I’m a sucker for these pulps from the 50s/60s–but especially if they’re film tie-ins, like this one:

The Best of Everything written by Rona Jaffe.

The movie starred Hope Lange, Stephen Boyd, model Suzy Parker, Diane Baker, Bob Evans (yes, The Kid Stays in the Picture), and special guest Joan Crawford!

Here’s a review.

If you haven’t seen it, it’s on DVD (I own it, natch).

The movie is totally melodramatic (“An expose of the lives and loves of Madison Avenue working girls and their higher ups”) and most of the story takes place in a publishing house–where Joan is the top editor.

Here’s a classic scene between Joan and Hope Lange–guess which lines are Joan’s…

Amanda Farrow: When you finish the slush files, then you may go. But I want my comments on each.
Caroline Bender: Typed?
Amanda Farrow: No Miss Bender. Beat it out on a native drum.

Don’t know why I had never seen this poem by Billy Collins before:

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
“Nonsense.” “Please!” “HA!!” -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote “Don’t be a ninny”
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls “Metaphor” next to a stanza of Eliot’s.
Another notes the presence of “Irony”
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
“Absolutely,” they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
“Yes.” “Bull’s-eye.” “My man!”
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written “Man vs. Nature”
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake’s furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents’ living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
“Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.”

Included in the book, Sailing Around the Room: New and Selected Poems

Brown Bag is a 1 hour drop in writing session downtown at the organization where Ted and I teach. It’s from noon to one so we often get folks coming in on their lunch break.

One of the prompts was:

Write what was broken (though I guess you could have read or heard it as Right what was broken, huh?)

I’ve decided that whenever I do these Brown Bags, and this is my second time going, i’m going to follow the prompt but apply it to my novel. So, I wrote about what was broken in this character in my book.

Here’s the first sentence I wrote for that prompt:

It was as if my world had cracked, broken open so that everything and everyone and every moment of that summer had spilled out in front of me.

Not the greatest sentence, but it was a terrific exercise, really. And I’m finding much joy in that I’m able to steal moments like this to write .

Then Tuesday night I heard this amazing poem on The Writer’s Almanac, written by Jack Gilbert. I especially love the last line. And I’m always drawn to the Icarus myth (for a fantastic short story inspired by the Icarus myth read Gabriel Brownstein’s “Musé de Beaux Arts” from his completely compelling story collection, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Apt. 3W, which I had the pleasure of reading in manuscript form when I worked at a publishing house –that eventually purchased the book).

Icarus by Hendrik Gotzius

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

“Failing and Flying” by Jack Gilbert, from Refusing Heaven. (c) Alfred A. Knopf, 2005 .

Today had one of the longest (and most productive) days of writing since I got back from Vermont.

Also, kind of nice to go with the hubby and write.

We went to down to The Ink Spot, the writing group/organization (San Diego Writers, Ink) that I work for and we both teach for downtown. Every other Sunday they have what they call, Room To Write, from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. for members and provide a quiet space and tables and chairs and lots of light to write. If you live in San Diego you should really think about joining SDWInk!

After nearly four hours of working on a new scene in the book, I looked through my journal, the one I kept while in VT at the VSC.

Read through the notes I took when Amy Bloom, the visiting writer, gave her craft talk. Bloom is, in my humble opinion, a queen of the first line.

Here are some of the things I wrote down:

Make the characters come alive from the inside.

Create a dream the reader enters; the errors in syntax, form, character, etc., can destroy that dream.

The best novel strives to be like the best poem.

Character: see the world as he sees it.

And, if you spend the time to give them a name, they should also have a soul.

How does it feel inhabiting that world as that character?

They should sound like themselves, not like variations of YOU.

If you can’t imagine what it is a character does or says, don’t write about it.

A reader should encounter and create their own relationship with a character.

Always keep in mind:

1. Illuminating the character
2. Advancing the story
3. Giving a beautiful sentence

Don’t walk us through every moment—crossing the room, grabbing the door knob, etc.

Sometimes start with the very bare bones of a scene and then go back.

When you write, your loved ones, your audience, your parents are DEAD.

You make this good because it matters to YOU.

Read it aloud without inflection so you can hear every bad thing you’ve done.

Move a reader—like an actor—into and out of every scene.

Make your readers believe things really happened, even if it didn’t.

