The Dog Days

We're definitely in the dog days, aren't we? Unreliable sources tell me we get that term from the star Sirius, but I'm going to rely on folklore and stand on my hillbilly principles and say it's so hot the dogs just lie around in the street.

That's what I feel like doing, but I've got a ten-page paper due and an oral report and this weekend I'm writing for the T Plays and all the while my back is acting up so much that my right leg is about to fall off, so I have to fight my natural inclinations to just lie down and take a nap.

And the world news doesn't make you want to kick up your heels either, does it? I must admit, I am despondent. I don't even fully understand the business of the debt ceiling, but I do understand the politics. The politicians in Washington on both sides of the aisle do not have the country in mind. It's all politics. It's all the 2012 elections. And it's all driven by fear (I won't get elected if I vote for what I truly believe is right) and ignorance and hate.

And for those who say I'm a liberal because I don't agree with your stupidity, that's on both sides of the aisle. For years now, I haven't been able to tell the difference between a Republican and a Democrat. The nation is run by the money-lenders and the lobbyists, and votes go to the highest bidder.

I think the country is going to hell in a hand basket so fast that the wicker is already starting to catch fire. It makes you wonder if you should really stick around for the end of the show, or head for the exits now so you don't get caught in the jam afterwards.

When I get like this I focus on the little things. I can't do anything about the big ones. Years ago, I remember riding my bike on a hot summer day much like today, and I rode past a little frog on the road. He didn't jump as I road by, and I circled around to see what was up. He was flagging on the hot road, and so I picked him up and put him in the water ditch by the side of the road. And I thought to myself, well, that isn't much, but at least I didn't hurt anyone today, and maybe one life is saved.

On days like today I make sure I write and get it all out. Clear my brain out. I work on a play, because that is one really big gift to be able to do that. To be given the talent and the chance to write something that may someday move someone. Writers and fishermen are the most optimistic people, I'd say.

I light incense for the Buddha.  For some reason this seems to do some good. When the Buddha is happy, it seems the world is, too.

I'm going to print some copies of my play today, and send them out. One to a theater in Portland, Maine, and the other to Yale University. I'm shooting high, but I think I'm that good. I have a play that I think is a killer. You just know when something is good. When something is so different it will cause people to sit up. I'm not being arrogant, but truthful, when I say I truly believe Highland Center, Indiana is one of those plays. I would love for it to hit the big time, and I would love for some small theater to produce it, because small theaters are so passionate about the things they do. They have to be, because some days passion is all they have.

I'm going to smile a lot today, and make an effort to really see the good in people. I believe it's there, despite what's going on in Washington and despite what some people are like in this country. No, I don't think it's just a difference of opinion. I think the way some people think--based on ignorance and prejudice, for starters--is hurtful. And sometimes this makes me wonder if this grand experiment called the United States hasn't failed. It doesn't seem that everyone should be given the right to vote. I know that sounds elitist, but it's true. Some people are mean and stupid and hateful, despite their so-called allegiance to Jesus. Narrow minds and shallow thinking is ruining this country.

That's about all I have for today. And if you see a frog in the road, stop and give it a boost.

Memories, journals, being alone, Krapp's Last Tape

I've been spending, it seems, a lot of evenings alone. Sue, when she's not working her two jobs, one of which takes her out at night, has been doing a lot of yoga in the evenings. Right now she's on the Cape taking care of her mom who just had surgery and she's visiting with friends while she's there. Thursday she leaves for Canada for about a week. School is keeping me busy, but not so busy that there aren't moments when I look around and wonder, Hey, where'd everyone go?

You--I--fall into old patterns, and I don't necessarily like that. Don't like living in the past, though I've been thinking a lot about that lately, mainly because I've been reading and researching a lot of scripts and the lives and works of different playwrights including Sam Shepard and Tennessee Williams. Thornton Wilder, too. Those writers and their work took up a lot of my time and energy a while ago. You, that is, I can't help but read those scripts and think, well, when I was saying this I was downstage right and here I crosssed to center and then she...

Or why the hell didn't I see this particular subtlety or nuance in the writing then? It's so obvious. Yeah, well...

Or how embarrassing what that?

I was thinking this morning about what it would be like to have no memories at all. What would a man be like if he didn't have any memories, or purposely chose to forget them? I know I've jettisoned so much of my past--for good reason, I think. I remember one day I just piled up everything in my living room that she gave me and picked it all up and threw it in the dumpster. A big pile of stuff. Most liberating day of my life. You--we don't realize how memories and feelings and emotions cling to things. Like dust. Or mold. And it affects us.

And when Sue and I were moving into this apartment, this place, this space that is so much a home for me, a place with wonderful memories and a place for starting over and a place so filled with warmth and laughter and love, when Sue and I were moving here I filled two garbage bags with stuff from my past, just cleaned out drawers of old theater programs of shows I was in, pictures and memorabilia and all sorts of crap. Mostly because I didn't want to move it. And, truth be told, I just wanted to clean house, too.

Memories. Where was I? See, when you don't have memory, it's not only hard to know where you've been, but where you're going.

Oh yes. Spending nights alone. I write. When I'm alone I write in my journal, the thoughts that rattle and buzz in my head that I'd normally just spew out to Sue and then they'd disappear. I usually write in my journal first thing when I get up. I'm still in that dream state and my head is in both worlds. And then I leave my journal open for over the course of the day I'll jot things down. Memories. I even post the time with the date. I do that because once my thoughts came so fast sometimes I was posting in my journal at thirty second intervals. Can you imagine your brain going that fast? That out of control?

I don't do that so much now--writing first thing--now that Sue and I are together because our habit is  we sit on the couch in the morning drinking coffee and talking. It's my favorite part of the day, drinking coffee, slowly waking up, seeing Sue and having that intimate time together.

