Sheila talks about writing

I’m no Stephen King, nor do I want to be, but his “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” is worth reading. It’s a generous work, published the year after King was nearly killed walking down a Maine country road, hit by a drunk driver who was busy talking to his dog in the backseat of his van.

I’ll try to be generous too. Years of writing bookstore newsletters, book reviews, reading students’ papers, reading, reading, reading must have taught me something about stringing together words, which I love dearly.

I’ve been asked to do a post about writing and what I’ve learned over the years, so here goes.

Jump right in. I’m way too impatient to read anything that starts with “I’ve been thinking about what I want to tell you and there are some important things to say, which I’m now going to tell you about,” forever blah.

What’s on your mind? “I never wore a strapless evening gown,” or “Medical marijuana is what I’ve been waiting for all my life” would be acceptable openers. There, you get it.

In journalism, we call the first line the lead or lede. Use the same “jump right in” rule for fiction or nonfiction.

My favorite lead ever came in a U.S. history’s student’s paper on the First Amendment: “The principals were laid two hundred years ago when our nation began.” Sorry, I couldn’t help it.

Then there’s all that stuff in between the lead (or lede) and the ending. King says go for character development. I like authentic-sounding dialogue for fiction, authentic-sounding quotes in journalism. As in history, which I taught for many years, I want the character, historical figure, or political hack to sound like a real person. (Brook once told me to write like I talk, but I was way more wordy then.)

Recently, a children’s author/friend whom I respect told me that you’ll never get a book published these days — if that’s your goal  ha ha — unless your characters are about to fall off a cliff at any moment. Ick. I want some introspection and inner dialogue.

I also want the setting to seem like a real place. No ephemeral, non-recognizable locations for me. But that’s your choice.

Snappy endings. “Hot damn” or “OH MY God” is what I want the reader to say after closing a book or finishing the story. As in teaching, I’d prefer that a student, reader, listener has to do a tiny bit of thinking. “Aha that’s what she meant!” The synapses, neurotransmitters and so forth ought to be buzzing when you look up from the page.

My fervent hope is that readers will want to know more, read more, think more — be ready to plunge into new ideas — all the while saying to themselves, “this is cool stuff.”


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Tour de tour

Today was El Tour de Tucson, a giant bicycle race that raises funds for non-profit charitable agencies. Around 9,000 folks cycle all over the city, 109 miles in one race, a bunch more go for 66 miles, and some head onto the roadways north of Tucson in Oro Valley for a mere 40.

I don’t know how they do it. My longest cycling experience so far has been 30 miles. We went over to the 66-mile start this morning to vicariously join in the excitement. Afterward we stopped for breakfast, then rode home through back streets because cars zooming by on Speedway or Broadway scare me.

Eighteen miles in all. Hell, my short legs are tired tonight.

But a lovely activity, cycling. Riding east on Pima Street toward the tour’s starting place this morning, Dan was on my left. He may have strayed six inches out of the bike lane. A humongous pick-up truck roared by, its engine saying something that couldn’t be good.

Dan’s a really nice man. Nicer than me. The pick-up pulled into the parking lot of Second Amendment Guns. “My bad,” Dan called out to the driver as he embarked from his Noah’s Ark-sized vehicle.

“You shouldn’t ride like that. You’re going to get killed,” he hollered back.

“Guns kill people,” I yelled, but by then he was probably inside perusing weapons, as if his truck wasn’t one itself.

“There are some people you just can’t apologize to,” Dan said to me.

I hate the political divisiveness in the country, the meanness, which I’m sure I’ve written about before. And I don’t get it.

Back on the road after the depressing exchange, cyclists kept passing us — cause I’m slow — polite and cheery, smiling as they went by with an “on your left.” Crossing Tanque Verde my cell phone fell out of my pocket, hitting the pavement hard. Two cyclists behind me had already stopped to pick it up for me by the time I got back across the street.

