. In addition to the obligatory letter and resume, the editor was asking to see some meaty writing samples.

And so it was with great panic that I pored through my files realizing that I had no meaty samples from my last year of writing. The bulk of my recent work has been short and sweet. I’ve not had the opportunity to delve into much of anything with depth. And that was highly discouraging.

As I began pulling from some past lengthy work of which I’m particularly proud, I realized that the fun and thrill in writing was found in the shoe leather of reporting those stories. Regular readers of CI may note that I’ve been struggling with writing of late. Call it writer’s block if you choose, but for me it’s more of a mental block. I need to get out of my head. There’s a bit of detective inside me and I thrive off the discovery of research and reporting. That’s what has been missing.

It’s not easy when you work alone. You spend so much time inside your head that you forget to look up and around at the possibilities everywhere. I keep using the excuse of scaling back for the summer for my seeming lack of productivity, but in reality it’s been because so little has inspired me of late. I’ve become complacent, which is a scary place for a writer.

But even in that complacency, I’ve taken recently to scribbling ideas and fragments on scraps of paper that now litter my desk. (Don’t throw away that envelope!) And in my heavy reading, I’m finding the inspiration to keep going by putting one foot in front of the other even when I feel like crawling back into bed.

This thing of being a full-time freelance writer is a long-distance race. The trick is to pace yourself. I think I may have pushed too hard at the start of the race and have been suffering the effects of fatigue, followed closely by what my brother-in-law, Marty calls FIBF (fatigue-induced bad form). Of course I've also changed the conditions of the race by focusing my efforts on larger markets. Now it’s time to even my breathing, change my stride and get my head back in the race.

Feeding the beast

Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested. — Francis Bacon

What I’m chewing on this week:

• Just finished Sue Monk Kidd’s exploration of a middle-age woman discovering the link between the erotic and the spiritual in her new book, “The Mermaid Chair” — truly a book to be savored.
• Picked up yesterday, upon recommendation of my pal Robin, “The Kite Runner,” by Khaled Hosseini
• Finished review book, “I Told the Mountain to Move,” by Patricia Raybon on Tuesday and now I’m working on “Peace in the Storm: Meditations on Chronic Pain and Illness,” by Maureen Pratt

On the stack next to my bed:

• “Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time,” by Dava Sobel (been meaning to read this for a long time)
• “The Moviegoer” by Walker Percy (I simply LOVE southern fiction)
• “Hudson River Bracketed” by Edith Wharton (is there really one I haven’t yet read?)
• “The Heart of the Matter” by Graham Greene
• “The Fourth Hand” by John Irving
• Ernest Hemingway’s definitive collection of short stories

What’s playing in my headphones and iTunes: (I’d like to say iPod, but I don’t have one of those — yet.)

• Luce
• Jack Johnson, “In Between Dreams”
• Norah Jones, “Come Away With Me”
• Assorted Van Morrison
• Billie Holiday
• Dinah Washington

Afterthought

I think the person I'd least like to be today is the current No. 2 at the FBI. Wonder how his co-workers and the current administration now view him? Hmmmm...

The cat's outta the bag

What a colossal letdown! I feel like I did when I was 7 and my older brother, anxious to share his newfound discovery, revealed that Mom and Dad were Santa Claus (and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy).

The Washington Post, which I read daily, has been scooped by a San Francisco attorney who happened to take Deep Throat’s grandson under wing and has now broken the news of his identity in this Vanity Fair article.

It was a lot more interesting not knowing Deep Throat’s identity. The magician's trick has been revealed. Now we know it was the No. 2 guy at the FBI: W. Mark Felt, age 91 and currently of Santa Rosa, Calif. Somebody let the air out of my journalistic balloon.

The cynic in me is already questioning the motives for the timing of the revelation. I’m a little suspect of his daughter, Joan, who clearly sees financial opportunity. Isn't a little fishy that since she's known the truth about her father's involvement she's been pushing him to come forward? (Maybe it’s just me but she bares a striking resemblance to Jane Fonda.)

Maybe this kindly old man, who looks as if he could be anyone's grandpa, doesn't fit MY expectation of Deep Throat. Try as I might, I’ve been unsuccessful in superimposing Mark Felt’s face over Hal Holbrook, who played Deep Throat in the movie version of “All the President’s Men.”

But there he is nonetheless, up there in years and maybe a little relieved to have finally shared his secret with the world. What is interesting is how Bob Woodward so carefully protected him and still wanted to ensure that the promise he made three decades ago was kept. Does anyone do that anymore? His actions smack of integrity to me. He continued to ask if Felt was in possession of faculties enough to make the decision to reveal his identity.

I’m sure Bob is not happy about John D. O’Connor’s article in Vanity Fair. I’m sure he — and Carl and Ben — wanted to be the ones to reveal his identity. But this is America where first one to the finish line wins.

O’Connor’s article is a pedestrian account of the events in Felt’s life that only touches on the inner turmoil this man endured following his decision to reveal what he knew about Watergate. Near the end he writes: “But Watergate invigorated an independent press, virtually spawning a generation of investigative journalists.”

I became a journalist because of Bob Woodward, Carl Bernstein, Ben Bradlee and, yes Deep Throat. I became a journalist because I wanted to change the world. To speak truth to power, to speak for those without a voice and to engage readers into thinking they could also change the world.