But when Sue's not here, I'm like a hoarder hoarding my memories and thoughts. It's not a bad thing. It's a record. I've been doing it for years. Since I was around thirteen, really, when a student teacher I had for English at Woodward High School, Miss Harbert, told us to keep a journal. What did I know? I went home and started writing what was going on in our house and what I was thinking and doing. Looking back, it's a wonder Social Services wasn't called in, all what was going on in our house and what I was doing after hours. But it taught me the value of writing, and keeping memories.

Some people hate that I do it. Exes, for instance. In an argument I can call up my journal and say that at such and such a time this was going on. ("Yes, but that's your interpretation, it doesn't mean it's true.") But it's the one place I'll allow myself to live in the past. To face the past and what I've done and how I've lived. Someday I might have an evening like Krapp's Last Tape. Look it up if you don't know what I'm talking about. You'll be glad you did.

I'll Make A Deal With You

It's been almost a month since I weighed in here, and really haven't been a consisted blogger in a long while now. Mea culpa.

I know, I know, readers want new content every day, but I have the age-old suspicion of many writers in that I wonder if I have enough to say every day. It's not that I don' t think I don't have anything worth saying; oh, Lord, I've never had that problem. It's that I wonder if I have enough to fill up a blog every day. I think it's the curse of our age that 24/7 cable networks have ruined this country. I remember when CNN was started. Good Lord, who can fill up 24 hours with news? Well they sure did, didn't they? Actually, I don't think they have. It's a lot of useless commentary and rehashing of old news and making news where none is to fill the space (every hurricane season, for instance) and bring in the advertisers. Let's face it, there are few people on the earth who are that interesting.

But try telling them that, right?

But for the folks who I know are interested in what I'm up to (yes, I know who a lot of you are; it's the Internet: You can run but you can't hide) for you I should be adding more to this space. So I do know there are people who are Googling my name and this blog and checking in from time to time. And when you visit you can at least see my Twitter feed to the left. (Extra points if you start following me on Twitter.) And to my loyal friends and fans and those folks who are simply hoping that something bad has happened to me, I say, Hola!

Things are intense with school. I'm hopefully finishing up in about a month. I'm in the middle of the summer session, where they take 15 weeks of work and jam them into six. The upshot is you can really chalk up the credit hours and they charge about a thousand bucks less for the class. The negative is it's 15 weeks of work crammed into six weeks; you honestly think your head's going to bleed.

I'm in the second half of the summer session and the only thing that's standing between me and graduation is French and two ten-page papers and two oral reports. If you don't think that's not a load you're not seeing it from my perspective.

And then beyond that? Well, it's wondering what I can do with this Masters. Boston University hired me again to teach creative writing in the fall. I'm very excited about that. I had a great group of students in the spring who I loved meeting once a week. That class was in the CAS--arts and sciences. This fall I'll be teaching in the Metropolitan College, which would be BU's night school if BU had a night school. It's geared more toward working people, with classes in the evening. Again, I'm very excited about meeting a new group of students.

And there's the big question of how can I get my plays produced. I think it was Tennessee Williams who said a play's not a play until it's on stage. It's interesting to see English grad students in drama classes reading scripts, and reading them like they'd read a novel, and saying they are reading plays. With a script you're looking at a blueprint, not the building. You read scripts and watch plays. There's a huge difference, and as soon as you wrap your brain around that you've suddenly got your foot firmly wedged into the stage door that was about to slam in your face.

Phew. Okay, remember those ten-page papers I mentioned earlier? One's due this Thursday. I'll try to write more on this space. I know I've made that promise before. But here's the deal, it would a whole lot better for me if a few readers would drop a comment now and again. It would let me know I'm not howling in the wilderness. And isn't this whole Internet thang supposed to be about conversation? So...join the conversation.

I saw some terrific theater...

...and you can argue with me that it wasn't. Some might say it really wasn't theater.

The actors weren't professional. It didn't take place in a theater. It wasn't the result of any theatrical process. In other words it happened in the "real world" by "real people" reacting "in the moment." But my experience, my reaction to it, was exactly what I would hope I'd have from a piece of theater.

It was produced just one time, and then it closed forever. It happened last Friday at a retirement party on the Cape at a country club. I didn't know hardly anyone there--just one or two people; I just a quiet observer, just like I'd be in the theater. A man was retiring--he was leaving a life he knew for 32 years--so the stakes were pretty high, at least a dramatic moment was ripe for the taking.

His co-workers put on skit, this wonderful piece of theater I'm referring to. They structured it. They actually realized they needed something to hang their skit on, and instead of concentrating on something classically Aristotelian--rising action, climax, denouement--they chose the alphabet. I loved it. Something we've known since our childhood. Something familiar. Something simple. Twenty-six scenes. Each "actor" was assigned a letter, and had to stand up at a staged area and talk about the retiree, and the script, their monologue, because that's what it was, was to be rooted in that letter.

When you give people, people who are not trained or comfortable in being in front of an audience, give them a microphone and force them in front of an audience, they are stripped bare. The are naked. And my reaction was I cared for each and everyone. I applauded their bravery, which in a small way spoke the something deep and meaningful in the human spirit, and also something that I think is waning in our society too.  I wanted to hear what everyone had to say. I rooted for the ones who were uncomfortable. I enjoyed the more polished speeches. But even deeper, I was amazed but how much was revealed.

There was Mr. Popular. He was attractive to look at. Vivacious. Funny. Comfortable. And it was easy to see why people liked him. And he reveled in his place in this little community.

Conversely, there was the guy who was unpopular, and you can see how he struggled for the group's approval. Everything Mr. Popular wasn't--not comfortable in his own skin, unfunny, inarticulate, the group still accepted him and drew him in.

From A to Z I saw quiet people, smart but reserved people, the outsiders, and people who believed in sincerity and love, and weren't afraid to show it, because when you put people under pressure, and make no bones about it, these people were under pressure, people will resort to what they are most comfortable with, their core values and beliefs.

And there were two other characters. There was the man for whom all this was done: the retiree. who seemed at first so much outside of all this. Sometimes it seemed as if I wasn't so much at a retirement party as I was at a wake, and the participants were celebrating their life, their vitality, because they were going to go on living in the world they and the man had occupied. He was the one moving on.