I’m really drawn back to the line: They should sound like themselves, not like variations of YOU.

So much of my writing has been autobiographical, even if loosely based on me or my life. And so I’m trying very hard to make this book, these characters, sound unlike anything else I’ve ever written. But I’m also wanting to move forward and not get hung up on lines and images in this first draft; so, gulp, I’m going to try to do a little bit of both. Work on language, but not get trapped and stopped up by the language—yet—so that I can press on and get through.

And, making my own. (more samples on my Flickr page to the right–>)

Sometimes my friends, like Peter and Jess, give me old postcards they find or old family postcards–especially Jess, whose family seems to have thousands of them.

here’s one.  don’t remember where I got it. the back of it says National Arts Centre, Ottawa Canada “one of five luminous hanging sculptures… by William Martin.”

I was part of a home-made post-card trade–Post.due– that was fun for a bit but then it sort of disappeared, or maybe they disappeared me? (two of my postcards–featuring Dick and Jane– are at the bottom of the page).

Then I discovered Tin Parachute Publishing– also defunct– but they were so cool. They would print a tiny story on a postcard and someone would create art to go with it and then they would send it out. How cool to have a teeny tiny story on a postcard sent out to subscribers– and to have someone create art based on your story. This has happened to me once, when I wrote a piece for the Canadian magazine Maisonneuve.

One of my favorite stories was by the writer Pedro Ponce– see the postcard below. And then it turns out Pedro and I were at the same residency in January so I got to meet him. (and he’s not only a terrific writer but a terrific guy).

I wish Tin Parachute Publishing were still going–I’d love to have sent them something. Does anyone know if there are any short story postcard journals out there?

Maybe I should get one started? Hmm, like I need another distraction from my own writing, right?

(click on the postcard to read the story)

Great quote from Cheever, though (from pg. 375 of the bio):

“Why, I wonder, should my admirers always be mad.”

–does this make me mad?

<–great postcard, eh? got this last year. what to do with it?

In 1845,  they wrote 574 letters to each other over the course of twenty months.

They secretly got married in 1846. Right before the wedding, Robert mailed off to Elizabeth a letter that said:

“Words can never tell you, however, — form them, transform them anyway, — how perfectly dear you are to me – perfectly dear to my heart and soul. I look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every letter, every silence — you have been entirely perfect to me — I would not change one word, one look. I am all gratitude — and all pride (under the proper feeling which ascribes pride to the right source) all pride that my life has been so crowned by you.”

And she wrote probably one of the most famous romantic poems ever:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

(info from The Writer’s Almanac)

Today I’m gardening– finally working on the cactus garden, and Ted and I are making a Valentine’s Dinner of martinis, steak, baked Fennel with Parmesan and Thyme, roasted potatoes, and chocolate souffle.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Been back from my residency in Vermont for two weeks now. Ooof, talk about withdrawal. Luckily, Ted made me dinners for the first two nights I was home (he was trying to ease me back into the real world; the world where three meals a day aren’t cooked for me and a world without continual access to a fully stocked salad bar).

It’s been a strange transition back. I had to jump into teaching again– though (sadly? happily?) only two classes. I guess sadly since It means less money. But I’ll be teaching a one night a week class for 5 weeks in March.

So I get back to teaching– two great classes, thank heavens. Get back to Ted. Get back to the kitties. Yes, Hermia is STILL alive–18 years 10 months, despite a few scares while I was gone and then one REALLY big scare last week involving too much insulin. Luckily she pulled through but not before I had said my teary goodbyes. A good dress rehearsal I suppose.

And now the writing. Getting back to it  has been tough. Mostly, I hope, because I’ve been so busy getting caught up with school. But there’s also just this whole transition back, out of that world where I had no responsibilities and could read for two hours and then write for two hours then read for two hours then write again.

Still, I came back with such incredible feedback and ideas about the book and more chapters. I’m ready to move forward with it. I also have decided i’m going to take a break every once in a while and write something short– a short story, an essay, a poem– in order to feel that sense of accomplishment more often. I miss that. I mean, I feel some sense of accomplishment when I finish a chapter or a really great scene or description or even line, but I miss the feeling of being done with something.

This week I revised a short story from several years ago; actually, I turned it into a short-short, in the hopes of sending it out to places. And i’ve got an idea for a short essay that I want to work on too– it involves this book, Shelley, Also Known As Shirley, a memoir by Shelley Winters (incidentally, it’s a book I first read when I was eleven. Do with that what you will…).

Is this procrastination? Is this going to keep me from my novel? Only time will tell, but I’m hoping not. I hope it will get me back into a regular routine of writing– like I had in Vermont. No make that a regular routine of CREATING.

I miss my Vermont friends. The snow. The fresh baked bread and chickpeas at the salad bar. But i’m glad to be home, too.

So much to say but my head is utterly pounding and the thoughts in my brain a-jumble — anxiety about travel tomorrow, the strange ritual of packing up after 5 weeks away, the  goodbyes to dozens of wonderful people. What is there to say? How to put it into words how important this residency was, how inspiring, how enlightening.

Some fragmented thoughts (Part 1):

I love snow (and it’s now snowing on our last night–yay!)

layering of clothes– forgot how fun it was to accessorize with a scarf–though I didn’t wear my hat as much as I should have (worried about bad hair)

learned so much about the characters in my book.

was inspired by the art and artists here: collage, painting, sculpture, jewelry, print making

decided I really want to buy a print-maker, print press (anybody have an old one they don’t want?)

felt pangs of jealousy that I wasn’t an artist making paintings or sculptures or other visual art

dance parties are fun again

in a pinch Jim Beam will do nicely

really worked on voice and language in my book

VSC has probably the nicest, funniest chef i’ve ever had the pleasure of working with (Go Mark!)–as well as everyone else in the kitchen.

Leni Zumas is my new favorite writer. If you haven’t read her, go out and get her book Farewell Navigator NOW.

People here were very interested in my book. WHEWWW!

I learned some new collage techniques, including ‘tearing.’

Learned the word Gesso. Also ‘underpainting.’

Ate a lot of salad while here.

Crashed into a ditch/snow bank but was rescued by friendly Vermonters.

Saw sled dogs up close and personal!

Twirled around in a black dress while having my picture taken.

Washed about 17, 294 dishes (ok, I just rinsed them).

Made photograms with Rachael!

Finally got good use of my duckboots!

Missed Ted.

Missed the kitties.

discovered Green Mountain organic distilled Vodka (awesome martinis)

the founders and employees of VSC are the greatest

**more about my work at VSC later…

I shared the night with 4 other terrific writer residents: Phil, Louisa, Karen, and Anya. Phil and Anya also showed slides (actually Anya, a writer and performance artist, showed video).

Phil put up this photo of photographer Edward Steichen, which I found incredibly beautiful, it’s called Rodin the Thinker (Rodin Le Penseur 1902). Steichen was known for his “tonal, mood-filled, and mysterious canvases that were praised for their lyrical qualities.”

Furthermore, “he was associated with a style of photography known as Pictorialism. The Pictorialists felt that the aesthetic promise of photography lay in an emulation of painting. Steichen’s early work, then, adopted many Pictorialist techniques (a jiggled tripod, a lens bathed in glycerin, or various darkroom tricks) designed to produce “painterly” soft-focus effects. During this period, Steichen was also a painter, until he burned all his canvases in 1922.” [!!!!!<-- ed.]

I didn’t realize that  I had already seen Steichen’s works in these well known celebrity portraits of Garbo and Gloria Swanson.

Gorgeous.

The visiting writer, Leni Zumas, was a total gem. I met with her on Saturday morning and found her completely engaged and engaging; I felt as if she really understood my project, had really read the sample I sent her closely and thoughtfully and she had very clear specific feedback for me. During this residency i’ve been trying to focus on language–especially the voices of the characters and Leni honed in on that. After reading her story collection,  Farewell Navigator, I can see why: I want to call her prose ’spare’ but I don’t know if that’s the right word. Because it isn’t really spare. The sentences are sharp and strange but also bold and beautiful, eerie (reminiscent of Mark Richard, one of my faves). Her turns of phrase are fresh and odd and stunning: “…the space between her eyes.”  “I am the leaver, the taker, the bringer.” “…the walls are wet on my palm.”

When she gave her craft talk we did the most inspiring writing activity involving words–new, bizarre, obscure words and phrases that then went on to spark ideas and more dazzling words from us. I hope she doesn’t mind but i’m going to use that activity in my own classes.

And though the week is not over yet (still have until Thursday–I leave VSC on Friday morning), this has been a perfect last week.