It has a few dings on the back but nobody ran over it. It still works fine. The luck of the draw, a miracle, or am I just living the good life?

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Bran Donuts

That’s how Rachel McAdams, playing morning-everything-TV show producer Becky Fuller, portrays combining news and entertainment in the cute new movie “Morning Glory,” which we saw tonight. McAdams is like a buzz saw in the lead role, with an always terrific Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton as backup.

Being a journalist and a serious person who loves to laugh, I tried not to mire myself in real news shot to hell while stupid “entertainment” garners more attention. But hey, consider who could actually be the 2012 Republican nominee for president. There I go.

I did laugh a lot during the movie, honest. There’s a wacky weatherman who goes from blabbing about hurricanes in front of a map of the United States, to parachuting out of a plane yelling “fuuuuuuck” as he plummets to the ground.

OK, no surprise that when Becky lambastes grouchy former Dan Rather-type newsman Harrison Ford, telling him that the war between news and entertainment has been going on for a long time “and you lost,” I cringed.

It was date night. Dan and I hadn’t found an acceptable movie to see in quite awhile. I can’t wait to see the new Harry Potter movie and “Fair Game.” Fun, you might ask, isn’t that about the Valerie Plame CIA debacle when Bush was in the White House (oops, I almost said Nixon. Oh well, nearly one and the same except megalomaniac Nixon seemed to enjoy thinking).

I don’t like dumb movies with boy jokes about poop. Like most people, I tend to laugh when people fall down. (Why is that, anyway?) Some of my favorite movies — way before I was a journalist — have been about reporters and newspapers: “Broadcast News,” “Network” and “All the President’s Men.”

Is it a cop-out to say that bran muffins with a side of blueberries and yogurt are yummy, and even if I hardly ever eat them, so are donuts and coffee?

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Hippening Up History

History is a big topic for me: I’ve taught it, lived it, written about it, and pondered its future. I’ve also jetted around the country presenting workshops for teachers, “Connecting History: Their Lives, Our Lives.”

No one is objective; it’s a farce to insist that historians are. Here’s my favorite passage about teaching history, direct from my mentor/friend, the late historian Howard Zinn‘s “You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train: A Personal History of Our Times.”

“I never believed that I was imposing my views on blank slates, on innocent minds. My students had had a long period of political indoctrination before they arrived in my class — in the family, in school, in the mass media. Into a marketplace so long dominated by orthodoxy I wanted only to wheel my little pushcart, offering my wares along with the others, leaving students to make their own choices.”

What is the truth that history is supposed to impart? Only the facts, ma’am…as I heard on the cop show Dragnet growing up?

Our own histories/or herstories meld with fleeting memories, emotional importance, and whim. Realistically, so does the chronicling of society.

I’m not denying that there are historical facts — John F. Kennedy was elected president in 1960. The Arizona legislature did pass SB 1070. My father owned Cherry Hill Gardens in Waterbury, Conn.

But the facts come alive with stories of real people. I remember an argument I had years ago, giving a workshop on using literature to teach the Holocaust. It was at Murfreesboro State in Tennessee. My co-presenter became a well-known Holocaust educator.

He insisted that teachers shouldn’t use books like “Number The Stars” by Lois Lowry to teach about the Holocaust because they were only stories.

Tell me, ever heard a kid say, “I love that U.S. history textbook.”

Fiction and nonfiction can live together happily to provide a better understanding of historical events.

Take the 2011 Tucson Festival of Books; I’m chair of the history/memoir/biography committee. T.J. Stiles, author of “The First Tycoon: The Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt,” which won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Biography, will be a presenter. So will Mark Rudd, who wrote — and lived — “Underground: My Life with SDS and the Weathermen.” But don’t stop there, pick up Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom,” or another novel that takes you back to the ’60s.

Franzen’s latest novel is massive, and spans decades of my adult life.  I’ve been thinking about what freedom means in tumultuous America.