And then there was me. The outside spectator, who thought about his own life, his community, if there even is one, and how long it's been since I've had a "real" job, one where the office was my life and characters like I was watching were a part of my life. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of his life the man spent in his career. Wow. And now it was over. They talked how he now had time to paddle his canoe and read his Boston Globe. Hmmm....

I wish I could write scenes like this, actors' pieces, that are simple and rely on the talents and instincts of people who can replicate this kind of world night after night. This is storytelling at its best, something I strive for but never seem to be able to get it quite right. It's frustrating as hell, to sit here at a keyboard day after day, then see it so genuinely and endearingly done by people who aren't even trying.

I'm blowing off an audition because...

Maybe career-wise I'm shooting myself in the foot, but I'm blowing off an audition at a very well-known and connected casting agency this afternoon because...because...oh God, there are so many reasons, but first the simple one stupid reason I agreed to the audition is this:

I am flat broke and if cast I'd make $500 on the day of the shoot. File that under, I Was Young And Stupid And Needed The Money.

I have been cast in I think two industrials in my entire life. I used to go on auditions all the time and would get occasional callbacks, but rarely a job. This one was for a computer company (I'm always getting called in for white-guy office workers, in other words, a white guy in either a suit or business casual.) I don't even own a suit. I know it's acting, but just once can they call me in for something that's a bit more my type??

And I was looking at myself in the mirror today and yes, full confession here: I'm feeling old (well, I'm feeling maybe not old, but my age: it's not easy being in an environment where 99.9% of the people are over half your age and  you're constantly reminded of your age, just like I imagine people of color are constantly reminded of the color of their skin. It's an interesting, eye-opening experience for me in our society.) And I just wasn't up to standing in this crowded hallway (yes, auditions are so glamorous; you're jammed cheek by jowl with actors in a hallway) with all these glamorous people. Yes, most are glamorous and so much better looking than me.

Maybe I'm better off just sticking to the theater and the stage, where I feel so much more comfortable. 

So, looks were a big thing. I'm just not feeling too good about the way I look lately. Because of school I haven't been in the gym in months, I've been eating crap food just to stay alive so I'm out of shape and have put on weight, and reread the above paragraph about age if you want some more reasons.

And I was rehearsing the script this morning and I couldn't memorize it exactly, which is scary because for an actor if you can't remember your lines, well, that's a problem.

But it was so badly written. It was so badly written it was stupid and do you know how many times I've sat with corporate types who don't know the first thing about writing, who are schooled in writing or script-writing from what they've seen on television, or worse bad cinema? And every nerve in my body is screaming, this is stupid, I'm making an ass out of myself, we're all making asses out of ourselves, doesn't anyone care?

And you know what: the answer to that last question is either a) they really aren't aware they're making an ass out of themselves; or b) they don't care. What is the deal that self-respect is the first thing that goes out the window when it comes to money?

I have three plays I'm currently working on. All three are good writing. Do you know how I know it's good writing? Because I'm a good writer, and I'm so good at it that I can spot it a mile away. I have three plays that are in various stages of completion that need my undivided attention and for me to blow off a good portion of the day to do something I don't want to do and makes me feel like shit is just plain stupid.

Thanks for listening.

Monday's Thoughts on Age Discrimination in the Workforce

Like most people, I'm not a big fan of Mondays. I learned though, when I was struggling, like I am now, that Monday's are the day that you really learn what you're made of. Put a person under pressure, and you'll see what they are made of. They'll crumble, or bitch and moan, or yell and lose their temper. Or they'll knuckle down and face what it is that's beating them up, and figure out a way to get passed it, move on, defeat it, do whatever it takes to get to Friday.

I'd get up on a Monday morning, and an entire empty week would loom below me like a ski slope. (I'm one of those people who see things like time lines and even the alphabet in 3-D color and shadow.) So the top of the week is really the top of the week. I'd have no work, no obvious means of income, with bills piling up and my stomach just churning, and I'd pick up the phone or email or something and by Wednesday I'd usually have something. Work. A plan. Hell, sometimes it was an entirely new problem, but I had something going.

I always say, homelessness and starvation are really good motivators.

So that's where I stood today. Actually, it was over the weekend when all the craziness of the semester just dissipated and I suddenly realized my I got my last check for teaching and I have no visible means of support. (Or, invisible means, either.)

Nothing yet. And this economy makes it all the harder. I did go on an interview last week for some contract work, but I'm not holding out for much there. Riding up in the elevator, I noticed just like the last place I worked that the people were at least half my age. The VP who I first spoke with me and  was probably just a bit younger than me, even came out and told me that the average age of the your average worker there was in their twenties. (The fact that there wasn't an true representation of all ages in society is always a good indication that while they talk diversity, they really don't practice it. I don't recall seeing any African-Americans either.)

Then came what I always dread. He ushered in two managers who had never met me and only knew me from my resume. And the looks on these twenty-something faces when they turned the corner into the conference room and saw me told me all I needed to know: Age discrimination is alive and well. It's a look I've seen a number of times on younger people's faces when they first lay eyes on me, and the generational gap yawns between us. And I know I barely have a fighting chance, even if I might not be exactly right for the job. (Although this time I think I was.) 

There's not a lot you can do in that situation. I can't prove that I was being discriminated against. But I do know what I saw.

And truth be told, when I was freelancing it was a requirement of the clients I took on that I 1) liked the people I'd be working with because I like to have fun, and I do consider my work fun; and 2) I had to feel that client organization was making the world a better place. I built a pretty good, thriving business by being true to my own beliefs and values. It worked once, and I believe it will work again.

Like A Man Freed From Prison

I'm reveling in all my free time. It's like after a show closes and you suddenly have your life back. I have time to do all the things I want to do, all the things, the crazy, weird things that make your life normal, or at least make you feel comfortable.