At the end of my senior year in high school and only a decade after Nixon resigned, I sat riveted to the television in Mr. King’s overheated honor’s government classroom while most of my classmates nodded off. We were watching “All the President’s Men” and watching that I knew with absolute clarity that being a journalist was my calling.

What Felt did took an amazing amount of courage and patriotism. How fortunate our press was able to protect him for so long. I’m not hopeful, given the current political climate that will continue. So much has changed. Many mysteries are no longer and people can't wait to share a secret.

Hell today, as Jeff Jarvis writes, Deep Throat would be a blogger.

"Rhapsody in chrome"

Today’s Home & Garden section in the New York Times has the most wonderful collection of stories, audio and photographs in celebration of the Chrysler Building’s 75th birthday.

Regular readers of Creative Ink may note that the Chrysler Building is simply my most favorite in all of New York. Writer David Dunlap says, “It bubbles. It fizzes. It is 77 stories of razzmatazz and attitude, a bit of speedway and a lot of jukebox. It is knock-your-socks-off exhibitionism, with a dash of pure carny."

No kidding! I’ve had the pleasure twice in the past year of staying at the Grand Hyatt, also at 42nd and Lexington, but on the northwestern corner. I’ve marveled at the magnificent building glinting in the sunlight and seen its chrome spire rising majestically through the mist. And had I more time, I would ask to see the space that once was photographer Margaret Bourke-White’s studio.

Michael J. Lewis, a professor of art history at Williams College, says that the building’s “discordant elegance” came close to what George Gershwin achieved in music — “a rhapsody in chrome.”

The building was a reflection of the times, when more American men had been exposed to European culture through the Great War, and women were beginning to find themselves and their freedom just a tinge.

As Frederick Lewis Allen reported in his magisterial account of the Roaring Twenties, "Only Yesterday," the average amount of fabric needed to dress a woman declined from 191⁄4 yards in 1913 to a flimsy 7 yards by 1928.

Though its namesake has been long gone from the building, the structure still speaks for the inner entrepreneur. Lewis writes: The Chrysler Building is the act of an upstart, cockily challenging the supremacy of General Motors and the Ford Motor Company.

But its beautiful debut, often pooh-poohed by the critics of the time, came on the heels of the Depression and its cockiness quickly fled with the devastation that followed the Stock Market Crash. Lewis writes:

The Art Deco skyscrapers were not discredited by their fantastic mooring masts at their summits but by the bankers and the brokers leaping from their windows.

It does have a storied past and one that I first romanticized as a young reporter. Fresh from his honeymoon with Clare Booth, Henry Luce conceived of Life magazine in its once-resplendent Cloud Club restaurant. Rachel Davis, the owner of Rachel Davis Fine Arts in Larchmere, had called to tell me that someone had found in a relative’s basement boxes and boxes of Margaret Bourke-White’s photographs. Would I be interested in seeing them and writing a story about the find?

I was there in a heartbeat. Bourke-White has long been a hero of mine primarily for her fearlessness in pushing the envelope of life as a photojournalist, indeed as a woman at a time when women exercising freedom was simply not done.

My head was spinning as I thumbed through the stacks of photographs. How I coveted just one. But I was newly married, working on a weekly reporter’s salary and simply could not afford to purchase one of the photographs.

Oscar Graubner took my favorite photo of her. Though I don't own a framed copy, I have it in two books of her work. "Maggie," as she was known, is climbing out of one of the stainless-steel gargoyles outside her studio on the 62nd floor of the Chrysler Building — 800 feet above the sidewalk.

Of course, she had to do some finagling to even get studio space there at that time. Fortune magazine, for which she was working, would not rent her space on her own. Her lease was co-signed by Time Inc. She paid $387.92 per month, plus electricity.

She describes best, in her 1963 autobiography, “Portrait of Myself,” her fascination with the building and her desire to live there.

On the sixty-first floor, the workmen started building some curious structures which overhung 42nd Street and Lexington Avenue below. When I learned these structures were to be gargoyles à la Notre Dame, but made of stainless steel as more suitable for the twentieth century, I decided that here would be my new studio. There was no place in the world that I would accept as a substitute. I was ready to close my studio in Cleveland in order to be nearer Fortune, but it was the gargoyles which gave me the final spurt into New York.

It turned out that I had not one but a pair of gargoyles resplendent in stainless steel and pointing to the southeast … I loved the view so much that I often crawled out on the gargoyles, which projected over the street 800 feet below, to take pictures of the changing moods of the city.

Forest for the trees

A debt of gratitude this morning goes out to my NYC roomie and fellow scribe, Jill Miller Zimon. Several weeks ago she sent me a package with some books she felt may help me through my psychological slump.

Her instincts were correct. While I didn’t much care for “Writing Down the Bones,” I found “The Forest for the Trees “ by Betsy Lerner a great, inspiring read. I’m going to Half-Price Books today to pick up a copy for myself. (J – Loved reading your notes!) Of course the title alone describes my current state. And so I plunged through yesterday and last night and realized something: I really do want to write a book.

To anyone who has ever asked (which is not many), I’ve always said that I would write a book someday without ever having a clue as to its subject. I’m under contract to write one for the Cleveland Clinic Press and I’ve written one with a marketing bent for the Greater Cleveland Sports Commission. But I’m talking about something pure and inspired from my own imagination.

