The Sheila Variations

On staged readings

Max Sparber has a great post with advice for playwrights when having staged readings of their work.

Last year, I had two readings of the script I've written, one relatively informal, and one formal, and his words really ring true. I have been involved in more staged readings than I can count as an actress, and I have also participated in the Playwright/Directing Unit at the Actors Studio (a tedious task at times, but unbelievably useful for the playwright) and all of this prepared me, to some degree, to how it would feel being on the other side of the process. My concerns were different. As an actress in a staged reading, my only responsibility is to the playwright, to speak the words clearly (staged readings are usually about having the script be heard, it's a work in progress), and to commit to what is going on in the script to the best of my ability while holding script in hand. I am off the hook in a staged reading, as an actress. That's part of why they can be so fun. But when it was MY work being read, I paced in the back of the small performance space like a tiger, listening carefully to audience reaction, trying to FEEL what was happening between the molecules in the room: did that joke land? If it didn't get a laugh, why? There are many reasons why, and you have to take them all into account. Maybe the actor, who is reading, after all, bumbled the line a bit. Or maybe the line isn't funny. All bets are off at that point. You have to consider everything. You have to be at the very same moment: detached and attached.

It was exhilarating, and nervewracking, and I was so happy when it was over. It was illuminating, too: we had a QA afterwards, pretty informal, but what ended up happening was so helpful for me in moving forwards with my writing. I got the same comment from multiple people about the female character. There were questions. People were intrigued, don't get me wrong, but there was a sense that there might be a lack of clarity there somewhere. I also have a dreaded fear of being too obvious, which can keep me from saying what I mean, and this is something I need to work on. I have been reading Streetcar Named Desire and Long Day's Journey Into Night over and over these days, basically to remind myself how it is done, and although there are still mysteries in the characters, and I could talk about Blanche and Mitch and Stanley and Mary Tyrone all day long, there is never any doubt that the playwright knows what story he is telling. Tennessee Williams is not afraid to be clear. The last scene of Streetcar is a masterpiece. If you had held out any hope at all that Blanche could be saved, Williams disabuses you of those fantasies in a scene that is, what, 2 pages long? That's economy, that's clarity. It helps me to read those scenes again, those climactic scenes that work, to remind myself to not be afraid to put it all out there, to say, in no uncertain terms, what I mean. So when I got numerous comments about the female character, all along the same lines, I do remember thinking, "Okay, gotta look at that section ... something's not working there." An example of being both detached and attached. I am still amazed at myself that I was able to be in that space, because all I felt, inside, was ATTACHED.

As Max writes:

Ignore individual answers, as there are audience members out there who manage to get bewildered by The Family Circus, but pay attention to the answers as an aggregate. If there are areas of the play that confuses a number of people, it's probably actually confusing.

Yup. You have to know what to take in and what not to take in, but at the moment of the staged reading, it is best to keep your mouth shut and listen to everything. Do not defend. Do not defend. State what you were going for, and then shut up and hear people respond whether they got it or not.

One great thing that came out of it was that I had written into the script the Pauses I wanted the actors to take. I guess I think I'm Harold Pinter or something. David (the actor) asked me if I wanted them to follow the Pauses to the letter, and I said, "For this purpose, yes. Let's see how it plays. And don't add more pauses. Just do the ones I wrote." WELL. Within about 15 minutes of the reading, I thought, "I can lose about 50% of these pauses." I had over-paused, basically. It was immediately apparent that I could lose most of them. Too many. It made the script sag. Pinter can do it, but that's because he's a genius. I went nutso with the pauses, and now need to pull back, and let the dialogue just play. That was a great thing that came out of the reading, something that nobody even commented on, but it was just a Note to Self. ENOUGH with the pregnant pauses! That's what a reading is for. You have to put it out there, without second-guessing, and be willing to take a good hard look at what doesn't work. In front of people. Not for the faint-hearted.

Over the weeks following the second reading, I had email conversations and actual conversations with people who had been there, who fleshed out for me some of their thoughts about the script, and again, that was so helpful, because first of all it helped me see that in some cases I was actually onto something, and then, in other cases, it helped me see where I was 100% NOT clear about what I was trying to say. And, in some cases, it helped me actually see that I didn't know what the hell I WAS trying to say, and I needed to get clear MYSELF.

If you find yourself talking too much, if you find yourself going on and on about what is "going on" in a certain scene, that that is a pretty sure sign that you have no idea what actually is going on. You should be able to boil it down and sum it up in a sentence. You can boil down Act III, scene 1 in Hamlet into a sentence and that scene is one of the greatest achievements in Western literature. The theme, the objective, is clear, in almost every line. It's not muddy or complex. You don't need to talk and talk about it. "Do I want to live or do I want to die?" Hamlet wonders. That's it. I'm talking as an actress and a member of the show-trash community here, NOT academia, an important distinction. People can write theme papers on it to their heart's delight, but in terms of drama, the action of the scene is as simple as can be. So any time I found myself babbling on and on about this or that moment, I knew that I didn't know what the hell was going on.

Most of my friends are actors, so they speak in actor-terms, and I found their comments to be the most intuitive, the most clicked-in. They weren't jargony or academic (as mentioned by Sparber), but emotionally based. If something doesn't make sense emotionally, then an actor will be the one to tell you why. Because that is their business. They truck in emotions. This is not about being obvious or literal. Usually it is the more academic types who want something more literal. After all, there are moments in Women Under the Influence where Gena Rowlands doesn't behave in a way that makes sense, perhaps, dramaturgically, it might look weird on the page, but on a deeper level, a soul-level, it makes more sense than any performance before or since. That is part of what I was going for with some of my transitions, and so I really needed to listen, and listen closely, to those who said they didn't get it, or those who said they got it completely. Again, you have to be able to listen. And then decide what to do.

Max writes:

Once you have had a few responses that are really useful, though, you'll start to recognize them. They tend to produce a sort of "Aha!" moment. They make instant, intuitive sense, and may actually cause you to see your own writing in an utterly new way. They tend to take the form of a very specific comment about the script you wrote, such as, "It seems like the main character of your play is actually ..." or "For me, the moment of the greatest dramatic interest was ..." You hear these comments, and think, My God, that at actually is the main character, and that actually is the dramatic climax of the play!

I had mentioned in the QA that the scene I had been most concerned about, the one I had worked on the most, was the climax to the first "act" (although it's really more of a big SCENE, made up of little fragmentary other scenes), which I called "the Baby on Board Scene". I was tormented by that scene. I had a clear idea in my head of how it had to PLAY, but then that means that it must, it must, exist like that on the page. I worked it to death. But it wasn't until I heard the two wonderful actors read it that I could really get a sense if I had succeeded or not. One of the people there said to me afterwards, "It was in the Baby on Board scene that I suddenly started not liking her. I started feeling worried for HIM, and like he should cut his losses and get out. I was with her up until that point, and then I turned on her."

I thought to myself: "YES!"

And this was a woman making that comment, which had been another concern of mine. One of my explicit (unstated) goals in that scene was to have women, who might have been "rooting" for the female character, abandon her to her own demons, and switch sides. I hadn't said that out loud in the QA session, I hadn't told anyone, but when I got that comment, about one of the most re-written and edited scenes in the piece thus far, I knew I had done what I had wanted to do, and knew I didn't need to edit at least THAT scene anymore.

I haven't touched it since.

I won't be shy and tell you that the scene played like a bat out of hell. It killed. It was the most successful scene of the entire second reading, the one that that generated the most organic response. I don't know what it was like for the actors, but it felt, to me, watching, that all they had to do was say the lines, and the thing landed. Standing in the back, I was gauging the energy of the room the entire time like a crazy barometer. I had been so worried about the scene that there was a hunkering-down feeling in me, like: "Okay. Don't just listen to the words. Be totally present, 100% right now, so you can see how this damn thing plays." I had a specific idea in my mind of the arc of the scene, which comes out of the scene before. The scene before ends on a hopeful note, a moment of conciliation, where the female concedes ground, and the two have a loving moment. The next scene (the scene in question) opens mid-argument. The argument goes, without let-up, until the very end of the scene, when he (I hoped) demolishes her with a monologue about what is wrong with her. My hope for it was: the audience would already be invested in the couple, rooting for them, and the scene before leaves them hopeful, hopeful that this nice man will make it work with this weird prickly OCD woman. I wanted to start mid-argument to dash the audience's hopes INSTANTLY. The two argue for a bit, and then it becomes clear what they are arguing about. The Baby on Board signs. (It all makes sense in the context of my female character, who lives life like it is an ideological war on all fronts). I wanted that to be funny, hilariously funny. I wanted to set it up that the audience thinks they are arguing, at first, about something that might be reasonable for a young new couple to be arguing about: she flirted with someone else, or he didn't call when he said he would ... but then, when it becomes apparent, that they are in a rageful argument about the Baby on Board signs - I wanted that to be funny. Get a huge laugh, basically. (This was my main #1 fear: that it wouldn't get a laugh.) I wanted the argument to rollick along, and I wanted the audience to find it all funny - almost like they are relieved. "Oh, they're just arguing about that ... that's kind of silly ... I can relax ..." But then, at a specific point, I wanted the audience to go: "Uh-oh." By that point, there are only 2 pages left in the scene. I didn't want to dwell on it, or hammer it home 10 times. I wanted there to be a feeling of dread, and of incomprehension, that she would be so unreasonable, that she would be willing to throw away this romance because of a disagreement about the Baby on Board sign, of all things ... and then, boom, it's over. He's had it. He's done. She has revealed herself to be an unworthy mate over the course of the scene, and he's out of there.

So. That's a lot to get into one scene, and that's some pretty subtle maneuvering that has to take place. I only write about this at length because it is a moment I am quite proud of, and it is important, in times of difficult work and struggle, to remember the moments that worked. It helps me (to quote Lorna in Golden Boy), "stiffen the space between my shoulder blades". You need that when you are trying to work. As you can see, I had a specific experience I wanted to create, and if it was great on the page but didn't play that way for the audience, I'd have to re-work. And literally, every transition I just mentioned above is what I could feel happening in that audience. They rode the wave. The actors were more like conductors. They played the shit out of the scene. They played it real, they played it heartbreaking, and the result, out in the dark seats, was tense silence at first, dismayed, then HOWLS of laughter that continued on for a couple of pages, just waves and waves of guffaws, every time my female character said the words "Baby on Board sign", the laughter would get more intense. And then, at the moment I had planned (and this is credit to the actors, too, who just went there, talented geniuses that they are), I could feel the energy shift. People stopped laughing. People pulled back. They realized that a disaster was unfolding. It was funny and then .... it was not.

We weren't out of the woods yet. We still had the whole second act to go through, but that "Baby on Board" scene had been my main concern. If you don't get THAT, then you don't get any of it. The rest will NOT follow. Because then it will seem like he has over-reacted and fled into the night over a stupid trivial argument. But that was not the story I was telling. You need to finish that scene thinking, "Well, that sucks, but I think he did need to escape that. He clearly couldn't have dealt with that." If you end that scene thinking, "Boy, did he over-react", then I have failed.

There is nothing like the thrill, quiet and sure, when you know ... you KNOW ... you have succeeded.

The comments I got at the QA confirmed my feelings about that scene, and also deepened my understanding of what I hadn't done in some of the other scenes. There were issues I needed to take seriously. "Why does he call her and ask her out to dinner?" That was a big one. I am still not sure I have handled that one appropriately, and I am still working on it. What does he want from her? If my answer requires me to talk for 15 minutes, then it's not a good answer. Objectives need to be short and to the point.

To quote my acting mentor Sam Schacht:

Every scene is either Fight or Fuck. If you're ever stuck and you don't know how to play something, then just make a choice, either way, and see how it goes. Fight or Fuck. See if it gets you anywhere.

It might be possible to count just how many times I think of his words in my life when I'm trying to create something, but I doubt it. It comes up for me constantly. There are, naturally, subtleties ... but when you're stuck? Trying something subtle is never the way to go. William James wrote:

To change your life: start immediately; do it flamboyantly; no exceptions.

The same is true with acting, with writing. If I'm stuck, the last thing I need to do is try to make a subtle measured change. Fight or Fuck, man. Fight or Fuck. Choose.

Try something unexpected, something sudden, as sometimes happens in real life. People are surprising. See how your characters would react to a surprise. Don't assume you know. Those people on the page might surprise you if you just let them.

I am talking to myself right now. It helps. Don't assume you know, Sheila. Let them surprise you. See what happens.

Oh. And don't be afraid to say what you mean. Ever.

The Killer That Stalked New York (1950)

The blonde dame carries a gun. And .... she carries something even more deadly.

See my review of The Killer That Stalked New York at the indispensable Noir of the Week.

Rotterdam@BAM: Autumn Adagio; Director: Tsuki Inoue

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers). The screenings for the public are going on this week (see schedule in link above), and this is a great opportunity to get a look at films that have little to no chance of getting distributed in the States.

Here is my review of Autumn Adagio, a first feature from Japanese director Tsuki Inoue. Hard to believe this is a first feature. A masterpiece of tone and mood and also character. This is a character study of a Japanese nun named Sister Maria who, as menopause approaches, begins to experience an awkward and strange emotional awakening. Trying to talk about the "plot" is difficult here, because the movie's power lies elsewhere - in its images, music, and sudden moments of glorious catharsis. A very sad film, and deeply personal. Great work.

Rotterdam@BAM: La Vie au Ranch; Director: Sophie Letourneur

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers). The screenings for the public are going on this week (see schedule in link above), and this is a great opportunity to get a look at films that have little to no chance of getting distributed in the States.

Here is my review of La Vie au Ranch, a first feature from French director Sophie Letourneur. I loved this movie, slight as it is. It was totally successful in what it tried to do, it didn't try to do too much, it kept on point, and it was engaging and personal. I'd be interested to hear other reviews of it. I wondered if others would be as forgiving as I was, especially because it shows a group of crazy irresponsible young girls who are NOT judged and held in contempt (unlike so many American films which basically can't stop themselves from SNEERING at sexy young crazy girls. That goes for many critics too who can't stop themselves from SNEERING about movies that are ABOUT women - they hold the very topic in contempt. It's heartbreaking). This movie was refreshing. It felt real. Those girls felt real.

Rotterdam@BAM: Street Days; Director: Levan Koguashvili

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers). I went to many of the press screenings last week (as should be obvious by now), and reviewed as many as I could. The screenings for the public are going on this week (see schedule in link above), and this is a great opportunity to get a look at films that have little to no chance of getting distributed in the States.

Here is my review of the Georgian film Street Days, directed by Levan Koguashvili. A bleak and also hysterically funny tale about life on the streets of Tbilisi, Street Days focuses on one junkie, Checkie, and his moral dilemma. The cops want him to procure drugs for Ika, a teenage boy, who is the son of a minister in the government. Ika is the son of Checkie's childhood friend. Checkie is a junkie, a magnificent portrayal of the dead-end quality and yet also the manic desperation of addiction. Add to that an insightful portrayal of life in Georgia right now - the birthplace of Stalin - and you get a fascinating film. Go check out my review. It screens at BAM on Monday - that is, today (follow link above for more information).

Rotterdam @ Bam: C'est déjà l'ete; Director Martijn Maria Smits

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers). I went to many of the press screenings last week (as should be obvious by now), and reviewed as many as I could. The screenings for the public are going on this week (see schedule in link above), and this is a great opportunity to get a look at films that have little to no chance of getting distributed in the States.

Here is my review of C'est déjà l'ete, a first feature film directed by Dutch documentarian Martijn Maria Smits. It tells the story of a laid-off Belgian steelworker and his two aimless teenage kids. Bleak. No hope. No possibility of catharsis. Detailed observations, showing Smits's documentary background. Beautiful color palette. Weird and riveting stylized ending like something out of Diane Arbus. Go check out my review.

Rotterdam @ Bam: Mama; Directors Yelena Renard and Nikolay Renard

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers).

Here is my review of Mama, a Russian film directed by husband-and-wife team Yelena and Nikolay Renard. "Based on a true story", apparently, it shows a day in the life of an overworked mother and her obese adult son. Slow, meditative, at times annoying - it takes its time (understatement), and reveals the intimacies of this too-close mother-son relationship with ZERO dialogue. Not one word is spoken in the entire film. Go check out my review.

Rotterdam @ Bam: R; Directors Michael Noer and Tobias Lindholm

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers).

Here is my review of R, a gritty prison drama from Denmark. Subjectively told from the perspective of a new inmate in Denmark's notorious Horsens State Prison, R is powerful, terrifying, and brutal. Great lead performance by the young Dane Pilou Asbaek. Relentless examination of the divide in Denmark between Arabs and Danes. Potential blockbuster.

Rotterdam @ Bam: Cold Water of the Sea; Director Paz Fabrega

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers).

Here is my review of the disappointing (yet gorgeous) Cold Water of the Sea. A film from Costa Rica, Cold Water of the Sea connects its myriad dots too clearly for my taste. It felt sketched-in, an IDEA not fully realized yet. Beautiful performance by little 7 year old girl. Gorgeous footage of Costa Rican coast. Go check out my review.

Rotterdam@BAM: The Temptation of St. Tony; Director: Veiko Õunpuu

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers).

Here is my review of Estonian film The Temptation of St. Tony, directed by Veiko Õunpuu. A must-see - but go read my review to hear my thoughts on it. A black and white film, mirroring the stations of the cross, it tells the story of Tony, a middle manager with monetary aspirations, who uncovers a Satanic underworld and cannot find his way back out of the maze. Marvelous. Awesome film. Go check out my review.

Rotterdam@BAM: Sun Spots; Director: Yang Heng

This week, BAM is partnering with the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam to present to American audiences the winners of IFFR'S Tiger competition (given to first- or second-time filmmakers).

Here is my review of Sun Spots, a haunting strange film from Hong Kong. It plays tonight at BAM, so if you live in the area, I highly suggest you check it out. These are films that will probably get limited to no distribution in the US, and Sun Spots definitely should be seen on the big screen. HD imagery that stuns, a chilling plot of violence (always off-screen), and footage you will not forget - Sun Spots is also so stripped of pace and drive that it can drive you BATSHIT. That seems to me to be part of the point. You MUST submit to it. If you don't, you'll crawl out of your skin. Submission is the key. It was for me, anyway. Go check out my review.

My interview with actress Zoë Daelman Chlanda

Recently, I sat down with acclaimed indie horror actress Zoë Daelman Chlanda and we talked about acting, her process, her place in the independent horror genre, and her latest film - the horror short Contact directed by Jeremiah Kipp.

Check out my interview with Chlanda at House Next Door.

Chlanda as Koreen in "Contact"

Things to write about:

-- Hope's various favorite spots in my apartment and WHEN she chooses to go to each place - it's very specific
-- Allison leaving New York and how hard it was to say goodbye
-- the strange repetitive event in my life of men saying my name - both first and last - in a sighing appreciative contemplative way - this has happened with 100% of the men I am either interested in or were involved with, and I find it curious
-- my plans for 2010. It's gonna be a doozy. Former Communist countries are involved. As well as run-down motels.
-- another post on Tom Noonan's What Happened Was...
-- my final thoughts on Alice and the Fawn - and how I had the whole thing wrong from the start (here, and here)
-- my experience in what I now believe is a cult
-- a big post on Gena Rowlands. It's about time. I told Jeremiah it would be like "opening a vein", but seriously, stop avoiding the issue Sheila.
-- my Man in the Mirror post that has been in the works for, what, 4 years?
-- a post about what happened to me in June of this year. I think the smoke is finally clearing which means I will be able to write about it.
-- more in-depth posts on movies. Movies I want to cover: Living Out Loud, Punch-Drunk Love, Mulholland Drive, Magnolia - long-time major favorites that I sort of have avoided.
-- a post about the nice emails I have received from perfect strangers over the years. that one's been in the works for some time.
-- a big post on Julia Roberts. Again, it's about time. Stop avoiding the issue, Sheila. Make a stand.

Post-mortem

This has been a week of processing, decompressing, contemplating, re-living, and thinking ... about the reading, how it went (it went great), and also what I need to do next. This is why it was important to have multiple people look at it, and give feedback. What do you get? What needs to be jacked up? Are you getting what I WANT you to get? I have very definite ideas about the arc and feel of the thing. Is that coming across? It's hard, I know, in a simple reading of a script - but that's the thing: you should feel the arc already, full production or no. Blocking and sets and costumes and lights will not make up for what is not there in the first place. Who do you think Jack is? (my male character?) And what do you get from Neve? (my female character). I have my own preconceived notions, obviously - these two were created by me - but to just sit back and hear what my friends and family GOT from it, who THEY see these characters as - was wonderful, and I have spent most of the week pretty much just shutting up and listening, taking in what everyone had to say. I haven't started work again - I am taking the week off, to just let things percolate - but I have taken notes on what I remember from the night, as well as compiling the list of comments in my head from people who were there. This was not about "oh look what I have created" although I am definitely proud of what I have done and there were many truly gratifying moments for me. Hearing the entire place burst into laughter, as one, at some of the funny lines, for example. This is an example of how exhilaration can also go hand in hand with calmness. As in: I heard everyone GUFFAW at one of the lines (one in particular), and felt a burst of electricity shiver through my body, thrilling with ego and excitement that I HAD MADE THEM MAKE THAT SOUND (well, and David and Jen as well, let's not forget) - but this electricity was immediately followed by a deep sense of calmness, where I nodded to myself in the back, like, "Yup. I can check that off the list. That works." I had been nervous that it wouldn't be funny. The piece is pretty bleak, frankly, and it ends on a horrible note by design. But along the way there is much to laugh at, and both Jack and Neve are meant to be funny people, who enjoy being funny FOR each other. That came across. It was a huge relief to me. Huge. I would say that that was my main worry going in. Will people get that this is funny? They did. And it worked in the way I designed it to work. Serious mixed with funny - an ebb and flow. Sudden curves where a conversation takes another tone. Like, oh, we're laughing, but oh God, now she's pissed. Is that for real? Also, you think someone is ONE way (Neve is rather snippy and difficult - this is true), but then you see another side of her (she knows how to laugh at herself, she likes to tease) - and you have to factor that in to your assessment of the person. I could feel that working in the script. I was very very happy about that, because it's a subtle thing, it could be lost. There is more I could do in this arena, definitely.

When the piece ended, Ben (stage directions reader) said, "Blackout. The end" as planned. The whole joint was quiet, nobody knew what to do, so I said from the back, "That's the end."

People started clapping but it was so funny because everyone was saying to me afterwards, "What happens next??" As I said in the beginning, this is a work-in-progress, and I didn't have the entire piece read at the reading - just the two crucial scenes. It COULD end where it does, but I think there is more to come afterwards. But I felt it was a very good sign that everyone was invested enough to want to know what the hell comes next.

Too funny - my dear friend Jackie, sitting at a table up front with my other dear friends Brooke, Liz, and Rachel, was in tears. I said something like, "I have many things planned for Neve ..." and Jackie said, hopefully, yet also in an emotional panic, "Happy things?" Hahahaha Uhm, no. I don't think so.

A beautiful thing happened after the reading. People were clapping, I went up to hug the actors, take a bow - it was a big moment for me - and my friend Brooke, sitting at a nearby table, wearing elbow-length blue gloves, said, "Can we have a Q and A, Sheila??"

I would never have initiated such a thing myself. I thought we all might just retire to the bar in the other room, and maybe talk about it there in an informal way. But Brooke, in her sensitivity, took the moment, and felt that people wanted to talk about things - I don't know, it was really really good - I am so glad she did that. So I went up and stage, and we had a kind of group discussion about the play, and people asked questions, and gave their responses - and it was good for me to verbalize both what I had been working on, and also what I felt needed to be worked on still. It was just perfect. It's one of those things, again, where if a GROWNUP had been in charge, they might have said, "We'll do the reading, and then have a Q and A with the author" - but it just wasn't something I would have planned myself. It ended up being fantastic, fantastic for me and fantastic for everyone who was there.

Brooke headed up the first question, "How did this project start?" (I love Brooke, God, we have been friends for so long) - and once I started talking, I was fine. I know how to talk about my work. I may get all nervous about making an introductory "welcome to my reading" speech, but you ask me questions about what I was "working on", and I can blab until the cows come home.

This was the start of the post-mortem process for me, and I remember every single thing that everyone said. This is not about stockpiling compliments, although that is nice as well. We need to know that we have done well, sometimes, that we have succeeded at least in what we set out to do, before we can move forward. That was the #1 reason I set up the reading. Now I can move forward. I can tweak and edit, and I will - but the EVENT is clear. The ESSENCE is clear. I didn't get one comment that was so out of left-field that it made me think I hadn't done what I set out to do. So that's good for me. Good to hear, and to know. I don't have MAJOR work to do on the characters. I have things I can draw out more clearly, and elements I can either punch up or tamp down - but it seems everyone got these people as they were intended to be gotten. Phew.

I also loved, frankly, seeing my friends talk to EACH OTHER about this.

This will only be really clear if you have read or heard the script, but suffice it to say, they are referencing a specific moment, and it just makes me laugh every time I think about it.

Brooke: Sheila, where does the play take place?
Me: I actually haven't decided.
Liz: I assumed Chicago.
Me: I'm not sure about that. I know Jack has moved away - but Neve has remained.
Jackie: (chiming in) Wherever they live, it will have to sustain cantaloupes.

And the way Jackie said it, clutching her handkerchief ("Happy things??" she asked me hopefully), tears in her eyes, but still making her point that wherever Neve lives, the soil needs to sustain cantaloupes.

I love my friends. It was also awesome to hear them making connections or making sense of things that I hadn't even thought of. THIS is the gold of the post-mortem period.

Brooke said to me later, "I was quite surprised and interested to see Neve doing yoga."

I hadn't even thought of it. I had just wanted to give her a solitary activity that WASN'T reading. I wanted her to be consumed with her activity, and not stop what she is doing when Jack comes in the room. So I chose yoga. It was pretty much on that level of decision.

But Brooke was very interested in that element. "I know that some people use yoga to relax, to decompress - and that tells me that maybe Neve KNOWS she is a stress-ball, KNOWS that she needs it - I really liked that."

I really liked that she had taken something that was unconscious on my part and made it into a character thing. A NEED, as opposed to just a bit of stage business.

There were many many comments like that, and it was great to just sit back and absorb it all. There's more for me to think about, and I'll still be writing about it, but for now ... let the post-mortem continue.

I think I need a grown-up. Where's the grown-up?

Monday night, at around quarter of 8, the audience started arriving. You know, groups of friends from all different parts of my life. It was overwhelming, like a This Is Your Life episode. Door opens. Oh my God, it's Jackie?? Door opens. Argh, here comes Pat, Michele and Jacki. Door opens. BROOKE. LIZ. Door opens. Dan came? Yay! Rachel!! Allison! Brenda! Jess! Barbara!! And etc. Ad nauseum. I am so grateful to everyone who showed up. It was a nice substantial crowd, which I think was important. It wasn't 6 or 7 people, it was more like 20 - and that really made it feel different, as in: the script really needs to sink or swim here. No pressure or anything like that. Jimmy, the owner of the place, walked me through the space beforehand, showing me the light dimmers and all that. We had lights on the stage, and the "house" (a small room, with little tables and chairs and benches along the side) was in darkness. People could order a drink at the bar out in the main area, and then come in and sit at a little table. So it was nice and cozy. Informal.

People all arrived at around the same time, so we were ready to get started at around 8:15, just like I had pictured in my cray-cray little head.

David and Jen, the actors, were sitting up on the stage, looking through their scripts. Ben, the actor reading stage directions, was also up onstage. The lights were on them, the house was in darkness. I stood in the back.

I knew I had wanted to make some sort of introductory speech. You know: tell people to shut their cell phones off, first of all. But also to say a few words about the project, introduce the actors, thank everyone for coming. And then step to the back of the room, and let Ben start the thing with the opening stage directions.

But I had a moment that makes me laugh now in remembrance. I stood in the back, so I was looking at the backs of everyone's heads in the audience. All my friends and family. Chatting, with drinks on the table. David and Jen sat in the light onstage, serious, flipping through their scripts. Ben sat in his chair, waiting quietly.

And I had this moment of thinking:

Okay, I need a GROWNUP now to take charge of this situation. I need the ADULT to go up there and make the speech. I certainly can't do it! I'm only 11 years old right now! Where is the grown-up?? Can I get an ADULT to go up there and say a few words?

I've been in a ton of readings as an actress. I've been David or Jen more times than I can speak. You sit up there, gearing up your forces, dealing with nerves, relaxing quietly, getting ready to work and show the script. You are not "in charge" - at least not at that point. Once the reading starts, it's ALL you, you are the ONLY one in charge, but in the moments beforehand, you have no tasks but to quietly get ready to work. Then the director or the writer comes up, says a few gracious words ... and you are then handed the torch.

So standing back there, I felt a sudden bolt of panic, because I didn't know where the GROWNUP was who could do that ... and then I realized: Oh right. It's me.

I'M the grownup here.

No getting around it. No hiding from it. There is no reason for any of this to be occurring if it weren't for me. It is a very strange sensation - and wholly new to me. It's strange to be at my advanced age and have what can be classified as a NEW experience. I'm thrilled about it.

But in that moment in the back, I had a tug of resistance, my spirit calling out to some OTHER grownup to take charge. It can't be me who has to go up there and speak, can it?

I took a deep breath and walked forward.

Yup. It's me. This is my job. I can do it. I know what to do. No one to look to but myself.

And then, another new sensation, I made my introductory speech, ended with, "Thanks for coming, I hope you enjoy it ..." and then .... stepped back into the darkness, the back of the room. Leaving the stage to the actors.

Take it away.

The end of the road: Camino Real

My piece for the Provincetown Tennessee Williams Theatre Festival on Camino Real (one of my favorites of Williams' play) is now online. It's short, just two paragraphs, but it was a thrill when David Kaplan, the curator and artistic director of the esteemed festival, approached me to write something for their catalog. Here's a longer piece I wrote about the play on my own site, which is why I attracted the attention of Kaplan.

Pixar Week begins

My piece (on A Bug's Life and Up) is now up.

Status updates

Facebook and Twitter have infiltrated my life. I know it's been quiet round these parts. I am spending all of my time off-line with a writing project that has taken up the brain-space and creativity. I think in terms of status updates now.

-- Booked the space for the reading of my script.

-- This will be the first "formal" reading. Invited audience.

-- We did read one of the scenes back in June in LA with a small group of people. It went great.

-- Work has continued on it in a disciplined and feverish manner despite how bad this summer has been. Discipline.

-- I had David and Jen come over one night in August, to just hear the latest draft of one of the scenes I had written. It engendered a lot of great discussion. I could write an entire essay about what it is like to hear two actors read words that I have written. The first time was out in LA, and it was truly a highwater mark for me, in terms of confidence and also drive. It was an incredible thing.

-- Meanwhile, cousin Mike and I have had numerous conversations about it, which would then send me back to edits - my favorite kind of productive work. I love problem-solving. When I wrote my book I loved that part of it as well. Some authors find that part (getting critiques, and then "fixing" stuff) to be agony, and I can understand that. Sometimes you see things in a fixed way. It IS what it is because that's how I say it is! I created this! Much time and energy is spent in FIGHTING the edits. Now, there are some edits you should not feel pressured to make, as a writer. If someone is pushing you to do something totally against what you are working for, then you should fight for what you want, but you should also consider the possibility that maybe you haven't said it clearly enough and THAT is why the person is suggesting an edit. See if you can say it better. And etc. Mike has a great ear. Not just for potential jokes (and of course he's awesome at that), but at what I am MISSING. Every scene must push the story forward. This is not about plot. This is about conflict. Script 101. And acting 101. Any actor approaching a scene for the first time has to ask himself, "What is my objective in this scene?" The same is true for writing a script. Sometimes easy to forget that when you are in the bubble of creativity, working alone. It all makes sense to ME. I can hear the whole damn thing in my head! But Mike's perceptive eye would show me other opportunities to bring out the essential conflict, to go deeper.

-- So does David. David has been one of my primary readers all along. He is honest, perceptive, and gets what I am trying to do. That counts for so much. Because he can speak towards the end goal - he can say, 'I see what you're going for here, but I'm not really getting it." Again: I love critiques like this.

-- The time has come for me to HEAR these two scenes that I have been working on so hard. As Mike keeps saying to me, "DON'T TOUCH IT ANYMORE. YOU'LL WRECK IT." Or if I "delete" something, make sure to save it as a revision - so that if I want to add it back in, I can easily do so.

-- David and Jen graciously agreed to be my actors in this public reading, and Siobhan's boyfriend Ben will read stage directions. It will be done simply, the two actors sitting in chairs on a small stage - no moving around (unless the spirit moves them, of course) - and the primary objective is not a final performance, naturally, but it's all about ME, it's all for ME. Does this work? What doesn't work? What can I cut? What is said too many times? Am I being TOO clear sometimes? Because human relationships are messy, and we don't always say exactly what we mean, prefacing it with, "Here's what I'm feeling ..." My guy character is more like that than the female character - he's more talky, more open - but I need to let him be flawed, too, and not be clear, have moments when defensiveness or anger cloud his expression. But I can only really KNOW where these points are once I hear it.

-- So this is all naturally terrifying because, duh, I want to be loved, and I want it to go well. It's all very exciting.

-- It was surprisingly easy to book the space. Siobhan had a great suggestion, to do it at the performance space at Jimmy's, the cute little bar where she bartends. The performance space is adorable - and they do everything from ukelele festivals back there to poetry readings. There's a door that can be shut, so the sound from the bar is not omnipresent. There are little bar tables in the room, and people can grab a drink at the bar, and then come in (crowd in) to listen to the reading.

-- I set up an "Event" on Facebook and invited the world. So far I have 16 confirmed guests, and my agent will be there as well. I am so excited. And nervous.

-- I can think of little else.

-- But I will do as Mike says and NOT TOUCH THE SCRIPT ANYMORE - because I will WRECK IT. I have started to work on the third scene, and this one won't be ready in time for the reading, and that's fine.

-- I think a lot will become clear about what I am ACTUALLY doing when I see how the thing feels in front of a living breathing audience.

-- I am very grateful to my friends who will be there.

I am still rather amazed that all of this is happening.

The prudish spellcheck on Final Draft

Final Draft is a screenwriting software program which is brilliant in its design. It formats everything for you - screenplays are very specific, in what they need to look like - indentations for characters, voice over moments, actions, transitions - and once you get the hang of it, you can just fly. There is no hovering over your keyboard doing it manually. You can just WRITE, and the formatting happens by itself (once you know what you are doing). It was a gift, and I absolutely love it.

Today I was doing spellcheck on something I had just written.

One of my characters swears like a truckdriver. Final Draft had a hell of a time figuring out what to do with the swears.

For "bullshit", Final Draft suggested "blushing".

For "fucking", Final Draft suggests "flacking".

For "fuck", Final Draft suggests "luck".

For "jagoff", Final Draft suggests "takeoff".

For "crap", Final Draft suggests "cap".

Now this isn't a swear, but I found it amusing:

For "Tupperware", Final Draft suggests "Tipperary".

But my all-time favorite suggestion is:

For "douchebags", Final Draft suggests "doodlebugs".

I seriously need to do a "Replace All", just to see how bizarre my script will now read.

"What should I do with the leftovers?" "Oh, just put them in a Tipperary container".
"Don't be a takeoff, why won't you listen to me?"
"You need to understand that I DON'T GIVE A CAP."
"What the luck?"
"What you're saying is all blushing."
"You need a flacking clue is what you need."
"I don't like his friends. They're all doodlebugs."

Snoop Dogg and Nancy Kerrigan are BFFs

I was talking to cousin Mike a couple days ago about my script. I sat in a park on a beautiful day, taking crazy notes, and we talked for about an hour. One of the characters in my script makes a generalization about generations - as in: "Our parents generation didn't do THIS ... only OUR generation does THIS." Mike thought that the other character should call bullshit on this. Every moment needs to be an opportunity for potential conflict, as well as illuminating the issues that eventually will sink the relationship I'm portraying. You know, there are clues from the beginning that this JANK isn't going to work, but when you're first in love you don't notice it. Mike has such a good eye for this stuff. I mean, I'm already DOING it, it's already THERE, but Mike noticed more places for this kind of exchange.

And Mike said, "You know, it bothers me when people talk about generations like that. Listen: SNOOP DOGG and Nancy Kerrigan are in the same generation, okay?"

I am still laughing about that. Imagining those two people being in the same room at the same time.

Snoop Dogg and Nancy Kerrigan. Portrait of a generation.

I may have to steal that line.

Sadie is, frankly, in deep doo doo

The illustration.

Even at age 12 I was aware of the juxtaposition of scarcity and abundance. Perhaps this is the theme of my life. Seems that way.

I didn't get around to coloring this one in with pen.

Sadie Pulaski, continued

We pick up where we left off.

IV. THINGS GET WORSE

She opened her eyes and realized that she was very wet, so she began to hurry home as fast as she could manage. The sky was growing darker by the minute and a soft rumble of thunder was head in the distance. What a scary noise, Sadie thought.

It was a long way home, about 3 kilometers, and Sadie realized that in about a minute, the sky was almost black and rain was pouring in buckets. Her blonde curly hair clung to her face in wet strands and her clothes stuck to her uncomfortably. Sadie reached a wet hand up to her face and began to brush her hair out of her eyes but then the wind started whipping her wet hair all over.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The wind picked up speed, lightning forked across the sky and a moment later a deafening crack of thunder was heard. Sadie winced at the sound and began to feel scared. It was pretty dangerous to be out now and Sadie knew that she had to walk at least 45 minutes more to get home. A car drove by, headlights glaring, blinding Sadie for a minute. While she couldn't see and had to put her wet arm up to her eyes, the car drove through a puddle, sending a spray of water over Sadie.

Now she was totally drenched, freezing and terrified at the sight of lightning over her head and at the sound of an enormous boom of thunder. Sadie wrapped her arms around herself and stood still, squinting around her. The rain was splashing and running down the gutters and flowing into the drains and streaking apartment windows and hitting store canopies, running down and falling off. There was no doubt about it, Sadie thought. She could not continue home in this weather. She would probably be killed or run over or something.

As lightning flashed an everything around her lit up in a blue-white color, Sadie jumped in terror. Thunder crashed and smashed overhead. Looking wildly around, Sadie ran into the doorway of a bakery. She was warm here, although she was soaked to the skin and maybe even further!!

Sadie crouched in the doorway, breathing heavily. She glanced inside. It looked wonderfully warm in there and tantalizing aromas wafted through the door. On the counter she saw fresh donuts dripping with honey syrup and chocolates and fresh long rolls of crusty bread and enormous cookies with raisins and chocolate chips.

Sadie looked away. It was too much.

As she watched the rain pour down outside, Sadie suddenly felt almost dead. Every muscle relaxed and she had to lean against the door-jamb, she felt so floppy. She noticed a bench under the green and blue striped canopy and immediately plopped down and lay her head back on the wall, eyes closed. She listened to the loud sound of the rain and momentarily the sky was lit up by a flash of lightning. At every crack of thunder, Sadie cowered, and wished she was home. No telling when this storm would stop. Already it was late, and she felt lost, and knew that in this driving rain she could never find her way home. Her parents didn't even know she had gotten a job or where she was right now. They were probably worried sick by now.

BOOM! Sadie jumped as a roaring cracking thunder filled her ears. After it was over, she relaxed. In the silence after the thunder, she heard a tinkly belly ring. She glanced behind her. It was the door to the bakery. A woman in a green dress, with a white satin sash and buttons and a man in a grey pinstripe suit and spats came out, both under a huge black umbrella with a shiny white handle.

Sadie turned from looking at them and rested her head again. The woman and man were laughing and talking as they decided who would hold the white bakery box and who would carry the umbrella.

"No, no, dear, I shall take the donuts," the man said with a laugh. The woman laughed too, a beautiful flutey sound.

"I couldn't allow that, darling. Because I know you would sneak a donut before we get home. And besides," she changed her voice melodramatically to sound weak and frail. "You wouldn't want me to ruin my hands holding up that big heavy umbrella, and --"

"You have gloves on, dear."

"Oh! Yes, well --" the woman suddenly broke off when she spotted the ragged, drenched Sadie, slumped in exhaustion on the bench. She nudged the man. "Darling - look."

She gestured at Sadie. "Poor kid," the man muttered.

The woman left the umbrella and walked to Sadie on her high white heels. "Darling ..." she said softly.

Sadie's eyes flew open. For a split second, she thought it was her mother who had come to get her. But after that one moment, she knew it wasn't true. She stared at the woman's gentle, sympathetic face over her and felt confused. She began to edge away but the woman's voice stopped her.

"You're so wet, dear. And so tired. Do you have any place to go?"

Sadie nodded and managed to say softly, "I - I have a home." Never feeling so exhausted, she lay her head back and closed her eyes. The woman straightened and, in a business-like manner, walked back to her husband, took the white box out of his hands.

"You don't mind if I give her one, do you? The poor dear - she's so thin, dirty and pale." Sadie heard the woman whisper. The man shook his head. "That's fine."

"Here. Would you like a donut? They are fresh and warm - straight out of the oven."

Sadie didn't even think about pride then. She nodded. The woman smiled at her, took a donut with coconut sprinkled on top and handed it to her. Eagerly, Sadie gobbled it down. Mmmm. They were warm and absolutely delicious! What a change from bread and cheese every day!!!

When she finished and licked her fingers, the man walked over. "Do you have a home, kid?" His voice was kind and soft.

Sadie again nodded. "Yes. I'm waiting for the rain to stop, because I know I'll get killed or something. I'm on my way home from work."

"Work??" the woman cried. She turned to look at the man and they seemed to have an eye conversation. The woman turned back to Sadie.

"Dear, it's getting late and it really is dangerous for you to be out alone. We have our car. Would you like a ride?"

Sadie, slightly wary, shrugged. Mama always said not to accept things from strangers. This couple seemed extremely nice, but still ...

"I know exactly what you're thinking, but - All right. My name is Stella Ashley and this is my husband Peter."

"Consider us as friends, because you'll catch your death of cold, out here all wet."

Sadie thought it over, looking back and forth between Stella and Peter. They were possibly some of the nicest grownups she knew, other than her parents. Finally she nodded. "Thank you very much." She got to her feet on weak unsteady legs and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Now that she had been out of the rain for a while, her skirt clung to her legs, and her shirt was heavy and wet.

"Come along. The car is this way," Peter said, holding the umbrella over all three of them. Lightning flashed and thunder resounded, but somehow it didn't bother Sadie that much. She felt safe with these people, and also she felt excited. She was going to ride in a car! A real car! She had never even set foot in a car.

And the car that the Ashley's had was beautiful! It was a black Roadster with red velvet seats and sleek chrome on the sides.

"This is a beautiful car!" Sadie cried as it was lit up by a stroke of lightning.

"Why, thank you, uh --"

"Sadie Pulaski."

"Sadie," Mr. Ashley finished. "We're quite proud of it too. Well, we'd better get you home. Your parents are probably worried sick." He opened the backdoor for Sadie and, wide-eyed in awe, Sadie slid in. Stella and Peter smiled at each other and sat in the front seat.

"This is a beautiful car," Sadie cried again, and then began to cough and splutter. She managed to get out, "I live on 53 Railroad Avenue," and sneezed.

Stella and Peter exchanged anxious glances and started the car immediately. Lightning bolted as the car zoomed off through the gloomy evening and drove toward the even gloomier Railroad Avenue.

In the car, Sadie felt shivery and burning at the same time, and she knew she was coming down with something. She was silent the whole ride except occasionally to cough or sneeze.

As they neared her dismal neighborhood, Sadie began to point out the directions. Then Sadie said, "All right. We're here."

The car came to a stop, raindrops pelted the roof, and Stella and Peter stared up at the dilapidated filthy building.

"This is your home, kid?" Peter asked over his shoulder.

Sadie nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you so much. This was a really nice thing to do."

Stella gave her a beautiful smile. "Well, you certainly couldn't have walked the whole way home in this weather."

Sadie began to fumble with the door handle but Peter's voice stopped her.

" 'Ey, Sadie."

Sadie looked at him. He had turned around to face her. His features were in a pleasant smile.

"Yes, sir?"

There was a slight silence and then Peter said, "Take care, o.k.? Keep your chin up."

Sadie felt a little confused and she did feel sick and dizzy but she did smile at both of them. "I will. Thank you very much."

She opened the car door and jumped out onto the sidewalk being splattered with rain. "Goodbye, Sadie," Sadie heard Stella car as the car door slammed. Sadie turned and dashed up the slippery steps, whirled around to wave and darted into the building. She stood in the dingy, dim front hall, breathing heavily, shivering and sweating at the same time. She had never felt so waterlogged and sticky in her whole life. Her skirt looked more like knickers because they clung to her legs. Her hair was now poker straight, not blonde, and plastered to her flushed face.

Shivering, she started up the stairs, her shoes making a squelchy sound from the wetness on their soles.

She faced the dark door of her home, took a deep breath, and walked in.

Sadie goes to work: The illustration

Here is Sadie and the other "sweepers", standing in line with their brooms. The kindly matron (I worked hard on her dress, I can tell) stands in front of them.

Sadie Pulaski, continued

The funniest thing is that I actually had conversations over the weekend with Jean and with Beth about the adventures of poor little Sadie (the heroine of my novel that I wrote at the age of 12). Jean said at one point, "It's riveting!" I just read the next chapter in the saga, and it is far too long to post in one fell swoop - but boy oh boy was I turning up the heat on this poor Polish family. They can't cut a break.

As followers of my story may recall, Sadie and her brother Stanislaus have been forced to leave school because, uhm, the "rates" are too high. (Please remember. I was 12.) The family lives on a diet of stolen lettuce and skim milk.

Let's see what happens next. The chapter title says it all.

One thing: I grew up in Rhode Island. The big town where I lived was, once upon a time, a mill town. The industrial revolution, starting back in the 1700s, was big in Rhode Island - and many a school field trip would involve going to these old mills (some of which have been turned into museums) and learning about them. I can feel that a lot of my information here is from those field trips, and the sad pictures of little pipsqueaks working at the factory.

IV. THINGS GET WORSE

For the next few weeks Sadie's days went pretty much the same. She did her chores, studied and went to bed. Sadie tried to make the best of it but she was bored to the teeth. And conditions in her father's shop were getting no better. He was falling behind in the rent, and couldn't afford to buy that many products and his customer rate dropped lower than before.

Meals were scarcer and scarcer and sometimes there just was no food to be had, so there were no meals. Sadie grew thin and pale, her eyes began to look big, haunted, hollow, and after some strenuous chore she would feel dizzy and tired. It was the same with Stanislaus and her parents. Sadie was not her same bubbly self. She just didn't have anything to laugh about anymore.

Then one day, the worst thing that could have happened happened. Papa's store closed down. And with the rent coming up, where would the money come from? Papa desperately started to look for work but it was hard. No jobs seemed to be open. Stanislaus, after a lot of arguing and discussing, started to look for a job too. When Sadie heard that Stanislaus was trying to help in this desperate situation she wanted to work, too. At first her parents wouldn't consider it, but she finally convinced them that if she did get a job, she could really help out in the rent. Strangely enough, Sadie found a job almost immediately. A textile mill needed a whole new batch of children because so many were immigrating to America. Sadie was walking past the factory gates one drizzly afternoon and she saw a whole crowd of children crowded against the iron gates. Curious, she joined them, pushing her way up front to have a better view.

A big muscular man with a thin mustache and cold grey eyes walked out of the factory and strode toward them. Something about him made Sadie shiver.

He surveyed the little dirty children. Everyone was quiet. It seemed an eternity until the man spoke. His voice was loud and harsh, he seemed to bite each word.

"We need small kids to sweep the aisles, strong kids to take the material and put it in barrels, and kids to thread the spools. You will do as you are told. No funny business. All right now. I'll take all the kids here with last names between A and L." Sadie gulped and stiffened up. She began to think rapidly of how to get herself a job here. Unfortunately, the man called on her first.

"Kid, what's your name?"

Sadie stuttered out, quickly and desperately thinking of a last name, "Uh - well - my name is - uh - Sadie Frowne."

"All right. You got a job."

Sadie relaxed and wiped the sweat off of her forehead. After 20 kids had been chosen, the man dismissed the remaining children, ignoring their cries of disappointment and their wails of helplessness. The man opened the gates and led the children up to the big, grey factory with only a few windows that were so dusty that nothing could be seen through them.

The man opened the doors, led the children down a dank, stuffy hallway and stopped at the grey metal door situated at the end. He put his hands on his hips and faced the children. After looking them over again for a long time he said, "I'm picking jobs and if I hear one complaint I'll give you a smack and send you right on home. Understand?"

Everyone nodded. Sadie was beginning to feel some regret at changing her name from Pulaski to Frowne. She was terrified of the man and she could tell he meant what he said. She cringed at the thought of him whacking that big heavy hand across her head.

Again, the man looked at Sadie first. "Since you're so puny, you will brush the aisles clean of all wool and cloth and thread."

Sadie nodded. That didn't sound too hard. Six other little children were chosen to sweep, too. Then, big strong kids were selected to carry the enormous loads of fabrics down the stairs and into the basement where they were put in barrels ready for shipping. The rest were given the jobs of working at the machines: threading the spools, cleaning the machinery, combing the strands and many other jobs. When Sadie heard of all of the hideous tasks that were given out, she thought that she got it pretty easy.

But when the man opened the heavy door to the factory, she changed her mind. Row upon row of deafening machines with tiny little children in front of them, doing jobs that were meant for adults. The air was dirty; when Sadie breathed she could feel the cotton lint, and dirt in the air. It was dim and musty and there were only 3 slits letting in light.

A little boy who looked around six years old walked by, holding an enormous bundle of fabric and material in a heavy leather bag. It was so big that the boys arms could not fit all the way around and his thin clawlike fingers clutched at the bag to keep it from dropping. A little blonde girl who was threading spool after spool stopped for a minute, bent over, spat and coughed, again and again. Her face grew beet-red and she couldn't stop. A matron came over, gave her a slap, and demanded her to continue working. Still coughing and spitting, the girl turned back to her hideous job. A small screech was heard from the other side of the machine. Someone was hurt. And the great looming machines did look dangerous. Sadie was scared to death. She had never been so terrified in her life. Why did she have to have changed her name from Pulaski to Frowne? She would rather starve than watch little kids be tortured, herself included, and to shrivel away to a little thin robot, mechanically doing her job day after day, in a dark filthy loud cave with all sorts of hazards. And also, the big man who had hired her would obviously be no comfort to the situation.

Sadie glanced fearfully around at the other children and saw that they, too, were staring around them in horror.

The man yelled in his booming voice for a matron to come over. One did, and she was a tall regal woman with black hair yanked away from her face into a tihgt bun at the nape of her neck. Her dress was grey and dirty from all the things in the air and there was a slight faded trace of blue pinstripes. Her shoes were black and had a pointed toe and a firm stacked heel.

"Yes, sir?" she yelled above the roaring of the machines.

"These are the new batch. Sweepers, go with this lady."

For a minute, Sadie was confused. She was just so dazed at seeing the horrible interior of the factory that at first she didn't hear the man speak. When she did not move with the others, he gave her a hard shove on her shoulder and she almost fell over. She didn't dare look into his cold, grey eyes.

She and the six other sweepers followed the matron to a damp corner with one chair and a row of hooks on the wall. Hung up here were many straggly brooms. The matron handed each of them a broom. The wooden handle was scratchy and Sadie felt splinters poke into her hand as she took it.

They followed the matron through a labyrinth of machines until she stopped at the head of the whole room. In front of them were six dirty machines with dust, lint and cotton littering the aisles between them.

Before the matron assigned them aisles, she gathered them all around her. Her face was pleasant and she even wore a bit of a smile.

"Now, listen," she said seriously. "I know this job will be tough on you and you won't have any fun doing it. I'll do my best to see that you are unharmed. Now, the man who brought you here: I must warn you that he is a cruel man. He will not hesitate to harm a child. Please - just stay out of his way and just do as he says. If you are in trouble, come to me, and I'll see if I can help you. All right? You may call me Matron Brown. Now, you --" She pointed to a boy Sadie's height with a beige cap, checked shirt and dark brown suspenders. His shoes were just bits of cloth tied around his feet. His face was nice, however, and his grin was full of spunk. The matron continued. "What is your name?"

"John Kosnoski," he said.

"Well, John, take the first aisle."

John glanced at the other kids and his eyes met Sadie's. He grinned and she smiled back. Sadie's heart speeded up a little. Do I like him? she asked herself. No, don't be silly. Mama always says I'm too young for such nonsense. But Sadie still wondered.

Sadie was assigned Aisle 2. John had already started to sweep away the piles of cotton and dirt with much vigor. Sadie admired his spirit and she began to sweep earnestly also.

As the hours dragged by, Sadie grew exhausted and sweeping the aisles was a tedious job. The lint got caught in her eyes, her eyelashes already felt heavy with it, and her throat was parched and scratchy. Every 5 minutes she had to cough and spit, to try to get the terrible feeling out of her mouth. Once, she met John at the end of the aisle. He looked run-down and had to lean on his broom for support. He couldn't even manage a smile.

"This is terrible, huh?" he breathed, spitting on the floor.

Sadie nodded. "I feel so scratchy and my throat! Just think - we have to come here every day now from 6:00 am to 6:00 pm. I can't bear it!" She covered her face, but she didn't cry. She just felt so tired.

John reached out and touched her shoulder. "Hey, come on. If you work here, then you might be able to leave for America or Australia, huh? My family will be."

Sadie looked up. "Really?" She glanced around guiltily at the panting filthy kids working about them. She looked back at John. "We'd better get back to work or we'll get in trouble."

John nodded. Sadie, with a sigh, turned back to her aisle. Just as she did this, a piercing whistle cut through the air. It startled Sadie so much that she dropped her broom. She saw that the other children were leaving. Never remembering feeling so relieved, Sadie realized that it was 6:00 pm. She and many other sweepers hung up their brooms and filed out of the factory, some with big bundles of fabric on their backs. When Sadie stepped outside, she felt a shower of rain on her head. She glanced up at the overcast sky and saw heavy, dark thunderheads gathering above. Rain was pouring down quite heavily now but Sadie didn't care. It felt good on her aching muscles and her dry skin.

She tripped down the factory walkway, among the many other children, some who talked, but most who remained in gloomy silence. Once Sadie was outside the gate, she stood on the sidewalk, face thrown back, letting the raindrops run down her cheeks. Eyes closed, she loved the feeling of it.

Sadie Pulaski: an illustration

Here is my representation of Sadie and Stanislaus, brother and sister, having a heated argument about traditional gender roles in 1922 Poland.

Sheila, relax. Go outside and play. Seriously. You're 12.

Sadie Pulaski and her pathetic fallacy, continued

Let's move on. Sadie has had to drop out of school because of ... Poland's "high rates". Yeah, that's it.

CHAPTER THREE. A CHANGE OF PACE, continued

The next day, Sadie did not return to school. When she woke up, she was just about to climb out of bed and begin her normal morning rituals and then she remembered. A cold feeling ran all over her and she felt rather sick and dizzy. The bedroom area was dim and shadowy. It was chilly, too. Sadie shivered in her thin white cotton nightgown and slipped out of bed. The floor was freezing and she almost let out a scream at the top of her lungs but she caught herself in time. She tiptoed to the dusty window that overlooked the avenue her flat was situated on. Fog was rolling in thickly from the Vistula River. A deep, mournful foghorn moaned in the distance. What a lonely sound, Sadie thought sadly. All was deathly still and quiet. It seemed as if all of Poland was asleep on that frosty October morning in 1922. The stillness was suddenly broken by the rattling horse-drawn milk wagon jolting by. After its sound had died away, another one took its place. A loud tolling bell claimed 4:00. Sadie felt strangely relaxed. She didn't have to rush through her early morning chores so she could be off to school at 6:30. She had all the time in the world.

Sadie was tired of standing at the window so she turned. She glanced at Stanislaus. He was all sprawled out over his small bed, with one leg hanging over the side. Sadie looked at Mama. Mama looked exhausted. Sadie got an idea. She ran over to the wooden box beside her bed. She dug in and brought out her tan jumper, brown skirt and dark blue shirt. Hurriedly, she put on her skirt and shirt and slid the jumper on. Feeling snug and warm, she yanked on her shoes and socks. Trying not to make too much noise, she tiptoed to the door of the bedroom, slowly opened it, wincing at the squeaking sound and hopped down the steps into the kitchen. She bustled around, taking down the big frying pan from the cupboard and getting two eggs out of a carton. Sadie then gathered some scraps of wood and put it in the stove. Soon she had a bright fire going and the room was warmed up slightly. She placed the pan on the stove and cracked the two eggs into it. Then Sadie did what she always used to do when she cracked eggs. She watched the clear liquid bubble up and slowly turn from a transparent substance to a thick white solid. As Sadie was transferring them from the pan onto a cracked china plate, her mother came down the stairs. Her face lit up.

"Why, Sadie, darling! What a nice thing for you do to do!" She planted a kiss on her daughter's cheek.

After much persuading, Sadie sat her mother down at the table with the plate of eggs in front of her. Sadie then began to wash the dishes in the tin bucket in the corner. As she did so, Papa came down the stairs, strapping his suspenders.

"Don't have time to eat. I got a delivery coming in and I have to be ready before customers come." Papa announced, slinging on his heavy, wool trench coat.

Stanislaus bounded down the stairs. "I'm goin' to help Papa at the store. He needs it today. When I come back, I'll study with you, Sadie."

Sadie nodded. Stanislaus leaned over, kissed his mother and headed for the door. Papa followed, after taking one bite of Mama's eggs.

"Goodbye!" Sadie called as the door closed.

The whole day, Sadie and her mother spent doing chores. Sadie worked so hard that even Mama was surprised. Sadie wanted to keep her mind off the fact that she might never go to school again. She washed the windows, scrubbed the floors and did errands. The day dragged by and Sadie had spent such a long time stooped over the floor that her back ached ferociously. She had just lay down on her bed when Stanislaus came home.

He burst into the bedroom. His handsome face was exhausted and filthy and his clothes were smudged and wrinkled and he looked positively pooped. But he insisted that Sadie come to the kitchen and study.

"Let me rest a while," Sadie sighed, propping her pillow up to soothe her neck.

"Oh, no. You'll study. Anyway, I'm the one who should be in bed. I've been on my feet all day."

Sadie could not let that remark slip by without an argument. She sat up immediately, trying to ignore the pains in her protesting back. "That is not true! I have worked my head off all day!"

Stanislaus looked at her dubiously. "What are you doing right now? Lying on a bed is not a strenuous activity."

"I had just lay down for a short rest when you came in. I am absolutely pooped. I have worked just as hard as you!"

"Women's work is not hard."

Sadie leapt to her feet. "WHAT!!?!!" she hollered at the top of her voice. She was about to plunge into a long loud dispute when Stanislaus calmly reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Sadie," he said quietly. "Let's study."

Sighing, Sadie reached under her bed and brought out a satchel of heavy boring school books. She stood up, her legs feeling as if they would crumple under her weight any minute. She stumbled behind Stanislaus to the stairway and tripped down to the table. For two hours, she hunched over her books, working out algebra equations, making out a history timeline, and writing five sentences in Latin. Then, she brought out her English language textbook. It was the newest of all of her books. As she studied some new words, she said them to herself. They had a certain ring to them.

"Mama, listen!" Sadie cried. "It is nice out," she said laboriously and hesitantly after some practice. She practiced a minute and then said in a normal tone, "It is nice out!"

Stanislaus looked up from his chemistry book. "What does it mean?"

"It is nice out? Um - I can't remember. It's just written down in my notebook. But whatever it means, doesn't it sound nice? It is nice out! I'm practicing, just in case we go to America."

Mama smiled but her face looked a little sad. Sadie said nothing more, but began to recite phrases in English, occasionally saying them out loud. When Papa walked in the door, Sadie smiled at him and said a well-practiced English phrase. "Hello, Father! I am on Chapter One!" She wasn't sure what it meant, but it sounded like a right greeting.

"Why, thank you, Sadie!" Papa aid and kissed his daughter.

Supper that night was very scarce. There was no salad. They had cheese sandwiches and a glass of skim milk. Sadie's hunger was in no way satisfied. She helped her mother around the kitchen for a while and then went to bed.

She was restless all night, tossing and turning and wishing she had something to eat. Sadie prayed that things got better, but her prayer was not answered.

Illustration from my novel about Sadie Pulaski

Okay, this is hysterical. I drew an illustration of Sadie and Ruth sitting on the rock during recess. Mkay? I worked hard on their outfits and on their different hair.

BUT. Why this is so hysterical is that in the margins of my notebook I had obviously doodled something ELSE ... that has NOTHING to do with Sadie and Ruth ...

I was a big doodler. Still am.

I can't stop laughing - looking at that "doodle" and how Ruth appears to be glancing over at that "doodle" - almost like, "wow, who let the floozy nutbag onto our playground?"

The more I look at it the funnier it is.

Oh Sadie Pulaski, what are you going to do?

Let's move on with our sad sad story. The Pulaski family had a nice dinner of .... lettuce .... but now Sadie must drop out of school due to .... the "high rates" Poland was so notorious for.

THREE. A CHANGE OF PACE

The next day, Sadie dreaded going to school and breaking the news to all of her friends. As she walked along, shivering in the dim misty morning, Sadie thought about how she would tell them.

"Oh, by the way, I'm not coming to school anymore ... I will not beat around the bush, that I know. It will just make it harder for me to tell them. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to wait and see and just tell them then."

Sadie had decided not to make a public announcement of it - just to quietly tell Mr. Balicki and Ruth. She didn't want all of the other kids to glance at her with pity or keep approaching her saying, "I'm sorry." That would only make it harder for her to go.

When she arrived at school, she didn't get a chance to talk to anybody because school started right away. Sadie struggled through a Science exam and an English quiz and was very relieved when Mr. Balicki announced the morning recess. But now she had to tell her teacher.

When the classroom had been completely vacated, and only she and Mr. Balicki remained, Sadie slowly and hesitantly walked to the front of the room and stood in front of Mr. Balicki's desk. Mr. Balicki looked up with a smile on his pleasant face.

"Yes, Sadie? Can I help you?" he inquired, stacking the exams neatly in a pile.

Sadie somehow could not look him straight in the eye. She wrung her hands nervously. "Mr. Balicki - I - well - I -" she took a deep breath and glanced at the ceiling. "I'm not coming back to school."

Immediately concerned and surprised, Mr. Balicki stood and circled his desk to face Sadie. "Why - Sadie?"

Sadie gulped and scuffed her well-worn heavy oxfords on the hard wooden floor. "Mama and Papa just don't have money for all of our needs. We want to go to America but we just can't manage. We've given up a lot but this is the biggest." She peered anxiously into her teacher's eyes. "I'm really sorry. I don't want to leave but I have to."

Mr. Balicki sighed. "I'm sorry, too. You're one of my best students. I'll miss seeing your enthusiastic little hand waving frantically around." He chuckled, trying to make Sadie smile but Sadie just couldn't.

"I promise I'll study at home," Sadie began earnestly, "but I think I'll need -" Mr. Balicki saved the embarrassing moment for her.

"I know. You want your books. Well, I'll be more than happy to lend them to you. If you do return to this school, I will expect you to be on the same level as the other children," he said with pretended sternness, waggling his index finger in front of her eyes. Sadie managed to grin. Mr. Balicki smiled back and continued. "I can't really afford to lose a student such as you, so do you promise to study some each day?"

Sadie nodded her head vigorously, vowing to herself that she would do just that. "I promise, Mr. Balicki," she said sincerely.

Sadie couldn't think of anything else to say so she just shrugged and sighed. She finally said softly, "Good-bye, Mr. Balicki."

"Good-bye, Sadie," he said.

They stood silently for a while and Sadie grew flustered and uneasy. She muttered, "I - I'll go out for recess" and ran down the long aisle of desks and out the back door. The day was not very cold, but the sun was barely shining, so that everything on the playground appeared bleak and dull. Everything was grey or a dull tan or faded off-white. Nothing was striking, nothing was bright to catch someone's eye, like a glaring yellow or magenta or bright red or a deep beautiful indigo. Sadie so much wished that someday she would have clothes in those colors. She saw in the village and at the marketplace, bright little girls skipping by with silken ribbons running through their bouncy hair and frilly dresses of every color of the rainbow with lace and dainty pinafores and shiny patent-leather shoes, laughing and calling to one another as if they hadn't a worry in the world. And most likely, Sadie thought, they didn't. Why did they get everything so easy? Life was handed to them on a perfect impeccable silver platter. It just wasn't fair!

Sadie sighed, thinking of her two school outfits and one Sunday dress, the only clothes she owned. One of the school outfits was a faded dirty pink shirt and a brown wool skirt with box pleats. The other was a tan jumper with enormous pockes and under that she wore a greyish-blue shirt with mends on the elbow. With both of these she wore black heavy stockings and brown shoes. Her Sunday dress was made by Mama when times were better. But it was steadily growing smaller. It was tan with little pink flowers sprinkled on it and pink buttons went down the front and a pink sash was sewn on, which was faded and dirty by now. Over all of these she wore a wool maroon sweater which was all right in the fall and spring but practically unbearable in the icy winters. Were things ever like this in America? Sadie doubted it very much. Oh, but Ruth was lucky!! Sadie knew she shouldn't be jealous but she just could not help it.

She felt ashamed of these thoughts about her best friend, so Sadie just shoved them out of her mind as she approached Ruth, who was sitting on a rather large rock, eating a shiny red apple. Sadie smiled as she scrambled up to sit next to her friend.

"Hi there," Ruth said cheerily. "Do you want an apple? Tedeaus didn't go to school today because Auntie and Mama needed so much help at home about expenses and arrangements for the boat and the flat in New York so I got his apple, but I want to give it to you." She gasped for breath and held out an apple.

Sadie gratefully took it and sunk her teeth down into her cold hard apple. As she chewed she glanced at her friend, pondering over how to tell Ruth. She decided finally to just get it over with quickly. Sadie swallowed her apple piece, took a deep breath and blurted, "Ruth, I'm leaving school."

Ruth choked on her apple and spluttered, "Why, Sadie?"

Sadie shrugged, very tired of explaining the situation. "We don't have enough money. You know how it is."

Ruth nodded solemnly. "Yes. Oh, Sadie, how awful for you! Well, maybe if you save up enough money, you can come to America! But - oh, Sadie, I'm really sorry. You're the best student in class and I know how you love school. I always envied all of your 'As'. I won't be able to go to school in America for a while. We have to get settled and let Tedaeus and Jan, my other older brother, find jobs and get all straightened out."

Sadie smiled at her pretty, rosy-cheeked friend. Ruth had this special way of making a person feel better. She took a bite out of her apple. Ruth did too. As they chewed on their apples, they smiled at each other. Sadie put her arm around her friend, knowing that no matter how far apart they were, their friendship would be strong and would never die.

When school ended Sadie gathered all of her books together in her arms and walked out of her classroom for the last time. Sadie didn't turn it into a sentimental occasion or anything. She jus tlifted the top of her desk, scooped out the four big books lying there, looked around, sighed, and stalked out.

That afternoon she went home with her friends Ruth, Sylvia, Felicia, Annie and Tess. They went to Sylvia's brownstone apartment in town. Annie had a bag of jacks and a small lime-green ball, so they spent a long time sprawled on the front steps playing jacks. Sadie was the school champion. She had already made it up to "eight-sies" when they decided to jump rope instead. Sylvia ran inside and soon returned with a sizable length of clothesline. Felicia was admired by all with her jumproping skills. She jumped 87 times until the rest of the girls begged for a turn. Tess produced a leather bag of marbles and a circle was scratched into the sidewalk and soon the marbles were divided and they all took turns shooting at the marbles in the circle. Sadie loved to play marbles. Although it was considred "tomboyish" by many of the girls in class, Sadie's crowd loved to play.

When they tired of that, Annie suggested that they go down to the soda shop.

"I can't. I never have pocket money," Sadie said wistfully.

"Neither do I. And you know that, Annie," Ruth added.

"But look!" She dug into her smock pocket and brought out [Here I left an enormous blank space. I am sure that is because I didn't know what the currency in Poland was, so I needed to do some research before I filled it in.] The five other girls' eyes bugged in surprise. Hardly any of their friends ever had any spare money.

"Where did you get that?" Sylvia breathed.

"I've been saving. I get a [Again: space left for proper currency once 12 year old Sheila did her research] a week for pocket money and I save it! If you want, we can all go and have a soda," Annie explained proudly.

Now, who could refuse? For once, temptation took over pride. It had been so long since Sadie had had a soda. She could almost taste the cold delectable drink in her mouth. Sadie glanced at Ruth and saw that she too was dreaming of the refreshing drinks. Ruth looked at Sadie and they both nodded.

"I'll go," Sadie said, trying not to sound too eager or greedy.

"Me too," the other girls chorused.

So the six friends headed down the sidewalk, talking and laughing. Sadie did her best to feel as if she hadn't a care in the world, but deep down inside she knew she had many.

More about Sadie, poor little Polish girl - written by me, age 12

I'm really piling on the misery here.

TWO. TERRIBLE NEWS

Sadie ran up the stairs, her heavy oxfords echoing in the dingy halls, and flung open the door to her flat. She had the lettuce hid behind her back. On her face was a big sparkling smile. That smile slowly faded. Something was wrong.

Mama was sitting at the table with her head in her hands. Neither Papa nor Stanislaus were seen or heard. Sadie noticed with surprise that Mama's shoulders were shaking and her breathing was uneven. Was Mama ... crying? Sadie had never seen Mama cry. What was she to do?

"Mama...," she began hesitantly and took a step forward. "Mama ... please ..."

Mama looked up from her hands. Her cheeks were streaming with tears. Just the sight made Sadie want to cry too. Mama smiled weakly and held her arms out to Sadie.

Hastily, Sadie put the lettuce on the counter and ran into Mama's outstretched arms. She sat on Mama's lap, with Mama's arms enfondling her. They rocked back and forth.

"Mama ..." Sadie finally said, staring up into her mother's sad blue eyes. "Why were you crying?"

Mama bit her lip and stroked Sadie's blonde hair. "It was foolish of me to give way to emotions like that. I want so much for you to have a proper childhood but it is so hard when there are so many things to pay for. The grocery shop is not doing well and Papa has spent many long nights trying to make ends meet, but when we make so little and have to pay so much it is a very difficult task. That is why we have both been very sad lately. Do not think we have forgotten you, Sadie. We still love you and Stanislaus very much."

Sadie put her arms around her mother, ashamed because she had been thinking that Mama and Papa did not care about them. "I love you too, Mama."

It was a tender moment for the both of them. It had been so long since the two of them had shared some mother-daughter affection.

Then, Sadie pulled away from her mother's embrace and stood up. She smiled cheerfully. "I have a surprise for you, Mama!" She turned and picked up the lettuce from the counter, but she still hid it behind her back. "It's something you love and want very much!"

"What could it be?" Mama asked, the twinkle once again coming to her eyes.

Sadie grinned mischievously and teased, "Close your eyes, Mama! Go on!"

Smiling, Mama shut her eyes. Quietly, Sadie placed the lettuce on the table in front of Mama.

"Now you can open your eyes, Mama!" she cried.

Slowly, Mama did and when she saw the lettuce before her, her eyes widened. "Sadie ..." she managed to get out. "Where did you ... did you --"

"Oh no, Mama!" Sadie interrupted quickly. "I didn't steal it. Mr. Koslosko gave it to me!"

Mama picked up the lettuce and looked over its green leaves. "It is very kind of him ... but we do not need charity from--"

"It isn't charity, Mama! Mr. Koslosko wanted us to have it! He said, 'I'd rather have it go to a good woman like your Mama than to have it rot.' Those were his words. I couldn't refuse and I wanted you so much to have a salad that I ..."

"Oh, Sadie, darling ... you are such a good girl. Thank you! Thank you! We will have a nice salad for supper."

Sadie, overcome with happiness at her mother's joy, felt all shivery inside. "I'm glad you like it, Mama."

Mama smiled but her face put on a worried appearance. "Come and sit beside me, Sadie."

Slowly Sadie pulled a hard wooden chair out from under the table and sat down. She peered into Mama's eyes and she, too, became worried. What was wrong now?

Mama reached out and took Sadie's hand in both of hers. She smiled bravely and said softly, "Are you happy in school?"

Sadie immediately nodded, thinking of Mr. Balicki's jokes, the extremely difficult but interesting lessons, the recesses spent with friends and all of the other things that made her school days pleasant. "Mr. Balicki is wonderful."

Mama's eyes had saddened. She swallowed and held Sadie's hand tighter. "You know about Poland's high rates, and the taxes we have to pay and all of the other necessities and how much they cost ..."

Again, Sadie nodded. Their meals had become very scanty and Sadie understood. Food cost quite a lot and clothes even more.

Mama took a deep breath. "School prices are very high. Every year we have to pay more for you and Stanislaus to go to school and then there are the books and the paper and everything else."

Sadie knew. She felt so guilty every time she needed a new notebook.

"So ..." Mama started hesitantly. "Papa and I have come to a decision which we hope is temporary." She paused.

Now Sadie was scared. This decision could not be good with the way Mama's eyes were wet and her eyebrows in a worried frown, and the way she clutched Sadie's hands with trembling fingers. And this pause made Sadie's fears come to the surface. "Mama," she persisted. "Mama, what is it? Tell me!"

Mama looked down at the table. "Sadie ... we have to take you out of school or our taxes will never be paid."

Horrified, Sadie was silent. She didn't move a single muscle. Her eyes bulged in surprise and ever so slowly she took her hand out of Mama's, staring at her as if not daring to believe that her own Mama would inflict such sadness on her daughter. No school! Why ... how could she ever ...

"Mama ... no, I won't ... what could ..." Sadie breathed, still too surprised to speak right. How could she ever bear life without school? First Ruth leaving and now this!

"Sadie," Mama said in a quivering voice. She took Sadie's hand. "Try to understand. Things are going so badly now, and if we take you out of school, we may have enough money to go to America. But for now, this is the only solution."

Sadie, confused and scared, stared at the table. She wasn't able to hold in her pent-up emotions any longer. She buried her face in her hands and started to sob. She couldn't stop - too many bad things had been thrown at her at once. She was so stunned by the latest news that she couldn't say a word, but cry on and on.

"Stanislaus has been told and he is just as disappointed as you. Sadie, dear ..." Mama began, wishing that there was something she could say to comfort her wailing daughter, but what was there to say?

A noise was heard at the door. Sadie turned her hot wet face to see who it was. There stood Stanislaus, a tall manly boy with fair hair and blue eyes. His face ached with pain at the sight of Sadie crying.

On a sudden impulse, Sadie jumped up, almost knocking her chair over, and ran to her brother. He hugged her for a while and then put his hand under her chin and lifted her face upward. "Sadie," he said. "Listen. Please don't cry. I feel like crying too. Believe me. We can study together every day. It won't be the same, I know, but tomorrow you can tell Mr. Balicki that you're leaving and maybe he'll let you keep your books."

Sadie siffed and forced herself to stop crying. It would only make Mama feel worse. She rubbed her eyes with her fists and brushed the tears off of her cheeks. She turned to Mama and smiled bravely.

"It'll be all right. I was just so stunned, I --" she tried to explain. Mama smiled.

"Don't worry about it." Mama stood up, wiped her hands on the dirty white apron tied around her deep green skirt and picked up the lettuce. She looked it over and smiled at Sadie. "This is a fine head of lettuce you have brought me, Sadie."

Stanislaus glanced at Sadie curiously. "Sadie brought it home? How?"

"Mr. Kosloslo gave it to me," Sadie replied proudly.

"What? You know how Papa is about charity! I feel the same way. He just feels sorry for us!" Stanislaus cried angrily.

Sadie glared at him. "That is not true! He thinks Mama is a good, kind woman and business has gone good for him today anyway, so one lettuce is not a big sacrifice!" Sadie's voice rose to a yell in her indignation.

Stanislaus said no more but whirled around and stalked out. Mama did not worry. Stanislaus' temper fired up every now and then and he would always go somewhere to cool off and would be back an hour alter, as good-natured as ever.

"He makes me so mad sometimes!" Sadie fumed, her face still red from crying. Her head was pounding from crying and then yelling. All in all, Sadie's day had been absolutely miserable.

"He is a good boy, though. He cares about his family. Now come, let us make the salad together."

So Sadie and Mama set to work and made a fine salad which everyone loved, including Stanislaus. Papa did not mind that Mr. Koslosko gave Sadie the lettuce. He was a special friend of Mr. Koslosko, and the vegetable man often delivered the vegetables for Papa's store.

For the whole afternoon and evening. Sadie held her despair inside but they were constantly on her mind. Life was certainly not working out very pleasantly. Ruth would be leaving for America and Sadie would probably never see her again and now Sadie would be taken out of school, the one remaining joy in her life. Chores. That would be all Sadie would have to do now. Washing dishes, cooking, cleaning the kitchen, dusting in Papa's store, and more! Why did America have to be so far away?

The only time Sadie got a chance to let her sadness out was in bed. She had a good long cry after snuggling down under covers. Life was just a big nothing to her now! Nothing special, no treats, nothing to look forward to ... And to end off Sadie's dismal day, she fell asleep on a drenched pillow.

Sadie Pulaski:

A good if downtrodden young Polish girl strolls home school through the bitter streets of Warsaw. If only Poland's "rates weren't so high"!

I had no idea what I was talking about, but that didn't stop me.

Never has, never will. Just ask me about Kyrgyzstan.

Here's Sadie.

My novel about Sadie Pulaski, a Polish girl - written at age 12

I remember almost none of this. We will discover it as we go.

ONE. Sadie

Sadie Pulaski, a small girl of thirteen, drummed her fingers on her stout wooden desk. Her teacher, Mr. Balicki, was droning on and on about long division. Sadie loved math and was very good at it but it was the last hour of school and the minutes in that hour always dragged by.

She stared unseeingly at the open book before her. Blah ... blah ... Sadie blinked her eyes and made herself pay attention to Mr. Balicki. School was very important to her now as she didn't have much else in life except chores and such. Her thoughts wandered, however. They drifted to all of the family matters at home. So sad ... Her father's grocery shop was doing very poorly and he still had the rent to pay on the building and he had to feed and clothe his wife and two children. Sadie's usually plump and jolly mother had grown sick a few months ago and had recovered, but it was easy to see that she was not her cheerful old self. She was quiet in everything she did, she became extremely thin and her hair was no longer golden, but grey.

It hurt Sadie to see the changes in her parents. Her father never burst into their flat with cheerful greetings anymore. He quietly slipped into the pantry to whisper with his wife. Sadie's older brother, Stanislaus, had changed too. e had grown up to a man way before his time. He was only fourteen but he acted much older. When his mother was sick, he stayed out of school and sat by her bed all day long. He cooked her meals and did whatever she needed. For weeks he had not seen any of his friends. When his mother finally got better and he returned to school, the crowd of boys he usually hung around with found a change in their old friend. He didn't feel like playing around and rushed home right after school to help out his father in the shop.

Sadie was not as industrious as Stanislaus but she did work hard. She helped her mother around their flat and helped her father in the shop. But she did not give up her friends. She had many of them and saw them nearly every day after school. Sadie did not play with them for more than an hour, however, for she knew she had responsibilities at home and no matter how boring they all were, she knew she had to do them and would not give them up for the world. Her parents needed her help, and Sadie willingly did her share.

Sadie looked up from her daydreaming and stared around at her classmates. They didn't look alert and attentive either. Some of them rested their heads on their palms and others stared wistfully out of the window.

The girl sitting in front of Sadie, a plump pretty child with thick yellow braids, turned and rolled her eyes at Sadie. The girl was Sadie's best friend Ruth. Sadie smiled in return.

Mr. Balicki saw this eye exchange but said nothing. He was an extremely kind man and the choice teacher for the children. He could be strict but he also understood that school was not always fun, so he did his best to make the lessons interesting. He gazed out over his sleepy class and smiled. He glanced at his watch and announced, "Only 5 more minutes of class. You may talk until I dismiss you."

Immediately the class buzzed with relieved chattering, laughing and whispering. Ruth automatically swiveled in her seat to face Sadie.

"Am I glad that's over! I have something very exciting to tell you and I didn't get a chance to tell you this morning because I didn't walk to school with you because you had to --"

"Never mind that!" Sadie interrupted impatiently. Ruth had a tendency to get a little side-tracked. "What's so exciting?"

Ruth took a deep breath. "Well, ever since Papa died, we've been doing really terribly in business. The bookstore brings in almost no customers and there are so many things to pay for! Taxes, rent, food and clothing for seven kids ... you know. Well, yesterday when I came home from school I heard Mama talking with Aunt Fanny. I didn't mean to eavesdrop but I did anyway. Mama was saying 'I can't take it anymore. Poland's rates are too high. I cannot manage the store anymore. There is no money.' And my Aunt Fanny said, 'What can you do?' There was a long silence and Mama said softly, 'We can go to the States: America. Things are good over there. People have their rights and there are jobs. There I would have a chance to bring my children up properly.' Well! I was very surprised, as you can imagine. I gave this big gasp which Mama and Aunt heard. They came out in the hall and there was a lot of hugging and everything. Then Mama explained the whole situation to me and we are going to America! Can you believe it, Sadie?"

Sadie sat silently. She tried to smile but her mouth just would not do it for her. If Ruth left for the States, most likely she would never see her again! Oh - why did Poland have to have such high rates! There had been talk at home of moving to the States, but where was the money for the boat passes to come from? Many of her friends had left for America, and several of her many relatives also. Sadie missed them terribly. And now Ruth! Suddenly she felt very alone. In spite of the crowded classroom, she felt isolated from the others.

Ruth saw how confused and miserable her friend was, so she reassuringly took Sadie's hand. "Come on. Don't be sad. Maybe your family will decide to come and we can be together. But please don't be sad. We'll still be best friends."

Sadie felt comforted in her friends warm words but still - there was the fact that Ruth was leaving for America and she wasn't. "When are you going?" she inquired softly.

"About 2 months. It will take that long to pack and to get our boat passes. We'll be going to New York City and living in a flat better than our own. Tedeaus, my big brother, will find himself a job as soon as he can and Mama and Aunt Fanny too. We will get along just fine!" Ruth's normally pink cheeks flushed even darker with excitement and anticipation.

Even though Sadie had a terrible sinking feeling inside her, she could identify with Ruth's feelings. She smiled weakly and said, "I hope you have a good life in America."

Ruth sighed ecstatically. "Me too!"

Sadie dejectedly looked at her itchy wool skirt and tried to keep the hot tears brimming in her eyes from overflowing down her cheeks.

What would she do without Ruth?

That afternoon Sadie turned down all invitations and walked home alone. When she started off b y herself, she rather regretted her decision. If she had been surrounded by laughing friends, it would have been easier to keep her misery inside. But now, alone on the streets of Warsaw, it was very hard to keep her emotions inside.

As she trudged home on the damp sidewalks she couldn't help but feel sorry for herself. Ruth was one of her only real friends. Her three other intimate friends had all immigrated to America. Things were so miserable at home and with Ruth gone the situation at school would be no better. A tear overflowed and ran down her dirty cheek. She shivered in the whipping October winds. Her maroon sweater did nothing to keep out the bitter cold of Warsaw winters.

As she neared her home, she looked around her with distaste. It was so bleak and dreary. All of the tenements were in different stages of ruin. Her $14-a-month flat was in the best building on her block. It had three rooms and they used to share it with another family but they had gone. That had been a relief. There were seven of them and they were all loud and boisterous and it was so cramped. Sadie had slept on the floor on a thin mattress for the whole winter. Drafts blew in through the floorboards and there were many nights that she couldn't sleep because she was so cold.

When the family moved out, she got her small iron cot back, but it wasn't much better. The only thing to cover her was a thin cotton sheet and a drab army blanket. Stanislaus had the same kind of bed which he was steadily growing too large for. If he stretched out his full length, his feet would stick out the bed posts. He had to sleep all scrunched up which was very uncomfortable. Sadie usually slept like that anyway, but not because she was too big for the bed, but to keep warm.

Her parents slept in a double bed just across the room. It was of the same kind as theirs. Right off the bedroom was a tiny, dirty bathroom. It had a slit of a window which looked out on a putrid alley in back of the building in which the city tough stalked and scrawny cats scrounged through trash cans.

Facing the beds was a door and it led to three steps down into the kitchen. There was a big table in the middle of it where Stanislaus and Sadie did their homework, Mama prepared meals and she and Papa worriedly worked out expenses. There was a big black stove which rarely held a snapping fire and there was the wooden icebox and over that was a double cupboard which once was white but now the paint was peeling. The glass on the cupboard was cracked and the dishes inside were a very few. Mama did her best to make the kitchen a cheerful place by hanging up plants but these plants soon died.

Sadie sighed as she turned onto her block. Slowly she made her way down the street. When she came to the corner, she saw her friend, the vegetable man. He was a very good friend of hers.

"Hello, Mr. Koslosko. How are you?" Sadie inquired.

The old man in a drab-grey cap and a long beige trench coat gave her a toothless smile. "I'm fine. And you?"

Sadie gulped and looked at her oxfords so he would not see her misty eyes. "All right, I guess."

Mr. Koslosko obviously noticed that something was worng but he wisely said nothing. "Business goes good today. I sold many vegetables. Would you like one?"

Sadie looked up at him and shrugged wistfully. "I have no money. If I had, I would buy a lettuce. Mama loves it so, but -" she turned her pockets inside out to show their emptiness.

Mr. Koslosko patted her shoulder. "Your mama is a good woman. She deserves a salad so -" he turned and selected a fine head of lettuce and held it out to the astonished Sadie. "Go on - you are a good friend to me. What is one lettuce? I would rather have it go to a family like yours and have it make your Mama happy than to let it rot and be thrown away." He grinned at her.

Sadie threw her arms around the old man and hugged him tight. "Thank you so much, Mr. Koslosko. I want so much for Mama to be happy." She took the lettuce and held it as if it was a precious jewel. "She will be so happy to have salad!" She gave a big smile to Mr. Koslosko and took off toward home, holding the lettuce carefully under her arm.

Mr. Koslosko smiled at her disappearing back and turned to roll his cart to another corner.

A final illustration from my novel about teenage chorus girls, written at age 12

Look at how meticulous I was with Cherrie's fishnets. I have to say, I like how I rendered Blowsy's left foot. I think that is rather good.

There really isn't much more of the teenage-chorus-girls novel - only a couple more pages. I never completed any of these books when I was 12, 13. I just started them, in a passion of commitment and obsession and then moved on when I was "done". Kinda like my obsessions now.

I do have a novel I wrote about a young Polish immigrant named Sadie who goes to work in a factory at the turn of the 20th century. It's a hard-hitting expose of child labor. Written by a 12 year old girl.

But for now: here are Blowsy and Cherrie, BFFs. (Uhm - BLOWSY and CHERRIE???) They sit backstage before their big numbers.

Yet another excerpt from my novel, written at age 12, about Blowsy the teenage chorus girl

CHAPTER 3 Going to "Sleep"

"Hi, guys!" Blowsy greeted her preparing for bed roommates.

"Where have you been?" Irene asked, vivaciously rubbing cold cream into her cheeks.

"With Jeremy. Of course." Mitzie supplied, with a disgusted roll of her eyes.

Cherrie, hidden under her heavy off-white nightgown, said in a muffled voice, "Mitzie, shut up."

"Yeah!" Sally added as she brushed out her shimmering platinum bob. "You're just jealous because you don't have such a wonderful guy as Jeremy."

"Or as gorgeous!" Fifi supplied from her upside down position against the wall. She always stood on her head for five minutes before going to bed. She said it was relaxing.

"Or as gentle." Anita said, turning down the itchy covers of the saggy, creaky double bed.

"Or as ..." Irene started but Mitzie cut her off with a loud, "Why don't you guys shut up?" She put on a haughty expression and sat up straight. "I'll have you know that Craig asked me out tonight. So there!"

Everyone stared at Mitzie, who smiled back at them, her face smug and self-satisfied. The room was silent as all the girls stared round-eyed at each other.

"Craig?" Eileen asked in a hushed whisper.

Grinning from ear to ear, Mitzie nodded.

Then, as one, all of the roommates except Mitzie burst into hysterical laughing. They roared and clutched at each other and giggled even more at Mitzie's baffled expression.

"Craig?" Anita gasped, tears running down her cheeks.

"That puny freckled thing?" Sally added, her flawless shining hair becoming all tousled as she threw herself on a double bed and laughed long and loud.

"I'm sorry, Mitzie," Irene began, holding her stomach, her face looking ghostly and eerie with the cold cream. "But how can you even compare him to Jeremy?"

"Yeah, how?" Cherrie demanded, patting the rags on her head.

There was a silence as everyone stared expectantly at Mitzie, waiting for an answer. But Mitzie sat very small and meek on her hard cot, trying to think of a hot retort to get her out of this mess. She then got up and stalked out of the room.

"Was that too mean? I couldn't help it." Fifi broke the silence as she flipped down off the wall, her face beet-red.

"I couldn't help it, either. I mean ... Craig!" Irene murmured with a look of awe on her face. Blowsy giggled.

"Thanks for sticking up for me ... and Jeremy." She gave all the girls a sly look. "Gee, I had no idea you were all so ... fond of him."

Sally threw a pillow at her.

"Oh, come on, Blows," Irene said as she capped her makeup jars. "You know we didn't mean it that way. Jer's just a friend to us."

"But he is a great boy. You're lucky, Blowsy," Sally remarked, bouncing with squeaks and creaks on the bed. As the other girls made ready the beds, Blowsy got into her nightgown, scrubbed her face clean of all makeup, rubbed on cold cream, combed her bouncy curls and brushed her teeth. After she finished putting all of her things away in her drawer of the bureau, Mitzie flounced into the room. Her face was calm and cool, but she was obviously furious, judging from the way she walked, held her head and clenched her fists at her sides. She put on a lofty manner as she took out her earrings.

"Just had to go say goodnight to Craig," she said pointedly.

Sally snorted.

Blowsy climbed into the low, sagging bed beside Cherrie. Sally was next to Cherrie, brushing out her flaxen hair again. Blowsy envied Sally's hair so much. It was just so beautiful. Anita, Fifi and Irene were squeezing into the other bed, with giggles and groans as the bed slipped and squeaked. Only Mitzie remained standing in front of the cracked mirror which always made you look slightly green, primping with her face.

Irene rolled over with many terrible piercing noises from the protesting bed. "Uh ..." she grunted, "Hurry up, Mitzie. It's late."

"Yeah," Sally added. "And I've got voice first thing tomorrow."

"Me too," Blowsy said.

"I'm sorry," Mitzie retorted, angrily whirling around, hands on hips. "It's just that a woman has to do a lot to be presentable to their man in the morning. I'm having breakfast with Craig."

Simultaneously, all six girls in bed turned over to bury their faces in their pillows to muffle their laughter. Mitzie slowly got into her cot with moans of protest about how uncomfortable her bed was. When she finally was settled, Blowsy reached up, pulled the dangling string from the bare lightbulb and the room was in darkness. This was usually the funnest time when a remark about how cramped their quarters were would send everyone into hysteria.

"Sally, get your elbow out of my eye," Cherrie groaned in a slow low voice. Sally giggled.

Someone shrieked through the darkness of the room. "Irene! Your cold cream is all over my nightgown collar!"

Blowsy roared with Cherrie.

"Fifi. Are you wearing your shoes in bed?"

More peals of giggles.

"This bed is going to collapse any minute."

"Blowsy, your feet are freezing. Get them away."

"Stop shoving over there. Half of me is off the bed and half is --" THUMP. "OUCH!" It was Irene yelling. "Fifi, you did that on purpose."

"So? You're hogging all of the covers."

"Me!" Squeak (Irene climbing into bed.) "I don't have any covers. You and Anita are the --"

"Ow! Cherrie, your curlers are sharp."

Blowsy giggled.

"Come on," Mitzie grumbled. "I want to go to sleep."

"So you can be fresh-and-beeeeautiful for Craig-y?" Someone cooed in a high-pitched voice, followed b a giggle.

Mitzie groaned in exasperation. "You guys are just a bunch of Dumb Doras," she said hotly.

"My. How hard-boiled you are tonight," Sally cried.

"You'll have to be ... sunnyside up for lil' ol' Craig-o!" Blowsy said cleverly. Everyone giggled.

"Oh, Blowsy, that was good!" Fifi cried across the room.

"Oh, Blowsy, that was good!" Mitzie mimicked in a squeaky voie. The girls went on like this, bickering in a fun way (except for Mitzie) and, gradually, things became silent in the tiny, dingy, crowded room and the only sounds were the heavy breathing of girls who had already gone to sleep.

Someone started to snore ... loudly. Everyone groaned. Blowsy had it the worst because it was Cherrie, right beside her, wheezing and snorting. And it went on for a long time. She snored so loud and violently that she actually shook the bed.

"Avalanche!" Sally shrieked as the bed wiggled and wobbled. Blowsy and Sally giggled together. As Cherrie's snoring continued and grew in volume, Irene let out a long groan and buried her head under her pillows. Finally, Cherrie was so loud that Blowsy was sure that the next room could hear it and it was unbearable being beside her. Then, to make matters worse, Cherrie began to snort and grunt along with heavy breathing. Everybody, including Mitzie, started to giggle. At first softly, trying to keep it quiet, but then it crescendoed, until finally all of them were shouting with laughter and above it all was Cherrie's relentless snoring.

"I have to wake her up," Blowsy gasped, quite a wreck from all the hard laughing she had done that day.

"Please do," Irene moaned.

Blowsy shook Cherrie who awoke with a loud violent snort. At the sound, Blowsy fell back down, holding her aching stomach, and laughing until she felt her sides would actually split. For the second time that night, someone stared at her while she laughed, wondering what was going on. Blowsy just lay there gasping for breath.

"Blowsy," Anita called from the other bed. "You sound like an overworked poodle."

This only made Blowsy laugh all the more harder. Cherrie was very disgruntled at having been pushed awake and then have Blowsy give no explanation but just lie there and laugh.

"Blowsyyyyyy," Cherrie whined. "Why did you wake me up?"

"Because," Blowsy gasped in a high giggly voice. "Your snoring was shaking the building."

Everyone giggled but Cherrie was annoyed.

"Well ... I couldn't help it!"

"The whole bed was shaking!" Sally put in, softly because she was laughing so hard.

"People could have heard you in Japan," Irene added.

"If not, they certainly would have felt your vibrations," Blowsy giggled.

Cherrie clicked her tongue in an irritated "tsk". "Well, I'm sorry. I'll try not to disturb you again." She violently lay back down causing the whole bed to bounce and screench. Blowsy, feeling her friend's annoyance and humiliation, whispered softly, "C'mon, Cherrie. You know we're only kidding around. I didn't mean those things."

Cherrie reluctantly whispered back, "O.K. I'm sorry I acted so haughty." There was a long comfortable silence, the kind of silence that is shared only by the very best of friends who have made up to each other, and then Cherrie, curious, inquired, "Did I really snore loud?"

Blowsy giggled, relieved to get back on normal terms, and replied, "You sure were goin' strong for a while there." The two friends smiled in the dark, and although they couldn't see each other, they could feel one another's smiles. There was that kind of special bond between them, another thing that intimate friends share.

After that, Blowsy found her eyelids growing heavy and her mind blurry. The last thing she remembered was a pleasant thought of she and Jeremy tripping down the busy New York sidewalk, talking and laughing and pointing, and feeling each other's love ... the next thing she knew, bright sunlight was flooding through the dingy window to fall on her sleeping face and waking her up to a brand new day.

Another Blowsy illustration

Because my humiliation isn't quite complete.

Here is Blowsy, on Jeremy's shoulder - this is from when they are in the rehearsal room going over their Charleston number. I like the girl huddled over the victrola.

Also, check out the chick over to the left doing warmups. I'm sorry, but that is hilarious.

Blowsy and Jeremy sittin' in a tree: The illustration

Jean - as you requested - here is one of the MANY illustrations I added to my novel.

A couple things to note:

1. I added Blowsy's earrings with a different color pen. I obviously had gone back to edit it, at a different time. I felt her outfit was incomplete.

2. I love her skirt.

3. Her eyelashes crack me up.

4. Please note Jeremy's non-1920s feathered hairdo - completely reminiscent of Ralph Macchio and that other douchebag. LOOK AT HIS HAIR.

5. She looks happy, he looks glum. Her eyes are closed, he stares right at the "camera" like a deer in the headlights. Prophetic? You be the judge.

The adventures of Blowsy, the teenage chorus girl, continued.

Chapter 1 is unforgivably long.

Let's move on.

The show is over, and Jeremy and Blowsy walk home together.

This appears to be a novel with ZERO conflict, except for the fact that poor Dolly has a "terrible inferiority complex", but I don't seem interested in developing that out into a storyline. Everything is great, everything is successful, there are no clouds on the horizon. Happy days are here again.

I think I just wanted to imagine myself into the world of 1920s vaudeville.

However, I can't help but notice in the excerpt below that Jeremy chooses a RAINBOW ice. So perhaps that is a subliminal message of a conflict to come??

I also like my blunt truncated history lesson involving the social, cultural, and financial changes that happened in America in the 1920s. Hahahaha. I wasn't messing around.

Chapter 2 The Walk Home

Jeremy grabbed her hand. "Hey, look! An ice cream stand!" He pointed at the brightly colored stand with a swirled umbrella and tinkly music.

"Do you have any money?" Blowsy asked.

Jeremy nodded. "Sure. 10¢."

Blowsy's eyes widened. "10¢? Where did you get it? Payday isn't for another week!"

"My mother gave it to me. She knew I was walking you home," Jeremy said.

Blowsy smiled. "Sure! Let's have some!" Together, they approached the truck and waited in the short line of two people. In the meantime, Blowsy was inspecting the pictures of the selections of ice creams. She decided on a cherry Italian ice because it was only 3¢ and it looked so good. When it was their turn, the Italian man in a white apron and cap, gave them a big hearty smile. "What'll it be?"

Jeremy looked expectantly down at Blowsy. Blowsy said, "I'll have a cherry Italian ice, please."

"One cherry Italian ice," the man murmured as he wrote this down on his pad.

"And I'll have a rainbow ice," Jeremy added.

As the man disappeared below the counter Blowsy and Jeremy smiled at each other. Blowsy tapped her foot on the sidewalk. When the man came up, holding a white paper bag, he was staring quizzically at them.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" he asked. "No! Wait! Don't tell me!" He leaned forward and peered closely at them, making them feel rather uncomfortable. Jeremy reached for the ice cream bag but then the ice cream man slapped his hand on his forehead and exclaimed, "I got it! You're in that Passing Show of 1920 thing! I saw your faces up in lights! Wow! What's it like to be real actors and actresses?"

Jeremy and Blowsy grinned at each other and shrugged. "It's a lot of hard work," Jeremy said.

The ice cream man scornfully brushed that away. "Nah. You make it look easy."

"But it is a lot of work, sir. In fact, the glamour's only on top. Most of it is boring rehearsals," Blowsy insisted.

The ice cream man shrugged and handed over their ices. "Have it your own way. I sure wouldn't mind bein' in the business. It looks a lot of fun to me."

Blowsy and Jeremy smiled at him and turned to leave but, again, the ice cream man stopped them.

"Say - uh - could I have your autographs?"

Jeremy grinned at Blowsy, feeling awkward. "Well - uh - "

The ice cream man whipped out a pen and pad of paper and handed it to them. Jeremy shrugged, chuckled and scrawled his name across the paper. Then Blowsy took the pen and signed.

[Note from Sheila: I then recreated what both of their autographs looked like. I created completely individual handwritings for both of them.]

The ice cream man took the pad and looked it over. "Blowsy and Jeremy!" he stated and smiled at them. "You two a couple?"

Blowsy blushed. Jeremy stammered out, "Uh - well. Yes, sir. See ya. Thanks for the ice cream." He grabbed Blowsy's hand and literally dragged her away.

When they were out of sight of the ice cream stand, Jeremy breathed, "Phew. He was gonna give us the third degree."

Blowsy smiled. "Yeah. He was gettin' pretty personal there." She then changed the subject and reached for the crumpled white bag in Jeremy's tan hand with stubby fingernails. "Come on. Let me have my Italian ice."

Jeremy stood under a bright blue and red canopy to escape the hurrying crowd, opened the bag, handed Blowsy her small ice cream cup and took out his colorful rainbow ice and threw the bag away in a green trash can. As they continued home, Blowsy curled off the cover to reveal a creamy, thick red ice cream with a wooden spoon sunk in it. She scooped out a generous spoonful and began to lick it all off.

"Mmm. This is really good, Jer. Thanks for buying it for me," Blowsy said, her mouth full of the delectable ice.

Jeremy sucked his multicolor cone. "Well, you knew I wouldn't mind. I'd buy you anything. Well, that I can afford."

Blowsy giggled, scooped the last of her ice out of the cup, put it in her mouth and threw the cup in a trash can. Then, she occupied her time by staring around her at the magnificent city. No matter how long she lived there, it still put shivers up and down her spine and an adventurous sparkle in her eye. And from 1918 to 1920 the city had changed dramatically. In 1918 the factories were always running and hardly anyone had time to go out. Before that, women had always been told, "You must be quiet. Women don't know about these things." Now, women were waking up, making their mark. No more long dresses of somber colors, no more concealing white blouses, no more having to be quiet and always stay home ... Blowsy was so glad that she could grow up and do the things she wanted to do, like seeing Jeremy continuously and not have anyone look down on her.

The rest of the walk home was uneventful, just spent quietly eating ice cream, talking about the show and looking around them at the city. Every now and then Blowsy would cry out about a dress in a window or Jeremy would whistle softly as a sleek car drove by.

After Jeremy threw away his paper cone, he took Blowsy's hand and pulled her close to him. "I am so crazy about you sometimes I can't stand to look at you," he said softly.

Blowsy flushed in pleasure and glanced at her feet. "Jeremy - I - " she stammered and then let out her pent-up breath. "Thank you. I think you're pretty terrific too." She then looked up at him with melodramatic huge eyes, outlined by thick mascara. Obviously overacting on purpose, she said in a hushed tone, "And you know what? I am strangely suspicious that I am in love with you. I can't think why." She dashed, giggling, out of his reach as he moved to grab her. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried.

They were now on their street, which was in great contrast to the lights of Broadway. It was lit by one lamppost and the cobblestone street was dank and murky. The buildings lining the street were plain and dirty and big families were crowded into one room. But the kids in the vaudeville show didn't mind it. Rotten shelter was a part of vaudeville and it was rather a joke among the kids. Despite its shabbiness, Blowsy liked the boarding house. The inside lobby was covered with colorful posters of their show and there was a big picture of her and Jeremy dancing. Also, the room that she and six other girls shared was crowded but cozy. Mitzie always managed to say something mean each night, but other than that, they had a good time, chattering and giggling. There were only two double beds and they had squeezed in a small iron cot. The seven girls laughed so hard the first few nights that they had slept there. Three girls had to squeeze into one double bed and the small bed sagged with their weight. Mitzie insisted on the cot but now I'm not sure she was glad about her decision because every morning she woke up stiff and sore, complaining of not enough sleep. Blowsy thought it was fun to be crowded.

There was a long dingy hall devoted to the children performers. There were four rooms for the 25 young girls and three rooms for the 18 boys. Half the night, the girls would be dashing from room to room and sharing a joke with the girls in that particular room. Girls and boys were not allowed in each other's rooms after 8:00, so they socialized and mixed with each other in the hall. In fact, Blowsy could say that she was very happy there. It was as if they were one big happy family. And Blowsy liked that.

Blowsy and Jeremy trotted up the scratchy cement steps, heaved open the heavy wooden door and entered the lobby. As always, they blew big kisses to their colorful picture on the wall.

"Oh!" Blowsy sighed, stretching her arms high up in the air. "Tonight has been a really good night!"

"Yeah!" Jeremy agreed and then took her by surprise by picking her up and whirling her around crying, "A rose! A rose!" When he finally set the laughing dizzy Blowsy down, everything in Blowsy's eyes was swaying and tipping and she felt sick to her stomach. She clutched Jerremy so she wouldn't topple over.

Just then, the front door opened and in burst Cherrie and her two sisters Rockie and Robbi. The three girls were extremely close. Rockie was 18 and considered an adult in the theatre so she wasn't in any of Cherrie's numbers. Robbi was 15, a year older than Cherrie, and was a beautiful beautiful girl with a lovely but strong voice. The three girls were known as "The Garner Sisters" and they sang in three-party harmony that was truly beautiful.

The Garner sisters' giggles stopped abruptly when they saw Blowsy in Jeremy's arms. Cherrie stuttered, "Um - excuse me - Uh - didn't mean to interrupt." She gestured behind her back and she and Robbi and Rockie scuttled up the stairs, their footsteps echoing strangely.

"How embarrassing," Blowsy murmured.

"Yeah, well, we'd better get upstairs. It's pretty late." Jeremy said.

When they arrived on the second floor, the hall was empty but there were muffled sounds of laughing and talking behind the doors. Blowsy and Jeremy turned to each other.

"Well, good night!" Blowsy said cheerfully.

"Yeah." Jeremy slowly and gently put his arms around her. Blowsy fit her head down on his shoulder feeling, as always, extremely comfortable. Then Jeremy put his hand under her chin and raised her head to face his. He then slowly lowered his head and gently placed his lips over hers. Blowsy's arms went around his neck. Oh, how soft and warm Jeremy's lips were. Jeremy had kissed her many times before, but Blowsy always felt those electric tingles up and down her spine. When they parted, Jeremy held her close in a warm embrace. He kissed her on the cheek and said, "You better go in now."

"Yeah," Blowsy replied. "See ya later!" They both turned and headed for their rooms, flipped each other a little wave, and went in.

More from my novel about some Ziegfeld girls - written at age 12

Okay, so you want more? Here's some more. I winced reading this, wanting to tell my younger self to wrap it up - PLEASE.

There is a CAMEO here from a famous person - which doesn't quite work, timewise - My novel takes place in 1920, and I obviously hadn't REALLY done my math - but I wanted to incorporate what I knew about vaudeville and also put someone that I loved and admired into my book. (I'm just guessing.) I love that I knew about this person enough to put him in my book - and not only him, but his sister!

Also, Blowsy is annoying me now. She's not very nice. First she blows off Dolly in the first excerpt, and now she acts disdainful towards another person in distress. Learn some manners, Blowsy!

Chapter 1 The Show

Blowsy headed back for the dressing room. The Charleston number was third in the show. As she neared the dressing room, Amy, a short girl with black curls plastered all over her head, stuck half her body out of the room and yelled, "Blowsy! Blowsy! Help me! Please!"

