Tonight while thinking of the things I'm most thankful for, I remembered an old personal essay written almost ten years ago. Pulled it out, dusted it off, and posted it here (below).
It's funny. When I wrote Festival of Plenty, things looked different. For one thing, TCU couldn't buy a win for all the money in the world. This year? Wow. How times have changed!
And yet not. Because TCU fans still talk about recipes and kids and grandkids and new projects. We still love our Frogs, but everything in moderation. For the most part, those of us wearing LT's #5 or Don't Back Down love the people we're with more than the game. Although we do love our football.
When I wrote Festival of Plenty, my mom was still in great health. She worked in her yard, went for vigorous aerobic hikes, and could beat me easily at Canasta.
These days, she cannot subtract 7 from 100 and come up with the right answer. She stays in bed most of the day, uninterested in life (sometimes I fear she wishes to die), her dementia and related psychosis having robbed our family of the person we cherished. Leaving behind a mere shell of a body.
When I wrote Festival of Plenty, we lived in Pennsylvania. With four distinct seasons, mountains of snow, and 400+ years of history. These days, we're in California, with gorgeous beaches, sun-drenched days, and places that still have that new car smell.
When I wrote Festival of Plenty, our White Rose work was in its infancy. Now, we're all steeped in the story, wiser about the people we write about, and perhaps a touch cynical about the historical revisionism the story is steeped in - something we were blissfully unaware of at the time.
In 2000, we were surer of the future, surer of faith, surer of foot, surer of goal. And unsure about direction and purpose. As we approach Thanksgiving 2009, we are surer of direction, purpose, and friends who will get us there, and less sure of the future and faith.
And yet that concluding statement still rings true, as true today as it was on a chilly, colorful Thanksgiving day in Pennsylvania:
Thankful to be alive – despite stress, disappointment, sickness, sorrow, and all that makes me sad – thankful for bubblegum and vanilla ice cream, Rabbi and Mom, books and poetry, April and December. And thankful to the God who makes it Be.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Festival of Plenty
Thankful for bubblegum and vanilla ice cream, sweet flavors of life that stick with me and make me feel like a kid. All over again.
Thankful for nicely stacked piles of leaves that beg me to scatter them to the wind and swirl in their brilliance.
Thankful for raisins in my challah bread and kugel still steaming fresh when it comes from the oven. And the stories of Bubbe’s recipes and traditions spanning oceans that decorate the table.
Thankful for a mom who, though not Jewish, is righteous in all she is. Who does justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly with her God.
Thankful for mystifying fog, sunshine bringing laughter, and rain that makes the warm dark earth smell of April’s flowers and postponed dreams.
Thankful for the coming winter that gives me time to reflect on all life’s cycles and teaches me the balance of our days. The beauty of the snow, pain of the ice, and sharp focus of a frosty morning belong to the spring that is becoming.
Thankful for the mikveh that opens doors, teachers who open eyes, and friends who open hearts.
Thankful for books to read and songs to sing. And poems to inhale and essays to digest. And Talmud and Torah to wade through, searching for the question behind the questions. And Shel Silverstein and Isaac Babel whose words birth poetry more profound than prose and prose that sings a prayer.
Thankful for a Rabbi who is a friend. For a community priceless beyond words. And for a friend, a Methodist pastor, who gave wise counsel this week to mourners in Texas.
Thankful for Silly Putty, soap bubbles, and sailboats made of bars of Ivory. For Slinkies, Beanie Babies, and an antique Rubik’s Cube. And for the people around me who remain child-like enough to enjoy these toys forever.
Thankful for Horned Frogs who rarely win a football game, and for Astros who know how to win. And for the handful of athletes and celebrities who have figured out that life is more than just a game and who make our world a better place.
Thankful for the ever-changing beauty of this Pennsylvania valley. For hay fields freshly mown and carefully tended lawns. For rugged hillsides and sparkling streams, covered bridges and curving roads.
Thankful for our survivors who hold on to their Nie Wieder (Never Again). For those who scrap and stand firm in the face of historians who would repaint the truth. For all who fight for justice for all who are oppressed, the tzaddikim among us whose eyes are fixed on justice.
Thankful for America, where a swastika still evokes an outcry and destruction of a synagogue brings a town together to rebuild.
Thankful for Israel, country and people, person and future. A place to call home, to look forward to and plan for. A people whose “chosenness” is not the mantra for exclusion, but for responsibility, whose theology does not limit God by imposing human face on what we cannot understand. For a future of peace, a time to live, a challenge to meet. For the land of milk and honey that will be.
Thankful to be alive – despite stress, disappointment, sickness, sorrow, and all that makes me sad – thankful for bubblegum and vanilla ice cream, Rabbi and Mom, books and poetry, April and December.
And thankful to the God who makes it Be.
(c) 2000 Ruth Hanna Sachs. From Life With Ruth.
Thankful for nicely stacked piles of leaves that beg me to scatter them to the wind and swirl in their brilliance.
Thankful for raisins in my challah bread and kugel still steaming fresh when it comes from the oven. And the stories of Bubbe’s recipes and traditions spanning oceans that decorate the table.
Thankful for a mom who, though not Jewish, is righteous in all she is. Who does justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly with her God.
Thankful for mystifying fog, sunshine bringing laughter, and rain that makes the warm dark earth smell of April’s flowers and postponed dreams.
Thankful for the coming winter that gives me time to reflect on all life’s cycles and teaches me the balance of our days. The beauty of the snow, pain of the ice, and sharp focus of a frosty morning belong to the spring that is becoming.
Thankful for the mikveh that opens doors, teachers who open eyes, and friends who open hearts.
Thankful for books to read and songs to sing. And poems to inhale and essays to digest. And Talmud and Torah to wade through, searching for the question behind the questions. And Shel Silverstein and Isaac Babel whose words birth poetry more profound than prose and prose that sings a prayer.
Thankful for a Rabbi who is a friend. For a community priceless beyond words. And for a friend, a Methodist pastor, who gave wise counsel this week to mourners in Texas.
Thankful for Silly Putty, soap bubbles, and sailboats made of bars of Ivory. For Slinkies, Beanie Babies, and an antique Rubik’s Cube. And for the people around me who remain child-like enough to enjoy these toys forever.
Thankful for Horned Frogs who rarely win a football game, and for Astros who know how to win. And for the handful of athletes and celebrities who have figured out that life is more than just a game and who make our world a better place.
Thankful for the ever-changing beauty of this Pennsylvania valley. For hay fields freshly mown and carefully tended lawns. For rugged hillsides and sparkling streams, covered bridges and curving roads.
Thankful for our survivors who hold on to their Nie Wieder (Never Again). For those who scrap and stand firm in the face of historians who would repaint the truth. For all who fight for justice for all who are oppressed, the tzaddikim among us whose eyes are fixed on justice.
Thankful for America, where a swastika still evokes an outcry and destruction of a synagogue brings a town together to rebuild.
Thankful for Israel, country and people, person and future. A place to call home, to look forward to and plan for. A people whose “chosenness” is not the mantra for exclusion, but for responsibility, whose theology does not limit God by imposing human face on what we cannot understand. For a future of peace, a time to live, a challenge to meet. For the land of milk and honey that will be.