The thought is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. As I explained to a friend last week, the potential for white-hot spotlight scares the shit out of me. I'm the person who always has nightmares of being exposed, in my underwear, as a complete hack. But in recent conversations with my sister and given recent family events, I see something I’d like to explore. It will certainly take some convincing, but may yet prove to be possible.

More on that someday. Anyway here’s what Lerner, a former editor in NY's publishing houses, writes that sent me flying high this morning:

Every time a person writes, for the public or not, he or she is connected to all who have ever felt that magnificent charge of communication through the written word—whether carved in hieroglyphics or glowing in code across our computer. No matter how often or how vociferously writers are attacked, no matter how many hearts are broken in pursuit of publication or how many authors discouraged by their lonely work, there will always be the brilliant conspiracy between author and reader.

It’s true. In the end we write, despite all the obstacles, because we have to.

Reading and escape

I’m revving up my reading pace in anticipation of summer. On average, I’m putting away about three books a week. One a review book, one about writing as craft and one novel. Haven’t read this voraciously since I was 12.

Was telling my mom about this over the weekend and she laughed remembering how, when I was 11 and she finally gave me permission to read “Are You There God It’s Me, Margaret” (a rite of passage for pre-pubescent girls) I laid on the picnic table with my gangly legs crossed and didn’t budge until I finished the book.

Of course, I didn’t tell her that later that summer I also snuck into her top dresser drawer and clandestinely read Judy Blume’s other memorable work of female sexuality called, “Forever.” I would hide in my closet with a flashlight poring over the story that revealed how a young woman lost her virginity. Heady stuff it was and a far, far cry from “Ramona the Brave.” I’m not sure if I was remotely mature enough to handle its adult theme, but I know reading about it made me feel all tingly inside.

After I would finish reading for whatever time I could safely steal, taking care not to break the spine or dog-ear any pages, I felt guilty, dirty almost for reading something I knew I wasn’t yet supposed to. But I couldn’t help myself. And the next day I’d be tiptoeing back into my parent’s bedroom, hungry for more of that story.

And so it has always been with reading and me. When I’m hooked, the rest of my world seems to stop until I finish. Reading is my narcotic and my brain is always seeking more. “You’ve always got your nose in a book,” my hubby says. For the most part, he’s right.

Reading takes me away and brings home certain truths, it inspires and fills, soothes and stimulates. I’ve been doing a lot of it lately partly because I feel inspired to do so, a wonderful stack of books beckoning me to fall in. And partly I’ve been reading to escape what I should be doing, which is writing.

Of course, that’s not entirely true. I still write daily. But I have things I want to say and I’ve been reading so much in the interest of finding of my courage, of finding that phrase or thought that somehow seeps into my subconscious and says, “It’s okay. Go ahead and write what you want to say. Others will read it. Don’t be such a chicken shit!”

This week, I’m reading “Genuine Happiness: Meditation as the Path to Fulfillment” by B. Alan Wallace, with a foreword by HH the Dalai Lama as my review book. “The Forest for the Trees” by Betsy Lerner has turned out to be a fabulous book on writers, including their neuroses. Read 100 pages this morning in between getting the kids off to school. And I’m reading Anna Quindlen’s “Blessings” at night before bed.

Early on Saturday morning I finished reading Stephen King’s book, “On Writing.” I have never read any of his novels because sci-fi horror has never been my thing, though I’ve seen many of the movies based on his work. If I had a dime for every time some joker did his worst Jack Nicholson impression, bellowing, “Wendy, I’m home!” from The Shining, I could get a pedicure this afternoon instead of writing the queries of which I’ve been procrastinating. But I found his writing about craft an inspired work and found I like him more than expected.

I burst out laughing when King spoke of watching his wife read his first draft, waiting for her reaction to a scene in which he knew she’d laugh. His wife, sensing his watchful eye finally shouts, “Stop being some goddam needy!”

I’m going to stop being so needy and neurotic—at least I'm going to try. This week the first of the essays is going out to the national mags. I’m going to get past my fear of rejection and embrace its anticipated result with gusto. After all, it’s all grist for the mill — even the rejections.

Posted in comments on today's Achenblog

Hell, I'm an editor myself, and I wish my writers would put as much effort into their articles as they did in their blogs. The writing there is so much more alive and interesting.

Posted by: Frustrated Editor | May 19, 2005 03:17 PM

Read more here.

I shoulda gone to law school

Oy! What the heck day is it? This week has been something of a blur. I’m not really sure what I’ve done this week. Feels like nothing, but it can’t be because I’ve been awfully busy doing nothing. Oh wait, I think I can reconstruct.

Earlier this week my time was spent making heads and tails out of an $18 million settlement between major publishers and databases and freelance writers whose work they posted without permission or compensation.

So after interviewing a past president of ASJA (a party to the suit) and wending my way through the 90-page legal document, I crafted a column for the June/July issue of Quill magazine.

As if that weren’t enough legal mumbo-jumbo for one week, I then received an e-mail asking for my opinion on language that would expand the definition of “covered persons” to include freelancers and bloggers though the use of a “function” test in the proposed federal shield law legislation.