For one thing I can blog some more. It's not a big deal to write here, and it doesn't take up that much time, but it shows just how little time I did have that I couldn't post here. I was blogging on our contemporary drama classes blog, and I literally would use very waking minute to do something for class: read standing on the subway, take twenty minutes to open the laptop sitting on some couches outside class to write five more lines of dialogue in a play. It was all so crazy. I do like to be busy, but the past five months were overload.

Did I mention what I did when I finished? I opened a bottle of cream soda, sat on the floor of the living room (or what we call the music room) and played guitar for about three hours. I've been so out of practice and it's something that I just love to do to relax--a lot of times I'll work for a while and take a break for about ten minutes. If I'm working in the office instead of on the couch I'll usually have Alice, one of our acoustics, propped against the table.

And I've been doing all the crazy little things that a man just freed from prison might do. Today I'm making bread. Yesterday I was in Boston (to drop off the infamous dramaturgy dossier), went to the graduate school office and figured out how I was going to pay for the summer semester, and then I went to Daddy's Junky Music and played a bunch of guitars they have there. (Also bought a metronome, something one of my music teachers, Lloyd Thayer has been beating in my head to get. I bought it off the salesman who walked in the guitar room and said hi, and I said hi back in a way that said, leave me the hell alone. They know me there and he was decent enough to let me alone and not hassle me with pushing a guitar sale.) I went a few doors up and grabbed a hamburger at Wendy's; Wendy's hamburgers are a nasty vice I have. I met my daughter for dinner and I was able to talk and listen without having this other tape running in the background of my brain, thinking about dialogue and plot and stage directions and getting this paper written or planning this project. I'm picking up laundry and making grocery lists and I'm making sense out of our house. Sue works two jobs to keep us going, so I'm the one who manages the house and I actually like doing it. I've always been kind of domestic. I like to cook and I like working at home; the only time I ever liked working in an office was when I was first starting out and I thought I was hot shit. It didn't take me long to realize I was what is known as a self-starter (hardly anyone is; most people need the whip from the office to keep them motivated) and did much better on my own away from the stupidity of office politics and general office shenanigans. I always thought that was so much noise.

It'll will all start again in a week and a half when summer starts. I am so excited about the classes I'm taking, but for now I'm happy to just be able to noodle around the apartment.

Taking the time to put it down...

We're winding down the final days of the Spring semester at Boston University, and way back at the start I wanted to blog and write all about my experience and bring people along with me during this phase of my life. It's an exciting time. Most people my age are "positioning" themselves for retirement. Thinking about hanging on to that job for the homestretch, dreaming about the house in Florida and playing golf everyday (nothing sounds worse to me than that.) I'm not ready for the rocking chair, not by a long shot. I still have plays to write, mountains to climb, people to love. Still so many places I want to travel to. Every day is a new day, precious, full of opportunity to grow and learn.

Today is Saturday, and I'm teaching a workshop on writing ten-minute plays for Write Here, Write Now. It's a program for the LGBT community, and the reason for it is in their mission statement. I want to help anyone who wants to learn to write. This opportunity came to me from a grad student at Umass, and as soon as I got the email I knew it was something I wanted to do. I never thought about the obstacles facing someone who is LGBT. To me, writing is so free. You don't need a license, you don't even really need a degree. I proved that with my career. I just wrote and proved to people that I could do it and for a long while they paid me a lot of money to do it. You just do it. I'm so excited to hear what my students have to say today, those first ten minutes when people are telling why they are there, what they want to do.

I wish I had been able to find the time (and the energy) to put it all down, all the steps, the up and downs, the joys and the frustrations, the disappointments and the anxieties. It's all there, a very exciting life. I would have like to have been able to go back and read about it, when I finally am in the rocking chair. But I haven't even been writing in my own journal. I used to get up in the morning, pour my coffee (I'd set the coffee maker the night before) and go straight to the computer and write in my journal for about a half hour, still in that dream state. It's what I told my students to do, write in their journals every day, if not at a specific time every day, but I couldn't do it. Between the marathon of writing two full-length plays in less than a year, and the weekly sprints of writing a ten-minute play plus reading three or four plays a week and doing the background research on the play and the playwright, teaching, grading fifteen essays every week plus rewrite, seeing theater including staying out late on the weeknights because that's when the cheap tix are, and just thinking and planning for the long-term (what am I going to do when I graduate?) I didn't have the time or energy to set the coffee pot the night before.

I don't know how some people do it. Right now I'm following this guy who as I write this is on the north face of Everest.  He's 69 years old and he's attempting two summits of Everest back to back. If that's not enough he's blogging. He's finding the time. Kind of puts me to shame, doesn't he.

Why I Write for the Theater

At BU, every one of my writing professors inevitably ask why we/I want to write plays. What's our passion? When were we first "touched" by the theater? What's our earliest memory of the theater?

I've been a playwright for two years, one month, and nine days. I can actually count the time. I was laid off from my last gig on December 11, 2008, working on car accounts at a large ad agency. Talk about a low point in your career. On December 12 I put my feet up on the coffee table with a laptop in my lap and started writing my first play, Red Dog, one that had been rattling around in my head for a few years, about broken hearts, adultery, dogs, writing, whiskey, guns, and redemption--all of my favorite topics. I finished that play five months later in May, and kept writing plays. That I am an actor and I've also read countless plays helped me in the writing. I understood what happens on stage, what actors need, what's possible and what's not.

But I wasn't drawn to the theater the way some are. At least, not on the surface. I've heard so many stories about people who were putting on plays for their parents when they were five or eight or ten, dressing up in their mother's clothes and performing for their relatives. And these are the guys, and I'm only being slightly facetious when I write that. The theater is an inevitable destination for many people. It's a safe haven for so many intelligent, creative people.

But the question, like the subject matter of an essay or play, kept eating at me, because I, unlike so many others, didn't seem to have a clear line, an epiphany on the road to Damascus. Or was there?

I tell this story often to anyone who wonders why I write. I always knew deep down that I wanted to be a writer. I was the kid, from little on, whose essay was read aloud in the class by the teacher as an example of good writing (and if she didn't read it I'd get mad and work so my next one was read.) I guess hearing someone in authority read aloud my words to an audience was the thing I needed to get from childhood to the next phase of life.