Thankful to be alive – despite stress, disappointment, sickness, sorrow, and all that makes me sad – thankful for bubblegum and vanilla ice cream, Rabbi and Mom, books and poetry, April and December.
And thankful to the God who makes it Be.
(c) 2000 Ruth Hanna Sachs. From Life With Ruth.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Food for Thought
I am convinced that when (not if) peace comes to the Middle East, food will be at the heart of the resolution.
Last week while working diligently on a special project off-site, I detected the beloved and fragrant aroma of Israeli food. Shaworma, tabouleh, hummus, those delectable blends of chicken, garlic, lemon, and all the fresh veggies that round out healthy Mediterranean recipes.
I followed my nose and landed square in the middle of an Arab-American seminar. Not known for being shy, I asked them if I could beg a plate of their wonderful food. And yes, I explained that I was working on the other side of the building on a German-Jewish project.
They did not hesitate for even a second. Two or three people converged on me, plate and flatware in hand. Be sure to take enough, they urged. Take some for your friends too.
Unbelievable hospitality and generosity of spirit! It made me think of the days when Albanian Muslims protected "their" Jewish neighbors against the Nazi hordes, for God and for country.
What will it take to restore that sense of camaraderie, to understand there is more in common between us than there are differences that divide us?
One thing I know for sure. Joanie and Sid have now found food as a way to communicate!
Last week while working diligently on a special project off-site, I detected the beloved and fragrant aroma of Israeli food. Shaworma, tabouleh, hummus, those delectable blends of chicken, garlic, lemon, and all the fresh veggies that round out healthy Mediterranean recipes.
I followed my nose and landed square in the middle of an Arab-American seminar. Not known for being shy, I asked them if I could beg a plate of their wonderful food. And yes, I explained that I was working on the other side of the building on a German-Jewish project.
They did not hesitate for even a second. Two or three people converged on me, plate and flatware in hand. Be sure to take enough, they urged. Take some for your friends too.
Unbelievable hospitality and generosity of spirit! It made me think of the days when Albanian Muslims protected "their" Jewish neighbors against the Nazi hordes, for God and for country.
What will it take to restore that sense of camaraderie, to understand there is more in common between us than there are differences that divide us?
One thing I know for sure. Joanie and Sid have now found food as a way to communicate!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
My Mozart Moment
Since the recent proclamation - namely that I was going to put White Rose aside for a while and concentrate on other writing projects - I have done nothing but White Rose. Funny how that works, isn't it?
It has seemed like every time I've wanted to pick up The Generation and finally get Joanie and Sid to understand that their vastly differing opinions on the peace process in Israel mask common goals and aims... Or when I've decided I must finish the rewrite of Hansi and Frog, at least to the point where the very-Bavarian "Hansi" and the very-Texan "Frog" find their footing as they stumble into friendship... Or as I've re-thought and re-puzzled the Butterfly Lace events in Brussels that first summer so long ago...
...Every time, I've had to put the newly-revived manuscript aside and go back to one thing or the other associated with the White Rose. Not exactly how I planned to spend my summer!
But yesterday it hit me that all this work is incredibly intertwined, connected, the fruit of the same tree. These works of fiction are informed by the same worldview that drives the White Rose work. Simply stated, it's a desire to contribute somehow with might of pen over might of sword to tikkun olam, repairing the world. [Although I will admit that the fiction is easier to enjoy while writing, because even when strongly based on real life, e.g. Hansi and Frog, I don't have to stick to absolute fact, as is the case with White Rose work.]
I realized this yesterday as several things came into focus all at once. These concepts and notions had been simmering on a back burner at least for several months, if not several years. But a late-night conversation provided a Eureka moment for me. Let me see if I can explain.
Hansi and Frog is an important story for me to tell, because it chronicles the evolution of a friendship that nourished me for a lifetime, a friendship that nearly was stillborn because of difference in religion. That friendship still provides sustenance, although the basis for the fictional Hansi character died in 2003.
The Generation speaks to me because - sitting here in the U.S., far away from debates over settlements and Hamas rockets launched into homes and playgrounds - it forces me to think about people who live in Israel and work for peace on a daily basis. Different people, different approaches to diplomacy and the efforts required to end the violence. Once again, common goals.
Butterfly Lace takes me back to that very first trip to Germany via Brussels, when I was exposed to markedly different ways of doing things than I had known before. Not only were my experiences mindboggling (for me!), but then for 25 of us to sit in a hotel room singing "Take me ho-ome, Pom Air, to the place I belong" [TM Not-John-Denver], talking about our collective mindboggling experiences...
And how we all had come to the shocking realization that despite the illusion-shattering differences, our humanity bound us 25 as well as the people we had come to know over that summer together. Despite the illusion-shattering differences, or perhaps because of them?
Elements of these fictional narratives exist within the structure of the nonfictional White Rose account. Wildly divergent viewpoints merged within that group of friends around a common theme, specifically that of bringing an end to a criminal regime that was systematically destroying their country. Religion could have divided them, kept them from working together towards this common cause, could have irreparably splintered them before they penned the first leaflet. Differences in perception, in education, in experience, in expectations could have prevented the friends from unifying in an almost-quixotic battle against a mass murderer.
Driving home at 2:30 in the morning after this refreshingly honest conversation, I understood (maybe for the first time ever) that not only have my life experiences figured into the reasons I write about the White Rose, but the White Rose work has also affected how I approach and deal with past events. And why.
This personal-private-business-historical-philosophical discussion opened a thousand locked windows into the Whys of my life and work. Why the theme of difference <=> common cause <=> unity recurs, regardless of how expressed. Why "cultural diplomacy" and political activism are not mutually exclusive in my worldview. Why I shun orthodoxies in favor of faith that seeks to "do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God." Why I always have time for people who are not afraid of truth, and have little patience with those who put on airs. Why late-night conversations like this one will stick with me for the next twenty years, while I will forget Letterman's Top Ten from one day to the next.
Still sifting, still thinking. The Nigerian proverb says you hold a true friend with both your hands. I guess that means that the words of a true friend are held in the heart, not the hands.
The funny thing about this? Driving home last night, all at once - my own private "Mozart moment"! - Joanie and Sid found their work with Jewish National Fund and Rabbis for Human Rights on a collision course and were forced to come to terms with ethics versus politics. Hansi and Frog wandered back to Bad Heilbrunn the long way, with Frog finally comprehending that Hansi's silences were rarely anger. And the fictional "me" in Brussels heard Greece and Spain and Italy and Germany erupt into a raucous dance in that half-star Belgian hotel. Accompanied by John Denver, of course.
Now if only I could write all three books at once, as well as keep up with White Rose work!
Reference to Mozart Moment: In educational psychology, we learned that Mozart famously said that when he began composing a new symphony, he "heard" the entire piece in a split second and then had to set about the work of putting that split second down on paper. That is how I felt last night, driving the Hollywood Freeway at 2:30 a.m. It was such a glorious moment, I even missed my exit... The price of genius. Ha! - RHS.
It has seemed like every time I've wanted to pick up The Generation and finally get Joanie and Sid to understand that their vastly differing opinions on the peace process in Israel mask common goals and aims... Or when I've decided I must finish the rewrite of Hansi and Frog, at least to the point where the very-Bavarian "Hansi" and the very-Texan "Frog" find their footing as they stumble into friendship... Or as I've re-thought and re-puzzled the Butterfly Lace events in Brussels that first summer so long ago...