I now know that there are two such bills currently introduced in Congress. But there’s no question that giving carte blanche protection to bloggers will not occur in this administration. Hell, we’ll be lucky if one of these darned things passes at all. And if it does, I wouldn’t be surprised to find something heinous attached, such as a national security provision. We’ll shield you from revealing your sources except in the matter of national security, which shall be evoked by the administration at will.

On June 10, I’ll be returning to the Ted Scripps Leadership Retreat in Indianapolis where I’ll be discussing chapter programming, funding and leadership continuity with many SPJ leaders. Along with my co-presenter, I worked up an outline for our presentations and shipped it off to national HQ.

Got a call from a frantic freelancer in south Florida who had an ethical question about work he was doing for an online magazine. When he told the publisher he needed more time on a series of articles about prisoners with disabilities in Florida’s penal system, she apparently had decided it was time enough and demanded his notes and research. Talked him through with the proviso that I’m not an attorney and nothing I say can be substituted for legal advice.

As immediate past president of the Cleveland Pro Chapter, it was my job to find replacement board member for an outgoing member. And so I’ve just completed my nominations report in time to go out with our weekly newsletter, Writer’s Week.

Somewhere during this week I managed to read yet another religion book for review (I can’t even recall the subject), and I’ve done some researching for magazine pitches, but need about 80 hours of time to send out queries that actually make some sense.

(Danny, close your eyes here.) In terms of my week’s end balance sheet—this week belongs to SPJ and therefore no income, save my book review.

That’ll change soon because in between the madness, I’ve managed to begin assembling a labor of love project on Thomas Merton. It’s one of those pieces without a deadline. “Just send it in when you get it done.” It’s clear to me that I do not function well without deadlines. Just give me a drop-dead date and I’m all set. Open-ended deadlines are the kiss of death.

Over the summer, I’ll be working on a book project about pain management with the Cleveland Clinic Press. The outline is finished and I’m waiting for final changes from the doctor with whom I’m collaborating.

The manuscript is due at the end of July, so there’s a good chance that for the next two months I’ll be largely out of sight. And then I’ll be on vacation, which is worth dreaming about. The Outer Banks, a beach house, feet in the sand, no books I have to read, no laptop, plenty of fresh seafood, daily cocktails on the deck at 5 and lots of laughs with the fam. Ahhh, I can smell the saltwater already.

King on reading and writing

You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by the force of your writing until it has been done to you. — Stephen King, "On Writing"

She missed a lot

Love is not a zero-sum game. And yet we often act as if we have a finite capacity to love, holding back, controlling, doling it out little by little as if we were paying off a large debt.

Yesterday morning my paternal grandmother died in her sleep. She had been diagnosed with cancer in several places a few months ago (though we learned of it last week) and was just beginning her chemotherapy. I wish I could say that she touched me in some way, but I would be insincere if I did.

You see my grandmother was the master of love as a zero-sum game. She held back, kept us all, including my dad at arm’s length. And now she has passed and from all accounts it was peaceful. I suppose that’s the least we can hope for someone who led such a miserable existence.

When my dad told me the news I didn’t really react one way or another. She was a mystery to me, a stranger. He seemed to understand, saying that she kept us away by her own choice. She doesn’t know my children at all, and she certainly doesn’t know me. I’m not sure what she ever thought of me or of my two brothers and sister. I’m not sure if she bragged of us to her friends at the VFW.

But I do know that she missed an awful lot. And that makes me sad, for her, my grandfather (always such a sweet and kind man) and especially for my dad. For most of his adult life, my father has been trying to please a woman who could not be pleased.

When my dad was 13, he found his younger brother, Dick, dead, facedown in a ditch of water after he had been hit by a car while riding his bike. I don’t pretend to know what agony losing a child brings and, God willing, I never will. But I do know that at that moment, my grandmother lost any joy and verve she ever had in life. In essence she, too, died that day.

From then on, she was bound and determined not to allow anyone to get close to her. Aside from grandfather, she succeeded. I’m sure in some way it was her own form of self-preservation. But what she missed was a lot. She missed my dad, one of the most creative, intelligent, convivial people I know. And loyal to her, despite her coldness toward him. She missed my mom, who has been a dutiful daughter-in-law, taking her lumps and keeping her mouth shut. She was willing to be so much more for her. Earlier this week, my mom — herself a cancer survivor — had offered to take my grandma to the wig shop to help her select a wig.

I wish I could solve the mystery of her. There’s a photograph of my grandmother from her early twenties that always sat in their house. She was a beautiful, fiery redhead. An Appalachian Maureen O’Hara. When my sister and I were admiring it once, my grandfather explained that she was a model then, and I pictured her full of moxie and mischief, smoking her Pall Malls and throwing her head back with uproarious laughter.

From time to time, her fun-loving side would emerge, quite unexpectedly. As her grandchildren, we knew to just go along for the ride and enjoy it while it lasted. She was a Rosie Riveter during World War II, a single mother supporting her two (and later three) boys. And in recent years she would tell us stories (especially after a few drinks) of her early days. The writer in me was so hungry to learn more, to understand that side of my family’s life. But the stories would only go so far and then they would abruptly stop.

There are two days that stand out for me as especially beautiful. And now that she's gone, I choose to remember those. One was my dad’s 40th birthday party. I was 14 and joined both my grandmothers, my mom and some aunts around the kitchen table. Grandma was pretty tipsy (she even bummed a smoke off my aunt) and had us laughing so hard that our sides and face hurt. She was recalling stories about my dad as a little (very mischievous) boy and those stories were filled with love and joy.