Do I have to connect the dots? Not everyone lives his or her life in a straight line. Writing for the theater is no different than being eight years old and handing your essay over to a reader and feeling that jolt of acknowledgment that what you have to say matters. And to take it one step further, that you matter.

The first time I heard one of my plays read aloud I was scared and nervous. For some reason I felt more vulnerable and confessional than I've ever felt before in my life, even though, as you can see from this blog, I'm not averse to baring my soul. And you know what?--as much as I'd like to say it was a terrific, life-affirming experience, it wasn't. The production was horrible, one of the actresses simply was bad, miscast, whatever, and one other actress flubbed her lines. I also had been asked to tailor the play for the festival, in other words, change my play. I never should have done that.

But the second time I saw one of my plays performed, Oh my. Playwriting is a collaborative endeavor. Only songwriters and composers (well, screenwriters, but they're second cousins to playwrights) create with the knowledge that their work is going to be handed off to someone else, or a bunch of someone elses. When I sat in the audience and saw the production of Love on the Rocks at the Provincetown Theater, I actually had a moment where forgot it was my play. I didn't remember writing it, and I didn't have any affiliation to the words or the work. I was stunned. And hooked.

I've always been one to follow my nose. Writing to acting to playwriting. It makes perfect sense to me, and if I wasn't dressing up in my mother's clothes, I was playing with my sister's dolls at a much later age than most boys my age. Does that count?

To Live is to Write

I wrote all day today, and this is the first time today I've put fingers to keyboard.

I'm not saying you don't have to put down words every day. Let's get this straight: Yeah, you do. You have to actually write every day. But, unless I'm right on top of a deadline, or the deadline is right on top of me, pinning me to the wall, which is what's usually the case, I don't actually start typing until mid-afternoon. Usually the first thing in the morning I write in my journal, and that counts--sort of--as writing. I'll do a brain dump and write about the dreams I had the night before and basically orient myself (do you know we get the verb, orient, from years ago when east, not north, was at the top of the map because that's where the sun rose, and to right the map you had to "orient it"?)

So today, I was writing all along in my head, thinking about that sticky scene 6 in Highland Center, Indiana that I'll address as soon as I finish blogging. And I thought about what I'd write here, but more importantly, I lived my life, which is what all artists should do. Live it and enjoy it and wrestle with it and swallow it whole.

I talked to both my kids who slept here last night after a night out at the theater and their first jazz bar. I played dad, giving Al advice. I watched a couple of episodes of 30 Rock with Kathryn--we're peas in a pod when it comes to stupid humor and Kathryn and I talk anyway like old friends, laughing and calling each other out and sharing our experiences in the world. (Kathryn has been more organized than me at the age of three, and I've gotten used to it.) And I made red sauce for a dinner tonight and bread and I don't know how many pots of coffee to keep this crew running: Sue in court today, Al with two job interviews (and I can't even get one!), Kathryn to wake up, me because a cup of coffee is usually by my elbow until around noon.

I don't have a lot of friends--I never have; I've always been the type with one or two very close friends, but I cherish them and my small family. I've said it so many times: The most dangerous place in the world is between me and my loved ones.

So, that's how I've written so far today. Which, if you can read between the lines you can see, means writing is living life. You can't do one without the other.

Writing and the New Year

It's the first day of the New Year and we have been spending it lounging in bed drinking coffee and reading our books, flinging the windows open to get some fresh air in the apartment and the stale air out, cleaning off the porch of slush and tightening the chords on the tarps on the outdoor patio. How exciting, huh?

Sue's about ready to go out on a call. Work has been thin for her, too, and it's awful to think that we're going to benefit from someone's misfortune. Still, if you look at it right, Sue is really an angel of mercy who comes into people's lives who need a bit of help. It's weird to think that the government steps into people's lives when it concerns the family or their kids. Before I knew Sue I might have railed against government intrusion. But after knowing Sue and the job she does, society would be a lot worse--think Dickensonian--if someone like her didn't intervene. It's extraordinary to think how many people end up with kids simply because some woman got drunk one night (or two or three) and spread her legs or some guy couldn't think past his six seconds of ecstasy.

Obviously, this is the first post of the year. Last year I blogged 99 times. The year before that 108, and the two years before that 396 and 529. The high numbers are a testament of just how bored you can get sitting in a cubicle in an ad agency. This past year I tailed off because I was doing so much writing for school. It feels good to sit here, though, and type these words for whoever feels like logging on here and reading, curious of what's rattling around in my head or the goings on in my (and Sue's) life. I've said it time after time: Writers write. There's no stopping us, any more than you can stop a rodent from gnawing on a piece of wood or an electrical cord. And we write sometimes with the same disastrous results.

ENG 202

"I am pleased to inform you that on the recommendation of your department, you have been selected to receive a Teaching Fellowship for the Spring Semester 2011." So starts the letter I received last fall. It was quite a thrill, one of many that happened during 2010. One of my goals when applying at Boston University was to teach upon graduation. As I wrote in my personal statement:

 

"Another reason I want to teach is because I want to be constantly around intelligent, creative people who value ideas, and work in a place where ideas are generated. I have worked for some incredibly stimulating organizations where creativity and openness were valued—as long as the bottom line was robust. But there is something about the nature of corporations and commerce that when, as soon as hard times come, they become very risk-aversive and ideas and creativity are the first things to be jettisoned. I want to belong to an organization where ideas—and not product or money—are generated and valued and protected."

I knew I wanted to be a writer--that I actually was a writer--when I was quite small. Starting at around second or third grade. It's all I ever really wanted to do, and quite frankly I can't imagine what I'd do if I couldn't write. I am so confident and comfortable in the medium--probably the way fish feel in water; the way we feel in air. But now I'm going to teach people how to swim, and it's a bit daunting. And what's troubling me the most is maybe that student who may not be right for the class, who may not have the talent, but is there anyway. Isn't that funny? The teaching fellows all got a letter from the department telling us to grade hard, to really push and challenge the students (well, it is Boston University, after all) and that the worst thing we could do is give an undeserving B. To encourage someone to continue to beat his or her head against a wall some more.