“Ill Fares The Land” by Tony Judt is my next read. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

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Hoofer, father

That’s how Savion Glover describes himself in the UApresents program. I’d call him the most creative, stupendous tap dancer ever. His body resonates music — there’s no need of instruments. “Bare Soundz,” his latest show, performed last night with Marshall Davis Jr. and Keitaro Hosokawa at the University of Arizona’s Centennial Hall, proves it.

What a transcendent evening! My friend who went with me had never witnessed Glover’s dancing; it was my fourth time. After two hours — with no intermission — of the most electrifying, original movements feet could possibly pound out, she said, “That was like a spiritual experience.”

I was speechless. Really, all my superlatives don’t matter. You truly had to be there. We sat in the fifth row and could see the sweat dripping off him, which took me back 14 years to my first Savion Glover experience.

But wait. First I must digress. I’ve been in love with tap since I was six years old. I flap-toe-heeled then with braids flying, and shuffled off to Buffalo 24 years later in a lobster costume with my dear friends Marilee and Kate, in front of hundreds of people. It was Southwest Harbor Days. (We went on after the Wicked Good Band played “The State of Maine License is the Only License with a Dead Animal on it.”)

Jump ahead to my 50th birthday in NYC, surprised by Brook with front row seats to “Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk.” The show combined African-American history, blues and tap. And Glover, the 23-year-old choreographer and lead hoofer, won every possible award known to Broadway that year.

Brook had done some tapping of her own by that time. Maybe my memory exaggerates, but I recall Brook and me holding hands, intermittently rising from our seats with the rest of the audience, howling in excitement.

We saw Glover sweating then too, but his face looked  different  than it did last night. Maybe it was the nature of the show. Brook and I waited outside the stage door, hoping to get his signature on our program.

I blurted out that we were tap dancers (compared to him, yeah right!). While inscribing his Savion Glover on the program, he didn’t look up at us. Maybe he was shy. When I thanked him, he replied, almost sullenly, “No problem.”

Last night, his face seemed illuminated with love. His smile, warmth and wit were apparent. He even sang, “I owe it all to you.” Savion Glover is 37 now, married with a young son.

So maybe he’s a happy family man. Or maybe it’s good to get older, grow into himself and his art. I dunno, just look at his face.

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If I write more I write more

I’ll admit that it took me few months getting comfortable with the notion of starting a blog. People have plenty of stuff to read already, I thought.

Hurling myself into cyberspace, how important was it to carefully edit my blog posts, to get them exactly right? My friend Julie, a social media aficionado, encouraged me to just “do it.”

Brook used to tell me to stop with all the writing-group exercises, although my 15+-year Maine writing group was more about camaraderie with close women pals. “Just write, you know how to do it, mom,” she’d say, adding — to my heart’s delight — “you’re a a zingy writer” or something like that.

At the time I probably still owned Oz Books and was creating store newsletters, reviewing children’s books for professional magazines, writing a monthly “Branching Out” column for AppleSeeds children’s magazine. So I had to be zingy.

Writers write. Indeed. Now that I make my living (such as it is) writing three or four articles in every issue of the biweekly Arizona Jewish Post, I am a writer.

I dream of writing a memoir. Whenever I see her, my author niece Amy says I should write my memoir because she wants to read it. (My kids know enough about me already, maybe too much).

Friends often ask me why I don’t write a children’s book. I’ve got one going. It’s Tucson-based, about local history that I want to learn, along with some social activist commentary that needs to be subtle. Focus on making it a lively story, my inner Sheila advises.

Once I flung myself into the blogging world, writing my own stuff has taken hold. It’s so fun!

If writers write I’m traveling down the right yellow brick road. And what must be said at this point: thank you, dear readers, for skipping along with me.


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Wild Bill won’t ride again

I have a new political theory. Maybe the beginning of all this extreme — often lying — criticism exemplified in last week’s election stems from President Bill Clinton’s impeachment on Dec. 19, 1998.