Three years ago my dad turned 60. We had somehow orchestrated a surprise dinner and later came back to my house for cake and ice cream and presents so that all the grandkids could also celebrate with grandpa. Dad was flying high and would literally be later because we bought him flying lessons as a gift. Then he opened my grandparent’s card and read it aloud. He was crying (Charlie’s a very emotional guy, something we all absolutely LOVE about him.) and I realized that so was my grandma. They hugged for a very long time and I heard her say she loved him.

In that one moment and with those three little words, she held the power to heal so many years of love withheld.

I wish I’d a knowed more people. I would of loved ‘em all. If I’d a knowed more, I woulda loved more. — Toni Morrison

Mental health breaks

Last Friday I woke up and decided I needed a mental health day. You'd think that being self-employed I would do so more often. Sadly, that's rarely the case. Though I'm thinking I must change that in the next several months.

After having a delightful coffee break and conversation with fellow scribe, Kristen Hampshire, I decided against rushing back to e-mail, voicemail and deadlines. After picking up a wrap for my cursed iliotibial band (the source of my knee pain) at Second Sole, I decided to grab my mail and head up to Crocker Park.

Perhaps it's my west side bias, but I find as "lifestyle centers" go, Crocker Park is far more conducive to hanging out than Legacy Village. So with nothing except my latest New Yorker, Atlantic and Quill magazines and my review book, I parked myself on a bench and sat soaking up the sun and the words.

It was heavenly, decadent almost. And much needed. The little break was great, but I'm even more excited about a long break in the form of a summer vacation. Last night we booked our beach house for the first week of August in the Outer Banks. I've already decided against bringing the laptop and anything I HAVE to read. What I crave is the ocean and some R & R.

Einstein and dreams

How smart was Albert Einstein? That’s a question David Kestenbaum of NPR’s Morning Edition was asking yesterday. I’ve been fascinated with the whole Einstein Centennial this year. While at a traffic light at Carnegie and E. 55th, I scribbled into my notebook a beautiful image he shared.

When Einstein was 16 years old he wondered what it would be like to ride alongside a ray of light. I'm reminded of an image from Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "The Little Prince" of the title character traveling from planet to planet. Anyway, that early image later developed into his Theory of Special Relativity. But it all began with a young boy who wanted to know what light looked like to a moving observer.

Though he often admitted that words failed him (during a Rorschach test instead of describing a bird with words, he flapped his arms while hopping around the room), Einstein found the poetic in his visual imagery. He let his visions and dreams wander far enough to take him — and the world — to places we couldn't possibly have imagined.

2005 is dubbed World Year of Physics and the American Institute of Physics has some terrific information about Einstein’s theories and his impact on science and the world. There are some remarkable parallels between science and creativity that I am only now beginning to understand. It was a relationship Einstein knew existed, as evidenced in his essay ”The World As I See It”:

”The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.”

I was never a strong math or science student. Physics was, for me, the most understandable fields of science. Of course it could also have been that Mr. Brown was an exceptional teacher. But I think it was more that my very visual mind could more easily grasp the concepts that I could see occurring before me. Besides there’s a bit of the dreamer in the physicist, something very close to my own sometimes-faraway sensibilities.

One afternoon, about 10 years ago, I flew through a wonderful little novel called, “Einstein’s Dreams,” written by Alan Lightman, a professor of physics and writing at MIT. I’ve been intrigued with Einstein ever since, specifically with his ability to dream of possibilities never imagined. Now to ensure we as adults don't quash that wild abandon and the extraordinary imaginative powers in our children…

Grown-ups like numbers. When you tell them about a new friend, they never ask questions about what really matters. They never ask: "What does his voice sound like? What games does he like best? Does he collect butterflies?" They ask: "How old is he? How many brothers does he have? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only then do they think they know him. If you tell grown-ups, "I saw a beautiful red brick house, with geraniums at the windows and doves on the roof…," they won't be able to imagine such a house. You have to tell them, "I saw a house worth a hundred thousand francs." Then they exclaims, "What a pretty house!" — "The Little Prince," Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Writing toward vulnerability

First, let me take a moment to point you to this op-ed in today’s Plain Dealer. It’s written by my good pal and NYC roomie, Jill Miller Zimon. She and I have had many e-mail, lunch and late-night conversations about the great divide that exists between being mothers and having a career. She writes powerfully about motherhood not being a win-lose proposition. I second her notion. Way to go, Jill!

As you may have noticed from recent blog entries (or perhaps not), I’ve been stuck in a creative quagmire. I refuse to call what I have writer’s block. That’s not the correct term, because I’m still producing, just not inspired or pleased with the result or format.

I’m encouraged after reading Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird.” She puts into words, with searing wit and honesty, exactly what many experienced writers feel. I can’t speak for new writers, but I’m guessing she taps into their psyche as well. With apologies for cannibalizing her material, I’d like to share excerpts from her chapter on writer’s block. You really need to read or re-read the entire book.

There are few experiences as depressing as that anxious barren state known as writer’s block, where you sit staring at your blank page like a cadaver, feeling you mind congeal, feeling your talent run down your leg and into your sock.

Writer’s block is going to happen to you. You will read what little you’ve written lately and see with absolute clarity that it is total dog shit. This is where I am of late. And it suggests that I need to step away from what I’ve been doing, get some distance, a wider perspective if you will.