...Every time, I've had to put the newly-revived manuscript aside and go back to one thing or the other associated with the White Rose. Not exactly how I planned to spend my summer!
But yesterday it hit me that all this work is incredibly intertwined, connected, the fruit of the same tree. These works of fiction are informed by the same worldview that drives the White Rose work. Simply stated, it's a desire to contribute somehow with might of pen over might of sword to tikkun olam, repairing the world. [Although I will admit that the fiction is easier to enjoy while writing, because even when strongly based on real life, e.g. Hansi and Frog, I don't have to stick to absolute fact, as is the case with White Rose work.]
I realized this yesterday as several things came into focus all at once. These concepts and notions had been simmering on a back burner at least for several months, if not several years. But a late-night conversation provided a Eureka moment for me. Let me see if I can explain.
Hansi and Frog is an important story for me to tell, because it chronicles the evolution of a friendship that nourished me for a lifetime, a friendship that nearly was stillborn because of difference in religion. That friendship still provides sustenance, although the basis for the fictional Hansi character died in 2003.
The Generation speaks to me because - sitting here in the U.S., far away from debates over settlements and Hamas rockets launched into homes and playgrounds - it forces me to think about people who live in Israel and work for peace on a daily basis. Different people, different approaches to diplomacy and the efforts required to end the violence. Once again, common goals.
Butterfly Lace takes me back to that very first trip to Germany via Brussels, when I was exposed to markedly different ways of doing things than I had known before. Not only were my experiences mindboggling (for me!), but then for 25 of us to sit in a hotel room singing "Take me ho-ome, Pom Air, to the place I belong" [TM Not-John-Denver], talking about our collective mindboggling experiences...
And how we all had come to the shocking realization that despite the illusion-shattering differences, our humanity bound us 25 as well as the people we had come to know over that summer together. Despite the illusion-shattering differences, or perhaps because of them?
Elements of these fictional narratives exist within the structure of the nonfictional White Rose account. Wildly divergent viewpoints merged within that group of friends around a common theme, specifically that of bringing an end to a criminal regime that was systematically destroying their country. Religion could have divided them, kept them from working together towards this common cause, could have irreparably splintered them before they penned the first leaflet. Differences in perception, in education, in experience, in expectations could have prevented the friends from unifying in an almost-quixotic battle against a mass murderer.
Driving home at 2:30 in the morning after this refreshingly honest conversation, I understood (maybe for the first time ever) that not only have my life experiences figured into the reasons I write about the White Rose, but the White Rose work has also affected how I approach and deal with past events. And why.
This personal-private-business-historical-philosophical discussion opened a thousand locked windows into the Whys of my life and work. Why the theme of difference <=> common cause <=> unity recurs, regardless of how expressed. Why "cultural diplomacy" and political activism are not mutually exclusive in my worldview. Why I shun orthodoxies in favor of faith that seeks to "do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God." Why I always have time for people who are not afraid of truth, and have little patience with those who put on airs. Why late-night conversations like this one will stick with me for the next twenty years, while I will forget Letterman's Top Ten from one day to the next.
Still sifting, still thinking. The Nigerian proverb says you hold a true friend with both your hands. I guess that means that the words of a true friend are held in the heart, not the hands.
The funny thing about this? Driving home last night, all at once - my own private "Mozart moment"! - Joanie and Sid found their work with Jewish National Fund and Rabbis for Human Rights on a collision course and were forced to come to terms with ethics versus politics. Hansi and Frog wandered back to Bad Heilbrunn the long way, with Frog finally comprehending that Hansi's silences were rarely anger. And the fictional "me" in Brussels heard Greece and Spain and Italy and Germany erupt into a raucous dance in that half-star Belgian hotel. Accompanied by John Denver, of course.
Now if only I could write all three books at once, as well as keep up with White Rose work!
Reference to Mozart Moment: In educational psychology, we learned that Mozart famously said that when he began composing a new symphony, he "heard" the entire piece in a split second and then had to set about the work of putting that split second down on paper. That is how I felt last night, driving the Hollywood Freeway at 2:30 a.m. It was such a glorious moment, I even missed my exit... The price of genius. Ha! - RHS.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Taking Inventory
While Holocaust education will likely always be a piece of the patchwork quilt that is my life, California's sunshine has reminded me that I long to leave life-affirming literature as my legacy. True stories of heroism during those dark days qualify.
But it's not enough.
I've recently started taking inventory of the "other" stories mulling around my psyche. Characters I have enjoyed 'interacting with' as they grow and develop, as plot lines gel and dialog becomes audible. I had been so immersed in research that I had almost forgotten how stimulating the creative process can be.
By the end of this week, I should have chosen one of the works-in-progress below as primary project.
Joanie and Sid. I keep returning to this concept due to the continued and continuing unrest in the Middle East. It's my only sci-fi work-in-progress. The science fiction angle defuses the more sensitive aspects of the plot, permitting Gu-Shalom (peace now) arguments to be viewed from a detached perspective.
The protagonists explore the complexities of war and peace from the POV of high school seniors ~ knowledgeable enough to debate rationally, but idealistic enough to debate passionately. I love this story because it combines the unanswerable questions of the Shoah with the political aftermath we are still experiencing in 2009, and underscores how crucial it is to seek peace with reconciliation in order to break the cycle.
Hansi and Frog. My sentimental favorite, as it is based on the life and (Bavarian) hometown of my real-life friend, Hans Forster. Everyone needs a friend like him. This story encourages young adults to persevere in friendship, not to abandon relationships when they get hard, but to hold true friends close.
Every time I return to Hansi and Frog, I smile at sweet memories. But the danger with this story lies in making it too sweet.
Butterfly Lace. My personal version of Canterbury Tales, again based on my own real-life adventure. In reality, 23 of us were stuck in a hotel in Brussels for three days while our bankrupt charter airlines figured out how to get us all back to Texas. I remember the adventures we related to one another as if it were yesterday. The tales are too good and in some cases, absolutely hilarious!
Postcards. Well, I cannot do this one this week, because "the postcards" are in storage. Perhaps I could do background research in anticipation of retrieving them soon. I like the story, yet another one with basis in real life. Years ago, I bought a postcard collection in a small German town. Turned out that the postcards traced the courtship of a young couple from 1905 to around 1915, from his romantic notes to her as he was stationed in Munich, Bayreuth, and even Oostende (Belgium), to postcards from friends addressed to the newlyweds.
On second thought, while this story is fun to work on, "research" is something I'd rather not do right this minute. Later!
But it's not enough.
I've recently started taking inventory of the "other" stories mulling around my psyche. Characters I have enjoyed 'interacting with' as they grow and develop, as plot lines gel and dialog becomes audible. I had been so immersed in research that I had almost forgotten how stimulating the creative process can be.
By the end of this week, I should have chosen one of the works-in-progress below as primary project.
Joanie and Sid. I keep returning to this concept due to the continued and continuing unrest in the Middle East. It's my only sci-fi work-in-progress. The science fiction angle defuses the more sensitive aspects of the plot, permitting Gu-Shalom (peace now) arguments to be viewed from a detached perspective.
The protagonists explore the complexities of war and peace from the POV of high school seniors ~ knowledgeable enough to debate rationally, but idealistic enough to debate passionately. I love this story because it combines the unanswerable questions of the Shoah with the political aftermath we are still experiencing in 2009, and underscores how crucial it is to seek peace with reconciliation in order to break the cycle.