If right wing politicians could get away with that fiasco, perhaps they could get away with anything. They did it because they could. And doesn’t that, uh, freedom, make people do strange things? (I’m all for freedom, but not always for strange things).

I was at a small cocktail party in Northeast Harbor, Maine; it was the summer following Wild Bill’s impeachment and subsequent acquittal on Feb. 12, 1999. One of the state’s two sane Republican senators was standing nearby. We were both sipping white wine.

Sidling up to her, I said, “Thank you for being so civilized during President Clinton’s impeachment trial.”

“Oh, you have no idea what the right wing fanatics wanted to do to him. The public doesn’t even know the half of it,” she replied.

We seem to be hearing the other half these days. The blathering misinformation and xenophobia is hard to take: Obama’s a socialist, commie Muslim. Here in Arizona, the state Department of Education has issued a mandate that teachers with accents would not be allowed to teach in Arizona.

If people believe whatever they hear, politicians can sling any crap to a sound-bite hungry public.

Did Bill Clinton’s impeachment introduce the age of angry cable TV commentators? In part. At least it was a benchmark.

I’ll acknowledge that my own name-calling — loonies, crazies, wackos, nutcases — doesn’t initiate civil dialogue. I’ve been considering this more since Jon Stewart’s fabulous Rally to Restore Sanity.

Tonight MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow interviewed Stewart on her show. He’s a smart guy, and raised points that reminded me of how I taught high school social studies. Keep asking kids why, get them confused about their habitual thinking. That was my goal.

Cable TV highlights the conflict between red and blue states, said Stewart, instead of searching for common ground. “What happens in discourse is not precise, but what matters is the place you’re coming from.”

Then Stewart, who had a stomach flu, made me laugh. He called Maddow the “ginger root of interviewers” by not making him vomit for the first time in 24 hours.

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I was so much older then

OK, watch out — I’m turning on the bragonater, which is very different than a bullshit detector.

There’s nothing I enjoy more than someone practically keeling over when I divulge my age. Today an acquaintance was telling me about a free weekly musical event she thought I’d like. “You know,” she said, “a lot of people our age go .”

I humbly thanked her, but I’ll admit that I was waiting for the shock and awe (in a good way). “Oh we’re not the same age; I’m much older than you,” I said. She laughed, clearly doubting me.

“Well I’m 51,” she said. Ha! When I cheerfully announced that I’m 13 years older, she almost fell off her chair, but instead shrieked, “I’m floored!”

Last time I visited my friend Charlotte in NYC about five years ago, she opened the door and looked speechless. “Oh my god,” she finally blurted, “you’re the only person I know who looks younger every time I see you!”

Bragonater’s off now. My age is creeping up on me. For the first time in my life, I have a pudgy stomach, my shape is changing. I don’t have as much energy.

I question whether it’s worth trying to lose 15 lbs. — I weigh more than I did during either of my pregnancies — or whether I’m at the age when it’s better to suck every once of enjoyment out of life, including hazelnut gelatto, Basha’s killer chocolate ganache cake, sweet potato fries and a juicy burger.

After all, they say, life is short. But I’m also of the age when I don’t want life to get even shorter because of the rotund middle part of my body. I’ve always said that when I’m 80, I’ll sit around eating all the dark chocolate I want. Dark chocolate is good for me.

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Visual Entertainment

I’m a political junkie, always have been, but I have other stuff on my mind. As an aging baby boomer, what I most want is to be a menschette, see my east coast grown-up Brook and Ethan as often as possible, and hang out with Dan.

When we met four years ago, he opined that there were better TV shows available than movies, although Dan “likes movies as much as anybody.” I’m also a movie junkie and doubted his comparison to TV. In fact, I was adamant.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been opposed to too much  television, and was even interviewed for my friend Frankie’s “What to do after you turn off the TV.” I don’t recall what I said, but it probably had something to do with the horrors of passivity, depletion of neurotransmitters and so forth. You get it.