I hadn’t consider myself blocked, but then I read these words and realized, Anne Lamott knows exactly what I’m feeling. I would like to know Anne Lamott:

The word block suggests that you are constipated or stuck, when the truth is that you’re empty … this emptiness can destroy some writers. Her suggestion is to continue to write a little every day about anything — your childhood, your family, your dog, your blog. But then you need to get outdoors, go see a movie, read for pleasure, take lots of walks and wait for your unconscious to open a door and beckon you inside. She swears it will happen.

It finally did … it was like catching amoebic dysentery. I was just sitting there minding my business, and then the next minute I rushed to my desk with an urgency I had not believed possible.

Writers have to find a way to trust in the process, to trust their instincts. It’s so hard when you’re feeling empty, spent. But if we tap into our memory, into our unconscious, we start to see, feel and hear things that may yet begin to inspire.

Everything you need is in your head and memories, in all that your senses provide, in all that you’ve seen and thought and absorbed. There in your unconscious, where the real creation goes on, is the little kid or the Dr. Seuss creature in the cellar, arranging and stitching things together.

On a notepad sitting next to my stack of books, I began scribbling down phrases and fragments and words that may or may not turn into something. But reading her book jogged my memory loose of its stupor. The list would make little sense to anyone but me (and maybe my sister) — butterscotch pants, grape ice cream, counting change, fat Crayolas, hammock, deep woods off, baby oil, talks over the kitchen sink, being shut out, mean girls.

When I talked to Danny about wanting to pursue essays, he grimaced a little. I know he’s worried about my exposing too much, but I told him these were themes from my childhood. He asked how I would know what to write. I’ll let Anne explain.

If something inside you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing real emotion at the center of your work. Write straight to the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability.

Boys, boys, boys

To all my friends and colleagues with boys, I offer up this rip-roaring screed on being the mother of three boys, especially to my fellow mothers of three (or more!) boys — Patty B, Lisa B, Susan, Barb, Terri, Kathy, Mona, Chris, Maggie, Sue and Mary (for having triplet boys!).

Most of us have older boys now, but I think we can certainly relate to this on many levels.

They close in around you and gawk and gasp and gape as you slip off your night drawers. There you are -- naked, nude, undone. And there they are -- staring at your dicklessness. You try to change the scenery by swiftly slipping into your rather stylish and mentally uplifting boy-short undies and matching halter bra, and saying, "Isn't this a pretty color?" But no amount of pastel can distract them from the fact that you are clearly, physically, not one of them.

You are certain the baby is eyeing this new halter bra and thinking, "Why has she kept that one from me?" The other two remain in pure boyhood shock, with their hands down their pants and that ten-thousand-mile-away stare you've seen thousands of times on boys and grown men alike. "Do you have to go to the bathroom?" you ask, and they quickly remove their hands from their pants. Sure, they see you like this nearly every day, but today they ask you, "What is that?"

And to my sister, Jen, who come September will find out what it means to be a boy mom though she’s had plenty of hands-on experience as most-favorite aunt, I leave you with this. When you’re in the midst just remember what dad always says: “This, too, shall pass.” :)

It's a pooping party, and you're the star. You are the star who is needed right now because this is a crucial moment in these boys' daily psycho-emotional lives. After boys poop, they hate to flush it down. They want to study their accomplishment. They need Mom to approve of it too, Mom to admire it, Mom to wave it good-bye, bye-bye boom, as it swirls down the whirlpool pot. And after it is all gone, they are terrified to wash it off their hands. They want to keep it with them all day long -- just like men who will keep the after-sex musk on them all day as a kind of secret they share with their bodies, themselves.

Women's mags = sensory overload

Last week, still high on the inspiration found at the ASJA conference, I decided to spend a few hours at the library becoming familiar with an assortment of women's magazines.

The plug, from the many editors and contributors at the conference, was that there's gold in them thar magazines, if only we had your incredible pitches. I figure, I'm a woman, I'm a writer, I have ideas, I can do this.

I literally jumped back in my chair when I began perusing the feature well of some of these mags. It's an exercise in sensory overload with obnoxiously screaming graphics, scripty fonts and headlines that scream Miracle This and How I Survived That and 5 Ways to Improve This and 15 Ways to Talk to Your Kids About That. (As an aside, magazines always use odd numbers in headlines. Sells better for some reason.)_

Some of the articles scared the shit out of me. But most of them began to blend together in a melange of disease of the week, miracle-worker of the month or how to keep our children from becoming ax-murderers stories.

I took a few notes, had a few private giggles at the expense of others and then packed up to head home. I've mentioned here that I'm hoping to stretch my writing into personal essays. Most of the women's magazines offer a space for personal essays (typically the back page) so that will be my focus for the next several months.

However, what I found somewhat disturbing was the amount of first-person writing in "reported" stories. Many of the magazines read as one giant estrogen-charged essay. I'll admit I've never been a reader of those magazines. I much prefer the cleaner aesethic and content of Health magazine or Real Simple or Country Living.