Amy was new to the show, in fact this was her first week and she was rather nervous about it all. Blowsy sauntered up to her.

"Yes, Amy?"

"I can't find my hat! You know, the one I use in the Baseball Act - the red one! Oh, Blowsy! I'll be fired!" The girl was nearly hysterical so Blowsy reached out and placed a hand on Amy's shoulder.

"Calm down, Amy. We'll find your hat. You won't be - " the word "fired" died away on her lips as she saw that said red velvet hat was in Amy's hand, but she had been so nervous and fussy that she hadn't noticed it. Blowsy just gave Amy a disdainful look, brushed past her and entered the stuffy, narrow dressing room. Chaos and confusion was at its peak as she sat in her chair. She observed herself in the mirror and nodded satisfactorily. Because of all the makeup that was required of her, she didn't at all look like the normal Blowsy but she liked the effect it had on her face. She looked more grownup.

Cherrie, Blowsy's best friend in the troupe, removed a pile of dresses, shoes and jackets from the chair next to Blowsy and sat down. Cherrie had dirty blonde hair that was set in rags every morning, so now it was in big, bouncy curls. For the show, her hair was pulled away from her face, and tied, so she had a bunch of curls at her neck. She was an excellent dancer and her specialty was tap. Cherrie had her very own showstopper. She did a marvelous tap dance with a line of boys with top hats and tails in back of her, doing their own steps. In the end, Cherrie fit herself in the midle of them, they all put their arms around each other and, along with drum crashes and cymbal smashes, they slowly walked forward with high kicks, top hats in the air. That always turned the audience on.

Blowsy and Cherrie were known as "the best friends" in the troupe and even total strangers would have noticed it. They always walked together backstage and on the street, they were continually laughing and whispering. They shared a room with Mitzie, Anita, Fifi, and Irene in the cheap boarding house the troupe stayed in while in New York, they studied together and never kept any secrets from each other.

"Hello, Blowsie," she said cheerfully. She looked spectacular in a silver, shiny waistcoat and bow tie, a fleecy white lacy shirt under it, a black leotard, fishnet stockings, and shiny black patent leather tap shoes. But she was in no way conceited. Performing was her life and she took it that way. It was the same with Blowsy. She loved to entertain people and make them happy and that was the chief reason she did it.

"Hi," Blowsy said, and began to arrange all of the makeup bottles in intricate patterns.

Cherrie stretched. "How's Jeremy?"

"Fine." That was one of the things she liked about Cherrie. Most of the other kids in the troupe teased Blowsy and Jeremy. Like Anita, for instance. She was a very nice girl but it got on Blowsy's nerves the way she always was running between them when they were talking, or calling them "Romeo and Juliet". Cherrie never teased. She knew how much Blowsy liked Jeremy.

"Let's go down and wait in the wings." Cherrie suggested, getting to her feet with a "click-click" sound. Blowsy stood too, smiling at her friend. They pushed their way through the loud girls and emerged into the dim, still hallway. The girls' voices were muffled behind the dressing room door. Silently, the girls walked down the curved, inky-black hallway. As they neared the stage, other voices were heard. The first and second acts were all whispering in the wings, even though it wasn't allowed.

Cherrie motioned to two folding chairs in the corner. They both sat down. They watched the first act get ready and warm up. They were two little kids, one ten and one eleven, and they did a sweet little bride and groom number. The kids had been dancing since they were babies, and they both had great promise of becoming successful dancers. They were brother and sister, Fred and Adele Astaire, and they were very close.

The second act was a circus number. A man swung on a trapeze, a woman tightripe-walked, and below this, cotton-ball-like poodles did many tricks, people juggled, twirled batons, rode unicycles, flipped and tumbled and everyone sang a song. Blowsy's beautiful mother, her only parent, was in this act, as a unicyclist, who juggled also. Blowsy thought the poodles were adorable, but offstage they were mean and snippety.

Blowsy and Cherrie were so near to the curtain that they could hear the raucous talking of men and women in the nightclub audience. Nightclubs were always hard to play to. Many times there were drunks in the audience and the place reeked of cigar smoke which made it hard for Blowsy to sing. They always gave them either enthusiastic cheers or loud "Boos". Most of the time it was cheers but every now and then when something wasn't done as well as it could have been, there were a couple of "Boos".

The stage manner, a rugged man by the name of Garry, came over and warned everyone to be quiet because the orchestra was starting up. The trumpet played the first clear note and Blowsy and Cherrie smiled at each other.

Fred Astaire, in his overgrown tuxedo and top hat, and Adele Astaire, in her long, lace dress, tiptoed onstage and took their positions at the foot of the enormous wedding cake that they danced upon.

"They're so cute," Cherrie whispered as the overture ended and cheering began. Blowsy nodded and watched, transfixed, as the worn velvet curtain slowly rose. The audience could not be seen, as the footlights were brightly glaring. That always frustrated Blowsy. She felt trapped, that everyone could see her but she couldn't see them.

From where they were sitting, Blowsy and Cherrie couldn't see Fred and Adele's adorable little dance, but they could tell that the audience liked it from their chuckles and whispers. When the two danced off amid cheers, smiling and glowing, Blowsy stood up and began to warm up. As the circus number dashed on, with drum rolls and excited music, the kids for the Charleston number drifted into the wings. Jerremy came to stand next to Blowsy. Grinning slyly, Cherrie edged away.

"Nervous?" Jeremy asked

"Not really. Just - excited, you know?" Blowsy replied. Jeremy grinned down at her and squeezed her arm. Blowsy leaned against him comfortably as his arm went gently around her shoulder. Just as he did this, someone hoarsely whispered, "Places!" as the circus act bounded off. The curtain fell and the Charleston kids raced on, the girls leaped on their partner's shoulders and all the lights went out. Slowly, the curtain rose and a small circle of light was centered on Blowsy's smiling face.

Ss she sang, she could hear the whole place fall silent. Shivers! As she led the boys and girls through the Charleston, the crowd began to cheer and applaud for the popular dance that was loved so well. When Blowsy had her own dance sequence, applause started like a thunderclap, and when the dance ended, with all the girls on the boys' shoulders, with arms up in the air, Blowsy felt absolutely exhilarated. The curtain dropped amid cheering and screams of "Encore!" So, the curtain rose, and the kids did their little Encore dance, but this time ended in a line at the foot of the stage with arms thrown up. The clapping and cheering continued as, one by one, the crowd stood up. In the air, Jeremy squeezed Blowsy's hand. A bright red rose landed at Blowsy's feet. She leaned over, picked it up, and blew an enormous kiss at the audience as the curtain fell for the last time.

The children ran off, feeling way up in the clouds. As they raced past Garry he said softly, "Nicely done, kids."

The boys and girls zoomed straight to the practice room where they could make all the noise they wanted to and no one could hear. The minute the door was closed, each and every one of them began to scream and leap around, hugging and kissing each other. Blowsy just stood silently, in a trance, holding her rose. She stared at it, and clutched it to her kelly-green flapper dress, closing her eyes to savor the memory of her triumph.

Jeremy approached her and lightly touched her arm. Her eyes flew open. She and Jeremy just stared at each other for a minute and then Blowsy threw her arms around him and squeezed tightly. He hugged her back and kissed her on the cheek. She buried her face in his white coat, so overcome by the cheering, stamping, standing crowd that at the moment she forgot everything she ever knew.

Gently, Jermy lifted her head by her chin and stared down into her eyes glistening with tears.

"Oh ... Jeremy," she breathed, and hugged him again. When they parted, she showed him the rose with shaking fingers.

"It's really beautiful, Blows," he said with admiration. Blowsy was so worked up and excited that Jeremy suggested that she go back to her dressing room and relax until her next act, where she was one of 24 chorus girls in long flowery dresses, with a man and a woman star leading them in a beautiful song and dance. Blowsy agreed. Jeremy led her down the quiet hallways and stopped at her dressing room. "Now you relax, all right? You were fantastic, Blowsy," he said as she opened the door, gave him one last smile and entered the room.

When the few girls remaining in the room saw Blowsy leaning against the door, staring off into space, they ran to her side.

"Blowsy? What's up?" cried Sally, with platinum-colored hair in a perfect bob.

"Blowsy ... have you broken up with Jeremy?" Dolly, a rather slow kid who had a terrible inferiority complex, said with apprehension.

"Of course not!" cried Irene, turning angrily on Dolly. "That will never happen!" Then she looked back at the dazed Blowsy. "What's wrong, Blows?"

Blowsy stared around at the three girls with sparkling blue eyes and smiled. "Nothing's wrong! Hot diggity, everything's pos-a-lootly nifty!" She showed them the rose and told them all about the enthusiastic approval of her number. Then Blowsy rushed around, found a glass cup, filled it with water from the washroom, put the rose in it and placed it in front of her mirror. Then, still feeling a little dizzy, she sat down, closed her eyes, and slowly began a deep breath, a relaxing technique she had learned from her mother long ago. It calmed her down enormously. She began to dress in her next costume. It was a light azure-blue dress, with a satin sash, a band of lace at the hem, a big white corsage on the left dress-strap, elbow-high white gloves, and a big, wide-brimmed blue hat with blue flowers on the rim.

Cherrie burst into the room. She no longer had on her shiny costume, she was also in the next number Blowsy was in. She had on an orange dress that came in tight at the waist, hugged her hips, and then came out fully in overlapping orange ruffles. On her head was a little orange hat and draped over her arm was a leopard-fur mink. Behind her was Monica, in a light wispy blue dress with thin lacy sleeves, Fifi in a greenish-grey dress with an elegant white fur cape and a glittery green hat, Mitzie in a bright yellow dress with a low neckline surrounded by lemony satin ruffles and a full, full ruffled skirt, and Leslie, a girl with pert yellow curls, in a hot pink dress with enormous puff sleeves and layers and layers of pink ruffles for the skirt with a glittery lining and, topping it all off, a huge pink hat with a long trail of satin ribbons down her back.

Cherrie rushed up to Blowsie, her face shining. As she spoke, she stroked her leopard mink. "Oh, Blowsy! You wouldn't believe the response I got. Almost as good as yours!" Quickly, she hugged Blowsy. "A rose, Blowsy! A real live rose!"

"No. A fake rose," Mitzie remarked sarcastically, her skirt trailing behind her, and flouncing gracefully as she sat in a chair. All of the girls turned to glare at her. Mitzie had this way about her. She hardly ever said anything kind.

Everyone turned away from her rolling their eyes at each other.

Irene, who had just dressed in her long lilac dress with a soft purple stole over her bare shoulders, stood up and said, "Well, we'd better head down to the wings."

Everyone agreed. As they walked down the halls, they met up with other girls in the number, in dresses colors every shade of the rainbow, just subtle tones apart. From deep forest-green, to emerald, to silver-blue, to sky-blue, to purple, to lilac, to light pink, to bright hot pink, to fiery red, to orange, to lemon-yellow and finally a white. In the number they were all lined in an arc from green, through all the colors, light to dark, to the white. And the stars, a woman of 20 in a glittered blue dress with ruffles and flounces and a man about the same age in a snappy tuxedo stood in front. It looked absolutely gorgeous from the audience.

The crowd loved their act. When the curtain ascended they could hear all of the soft murmurs and "oohs" and "aahs" at all of the bright colors.

All of the other numbers Blowsy was in went pretty well although she didn't star in any of them. She was a gymnast and, in a bright purple leotard with blue glittered stripes across it, she did a whole routine of flips, tumbles, cartwheels, splits, and a whole lot more, with eleven other girls. Amy was the star of that. She moved with such agility and ease that it was unbelievable. She could slide into a split anywhere and make it look fantastic. Blowsy was also in a number with five other couples. They did a dance called the Castle Walk. Jeremy was her partner. The dance almost got as much approval as "The Varsity Drag". In it Blowsy wore a wide white hat with a black ribbon, a wispy white dress with a high waist and white high-buttoned boots. Jeremy wore a red striped blazer, white pants and spats. The dance was extremely difficult but a lot of fun. The couples doing it all at precisely the same time came across really well. No roses were thrown but there were cheers and they had to do an Encore.

When the show was finally over and the cast had done the big smash finale and had to take six curtain calls, Blowsy was so up that she almost didn't know how to contain it. In her finale costume, a fringed red flapper dress with strings of necklaces and shiny red shoes, she walked back to the dressing room talking with Cherrie.

"Cherrie, this has about been the best show yet!" Blowsy declared enthusiastically.

Cherrie shrugged. "It was fantastic, all right, but what about that one in Philadelphia? You know, when we did this show before New York. I swear, that was about the biggest smash of all time. I mean, when the curtain fell for the last time, the crowd was still yelling and five minutes later everyone was leaving whistling 'The Varsity Drag'. After the show fans flooded our dressing rooms and everything."

Blowsy smiled fondly. She hadn't been able to speak the whole way home from the theatre she had been so worked up. And when they had arrived at the boarding house, she had thrown herself on her bed and cried. A show could do that to her. People had loved her so much and she had made so many people happy. She gave in. "All right. But this is the best show in New York."

Cherrie raised her hands in surrender.

Back at the dressing room, Blowsy didn't get around to changing until 15 minutes later because the small room was filled with laughing yelling girls in the troupe. They were all jumping and carrying each other around in excitement until Peter, one of the many stage hands, knocked on the door and politely but firmly demanded that the girls go to their rightful dressing rooms. Still chattering, the girls filed out, leaving Blowsy, Mitzie, Fifi, Irene, Dolly, Sally, Monica and Amy to their own room. The eight girls sat at their places at the makeup table and silently proceeded to take off their makeup.

With a special cream, Blowsy removed the greasepaint from her face and then took a soft, pink Kleenex from a box, kissed off her lipstick, and dabbed off her eyeshadow and rouge. Now she looked like the normal old Blowsy. But she never went home without any makeup on, because she usually walked home, and tonight Jeremy was walking her home, so she wanted to look good. But first she changed into her normal clothes, a dress with a light green top, a dark green sash around her hips, and a short blue and green box-pleated skirt. She put on her blue hat with the turquoise feather off to the side and her black "jazz shoes" as everyone called them.

Out of her coat pocket, she took a little yellow bag with popular sayings stenciled all over it and snapped it open. Inside it was all her normal makeup. She brushed on some eyeshadow, put on some dark rouge (hardly smudged in which was the style) and some light red lipstick. She smacked her lips together and slid into her light green jacket.

"Are you leaving now, Blowsy?" Fifi called over her shoulder.

"No, not yet. I'm meeting Jeremy at 10:30 and it's only -" she glanced at the bland clock on the wall, "9:45 now, so I'll go and visit my mother for a while."

Blowsy's mother was an absolutely dazzling woman with a short curly bob and a stunning perfect face. Each feature seemed to have been placed with the utmost care. She was thin and trim and wore only the most fashionable, colorful dresses. Her singing voice was just - fabulous. It rang and vibrated through the theatre and stayed behind in one's ears. She had a song and dance all to herself. She was the only one stage and it was fast and lively and never failed to be a showstopper. Blowsy's mother seemed to be an all-around talent. She danced, sang and acted, she could juggle and ride a unicycle, she could do mime fabulously and do imitations and she also managed to be a wonderful mother to Blowsy.

Her name was Corrine.

Blowsy's father had walked out on them when Blowsy was two. She couldn't even remember him and she was rather glad, judging from the way her mother talked about him.

Blowsy made her way down the hall behind the stage and over to the other wing where the adult dressing rooms were. She rapped on her mother's door. Her mother had a room all to herself. It was very squeezy but much better than sharing with a million other girls.

"Who is it?" called a voice from within.

"Blowsy!"

"Oh! C'mon in, sweetie."

Blowsy opened the door and entered. Her mother was sitting in front of her makeup mirror in a shiny blue bathrobe. On her head was a plumed tiara. She was busily capping her makeup. Blowsy closed the door behind her.

My novel about some Ziegfeld girls - written at age 12

In unpacking my new place, I found a battered cardboard box that I don't believe I have looked in for 76 years. I glanced in it yesterday and saw a pile of papers with my childish writing on it. I have kept most of my stuff from when I was a kid - it is amazing it is still intact - after being moved from Rhode Island to California to Chicago to New York - Hard to believe I still have all of this stuff. I wrote novels when I was a kid. You know, sometimes I took the plot from TV movies that I adored (phone call for Orphan Train), other times I made stuff up. I wrote a 300 page novel that was the fictionalized life of Andrea McArdle. I was kind of a weird kid. Just as weird as I am now. I was OBSESSED with things, and I handled it by writing novels. All hand-written.

A week or so ago because of a photo of some Ziegfeld girls on another site, my memory was jogged that I had written a novel about a dance troupe who were hired by Ziegfeld. Or something like that. I was 12 years old when I wrote it.

I can tell I was 12 years old because the lead boy in the story (not man, but BOY) is named "Jeremy". Where did I get the name Jeremy? It's quite simple. Jeremy was the name of the character Ralph Macchio played on Eight is Enough. (My essay about Jeremy on Eight is Enough here). So of course: I was working through an obsession, so I had to place a character named Jeremy in the middle of my story about a vaudeville dance troupe. So there's that.

I have no memory of any of this.

Oh, and the other "influence" on me at this time was that I had just seen Bugsy Malone, which catapulted me into a many-pronged frenzy involving a love of the 1920s, an obsession with KIDS who got to be professional actors (something I wanted), and a love of anything that had to do with show business.

I can feel the Bugsy Malone influence here in my novel as well.

Please remember:

-- I am 12 years old when I wrote this.
-- I was a good Catholic girl.
-- I had a vivid imagination.
-- I didn't REALLY know anything about vaudeville and Ziegfeld, but that didn't matter to me. It was a world I had gotten a glimpse of here and there, through Bugsy Malone primarily, and I wanted to slip into it.

Here is the opening couple of pages of my un-named novel about a bunch of Ziegfeld girls (and a "boy named Jeremy").

CHAPTER 1 The Show

"Mitzie, would you stop twirling your tassle? It distracts me when I look in the mirror!" Fifteen-year-old Blowsy swirled in her seat to face Mitzie.

"Well, excuse me!" Mitzie flounced off to another corner of the dressing room.

With a sigh, Blowsy turned back to her makeup mirror and proceeded to smear some pink lipstick over her lips.

"Fifi, you took my mascara! Give it back!" Irene stood up angrily. Pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed Fifi did not stop putting on the mascara.

"Come on, Fifi!" Irene wailed, smoothing out her blue skirt.

"Just a minute." Fifi murmured, not taking her eyes off her reflection. But Irene did not want to wait, she never did. With Irene it was now or never. Shr snatched the mascara brush out of Fifi's hand, causing the black makeup to smear across Fifi's cheek.

Fifi shrieked. "Irene! Look what you made me do! Oh!"

Irene laughed. "You're ruined for life, huh, Fifi."

Furiously, Fifi snatched some Kleenex out of a box on her table and carefully began to wipe the opposing smudge off her face. "Thanks to you Irene, I'll have to put on my rouge and mascara all over again," she was muttering.

After putting on her lipstick, Blowsy stood up and went to the big yellow wardrobe to get her costume. She ruffled through the dresses and suits there to find her nametag. When she found it, she carefully took out her green and gold flapper dress that had just become the new fashion after the war that ended in 1919. At first, they were looked down upon, but now, in 1920, everyone wore them. Blowsy carried it back to her makeup counter.

Just then Dolly approached her in a ruffley plum-colored dress.

"Blowsy, do you think this looks o.k.? I have to wear it to be Uncle Dave's magician assistant. Does purple look all right on me?"

Mitzie, who was slumped on a pile of extra material near by, heard this and called out, "Dolly, if yellow and red and pink and blue and green and white don't look good on you, I don't think purple will." She laughed cruelly.

Dolly looked hurt and said softly, "Come on, Blowsy, what do you think?"

Blowsy looked Dolly up and down. She shrugged. "I don't know, Dolly."

Dolly looked disappointed and walked over to Sally, who was reading, to ask her opinion. Blowsy stared at her reflection; short, curly brown hair, big blue eyes, slightly turnedup nose and small gold earrings in her ears. Seeing her hair a little tousled she took up a red comb off her counter and combed out her curls. After doing that, she dressed in her flapper and put on her high-heeled green shoes.

Mitzie stood up and began her voice exercises. Mitzie had a loud, brassy voice, and it was not pleasant to hear in a small stuffy dressing room crowded with teenage girls. Everyone began to shout.

"Oh, Mitzie!"

"Stop it!"

"You're killing my ears!"

"Have a heart, Mitz!"

Blowsy went to the practice area in the room next door. There many girls and boys were singing and dancing and doing acrobatics. She approached a group of Charleston dancers in the center of the room. The phonograph was playing "Varsity Drag" full blast and the girls and boys were lolling about.

A girl with bright orange hair tied up in a bun spotted Blowsy and shouted, "Here's Blowsy! Let's get started!"

As Blowsy hurried towards them a girl did a backflip in her way. She halted and then started again.

A tall girl with flouncy blonde hair stopped the record and cried out in a loud, tough voice, "All right. Let's get going. We only have a half hour to go over this. Blowsy, don't be late again."

This girl, Stephanie, was only fifteen, but she acted like the leader of the whole vaudeville show. She didn't have a lead in any of the numbers she was in but she acted as if she was the leading lady.

Muttering angrily under her breath, Blowsy took her place in the group. This number was her big moment in the show. She led sixteen girls and boys in a marvelous Charleston dance which always turned the audience on. The song to go along with it Blowsy loved. It was very uptune and Blowsy's unusual voice went well with it.

"All right now! Take your places everyone!" Stephanie called.

A boy with dark brown hair, tanned skin and deep brown eyes sauntered over to Blowsy. His name was Jeremy and he and Blowsy were "going together". It was a known fact among the troupe. Since he was so close to her height, he was her partner in all the dance numbers they were in together. He gave her a spunky grin.

"Hey, Blowsy, how ya doin'?" he asked.

Blowsy shrugged and smiled up at him. "O.K."

Anita, a girl with auburn bobbed hair, poked her head between them. She grinned impishly. "Come on, you two lovers. Let's get going."

Jeremy made a playful attempt to grab her but she darted away, giggling. Jeremy and Blowsy rolled their eyes at each other. They got in the position for the beginning of the dance. Jeremy put his hands tightly around her waist.

"Jump, Blows," he said.

Blowsy jumped and he lifted her up onto his right shoulder. She crossed her legs and tried to steady herself. She looked around at the others. Sally was having problems getting onto Larry's, a tall lanky boy's, shoulders. Stephanie was stretching out and Monica, a girl with pumpkin-colored hair was setting up the victrola. As the needle touched the record, a scratchy silence was heard and Monica leapt easily onto Jeff's, her partner's, shoulder.

Walking unsteadily because of the girls on their shoulders the boys formed a V with Blowsy and Jeremy at the head. As the zippy music began, Blowsy began to sing the fast clever words in her strong, clear voice which had a lot of pizazz. When the cue came, all of the girls leapt off of the boy's shoulders and landed easily and quietly on the floor. Sally made a loud clatter with her shoes but everyone ignored it. They were professional children and they had well learned in the early days of their performing careers that mistakes had to be ignored and then the audience wouldn't notice it either.

Blowsy sang her favorite line with the clippy words:

Here is the drag
See how it goes
Down on your heels
Up on your toes
Everybody do the Varsity Drag

Lists are helpful to a writer.

My kind of office.

"I have so much to tell you!!!!"

It was 12:30 a.m. My head buzzed with the events of the past couple of hours, the exhilaration, fear, and personal triumph, of hearing my words read out loud for the first time, around the table. I stood on the stone patio outside my guest house, pacing around like a caged tiger, unable to go to sleep yet, the darkness of Los Angeles around me, and, unthinkingly I picked up my blackberry and texted him, crazily, "I have so much to tell you!!!!"

It had been a long intense night. About eight scripts were on the table that night - there were nine or so people there, all writers and actors - some good friends, others completely new to me. It had been nervewracking at first, I would get huge jolts in my stomach every time I heard another knock on the door. My social anxiety coming to the fore, but also my nerves about how the reading would go. I was also acting in something Mike had written, a script I had been given earlier that afternoon, and I was a bit nervous about that, too. The acting bug coming alive again. It is a voracious feeling, nearly unpleasant, but I so get off on that unpleasantness that it was really nice to feel it vibrating through me again. My brother was there, Melody, Larry, people I know well, but then there were others, people I had only met once or twice, or seen on TV and heard of, but never met. I was sort of the wild card, the unknown element, a "visitor", the visiting cousin from the East Coast. (After my script was read, Liz - the one who said the funniest thing to me that night - fired at me across the table, in a tone of incomprehension and almost scorn, "So you're just visiting??" I can't describe why the way she said it was so funny, but everyone just burst out laughing. Like: who the hell are you, you visitor from not-even-New-York-but-NEW JERSEY??)

"I have so much to tell you!!!!"

A lot happened that night, much of which I will not share. Rehearsals like that are meant to be private, and people have moments of personal revelation or breakthroughs/downs in the process of working that need to be protected, I have seen it happen time and time again ... It's a sacred space, a process like that. Suffice it to say, that we all were in the zone that night. A zone of work, a safe space - where things were discussed, hashed out, responded to - all of us sitting around the table, watching the actors read whatever script it was, and it was a humorous and fun environment, not judgey at all: huge bursts of laughter when something was funny, but then a sudden swoop of silence as things got serious. It felt like college again. Where the WORK was sacrosanct in and of itself, something that could be reveled in with or without monetary gain. We are all grownups now. Many of the people at that table make a really nice living at the very thing they were dying to do in their college, high school, grade school years. But it was surely a nice and beautiful reminder, that night, of WHY we do what we do. And WHY we strive. The whole business side of things, while essential, can make you lose sight of it. That was what a lot of people were talking about as the night wound down. "God, I just forget sometimes how much I love this ... " or "It's so easy to sort of internalize the demands of a television structure - you know, straight line, pause, joke, wait for laugh - as though that is the only way a script can possibly be a success ..." Lots of great conversation along those lines. A beautiful bunch. I loved them all.

"So you're just visiting???"

Maybe, maybe not.

It had taken a lot of preparation to get to the point of that reading. My first draft came flowing out of me in three hours. It was a one-take draft, pretty much. Mike liked it, didn't have too many comments. Those would come later, after the reading. He was immediately on board with it, and the ball started rolling from there.

A month or so later, he (you know. He. The invisible yet felt presence on my site for a while - if you're a discerning reader, you've picked up on him, he's everywhere) asked if he could read it. I sent it on. A brainstorming session then commenced, the exhilaration of which I remember with pain today. His comments were insightful, right-on-the-money, and yet he never forgot that it was MY piece, and said to me at one point "you will always know more about it than I do." He got suspicious if I took too many of his comments in a submissive manner - he wanted more fight from me - and there were things I fought him on, but for the most part, I had sent it to him in a spirit of openness and availability. I was not wedded to any of it. I had written the damn thing in three hours. If it had been one of my essays, I might have fought more. I told him there were a couple of essays I've written that I would literally go to the mat over a comma change. But this? Bring it on. We rearranged things, and chopped it up, and while by the end of it (the session lasted for six hours) I still recognized the script as my own - nothing substantive had changed, not the voice, or the event - the beginning, at least, was much better (I thought), not so theatrical, and we had also gotten really clear on a lot of the issues being dramatized - and I got clear on some of the places where I WASN'T clear. It was awesome.

By end of May, plans for the reading were being finalized, and I booked my flight to go out to Los Angeles for it. I stayed in the guest house at Mike's, which was (have to say) a sweet situation. I had my own iMac, and TV, and I stepped outside and there was a pool. Yes, I could not figure out the child-proof gate to save my life, had to email Mike from the guest house - up in the main house at 8 am my first morning there ("uhm, help??") and Mike's pipsqueak of a daughter had to come out and show me how to do it ... but it was wonderful. I'd sit at the table outside in the strange windy dawn, with the palm trees swaying heavily above in the grey, and work on my script. Or do nothing. Zone out. I was in the zone. Where I have always always longed to be.

"I have so much to tell you!!!!"

The freedom in those exclamation points is startling to me now. Who was that girl? Was that just a little under two weeks ago? How on earth is that possible.

How quickly things are lost.

Not everything. Not everything. But "things".

The reading of my script was (as I told the actress who read the lead female role) a "highwater mark for me" in my life, whatever happens with it. It was an honor to be there. It was a privilege to be part of such a group. The integrity, the kindness, the SMARTS, and the generosity.

I have been thinking a lot about generosity lately.

It is difficult for me, because I experience the world as quite stingy. It withholds. This sounds ungrateful, and it is ungrateful. I have a great family, a true posse of people who care about me, I have talents, I know what I love to do, I do it, and seriously, I know that I am blessed. But when the one thing you want, the ultimate thing, is denied to you, the world is a desert. I relate to it with my friends who have "dreams deferred" (and I am one of them). Those who had dreams of being a great and famous actor, and who have not achieved that. They have made sense of it, or tried to, they have gone on, found compensation in other areas ... but they are haunted by that "dream deferred". Or there are those who are unable to have children, and it is a dream that will die hard, it is something that must be accepted, with as much grace as is humanly possible - but acceptance is not an easy thing, it takes sweat, tears, your own fucking blood spilt as you give up that dream, you rage at God, the universe, the cosmic plan that seems to have gone awry. If you boil it all down, if you strip all else away, what is it that I REALLY want? I know what I REALLY want, the one thing that haunts me (literally. I am a haunted woman, ghost-ridden), and so I find ways to navigate, negotiate, survive. Many of my coping mechanisms, things I have generated as a way to survive my pain and loss, have become highly involved artistic pursuits which have generated a lot of success for me. These are not quiet hobbies done in the solitude of my home. These are things that can be pointed at, out in the world, and said to exist. I am a survivor. I find ways to wrench my disappointed narrative into something that either serves me, or serves others. I don't always succeed. I am often left without words. All evidence to the contrary (my whole damn blog), I have had no words for where I have "gone" in the last three months. Not to mention what I went through in the year before those three months. Those experiences lie in the ineffable, the ether, the spaces between the words. I struggle with that.

As long as I have my words, I feel like I will be okay.

And in that dark moment, with the rustling sound of palm trees in the night sky above me, the words I had were, "I have so much to tell you!!!!"

There was only one person I wanted to tell everything to, in that particular moment. I would tell other people the story, at other times, my posse, my friends and family. They all wanted to hear about it too. But in the first flush of excitement, my thoughts, my heart, went to him. He was who I wanted to share it with first. And I knew, like you know your own face when you see it in the mirror, that he was dying to hear.

After all, during the reading, I could hear my blackberry buzzing from time to time in my bag in the other room. During a break, I went and checked it, knowing (again, like I would know my own face) who all those messages were from. There they were.

"I know you can't answer hahahahahaha you are doing the reading right now! hope it's going great - can't wait to hear ..."

"what's happening right now, I wonder? has yours happened yet? thinking about you ..."

An eager heart, open and available, excited, and with me, in my high watermark moment. Vicariously. Not present, but there in spirit.

It is the zone I have always dreamt of.

"I have so much to tell you!!!!"

Standing alone by the dark pool, in the shadows, my blackberry buzzed five minutes after I fired off my exclamation-point-ridden message. There he was, quick-fire typing away in response. "can't wait to hear - you will tell me all about it in person tomorrow!"

And I did.

A couple of days later, Mike and I were talking about my script, fleshing it out, riffing, not really setting anything, but going off on the ideas brought forth from the reading. Where could it go? What was I missing? What needed to be fleshed out? Could it be expanded? We were talking about breakups, and what it is like when we are left behind. The pain of that. My script is all about the legacy of one particular breakup. Mike said, "I think that one of the worst things is that you get used to having this person inside of you. They're not outside, they're not just your boyfriend or girlfriend. There is a huge space inside of you reserved for that person - everything you want to tell them and share - and so when they are gone, you still have that space there. And all you want to do is fill it. It seems so wrong, so wrong, that you are left with that huge empty space."

I still have so much to tell you.

Edits

Worked for 12 hours this weekend (six one day, six the other) on my final round of revisions on my manuscript. I had gotten 3 pages of notes from my agent. Many of them were tiny tweaks (ah, I love the tiny tweaks - mainly because they only involve me highlighting the text in question - if I agree with the edit, that is, and I am always free to say "no" - although I better have a damn good reason - and pressing DELETE) ... and then there was a major re-ordering that had to happen. Agent had suggested it - and I shuffled stuff around, until I finally saw what she was saying. She was right. Move this piece to this section, put this piece as the first piece in that section ... You know, I'm too close to the book now. To me, the way it is is THE WAY IT IS ... which is why I've been eager to have friends and others read it ... because it's not good (at this stage, anyway) to get too rigid about that stuff. I am very rigid when it comes to certain things (and rightly so). I won't be told to make certain types of edits - things that will change the tone or the feel of the book. I will not have my VOICE messed with, because I have confidence in it, and I won't change it. Thankfully, my agent loves my voice. It is the most important part of our relationship right now - and having had experiences with other publishing people who DON'T get my voice, and who read my stuff wondering, "Hmmm ... why doesn't this sound like Sex and the City, because THAT is the book I want to sell and you're a single girl of a certain age and why doesn't your book sound like THAT? Because aren't you all the same?!" ... having an agent "get" my voice to such an intuitive degree is (hopefully) money in the bank. Because she gets it, she can sell it to others.

So there's that. None of the tweaks had to do with altering the voice.

I knew it was going to be a big job - the tweaks - and I had scanned over her list, checking them off in my mind - "okay, I can do that, yup, that one's easy ... Nope, not gonna do that one, and here's why ... no problem with this one ... fine ..."

I had missed one tiny note from her though, which I came across on Sunday, during working on it.

"I think you need to somehow reflect the global economic collapse in this piece."

ARGH!!! How had I missed that? Why hadn't I seen it in my first scan of her notes?? That was a big change - and she was right - the fact that the economic collapse was not reflected in that particular piece had bothered me. As a matter of fact, when the "crash" came last fall, did I worry about my finances? No. Did I feel concern for the fate of the world? Not at all. Did I angst and moan and pore over the financial section of the newspaper? Hell no. My first thought was of that essay in my book, and I felt a bit uneasy about it. "Hmmm. I wonder if it's okay to NOT update it??" So I can't say I'm surprised that that was one of her notes to me, but I admit I had been putting it off, hoping it would be okay ... in my typical writer's-procrastination way.

This was not a tiny tweak. This would involve major re-writing.

Which I did. It involved me changing the tense of the piece (a much more difficult thing than you would think - very very detailed work), and re-writing the whole thing.

It was one of those funny moments (or, not so funny in the moment) where you realize: Okay. You need to get your shit together, Sheila. It's all well and good to feel that you are "off the hook" and can just make your tiny tweaks. That's part of work, too. But you cannot avoid the major work you need to do on THIS piece and it cannot be put off any longer. You knew it in October - you KNEW this piece would need to be rewritten - but last fall I could barely eat or sleep, let alone re-write anything.

So the day of reckoning has come.

It took me three hours, but it's done.

I had to laugh though.

Her notes to me went like this:

1. Maybe on page 83 you don't need the second paragraph. You have already said that. See page 11.

2. I think the last piece in this section actually needs to be the first.

3. The third paragraph on page 179 is redundant. I think you only need the first sentence.

4. Please boil down the economic global collapse for us in no more than one page. Mkay? Thanks.

DONE.

I adore thematic consistency

See the second paragraph here.

Read this.

Then of course there is this.

There have been a couple of other incidents along these lines.

The most blatant was when one guy - arguably the most important guy of all (but don't tell the others, although, oops, they all read my site - doh!) - asked me, "So - will you dedicate it to me?" He knew how ridiculous he was being, but he couldn't stop himself. I could not believe the balls. We were laughing hysterically. "No, I will NOT dedicate it to you. Jesus Christ, haven't I given you enough?" "I know, I know - I can't help it." "Your ego, dude!!" "I know! I told you! I warned you about it!"

Yesterday I got together with the Trinidadian massage therapist. Haven't seen him in months. He asked me how I've been. Gave him the truncated version. "I finished a book," I said. He immediately asked why he didn't have an autographed copy yet. "Well, it's not published yet. But don't worry - I'll give you a signed copy."

He asked, "Is there a chapter about me?"

In such a topsy-turvy uncertain world, where anything can happen at any time, and you can't count on anything staying the same, there is something unbelievably comforting to me about the unanimous and consistent response I have gotten to the news of the book from the men in my life.

I would be disappointed if it were any other way.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 8

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

Thank you for the push, Rachel, Amy, et al, to continue with the posting of my novelization of the TV movie Orphan Train, written by me at age 11. If you want to catch up on events, there are the first 7 chapters. Now we will move on to Chapter 8.

Chapter 8

2 days later Miss Sims was straightening out all of the clothes and things on the tables when a small boy with a little green hat on walked into the kitchen. He slowly approached Miss Sims.

He tugged on her dress and she turned. When she saw the little boy's anxious face she smiled.

"Hello, Mouse!" This nickname was given to him for the reasons that he was small, he didn't eat much and he supposedly had big ears.

"Liverpool's in trouble!" His absolute idol was Liverpool. His eyes filled with tears.

"He is? Oooh, I told him so. Mouse, don't you worry. I'll get him back." She stood up and wiped her hands on her dress.

"He's at the jail waitin' fur his sentence or whatever you say. I forget." Mouse looked at her with pleading eyes.

"Well, I'll go over there and get him now." Miss Sims picked up her small blue coat and put it on.

"Thank you, Miss Sims!" Mouse sat down on a bench to wait for Miss Sims to return with Liverpool.

**************************************************

Miss Sims sat down on the hard stone bench to wait for the two policemen to arrive with Liverpool.

When they did he was in handcuffs and looking very depressed.

"What do you want?" Liverpool growled.

"I want you to come out to the West with us. Honestly, Liverpool, I wish you would listen to what I say." Miss Sims hoped with all her might that Liverpool would wish to come.

"What happens to me if I don't come?"

"Either you come with me or you wait here for your sentence."

Liverpool rolled his eyes. "That ain't much of a choice."

Miss Sims shrugged. "Well, it's all you've got so you had better take advantage of it."

Liverpool sighed. "I'll go with you."

Miss Sims sighed with relief. "That's wonderful, Liverpool! Now, we'd better hurry. We're leaving in 2 hours for the train."

Liverpool was released from his handcuffs and Miss Sims stood up.

"Ma'am," one of the policemen informed her. "We will bring Liverpool to the station, for safety, you know."

"Oh, but I can take care of him," Miss Sims protested.

"We are well aware of that, but for the safety of you and the other children we will bring him to the station and make sure he doesn't get into mischief," the policeman said firmly.

"Oh, all right. I'm so glad you decided to come, Liverpool." Miss Sims flashed him a smile and walked out of the police station.

*****************************************************

She hurried back to the kitchen joyfully. Liverpool was going to come! She would try to civilize him. He seemed like a nice boy and if only he had better manners he also would be a likable boy.

She rushed in through the door. Mouse looked at her expectantly and she nodded with a smile.

J.P. had seen some dresses she liked but she had to pick boys clothes. She picked some grey knickers, a brown shirt and a tan jacket.

Miss Sims expected everyone to make a good appearance at each of the stops so they had to take baths.

J.P. was fearful about that. Everyone thought she was a boy and she couldn't take a bath in front of everyone because it would show she wasn't a boy. She looked around nervously and gathered up her clothes. She went into the bathroom and put her clothes down. She took off her cap and wet her hair down to make it look as if she had a bath.

You see, there was no bathtub in the bathroom so they had to take baths in a tin washtub out in the open. J.P. would have died of embarrassment.

She put her cap back on and walked out of the bathroom.

"Now, does everyone have the clothes they need?" Miss Sims called above the chatter of the children.

"Yes!" they cried in chorus.

"Good. Now --" she was interrupted by a great din outside the kitchen.

People were throwing eggs and other food at the kitchen! They were disgusted that anyone would want to take those "slum trash" anywhere!

But Miss Sims still held her ground. She didn't care what anyone said. They had gone this far to go on the journey and they would make it. Nothing could stop them now.

Saying yes

Sunday was a pretty cold day, the storm clouds moving in. I was still sick (still am, but on the mend), so I spent the day inside in my pajamas, reading and cleaning and blogging and getting tax stuff ready, and hanging out with Hope. I also exchanged probably 30 emails with my cousin Mike. We were talking about other things (he made me laugh - we were talking about obsessions and he said something like, "You do realize that your friends and family all become obsessed with whatever you become obsessed with, because we basically have to. I'm still thinking about Patricia Neal having her stroke and her husband giving her tough love to make her recover!" hahahaha I had told him the whole Patricia Neal story while on a cell phone in the hallway at Brigham & Women's hospital in Boston - random - Oh, no, it wasn't random - Mike had sent me a box of books he had picked up, and one was Neal's autobiography - so I was ranting and raving in the hallway about her failed love with Gary Cooper and Roald Dahl's dickishness - but that was in September - so hysterical that he's still thinking about it) ... and out of the blue, Mike said, "Write something for me." He gave me a couple of parameters, and then said, "GO."

I've been sort of bored and aimless lately, due to my book being done and its being sent around now ... not much to do with it anymore ... just updates with ye olde agent and things like that ... but that book took up not only almost two years of my life, timewise, but 80 or 90, sometimes 100% of my brainspace. It was ALWAYS there. So to be done with it ... ? What the hell do I do with myself now? I need to start my second book obviously, but right now that is not possible. Anyway, I shared that with Mike - that I was feeling a little lost, without my big writing work ... and, true to form, he said, "Write a short scene for me. It has to have these elements -" (he listed a couple) "and it needs to be about ..." (gave me a couple of guidelines). "Do it now." he wrote. "Go."

I did. I started to write. Immediately. What a weird and fun challenge. Reminds me of acting class, or improv ... don't think or plan, just go.

It also reminds me of an awesome "challenge" I did on my blog once where I wrote down a list of random words and said, "Please somehow work all of these into a short story" - and look at the results!!! I am crying! Ricki outdid herself!! "She just wants to play mahjong." I am howling! And Mr. Bingley contributed too - but seriously go read them. It's beautiful because I gave the challenge, and immediately people across the country started scribbling away. And each piece written is so different, so specific - Bah. I just find it very funny, obviously, but also really touching. Look at people's creativity!!

So Mike's command came to me like that. It's funny, sometimes I can feel myself resist stuff like that. Saying "yes". Not for any particular reason, either - that's the insidious part of it. What would be the point of saying, "I can't ... I'm busy" to what should actually be a fun exercise? I'm not saying it's rational, and I'm not saying I LIVE in that state of saying no - but I can feel it come up in me from time to time. Mike's command to me on Sunday reminded me that it is good to practice spontanaeity - even though that may seem like a contradiction. Saying "yes" to things is a muscle, like anything else ... you need to keep it worked out. When I took a writing class at the 92nd Street Y, much of what we did at the beginning of each class were improvisational writing exercises, which were exhilarating and scary! The teacher would pass around an object - each person would look at it - and then she would say, "Write for 10 minutes." No other guidelines. The object was the launching-off point. It was so fun!! The things people came up with just blew me away - and frankly I was surprising myself! The acting training helps because hesitation and second-guessing is the death of good acting, so ... without worrying if I was doing it "right", I would have to just START. Great practice. The first day of class she passed around a teensy blue pen, about 2 inches long. Here's the piece I wrote, and it's funny, once I got started, I could have just kept going. It's not planned out or structured - but I was just inventing shit left and right with no second-guessing, and it was great great practice.

So that's what came up for me with Mike's sudden command. A rush of adrenaline, a teeny voice saying, "But ... but ... what do I write? HELP ME ...", a much BIGGER voice saying, "GO, just START" and so I did.

I ended up writing for three hours. I did very little editing, just kept going - it was fun to write dialogue, a script - and not worry about "he said" or "she lifted her eyes skyward in a morose manner" or whatever, other narrative elements ... just speech ... back, forth, back, forth ... I had no idea where I was going, or what I was doing, there was no plan - but within 2 seconds of thinking I had my opening line, and then I was off. Suddenly things started to happen spontaneously (it always sounds dumb when people talk about their creative process, but whatever, I've been writing about Ben Marley 24/7 for three weeks now, I'm obviously not worried about sounding dumb!) - suddenly she was drunk, how did that happen? - she was too drunk, way drunker than her partner ... it was getting embarrassing, she was talking too loud ... Uh oh ... what will happen next???

It was so damn fun. I sent it on to Mike, like : Here it is. First draft.

I was so jazzed up that despite my cold, and despite the fact that it was by then 8 o'clock at night, and FREEZING, I bundled up, put the iPod in the ear, and took a long brisk walk for about an hour and a half, Everclear blaring in my ears. I went and visited Alexander Hamilton, my dear dead boyfriend, I stalked along Boulevard East - which was empty because, duh, it was freezing, and walked and walked and walked. Sometimes tears streamed down my face, and other times I was in a movie of my own life, fantasizing and leaping on trampolines in the desert, and all those things I like to think about when I want to get away. It was awesome. I was freezing, yes, and perhaps it wasn't the smartest thing to do, while recoveering from a flu, but getting OUT and MOVING became a moral imperative, I was so wired, so ... well, I was going to say "manic" but that's a negative connotation. I just felt hyped, and happy, and also - satiated. It was beautiful.

Mike and I have been going back and forth about my little script, but what I am left with now is happiness and a sense of possibility. I created something in three hours. I know that may not seem like a revelation especially because - uhm - I create here on the blog CONSTANTLY - and there is no plan. I don't give myself an editorial calendar and say, "Monday I will focus on Suzanne Farrell, Tuesday will be strictly Ben Marley, with maybe a couple of scanned photos ..." I just do what I feel like doing. So yes, in a way, if I look at it - this blog is about "saying Yes" - every single day. It keeps me juiced, keeps me expressive - even in times when I am truly struggling, like now - but I realized, on Sunday, that these sorts of "here are the parameters - GO" exercises are really really good for me, and I need to do more of them.

Saying yes is a muscle. My leg muscles were burning after my long brisk walk - I've been lying in bed for four days, so my body was like, 'Uhm - what's happening - we're MOVING now? Is that what we're doing?' ... and my brain was burning too from the exercise of writing that script.

And you know what? I think it came out pretty good. I'm just saying.

Thank you, Mike. You're such a "yes" kind of guy, and that was really exhilarating for me. A harbinger of things to come.

From the cell phone camera: Just looking at this makes me nervous all over again!

My manuscript.

I am still a long-hand kind of girl.

It's a theme.

I have recently re-connected with an old boyfriend through Facebook. It's been a lot of fun chatting with him and reminiscing and having Rashomon conversations about our memories. We were catching each other up on our lives. I told him I just finished my first book (YES. I FINISHED IT. IT IS NOW IN MY AGENT'S HANDS. I CAN RELAX FOR, WHAT, TWO SECONDS??? I told her after sending her the manuscript through the mail that I needed to hear when it safely arrived "because I feel right now like I am a parent letting my child take public transportation by themselves for the first time") and he was asking me about it. I told him a little bit about the book.

What was his first comment?

Did he say, "Congratulations on finishing your first book!" ?

No.

Did he say, "I can't wait to buy my own copy!" ?

No.

He said, "Am I in there?"

I am laughing out loud. This has been the general response of the "boys I have known" (at least the ones who know about my book) - I mentioned it in passing here.

Of course Michael is the most obvious example, just because I'm in touch with him on a regular basis and also because he doesn't mind me posting his emails ("I'm a whore" he stated bluntly). Michael is relentless. I love that about him. He's not afraid to be demanding. It's one of our jokes. But it's not just Michael. Another one of the "boys" (now in his 50s, for God's sake), asked me, "So ... will you dedicate the book to me?" I am laughing out loud. The balls! I was like, "Goddammit, NO, I will NOT dedicate the book to you - haven't I given you enough??" He couldn't stop himself. "But ... why not?"

Oh, these men. These men still kill me. If any of them were NOT egotistical about their position in my life I would be bummed out. I really need the comedy of this right now.

I just love that this man I have not been in touch with for years has joined in in the never-ending chorus.

"Will I be in there?"
"Will you call it MICHAEL?"
"Will you dedicate it to me?"
"You need to write a whole book just about your experiences with me. It would be a best-seller." (that one was Michael's.)

I probably should add an essay to the entire mix, explaining this whole ex-boyfriend-as-relentless-and-endearing-egotist theme.

Harold Clurman and Clifford Odets: Film Noir

Clurman and Odets, old colleagues from the Group Theatre, were reunited in 1946 (at least professionally - they were good friends in real life) to do the film Deadline at Dawn.

I was asked to write a review of Deadline at Dawn for the great site Noir of the Week - and so I did (I was VERY interested to see the only film that Harold Clurman - great man of the theatre - ever directed - not to mention the fact that it was written by Clifford Odets!)

It's a two-part review:

Part 1
Part 2

"the loneliness of the long-distance literary editor"

A piece that is of great interest to me now in my life (and I had somehow missed it although James Wolcott is one of my regular destination pitstops on the Web): Long-distance literary editors and the whole process of editing, in general. Wolcott takes, as his launching-off point, a couple of tributes to editors, now dead, and the magazines they worked for. But I liked, mostly, the thoughts on editing - from Wolcott and the excerpt he chose to share.

It reminds me of the relationship Maxwell Perkins had with F. Scott Fitzgerald, and here is just a brief excerpt of the giant letter Perkins wrote to Fitzgerald after getting the manuscript of The Great Gatsby:

The other point is also about Gatsby: his career must remain mysterious, of course. But in the end you make it pretty clear that his wealth came through his connection with Wolfstein. You also suggest this much earlier. Now almost all readers numerically are going to be puzzled by his having all this wealth and are going to feel entitled to an explanation. To give a distinct and definite one would be, of course, utterly absurd. It did occur to me though, that you might here and there interpolate some phrases, and possibly incidents, little touches of various kinds, that would suggest that he was in some active way mysteriously engaged. You do have him called on the telephone, but couldn't he be seen once or twice consulting at his parties with people of some sort of mysterious significance, from the political, the gambling, the sporting world, or whatever it mayb be. I know I am floundering, but that fact may help you to see what I mean ... I wish you were here so I could talk about it to you for then I know I could at least make you understand what I mean. What Gatsby did ought never to be definitely imparted, even if it could be. Whether he was an innocent tool in the hands of somebody else, or to what degree he was this, ought not to be explained. But if some sort of business activity of his were simply adumbrated, it would lend further probability to that part of the story.

Editing is not easy. It is certainly not easy to edit your own work, and I have found that it sometimes takes me MONTHS of stepping away from something before I can even look at something I have written with anything even resembling clarity. Distance is great. Reading what you have written out loud is invaluable. But when that outside eye comes ... Boy. If it's someone you trust, then you had best listen.

I had written a piece I felt was perfect. I don't know, the piece just flowed, as far as I was concerned. I worked hard on it, editing, chopping it up, rearranging things - and I really felt that there was nothing more I could do with it. I sent it to my agent just to get her feedback, and we talked on the phone about it. She said one thing, "It feels like the piece has three climaxes."

The light broke in on my head. I resisted her words, vaguely, because I fear change, and it would mean totally re-thinking the whole thing ... but once I realized that I had been building the narrative to not one, but three climaxes - I realized, well, obviously, three is too many. How about just focusing on ONE, Sheila? So I chopped that poor thing up some more, honing in on just the one. It made the piece infinitely better. Maybe the two other climaxes could be their own stand-alone pieces, who knows. But I honestly can't imagine I would have, all on my own, realized that flaw in the piece. Maybe I would have - you never know, I have a good eye ... but sometimes that outside first-impression eye from someone you trust is the only thing you really need.

Follow Wolcott's links ...

More agent and editor talk from my friend Cara.

Indelible Ink: Paul Newman

My tribute is now up at House Next Door.

Erin and Zachary: an ongoing project

Revisiting it after not looking at it for over a year. Most of it is offline ... I don't "share" my writing in that way, that's not how I use my blog - it's for other kind of writing... but sometimes I dip into something I've written and post a bit online.

More in this same story:
the rocking chair soliloquy
answering machine messages
what did they talk about
he only had one fork
the haircut
things
tenderness

work in progress ... the parts as of now do not add up to a whole, but I'm workin' on it. Most of my friends have read this whole thing, they will recognize it.

the ice cream cone

She and Zachary walked through the drizzle, side by side, heading to her bed three blocks away. Erin didn’t worry about making nice chit-chatter with him. They did not hold hands; Erin felt that that would have been ridiculous. Erin’s fingers were jammed in her pockets, face down as she walked. The rain beaded up on her glasses, pointless to wipe the drops away. They strolled beneath the coliseum walls of darkened Wrigley Field.

Zachary suddenly said, breaking their silence, "It must be pretty cool to live so close to Wrigley Field." He stared up at the looming quiet structure in the middle of the block.

"Well, it gets kind of nuts, actually."

"Can you hear the roar of the crowd at your apartment?"

"Totally."

"Wow. That's great. I'd love that."

And then her scuffing sneakers squashed something on the wet pavement. She turned back to look, and saw a soggy flattened ice cream cone. It looked so pathetic, so forlorn. A whole world swam before her blurry eyes: baseball games, fathers and sons, joyous sunny afternoons, a child weeping over dropped ice cream. A day ruined.

"Ohhhhh," she breathed, as though it were a crushed Monarch butterfly.

Zack turned and squinted at the object of Erin’s pity. He saw what it was, but said not a word, only straightened up, and the two of them continued on, Erin leading the way across the empty avenue.

A block and a half later, Zack said, without looking at her, "Uhm … excuse me … but did you just feel sorry for an ice cream cone?"

The empathic moment with the soggy cone was already completely forgotten by Erin. She had moved on and had no idea what Zack was talking about. Then she realized and burst into laughter.

"Yes! Yes! I did!"

He grinned down at her sideways, husky eyes gleaming in the shadows of the side street. "Yeah. I thought so. Just checking."

Erin's brother Nate said to her once, "Erin, you idolize men. Don't do that." Good advice. Which Erin proceeded to completely and repeatedly ignore.

She made an idol of Zack, and his subtle acceptance of her.

But there was no subtlety in the way he attacked her in the elevator ride up to her apartment. He pounced, jamming her up against the wall, holding her head still, kissing her. She resisted for about two seconds, attempting to maintain some decorum, after all she had just met the man, but then it was useless to resist and she attacked him back, in true sex-starved librarian fashion. The night felt like it lasted eons; or a millisecond. There were more dinosaurs, bursts of laughter, timeless wordless stretches of liplock, Chinese food ordered in at 3 a.m., an intense discussion about the difference between meteors and comets, more liplock, lazy eternities where she lay with her head in the crook of his arm, the two of them breathing together, not talking, and a spooning formation as they passed out as one.

Erin was accustomed to boyfriends who treated sex as something precious and sacred, who read The Kama Sutra and suggested new positions to keep things interesting. To be honest, this did nothing for her. In the middle of the Bounding Kangaroo, or the Downward Anteater Maneuver, her mind wandered off, going through her To Do Lists. But the anarchy of sleeping with Zachary never gave her a moment to ponder, "Okay, so when will I go grocery shopping tomorrow?" The thought of doing this was ludicrous, actually. Also ludicrous was trying to imagine Zachary showing her a Kama Sutra diagram, saying, "That looks cool – Wanna give it a go?" There was nothing conscious in his sexual behavior. It was all instinct. And listening. On a supersonic level. But Zachary would never have talked about it in this way. He was too busy doing whatever the hell he felt like doing, when he felt like doing it.

Erin's face was rubbed raw the next day. She had a hickey, for God's sake. It was June, and she was forced to wear a turtleneck to her downtown-Loop temp-job the next morning. There were tiny grey bruises on her twig wrists. On the L-ride, she kept bursting into laughter like a crazy person. She was completely unable to concentrate and kept transferring calls to the wrong people. "Hi, Erin, that last call is supposed to go to Dave in HR …" "Erin? Who was that person you just transferred back to my phone?" "Yes, hi, I have someone on hold here who is looking for someone in R&D … could you handle it, please?" Erin spent the entire day murmuring, "Sorry … sorry … sorry … Yeah, I'll handle it … sorry …" She felt transparent, as though everyone on the planet had Infrared vision and could see the lingering hand-prints of Big Z all over her body. Glowing redly through her black turtleneck on a humid summer day. The Mark of Zorro.

At long last: William Holden

That project I have kept alluding to over the past 2 or 3 weeks:

My William Holden tribute is up at House Next Door!

Go check it out!

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 7

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

Again, my 11-year-old prose here cracks me up but (I adore the underlined "utterly"): even though I made none of this up (meaning: I was just writing out the television movie that I had loved) - the last scene kinda got to me when I reread it just now. Also, imagine Glenn Close in the part of Gloria (which she did play in the film - although the character's name in the film was "Jessica" - like I mentioned, I wrote this whole thing strictly from memory, so obviously I couldn't remember the character's actual name) - you can see how moving the scene was in the production! And I must point out that Miss Sims still "sighs" left and right. It is all she does.

CHAPTER 7

"Come along, Sara. We must hurry to the kitchen. There are a lot of clothes set out there. If you want some we had better hurry." Miss Sims rapidly turned a corner until they were on the soup kitchen street.

When they were in the kitchen Sara looked around. Instead of soup on all of the tables there were clothes. Children were gathered around each of the tables picking out clothes.

A small fight broke out at one of the tables.

"I want that dress!" cried a little girl.

"But it fits me better!" yelled another child.

The two of them started tugging at it. One was on each end.

Miss Sims rushed over and desperately tried to stop the fight. "Children, children, stop it. There's plenty of clothes here. Plenty for everyone."

"But I want that dress!" the girl glared at the other girl.

"Well, so do I!"

"Would any of you like this dress?" Miss Sims held up a dress from the other table. It was light blue checked and it looked almost new.

One of the girls grabbed it. "I'll have this one. You can have that other one."

The other girl looked at the ragged pink dress in her hand and sighed.

Miss Sims sat down and watched the children dismally.

All of a sudden the door opened and in walked Miss Sims' friend Gloria. She had two baskets under her arms and in each of them were 4 loaves of bread. They smelled scrumptious and they looked freshly baked.

"Thank you, Gloria. They look delicious." Miss Sims cried when she saw them.

"Good luck on your journey," Gloria planted a kiss on Miss Sims' cheek.

"Thank you, Gloria, but it looks like we won't be able to go." Miss Sims looked away to avoid Gloria's stare.

Gloria set the baskets down on the table with a "thump". "Why not?"

"I spent the money that was supposed to be for our coach," Miss Sims stated.

"You! Why, you never spend money! What did you spend it all on?" Gloria was utterly surprised.

Miss Sims sighed. "I spent it on a child. She was unhappy and she wanted to come West," and slowly she unfolded the whole story.

"Oh, dear. Well." Gloria raised her head high. She took off all of her rings, bracelets and necklaces and handed them over to Miss Sims.

"What? Gloria, what are you doing?"

"These are all pure gold. Very expensive."

Miss Sims looked questioningly at Gloria. "But they're all of your rings and jewelry!"

Gloria shook all of those kind of thoughts out of her mind with a shrug. "Rings and jewelry you can replace, a child's happiness you cannot."

Miss Sims stood up and hugged Gloria tight. "Well, it looks like we are going. Everything seems perfect, except somehow I have the feeling I forgot something, but that always happens before a journey."

Gloria nodded. "I know just how you feel. Well, I must go. Enjoy the bread!"

"We will! It smells heavenly!"

"Good bye. Good luck."

"Goodbye, Gloria and thank you so much."

Mongol; dir. Sergei Bodrov

My review of the Russian film Mongol (which opens today) is now up at House Next Door.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 6

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Please notice that I use a semi-colon at one point. I also enjoy how I, age 11, attempt to write in different dialects. Carry on.

CHAPTER 6

"Papers! Get your papers!" J.P. called waving the papers around.

She sighed. Business was bad today. No one wanted a paper.

As she turned to cross the street someone came zooming down the sidewalk and practically knocked J.P. over.

"Hey! Watch where you're--" then she saw that it was Sara. "What's the matter, Sara? Are you in trouble?"

Sara nodded and looked around in a frightened way. And then she ran off down the street, in the opposite direction of where J.P. was standing.

"Wait up, Sara! You can tell me about it!" J.P. took off after Sara. Sara certainly could run fast. Soon J.P. was completely out of breath and she gave up chasing after Sara.

She looked around and saw that she was right in front of the soup kitchen.

She walked in and looked around. The soup that was being served smelled good but J.P. had more important matters on her mind.

She rushed up to the counter.

"Why, hello, J.P. I'm glad to see you. You're such a nice boy to have around." Miss Sims said pleasantly. J.P. had no intention of telling them she was a girl, even though she did like Miss Sims quite a lot.

"Miss Sims, I didn't come for soup," she announced.

Miss Sims looked surprised. "You didn't?"

J.P. shook her head. "No. It's about Sara Florence."

"Sara Florence? Oh, the quiet girl about 13? Yes? What about her?" Miss Sims laid down the wooden soup ladle.

"She's in trouble." J.P. stated, too tired from her long run to give the details.

"What? She is in trouble? Why?"

J.P. shrugged. "I donno. I wish I knew. She's my friend."

"Well," Miss Sims patted J.P.'s shoulder. "I'll go check it out. Don't worry. And by the way, we are leaving for the West in 3 days."

J.P. almost fell over. "You mean to go and get families for us orphans?"

Miss Sims nodded. J.P. slid into a nearby chair, deep in thought. She sort of had a family but she probably would never see them again. She did miss her mother, but not that much because her mother had left her so that showed she hadn't cared much for J.P. I'll go, she thought. But should I? She was afraid it would be disloyal to her real parents. But they didn't care about me! she thought fiercely. Why should I stay behind and suffer if I can go West and get good, kind parents. Yes, I'll go. It'll be an adventure!

Meanwhile, Miss Sims had left the kitchen in charge of the old man. Before she left she asked of J.P., "J.P. Do you know where she went or who might know where she went?"

J.P. thought that over. "Well, ask Liverpool. He knew Sara. I think they like each other."

Miss Sims smiled. "Thank you, J.P." She hurriedly departed into the crowded cobblestone street. She knew where Liverpool lived. In a dark, dark, brokendown building filled with holes, mice and dirt. He had come over from Liverpool, England. That is how he got his name. His father had taken him on a boat. His father had died in America, leaving Liverpool to be one of the Orphans.

As she arrived at Liverpool's hideout she was aware of the awful smell that wafted through the air.

"Poor Liverpool," she thought.

There was no door and part of the building had no roof and one side of the building had completely collapsed!

She walked around trying to find a decent way to get in. She turned a corner and there to her surprise was Liverpool.

He was 13 and rather small for his age. His eyes were very small, giving him a mean look about him. He was wearing a brown cap over his dirty blonde hair. His coat was brown with two short tails on the back. His knickers were tan and he wore black socks and black shoes with the laces tied up in many knots.

He was slouched against the wall with his hands deep in his pockets.

Even though he was only a boy and Miss Sims a grown adult she felt rather shy against him.

"What yo' doin' here?" he asked, glaring at her.

Miss Sims gulped and then inquired if he had seen Sara.

He nodded.

"Well, where did you see her?" Miss Sims asked eagerly.

"She came 'ere to ask me advice."

"And what did you tell her?"

Liverpool shrugged. "She's back at the Florence's right now."

"Oh, thank you, Liverpool!" Miss Sims was very grateful.

Liverpool waved his arms around. "Now ge' ou' a here."

Miss Sims turned to leave but then she remembered something she wanted to say and she turned to face Liverpool again.

"And Liverpool, we're leaving for the West in 3 days if you --"

"Ge' ou' a here, I told you," he said in a loud voice.

"Don't you want to come?" she said in amazement.

"What would I wanna come for?" Liverpool asked in disgust.

"Well, when we get there you'll have a good family who takes care of you and keeps you out of trouble and --"

"I don' need no one." Liverpool stated folding his arms.

"But you do! How would you like to end up like your friend David Smithson? You will if you stay here! They will catch you, Liverpool!"

Liverpool shook his head. "They ain't never gonna catch me."

Miss Sims gave up. You just couldn't deal with someone like that. She turned on her heel and started off for the Florence's.

When she got there, she mounted up on the porch and rapped on the door. The butler opened it.

"Yes?" he said.

Miss Sims cleared her throat. "I am here to see Mrs. Florence and Sara."

"Come in, ma'am." The butler held open the door and Miss Sims entered. She was led through the large elegant parlor, down two halls, until finally they arrived at the living room. Mrs. Florence was there, sprawled on the couch.

She was wearing a black dress with red and green flowers sprinkled all over it. She wasn't very pretty.

"Yes, what is it?" Her voice seemed irritated.

"A woman is here to see you." The butler handed Miss Sims over and Miss Sims began. She told Mrs. Florence all about the train going West and all the children she was taking and she thought that Sara should come too.

"Sara!! What for?? She's got a home!" Mrs. Florence cried.

"Yes, I know that; but does she have love?" Miss Sims asked pointedly.

Mrs. Florence shrugged. " 'Course she got love!!"

Miss Sims asked if she was really sure about that and then Mrs. Florence got angry and told Miss Sims to mind her own business.

"Mrs. Florence, I don't mean to upset you but why don't you call Sara down and talk to her about it."

Mrs. Florence reluctantly agreed. She told the butler to fetch Sara and he did. He brought her in and Sara stood there looking frightened.

"Don't be scared, Sara," Miss Sims said tenderly. "You know me, don't you?"

Sara nodded her head. "You work the kitchen."

Miss Sims nodded. "That's right." Then she told her all about the West and then she asked Sara one simple question. "Sara, do you like it here?"

Sara looked at Mrs. Florence and the butler and then back at Miss Sims. Then she looked around again. Her eyes stopped in front of Miss Sims. She gave her a hard look and the slightest shake of her head. Miss Sims understood.

"Well, would you like to come out West?" Miss Sims asked.

"Oh, yes!" Sara cried. Mrs. Florence was surprised.

"Wait a second. Not so fast." Mrs. Florence shattered the happiness of the moment. "You ain't takin' her unless I have somethin' in it."

Miss Sims was worried. "What do you want? Money?"

"That's what I had in mind." Mrs. Florence's face wore an evil grin.

"Well - how much?" Miss Sims inquired fearfully.

"Maybe 200 dollars?" Mrs. Florence held out her hand.

Miss Sims gulped. She took out her purse and handed Mrs. Florence some money. Mrs. Florence looked at it.

"That ain't 200 dollars! Either you give me 200 dollars or you don't get the kid." Mrs. Florence tossed back the money.

"I'm sorry but I don't have --" Miss Sims began but she stopped because she remembered something. Leaning down, reluctantly, Miss Sims rolled down her stocking. Folded up was 200 dollars. It was the money Mr. Carlin had given her to buy the coach, even though he would get the coach for them.

Miss Sims glanced at the money and then back at Sara. She decided what to do.

She took out the money and flapped it at Mrs. Florence.

"Here, take it," she said, holding back the tears.

Mrs. Florence grabbed it and looked at it in surprise. "Now, where did you get that?"

Miss Sims grabbed Sara's hand and put her nose in the air. "Now it's time for you to mind your own business. C'mon, Sara." She led Sara out of the room, leaving Mrs. Florence staring after them in puzzlement.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 5

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Now. Chapter 5. Even though all of this is rather silly - and I am 11 years old, writing about things I don't understand - AND writing out a television movie from memory - I think Chapter 5 is not half bad. hahahahaha I'm serious! I re-read it just now and thought: Well. That's pretty good. And I think the "frozen fountain" line is pretty good, and since it's a description - and not PLOT - I came up with that myself. So I think that's pretty good. And please notice that I utilize "Little did he know" - the third-person omniscent form - which becomes so important in Stranger Than Fiction. Ha!!

And the way it ends. I admit. I need to know what happens next.

Here we go. Oh, and once again, I lose count of how many times "Miss Sims sighs". That's all the woman does. Sighs. It is her #1 defining characteristic.

CHAPTER 5

"But don't you understand what I want to do?" Miss Sims looked around at all of the old people's faces.

An old woman nodded. "We all understand. It is a very noble plan but where will you get the money to buy the coach and it would be a very long ride with all of those orphans." Her voice showed exactly what she thought of the orphans.

Miss Sims sighed. "I know. I know. I know what you think but I can do it. All I need is a bit of money. I saved up a lot myself but not enough to buy a coach and supplies--"

"But madam," an old man offered. "If you want this journey to be successful then you should pay for it. I admire you for wanting to do this but we cannot give you such an immense amount of money."

Miss Sims sighed and stood up. "This journey is going to be made. No matter how hard it is. I am not giving up hope." She walked in a dignified manner out of the room.

*************************

"Well, Gloria, what do you think of my plan?" Miss Sims took a sip of her tea.

Her friend looked at Miss Sims in a puzzled way. "It is a wonderful plan but hardly for a woman to take up. I never expected it of you but as I know you well, I feel you will make it."

Miss Sims sighed and placed the cup on a tray with a dainty "Click". "There's one problem, though, Gloria."

"Yes? You know you can tell me anything."

"Well, it's the money situation. I have put away quite a lot but not enough to buy a coach and clothes and food and all the supplies we need." Miss Sims said.

"I wish I could help you on that score but as I am a married woman I also have to support my family." Gloria stated.

Miss Sims sighed. "I know. No one wants to give me money because they are afraid I will not make it. I have asked around if people have old clothes that I could have. I have collected quite a pile and they are stored at the kitchen."

"I could bake you some loaves of bread for some food," Gloria offered.

"Oh, thank you, Gloria! Thank you! That would be a great help. I will make it. I've got to! Someone in this city must feel sorry for the orphans as I do. Someone must."

*****************************

Miss Sims was going to the last person she could think of. Mr. Gobel, the well-known political man who also was well-known for his tremendous amount of money. He had known Miss Sims' father but Miss Sims still felt a little shy as she walked up the tons and tons of steps to the heavy brown doors.

She reached up and knocked the heavy brass door knocker. It was a few minutes until a man, all dressed in black, opened the door.

"Hello? Mr. Gobel?" Miss Sims inquired eagerly.

The man looked surprised. "I am not Mr. Gobel. I am the butler."

Miss Sims flushed. "I am so sorry. May I please see Mr. Gobel?"

"I am sorry, Miss, but he is now engaged with an interview from the newspapers."

"I am willing to wait." Miss Sims said, determined not to go away.

"Just one minute, ma'am," the man said.

He departed, leaving the door open. Miss Sims stepped in and looked around. "Goodness, Mr. Gobel must be rich! Surely he can spare something for me." She gazed up at the extravagant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It looked exactly like a frozen fountain.

The butler came back and said that Mr. Gobel told her to go away and come back tomorrow.

Miss Sims' voice was firm. "Well you tell him I will not go away. This matter is very important and it cannot wait. Even until tomorrow."

The man sighed and went back to report to Mr. Gobel. In a minute he came back saying that Mr. Gobel also said that his matter could not wait either.

Miss Sims sat down on a green couch. "Well, you tell Mr. Gobel if he does not see me I will sit here until he will." She folded her arms and looked off into space.

"Yes'm." The butler walked off, a little afraid of what Mr. Gobel was going to say to that. He came back with the news that she could go see Mr. Gobel.

Proud that she had won that argument she followed the butler to Mr. Gobel's private office.

It had shiny shelves, covered with pictures with gold frames. The floor was carpeted in a soft rust color.

A cameraman was taking a picture of Mr. Gobel standing in front of one of his shelves.

When the picture had been taken, the cameraman started to get ready to go.

Little did he know what a big part he would play in Miss Sims' journey.

Mr. Gobel sat down behind his large oakwood desk.

"You are rather a determined young woman, don't you think?" he said in a deep voice.

Miss Sims nodded. "Maybe so, but this is extremely important."

"Yes? Go on?"

"You have heard, I suppose, about my plan of taking all of the children West to find them homes and families?" Miss Sims inquired.

Mr. Gobel nodded. "Yes, yes, I have, as a matter of fact. I think it is very brave of you."

"Yes, well, I don't have enough money to buy a coach. I already have gotten food and supplies but if you could just lend me a little bit of money to rent a coach, I --"

Mr. Gobel interrupted. "Miss Sims, I am a very busy man. I do not have time to waste all of my money and thoughts on dirty little orphans. I admire you greatly for wanting to take this up but I cannot lend you any money."

"But it's just a small amount!" Miss Sims persisted.

"How much?" Mr. Gobel looked her in the eye.

Miss Sims gulped. "Uh - 200 dollars?"

"200 DOLLARS!" Mr. Gobel boomed. "I am sorry Miss Sims I do not throw my money around. Especially for little orphans I have no use for."

"But --"

"Good day, Miss Sims," Mr. Gobel said firmly.

Miss Sims, almost on the verge of bursting into tears, got up and left. As she walked across the echoey front hall she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and found the cameraman running up to her.

"Miss Sims," he said, rather out of breath. "You want to take all of those kids out West?" When Miss Sims nodded he clapped his hands. "What an excellent story!"

Miss Sims was puzzled. "Excellent story? For what?"

The man said impatiently, "Why, for the newspapers! I'm Mr. Carlin. I take pictures for the newspapers and write articles for 'em."

Miss Sims sighed. "Well, it looks like we're not going."

"Oh, you'll go, all right."

Miss Sims was puzzled. "But the coach --"

"I'll get you on that train. This story is a good one. I'll get a lot of money for it. I'll get you your own coach."

"You will?" Miss Sims was overjoyed even though Mr. Carlin was not her favorite person.

"Sure! If you make it, it'll be good for the papers. If you don't make it," he shrugged. "That'll be good for the papers, too."

Miss Sims looked at him in astonishment. "I don't like you, Mr. Carlin."

Mr. Carlin shrugged. "You don't have to like me but you're gonna be on that train."

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 4

Have had a long couple of days with 2 extremely late nights in a row. Yet I still woke up "on time" today and spent 6 hours writing and editing until I reached the saturation point. My back hurts. My brain hurts. And so now, to take a break from the writing I am doing NOW, let's go back to the writing I was doing THEN and read "Chapter 4" of my novelization of the TV movie Orphan Train, written when I was 11 years old.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The next day Sarah did run away but she wasn't really any happier. It was hard to find food and she didn't have anyone to hang around with.

She finally became acquainted with the paper boy mentioned before. He called himself J.P. He never told her what "J.P." stood for.

But many times J.P. was alone. He didn't see Sarah because he was busy with his papers. J.P.'s mother was an actress and most of the time she was gone on tour with the mean husband who hated J.P. J.P. was not allowed to go on tour with his mother so he was treated like an orphan on the street. He wore ragged clothes and all.

"Sarah, I gotto' go, ok?" J.P. inquired one day.

Sarah nodded and walked down the street, holding her shawl close around her thin shoulders.

J.P. ran all the way home to the apartment where his mother was staying. He walked up the 2 flights of stairs, his heavy Oxfords making a "Clomp-clomp" sound in the dingy halls.

Finally, J.P. arrived at the door which was his. He rapped on the door.

The door was opened to reveal a tall lanky man with thin lips and a thin mustache. He frowned when he saw J.P. "Well?" he yelled. "What do you want."

Then a woman's voice called out from within the apartment. "Ease up, Mark! C'mon in sweety!"

J.P. walked past Mark and into the apartment. It was set up rather like an actor's dressing room. There were clothes and scarves strewn about the room. There was also a lit-up mirror and a woman (J.P.'s mother) was sitting in front of it.

When she saw J.P. in the mirror she turned with a lovely smile on her face. "Hi, honey! How'd you make out today?"

J.P. put his lips together and nodded. He set the pile of papers that was under his arm on a chair.

Then J.P.'s mother's face grew serious. "Honey, work for an actor is hard today. 'Specially for women. Your father is gonna try and fit me in his balloon act. It ain't much money, but it's a start. And I hate you dressin' up like a boy." She threw off J.P.'s cap to show that J.P. really had slightly curled hair. J.P. wasn't a boy! She was a girl dressing up like a boy! Surprise, surprise!

"I'm sorry, momma but no one will buy papers from a girl." J.P. protested.

"Honey, I got somethin' to tell you. Your daddy's act is goin' on tour around New England and all the states. I'm goin' with 'im because I'm gonna be fit in his act. And - well - children aren't allowed to go on tour and -" She stopped and J.P. just discovered what was going to be said.

"I'm sorry, honey," J.P.'s mother went on sadly. "I wish you could come but it wouldn't work. Do you think you'll be able to get along on your own?"

J.P. set her lips tight and bravely picked up her papers. "It's okay, momma. I got my papers."

J.P.'s mother looked at her brave face and saw that she was fiercely holding back the tears. Tears quickly came to her eyes and she hugged J.P. hard.

"Oh, honey! You'll never make out!" she cried and let J.P. go.

J.P. looked up at her mother. "Yes, I can, momma. I'm almost 11." She picked up her hat and tucked all her hair up and placed it on her head.

"Good-bye, J.P.!" J.P.'s mother called as J.P. sadly walked away.

*********************************

Later on that afternoon J.P. felt very down. Her mother had left her, just deserted her! No one had bought any papers and she couldn't find Sarah anywhere.

To make herself feel better she quietly slipped into the church to listen to the singing.

Miss Sims was playing the piano and all of the orphans who wanted to were singing "Count Your Blessings." Miss Sims also was singing in a fluttery voice.

J.P. sat down in the last pew and thought as the singing went on. "Count my blessings? What blessings?" Two large tears welled up in her eyes but she hastily wiped them away.

Jeff Bridges ...

I mentioned recently that I had been thinking a lot about Jeff Bridges.

And here is the result of all that thinking: 5 for the day: Jeff Bridges.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 3

Chapter 1
Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Music drifted through the air at the Florence's mansion. Sarah gazed out the window from the living room.

A tall woman wearing mounds of makeup flounced into the room.

"Sarah!" she cried sternly. "How many times do I have to tell you. Don't look out that window. Especially when I'm havin' a party. Now git upstairs to your room and stay there."

Sarah sadly walked out of the room. She was a thin girl and had used to be an orphan. But Mrs. Florence had liked her (not really) and taken her in. Sarah was treated badly. She was not beaten, but the Florence's did not give her love. She hated living there but she did not dare run away.

As she sauntered down the long hall to her room she heard noises behind one of the doors. Being a curious girl of 13 she peered through the small window at the bottom of the door.

A fat man was setting up his bed. He was the butler. Sarah did not like him.

Right inside the door, and in Sarah's view, was a black leather wallet and Sarah could see clearly that it was full of money as it was so fat.

Sarah still had some orphan traits left in her and she wanted that wallet.

She reached her hand in through the crack in the door and grabbed the wallet. A big book had been lying against the wallet and it fell to the floor with a thump.

Sarah jumped to her feet and darted down the hall. But the man had heard. He dashed out the door and grabbed Sarah by the arm. Sarah thrashed around and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Mrs. Florence rushed up the stairs and was surprised to find the butler shaking Sarah.

"Now stop that Jonathan! Stop it! What did she do now?" Mrs. Florence inquired.

Jonathan (the butler) let Sarah go. "She took my wallet."

"Now Sarah," Mrs. Florence said. "Apologize immediately and give him back his wallet." She turned and walked down the stairs.

Jonathan smiled at her. "Come now, Sarah. Give me back my wallet." He gently rubbed her shoulder.

She wriggled away. "Please don't. Please."

"Now Sarah. You shouldn't have taken my wallet but I will accept an apology. Come now. I won't hurt you."

Sarah gulped. She handed over the wallet. "Sorry," she whispered and ran off.

Back in her room she sat on her small bed and stared out into the street. She sighed. Life was so dismal there.

"I'm gonna run away," she told herself. "But I'll do it tomorrow. I'm too tired now." She flopped down on her bed.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 2

If you want to read Chapter 1, it's here. I am holding myself back from interjecting snarky little comments like I do in Diary Friday. Believe me, I want to - but there's something truly innocent about what I was going for here ... my passion for the TV movie completely expressed ... and I just don't feel right about making fun of that.

Even though some of my word choices are funny and how many times can paragraphs begin with the words "Miss Sims sighed"? Apparently a lot.

Chapter 2.

The children rushed up to the bars and peered through. A small crowd had gathered around the gallows.

Miss Sims looked over the children and saw two policemen dragging a boy, around 17, toward the gallows. There was complete silence everywhere. No one uttered the slightest sound.

Suddenly a boy up front, around 13 or 14, called out in a strong English accent, "'Ey! 'E's got friends! Let 'em say g'bye!"

The policemen turned to face the melancholy boy.

"Listen, kid. You just --" one of them began but the other one interrupted.

"No. He's right. But just for a minute." He pushed the boy gently.

David (the boy) ran over the 13 or 14 year old boy. "Bye, Liverpool."

Liverpool looked at him seriously and set his lips together tightly.

David looked at Liverpool sadly. Then he bent over and took off his worn out boots. He held them out to Liverpool.

Liverpool looked at David questioningly.

David thrust them at Liverpool violently. "Take 'em. To remember me by."

Liverpool nodded and took them. He looked at David and immediately turned his gaze at the ground. David stared sadly at his friend. Liverpool, who was usually tough and brave, was now furiously fighting back tears. " 'Ey." David said and patted him on the shoulder.

Liverpool didn't look up. The policeman came and led David away.

******************************************

Miss Sims walked briskly down the street and turned in at a large mansion. She walked up the stone steps and in through the huge front doors.

The inside was cool and airy with pillars and statues and wide, elegant staircases.

She took off her brown coat and put it in the hall closet.

She sat down helplessly on a green plush chair.

A man walked in a dignified manner over to Miss Sims. "So, Miss Sims," he said in a very sophisticated voice. "How are the little ragamuffins today?"

Miss Sims sighed. "I have told you before. They are orphans. Not ragamuffins. They may look like ragamuffins but they are innocent children. Poor little children."

The man looked her face over. "Anything the matter, Miss Sims?"

Miss Sims sighed. "Yes there is. Today I saw a boy hanged. I couldn't do anything about it. I just stood there and watched. I never want to feel that helpless again. Never! I am taking those children out West."

The man's eyes practically popped out of his head. "You, Miss Sims? But how?"

Miss Sims straightened out her puffy dress. "I have no idea, but I am going to do it. Those children have got to have homes and I am going to find them some."

Orphan Train: The Novel. By me. Age 11.

As I mentioned in this post - the television movie Orphan Train, from 1979 - starring Jill Eikenberry - was one of those moments, as a kid, where I went into a fever of obsession. A fever, I tell you! I was burning up! This of course was before the days of VCR (at least my family didn't have one) and rentals of movies - so I was reliant on TV Guide to tell me what was coming up. I pored over the weekly television listings, keeping my eye out for Orphan Train. The agony of having to wait!! And who knows when it would be on again?

And so I basically couldn't wait. So, based on my memory of the movie, I wrote it up in novel-form. I love that I included a copyright page and publisher information. It was apparently published by a little-known publisher called "Sheila University Press". I was 11 years old when I wrote this.

I forgot about it for years. I always remembered Orphan Train, but I forgot that I had written it up as a book. From memory. I fleshed out conversations, I went scene to scene ... it was my way of expressing my obsession. If I had had a blog then, I would have been doing posts like crazy on Orphan Train.

The "manuscript" was lost for many years, but I didn't even know it was lost.

And 3 or 4 years ago, my parents were at home and a knock came on the door. My mother opened the door, and there stood J. - one of my best friends from childhood and high school. I had not seen her in years. She was home for the weekend, and was cleaning stuff out of the attic - and she found my bound manuscript of Orphan Train and wanted me to have it. Amazing, right? My mother sent it to me and when I opened it up - my whole life flashed before my eyes. I had forgotten about it entirely. I hadn't missed it, or yearned for it, or wondered Where the hell did it go? But suddenly it was there, in my hands - a bound copy of my "novel" - a bright yellow cover - with my crazy doodles all over it. And I had written the thing out on looseleaf paper and then somehow clamped it down into this folder-like apparatus. My novel. What the hell??

I sat down and read the whole thing, laughing out loud at times, at times welling up with tears over my childish passion and fearlessness, guffawing at some of my word choices ... and then there were a couple of moments, I admit, when a phrase came up, or the way I finished a scene, where I thought, "You know what? That's not half bad."

So. Here is Chapter 1 of my novel. Orphan Train. Written by me at age 11.

Preface

In 1845 orphans roamed the street of New York City freely. Few of them had homes and those that did, sometimes they couldn't even get enough food to support them. This story is fictitious but based on real life as it was in 1845.

Chapter 1

"Tony," Ben Papinni wailed, making his short legs move very fast to catch up with his 11-year-old brother. "Wait up."

Tony sighed and stopped in front of a low crumbling wall.

Ben clutched the small wooden cage in his hand and ran up to his brother. He gazed up at him with wide eyes.

"Come on over here. There are some big ones over here as I 'member." Tony led his brother through the old, brick building and all of the rubble to a small hall and into a small musty room.

"Over here. They're over here and we'd better hurry." Tony knelt on the ground and took the cage from Ben.

He placed it in a small hole in the wall. Ben kneeled beside Tony and watched him eagerly.

"Now be quiet, Ben. They'll be comin' soon."

"They" were big rats who lurked in the building. Ben and Tony Pappini caught them and sold them to a man who was a cheapskate and hated kids, but nevertheless it did bring money to buy food. Tony would not go to the town soup kitchen. He considered people who went there babies and they gave up easily. Tony would not give up. The only time he ever allowed the two of them to go and get the small portion of gruel was when they were absolutely desperate for food. Ben, even though he was small for his age of 5, had a stomach like a balloon and it would hold quite a bit of food. But Ben admired his brother and always was loyal to Tony, so somehow he survived.

Clap! The cage door shut and Tony brought it out. There were two big black rats in it.

Tony smiled. "They're goodies. Mr. Johnson will give us seven cents for 'em. He promised. C'mon, Ben."

Tony and Ben got up and departed through a window onto the dirty cobblestone street.

A young boy in ragged clothes walked down the street yelling, "Papers! Get your papers!" He was waving newspapers in the air. His cap was placed firmly on his head and his knickers were ragged and dirty.

Tony sighed. Everything these days was so ugly and dirty. There were no real orphanages then and no one in New York seemed to care about all the poor, helpless children. They were looked upon practically like animals! Grown men would hit a kid without any hesitation and not feel sorry. Tony had heard that it was better out West. There had been some talk of herding all of the orphans out West to find them families, but not many people believed it. Practically all the folks considered the orphans trash and no one in their right minds would want them. Some orphans were bad but not all of them.

"C'mon, Ben. We gotta hurty," Tony said.

Ben sighed. Sometimes Tony was very impatient.

Finally they arrived at the rat place. It was rather a disgusting business. Partly because the rats were disgusting. They were big and black and gross. At least that was Ben and Tony's opinion.

After they had handed in their rats, Mr. Johnson gave them the money.

Tony stared at the coins in his dirty palm. "That's only three cents! You promised us seven!"

Mr. Johnson was angry. "It's money, ain't it? Now git out."

"But ..." Tony protested.

"Get out!" He gave Tony a hard push and Tony and Ben ran out.

"What're we gonna do?" Ben asked Tony.

Tony shrugged and tried to hide his despair from Ben. "We'll find somethin' for three cents."

Ben sighed. "I donno, Tony."

They turned a corner and walked down a damp, dark alley with a putrid odor. They did not notice the tall, dirty boy hiding behind a barrel.

As they passed he jumped out and grabbed Ben by the collar and shook him.

"Hey!" Tony yelled. "Put him down!"

"Not until you give me your money," the boy growled.

Tony glanced at the three cents in his hand. "But this is all I've got."

"I don't care. Give it."

Tony had no choice. He sadly placed the meagre amount of money in the boy's hand. The boy violently dropped Ben and, with much swagger, slouched down the alley.

"Now what're we gonna do?" Ben said, almost on the verge of tears, but he would never have cried in front of Tony.

Tony sighed. He knew they would have to go to the soup kitchen. He didn't want to admit to Ben though that they would have to give up.

Ben was studying Tony's face and he noticed the worried lines around his eyes. "It's o.k., Tony. You don't have to tell me. I know where we're goin'. Come on."

Tony was grateful to his brother to save him from saying they had given up.

They started off for the kitchen. When they were there they fell in line with the many other orphans there. The paper boy was there too. When Tony's turn in line came he got his soup as fast as possible and hurried off to a table.

When Ben came up to the counter he held up his bowl. The pretty woman behind the counter smiled down at him.

"Well, Ben. It's nice to see you here. You don't usually come," she said, and scooped an extra large portion of gruel for his bowl, for he looked especially thin.

Ben brought his bowl over to Tony's table and sat down. Soon he was gulfing down the warm soup.

As the lady behind the counter kept pouring soup into children's bowls she remarked to the man who was helping her, "Where do they all come from?"

The man shrugged. "Beats me. Poor things. That girl over there can't even walk right."

The woman looked with sympathy at the little girl. "I hope that that story about the train carrying all of the orphans West comes true. Whenever I look at their little faces I ---"

She was interrupted by a dirty ragged boy bursting into the kitchen excitedly. He yelled, "David Smithson's gittin' hanged down in 'a gallows!"

All of the orphans made a mad rush for the door and burst out into the street. Child after child rushing past the counter, dropping their bowls and spoons and pouring out into the street. People walking past the kitchen were amazed to all of a sudden see at least 3 dozen ragged, dirty children burst out onto the street and run down the cobblestone sidewalk.

As they ran past the soup counter, Miss Sims (the woman) tried desperately to stop them.

"Please children! Please! Finish your soup and --" she turned to the man. "I'm going to follow them and see what this hanging business is all about." She hurried out after all of the children.

The Favor: directed by Eva Aridjis

My review now up at House Next Door.

A tour of my bulletin board

I found this recently, in the back of one of my old old notebooks. I am probably 9 years old. I wrote an author-bio for one of my stories (that, of course, I never finished).

Entire relationships encapsulated in a paragraph

1. He cooked me some kind of goulash involving beets. He took my feet in his lap and we listened to NPR. Calm cave-like silence broken only by the wash of cold rain on the window.

2. "God, that's so weird. I just mentioned that song to you - and now it's playing on the radio! Isn't that so weird??" "Not weird at all. Sheer coincidence." "Thanks for the sunshine, pal." "Who loves ya, baby."

3. On our first date, we went to Ear Inn, drank beer, and played hangman on the white-paper tablecloths. He also drew me a cartoon about the Masons - their journey across the sea, their trajectory. I can still see the little figures on the tablecloth. Irish musicians were playing jigs. He didn't kiss me that night. But it was something to look forward to.

4. He got annoyed when I would be clumsy, or roll his eyes when I tripped. Our kitchen had dizzying black-and-white tile. I got dressed up for Easter and this confused him.

5. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I was inconsolable. My sobs heaved through the tiny house. He drew me a bath, letting hot water fill up the old-fashioned claw-footed tub. I was pacing like a caged animal, sobbing. He didn't say anything, but gently put me in the bath. I became passive, quiet, calm. My face was puffy. He put the top of the toilet seat down, sat beside me and read out loud to me from Peter Manso's biography of Marlon Brando.

6. He used to be a Chippendale dancer. On our first date, he took me to the Music Box Theatre on Southport. We saw a documentary about AIDS.

7. He took a nap during his brother's wedding reception, abandoning me with all of the strangers, I knew no one. I went up to visit him. He lay on a couch in an upper room, in his tux, so asleep I thought he might have died. He was black-haired, gorgeous and Italian. I sat by him as he slept, the party raging downstairs, the Macarena emanating through the floorboards, and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning hot.

8. The cast-iron gates of Ranelagh gleamed black in the rain. He walked me back to my house from the ridiculous disco we had just been ensconced in, shouting at each other over the music, about politics and Sweden and police states and journalism and the EU. I was leaving Ireland in 2 days, so this was it. It was over. We turned onto my block, and he said, "Aw, aren't these gates lovely?" I said, "They remind me of 'The Dead'." He stopped in his tracks, gave me a look - a look I had already come to know so well - and said, openly, "You. You understand me. You understand us."

9. His cheeks glowed in the cold, as we walked through the snowy bird sanctuary, and occasionally he would gently take my hand to lead me across an icy patch, or to guide me towards something he wanted me to see. The next day, in school, he ignored me, acted as though none of it had even happened.

5 for the day:

Dean Stockwell - by yours truly, a monster post I've been working on for a week.

(For those of you coming over here from House Next Door - here's all my Dean Stockwell content, if you're interested.)

The Plain Girl

Below you'll find more from this piece. I wrote this a couple years ago. Pulling old shit out now, to take another look. Lots of writing stuff - much of it just pot-boilers, but it's important to "exercise" ye olde muscles.

The Plain Girl

In between her freshman and her sophomore year of college, Maggie did a season of summer-stock theatre at a barn playhouse in Vermont. She had never gone away from home before without her parents, at least not for that long, and so she was spectacularly on her own, surrounded by actors and dancers from New York City, a wild crew who drank copious amounts of alcohol, had an inordinate amount of sex with one another, and, in general, behaved like raving lunatics. They all liked to play charades and card games, and they took on, as a group, putting together a tremendously complex jigsaw puzzle that they found in the house, a feat which took them all summer to accomplish. Someone also initiated a "movie night": everyone had to write a #1 favorite movie onto a slip of paper and put it into a hat. And every Wednesday night, one of the slips was drawn, that movie was rented, and the entire cast convened to watch. The gypsies accepted Maggie, the virginal college girl from Rhode Island, into their clan, and within two days of rehearsals, the entire cast had become one cyclonic organism. The camaraderie of theatre.

They were put up in a huge clapboard house, with a wrap-around porch, a cavernous yard where cast members played drunken volleyball deep into the night. Rehearsals went on all day, and were grueling. The season included California Suite, 1776, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Maggie, plain Maggie, became a chorus girl. She wore wigs. She sang. She danced.

Within a week, romances began to break out in the cast. Intrigues blossomed. Girls cried backstage. Couples had furious whispered fights in the dressing room during the overture. People had affairs, although "affair" is perhaps not quite the right word for infidelity amongst "couples" who had only hooked up three weeks before.

Summer-stock was a pressure-cooker atmosphere, a time outside of time. Normal rules of everyday life grew pale, less important, personalities disintegrated. Even for Maggie. She too had an adventure that summer, an adventure that she managed to keep secret from the entire wild-world of the clapboard house, a house where gossip was a way of life, a given. Not much of the gossip was mean-spirited, but it was certainly incessant. The fact that Maggie could have an entire life-changing adventure without anyone catching on was a testament to Maggie's self-protective ability. The deeps had been stirred. But nothing on the outside changed.

She met a young man her first time going to the local church, a 10-minute walk away from her sprawling gypsy-house. The young man's name was Bobby, and he was home from George Washington University for the summer. They met at the coffee and donuts reception in the rectory after mass; he had come over and started talking to her. He was fascinated that she was an actress, a concept foreign to him, at least in terms of it being a "job" that you could "have". He was funny. He made her laugh. He asked if he could give her a call sometime, seeing as she would be in town for the whole summer. She said No, she really needed to focus on doing a good job this summer, she didn't have time. He took this relatively philosophically.

The next Sunday, they met at mass again, had coffee and donuts again, and again he made her laugh. He asked her again if he could take her out sometime. And again, she said no, but she recognized suddenly that the entire thing was a game, and that he would keep asking her out, and that eventually she would say Yes. She could feel the "Yes" impulse in her. He didn’t seem like a sex-freak. He had a sunny face, light eyes, and a mop of blonde hair. He was addicted to Ultimate Frisbee. He looked like a very good-natured Heat Miser. Again, the Heat-Miser took the rejection philosophically, and said, "All right. See you next week."

The next week, he asked her again, and she, mouth full of stale sugary donut, said Yes.

She didn't tell anyone in the house. She feared that they would pounce like vultures on her little experience, and ruin it by talking about it too much. Or try to analyze it. Or pump it up beforehand. But there was some anxiety. She was 19. She'd never been kissed. How was some random Heat Miser supposed to deal with all of that?

So she put in a call to Constance, who was also doing summer-stock at a small theatre in Ohio, and having a terrible terrible time involving embarrassing costumes, bitchy dancers, competitive queens, and vain uninteresting leading men. "The plays aren't even good," Constance hissed under her breath to Maggie on the public phone in the duplex she was sharing with the rest of the horrible cast, "We're doing some unknown Gothic melodrama. And you know what? It's unknown for a reason, do you hear what I'm saying? It should have stayed unknown. I hate my life." Constance lived for calls from Maggie, so that she could experience vicariously the carefree scenes of volleyball, jigsaw puzzles, and good-natured gossip. When Maggie first described the concept of "movie night" to Constance, she was greeted by a gloomy silence, and then came Constance's flat voice, "Fuck you." But still, Constance wanted to hear more, and more. "So tell me– any cute guys? All of mine are either gay or dickheads who are straight."

Maggie told Constance about "this guy from church." "He's asked me out three times now. I keep saying no."

"Why? Is he ugly? A psycho?"

"No, I just – That's not what I'm here for."

"But how do you know, Maggie? How do you know exactly what it is you're there for?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – can't you do two things at once? Maybe you're also there so that you could meet him. If he's nice and all."

"Yeah. He seems nice."

"So? You believe in God and everything."

"Yeah?"

"God works in mysterious ways—" Constance suddenly snapped over her shoulder, "Brandon, I am gonna kick your ass if you don't stop tapping your foot at me. I am ON THE PHONE RIGHT NOW."

5 for the day: Katharine Hepburn

Matt at House Next Door asked me to write a certain essay for a certain centennial anniversary that comes up this month, May 2007 ... no, not John Wayne ... another one.

It just went up: 5 for the day: Kate Hepburn.

The images below are of my research pile. I am so grateful that I apparently never throw a book away. I lurve my library. It is always there for me.

Tribeca Film Festival

More reviews!

Two in One: by Keith Uhlich

Gardener of Eden - by Steven Boone

Podcast Interview with Kevin Connolly (director of Gardener of Eden) on our partner site Zoom In

Where God Left His Shoes - by me

Lots more going on over there ... Sopranos fans will not want to miss the weekly Sopranos posts - House Next Door has been my go-to place for a year now, in terms of awesome analytical passionate writing about the Sopranos.

Tribeca Film Festival

The madness has begun over at House Next Door.

Reviews to check out so far:

Black Sheep - By Keith Uhlich

Vivere - By Steven Boone

Fireworks Wednesday - by me

Much more to come from all of us!

Dinosaurs, tenderness

All I can see here are the flaws (I wrote the bulk of this in 2003 - and I think it's been sitting in a drawer long enough)... and what should be taken out ... but that's part of why I post such things. Only snippets, never the whole thing. I am eager to get to editing it. I haven't looked at a lot of this stuff in over a year.

Tenderness

"Zachary - take Erin home."

It was Lou's voice.

Erin woke up, disoriented, foggy. How long was she out? Did she actually just have some sort of narcoleptic episode in a bar? Why were her glasses off? She grappled for them, in a looking-glass world. It must be after last call. The lights were on, only a couple of stragglers left. Erin was piercingly embarrassed.

"Z, why didn't you wake me?"

"'Cause I didn't feel like it."

"How long did I sleep?"

"I don't know ... half an hour? 45 minutes? Who cares, Erin. Who cares how long it was?"

Erin felt like it was very bad manners to fall asleep in a bar. People might think she was a homeless person. Or terribly drunk. Her mother would be mortified. Molly would be pissed. Now, more than ever, she was "that girl".

Another stern command from Lou: "Z, take our little lady home. She needs to be in bed."

Zachary stood up. "Let's go." Erin didn't know where she was, when she was, who she was. So Zachary helped her. "Come on now, crazy girl. Let's get you home." Helping her off the stool, picking up her wallet, her cigarettes, handing it all to her.

Zack was never solicitous like this. His manly touch on her back, guiding her out of Compton's. He seemed changed to her. Or maybe it was she who was changed. It worried her. Confirmation of the broken thing. He saw it better than she did. That's what it meant to her when he held open the door for her, letting her go through first.

A soft rain was now falling. Zachary felt the drops on his face and gushed excitedly, "Awesome! Hope it's still coming down tomorrow so I can try my new wipers."

Erin had never said to Zack, "Oh, I just love how you are so into and enraptured by 'things'." It seemed like such an odd thing to love about someone, and also she didn't want him to get self-conscious about the "things thing". Talking about it would have killed it. And so it was her little secret. She took note of when he did it, and filed it away happily. And now, raindrops on her face, she located the "Zack and his Things" folder and catalogued the windshield-wiper moment. For safekeeping. But it was an awful ritual suddenly. She wanted to turn to him, take his face in her hands and say, open, "You love 'things'. I've never met someone who loves 'things' like you do. I love this about you."

The spell might then be broken. Or maybe the spell was already broken. She no longer trusted herself. She couldn't tell the difference between tenderness and pity. Zachary looked at her brokenness with tenderness. He had from the beginning. She looked at his brokenness with pity. And he had known this all along.

They headed through the rain to Zack's walk-up beside the EL tracks five blocks away. Chicago was asleep. The only sounds in the night were their footsteps and the rainfall. Erin forced herself to focus only on Zack's cool white sheets waiting for her, her head on his pillows.

Halfway in between Compton's and Zack's was St. Mary's, a big brick Catholic church, surrounded by black wrought-iron gates, a jungly lawn flourishing within, bushes crowding the paths, flowers falling over each other in profusion. Stone benches hidden in the tangled abundant green. As they passed, Erin peered through the gates at the dripping black leaves. A statue of Mary stood in a niche by the wall, softly lit in blue. Mary had her hands out, palms open and facing up, her eyes lowered. The expression on Mary's face brushed over Erin's heart, and stopped her in her tracks. She moved away from Zack and pressed her face up against the wet gate. Zack stopped. Erin could feel his dark shape hovering next to her, patient.

Rain fell on Mary's blue stone face, trickling down. Now there was true tenderness.

"She looks like she's crying, doesn't she?" Erin asked.

Zack's hands reached out and uncurled Erin's fingers from the gate. He gently pulled on her. "Come on, nutso. Let's go."

They walked again, holding hands - a rare event in the world of Erin and Z. A random car passed them in the night and Erin clutched onto Z's fingers. He looked down at her, with no expression on his face. Pieces of Zack had always been slightly hidden from her. That had been part of her fascination with him. Until now.

"What?" Zack asked.

"I'm sorry about your legs, Zack. I know you don't want me to be, but I am."

Zack sighed, and didn't speak for half a block. Then he said, beleaguered, grumpy, "I'm walkin', ain't I?"

Zack shook off the gloom, broke away from her, stalked out into the empty street, and hollered, "I'M WALKIN' HERE!" It was so loud Erin half-expected lights to come on in apartment windows. Zack screamed again, "I'M WALKIN' HERE!" and threw a laughing glance at her, stepping back up onto the curb. "Member that? Midnight Cowboy? So fucking great."

"Yeah. I remember."

She held out her hand to him again, but he didn't notice. He informed her quickly, "A velociraptor can get up to forty miles per hour." And then he was off, a fierce marauding beast, racing down the sidewalk, stopping randomly to peer through the windows of parked cars, bolting behind trees and popping out at her voraciously as she approached. He flew all the way to the end of the block and all the way back in what felt like five seconds. He definitely was approaching forty miles an hour. The velociraptor would race back to her side, jam its face up against hers, and glare manically into her eyeballs. Looking for what she had no idea. Then it would gallop away again.

He needed her to laugh.

So she did.

Zack would snap back into his own form for a second or two, and give her little-known facts about velociraptors ("The velociraptors traveled in packs." "They had great vision."), and then he immediately would dinosaur-ize again, and caterwaul like a lunatic down the street. The velociraptor careened into the alley behind Z's walk-up. Erin and Zachary always used the staircase on the back of the building to get to his apartment. Erin reached the bottom of the stairs, only to find a panting grunting dinosaur lying in wait for her.

She felt increasingly disconnected from him. It was terrible.

As she watched, the velociraptor lit a cigarette. Erin wondered if Zack would ever congeal back into himself. She also wondered if this would be the last dinosaur she would ever see.

The velociraptor began to harass her, in a tough-guy voice, cigarette dangling. "You wanna fuck me tonight, bitch? Huh? Huh? Do I turn you on, bitch?" It casually leaned on the stair railing beside her, taking a long sexy drag of smoke, and blowing it into her face. "Come on, bitch. I know you want me," it leered.

"Zachary," Erin said. "Snap out of it."

Her tone jolted Zack; he looked at her with startled human eyes, and burst into a laugh. Laughing at himself. Erin couldn't laugh. He leaned over and kissed her, a man again.

Things

I've been working a lot on off-line stuff - not the particular piece below (which is part of a long-ass novella I wrote) - but I figured I'd post this anyway. At the bottom I provide links to other bits from this long piece I've posted. You'll start to see the theme. Not the plot, perhaps, but the theme.

THINGS

Erin and Zachary sat in the dark smoky spaces of nighttime Chicago (when they were not in either his bed or her bed) and talked about things. Literally: Shower curtains. Forks. Ballpoint pens. Dental floss. Pringles. Filing cabinets. Objects held a talismanic power for him. The rocking chair from God, (described to her in such excruciating detail their first night together), had been Erin's first clue in this regard. She picked up on something going on here. Objects anchored him to the earth: a shower curtain will always be a shower curtain; things had a permanence that he found riveting. Although he never said it like that. He did not analyze himself. He just talked to her eternally about his elasticized sheets, his new phone, his confusing remote control. She loved this. She would prompt him, egg him on. "So ? tell me about your coffee maker." She was completely content hearing him describe his futon frame for the hundredth time.

When Zack's brother got married, he had given his old futon-frame to Zachary. Zachary told Erin about the problems with it in loving detail. When he tried to move the futon-frame up into its couch position, it kept slipping down. It wouldn't hold its shape. Something was wrong. Zack loved it when things were wrong. So he devised a way to keep it in position using a bungee cord. He demonstrated the process to Erin one night.

"Now watch. Watch what happens without the bungee."

Erin sat cross-legged on the dusty rug, drinking beer and watching, enthralled.

Zack flopped himself onto the un-bungee'd couch, making an elaborate obvious pantomime of his own everyday behavior, saying, "Oh, hey, whatever, I'd like to just sit on my couch?" and then, with a jolt, the frame crashed into horizontal mode, leaving Zack splayed out.

Zack leapt up. "But now ? watch this."

Deftly, he shoved the futon frame into position, grabbed the bungee, stretched it across the mid-section of the futon, and clipped the ends together round the back of the frame. Then Zack began the exact same pantomime from before. Erin felt like she was watching a Buster Keaton movie.

Zack exclaimed, overly casual, "Oh, hey, I feel like just sitting on my couch right now?" and he threw himself onto the futon, and lo and behold, it kept its form.

Erin applauded.

He was always dragging things in off the street, he couldn't stop himself. His apartment was cluttered with random un-needed furniture. He didn't care about spatial relations, or whether or not he actually needed the item. He put things anywhere. There was a huge bookcase in his tiny bathroom. He had a fancy curli-cued end table in his dank tiled kitchen. There were wooden chairs strewn about. It was accumulation, not decoration.

One night, at around 3 a.m., he had come across a desk on the street outside his apartment, and he had dragged it all the way up the three flights of stairs by himself. He had made such a ruckus, banging the desk accidentally against other apartment doors, making dents in the stairwell walls, long scratches in the paint, that other tenants had later complained to the landlord. Zachary admitted to Erin, "I was trashed. I felt like Popeye."

The desk only had three legs. Zack got in trouble with his landlord over a 3-legged desk. But he didn't care, the rest of it was in perfect condition. Z explained the entire desk to Erin in as much detail as someone else would describe their two-month trip through French Polynesia.

The 3-legged problem was solved by stacking milk crates up where the fourth leg would have been. Of course, the milk crates were full of things that Zachary needed to get to on occasion, all his video tapes, for example. So every time Zack and Erin wanted to watch a movie, the entire desk had to be dismantled and then put back together. It might have been simpler to keep the videos elsewhere, Erin thought, but she held her tongue, because Zack seemed to like the entire process too much. It filled him with excitement, and an awareness of his own ingenuity. By dismantling the desk repeatedly, he could realize again and again what a rock star he was for having it in the first place.

Zachary bombarded Liam and Erin one night with a rambling soliloquy about his coffee table (what it looked like, why it was so cool, why it changed his whole living room). At one point, 5 minutes into the speech, Liam turned, looked directly at Erin, and stated in a bored and over-it monotone, "It's a coffee table. It is not the reincarnation of Christ."

But Zack wasn't "bored and over" anything. And nothing was "just".

He said to her once, as they were drinking beer at O'Reilly's, "So I'm really excited about my new deodorant."

Erin lit up. "Tell me everything."

"Well, you know how much I sweat ? "

"Uh. Yes. I am aware of it."

"And no matter what I use, the sweat still comes. So I asked my doctor about it, and he recommended something called Dry Sol."

Dry Sol. He said it as though the words were "the ark of the Covenant".

"Dry Sol. What is that?"

"Well, it's deodorant," he said impatiently.

"Okay, okay. Calm down."

"And it is unbelievable. I no longer sweat. At all. I remain completely sweat-free for hours on end."

"Meanwhile, silver oxide is leaking out of your shoulder," was Erin's worried comment. Zack skipped over this.

"It's a miracle. I don't have to wash my clothes every other day anymore." He lifted his arm up and commanded her, "Feel my pits." They were in a public place, so Erin hesitated. Zack lifted his arm up higher, a bully, "Come on, feel my pits. Feel 'em!" A red-faced drunk sitting on the other side of Zack leered at this entire exchange, waiting to see what Erin would do.

Blushing, Erin placed her hand in Zack's armpit, investigating the situation.

"See? See? Am I not completely dry?" His tone were was one of "I told you so", intimating that Erin had been bad-mouthing Dry Sol for weeks.

A glow radiated within Erin, moving outwards, gliding over her skin. She leaned in to him and softly kissed his mouth. "Yes. You are completely dry."

Zack had gotten so worked up it looked like some sort of Tasmanian rage might be coming on. He bellowed, an off-kilter spokesman, "Dry Sol. It kicks some serious ass."

Other parts of this story:

The rocking chair soliloquy

Answering machine messages

What did they talk about

He only had one fork

Haircut

The film criticism blog-a-thon

Matt Zoller Seitz (whose group blog The House Next Door is a must-read for anyone into any kind of entertainment - movies, TV, whatever it is - GREAT blog - running commentary on The Wire, Dr. Who, Battlestar galactica, Lost, The Sopranos ... in-depth really fun essays - top-notch writing) - anyway, Matt asked me to participate in Andy Horbal's Film Criticism Blog-a-Thon - Matt asked film bloggers and movie reviewers to submit pieces on their 5 favorite film critics, to be posted on House Next Door (they should be up tomorrow) - and I was so thrilled to be asked to participate. I've been reading Matt's reviews for a while now - mainly in the NY Press - and I'm a wee bit addicted to his blog - so I'm really flattered that he approached me. My piece isn't up yet - but go check out the links at the main Blog-a Thon page: starting here - Yum!!

Along with the Hitchcock Blog-a-Thon ...

it is also Petula Clark's 74th birthday. And Annika is all over it. Keep scrolling.

Annika also asked me to write something for the Petula Fest. Which I happily did. It was my honor to participate.

But you have to go check out some of the Petula clips Annika found. SO FUN!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Petula!

"Your Fingernails Are Filthy."

A massive gloopy painting, greys and oranges and blue splatters. The colors gave her a headache. It looked so thick she wanted to touch it. Actually, her mouth watered, she wanted to eat it. Metallica's black album throbbed in her ears. Metallica was not a band to listen to casually while getting ready for work. Metallica grabbed her by the throat and jangled her about. She had no body, no limbs, no brain, only eyes.

So it was a complete and unwelcome shock when suddenly a guy stepped right into her view and basically began blabbing right in her face, gesturing; he was communicating purposefully with her. As though they were old friends. This jolted her back to pedestrian life, back into her body, and she resented it. She also couldn't hear a damn word he was saying because of Metallica. She hated it when people took no notice of the obvious fact that you were wearing a Walkman and started babbling at you regardless.

"Goddammit," she snapped, and turned off her music. People looked over. "Do I know you?" she demanded of the open-faced guy who had stopped talking, taken aback.

"No, no - you don't - I just - I don't know - I was looking at this painting - and I guess I hate it - I could tell you why - but ... you seemed so into it - you're obviously a painter - so I wanted to .... I don't know. Find out what you saw in it." The way she had spoken to him suddenly sank in, she could see his face change. It was a delayed reaction; the open door clicked shut. He snapped back, "Jesus, woman. You need to chill out."

The greys and oranges receded, releasing her from their gooey grip, leaving her in the world of social conventions, of civilization. She was sorry. She came clean.

"I kind of go into a trance when I'm here. I ... I didn't mean to snap at you."

He remained aloof. Aloofness did not sit well on his features. He muttered, "That's cool."

"It's kinda not cool. I'm a bitch. Sorry. You're the first person I have actually exchanged words with in two days."

Suddenly he laughed. A real laugh. "Wow. That's pretty fucked up."

"You don't have to tell me."

"When I said 'That's cool', what I meant was 'That's cool that you go into a trance in front of a painting', not 'That's cool that you're a bitch'. I can't turn off my brain. It's like I stand here - evaluating everything - 'Oh. I like that one - Oh, that one is pretentious bullshit.' So ... maybe that's why I wanted to talk to you."

"How did you know I'm a painter?"

"Your fingernails are filthy."

This mortified her, so she attacked. "Why do you even come to MOMA if you're just gonna stand back and judge?"

"Uh ..."

Then they stood there, not talking, looking around them vaguely. She cringed with awkwardness, her toes clenched up in her shoes. This was why she didn't start up conversations with strangers. She didn't know how to get rid of him. She wanted to put her Walkman back on, and step off the rails.

Following the excruciating pause, the guy said, "Wanna go get some Bloody Marys?"

In later days, this fearless leap of his continued to amaze. What would have happened if he hadn't invited her out? They would have been dead in the water, obviously. She had been frantic for the encounter to end, even though there was something about his open-face that she liked very much.

Somehow, without knowing how it actually happened, she ended up sitting with him in a small dusty bar nearby for the rest of the morning, drinking spicy Bloody Marys, talking. She told him what she saw in the thick greys and oranges, how she looked at art, how she approached it. He asked her endless questions. He listened to the answers. He was a freelance HTML-programmer, a techie, he had no background in art. He just liked to know what was going on. She talked to him like a person starving for the spoken word. Lack of human contact had made her odd, veiled, wrapped up in her own dream-scape. Ah, to speak, to hear her voice, to watch her words land across the table. The buzz from the Bloody Marys was mellow, soft. They took their time. He had nowhere to be. And neither did she. It was a grey and cold Sunday. He paid for everything. After three hours, he kissed her across the table. He was a gangly messy-haired guy, whose fashion idol appeared to be Kurt Cobain circa 1990, but his kiss was lovely, the epitome of sweetness.

His name was Josh. Her name was Alice.

(More in this piece here)

© 2006

Came home late last night to find my 2 complementary copies of this quarter's Sewanee Review sitting in my dingy tile-bound lobby. There they were, shrink-wrapped, perfect. I took them inside. And had quite a moment with myself. Just looking them over. Reveling in it, wondering at it, just looking at it, over and over, wondering at the fact that they pulled me out from the pack and excerpted me on the back with a couple others ... Just basically re-reading what I wrote. And reveling in my moment. I won't revel for long, believe me, too much work to be done, but I'm reveling now. It's hard-won. It really is.

My favorite part comes at the bottom of all the pages my essay is on:

© 2006 Sheila O'Malley

"Fanatically Casual"

Fanatically Casual

Days passed.

Weeks passed.

Months passed.

The "thing" with Josh continued. Nothing so easy had ever happened to her before. He didn't seem to be getting tired of her. There was no drama, no games. They never ran out of things to discuss.

Seven months.

Eight months.

Nine months they had been seeing one another.

But: "seeing one other" was not exactly the right phrase. He would squeeze her around the waist, as they walked down the sidewalk, and say, "I love hanging out with you." They were "hanging out". He never said "girlfriend". Any time they came close to declaring themselves, Josh got skittish. He would say things like, "Okay. Way too fast. Way too fast." He openly resisted permanence. "I'm just not into getting too serious. It's not my thing. But I love hanging out with you. I don't want that to stop."

She curled up in bed alone, on their off-nights, falling up into the thundercloud, surrounded by bruised purple.

____

Occasionally, he wouldn't call her for a week, two weeks. His freelance jobs paid well, and so he had tremendous freedom with his time. He traveled. He took road trips. He flew to Boulder to see a band he had loved in college.

He would disappear and then re-appear, telling her, "I spent a couple days in Atlantic City with my brother." Alice never asked him if the disappearing-act was a test, a way to shake her up. When he called, her heart leapt at the sound of his voice.

Friendliness from him, on the other end: "So what'd you do over the past week?"

Blinded, panicked, Alice invented activities.

____

But during those times when he was in absentio, in actuality Alice wilted, her features pinched, collapsing in on each other.

Her inner life diminished to a tiny pinpoint. Nothing moved.

She went into a fugue state, brain fuzzed by blank noise.

Nothing different ever happened.

She was dragging her shadow in a circle.

She always had one weak moment when she would cave and leave a message on his cell phone, forcing her voice to be fanatically casual. As though she didn't miss him at all, she was so busy with her own life, she barely noticed he was gone.

"Hey Josh ... it's me. Listen, there's a documentary film festival this weekend downtown ... a couple of Iranian filmmakers I want to see. Anyway. Gimme a call. Hope you're well."

She never left more than one message like that.

____

And then he would re-appear unannounced on her doorstep at 3 o'clock in the morning. The doorbell buzzing yanked her up from the black; she struggled to surface, arms pushing helplessly through the water, swimming up reluctantly.

Regaining consciousness was traumatic for her, always had been since she was little, the effort to switch worlds sometimes left her in tears. Josh learned very early on with her that he should not wake her up in the middle of the night for sex, something that he loved to do. He would kiss her and caress her for twenty minutes with no response on the other side; nothing, nada, she was not there - and then her eyes creaked open, the touch of his soft hand finally getting through, and then, uncontrollably, tears of loss. The tears terrified him at first. But not so much now.

And so at the terrible sound of the buzzer, deep in the night, Alice, disoriented, stumbled to let him in, heart pounding, her walls unfamiliar to her, the tub changing position on its own during the night. Josh, an emissary from the waking daylight world no matter what time he arrived, entered, having not seen Alice in a week, his hands gentle, his lips on her face, his voice soothing, "All right, dream-girl, let's go back to bed."

Her other world compelled, beckoned, the dream-scapes washed empty and clear, waiting, shadows crowding out from behind marble buildings, reaching for her. They climbed up into the loft, and Alice plummeted back down into the clamoring darkness, into the embrace of the merging shadow-forms. Josh's body huddled up next to her, warm, big, his hands in her hair an echo of something else, his touch melding into her dream-world, Alice unsure which world was which.

_____

Her daily thought, "Soon I'll start" changed at some point to "Now it's begun." But the "it" was baffling to her, indistinct. She squinted, trying to see. What is "it"? What's begun?

____

It was her firm belief that people are, for better or for worse, shaped by circumstances beyond their control. An exposed tree on a wind-swept field cannot help but warp its shape to accommodate the storms. Josh, however, seemed relatively undamaged by life, unbent. He was an adult, he had gone through his share of crap (divorce of parents, best friend from high school dying in a car accident when they were sixteen), but his capacity for enthusiasm and human connection was untouched. He talked to everybody. He seemed to like everybody. Josh engaged the Burmese deli guy in deep (and informed) conversations about his home country. He flirted with the sad-faced girl behind the counter at his local coffee shop, bringing a smile to her lips. His social life was so ever-constant that he could have used a personal assistant to manage his schedule. Best friends from grade-school were always spending hilarious group weekends in New York, camping out at his cramped apartment in Queens, cutting a wild swath through the nightlife of the city. He never seemed to lose touch with anyone he had ever spoken with, ever. He had no curiosity about the inner workings of his own personality. His curiosity was almost completely outward-driven.

He introduced her to the concept of Manhattan-as-playground. He read Time Out New York with purpose, looking for fun cheap things to do. He used the city. "Let's go to the Museum of Film and Television. I've never been, which seems completely stupid." "Seamus Heaney is reading tonight at NYU. It's only 5 bucks to get in. Let's go." "Wanna go see if people are playing pick-up Frisbee in the park?"

Josh would call Alice late at night, and they would sleepily recount the events of the day for one another. These conversations had moments of glowing intimacy, like the time he said to her, as she drifted off, phone pressed to her ear, "G'night, you sweet thing."

Alice pined to be labeled. To achieve classification. But Alice sensed that to press for this would have meant to lose him. She turned their moments over in her head, compulsively, until they were as smooth and luminous as moonstones. On the nights he didn't call her, she lay in bed, whispering to herself, "Good night, you sweet thing ... Good night, you sweet thing..."

_____

When she was with him, everything tasted good. Burritos, Guinness, ice cream, cantaloupe.

____

Her phone rang at 11:30 at night. She picked up. "Hey." she said into the receiver.

"Turn on the TV right now."

"Okay - what channel."

"E. Sharon Tate True Hollywood Story is on."

They watched together, phone receivers to their ears. Sometimes commenting, but more often remaining silent, waiting to talk during the commercials.

_____

Alice hadn't been with anyone in a couple of years and was a bit anxious about sex, but Josh had no shyness, no embarrassment, and he viewed sex with the same friendly curiosity as he viewed everything else: architecture, music, celebrities, history.
_______

After sex, they would tiptoe out to the kitchen for leftover Chinese food, whispering so as not to wake his roommate, the light from the refrigerator spilling a pathway across the dark tile. Everything seemed hilarious. Random bursts of laughter. They lay together, coming down, his arm around her, and they talked. Mostly nonsense talk. They quizzed each other on what they would do if they won the lottery. They discussed which character in "The Breakfast Club" they related to the most. They made up limericks. The rule was to begin the limerick with no forethought, no planning, and to have no idea how it would work ultimately, or what the punch line would be.

"It's like skydiving," Josh said. "Okay - GO!"

Josh always managed to wrestle ridiculous rhymes out of thin air, which astounded Alice, who tended to freeze in the headlights during her turn. One night, overcome with frustration at her inability to limerick improvisationally, jealous of Josh's casual rhyming of "kitchen" with "From the baseball mound he was pitchin'", Alice burst out angrily with her own limerick. It was a protest against the tyranny of rhyme, against her own embarrassment.

"There once was an asshole named Josh
His head was shaped like a fence
He had eggs in his shoes
And a tie in his nose
And his bedroom was filled with red cabbage."

After a stunned silence, Josh said, "I don't think anyone has ever described me so perfectly."

______

Alice had a recurring vision of the two of them in their after-sex rambunctions as a pair of disgruntled mischievous putti, the ones who perch on the margins of Renaissance paintings, glancing up at the main action, rolling their eyes at life, murmuring to each other, "God, everyone takes everything so seriously."

She had always envied those putti, envied their nonchalance, their detachment, and had never before felt that she could inhabit their irreverent sexy bored little world.

Now it's begun.

It's finally real.

It's happening. It's only the beginning of course ... but I do need to take a moment to just revel in the fact that the beginning ... is here.

(Yes, I realize we are already into fall ... but they are a literary journal and move at their own clock. They move twixt clock and cock. So the summer issue, the Irish issue, will be out this fall.)

Buy a subscription today!!

Doing scales

Something I'm working on. It's a work in progress.

Haircut

Erin had cut all her hair off that morning, on impulse. Meandering down Clark Street in the sun, on her way to Max's Deli to meet Molly for breakfast, she saw a poster of Jean Seberg in the window of a video store. Erin's own hair fell down her back, as it had done since she was four, a green bandana clamped over the top of her skull. She had a sudden power surge, a rush of courage, and an hour later, Erin floated down the sidewalk, feeling like her cheekbones were higher, her eyebrows were nicer, her nose wasn't so weird anymore. Everything felt lighter, sparkley. She sat in front of her mirror at home, preening, gloating, turning this way and that, in a Marie Antoinette display of vanity which Erin found deeply embarrassing when she looked back on it later. But she loved the look of her face, without all the hair around it. She stared at her reflection, confused, happy. There I am. That is my face. For the first time, Erin saw that she actually looked like a woman. A grown woman.

She strolled in to meet Zack that night at Compton's, and he, as usual, had beat her there, and was already halfway through his first round, talking closely with Lou across the bar.

Lou cried out at first sight of her, "Erin! The hair! You are beautiful, young lady."

Erin, still sparkley, laughed, pleased, her hand flying up to touch the new 'do.

"You think, Lou? Is it good? You like it?"

"Turn around for me." Lou ordered like a drill sergeant.

Erin dutifully turned. She felt bald. Nude.

Lou applauded. "I love it. Havin' the regular?" He faded into the background, leaving Erin and Zack alone. Zack was staring at her. He had had no visible response to the haircut. Nothing. His face had gone dead.

Erin hopped onto a bar stool and met his weird dead gaze. "What's up with you?" He couldn't be hurt that she hadn't checked with him before making such a drastic move! That couldn't be it!

Zack picked up his beer, took a long swig (in a vaguely hostile way. Erin felt like he was drinking at her), put the bottle down firmly, and said, "You're breaking up with me, aren't you." It was not a question.

This confused Erin on multiple levels. "Are we even going out?" she asked.

Zack repeated, "You are. You are definitely breaking up with me."

"What are you talking about? 'Cause I got my haircut?"

Zack imploded into glowering silence and could not be talked out of it. Erin badgered him to explain his comment for fifteen minutes and then gave up.

"Whatever, Heathcliff. Let me know when the tantrum ends." She went off on her Seberg-ian way to play five Stevie Ray Vaughan songs in succession. For Z.

With the opening strains of "Life By the Drop", Zack turned, looked at Erin, who was grinning up at him, and Heathcliff disappeared in a puff of smoke. Music had soothed the savage beast.

Later in the evening, Erin brought the whole thing up again. He had said, "You are breaking up with me." They had never spoken in relationship terms and Erin had found the lack of definitions supremely relaxing. They had never been to the movies. They had never gone out to dinner. She had never seen him in a suit and tie. Nate, calling her from Riyadh, had asked her, "So, you seein' anybody?" She had bumbled an answer, "Well, no ... uh, I guess. Sort of." Her parents had never met Zachary, and still didn't even know of his existence. They thought she was still in mourning for Charles. Erin found it nearly impossible to imagine Zachary sitting at her parents' shiny maplewood dining-room table, making small talk with her father, having a nice civilized glass of wine. As a boyfriend would do.

Boyfriend?

"This is my boyfriend, Zack."

A strange pained hope rose within her, like Excalibur, and then hands suddenly stretched out, defensive. Warding the sword off.

"This is my boyfriend, Zack."

Those hands again, pushing back, pushing back.

"So what was going on earlier when you saw my haircut? Why did you say what you said?" Erin expected a brush-off. A diminishment. Zack did not like to be pushed.

But surprise surprise, he voluminously poured out his philosophy of the social ramifications of haircuts. "Whenever a woman is going to make a big change in her life, she gets a haircut. Or she dyes it. Or whatever. Every single time a woman has broken up with me, she'll show up with all her hair cut off. Or, she'll get her hair cut, and then nothing will happen for a while, but I'll know that it's just a matter of time before I get the axe. By the time that hair comes off, she's already made the decision to drop me and there's nothing I can do to make her stay. It's over."

"Hm. Well. For me, it's just a haircut."

"No, it's not. Something's going on." He said this as though it didn't matter to him one way or the other.

"I just wanted to get rid of my hair, Z. I had had it with the locks."

"Yeah, you've had it. You've had it with me."

"Cut it out. You're annoying me now."

"See? You're breaking up with me."

"Would you get over yourself, please?"

Suddenly Zachary burst out laughing, a real laugh, a free laugh, practically bouncing up and down on his stool in enjoyment. "You are so pissed OFF right now! I love it!"

"Oh, fuck off."

This made him laugh even harder. She hated him very much. She wanted to devour his head.

"Your face, Erin ... it is so serious right now - with your glasses - You look SO MAD. It is too fucking funny."

"Yeah. It must be hilarious." Erin retorted, which sent Zachary into another fit. She finally surrendered; it was pointless to resist. "Okay, jag-off, okay."

Zack reached out his big hand and scruffed up her hair. It reminded Erin of wrestling with her older boy cousins when she was a kid: there was fondness in his touch, definitely, but it bordered on being too rough.

She had no idea what was happening, felt lost.

She pushed his hand away and said, before giving it a thought, "Are we 'going out', you think?"

Zachary cringed. Literally. "Oh, come on, let's not do that."

Erin barreled on. She thought maybe it was the lack of hair that filled her with such reckless abandon. Not to mention the three beers she had already downed. "I mean, when you talk about me to your friends, for example, what do you say? How do you describe what we're doing?"

"I don't talk about you to my friends," was the monotone response.

It was a slap in the face. Involuntary tears came to her eyes, as unconnected to emotion as a sneeze. She said, "Okay, that completely hurt my feelings." She almost got up and walked out, but suddenly she was smothered in a messy St. Bernard embrace. He kissed her face, her short hair, she couldn't move, her glasses were knocked askew.

Still holding onto her, he pulled his head back and said, at point-blank range, "I am never supposed to make you cry. You got that? Never." Erin opened her mouth to speak, and he rode right over her: "You crying has nothing to do with You and Me." She heard the capital letters. Like they were a corporation.

"All right, Z. All right."

They drank their beers, Erin savoring the coldness moving down her throat. Her eyes were still moist, she could still feel his mouth, kissing her head, she had a soft opening in her solar plexus, thin threads of connection unfurling out indiscriminately. She loved Lou, she loved Stevie Ray Vaughn, she loved Sam Adams, she loved the hovering chick she noticed at the end of the bar, she loved the rowdy group of guys doing kamikaze shots behind them, she loved her whole life.

Zack said to her, with such difficulty her heart went out to him, "No - I don't talk about you - to my friends - but not because ... well, not how you took it ... I just don't want them to know about us - how we are together ... 'cause ... I don't know. It's like an invasion of your privacy or something. They're good guys and everything, but I don't want them looking at you and thinking ... stuff about you ... They know I hang out with you all the time. But that's it. That's all they need to know."

She took this in, considering it, weighing it on the tiny scales of Truth vs. Bullshit, always perched on a shelf in her brain. The verdict came. "Okay. I get that."

But her conscience pricked at her. She regularly regaled her entire group of friends with the minute details of her time with Z, gleefully upending her Zachary filing cabinets, spreading his fossils out on the floor, for all to see. Her friends knew everything: how fast he drove, the whole one-fork phenomena, how he spent half an hour showing her his new electric can-opener (as though he was from a third world country, unused to modern appliances), how he loved her to be on top, how he bragged about his nieces and nephews. Erin proudly displayed her hickeys and bruises to her friends, like a little girl showing her ruffled underwear to the adults. Erin certainly did not respect Zachary's privacy. When her friends met him, they had a newsreel of intimate Z images flickering by, a plethora of mental pictures to choose from: Zack sleeping, Zack babbling about his rocking chair, Zack fucking her, Zack laughing, Zack lying beneath her, holding her waist, encouraging her in a soft dirty whisper, pulling her down to kiss her.

Erin was ashamed of herself.

More in this story:

The rocking chair

Answering machine messages

He only had one fork

What did they talk about

Doing scales

He was a jazz pianist. He was an asshole, if you want to know the truth, but I liked him. I was kind of crazy that summer. He would hunch over the New York Times crossword puzzle, sitting at my cramped table, carving a space out for himself in between the piles of unopened mail. I liked him because he was messy and self-absorbed, and didn't shame me for the crazy shit I was doing that summer, a lot of which involved riding the subways at 4 a.m., eating takeout Chinese for breakfast, sleeping with him, and never opening my mail so that it would pile up in stacks on bookshelves, my coffee table, my dresser, my windowsills - collection agencies shrieking at me like a bad dream. I made coffee for him, my mascara from the night before still caked on my lashes, and sometimes I wondered who the hell this person was in my house. He used a tiny pen to fill in the blanks of the puzzle, and I found this ostentatious, but also impressive. Especially when it was the Saturday one. The pen was small, like a tiny peppermint stick you would buy in an old-time candy store. He would crack it open, casually, it was just his pen, no big deal, his slender blue-white hands looking enormous against that teeny thing. Scratching in the answers, up, down, across. The pen itself was a deep dark blue, like midnight, with gold flecks in it, or maybe they were swirls. At the time, which was, like I said, a crazy season for me, the pen reminded me of one of those far-out galaxies, a nebula, but a nebula trapped on a tiny pen? It made no sense. There was a scope, a grandiosity to that midnight-blue, it made me think of the empty space between stars. This was not a good thing to think about on a mascara-caked Tuesday morning, when you haven't slept in 2 days. I didn't need trapped nebulae. I haven't seen him in 5 years, I was too unstable that summer to be seeing anybody, and honestly he was kind of a dick. Although he did have his charms. He left the pen behind by accident, or maybe he didn't find it as captivating as I did. I wondered if he missed it. It's beautiful. Well, except for the size.

I've never really cared for jazz.

An epistolary love affair: Part 3

Part 1

She saved their correspondence. She would print out the emails, to and from, and tape them into a notebook. She saved everything. She had always been like that, never learning her lesson, that some things should not be saved because they will come back to bite you in the ass.

She tried once to look through the notebook, on a rainy Sunday morning and only made it through two emails before the tears came. Big tears. The whole day was lost. There would be no comfortable nostalgia with this one. She never looked through the notebook again. She had been warned.

Yet she was unable to throw it away.

Subj: Fatty Arbuckle
Date: 11/11/00 6:04:03 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Moira,

I had a great time with you last night and this morning at John's. We dominated the impromptu trivial pursuit. I am glad I met you. Here are some poems, in case you feel like reading some. You were good enough to put up with my rot about my dad and religion, so I've included some of that.

I just got home.

All the best,

Bert

Subj: Re: Fatty Arbuckle
Date: 11/11/00 7:02:15 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

Bert, you are a complete blast. I had a great time with you as well. I guess what I want to say is I like your brain. I'm intrigued. I also don't think I'll ever be able to erase the image of you acting out the plot of Middlemarch with no words - as though the whole thing could be done in mime. I was howling!! And yeah, we completely dominated trivial pursuit. Not much fun for the others, perhaps, but a hell of a lot of fun for us. I love that you know the entire sad story of Fatty Arbuckle.

Wow, just noticed that your email was written at 6 am.

Thanks so much for your poems. I'm flattered. I will print them out and read them tomorrow. If you ever do poetry readings anywhere, let me know. The NY poetry scene is completely unknown to me. I'd love to see what it was all about.

Hope to see you again sometime,
moira

p.s. The subject line of your email made me laugh out loud.

Subj: Re: Fatty Arbuckle
Date: 11/12/00 7:58:37 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

Bert, you are a marvelous writer. I was completely moved. With the first poem I experienced it almost completely in my senses. I read it, yes, but it was more about the textures, the colors, the sounds. I loved the image of the little boy thinking the music would topple over in a flutter of birds. I also liked the image of the guns and high heels - and then with the last 2 lines, suddenly tears came to my eyes. Looking back on the innocence of ourselves as children, and mourning that innocence. How we want to protect and hover over our young selves crouched on the stairs in our pajamas, because we know what comes after. Pain, heartache, rejection, loss, grief. A maternal impulse came up in me at the end. My heart went out to the little boy.

The second poem terrified me. The image of the white horse in the distance - it has haunted me ever since I read it. Why is it such a scary image? I don't know, but it is. I just finished Moby Dick and I don't know how long ago you read it but there's a chapter called The Whiteness of the Whale which is a tour de force. I underlined almost every sentence. He's talking about how the whale was terrifying because he was a big ol' whale, yes ... but there was something else going on. It was the WHITENESS that terrified and struck horror in the hearts of sailors. The whiteness of the whale. That's what came up for me when I read that line in your poem. If I have nightmares tonight about a far-away white horse I will have you to thank.

Thank you so much for sharing these with me. You are very generous. I would love to read more if you ever care to send them along.

take care
moira

Subj: Moby Dick
Date: 11/12/00 8:26:01 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Moira,

I'm glad you enjoyed the poems. I agree about the distant white horse. It is an arresting and frightening image, but I think that is due to a combination of two things: one, a white horse against a dark valley is a crisp image. Two, it's disjunctive. It makes no sense to answer a question that way.

The whiteness of the whale: yes, that, well Melville probably had some residue of Plato's spirit forms in his head when he was writing that book. Moby Dick, the whale itself, is based on an actual legend of a white whale and the ramming of a whale ship by a sperm whale. The Platonic bits resonate more clearly in the Masthead chapter, when he warns the lookout not to go mad from staring at nothing all day and plunge into the water. Also, there is the mystical image of the infinite pairs of whales in processions with a great white whale, like a snowy mountain (an actual mountain visible from his study at the time he was writing), eternal and sexless. The whiteness is not an obliteration of knowledge but the absence of it. Without stimulus, the human mind cannot work. In the Counterpane chapter, he explains that we understand the world through oppositions, as in warmth of a Counterpane from the one extremity sticking out on a winter's ight. Because the whale is white, a blankness, a tabula rasa, it can be interpreted differently by each man who encounters it. The mutinous Shakers, for instance, believe it is the Shaker God, a blind god at the center of the universe. Queequeg, the last of his people, believes it is one of his tribe's gods. Each of the first mates has his own relationship with the whale. Ahab believes that Moby Dick is a spiteful, thinking animal, the embodiment of meaning and evil in the cosmos. Starbuck, a righteous if unimaginative man, believes this blasphemy. To this accusation, Ahab famously answers: "I'd strike the sun if it insulted me!"

It is a great disaster of a novel but a Great book. Unfortunately it is being replaced on high school and college curricula by books about the Middle Passage of the African slaves to North America - usually a more readable and certainly more topical choice.

I last read the book the day after my father's funeral, in 1990. Of course I read his edition, which I still have. My parents were called in for a parent-teacher conference when I was in third grade. The teacher had taken my copy of Moby Dick, since she caught me reading it in class. To be fair, I think it was math class, but nevertheless the book has always been important to me and haunts me.

Bert

Subj: Re: Moby Dick
Date: 11/13/00 10:44:37 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

Bert, wow. I guess I came to the right person to talk about Moby Dick! The book haunts me as well, completely. Why do you think it is a disaster of a novel? I agree with you that it is a Great Book with capital letters, but I would like to hear your thoughts on the other. Also, what, in your opinion, happens to Pip in the Castaway chapter? What is it that makes him go mad? Is it a vision of death? Or bliss? Or endlessness? I read it 3 times, chilled with some sort of horror, not sure why it was so scary, and it seems to me that the truth of the situation remains somewhat mysterious. Between the lines. Like so much of life ... between the lines. Maybe that is the terror of going mad. It lies outside of language.

Do you like Mary Oliver?

moira

Oh, and I am very sorry about your dad.

Subj: Re: Moby Dick
Date: 11/13/00 12:20:47 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Moira,

I don't mind Mary Oliver, but my mom likes her, so I can only like her so much.

Pip goes mad because of the confrontation with emptiness. At least that's what I think. There's nothing for the mind to grab onto.

It's a disaster of a novel because: it isn't really a novel, at least not by standards of the day. You havea romances, novels, things of that nature, but this is really an Odyssey. It's a disaster, in my opinion, for these reasons:

Melville lifts whole sections out of Cetological studies and drops them into Moby Dick, though this has been viewed as a metalinguistic foray, the comparison of the knowable part of the whale to the unknowable, virtually unseen White Whale.

His mixture of Quaker religious images and classical Greek images is unstable and barely fits together.

The two main characters, Ishmael and Ahab, have no direct contact. The first person narrator is Ishmael at the beginning of the novel, but the narrator jumps without explanation to a third-person narrator and back again, since we are told of events at which Ishmael was not present.

It is likely that Ahab isn't even aware of Ishmael's existence. He knows he has a certain number of crew members, but he doesn't care who they are really, aside from the first mates.

There's no clear development of plot. There are no women, aside from the two who say goodbye at the docks at Nantucket. This absence is one of the things that inspired the book Ahab's Wife. Melville was a violent and unabashed misogynist. On one occasion, a local preacher helped his wife to fake her own death in order to get away from him. It is highly likely that he had many homosexual encounters as a sailor.

Held up against a perfectly constructed novel like James' Portrait of a Lady, it seems incredibly sloppy and overwrought. By today's standards, it's fine as a novel, so I'll leave it alone. Its rediscovery in the thirties no doubt opened a lot of doors for novelists since. Faulkner remarked upon finishing it: "Damn, I wish I had written that book."

Bert

Subj: Lady Lazarus
Date: 11/13/00 11:50:03 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Moira,

Have you ever heard the recording of "Lady Lazarus" that Sylvia Plath made a couple months before she committed suicide?

I've put a link to it here.

Somehow, I bet you're a Plath fan, right?

Bert

Subj: Re: Lady Lazarus
Date: 11/14/00 2:09:29 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

Goddammit. That was terrifying. There was such accusation in her voice, such suppressed rage. She's a Medusa. I felt like at any second she would burst into stormy tears and start tearing things/people to bits. Holy shit, was she pissed off. In my opinion, the most touching line she ever wrote is in one of her last poems ... for her children, where she talks about leaning over her baby's crib, and knowing that her baby looks up and sees:

"this troublous wringing of hands.
This ceiling without a star."

I am sure that a major motivation for her suicide was to prevent her children from having a mother who was a ceiling without a star.

best to you,
moira

Subj: Re: Lady Lazarus
Date: 11/14/00 3:23:44 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

I'm glad you liked the Sylvia. I'm working on a review right now of Michael Schmidt's Lives of the Poets for next month. I think you might like the book a lot.

Tell Amy I said hi, by the way.

Bert

Subj: Bowery Lounge
Date: 11/14/00 8:14:38 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

My friends at Bowery Lounge just got two stars from the New York Times food critic so I'm headed down there for some chow and booze.

Talk soon.

Bert

Subj: 2 star restaurant
Date: 11/15/00 12:52:28 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

I remember that conversation we had at the party about the starring systems for restaurants. In the New York arena, 2 stars is good, correct? So congrats to your friends. Kevin is one of them, right? The Bowery Lounge is an awesome place. I used to go there all the time.

What is the only 4 star restaurant in Manhattan again? The red wine I drank last night obliterated that information.

I just reread this email and realized that every sentence was of almost equal length. It really doesn't read very well at all because of that.

moira

Subj: Re: 2 star restaurant
Date: 11/16/00 12:19:31 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Moira,

Red wine obliterates many things.

Here's a poem I love, by e.e. cummings.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Subj: a frail gesture, an intense fragility
Date: 11/16/00 9:33:42 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

I do not know what is going on with me right now. I read that poem, and of course I already know it, but for some reason I just feel like crying for 5 hours right now. I've already been crying for 10 minutes.

I have lived for quite some time like Kipling's cat, Bert. The one who walked by himself. "He is the Cat that walks by himself and all places are alike to him, and if you look out at nights you can see him waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone---just the same as before." Being Kipling's cat has its advantages. But I am aware of another need right now. A need for connection, tenderness.

I feel like I want to give you something. I want to give you something in return.

Here is this, from James Agee's Let Us Now Praise Famous Men:

Each is drawn elsewhere toward another: once more a man and a woman, in a loneliness they are not liable at that time to notice, are tightened together upon a bed: and another family has begun:

Moreover, these flexions are taking place everywhere, like a simultaneous motion of all the waves of the water of the world: and these are the classic patterns, and this is the weaving, of human living: of whose fabric each individual is a part: and of all parts of this fabric let this be borne in mind:

Each is intimately connected with the bottom and the extremest reach of time:

Each is composed of substances identical with the substances of all that surrounds him, both the common objects of his disregard, and the hot centers of stars:

All that each person is, and experiences, and shall never experience, in body and in mind, all these things are differing expressions of himself and of one root, and are identical: not one of these things nor one of these persons is ever quite to be duplicated, nor replaced, nor has it ever quite had precedent: but each is a new and incommunicably tender life, wounded in every breath, and almost as hardly killed as easily wounded: sustaining, for a while, without defense, the enormous assaults of the universe.

moira

Subj: Re: a frail gesture, an intense fragility
Date: 11/16/00 11:02:15 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Kipling's Cat and James Agee in the same email. It's quite a combination.

I am happy to hear that the poem had the same effect on you it has for me.

Bert

Subj: Re: a frail gesture, an intense fragility
Date: 11/20/00 11:02:15 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? I'm visiting my brother. I only see him on holidays, which is a shame. The truth is, I just don't get out of the city that much.

Best,

Bert

Subj: Re: a frail gesture, an intense fragility
Date: 11/20/00 3:17:47 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

Flying out to Chicago to be with my family. I also have a high school reunion on Saturday night which should be hysterical.

moira

Subj: something overheard
Date: 11/21/00 6:07:20 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

I was sitting in a hallway. I was writing. A guy and a girl stood next to me. She was very babe-alicious. He was clearly trying to make the moves on her, trying to have a deep meaningful conversation with her. And this is what I heard:

He: (leaning in, significant tone) Do you know about solipsism?
She: (after a brief pause) I don't take medication of any kind.

Subj: Re: something overheard
Date: 11/21/00 9:20:03 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

That is so unbelievably excellent. Almost too good to be true.

Subj: yo
Date: 11/29/00 10:30:30 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

Bert,
Hi. Here's the deal. I felt a connection with you when we met that I cannot quite explain. I was happy when you emailed me your poems. And the ee cummings. I don't know you. I don't know where you are from, I don't know your middle name, I don't know anything about you. But I felt a click with you. Like, my God. This guy is so fantastic. He is so smart, and so much fun. I feel a bit awkward right now. I do not know your situation. Hell, I don't even know your phone number, but I do know that I would like to see you again. God, this sucks, doing this by email. But I figured what the hell.

Want to go drink some Guinness and play hangman and talk until 2 am?

And whether or not you can join me, I still just want you to know how much I thoroughly enjoyed meeting you that night. I'm from Chicago, and I have experienced Manhattan, at times, in comparison, as an isolating intimidating place.

So I can't express how beautiful it was to play with you that night.

You're a true gentleman. Just an old-school great person. Someone I feel honored to know.

moira

Subj: Re: yo
Date: 11/30/00 3:58:53 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Moira,

I admire your style. I am currently involved with the daughter of a major book editor. I had a great time with you as well. We deserve each other, so keep me in mind for the future. Here's a poem you inspired:

A splendid freckled girl from Ireland, or Chicago,
leaned across the table, being what she is, always,
asked me if I understood grace. I said I believe in it,
But I don't know what it is or what it can be to us.
She smiled and shrugged her breasts toward me.
And I was gone from this world, like smoke or air.

Moira, remember me as a kind soul. I'm confused where relationships are concerned. I have been in love again and again. I don't need anymore trouble from your sort, an intelligent and beautiful soul.

All my best. I look forward to seeing you again.

Bert

Subj: hey
Date: 12/1/00 9:31:13 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Frecklejuice
To: Bertie1999

First off, I want to thank you for your honesty. I admire your style as well. And of course I will remember you as a kind soul. I understand what you mean when you say "I don't want anymore trouble." I'm Kipling's cat, member? I have proclaimed to the universe on occasion: "Okay, that's IT. I have HAD it." The universe yawns in response.

Now I have to be honest. When you said to keep you in mind for the future - alarm bells went off. Basically, because I am a master at unrequited love affairs. I could hold seminars on the topic. I am so loyal that it's almost a mental illness. I feel like I could wait forever, especially for someone like you. I don't feel a click with many people, Bert. I'm too weird and specific. But you? You would be worth the wait. But I cannot wait. I cannot even say that I will keep you in mind for the future. So I have a proposal, and I'll just be blunt. Should your situation ever change, you should look me up. Come find me. I don't know where I will be, or what my own situation will be at that time, of course. But I can't, at this moment anyway, let go of the notion that whatever would happen between you and I would be worth the trip. Trouble and all. I find you exhilarating. I haven't been this exhilarated by a human being since I was in 4th grade and in love with a classmate.

The poem you wrote about our moment of grace moved me. The weird thing is - I keep a journal, kind of off and on. But I like to write down what I call "nuggets". Things I want to remember. I only wrote one thing about the party where I met you, and it was about that moment. Here's what I wrote:

And then there was the Grace moment. It was early on, still lots of people there. Everyone around the table. People sitting, standing. Jeff Buckley's "Grace" playing. A lot was going on, many different conversations, and I heard Bert say, to no one in particular, "Grace. Everyone knows what grace is. But no one can explain it." This was said amongst the chaos. A little pod of quiet floating through the noise.

It felt like truth. I heard it, if no one else did. And it called to me - a magnetic pull from across the table. Amongst the chaotic random-ness of nature, 2 photons - spinning in the same direction. A universe apart. I looked at him - it was more like my gaze was dragged over to him - as though I were a piece of iron and he was a big magnet sitting there.

"That's totally true," I said.

He looked at me. We acknowledged the moment silently. He seemed to have something I wanted.

"What is grace?" I asked.

He said, "That's the thing. Everyone's felt it. But no one can describe it. No one knows what it is really."

"But it exists."

Bert nodded. "It sure does."

Bert, to me, that moment is a gold nugget at the bottom of a sieve. I don't know why. It was perfect. Like grace is perfect. A perfect moment between two strangers.

So. I think of you with pleasure, with curiosity, and I wish you well.

I hope our paths cross again someday.

moira

Subj: Re: hey
Date: 12/5/00 4:03:26 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Bertie1999
To: Frecklejuice

Who are you? Were you even born? Where did you grow up? Go to school? What do you do everyday? Do you cook? What's your apartment like? Tell me everything. Who was your first fuck? Have you been to Italy? What's your favorite movie? Who are you? You seem created, not born. Your voice has been echoing through my head for 4 days now.

Don't answer any of those questions I just asked. I want to know everything about you, but I need to stop this. I can't go on otherwise.

You're trouble, Moira. Big trouble.

Bert

Fu Manchu in Soho

First contact:

She approached from the south side of town, having gotten off at the wrong subway stop. She had the address clutched in her hand, the only person she knew would be her new friend Amy - who had invited her. Her stilettoes clickered on the sidewalk.

The party was at a storefront art gallery in Soho on a bombed-out grafittied block. People raged out onto the sidewalk. Painters, B-level rock stars, blue-haired girls in dog collars chained to their boyfriends, and writers, and multimedia gurus, and off-Broadway actors and performance artists . Oil paintings stacked up against the walls. If you wanted to look at the artist's work, you had to dig through it. There wasn't enough wall space to show his stuff - his paintings were huge, massive canvases. Deep colors, moody urban scenes, fire escapes, a yellow window in the midnight blue, a glimpse of a girl in a negligee. A small back room with a big industrial sink served as the drink area. Mayhem. Hard stuff, a keg, gallon jugs of wine, paper cups, paint-stained sink.

She knew no one. She could not find Amy, although she squinted closely at every glowing blonde-haired woman there. She joined the raging crowd. She stood and looked at the paintings, falling up into those deep dark midnight blues. No one looked at her twice. There was no need to be intimidated. It was a party.

Metallica pounded out of the huge mounted speakers, she could feel the beat in her DNA, it shook the walls. The space was so small there was no room to navigate. A girl with jet-black hair, plastic platform boots, and ripped fishnets did lines of coke off the windowsill, jammed up against the wall with her gorgeous Sinead- O'Connor-bald friend. She could pick out the art dealers without even having to be told that they were there. She could tell by how they looked at the paintings. Even at a coke-fueled renegade party in a ratty storefront, the art dealers were recognizable. Someone shouted, "TURN IT UP" and even though she could not believe the music could get any louder ... it then did. Metallica. Pounding. Mindless. The jammed-in crowd was moving - as one. Jumping. Thrashing. No boundaries between people. Arms in the air, pumping - people lost in the moment. It could not be resisted. She knew no one. But there she was - thrashing around - lost - lost ... lost ... Music that loud and that insistent breaks you apart at the molecules. Exhilaration. And a feeling that life can never get back to normal. Thrashing in a bombed-out gallery with strangers. A feeling that life should always be like this.

Then she saw Amy, through the open door, out on the sidewalk. Her hair blonde and gleaming, leather pants, little black-rimmed glasses. They did not know each other that well yet. This was their first "date". There was a feeling between them that this friendship could become important. Extricating herself from Metallica, she pushed her way through the throngs to come outside, out of the pound of the sound, the black gleaming concrete landscape stretching out, east, west, north. Amy stood on the sidewalk talking to a tall beefy guy who had a teeny thin Fu Manchu beard coming out of his beefy chin. He was smoking, and guffawing with laughter. Later she would think that his laugh was one of the best laughs she had ever heard. Amy saw her, and started screaming with excitement: "Oh my God!!! You came! I am so excited!!!" Then a big rowdy hug, jumping up and down together, laughing.

She noticed Fu Manchu watching them hug. He grinned at her, as she was being hugged by Amy. He stated, to no one in particular, "I love female bonding." He seemed to mean it.

Amy pulled back and said, "Oh! Have you two met?"

"No." she said.

Fu Manchu had not taken his eyes off of her. "Nope." He held out his hand. They shook. He smiled at her, didn't let go. Suddenly it was not a handshake. It was an odd meeting of the minds. She couldn't look away. Like he was a cobra or something. And he was not breaking the moment.

"Want a drink?" he said.

She nodded.

He pushed himself into the party, the wall of thrashing people, on a mission.

It was a moment. Noticeable only to the two of them. She couldn't even label it. If she had never met him again, she still would have remembered him. Something ... something ... something in the grin, the observational stance, "I love female bonding", holding onto her hand, smiling at her ... something ... something ... there was something about him ... Had they met before? It seemed so.

He never did come back with her drink. He must have gotten distracted.

So that was it. For the moment. It would be a year and a half before they would meet again.

"Where I come from"

A while ago I took a writing class at the 92nd Street Y - it was GREAT. We had random cool assignments - and I really stretched myself.

We had one assignment - we could write whatever we want - but whatever we wrote had to have two things:

1. It had to take place in the 1960s
2. It had to start with the words "Where I come from"

When we all read our pieces outloud - it was just AMAZING to read the differences, to see people's creativity - and where it led them. Some people honed in, of course, of the more stereotypical image of the 60s - drugs and the sexual revolution and hippies - Others didn't go that route at all. They just wrote a story that happened to take place in the 1960s. It was just so so cool.

I interviewed my great-aunt Joan for what I wrote - she was hugely helpful (she's a nun) and also put out a call on the blog for people to share any personal stories they might have had about MY topic. I've put it all together here - using some of those stories, making up others, and trying to give a sense of that time and how momentous it was for Catholics.

Anyway - I just dug up my piece today and thought I'd share it. I already want to edit the SHIT out of it - but whatever, that always happens. I'll post it as I wrote it.

WHERE I COME FROM

Where I come from, Latin wasn't a dead language. Mass began with: "In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Introibo ad altare Dei." Where I come from, south Boston, everyone is Catholic.

I was born on a holy day, I can't remember which one, but I know it was a Wednesday. July 15, 1945. Four days later, my mother left me in the care of one of my older sisters and went to confession. Father O'Brien sat behind the grate, and my mother, mantilla pinned hastily to her head, blurted out her horrible sin: she had missed mass on a holy day. There was a brief pause, and then came Father O'Brien's voice, the brogue of western Ireland still strong on his tongue: "Molly, am I mistaken , or did you not just give birth?" "Yes, Father. I gave birth on the holy day." There was another pause and then: "Molly. For God's sake, the Lord forgives you. Go home. Rest." My mother loved to tell that story. She regaled her sisters with it, on long summer evenings in our cramped back yard, as they sat around, all 6 of them, drinking vodka tonics in the cool of twilight, letting their kids run wild through the streets until it was time for bed. My mother and her sisters did competing imitations of Father O'Brien, a priest who had baptized them, confirmed them, married them, and then baptized their children.

Where I come from, you don't miss mass lightly, even if you just gave birth, and your breasts are leaking milk, and you can barely walk. You get your ass in the pew.

My grandmother gave me her rosary beads as a gift for my confirmation, and I loved them. I loved the sparkle, and I loved them because grown-ups had them, and I was fifteen, on the cusp. I still have them, even though I haven't done the rosary in ages. I find it very meditative actually, a wonderful practice, but for some reason now, I resist. There's something there that cuts too deep. It's mysterious. And yet I look at my rosary beads - the multi-faceted rainbow-sparkles, the old silver crucifix dangling on the end, the solidity of the object and yet also its grace - and all I can see is my grandmother, brogue still strong in her voice, even after forty years in this country, her pale-as-paper wrinkled hands, the raw bony fingers moving from stone to stone to stone, hop-skipping from one to the next as though she were in a creek and she needed to get to the other side. The imprint of my grandmother is there in the beads, an afterimage. I can't say the Hail Mary anymore without feeling my throat clog up, burning tears at the back of my eyes. Why? The emotion feels like loss, but that baffles me.

I found church very boring as a kid, especially the Latin part, although I grew to have an appreciation for it once everything changed. But still. To a child, that mass was the height of psychological boredom, meant to break you. It almost drove me to hysteria.

Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison

Good grief. But I loved the mysticism hovering on the edges of all the rigidity, the glimpses of a mystery at the heart of the mass. Sometimes, usually during the Lenten masses, when everything got horribly solemn, it would be as though a sheer curtain fluttered back, giving me a seconds-only view of a glorious awful world of pain and beauty and redemption. But those were just moments. For the most part, it was insufferable. The quiet chill face of Mary stared down from her niche up on the altar. She didn't really care. She was above it all. But when I said the rosary, to myself at night, in the way my grandmother taught me, I felt like I got closer. Closer to Mary, certainly, but it was more about getting close to the wordlessness at the heart of the entire ritual.

When "For the kingdom, and the power and the glory are yours, now and forever" was tacked on to the Lord's Prayer after Vatican II, my father (never a zealot really, his Catholicism was more of a cultural thing, an Irish thing) was outraged. Not for any theological reason, he couldn't back up his opinion with verse and chapter from the Bible. No. He was outraged because that was how the Protestants had always said the prayer, and to my father "Protestant" was a dirty word. And when, after Vatican II, they introduced the "sign of peace" into the mass, where the congregation turns to each other and shakes hands, saying, "Peace be with you", my father stopped going to church altogether, which nearly broke my mother's heart. But he wouldn't bend. He stood over the smoking grill in the backyard, turning hamburgers over, railing on and on about it. "Goddammit, Molly, I don't go to church to make friends."

Pope John XXIII, during the Second Ecumenical Council, said that the church needed to "open a window", and open it they did. My grandmother died in 1962, so she missed the opening of the window, although she did live long enough to see "one of ours" elected President of the United States. Oh, I remember her laughing, on election day, that open-throated guffaw we all loved. She sat in her kitchen, listening to the election returns coming in on the radio, a gleam of tears in her eyes. She kept saying, over and over, "I never thought I'd see the day. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I never thought I'd see the day." And then that laugh - free and loud. Not only was he "one of ours" because he was Catholic, but he was from Boston, and he was Irish. It was a great great day for all of us.

When Kennedy was assassinated a year later, my grandmother was already dead and buried. As awful as it all was for our country, in and of itself, there were a couple of moments, during that breathless excruciating time, when I would think, thankfully, "I'm so glad she didn't live to see this. It would have killed her."

Two years after the assassination came the tumult of Vatican II. Every morning, I woke up in my dorm room at the small women's Catholic college I went to in Connecticut, and rushed downstairs in my robe and curlers, to pick up the New York Times from Sister Agnes, and bring it back up to my room. My roommate Moira would make instant coffee, and I would read aloud the latest dispatches from Rome. No more "In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Introibo ad altare Dei." Now it was "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. I will go to the altar of God." It was still an incantation, a call to worship, only it was now in English. Traditions upended, altered, shifted, thrown out, preserved but only in different forms.

I wondered what my grandmother would have had to say about all of it. The Latin mass was her tradition, and also her connection to her girlhood home in Ireland. What would it have done to her to give it up? Many adapted to the changes in the Mass, and many were unable to adapt, and instead drove three hours on Sunday mornings to the one church in the one county in the next state that still had a Latin mass on Sunday.

Although the Catholic Church remained, almost none of the old rituals survived the opening of the window. And now my rosary beads might as well be a relic from an ancient archaeological dig, for people in the present-day to puzzle over, and speculate about what they were once used for.

He only had one fork

Anne's spurring me on.

Here's another excerpt from my off-line writing. This kind of dovetails with what I was working on in the rocking chair section. It's a much larger piece - huge, actually.

Anyway. Here we go. He only had one fork.

HE ONLY HAD ONE FORK

The first time Zach took her to his sprawling railroad apartment, Erin explored the entire vicinity with the fascination of a little girl peeping into a doll house. Clues bombarded her from all sides. None of it really added up to anything, but every object was fraught with import.

Zach was in the kitchen, opening beers, muttering to himself, rummaging in the cupboards for food, while Erin stalked around, downloading everything into her brain without discrimination, things essential and trivial. This was where Zach lived. This was Zach's stuff. She sat down in front of one of his bookcases and ferociously scanned the titles. Zach's books. Zach had The Elements of Style? Zach had John Reed's 10 Days That Shook the World? Zach enjoyed Jonathan Swift obviously, since he had the complete works. Jack London's name was everywhere, too. Zach had three copies of To Build a Fire. Three copies? Why? All of the books were dog-eared to the point of utter disintegration. They were in no particular order, and had obviously been shoved haphazardly onto the shelves every which way. Erin could have sat in front of that bookcase for all of eternity.

Zach meandered back into the cluttered dingy living room, holding two beers, saying, "Here are some really really stale Triscuits --"

Erin wasn't done exploring.

Zach turned on the TV and drank his beer, while Erin skulked about like a wraith. He had no pictures on his walls, no posters, the walls were just empty expanses of off-white. Weird and kind of bleak. But in contrast, his refrigerator was so covered with children's drawings that when she opened the door for another beer, it was like handling a fragile papier-mache'd sculpture. Small magnets were not meant to clamp down an 18-page hand-drawn cartoon. Erin looked at the drawings, piled high on top of each other across the refrigerator. Who did these? Niece?

Zach called to her from the other room. "Hey -- when you're done snooping - you have to come in here. There's this show on about woolly mammoths."

"Okay."

Erin pulled open one of the drawers in the kitchen, and saw a battered plastic silverware tray, and in it there was a mountain of spoons, four knives, and one fork. One fork. She checked the sink for more forks lying about, she checked the drying rack. No more forks. The solitary fork glowed with beauty and pathos. It seemed so small, so courageous. The spoons looked like they were ganging up, massing their strength. The four knives would be no help against that army. Erin stroked the lonely fork, in awe of Zachary, and finally dragged herself away to go watch the show about woolly mammoths.

But every time she was at Zachary's place from then on, she had to go and "visit" the one fork. Zachary thought Erin was nuts. "How's my one fork doing?" he would shout from the next room. "Is he all right???"

What did they talk about

Another excerpt from my writing. Zachary, the lead character, a rowdy big-drinkin' crazy man, likes to do imitations of dinosaurs to make Erin - his brand-new girlfriend - laugh.

WHAT DID THEY TALK ABOUT

Erin never expressed any of this to Zach. She never turned to him in the middle of one of his jazz rages, and said, "Excuse me, but I have no idea who I am." She did not tell the brontosaurus slugging back his shot and a beer on the barstool beside her, "I am standing on the edge of an abyss that goes to the center of the earth." Troubled introspection didn't seem to be in the rulebook of their particular game.

This actually was a bit of a relief.

She could have turned to her old boyfriend Charles in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and confessed, out of nowhere, "I am completely having an existential crisis right now", and he would not have blinked an eye. He would have sat her down on a bench and grilled her, pushing her to go deeper, asked her questions, listening carefully. He would have quoted The Little Prince, maybe, or Pablo Neruda.

Compare to the Erin/Big Z dynamic:

The two of them wrapped up in a fleece blanket. Naked. Eating Pringles. Watching "Nature Planet". "Nature Planet" was always on at 3 or 4 a.m., which was Zach and Erin's prime-time.

For the most part, even with Erin's ever-vigilant subtext antennae, there weren't too many swirling archaeological layers of worry and tortured insecurity between she and Z. What was going on was what was actually going on. Erin wasn't huddled up in the fleece, thinking frantically, "I wonder how long this will last. Does he like having sex with me? I wonder how he really feels about me." And she knew in her heart that Zach wasn't sitting beside her, stomach in knots, thinking, "Do I please her? Did she like that?" Or "Shit, this is getting too serious ... how can I let her down without hurting her feelings?"

No.

The surface of the pond was smooth, the water clear, you could see the sand at the bottom.

They did not speak, they did not analyze their relationship. They never said the words "I felt ..."

They had sex, and then they sat wrapped up together in a blanket, eating potato chips, and watching a show about sharks.

Zach turned to her after half an hour of silence and stated, "I don't like these barbecue-flavored Pringles."

Ten more minutes of silence passed. Eating. Watching the sharks slice through the blue deep.

Then, from Zach: "It's like: why screw with something that is already perfect? The original Pringles are perfect. You don't need to expand into sour cream and onion, or ranch, or barbecue. Stick with what you know."

Erin nodded silently and reached for one more of the scorned chips. Naked. Her glasses reflecting the flickering TV light in the dark room.

Fifteen more minutes of silence.

Then Erin said, chomping on a Pringle, eyes glued to the TV, "Would you be scared to go down in a shark cage?"

Zach replied, "I will never wear a scuba suit."

This seemed like an adequate answer. Erin nodded understandingly.

Twenty minutes later, they turned the TV off, curled up together under the covers like puppies in a basket, and slept for ten hours.

And that was it.

Who needs to know where someone grew up or what college he went to when the conversations you share have such vibrancy and intimacy as that?

Answering machine messages

And here's more from the same piece. It's an old piece - I finished it in ... 2002? And it has been overhauled probably 3 complete times since then. Argh ... I am feeling the itch again. To pick it up and work on it. Anne occasionally posts bits and pieces of the Young Adult novel she is working on - and I love reading the excerpts. Fascinating. So here are some excerpts.

My brain, click, click clicking away

ANSWERING MACHINE MESSAGES

He left messages on her answering machine, which were so awkward and bumbling that she was shocked he hadn't gotten himself together before picking up the phone. He never once called her before 10:30 p.m. A typical message ran like this:

It began with no language at all, no greeting. Just the sound of a rowdy bar, loud music, bursts of speech. Zack's guffaw would be heard, clearly responding to a joke as he waited for her machine to pick up. Then suddenly he would remember the phone in his hand and toss himself into his message like a sky-diver.

"Yeah. Erin � Hi. Uh � Hm. Hmmm. How was your day?" Then, in a simpering tone, imitating his perception of himself, " 'How was your day, how was your day �' DORK! Uhm � whatever. Whatever. I'm down at Compton's and � where the fuck are you? Jesus CHRIST!" (Shrieked like a lunatic.) "You're playin' hard to get with me NOW?? Anyway. If you get this soon, come on down." Then, imitating himself, in a singsong voice, "Come on down, come on down!" Then, his growly sour tone again. "Dammit, I am such a jackass. Bye." There was a long pause as he went to put the receiver down, and then suddenly he was back, saying in a normal tone, "This is Zack, by the way." �Click�

Molly, after hearing one of these messages, commented: "I looked up the word �Weirdo McWeirdster' in the dictionary last night, and there was his picture." But Erin knew the man was physically incapable of leaving a message along the lines of: "Hi, there, Erin. It's Zack. Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come down to Compton's and join me for a drink? The Cubs game is on. Hope you can make it." He would need to have a bone-marrow transplant in order to speak like that. But to Erin those messages were extravaganzas of vulnerability. She hated to delete them.

The rocking chair soliloquy

Here's something I wrote quite a while back

This is part of a much larger piece of work, so maybe it won't be effective without context, but whatever. I'm not looking for a critique or anything like that ... I'm not offering it up in an ambivalent way, like: "So ... yes or no?" No. I'm just trying to hash out my work, and am going through it all - slashing it up mercilessly - throwing stuff away, oh glory!! oh catharsis!! - but I came across this one passage. Thought I'd share it. I'll probably share more as I come across it. I'm tossing a lot of it - you know, once you get distance on something you see the flaws more clearly ... but I have had a fun time reacquainting myself with what I was attempting here. Basically this is a first meeting between the main characters, who have a summer of love together. I was working on something here ... introducing something very specific - which has to do with the theme of the whole piece.

THE ROCKING CHAIR SOLILOQUY

He talked to her for what seemed an interminable amount of time about the rocking chair his mother had given him for his apartment. Erin wasn't sure how the topic came up, but she knew she hadn't prompted him, id est "So ... how do you feel about rocking chairs?", but he talked on and on about the specific qualities of the chair, and why it had seemingly changed his whole life. "When you're in it ... and you put your feet up ... and you rock ... you feel totally weightless. Literally. Like you're floating. It's the best chair in the entire world. I don't know why it's different from other rocking chairs - and I have sat on many a rocking chair in my day - but this one ... something about the height of the seat, and the way it rocks ... it's more like it glides. It's a whole different thing. I come home, turn on the TV, sit in that chair, and I'm like.... Ohhhhhhh."

The ecstasy on display here for a piece of furniture was difficult for Erin to respond to. She couldn't match his level of euphoria, having never sat in the Holy Grail of rocking chairs yet. All she could manage was a rather lame, "It sounds very comfortable."

He shot her an odd look. Almost hurt. "Comfortable? That's not the right word at all. It's beyond comfortable."

"Uh. Okay."

Suddenly he freaked out, and exploded, "Whoever designed that chair is a fucking genius."

He was a big tall man, meaty, with big hands, a pale scowly face. He seemed always a second or two away from becoming irritated. But Erin sensed something else in him, and it dawned on her during the rocking-chair soliloquy what it was. He was an innocent. A true innocent. Erin had never met an innocent man.

Games We Played

Tonio and I were a couple who made up games. We would take on different roles and improvise, the point being to make the other one crumple into a fit of diabolical laughter. Of course the games would begin in one form and very quickly morph into something almost unrecognizable from the original. I still laugh thinking about some of those games. I wrote once about one of our stupidest jokes, which was when we made up a ridiculous song about how you could find no fruit in Beloit, Wisconsin. That anecdote alone pretty much describes our entire relationship. We would take something small (the fact that the grocery store in Beloit had no fresh produce) and turn it into something absurdly huge. We laughed so hard we cried.

But there were also the GAMES. Many of them are relatively offensive.

Here is a sampling:

1. The Liberal Couple Game

The point of this game was to mock political correctness. Tonio and I would be the "liberal couple", and act in the most suffocating politically correct I'm okay-You're okay manner - but here was the joke: deep down the "liberal couple" was horrified by the very things they knew they were supposed to support. We needed a third party for this game to work. Namely, our dear friend Mitchell, who happens to be gay. Mitchell loved to play along, as the gay friend - as we turned ourselves INSIDE OUT to show him how liberal we were. If you think about it, it was the stupidest game in the world, because we actually WERE liberal, but what we found funny was to make the liberal couple really biased and judgmental beneath their "Hey, man, whatever floats your boat" exterior. (Sort of like what this website lampoons.) I think this might have come out of our experience belonging to a food co-op where we had to deal with a lot of self-righteous prigs. You know, the kind of people who look at you as though you are Satan when you show up with plastic grocery bags instead of paper. Or who literally would not be friends with you if you weren't a vegetarian. You know the type. We shared many of their beliefs, but we hated their humorlessness. Ick. We liked to laugh about EVERYthing, not just stuff approved by the feckin' party. Tonio and I were complete and utter goofballs and many of these people were comedically tone-deaf. So I think that was what made us laugh, the hypocrisy, and we pushed that envelope further and further, every time we played the game. Mitchell, as always, played his own part to expertise. The "liberal couple" could only show their true colors with a third party present.

Here is how, more or less, the game would play out (and I have put emotional directions in parentheses):

Tonio: (putting his arm around me in a cloyingly heterosexual way) But honey, we'll work it out. Don't worry. We'll find a sitter.

Mitchell: Why? What's going on?

Me: (overdone air of nonchalance) Oh, it's nothing.

Mitchell: No, really – what is it?

Me: (trying desperately to be a devil-may-care good sport) I wouldn't want to bother you with it.

Tonio: (arrogance masquerading as tolerance) Besides … our lives are so different from yours—

Me: (rushing in eagerly - inappropriately) And that's fine! That's great!

Mitchell: (trying to be polite) Actually … I don't know … I don't think our lives are all that different …

Me: (ignoring him) We love to have friends from all different kinds of backgrounds!

Mitchell: (deadpan) Wow. That is really sweet of you guys.

Tonio: (screaming suddenly) I KNOW SOME BLACK PEOPLE.

(Big long horrifying pause.)

Mitchell: (deadpan again) Good for you.

Me: (trying to save the moment) Well, since you asked … it's just that … we have a parent-teacher conference tonight – (He and I exchange goopy smiles remembering our procreative sexualties with pride) – and we can't find a sitter for Junior—

Mitchell: (interrupting, eager, glad to help out) Hey! I'm free tonight! I could babysit for you!

( Tonio and I freeze, in utter panic and loathing. We frantically try to keep up the facade.)

Me: Well …

Tonio: Oh, but … hm … well –

Mitchell: (playing up innocent confusion) What?

Me: Well –

Tonio: It's just that –

Mitchell: What?

Me: (softening my facial expression, full of understanding) We don't want to put you in an awkward position.

Tonio: (nodding manically in agreement) Right! Right! We're just thinking about you.

Mitchell: What is going on here? You guys seem upset.

Me: (shrieking) No! We're not upset! Right? (to Tonio)

Tonio: Right! (then, in an ultra-rational matter of fact tone) We know that … well … that … homosexuals (the word comes out awkwardly) are … people too.

Mitchell: (a brief flicker of annoyance now) Uh-huh …

Me: (discerning the annoyance - reaching out to grab Mitchell's hand) No! No! He didn't mean anything by that … it's just that … well… (and then, in a 'You understand' tone) Tonio Junior is a little boy.

(Long pause as we wait for Mitchell to understand. Mitchell maintains a blank uncomprehending face.)

Me: repeating it emphatically - the problem should be self-evident to Mitchell, right?: He's a BOY.

Mitchell: Right, sure. No, but I'd love to babysit. I love kids.

Tonio: But – well – with little boys there's a lot of rough and tumble –

Me: (laughing, showing Mitchell that I understand his 'lifestyle') Oh, but Mitchell looooves the rough and tumble, don’t you, Mitchell?

We could have gone on interminably with it, and often did so, testing how disgusting we could be, how offensive, how much could we keep up the façade in the face of our abhorrence and fear.

2. How Heavy Is Your Head?

This would involve one of us lying across two kitchen chairs, and letting the head fall over the side, while the other one pretended to weigh it. This one was very very difficult to get through with any seriousness, due to bursting guffaws of laughter. But the one doing the weighing needed to maintain a poker face, because this was, after all, a scientific experiment. So to watch Tonio leaning over me, WEIGHING MY HEAD in his hands, with a BARELY controlled expression of absolute hysteria on his face was often too much, way too much.

3. African Colonialist Game
This game was born after we watched "The Flame Trees of Thika" on PBS. We were struck by the image of stiff-upper-lip British people colonizing the continent of Africa, superimposing their language, ideals, traditions, phonographs, on another culture. The Brits making the Africans cart their china and damask tablecloths out onto the savannah. Silver tea services in the middle of the desert. Mkay? We found it all fascinating. (Anyone remember "Flame Trees", by the way? With a grown-up Hayley Mills? It was awesome.)

So here is our game: This game had very few limits - but when boiled down to its essentials, it had three elements that you HAD to hit, in order to make the game successful:

1. A greeting called out to a person with an Anglo-colonist-type name
2. An order given to a servant with an African-type name
3. The order needed to be a request for a fizzy inappropriate country-club-type drink

And all of this had to be done completely improvisationally, and all had to be spoken in a Masterpiece Theatah accent.

Here is just one of the MYRIAD examples of how this game would (and could) go:

"Good afternoon, Nigel! Have a seat! Mbaake, please bring in two mint juleps!"

You get the picture. That was it. That was our game. But he and I never got tired of creating endless variations on this theme.

"Hail, Merriwether, welcome! Rest in the shade. Njebe, two cherry cordials, please."

Once we started, we could. not. stop.

4. The "I Fancy Myself" game
The point of this game was to state about oneself: "I fancy myself something of a ________" (fill in the blank). The stupider and more asinine the better. "I fancy myself something of an amateur botanist." "I fancy myself something of a Nordic skier." My personal favorite was when Tonio said, "I fancy myself something of a New Zealander." And he said it in this self-pleased I've-got-a-few-tricks-up-my-sleeve tone. WHAT? How can you be "something of a" New Zealander? He took it one step further, showing off his foreign-ness by ostentatiously pretending to forget the word for "pepperoni", of all things. He said, "Yes, I adore pizzas with those … oh, what do you call them … those little meat cylinders on them…"

At that point the game had to end. Basically because I had to beat him up, shouting, "MEAT CYLINDERS? WHAT???" while he guffawed with laughter.

In the end, that was really the goal of all of this: to make the other person LOSE IT. How far can we go, how far can we push the game into absurdity ... who will break first???

A good friend of ours was driving down a road in our hometown, and she saw our Honda Civic coming towards her - she knew it was us. She beeped, and waved, glancing over at the car as we passed one another - and what was the fleeting glimpse she got of the two of us, as our car whizzed by? Tonio was driving, convulsed in laughter, and I sat in the passenger seat, head thrown back, guffawing. It was her brief snapshot. We always loved that story. Even though we had some rough times, etc., I think the odds are - if you had glimpses of us, chosen at random, over the three years we were together, you would probably have seen the two of us howling with laughter. I think that's pretty cool.