Now I have favorite shows, including “House,” “Lie To Me,” “Mad Men” and “Rubicon,” the new intelligence analyst thriller that just ended its first season (if I still bit my fingernails, I would be for the next few months, contemplating a second season).

So what good movies have you seen lately? I’d say “The Town” and “Social Network” were both top-notch. We watched Peter Weir’s “The Last Wave” (1977) at home the other night. Haunting and deep. I’m waiting for “Fair Game” about the Valerie Plame CIA debacle, and also want to see “Howl” about Alan Ginsberg’s epic poem/censorship.

Here’s the thing: My brother and I discuss movies by phone weekly, since we live some 3,000 miles apart. I take his discriminating short reviews seriously. I also check Rotten Tomatoes often. We don’t go to as many movies lately.

Before I knew Dan I was addicted to HBO’s “Six Feet Under.” I’d get a DVD with four or five episodes and watch them all till 2 a.m. I was alone then.

Brook introduced me to “Battlestar Gallactica” on one of my visits to NYC, in her Queens apartment. We drank red wine, glued to the screen for as long as we could stay awake.

There’s a lot of crap on TV. But there’s also some good stuff. How many years did it take for me to descend into a NYC subway instead of taking a cab? Until Brook directed our urban adventure, assuring me it would be okay.

We all need folks we trust to suggest that it’s okay to occasionally change our minds.

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A swath of blue

Rep. Gabrielle Giffords thanked her volunteers this morning after declaring victory in her congressional race — no, the delusional contest — with Tea Party incompetent Jesse Kelly.

“You all set an example for the entire country, you really did,” Gabby told the crowd. I so respect her. She spoke of the more than $20 million poured into Arizona to defeat her and Rep. Raul Grijalva, who also won his election after a close call with another Tea Partier.

“We saw a negative, angry electorate, and those signs with out-and-out lies,” Gabby said. Thankfully, that’s about as negative as she gets.

A swath of blue held out in Arizona, and I’m proud of it. I love living under the bluest sky in the nation.

But I do have some questions. After voting down Prop. 400 to raise the city sales tax by a half-cent, why would the Tucson City Council consider raising bus fares? People who can’t afford cars and the ecologically minded are the ones who most often ride buses. Why penalize them? I don’t get it.

MSNBC political talk show host Keith Olberman was suspended for making campaign contributions to Giffords and Grijalva, due to the policy at MSNBC’s more conservative parent network, NBC.

Everybody knows that Olberman’s a liberal. Give him a break. He’s also a U.S. citizen. At Fox “News” it’s OK to pander for right-wing dollars anytime.

I don’t get the illusion of objectivity required of journalists, history teachers, and government employees. Having worked in two of these professions, the best we can do is consciously strive for  self-awareness, inviting into the discussion all views in our attempt to achieve some balance.

I’m always hoping for more balance. After yoga class this morning, I chatted with another woman in the parking lot. Like me, she divorced after being married for some 20 years (folks may wonder, how do you get into these conversations after just meeting someone?).

She asked, who wouldn’t help a seriously ill ex-spouse after being married for 20 years? I’ll admit that I don’t feel overly gracious toward Dan’s ex, but I like to think I’d be willing to help if she needed it, and certainly try to understand if Dan assisted her. Hey, I’m far from perfect.

And who wouldn’t help any sick person reduce their suffering, if given the opportunity? Looks like Proposition 203 allowing the medicinal use of marijuana has faded in Arizona. I don’t get it. Prior to Tuesday’s election I heard someone say she had seen a photo of the “type of people” supporting Prop 203, so she wasn’t going to vote for it.

After the divisive 2004 presidential election, Ethan gave me a canvas bag with a U.S. map of “Purple America” on the front. Our country is even further from that melding, but at least here in Arizona, we have a swath of blue in a deluge of red.

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