So I was thinking about how the information is packaged in these publications. As a former magazine editor, I tend to do those things. Mostly I fantasize about what I would do with some of their budgets. I wonder what consultant or market resesarcher told them that women prefer to be blasted with content in an ADHD way? Maybe I'm the oddball here, but I don't need anymore visual stimuli or chaos in my life. When I sit down with a pleasure magazine, I want the experience to be relaxing and inspiring. I want to look at my life and see possibilities. Quite frankly, that's what made Martha Stewart Living so appealing.

More than anything else, I was disappointed that so much of the content among the big three — Family Circle, Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal — was the same, over and over again. Don't the editors want something different? Don't they crave something different? Don't readers want something different?

I saw the bylines of many ASJA panelists, some of whom did the big push for six-figure freelance careers. Writing for me has never been about making gobs of money, so I skipped those sessions. It has always been about telling stories, primarily about people or issues that move me. I'm sure in some of their eyes, I will always be a failure as a writer, a less-than writer.

But when I do finally break into the national pubs, I want it to be work I'm proud of, not work capitulated to fit the sensation of the month. So I think I'll stick with pitching short essay pieces to start. Now I know it's easy to sit back and criticize when I've not worked on staff at that level or written at that level. But I'm hoping that breaking in on the back end will give me a better feel for working with editors and, hopefully, give me an entree to pitch quality stories for the feature well.

Creative Ink has been my laboratory for exploring different issues, different writing styles and for honing my voice. After more than a year, it's now time to muster the courage to take my personalized worldview wider. Stay tuned...

Remember what mama said…

… choose your friends wisely and don’t forget where you come from.

And that’s the advice offered in this op-ed in today’s The State in Columbia, S.C. Written by Ernest L. Wiggins, a mass comm professor at USC, he claims that the problem with some of today’s high-profile journalists (and probably those not so visible) and their tendency to lapse ethically is that they are too removed from the people for whom they write — the readers.

It’s not that the Alboms, Braggs, Barnicles and Blairs of the news world are preternaturally unethical or lazy. I believe it’s more that they are removed — and not just by physical distance — from the people they are paid to serve. They might be distanced by worldview or lifestyle, background or disposition — as removed, I might add, as many of our elected leaders are from their constituents. And that’s not where the similarity ends.

Wiggins cites all manner of problems stemming from that distance:
• loss of interest, connection and respect for readers
• desire to craft stories for their own amusement or to impress equally removed colleagues, or (worst of all) to curry favor with the newsmakers they cover
• tendency to succumb to the smarmier practices of those they cover, relying on innuendo, rumor and sound bites, rather than solid reporting
• tendency to be seduced by wealth or power

Let's hope this is the rare exception and not the rule. But perhaps it also means taking a gut-check to ask ourselves who—and what—we are writing for.

A pause in life's marathon

Last Friday I made my last payment to day care — ever. I'm still in a bit of shock, though I'm sure I'll easily find another use for that monthly expenditure. Perhaps on the boys' never-ending need for shoes. The weight of this didn't hit me until my cell rang and it was my sister calling to tell me the results of her ultrasound. (It's a boy!) She was clearly very excited about the news and then I blurted out, "I just made my last day care payment." Stopped her for a sec.

As it did me. After 12-1/2 years of paying for someone to care for my children while I worked, I'm done. In August, Michael will be in first grade and Ryan and Patrick will be in middle school. Everyone is coming home on the bus — and to mom.

We've been fortunate to have good care for our children. And my work has been flexible enough to allow us to go for stretches without paying for help. Of course, that decision at times took its toll on all of us. But somehow we managed.

Got me to thinking about all those things that were such a part of our lives for so long — strollers, cribs, changing tables, car seats, training wheels, potty seats, diaper bags. There's not a trace of that left in our house, except that I use the changing table to hold laundry supplies in the basement.

Those were the days when parenting was physical. It was easier to drop your baby off to be cared for while you work then to try to negotiate the twilight zone of after school and adolesence. Now, of course, I spend my days trying to mentally stay one step ahead of the boys. For the most part, they are great kids and I enjoy being around them. I'm glad I'm here after school since, as all the parenting magazines and talk shows declare, that's the danger hour. But sometimes, they still play me like a fiddle.

For example, every year the kindergarten students at Michael's after-school care put on a circus for the other children and parents. It's a very big deal. Of course I was, as always, in a hurry leaving the house (it started at 4 and it was five till) and I tried to shoo the boys into the car to come with me.

They balked long enough for me to say, "Fine, you can stay home, but don't cause trouble." On the short drive to Glenview I began to stew. They took advantage of my being in a hurry to get their way. I didn't much appreciate that. I'd been outfoxed, outmaneuvered by my own flesh and blood.

Mikey performed wonderfully as a circus clown, serving as the foil in the perennial favorite knock-knock joke about bananas. I had barely pulled into the driveway with him when he slid the van door open to go sprinting to play with all the big boys, of which there were about a dozen playing basketball in the drive.

I shot Ryan the "get in the house" look and informed him that under no circumstances was the entire neighborhood to be at our house while I'm gone. And then I told him he and Patrick took advantage of my being in a hurry and I didn't appreciate being played. And if it happened again, I was going to find some after-school babysitting help.

I always throw that out there. Between you and me, it'll never happen. But it surely gives them a moment's pause. And that's my point. Always keep 'em guessing.

We need a handyman

I pulled my van into the garage on Saturday after the weekly trip to Target and found Danny sitting in a lawn chair looking beat.