Hansi and Frog. My sentimental favorite, as it is based on the life and (Bavarian) hometown of my real-life friend, Hans Forster. Everyone needs a friend like him. This story encourages young adults to persevere in friendship, not to abandon relationships when they get hard, but to hold true friends close.
Every time I return to Hansi and Frog, I smile at sweet memories. But the danger with this story lies in making it too sweet.
Butterfly Lace. My personal version of Canterbury Tales, again based on my own real-life adventure. In reality, 23 of us were stuck in a hotel in Brussels for three days while our bankrupt charter airlines figured out how to get us all back to Texas. I remember the adventures we related to one another as if it were yesterday. The tales are too good and in some cases, absolutely hilarious!
Postcards. Well, I cannot do this one this week, because "the postcards" are in storage. Perhaps I could do background research in anticipation of retrieving them soon. I like the story, yet another one with basis in real life. Years ago, I bought a postcard collection in a small German town. Turned out that the postcards traced the courtship of a young couple from 1905 to around 1915, from his romantic notes to her as he was stationed in Munich, Bayreuth, and even Oostende (Belgium), to postcards from friends addressed to the newlyweds.
On second thought, while this story is fun to work on, "research" is something I'd rather not do right this minute. Later!
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Stories from China Beach
We had to run errands this week, errands that took us further afield than usual. Still unfamiliar with Los Angeles, we missed a critical turn, and before we knew it, found ourselves near the coast. Which was all right with us!
We decided to use the serendipitous wrong turn to our advantage, and eat somewhere on the beach. Traffic jams in Santa Monica convinced us to keep driving south. We exited in Venice Beach, new to us. A beach is a beach, right? Surely we could find something here.
But that boardwalk was barely half a step above totally disgusting. The air hung heavy with the stench of drugs, cigarettes, vomit, nastiness that would have made it impossible to enjoy a meal, even if we had found a decent enough diner. And we did not find a decent enough diner.
As we were giving up, about to head inland in search of an In-N-Out hamburger establishment, we spied a fellow carrying a load of fresh vegetables into a tiny eatery. Abundance of flowers hid the entrance. Without the vegetable man, we would have thought it was part of the liquor store next door.
China Beach Bistro. Vietnamese cuisine. Not something I am familiar with. How does it differ from Chinese, Korean, or other Asian menus? I didn't know. And didn't care. It was clean, pretty, food!, and at 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon, that was all that mattered.
For the next couple of hours, we were treated to more than a delicious meal. Hiep Thi Le explained La Lot, why lemongrass is considered healthy, and showed us how to use her homemade (not housemade) dressing on the rice noodles. We learned that housin is a sweet soy sauce, nicknamed Asian molasses. And that housin doesn't taste like Kikkoman soy sauce or molasses, but that it's exceptionally good when mixed with Hiep's dressing.
Hiep's mother helps her run the place, and she sat with us for a while, asking how my mother could look so young for her age ("I love you!," said Mom), hinting at life in Vietnam before the war ended there.
We heard the two women tell an impatient diner that China Beach is in Vietnam, not China, and that they did not serve sweet-and-sour sauce. We listened to young Vietnamese voices as they chowed down on Bun Bo Hue and Com Chien Ga, disappointed not at the lack of sweet-and-sour, but at the absence of a WiFi connection. The war in Vietnam was not part of their vocabulary, as it had been for Hiep Thi Le and her mother.
Despite a good two hours eating and listening, we left that tiny restaurant aware that stories abounded behind the smiling faces of the two ladies who cooked and served. Happy stories, and sad, and stories of homelands lost and new ones gained. Was America the Goldene Medina for them that it had been for immigrants of centuries past? I wish I knew.
We should hear all of these stories. They are all part of our wonderful American dream.
We decided to use the serendipitous wrong turn to our advantage, and eat somewhere on the beach. Traffic jams in Santa Monica convinced us to keep driving south. We exited in Venice Beach, new to us. A beach is a beach, right? Surely we could find something here.
But that boardwalk was barely half a step above totally disgusting. The air hung heavy with the stench of drugs, cigarettes, vomit, nastiness that would have made it impossible to enjoy a meal, even if we had found a decent enough diner. And we did not find a decent enough diner.
As we were giving up, about to head inland in search of an In-N-Out hamburger establishment, we spied a fellow carrying a load of fresh vegetables into a tiny eatery. Abundance of flowers hid the entrance. Without the vegetable man, we would have thought it was part of the liquor store next door.
China Beach Bistro. Vietnamese cuisine. Not something I am familiar with. How does it differ from Chinese, Korean, or other Asian menus? I didn't know. And didn't care. It was clean, pretty, food!, and at 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon, that was all that mattered.
For the next couple of hours, we were treated to more than a delicious meal. Hiep Thi Le explained La Lot, why lemongrass is considered healthy, and showed us how to use her homemade (not housemade) dressing on the rice noodles. We learned that housin is a sweet soy sauce, nicknamed Asian molasses. And that housin doesn't taste like Kikkoman soy sauce or molasses, but that it's exceptionally good when mixed with Hiep's dressing.
Hiep's mother helps her run the place, and she sat with us for a while, asking how my mother could look so young for her age ("I love you!," said Mom), hinting at life in Vietnam before the war ended there.
We heard the two women tell an impatient diner that China Beach is in Vietnam, not China, and that they did not serve sweet-and-sour sauce. We listened to young Vietnamese voices as they chowed down on Bun Bo Hue and Com Chien Ga, disappointed not at the lack of sweet-and-sour, but at the absence of a WiFi connection. The war in Vietnam was not part of their vocabulary, as it had been for Hiep Thi Le and her mother.
Despite a good two hours eating and listening, we left that tiny restaurant aware that stories abounded behind the smiling faces of the two ladies who cooked and served. Happy stories, and sad, and stories of homelands lost and new ones gained. Was America the Goldene Medina for them that it had been for immigrants of centuries past? I wish I knew.
We should hear all of these stories. They are all part of our wonderful American dream.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
History: January through December 2003
December 31, 2003
It's hard to remember on days like these that somewhere tulip bulbs lie dormant, expectantly awaiting warm spring mornings. Or that our mulberry tree will ever have leaves. Everything looks like death, yet hopes of new life. Difficult year...
It's hard to remember on days like these that somewhere tulip bulbs lie dormant, expectantly awaiting warm spring mornings. Or that our mulberry tree will ever have leaves. Everything looks like death, yet hopes of new life. Difficult year...
In addition to our own health issues, our family lost a dear friend in August. Dr. Johann Forster ~ Hansi to me and Denise ~ died tragically on August 4. He was only 46. His encouragement, both emotional and tangible, in the White Rose work had kept us going through some discouraging days.
Besides his encouragement with White Rose work, he also inspired me to pen the Hansi and Frog series. His superior intelligence and remarkable wit contributed more "material" to these books than I could ever use!
2003 was also a time when we learned how closely mental, physical, and intellectual health are related. When one goes, the others are hard put to stay intact. It's nearly impossible to work well when you're not.
April 4, 2003
A week to play catch-up and not much else. Loads of emails to answer. Very tired. Hard to get motivated.
A week to play catch-up and not much else. Loads of emails to answer. Very tired. Hard to get motivated.
March 14, 2003
We're trying to get our History Project moving. Goal is to do for other projects what has been done for the White Rose. A ton of submissions that require all of us reviewing and discussing and trying to decipher what we know enough about to tackle. It's painful telling someone we can't accept their work, especially when it's something that is in fact interesting.
We're trying to get our History Project moving. Goal is to do for other projects what has been done for the White Rose. A ton of submissions that require all of us reviewing and discussing and trying to decipher what we know enough about to tackle. It's painful telling someone we can't accept their work, especially when it's something that is in fact interesting.
March 7, 2003
Yea! Sometimes I can just get on a roll and write like I'm talking to someone face to face. Inspiration seems to come easy during weeks like this!
Not only completed the essay for the Dreyfus conference, but submitted a market-article to Children's Writer newsletter about religious markets for children's writers. It was one of the hardest ones to research ~ funny how editors for multi-cultural books seem to thrive on their work, but editors of children's religious books seem constantly constipated.
Both are done, out the door, finished, filed away. What a lovely feeling.
February 28, 2003
I have to finish the Dreyfus Conference speech. I love the material, it's just hard juggling everything.
February 21, 2003
The big snow! In many ways, it felt like a "reward" for all our hard work of the last couple months, and especially the last few weeks. Everything was quiet, peaceful, and when it stopped, there was laughter on the street as people worked together to move all the white stuff. Funny how difficult situations can bring out the very best in people!
Yea! Sometimes I can just get on a roll and write like I'm talking to someone face to face. Inspiration seems to come easy during weeks like this!
Not only completed the essay for the Dreyfus conference, but submitted a market-article to Children's Writer newsletter about religious markets for children's writers. It was one of the hardest ones to research ~ funny how editors for multi-cultural books seem to thrive on their work, but editors of children's religious books seem constantly constipated.
Both are done, out the door, finished, filed away. What a lovely feeling.
February 28, 2003
I have to finish the Dreyfus Conference speech. I love the material, it's just hard juggling everything.
February 21, 2003
The big snow! In many ways, it felt like a "reward" for all our hard work of the last couple months, and especially the last few weeks. Everything was quiet, peaceful, and when it stopped, there was laughter on the street as people worked together to move all the white stuff. Funny how difficult situations can bring out the very best in people!
June and California
I hate to say this and possibly offend truly-good friends made in Utah. But I will say it anyway and trust that they know my heart well enough: I am so happy to be out of that state, living and working in California.
The last two years now feel like a void in my life. Almost everything about Utah is harsh. Climate, high altitude, theocracy that poses as state government... add in lack of trees, lawns, shrubs, and flowers in most neighborhoods (including ours), and little of Utah cheers the soul or provides solace when a body hits the inevitable bump in the road.
No pretenses about California. Even with the overwhelming beauty of this place, with flowers peeking out of nooks and crannies, and waves crashing on pristine beaches, I know it is not paradise. Traffic, high rent, crime, state government on the verge of bankruptcy, these too are California. Even were I to strike it rich, landing somehow on the A-List, it would not make me or my family immune from LA freeways and daily headaches associated with the second largest city in these United States.
And yet I love the sunshine, the roar of the ocean, flowers casually draped on random walls. When the body is warmed and nourished, one's spirit may also revel in the abundance of Nature, an abundance that draws out stories and renews laughter.
My dear Joanie and Sid, abandoned in Utah for lack of breathing room, beckon me once again to tell their story. Last I wrote about them (The Generation), I could not imagine them in love. Here, I cannot imagine them otherwise.
Hansi and Frog, Ursula Grimm, Fritz and Lotte, Butterfly Lace, those other manuscripts buried under Utah's dust, now stand a chance of completion. I can "hear" the stories more clearly. Once again, I know the sound that red makes.
The last two years now feel like a void in my life. Almost everything about Utah is harsh. Climate, high altitude, theocracy that poses as state government... add in lack of trees, lawns, shrubs, and flowers in most neighborhoods (including ours), and little of Utah cheers the soul or provides solace when a body hits the inevitable bump in the road.
No pretenses about California. Even with the overwhelming beauty of this place, with flowers peeking out of nooks and crannies, and waves crashing on pristine beaches, I know it is not paradise. Traffic, high rent, crime, state government on the verge of bankruptcy, these too are California. Even were I to strike it rich, landing somehow on the A-List, it would not make me or my family immune from LA freeways and daily headaches associated with the second largest city in these United States.
And yet I love the sunshine, the roar of the ocean, flowers casually draped on random walls. When the body is warmed and nourished, one's spirit may also revel in the abundance of Nature, an abundance that draws out stories and renews laughter.
My dear Joanie and Sid, abandoned in Utah for lack of breathing room, beckon me once again to tell their story. Last I wrote about them (The Generation), I could not imagine them in love. Here, I cannot imagine them otherwise.
Hansi and Frog, Ursula Grimm, Fritz and Lotte, Butterfly Lace, those other manuscripts buried under Utah's dust, now stand a chance of completion. I can "hear" the stories more clearly. Once again, I know the sound that red makes.
History: January through December 2002
November 1, 2002
Finished my first-ever screenplay, The Brickmaker's Son. Don't worry, I'll post the notice here when Spielberg options the script.
October 11, 2002
One of the best things about living "up North" is that you are so close to so many beautiful things. After a difficult September, I called my mom and said, "Why don't we just hit the road?" So with next to no idea what we wanted to do or see, we threw together some clothes, filled up the trusty Saturn, and headed north.
First stop was Niagara Falls. It was more spectacular than we could have imagined. We did the "Maid of the Mist" boat ride. Drenched to the skin, blinded by the spray, we joined in the hilarity with a group of Japanese tourists. I'm always amazed at how an experience like that can bring together total strangers. By the end of the twenty minute (too short!) ride, we were laughing together and even posing in their pictures for back home.
We are easily fascinated; little things can keep us happy for hours on end. We chanced upon the St. Lawrence Seaway and gawked at ships moving through the locks between great lakes. Waved at the sailors, flirted as they passed by almost at eye level. And the bridges!
One day we ate lunch on Lake Ontario, checking out abandoned ships. And we watched the sun set on Lake Erie. Coming home, we made our way through Mexico and Texas (towns in upstate New York) and spent the night in the Adirondacks, vowing to return and spend at least a month in a cabin there.
It's funny... Great architecture can be inspiring. Who has not oohhed and ahhed inside the Muenster in Ulm or atop the Empire State Building? But when our batteries need recharging, there is no better place than Nature. Nothing more refreshing than crisp mountain air or a sea breeze.
Especially when the trees are ablaze.
September 30, 2002
A difficult month, largely due to health issues. But our next big project is underway ~ a practical translation of an 1879 German cookbook. Turns out the Max Dade Institute is publishing a fairly literal translation of exactly the same cookbook, but their version will only complement ours. Our edition updates the recipes for the 21st century kitchen, while retaining historical information that make it more than just a cookbook. I'm helping with the translation work, but someone else is editing and working out the details. For once, I have the easy job!
August 16, 2002
Taking one of those welcome breaks to look at other back-burner projects and figure out what's next. I keep coming back to my sci-fi effort, The Generation. It's writing that makes me smile even as it's in progress. I genuinely like the people I'm envisioning.
And yes, all the strange things you've ever heard about writers "talking to" their fictional characters and letting those fictional characters "control" the scene... I hate to tell you this, but it's all true! You know you're a real writer when you can celebrate your strangeness.
May 31, 2002
Initial catalog mailing is done! (Note: If you are reading this and you have never received one of our catalogs, post a comment-question here and I will make sure the publisher adds you to the mailing list.) It's a double-edged sword, being this small. Tedious doing this kind of clerical work, but fun too, because we all pitch in. With laughter, even dull jobs are worthwhile.
June 21, 2002
Finished article on researching tools for Children's Writer Annual Yearbook (2003). Just ten years ago, our options were far more limited than they are now. We couldn't Google to our heart's content, dredging up minutiae on obscure topics. Now Herzl's complete Judenstaat can be read online from the library of the University of Augsburg, Yale carries the full text of the Treaty of Versailles, and Calvin College's Web site allows access to the dark world of Nazi propaganda. In 1992, finding those three documents would have required living in close proximity to a good university library. These days, you just need Internet access.
June 7, 2002
Quick update to Jotter's Blotter (creative writing workbook), for an odd (but welcome) flurry of orders all at once. White Rose isn't the only thing in life. We all need these other projects to keep us sane and focused.
January 31, 2002
If anyone had told me that being the executor of my grandmother's estate would be this much work, I wouldn't have believed them. She did not have all that much. She had disbursed her furniture and antiques in 1996 when she moved from her forever-home to a retirement center.
And she was only in the hospital four days before she died. And she had no debt.
So why is this so amazingly hard? Not complaining, as much as wondering aloud why corporations like Southwestern Bell and Time Warner Cable are incapable of handling easy transactions correctly the first time around. Maybe politically, this is the real story ~ "Al Qaeda" is merely the distraction to make us forget that customer service and quality assurance are nearly nonexistent in these United States.
January 3, 2002
My grandmother died this afternoon, so it may be a couple of weeks before I can update this journal. Heading to Houston tomorrow, driving a U-Haul back (hopefully not in the snow and ice). She had a long and relatively good life.
Finished my first-ever screenplay, The Brickmaker's Son. Don't worry, I'll post the notice here when Spielberg options the script.
October 11, 2002
One of the best things about living "up North" is that you are so close to so many beautiful things. After a difficult September, I called my mom and said, "Why don't we just hit the road?" So with next to no idea what we wanted to do or see, we threw together some clothes, filled up the trusty Saturn, and headed north.
First stop was Niagara Falls. It was more spectacular than we could have imagined. We did the "Maid of the Mist" boat ride. Drenched to the skin, blinded by the spray, we joined in the hilarity with a group of Japanese tourists. I'm always amazed at how an experience like that can bring together total strangers. By the end of the twenty minute (too short!) ride, we were laughing together and even posing in their pictures for back home.
We are easily fascinated; little things can keep us happy for hours on end. We chanced upon the St. Lawrence Seaway and gawked at ships moving through the locks between great lakes. Waved at the sailors, flirted as they passed by almost at eye level. And the bridges!
One day we ate lunch on Lake Ontario, checking out abandoned ships. And we watched the sun set on Lake Erie. Coming home, we made our way through Mexico and Texas (towns in upstate New York) and spent the night in the Adirondacks, vowing to return and spend at least a month in a cabin there.
It's funny... Great architecture can be inspiring. Who has not oohhed and ahhed inside the Muenster in Ulm or atop the Empire State Building? But when our batteries need recharging, there is no better place than Nature. Nothing more refreshing than crisp mountain air or a sea breeze.
Especially when the trees are ablaze.
September 30, 2002
A difficult month, largely due to health issues. But our next big project is underway ~ a practical translation of an 1879 German cookbook. Turns out the Max Dade Institute is publishing a fairly literal translation of exactly the same cookbook, but their version will only complement ours. Our edition updates the recipes for the 21st century kitchen, while retaining historical information that make it more than just a cookbook. I'm helping with the translation work, but someone else is editing and working out the details. For once, I have the easy job!
August 16, 2002
Taking one of those welcome breaks to look at other back-burner projects and figure out what's next. I keep coming back to my sci-fi effort, The Generation. It's writing that makes me smile even as it's in progress. I genuinely like the people I'm envisioning.
And yes, all the strange things you've ever heard about writers "talking to" their fictional characters and letting those fictional characters "control" the scene... I hate to tell you this, but it's all true! You know you're a real writer when you can celebrate your strangeness.
May 31, 2002
Initial catalog mailing is done! (Note: If you are reading this and you have never received one of our catalogs, post a comment-question here and I will make sure the publisher adds you to the mailing list.) It's a double-edged sword, being this small. Tedious doing this kind of clerical work, but fun too, because we all pitch in. With laughter, even dull jobs are worthwhile.
June 21, 2002
Finished article on researching tools for Children's Writer Annual Yearbook (2003). Just ten years ago, our options were far more limited than they are now. We couldn't Google to our heart's content, dredging up minutiae on obscure topics. Now Herzl's complete Judenstaat can be read online from the library of the University of Augsburg, Yale carries the full text of the Treaty of Versailles, and Calvin College's Web site allows access to the dark world of Nazi propaganda. In 1992, finding those three documents would have required living in close proximity to a good university library. These days, you just need Internet access.
June 7, 2002
Quick update to Jotter's Blotter (creative writing workbook), for an odd (but welcome) flurry of orders all at once. White Rose isn't the only thing in life. We all need these other projects to keep us sane and focused.
January 31, 2002
If anyone had told me that being the executor of my grandmother's estate would be this much work, I wouldn't have believed them. She did not have all that much. She had disbursed her furniture and antiques in 1996 when she moved from her forever-home to a retirement center.
And she was only in the hospital four days before she died. And she had no debt.
So why is this so amazingly hard? Not complaining, as much as wondering aloud why corporations like Southwestern Bell and Time Warner Cable are incapable of handling easy transactions correctly the first time around. Maybe politically, this is the real story ~ "Al Qaeda" is merely the distraction to make us forget that customer service and quality assurance are nearly nonexistent in these United States.
January 3, 2002
My grandmother died this afternoon, so it may be a couple of weeks before I can update this journal. Heading to Houston tomorrow, driving a U-Haul back (hopefully not in the snow and ice). She had a long and relatively good life.
The Education
I proved that lemma beyond the shadow of a doubt
Logic tree impeccable
Givens in a row
Precise and calculated
To impress Einstein himself
You said if the limit of y equals zero, my proof falls apart
Line three becomes invalid
The givens do not matter
And I am flat out wrong
I wrote an impressive essay on the viability of humor as a tool for advancing political activism
Sources cited perfectly
Footnotes backing up my thesis
Quotes from experts
Like Roosevelt and Stalin
You showed that humor in the nineteen hundreds usually missed its mark and failed
To effect a lasting change
That parody produced entertainment
And I needed to read some more
I composed a remarkable waltz in five four time to revolutionize the music industry
And choreographed the dance
With simple steps
That anyone could follow
In the style of Strauss and company
You pointed out the weakness inherent in three chord progressions
Noting where a minor key
Could make the twirling sparkle
And told me to start over
I said I would never undertake to be original again
My math had soured
Words failed me
No one danced to my music
And no one ever would
You led me to your desk, retrieving sheaves of paper bound in ribbons blue with age
Scribbles on your dissertation draft
Red circles slashing page-long proofs
Tightly written notes defining errors in your reason
Clarinet solos marked beyond recognition
Failure written on the work that you had done
Failure written on the work that you had done?
I added a minor inversion to the second movement
And glanced up to see you dancing
(c) 2001, Ruth Hanna Sachs. Excerpted from Changing Seasons.
Logic tree impeccable
Givens in a row
Precise and calculated
To impress Einstein himself
You said if the limit of y equals zero, my proof falls apart
Line three becomes invalid
The givens do not matter
And I am flat out wrong
I wrote an impressive essay on the viability of humor as a tool for advancing political activism
Sources cited perfectly
Footnotes backing up my thesis
Quotes from experts
Like Roosevelt and Stalin
You showed that humor in the nineteen hundreds usually missed its mark and failed
To effect a lasting change
That parody produced entertainment
And I needed to read some more
I composed a remarkable waltz in five four time to revolutionize the music industry
And choreographed the dance
With simple steps
That anyone could follow
In the style of Strauss and company
You pointed out the weakness inherent in three chord progressions
Noting where a minor key
Could make the twirling sparkle
And told me to start over
I said I would never undertake to be original again
My math had soured
Words failed me
No one danced to my music
And no one ever would
You led me to your desk, retrieving sheaves of paper bound in ribbons blue with age
Scribbles on your dissertation draft
Red circles slashing page-long proofs
Tightly written notes defining errors in your reason
Clarinet solos marked beyond recognition
Failure written on the work that you had done
Failure written on the work that you had done?
I added a minor inversion to the second movement
And glanced up to see you dancing
(c) 2001, Ruth Hanna Sachs. Excerpted from Changing Seasons.
History: January through December 2001
December 27, 2001
What a great way to end this tough year! Database cranked back up. Exclamation! Publishers now accepts credit cards, so hopefully that will improve the marketability of my books. Funny how you have to think about even little things like that... Well, the well-worn and horribly romantic image of a writer writing and pacing and drinking himself silly sure has taken a hit this year. Writing is proving to be much more of a "job" than anyone ever lets on. A job, to be sure, that I wouldn't trade for anything. And that, my friends, is a great place to be.
December 20, 2001
Finished a "markets" piece for Children's Writer Newsletter. Researched which publishers are looking for adventure pieces in 2002 and early 2003.
December 6, 2001
The Enron mess is pretty awful, but surely should not have caught anyone unawares. The way it is being heralded as a huge surprise only points out that we do not keep up with international news nearly enough. Dabhol, UK plant explosion, Enron's walking away from the pipeline in UAE, all should have been clear signals that something was brewing. ~ Did people choose not to know, or is this a case of censorship at work?
November 29, 2001
Birthday tomorrow reminds me that we all get older and slower, no matter what we do or where we live. Oh well. Enjoying the journey, and that is what matters most.
November 22, 2001
So much to be thankful for, and I don't even mean the "biggies". Strong sense this year of needing to understand that so much that I am "thankful" for comes at the expense of others who receive little or no wage (much less thanks) for their labor.
November 15, 2001
The article is done, out the door. When it came time to quit the self-editing and proclaim it a done deal, it was a little scary. How can one person give another person advice on that trickiest of ages, the teen years? I didn't figure it out when I was that age. Maybe that's the greatest thing I had going for me, even as I hesitated to dispense advice: I could remember the agony of being sixteen.
November 8, 2001
Working on an article for a new magazine called Parenting Teens, I am awed by how honest and forthright people can be. Is it possible that there is far greater decency and respect among us than the media portrays? All is not lost.
September 27, 2001
Putting together a resume for a prospective client this week, I was reminded just how rich life is when you do nothing but live it from day to day. We could all be writers, we could all be poets. Even the deepest wounds make us grow and give us character we would not have were we to live simple, sheltered lives.
September 13, 2001
There is nothing else to write except for deepest grief at the events of this week. On Monday, facing a week full of bright prospects, we could never have imagined how changed our world would be today, how very different we have all become in so short a space.
May our innocence lost turn to wisdom gained.
August 2, 2001
When a person thinks about becoming a writer (or at least when I did), there's this romantic vision of sitting at a computer and pouring meaningful words onto a blank page. I remember the early days, writing whenever inspiration struck... usually late at night. It was simply fun, that theater of and for one.
I still love to write, but have discovered in the interim that it's a business like anything else. The routine may "interfere" with the creative, but it enables it as well. Would not trade this business for any other! Keeping routine and creativity in balance is, however, a dance on egg shells.
July 13, 2001
It's been one of those weeks where, if you touch it, it breaks. I'm sure that no one reading this has ever had a week like that. (Yeah right.) Guess these days make me appreciate other times when creativity comes easy, when everything rhymes, and mistakes are unehard of, I mean unheard of.
In the meantime, I've been reading the new John Adams biography. Astounding, isn't it, how many stories we once knew are quickly forgotten. He lived a scant 200 years ago. What have we forgotten from time even more immemorial?
July 5, 2001
On this day after we celebrate our declaration of independence, it is sobering to realize that not everywhere and not in every time have people enjoyed so much luxury of freedom as we do here in these United States.
June 21, 2001
First day of summer. Such a glorious time of year. Energy to create, to think, to be. Sometimes, words are too much.
April 19, 2001
Eight days and counting till the release of my first book of poetry, Changing Seasons. Hope that when it's the 100th book about to be released, I'll be as excited as I am about this second one. It is a gift all its own, to be thrilled by intangibles and made happy by privileges.
April 16, 2001
You know you're growing older when your knee gives out. And the doctor says the awful A-word: Arthritis. I've been so pre-occupied with pain that Thursday came and went without my thinking about this Web site even once.
Funny though how accepting a new limitation can broaden a horizon and make me look for new ways of exercising and staying active. Give a little, get a little. Get a lot?
April 5, 2001
Hope that by this time next week, I can write in this journal about all the wonderful dialog I've put down on paper, or the translations finished and "in the book." But at least I can look back on the last seven days and know they have been good, they have hardly been wasted. Tax returns and the like keep me out of trouble ... that's the prevailing theory.
And it is finally, gloriously springtime. From last night to this morning, it's like the earth exhaled and trees greened. Forsythia's showing faintly yellow. Before long, there will be such a dazzle of color! Perfect time to be a writer. Cannot imagine being anything else.
March 29, 2001
Smiles enough, and laughter the last seven days. Putting aside White Rose has been like opening the windows on a gorgeous spring day, letting in the fresh air. Mark Twain has that effect on you. I've simply got to finish White Rose, so I can go back to Joanie and Sid.
Have practiced writing in different voices this week. Nothing publishable. In fact, I need to shred anything that made it to the printer. It is simply a delicious exercise, thinking out loud from another point of view.
I think sometimes we've got to back away from the things that normally consume our lives and stand in the sunshine a while. Clears out cobwebs hidden by the dark. This I will do!
March 15, 2001
Not a writing week! Stephen King may say that every writer should write ten pages a day, but odds are, he doesn't have to deal with car repairs and telephone people. Only one-and-a-half pages this week. For the whole week. Sometimes you just have to be thankful for what you do get done and quit obsessing over the work you wanted to do.
Oh well. At least the imminent trip to the garage turned into a new car instead. Fun shedding the staid, business-image automobile for something a little more me.
March 8, 2001
Varied week, lots of little things accomplished. Sometimes a break from the darkness of the Third Reich is very much in order.
Finished one article for Children's Writer, started another. Doing these makes me understand a little more here or there about the corners of writing that I am still discovering, the niches that are out there, still unexplored.
Also started translation work for hagalil.com, that excellent German Jewish Web site. Focusing first on contemporary German Jewish life, because so much Shoah material is already available in English. It's a breath of fresh air to write about today's struggles, joys, and perplexities, instead of always looking to the past for inspiration.
Looking to the "future" too, as a very strange and funny dream may have solved the way to get Joanie to talk again. Maybe I can write a chapter or two there next week, get her story moving. Need to look up something about Jupiter, so I can get the commentary right. I like the days I work on Joanie's Letters, because I find myself laughing as I write.
What a great way to end this tough year! Database cranked back up. Exclamation! Publishers now accepts credit cards, so hopefully that will improve the marketability of my books. Funny how you have to think about even little things like that... Well, the well-worn and horribly romantic image of a writer writing and pacing and drinking himself silly sure has taken a hit this year. Writing is proving to be much more of a "job" than anyone ever lets on. A job, to be sure, that I wouldn't trade for anything. And that, my friends, is a great place to be.
December 20, 2001
Finished a "markets" piece for Children's Writer Newsletter. Researched which publishers are looking for adventure pieces in 2002 and early 2003.
December 6, 2001
The Enron mess is pretty awful, but surely should not have caught anyone unawares. The way it is being heralded as a huge surprise only points out that we do not keep up with international news nearly enough. Dabhol, UK plant explosion, Enron's walking away from the pipeline in UAE, all should have been clear signals that something was brewing. ~ Did people choose not to know, or is this a case of censorship at work?
November 29, 2001
Birthday tomorrow reminds me that we all get older and slower, no matter what we do or where we live. Oh well. Enjoying the journey, and that is what matters most.
November 22, 2001
So much to be thankful for, and I don't even mean the "biggies". Strong sense this year of needing to understand that so much that I am "thankful" for comes at the expense of others who receive little or no wage (much less thanks) for their labor.
November 15, 2001
The article is done, out the door. When it came time to quit the self-editing and proclaim it a done deal, it was a little scary. How can one person give another person advice on that trickiest of ages, the teen years? I didn't figure it out when I was that age. Maybe that's the greatest thing I had going for me, even as I hesitated to dispense advice: I could remember the agony of being sixteen.
November 8, 2001
Working on an article for a new magazine called Parenting Teens, I am awed by how honest and forthright people can be. Is it possible that there is far greater decency and respect among us than the media portrays? All is not lost.
September 27, 2001
Putting together a resume for a prospective client this week, I was reminded just how rich life is when you do nothing but live it from day to day. We could all be writers, we could all be poets. Even the deepest wounds make us grow and give us character we would not have were we to live simple, sheltered lives.
September 13, 2001
There is nothing else to write except for deepest grief at the events of this week. On Monday, facing a week full of bright prospects, we could never have imagined how changed our world would be today, how very different we have all become in so short a space.
May our innocence lost turn to wisdom gained.
August 2, 2001
When a person thinks about becoming a writer (or at least when I did), there's this romantic vision of sitting at a computer and pouring meaningful words onto a blank page. I remember the early days, writing whenever inspiration struck... usually late at night. It was simply fun, that theater of and for one.
I still love to write, but have discovered in the interim that it's a business like anything else. The routine may "interfere" with the creative, but it enables it as well. Would not trade this business for any other! Keeping routine and creativity in balance is, however, a dance on egg shells.
July 13, 2001
It's been one of those weeks where, if you touch it, it breaks. I'm sure that no one reading this has ever had a week like that. (Yeah right.) Guess these days make me appreciate other times when creativity comes easy, when everything rhymes, and mistakes are unehard of, I mean unheard of.
In the meantime, I've been reading the new John Adams biography. Astounding, isn't it, how many stories we once knew are quickly forgotten. He lived a scant 200 years ago. What have we forgotten from time even more immemorial?
July 5, 2001
On this day after we celebrate our declaration of independence, it is sobering to realize that not everywhere and not in every time have people enjoyed so much luxury of freedom as we do here in these United States.
June 21, 2001
First day of summer. Such a glorious time of year. Energy to create, to think, to be. Sometimes, words are too much.
April 19, 2001
Eight days and counting till the release of my first book of poetry, Changing Seasons. Hope that when it's the 100th book about to be released, I'll be as excited as I am about this second one. It is a gift all its own, to be thrilled by intangibles and made happy by privileges.
April 16, 2001
You know you're growing older when your knee gives out. And the doctor says the awful A-word: Arthritis. I've been so pre-occupied with pain that Thursday came and went without my thinking about this Web site even once.
Funny though how accepting a new limitation can broaden a horizon and make me look for new ways of exercising and staying active. Give a little, get a little. Get a lot?
April 5, 2001
Hope that by this time next week, I can write in this journal about all the wonderful dialog I've put down on paper, or the translations finished and "in the book." But at least I can look back on the last seven days and know they have been good, they have hardly been wasted. Tax returns and the like keep me out of trouble ... that's the prevailing theory.
And it is finally, gloriously springtime. From last night to this morning, it's like the earth exhaled and trees greened. Forsythia's showing faintly yellow. Before long, there will be such a dazzle of color! Perfect time to be a writer. Cannot imagine being anything else.
March 29, 2001
Smiles enough, and laughter the last seven days. Putting aside White Rose has been like opening the windows on a gorgeous spring day, letting in the fresh air. Mark Twain has that effect on you. I've simply got to finish White Rose, so I can go back to Joanie and Sid.
Have practiced writing in different voices this week. Nothing publishable. In fact, I need to shred anything that made it to the printer. It is simply a delicious exercise, thinking out loud from another point of view.
I think sometimes we've got to back away from the things that normally consume our lives and stand in the sunshine a while. Clears out cobwebs hidden by the dark. This I will do!
March 15, 2001
Not a writing week! Stephen King may say that every writer should write ten pages a day, but odds are, he doesn't have to deal with car repairs and telephone people. Only one-and-a-half pages this week. For the whole week. Sometimes you just have to be thankful for what you do get done and quit obsessing over the work you wanted to do.
Oh well. At least the imminent trip to the garage turned into a new car instead. Fun shedding the staid, business-image automobile for something a little more me.
March 8, 2001
Varied week, lots of little things accomplished. Sometimes a break from the darkness of the Third Reich is very much in order.
Finished one article for Children's Writer, started another. Doing these makes me understand a little more here or there about the corners of writing that I am still discovering, the niches that are out there, still unexplored.
Also started translation work for hagalil.com, that excellent German Jewish Web site. Focusing first on contemporary German Jewish life, because so much Shoah material is already available in English. It's a breath of fresh air to write about today's struggles, joys, and perplexities, instead of always looking to the past for inspiration.
Looking to the "future" too, as a very strange and funny dream may have solved the way to get Joanie to talk again. Maybe I can write a chapter or two there next week, get her story moving. Need to look up something about Jupiter, so I can get the commentary right. I like the days I work on Joanie's Letters, because I find myself laughing as I write.
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