Elaine Smith Writes

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Category Archives: Writing

Write Me a Poem,

Baby.

That is the title of a book by H. Allen Smith, an American author and humorist, who is also the author of a book titled…drumroll…People Named Smith.

I thought he might be an appropriate candidate for my first Smith Sunday blog post.  Smith Sunday is a new feature wherein I mention and, perhaps, comment upon some famous person with whom I share a surname.

It may not be a long-lived feature, because, really, what can I accomplish here that a link to Wikipedia cannot do as well?  But I’m going to give it a try and see what happens.

My first thought was Captain John Smith.  I bet he was yours, too.  Captain John Smith is pretty much the first famous person named Smith to leap to anyone’s mind.  It’s the clothes.  That Elizabethan getup is…memorable.  And the Native American princess.  Apocryphal though the story may be, Pocahontas makes for a helluva good story, and most of us learned it in grade school.

But I hate to be obvious.

We’ll come back to him, maybe.

H. Allen seems like a good second thought for a first Smith Sunday post precisely because he wrote People Named Smith.  I have a feeling I might be consulting it frequently in the coming weeks.

I would suggest you read it, except that I would then have no reason to pursue the Smith Sunday blog posts.  Mr. Smith is far more amusing than I…and certainly did more research.  His books, by the way, are laugh-out-loud funny, so if you did happen to sneak off and read one or more of them, I could hardly blame you.  However, if you can’t resist picking up a copy of People Named Smith, please don’t mention it.  And, you know…common politeness should dictate that you not give away any punch lines if you see them heading your way on future Smith Sundays.  Just bask in the knowledge that you are well-read and know your Smiths and don’t rain on my parade.

Okay?  Thanks!

The best cures for depression

Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression.
~Dodie Smith

A little quote, there, from today’s Friday Find, a lovely little book called I Capture the Castle. by Dodie Smith.  You may have heard of Smith’s more famous work:  One Hundred and One Dalmations, boasting one of Disney’s most aptly named villains, Cruella de Vil.

The fact that Dodie Smith’s last name is the same as my own is purely coincidental—although I must say it gives me half an idea for a theme for my Sunday posts.  What say you to Smith Sundays?  In which we investigate famous people named Smith?  I don’t know.  I’ll have to think about that.

Anyway…I Capture the Castle is a quirky sort of coming-of-age novel about Cassandra Mortmain  (Isn’t that a great name?)  and her family.  Her father is a once-famous and now-blocked writer, her stepmother is the overly-dramatic but not at all wicked Topaz, her elder sister is tired of the life of poverty in spite of the fact that the family really does live in the eponymous castle.  There’s a younger brother and a family friend rounding out the household—all of whom have their lives up-ended when wealthy American brothers inherit the nearby Scoatney Hall.

It’s hard to do the book justice in a description.

Perhaps it will help if I tell you that the first sentence of the book is “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.”  (I’m a sucker for intriguing first lines.)  Or that J. K. Rowling lists it on her website as one of her favorite books.

Book recommendations are hard.  Fiction, especially.  One person’s treasured tome is another person’s snooze-fest.

But I Capture the Castle has a lot to recommend it:  multi-dimensional characters, a narrator with an original turn of phrase, a surprisingly involved exploration of the psychology behind writer’s block, plot twists, suspense.

Find it.  It’s worth a read, I think.

Nothing in the world

Can take the place of persistence.

I’ve mentioned part of this quote from Calvin Coolidge previously.  Here, as a matter of fact.

The whole quote—one of my favorites is:

Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence.  Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent.  Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.  Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.  Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan Press On! has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.

The reason I bring it up today is that I am thankful for persistence.

Today is the 180th straight day of blog posts here.  Six months.  Six months of figuring out something to post, of preparing it, of setting up the appropriate links, adding the appropriate tags, scheduling the post and hitting the Publish button.

If you think that’s easy, you’ve never tried it.

But, I made a commitment to myself that I was going to do it, and I have persisted.  Some posts have been better than others.  Some days, I have had to drag my feet out of the muck and mud of I-don’t-feel-like=it, and push through the boy-this-post-stinks, and overcome the is-anybody-there-nobody’s-reading-it-anyway bugaboo.  (“Bugaboo” — ‘now there’s a word to lift your hat to.’*)

So, I’m thankful for persistence, today.

Every time you face a challenge you get better at it.  Not only do you get better at achieving that particular goal, you get better at achieving all goals.  Once you prove that you can, it’s very hard to fall back on ‘I can’t.’

I was reminded of this recently, not only by my 180 day anniversary, but also by one of those not-so-rare bursts of synchronicity in a post on this same topic over at Dumb Little Man.  (Good blog, Dumb Little Man.  Just FYI.)

Of course, later today, persistence in dieting (another of my current goals, albeit a bit half-hearted) will likely fall by the wayside.  I’m thinking fresh baked chocolate cookies and vanilla ice cream—a treat I first had at Joe Allen’s in the heart of the Theatre District in NYC.  (I think Joe Allen’s may be the first restaurant I ever went to in NY after I moved there—although I didn’t have the cookies and ice cream that time.)

You have to have a balance, after all.  Dieting can pause for a moment for a little celebration.

180 days!

 

* Luce, William (and Emily Dickinson), The Belle of Amherst

How can I know what I think

until I see what I say?
~ E. M. Forster

That’s what I’m wondering today—it is Wondering Wednesday, after all—as I’m casting about for a specific topic.  Basically, I’m wondering what I’m going to write.  (This is a regular phenomenon since I took up blogging.)

It’s not that there is not a lot about which to wonder.  Surely, there is something I think and about which I would want to communicate amongst all the mysteries at hand.  Look at the state of our politics here in the United States, for example.  Now, there’s something—a lot of somethings—to provoke wonder.  But we don’t have a day of the week whose name begins with the letter ‘R,’ so you are all spared a regular Rant Day.  I have promised myself the blog will be positive—mostly—so, you know, politics. . .off limits.

I wonder about the future.  Do I need to figure out what’s next in my life, or will the Mayans solve that problem for me?

I wonder if I’m ever going to write another play, or have I inadvertently retired?  (Or, is it a moot point—see Mayans.)

I wonder what I should do next in renovating my house.  Is it time for a kitchen makeover?  Wouldn’t we like to have a bathtub?  And does that mean the entire bathroom needs a makeover?  What comes first in the rest of the house—the carpet or the windows?  Will I ever have furniture?

I wonder who bought the house next door and if they will be good neighbors.

I wonder why the coots haven’t yet returned from Capistrano—or wherever they go in the summer.

I wonder if anything, anything at all, will persuade the squirrels not to hang like bats, head downward, clinging to the coquina and if I will ever get used to an upside-down furry tree rat hanging head high over my front door.

Lastly, I wonder which of these and many other questions will be addressed in next week’s Wondering Wednesday post.

‘Cause this one’s done.

 

History lives

It’s walked out of the books and onto the screen.

My grandfather collected books about Lincoln.  Abraham, not Nebraska.  I’ve read a few of them.  Not all, by any means.  So, I know a bit about our 16th president.

Most citizens of the United States do.

He’s one of the few that everybody remembers and everybody reveres.

Sometimes, we forget he was a masterful politician.

Go see Stephen Spielberg’s new movie, Lincoln.

It’s going to sweep the awards.  It deserves to do so.

What a gorgeous film on practically every level.

The acting—across the board—superb!  Daniel Day-Lewis is the Lincoln I would have requisitioned if I could have imagined the perfect actor—and my imagination would have fallen short of this performance.  The supporting cast:  David Strathairn, Tommy Lee Jones, James Spader, Sally Field, Hal Holbrook and countless others disappear into the time and the story and the persons.  After the first flash of recognition, all their star qualities, the tricks and trademarks, vanish as if they had never been.  We are watching William Seward, Thaddeus Stephens, W. N. Bilbo, Mary Todd Lincoln, Preston Blair.

The script is fascinating.  Based largely on Doris Kearns Goodwin’s A Team of Rivals, Tony Kushner has transcended the usual bio pic to give an in-depth study of the machinations surrounding the passing of the 13th Amendment to the Constitution.  The wheeling and dealing, the lofty ideals and the base political machinations are all laid out before us.

The cinematography is beautiful.  The film is shot in a palette almost indescribable.  Suffice it to say that the historical details of setting and costume are crisp and clean, and yet, the whole thing has a patina of age, a not-quite-sepia tone of old photographs.

The direction—okay, I have a few quibbles—but the overall achievement is of such high quality that I’m not going to pick nits.

The score—one of the few movie soundtracks I feel I ought to buy.

I am going to buy the DVD.  The minute I can.

This movie is a FIND.  With a capital F.I.N.D.  Run—with a capital R—to see it.

What becomes a legend most?

Sharing their stories!

Everybody loves behind-the-scenes info.  Don’t they?  I know I do.  I love to hear how writers and actors and producers got started, what they remember most about their work experiences, what advice they have for others aspiring to similar achievements.  It’s fascinating.

Of course, it’s best if it’s someone whose work you know, but an opportunity to hear from someone you’ve never happened to encounter is a gift, too.  It can open your eyes to treasures you might not otherwise find.

Agnes de Mille came to speak at my college once.  I’d heard of her.  I knew she was, famously, the choreographer for the original Oklahoma.  What I didn’t know and was delighted to discover was that she was a terrifically entertaining speaker and a wonderful writer.  I went and found her books, learned a great deal and enjoyed them thoroughly.

Harold Clurman, John Houseman, Vincent Price—all became doors into new information once I had the opportunity to hear them talk.

So imagine my glee when I stumbled upon a website created by the Television Academy Foundation which hosts over 700 oral history interviews conducted in-depth with the legends of television.

EmmyTvLegends.org

There are over 3000 hours of interviews with actors, writers, directors, newscasters, tv executives, technical gurus and more.  And they are not drive-by, promote-the-project-of-the-moment interviews.  They are hours-long, thoughtful discussions.  What I always thought talk shows should be and almost never are.  (Dick Cavett’s show being a notable exception.)

It’s all fascinating.  Sometimes funny, sometimes inspiring, sometimes eye-opening. The interviewers are good.  They ask excellent questions, and they stay out of the way.  Interesting facts come to light, and personalities are revealed.

You can spend a lot of time there.  So, be warned.  But spending your time in the company of some of our most creative people?  Is there any better way?

If you thought Spenser was tough—

Meet Jack Reacher.

I  found these books.  I love it when I find a good writer who has written a whole series of books.  (Of course, my favorite writer ever is Harper Lee, and she only wrote one book—but she only needed to write one.)  It doesn’t happen often at this point, because I read a lot.  It often seems like I’ve already read all my favorites—and sometimes more than once.

Just recently, however, I came upon Lee Child and his Reacher series.  You wouldn’t have thought I’d like them.   I tend to prefer the genteel English murder mystery to machismo and militarism.  Violence doesn’t appeal to me.

But I had these books.

So, I checked them out.

I’m big on first lines.  In my experience, a good first line is a good first step.  It usually means the writer knows how to put words together.  She knows how to get your attention.  Chances are she will be able to keep it.  (It doesn’t always work.  The very best first line I ever read came in a book I could not finish.  Just couldn’t get to the end of it.  And I finish almost every book I start.  That one was very disappointing.)

There are great first lines, and there are first lines that are just okay.  I’m thinking the first line of the first Reacher novel was sort of in between.  Averagely good.  Which is to say, above average.  Enough to set up that question in your mind:  Why?  And what’s going to happen next?

So, I kept reading. All the way through the next 15 novels.

The plots are surprisingly complex—with new twists.  Not the same old action-adventure stuff at all.

The writing is good.  There’s a voice there, a command of language, some psychological insight.

I know, for sure, that I would not like Jack Reacher if I met him in person—but I’d sure want him around if I were in danger.  He meets violence with violence, and I’m not sure I approve of that in the real world (some would say it’s arguable that I don’t actually live in the real world)—but since he never attacks first, and the bad guys are like really bad, it works for me in the books.

He’s larger than life, of course, with a number of nearly super-human characteristics and an unlikely ability to figure out what the bad guys are going to do by just putting himself in their place.  I mean, it’s not really believable that a person can stand outside the Four Seasons in New York, look at the surrounding blocks and decide that the quarry must be in the third brownstone on the left out of all the millions of places to hide in the city.  But I can suspend my disbelief that far.

I like competent characters.  Reacher is that, for sure.  Those first 15 books were a good find.

Now I’ve got to go find the last two.

Words matter.

They have meanings.

And you can make that work in your favor.

That’s the tip for today.

Stop worrying about a “deadline.”  How about trying to reach the “finish line,” instead?

Does it have to be such a horrible, scary thing?  Horror movie scary?  Day of the Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Dead Ringers.

What’s the drop dead date? we used to say at work.  Meaning the absolute, unequivocal, unbreakable deadline.

Who wants to drop dead?

Not me.

Finish line makes me think of success.  Most of the time, when I think of crossing the finish line, I think of coming in first.  (Well, really, only when I think of somebody else crossing the finish line.  I never came in first in my life.)  Coming in first is success in anybody’s book.

Even if you don’t come in first, crossing the finish line means you finished the race.  That’s an achievement in itself.  You stayed the course.  You finished.

A finish line is something you race toward.  It’s not something that looms over you, something the clock ticks toward with the inevitability and concomitant dread of an armed explosive device.

Plus, one definition of “finish” is “a highly developed state of perfection; having a flawless or impeccable quality.”  I’d sure like to achieve that in my writing, wouldn’t you?

Shiny, polished, finished.

I’m not setting any deadlines any more.  I’m going to be crossing finish lines.

Fern and Dina

Sometimes I like what I don’t like.

So, I was in an antique store yesterday.

In addition to antiques, there were a variety of art works on display and for sale.  My eye was caught by a colorful square painting of two sunglassed, bikini-clad women sitting in beach chairs under a bright tropical sky.

I’m not much of a art connoisseur.  In fact, I’m one of those terrible people artists hate because I could say—although I don’t, because I know they  hate it—that I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.

This painting was not something I particularly liked.  The draftsmanship seemed clumsy, the colors too garish, there were almost no shadows, no perspective.  To be honest, I’m only certain the figures were women because of the title and because the work was so unsubtle as to make me feel that the depiction of long hair could safely be assumed to be an indication of femaleness.

So…in my admittedly uneducated and probably philistine opinion, and only my opinion, I’d have to say it was not a good picture.  I won’t say it was the worst picture I have ever seen. . .but. . .it wasn’t the best.

It did, however, make me laugh out loud and consider, for about half a second, purchasing it.

Because in addition to the beach babes and the bright blue sky, there was something else painted into the picture.  Its title.  In a sort of orangey-red.

Fern and Dina

You probably don’t know why that appealed to me so much.  That’s because you’re missing one critical piece of information.  When I told you I was in an antique store yesterday, I neglected to tell you where.

A little Saturday suggestion here.  Always get the full story.

The reason Fern and Dina, in all their acrylic glory—.  I think they were painted in acrylics.  In fact, I’m almost certain.  The reason Fern and Dina appealed to me so much is I was standing in an antique store.

In Fernandina.

The essence of comedy is the unexpected.

I think I’m going to write “Fern and Dina” up in big letters and post it over my desk to remind me to turn things upside down and inside out and try to look at them through other eyes.

No fish in the driveway

Nuthin’

I got nuthin’.

No internal inspiration.  No gifts of the gods dropping from the sky like that fish yesterday.

This is what happens sometimes.  You want to write, and nothing comes.

Writers Block.

That big, scary phrase that, in itself, stops all further forward motion and provides the excuse for it.

I can’t write.  I have Writer’s Block.

The thing is. . .there’s no such thing.  I mean, it’s nothing endemic to writers.  It’s a plain old combination of laziness and fear.  Sometimes, with exhaustion and/or addictions added to the mix.  (I don’t necessarily mean the more popular forms of substance abuse when I say “addiction.”  You can be addicted to television—or cupcakes.)

If you aren’t writing—well, we’ll say if I’m not writing—no need to make sweeping generalizations about the rest of you—but, if I’m not writing, it’s a good bet it’s because I don’t feel like it.

I’m too tired, too distracted by other things, too frightened I won’t have a good idea or be able to do justice to the ones I have.

The answer to all of that is:

So what?

So what if I wake up at 5 am after staying up until 2?  So what if I’m worried about the mortgage, the contract, the fight with my spouse or my mother, or the funny noise the car is making?

So what?

There’s a line from a song in A Chorus Line:

God, I’m a dancer.  A dancer dances.

It’s kind of the same thing.

A writer writes.

So, be a Nike commercial.  Just do it.  Or, as Julia Cameron says, show up at the page.

Are you a writer? A writer writes.

And, in case you hadn’t noticed, today, once again, I get to say I’m a writer.  The triumph of “So what?” over “I don’t feel like it.”

This may be the most important blog post I’ve ever written.

So far.

 


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