And I do get that. I don't think children should get trophies for just running out on the soccer field. There are winners and losers, and there is talent and then there are the wannabes. But what I've spent a good amount of time and energy doing is trying to figure out how to set up an environment that is encouraging and nurturing. A place where, if you really want to write, you'll get your chance. I don't want to get touchy feelie about this, because I truly don't see writing being that way. I guess maybe because I've always been able to do it, it doesn't seem that hard to me. It just takes practice. In my case, about forty years of practice, we all had to start somewhere. For me it was sophomore year in high school, where a student teacher named Miss Harbert showed me how to be a writer, then I turned around that craft back on her. On her final, she asked what we had learned, and I answered nothing. That writing in itself was what was needed. Or some such snotty reply. She was devastated. That's the power of words right there.

I still have the letter she sent me, hand-written from her home in Connecticut, telling me all classes weren't like hers, and all schools weren't like the one I was in, a public school in Cincinnati. And if I could find her today I'd tell her students would be lucky to have a class like hers. She got us to write, which is all you have to do. Sit down, and write everyday. If you do it every day for a semester, you'll certainly be better at the end of the semester than you were at the beginning. I'd almost guarantee it. Write every day for ten years, and you'll certainly be better. You might not be published. You might not be famous. But you'll be a better writer. And that's all  you really should strive for. The rest is gravy.

A Writer's Work is Never Done

Even when he's not "working", i.e. going to an office or pulling down a W-2 (or more likely a 1099) a writer is working.  I bet my "to-do" list rivals the most industrious and driven office puke. And in some ways I bet it's more important, because my list drives my life, and not some soulless organization that would drop me in a minute despite the emotional and physical energy I'd devote to it.

I have plays to write. Yes, real plays that have to be written for next semester and to send out to theaters. And I have plays to send out to theaters around the world. Just last week I sent three short plays to a theater in Romania. Why? Why not? The theater was looking for plays, advertised for them in the United States, and I would love to see how my work plays in Romania.

I have plays and books to read. Plays for the Boston Theater Marathon, and books to read for my own education. Every time one of my professors mentions a book or a play or a movie that I'm not familiar with, I go to the library and pull it out. The stack of books is impressive, but when people ask me what I do without a television, they should see the stack. And I know most people's eyes would glaze over, but mine do too when I hear about Mad Men. (Just the other day on Hulu I pulled up a clip of Glee, just to see if my opinion had changed, the same way people will try Brussel Sprouts.) Nope.

I have a syllabus to write for the English class I'm teaching next semester. It's almost there, but I don't want any surprises somewhere around week 12, where we're all looking at each other going, now what? More on this in an upcoming blog.

I have to finish the proposal for a fellowship I'm applying for for next fall.

And I have to write a long overdue letter to a cousin whose wife died many months ago, but I just haven't been able to pull the words together. Families are like that. I could sit here and blather on for 2,000 words, but to write 100 meaningful words to a man who lost his wife of 50 years or so absolutely freezes me.

This is my day. And cook and pick up the apartment. And it's all self-induced. I don't have a manager who has to tell me what to do. Or a boss who lets me know when I can take a break. Or a anyone who says I have to do this or that or sit in on this meeting or when I can go to the bathroom or if I can take a vacation. (When I was in the corporate world, I think the one thing I resented the most was having to get permission to do things that were in my life.)

I do what I want, and everything you just read about are things that I want to do. Me. Not someone else. Me.

Jiggling breasts and SEO and long hot showers

It's been over a month since I last posted to Action Bob. And I do see that people have been checking in. I've been concentrating more of my writing time--what little there is--over at Gather.com.

Yes, I've said it over and over: I'm a word whore. I'll write anything for money. And Gather.com hired me as a Social Writer, which is just a fancy term for someone they've identified who can drive traffic to their site, adding value to it, and are willing to pay me pittance to do it. (Too bad a certain client of mine doesn't have the same confidence that I can drive traffic, and so we'll soon be parting ways.) Anyway, over the course of a thirty year career as a copywriter I've stated my job description as someone who makes wealthy men wealthier. And that's what I do. I know how to get people to part with their money through words, and just as a reminder, Bob Markle is the name of a character I've written who works in an ad agency. Yes, the belly of the beast, the engine that fueled this economic downturn we're living through now, encouraging people to buy, buy, buy even though they can't afford, afford, afford it.

But this little spot in the digital world is so comforting to me, because here I don't have to worry about Google Trends or SEO or Google-identified keywords. Writing on the Web is more about timing and trends and content is a long third, and it's something I can do only for so long. I mean, check this out:

A posting about one of the latest Facebook memes attracted 24,788 views. (Is a certain local college marcom group taking note of this?)

But a post on the unemployment figures for older Americans garnered a paltry 38. And we wonder why America is going to hell in a handbasket.

I can write about Facebook and the latest celebrity public embarrassments only so long, and then I just want to take a long hot shower with lye soap--you know what I mean?

For those of you who have been checking in, thank you for taking the time. I know I've been remiss in keeping my promise of keeping this site interesting. And for those pervs who stumble on this site because you've searched for "jiggling breast" here ya go. From May 14, 2008. I know it's not exactly what you were looking for, but life is filled with disappointments.

Eminem will someday be on the oldies station

Boston.com posted a link on its home page to yesterday's post on actionbobmarkle on The Sheltering Sky, which I thought was kind of funny because the post basically consisted of me copying about a page and a half from the novel. I wrote a little introductory paragraph talking how the passage nailed what it's like to be a traveler and how that is the pivotal moment in the book that gives it its title.

And that was it. Funny, that an editor over there thought that was worth sharing.

Or maybe not. I'm just guessing, or maybe hoping, that the editor decided that what I wrote about that particular passage is worth something. An appreciation for the art of the novel is waning, just as the art of making an album is waning because digital downloads now let us concentrate on acquiring just one or two songs, and not an entire album. But there is that one point in a novel--a good novel, at least--where the author pulls together for sometimes only a paragraph or two all the loose ends and clarifies why the novel is called what it is, and maybe even why he wrote it. And it takes a certain kind of mind to appreciate that. Appreciating that is like enjoying going into a museum just to see one painting, which I love to do. (If I'm in the area, I'll go into the Boston MFA just to sit in the Buddha room for awhile, or I would sit and gaze on Gauguin's Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? at least I used to until they put it in storage.)

Once, I absolutely floored Allison when she was maybe nine or 10 years old when I told her that Eminem would someday be on the oldies station. True. Someday, everything ends up on the oldies station. And I guess that's where we are with novels right now. With all the "new media" out there, readers are going by the wayside. I remember showing my blog to a very hip young woman at the ad agency I used to work at, and her first, very fast initial response was a reaction against all the words. Who's gonna read all that, she wondered.

Say this in your best old fart voice: These young kids today don't appreciate a good book. Or geography or history or painting or anything else, including that meanderings of the mind of a blogger.

Well, not true. It's all changed and morphed. The responsibility, I think, lies with the younger generation to not leave behind the art of the novel. Or of painting or the theater or any of the other cultural traditions. Move forward, but preserve the traditional forms, too. Time and society move forward, and by moving forward I simply mean in time, I don't mean to infer necessarily that things are getting better, they're just changing. Let future generations be the judges of the quality.

But as society moves through time, there's more culture to embrace and understand. Understandably, how can a novel that needs so much time and energy to read and comprehend compete with a movie or a video game or Facebook or the latest shenanigans of pop stars. But there is something inherently wrong with leaving it by the wayside. There is a beauty and a connection to today's world that shouldn't be lost because, and here's a huge cliche but it's true: You'll never know where you're going if you don't know where you've been.

The wharf rat writes

These are the selected writings of Craig Moodie, a.k.a. the wharf rat. He writes about sailing, the kind I like to read about. I'm not interested in the scene in Newport. I'm more interested in gunk-holing and the desire to see what's just over the horizon, and then just keep going.

He has a new book out--Seaborn.

He has a bunch of other books, all about the sea. You can learn about them here.


And here's the old wharf rat, himself. Craig and I worked together a long time ago. Many lives ago. Something that always struck me about him was how growing up on Cape Cod and working for a while on the few rusty fishing boats that still go out of the Cape affected him. It's a place he's never really left, but in a way that it seems as if he's still looking for something there. Like a ghost continues to haunt. Unsettled. Troubled. Disturbed, as in, his sleep was disturbed.

I remember one night we drove down to the Cape from our homes in MetroWest to fish the canal, which is a really dreadful thing to do, but we had dreadful jobs at the time and so standing in all that bilge water didn't seem to matter much. We ended up not catching a thing, probably not even getting a nibble, the only shivers on our poles came from dragging our lures across the bottom. It must have been Scusset Beach where we ended up driving to finish the beer we had. And the reason I remember that night was because Craig skipped a rock across the lapping oily water at the earth's edge and the sea's beginning, and it hit green, and green, and green again. I'd never seen the fluorescence before. I'm sure I stood there slack-jawed for a while. You can't forget seeing something like that for the first time.

Vicky McGehee: a writer's a writer

Behind every successful person, there's a good chance there's a writer.

Speechwriters. Ghost writers. Songwriters.

First, writers are the same, no matter what business they're in. I've found this out from hanging around more copywriters than I care to count, and novelists, short story writers, travel writers, reporters...God, the list goes on.

Then this a.m. I was reading this story about Vicky McGehee in the current issue of American Songwriter.



She wrote the lyrics behind a lot of Gretchen Wilson's hits, including Pocahontas Proud, Not Bad for a Bartender, One Bud Wiser, All Jacked Up, Skoal Ring and When I Think About Cheatin'. I Googled "lyrics, Gretchen Wilson" and on most sites I visited there is no attribution to McGehee, even in Wilson's entry on Wikipedia, not that that's any standard. McGehee is listed as one of the composers on Answer.com.

McGehee also wrote for Reba McEntire (Room to Breathe)" and Big & Rich (Holy Water).

But like I said, she's a writer. And being a writer, being who and what they are, I'm sure she's fine with it all as long as the checks don't bounce and there's a bottle around.

Going legit: The price of stability

I’ve gone legit, and it’s still taking me some time to get used to it.

Legit. A “real” job. One where you get up in the morning and have to go to and sit at a desk even if you don’t have anything to do, and go to meetings that for the most part are pretty pointless. Just the other day I was sitting in a meeting where there seemed to be a lot of extra people. It seemed to me all we needed were the account person, the designer, and me, the writer. But we had a few marketing people in there, and even some people from strategy and analysis. I like to count up the people and multiply that number by what I estimate their salaries to be to figure out exactly what a one-hour meeting costs the company, and therefore the client. When you’ve been in business for yourself, it’s not easy to stop equating everything to either what it’s costing you, or what you’re making. You’re either making money or spending it. There’s no in-between.

There are people, nice people, called bosses who tell me what to do. When I freelanced no one told me what to do. I did whatever I wanted. I looked for work and sometimes I’d find work with people who I didn’t like or the work wasn’t so much fun, so I’d charge a little more for the bother, and I knew the project would soon be over. I figured I could put up with just about anything for the duration of the project.

People say I now have a full-time job, but freelancing was full-time. And people assume because I was freelancing that I wasn’t making any money, although now I make only a little bit more at the “real” job than I did freelancing. But now the money’s steady. The hardest part about freelance writing is getting paid for the work. The next hardest thing is finding the work. But getting paid is definitely the hardest. Putting words together is the easiest thing in the world, for a writer. But sometimes I’d be floating thousands of dollars. It’s not that people stiffed me. I actually had really good clients, good people. It’s just that some corporations have policies about billing. It has to do with the IRS and the government’s definition of freelance and contract. When you’re in business for yourself you quickly learn the IRS is not your friend. On paper, it looked like I had money, but another thing you learn real fast when you’re in business for yourself is that cash in hand is all that matters. I started charging advances on large projects, and I began billing some clients weekly, telling them other clients liked the flexibility it offered and how it gave them a more up-to-date idea of what they were spending. Businesspeople like flexibility, and having information up-to-date, so they believed me, but all I was just trying to do is keep a steady flow of money coming in.

A legitimate job makes some things in life a little easier. When you’re freelancing, if you don’t work, you don’t get paid. Now I get paid for holidays, so I’m getting paid along with the rest of the world that isn’t working, too. And I get paid for a vacation, but only two weeks accrued at the end of a year. Two weeks out of a whole year isn't a lot. And your bosses have to approve when you can take your two weeks. It's like being in kindergarten and having to raise your hand to go to the bathroom. I also get a few personal days in case I have to get a filling or my truck worked on, I guess.

When I was freelancing, I could take time off whenever I needed it—in the middle of the day to do something with one of my kids; I could take time to run errands, and I could spend Sunday nights at Sue’s on the Cape so we had three nights in a row together, and I could drive home Monday morning without it affecting business. What I really miss is stopping in the middle of the day and playing the guitar, just for about twenty minutes or so. I love playing, and it was a reward I’d give myself for accomplishing something. It also clears my mind, so I’d go back to work refreshed.

Sometimes I’d get kind of lonely working by myself. I’d work at keeping in touch with people, like instigating email strings. And I’d call people. You can get a little squirrelly working by yourself. I really like the people I work with now. Creative, talented people — the kind that work at this agency — motivate and inspire you to be creative yourself. I suppose I do that for them, too. I don’t know.

And I like riding the train everyday to work. Riding trains is fun. It’s like riding a bike; if you’re open to it, it makes you feel like a little kid. And riding the train gives me time to read. I love to read, but before didn’t have a lot of time to read. Now I do. I also like working in the city. There’s more to do, and more to see that stimulates my mind. There’s also more to spend money on, and I have to watch that.

The thing I don’t like is the loss of freedom that I had. I’m not a man who does well when he’s feeling he’s being told what to do. Ask me to do anything, and I’ll do it for you in a heartbeat. Just don’t tell me. I guess I wouldn’t have done very well in the army. But I’ve put myself in a position in life where I have certain responsibilities for other people. I’m talking about my kids. But it’s a double-edged sword, because I gave up a lot of time with my kids — and Sue — to make sure things are more stable. I guess the big question is: What price is stability?

What's the big deal about downloading music?

Today's big find:

http://www.wolfgangsvault.com/


This was in today’s Globe’s Sidekick. Great site with lots of archived concerts. Right now I’m listening to a Stevie Ray Vaughan concert from April 15, 1984 in Austin, Texas. I also did some impulse buying this morning when I first logged on to the site. Bought a poster from a concert on June 5, 1989 with the Cowboy Junkies and Lucinda Williams. Now if you scroll down just a bit and glance just to your left, you will see a partial list of some of my favorite music, and while it’s in no particular order, you will notice the first two artists are those very same that played together 17 years ago or so. The poster’s gonna look nice, framed and all, hung here in my cube on the 12th floor overlooking Cosi’s.



It’s the new paradigm for music. Everybody’s downloading and taking it for free, or so people who have been living off the music industry cash cow are complaining. That would be the fat cats in the suits at Sony and BMG and wherever, and the musicians, too, although the musicians still aren't making out like the execs. There’s money to be made, it’s just that the business model changed. Sorry, it changed for all of us. You just gotta deal with it, or die.

I see nothing wrong with downloading music for free. Here’s why. It’s been the way of the world for writers for all time. Say I wrote a book, and let’s say you actually bought the hardback for full price. And you read it and thought it was great. What would you do? You would tell your friends. But they wouldn’t go out and buy my book and read it. They’d borrow yours. Or Xerox it. It’s just like downloading for free, right? Or your friend would go to the library. Either way, I still wouldn’t make any money on sales. Those are my words and my thoughts. My talent and artistic ability is being showcased. But you don’t have any problem not compensating me.

The Internet was a long time coming and music execs should have seen this day sneaking up on them. But they didn’t. They were too busy counting their money instead of keeping their eyes on the business. They were rich, not smart. There’s a difference, although some people don’t get that. They figure if someone is rich that that person is smart, too. Rich and smart don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Greedy and rich do. But rich and smart? No.

So, now all the rich folks are crying foul, instead of figuring out that the way to make money is off the one-offs: ticket sales (if they keep them reasonable, instead of gouging prices to make up for the loss in CD sales), t-shirts, DVDs, posters, and all that.

The world changes. Get over. Change or die.

Ya gotta watch the left as much as you watch the right

I learned a long time ago that you have to watch the left as much as you watch the right.

A few years ago I was married to a woman whose sister is a radical lesbian feminist. Once, we visited her and stayed at her house for I think it was for about a week and a half or so. While we were there just as a normal course of the day her friends would stop by for visits, and as you would think they were mostly lesbians. And, as things go, sometimes she’d mention this person or that one, and once I asked if we were going to meet a particular person. Well, we wouldn’t because this person wouldn’t come into the house because I was there. Because I was a man.

Oh, I thought.

And this is what I figured: If her friend wouldn’t have come into her house because I was black or some other person of color, if I had been a Jew, or if they had any other reason like my country of origin or my age, the liberal feminist lesbian would have been all over her like a tall dog. But because I was a man, it was ok.

And that’s wrong.

That’s when I learned that the most liberal people in the world have a lot in common with their conservative counterparts. None of us, no matter how open we think we are, are immune to hate and prejudice.

I understand that politics is how we get things done in our world. But the problem is, as soon as you politicize an issue, there is the danger of polarization. AIDS becomes a gay issue. Domestic violence a woman’s issue. Crime in urban areas is seen as a black issue. These problems cease being human issues, about all of us, men, women, black, white, Jews, Christian, Muslim. Until we see things on human terms, we’ll always fight amongst ourselves.