"Hey, what's the matter?" I asked. He was in his lawn-mowing clothes (known in these parts as his Driveway Clothes) so I knew he was doing yardwork and thinking about all the stuff that needs to be done around the house.

"I'm overwhelmed," he said, asking if I happened to notice how nice the lawn looks. I didn't, and he was crushed, but we marched right back out to walk the grounds, a habitual ritual he and I have.

We're having our house painted this month after much back and forth, should we hire it out or do it ourselves. (Danny, who has his own lingo for many things calls that process of indecision, yo-yo-ing.) Fortunately, we decided that our time was worth the price of having it done by professionals in the space of two or three days. I'm excited about it, and I know he is, too. But getting the house painted points out all the other imperfections that need tending.

The list includes:
• new outdoor lighting to replace icky tarnished brass fixtures filled with corpus delecti of last year's midges (I'm going with black wrought iron to complement the taupe, cream and black colors we'll be painting the house.)
• mailbox to replace the icky one that previous owners painted teal (over brass) (again, black wrough iron)
• replace bent downspout that's been that way for the eight years we've been here
• new interior garage door since Riley can push it open with one gentle swipe of her paw
• new interior back door since it leaks all manner of heating and air conditioning to great outdoors
• replace wood shutters on downstairs windows that lose slats whenever the wind blows
• cut down pine and evergreen that have threatened to overtake my front garden
• paint the picket fence around front garden (though Danny, ever the wheeler and dealer, tells me he talked the painter into doing the fence for a case of beer)
• replace screens damaged by kids, dog and a failed attempt at hanging Christmas decorations

Phew! No wonder he was beat. Somewhere in there we need to cart kids to soccer and baseball and, God forbid, enjoy a little weekend R&R.

We're at the do-over stage of home ownership. We've been in our house for eight years and all the paint jobs and carpeting and landscaping is looking a little tired (kinda like its owners). Fortunately, he and I seem to take turns being overwhelmed by it all. The outside is fun for me, it's the inside that I find overwhelming. But that's probably a function of the outside being Danny's primary domain and the inside being mine.

The inside list is as follows:
• paint the boys' room and replace bent blinds with unbendable wooden blinds so house doesn't resemble a tenement from the street
• replace carpet up the steps and throughout the entire upstairs
• that means we also need to repaint the downstairs hallway, steps and upstairs hallway (ugh!)
• replace the toilet in the boys' bathroom, which has been nonfunctioning since Christmas
• resolve the leaky pipe problem that has left paint peeling on the ceiling of my kitchen (which was extensively remodeled in 2002) and now threatens a portion of the family room

A few weeks ago, little Mikey was sitting at the breakfast bar eating his Wheaties and eyeballing the peeling ceiling when he said, "Mom, we need Mr. Carney. He can fix anything. He even cleaned up Daniel's throw up."

Mr. Carney is the custodian at Normandy Elementary. And Mikey's right. We need a handyman.

Souls as athletes

Souls are like athletes, that need opponents worthy of them, if they are to be tried and extended and pushed to the full use of their powers, and rewarded according to their capacity. — Thomas Merton, "The Seven Storey Mountain"

Thank you, Connie

Being a writer is a very bipolar experience. I've been on the downward slide of late and I'm desperately digging in my heels hoping to prevent a freefall. As most experienced writers know, when you feel desperate as a writer, NOTHING seems to work.

I keep coming back to Pulitzer Prize-winning writer (hereafter known as PPWW) Buzz Bissinger's remark at ASJA conference that he is "uneven" as a writer. Lately, that's how I feel.

Maybe I'm getting bored with the stuff I've always done. Maybe it's time to stretch again. And that's why I'm thanking PPWW Connie Schultz today. She said these six words at the City Club of Cleveland yesterday:

I found my courage in essays.

An always encouraging colleague poked me in the back and said, "She's talking to you." And I was listening. More than 230 people packed the room yesterday to hear what the 2005 PPWW for commentary had to say, many of them were her colleagues at The Plain Dealer and her colleagues at other news organizations. But she directed her remarks at the writers in the audience in general and the freelance writers in particular.

She recognized how self-defensive we independents can be and how we view writing as a mission, not simply a job. And that's a view she carries from her freelance days to her position as columnist at the PD.

Her advice?

• Revise, revise, revise.
• Every good writer needs a good editor.
• Tell a story and get out of its way.
• Read your writing aloud to hear where words aren't working.
• Tell yourself you're writing for the New York Times, even if it's the community paper.
• Sit with an editor through the editing process to learn where things aren't working in your story.
• It's easy to feel beaten down: how you handle it will determine who you will be.
• Don't make apologies for who you are: woman, man, parent, married, single, gay, straight, right, left.

And here are a few more tips offered by her editor and writing coach, Stuart Warner:

• Read everything.
• Seek out advice of writers whom you admire and find out how they are succeeding.
• Seek and accept criticism.
• Don't rest on your laurels.

And finally, Connie left us with this gem from poet Lucille Clifton:

What they call you is one thing. What you answer to is another.

Hey Connie, have time for coffee?

A little fun
Check out this piece from Guardian's Tim Dowling. It's a delightful little spoof on Arianna Huffington's forthcoming group blog. Hah!

Writing as reward

Inspiration courtesy of Anne Lamott from her book "Bird by Bird"…

But I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part. It's like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward.