A Writer's Conundrum

David and I meet Curtis, Anna, and Anna’s father, Eugene, in the foyer of the ballroom at the St. Regis.  We’re looking forward to getting to know Anna’s dad, who is Russian, and turns out to be interesting and dignified.  He and Anna share several facial features—same nose, eyes, mouth.  Eugene’s wife, Anna’s mom, is in Moscow seeing to some issues concerning her elderly mother.  We haven’t met her yet, but will eventually, as Anna and Curtis are buying a house together. 

The St. Regis is a wonderful venue for a zero-labor Thanksgiving feast.  We’re led into the dining area, and the waiter starts pouring champagne as soon as we’re seated.  A tray of shot-sized Bloody Marys is also offered around the table.

“I haven’t seen a blog posting in a while,” Curtis tells me. 

“I haven’t felt inspired,” I say.  “Also, I was confounded by the response to the last blog.  Everybody took it so seriously.  I heard from people I haven’t heard from in years.  I heard from people I don’t even know.”  

“You think highly of yourself,” Curtis says.  “I doubt it was that far-reaching.”  He sips his itty-bitty Bloody Mary and looks superior. 

“I thought it was real,” Anna says, reminding me that she was only one of many who took the posting to heart. 

“Its believability simply shows how good I am at what I do,” I respond.  No weak egos in this family. 

Anna doesn’t judge, but I have to ask myself, if I were Anna, if I believed it, would I resent a fabrication being presented as full-fact when it isn’t?  Hoping to alleviate this feeling of guilt brought on by all the commiserating and indignant feedback I received, I scramble for an explanation.

“I didn’t set out to fool anybody,” I say, desperately seeking an excuse.  “What I do is right there on the homepage of my website.  It’s clearly stated in the upper right corner—I WRITE STORIES.”

“Yes, but is it right to present something as truth when it’s not?” David asks.  Coming from him, this causes consternation.  In any situation, his response is always the righteous one. 

“You’re making this about right and wrong?” I ask defensively.  “As the person with the power over the keyboard, I’m entitled to write whatever I want.  Sometimes a blog is completely true; sometimes there’s an element of truth; and sometimes there’s no truth whatsoever.”

“Then you need to make that clear.”  Curtis believes in clarity.    

I thought I had.  I once posted a blog about the life of a rock.  I wrote another one about how I gave away my neighbor’s dog, which was no more than wishful thinking.  Is there a new RV park up the road?  Yes.  Is the manager a loser who peed in the local fountain?  Maybe.  I’d even say likely, considering the bizarre location and weirdly uninhabited state of the place. 

The posting about the woman confronting me in the grocery store was a mixture of fiction and nonfiction.  It’s true that I once callously called a girl fat after the painful gym weigh-in; but the way I learned she held a grudge was when, ten years later, she refused to meet with a group of her friends for a drink when she learned that I’d be there.  At the time I thought it was ridiculous that she would stay angry for ten years.  The notion of her irrational grudge-keeping stayed with me, and at one point a couple of months ago, it occurred to me that if that girl was mad for ten years, she might've stayed mad for twenty or even thirty years.  I wondered—if she saw me now, would she still be mad?  So I played “What if?” 

So here’s my quandary.  Do I do as Curtis advises, and be clear?  I could label each posting as REALLY HAPPENED, PARTIALLY CREATIVE, or TOTALLY MADE UP.  Am I obligated to make this distinction?  As an author, I honestly feel that I have a right to do whatever I want.  Also, doesn't the question of veracity lend intrigue?  I think I’d better have another tiny Bloody Mary and give it more thought. 

Anna and Curtis make each other happy.

Happy Thanksgiving!  

Our niece, Keri, has been battling cancer for over two years.  Curtis, David, and I visited her in the hospital on Friday morning.  She talked about what would happen after she was gone, which was heartbreaking.  We love you, Keri.  

The new RV Park.  There are fourteen stations.  Someone moved this fifth-wheel on to the property a couple of months ago.  Doesn't this look like a front for some nefarious activity?  

Body Issues

“Are you Jenny Haenisch?”

The woman’s voice, beside my right shoulder, surprises me.  I’m at the cheese counter in the grocery store, the last place I expect to be addressed as Haenisch.  I take panicked inventory—hair, clothes, jewelry.  Well, hell.  This is one of my fallow days—dirty hair, no make-up, baggy clothes.  When I go out looking like this it’s a given that I’m going to run into someone I know, so why do I do it?  Resigned, I turn to the woman.

Several inches taller than I am, and twice as broad, her most obvious feature is a cascade of thick silver curls.  Her expression is thunderous.  An old enemy, then.  I’ve made a few along the way.  If she doesn’t like me, why did she approach?

“Hi,” I say.  “Yes, that’s me.  Your hair is absolutely stunning.”  I’ve lived in seven countries in thirty years, and one thing I’ve learned is how to defuse crazies.  Even insane people appreciate a compliment. 

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

I give a good look, but no, she doesn’t look familiar.

“Sorry,” I say.  “I haven’t gone by Haenisch for over thirty years.”

“Mary Lynn Bridges.”  She spits her own name out like it’s vile.

Way more than thirty years, then.  I haven’t seen her since junior high.  She was pretty, with big blue eyes and long lashes, a giantess even as a child.  Her hair was glorious, as it still is.  She had a right to be upset with me back then because I said something mean about her, but I don’t get why she dislikes me now. 

“Are you still mad at me?”  My tone is disbelieving.  Surely she hasn’t been carrying a grudge all this time. 

“Every cell in my body hates you.”  Creepy and mean. 

“I was thirteen.”  I wish myself anywhere but here.   

The infraction:  In eighth grade gym class every girl was required to stand on a scale while the gym teacher, a scrappy woman with a whistle, would call out each student’s weight, to be recorded by an aid who sat at a desk in the corner.  I was shy, an introverted flute-player, obsessed with my weight, and warned daily by both my parents that if I ate I’d get fat.  I found the public weigh-in to be humiliating, more so when it turned out that, at one-thirteen, I weighed the second most in the class.  The only person who weighed more, at one twenty-eight, was Mary Lynn Bridges.  Hovering near my locker, I whispered to myself, “At least I’m not as fat as Mary Lynn Bridges.”  Though I said this to make myself feel better, it was shallow comfort.  I knew full well that she was several inches taller than I was and could carry the weight.  And I was so distracted by the whole painful process that I forgot that the locker next to mine belonged to Sue Webb, Mary Lynn’s best friend.  And Sue, who’d heard my callow whisper, couldn’t wait to tell Mary Lynn that I’d called her fat.  Before I knew it, I was Mary Lynn’s enemy, and the enemy of her friends, too.  People turned away from me in the halls and no one would sit with me during lunch.  Philosophically, I took all this as an appropriate punishment for doing something so profoundly stupid. 

Time marched on.  We went to high school.  I made new friends who didn’t know I’d once called someone fat.  And I gave the matter no more consideration until right this second, as this past nemesis has me trapped in front of the cheese.

“I hope your life has been hell.”  At this point she actually crowds me, so that I have to retreat or get stepped on.  “I’ve always hoped you were dead.”

Shaken, I manage to squeeze past her and limp away.  (Yes, limp, for my toe remains broken.  It’s taking forever to heal.)  I pay for my items and make my way to my car.  By the time I slide behind the wheel I’m trembling and my eyes are flooded.  Really, I ask myself, who behaves that way?  I hate confrontation.  I hate that she reminded me of that year when no one liked me.  It takes several minutes of sitting still and breathing deeply before I’m calm enough to drive.  And dammit, she made me forget the cheese.

I’m reluctant to end my outing on such a sour note.  On the way home I stop at Dillard’s.  Mary Lynn may have impressive hair, but she is a bully, and she’ll never look as good as I do in jeans.  I buy a pair of Kutts, which cheers me right up. 

Me on a fallow day.  No make-up or earrings, baggy jeans.  See the boot--toe still broken.  

I spend a lot of time here.  

Boys in my Head

Curtis is a lawyer in Houston and Sam is running his own company in Beijing.  Two successful smart young men.  Because we all live in different places, our conversations are usually carried out electronically.  Both my sons are wise and I value their input, which is why, when Sam tells me I need to work on my branding, I’m flummoxed.  My what?  I type this message to him:

Isn’t branding a trendy term for PR?  I guess my idea for branding is that I want people to associate my name with quality enjoyable writing. 

Curtis chimes in, advising that I need to be more specific.  There are many writers who produce quality enjoyable fiction.  I should be aiming for something that makes me stand out.  He gives examples:  Subaru is the durable outdoorsy brand; Wholefoods is organic; Starbucks means good coffee everywhere, anytime.  It’s cause for introspection.  What makes my fiction unique?  How do I build a reputation when I can’t define what I do or what I stand for? 

Then Sam tells me that I need to target a specific group with my blog.

What does that even mean? I write.  My upcoming novel’s about a recovering cocaine addict who takes up urban exploration as a hobby.  Also, it’s funny.  Should I target cocaine-addicted urbexers with a keen sense of humor?  Also, how does one go about targeting? 

He answers without directly answering.  What I need to do, I’m told, is stop producing blah posts about my day-to-day activities and my road trips, and share my views about something controversial, something with substance, like politics or education.  “Or hey,” he tells me, “you’re a writer, so blog about creativity.”  As if there aren’t already too many writers writing about writing. 

At this point Curtis informs me that the TV show, The Gilmore Girls, is doing a reboot on Netflix, and I simply lose focus on irrelevant fluff like branding and targeting.  A day or two later, after my excitement winds down to a manageable level, I get back to it.  Controversial, Sam said.  Substantial.  Politics, education, and writing.   Where’s the possibility for my beloved fiction in any of that?  I’m no scholar or statistician.  Like most people, I have opinions, though, sadly, no new ideas.  But hey, writing when I have nothing to say is what I do.  I can come up with a few paragraphs.   

Politics:  Though I’m pressed from all sides by conservative influences, I tend to think independently, giving allegiance to neither party.  I respect the office of president and never, in the last seven years, have I spoken disparagingly about President Obama, who is sincere in his intentions and efforts.  As a Christian, I believe my demeanor in this world should be the opposite of divisive, an instrument of unity; and the haters, accusers, and nay-sayers need to think about that.  On the other hand, I simply don’t want to look at Hillary Clinton for another four years.  She’s been on my TV screen for way too long.  And Bernie Sanders has some good ideas, but he’s too old and his foreign policy’s weak.  Please, please, Democrats, bring someone else to the table.  Having said that, what’s going on with the Republicans?  A disrespectful narcissistic misogynist who’s too proud and stubborn to compromise—yeah, that’s who I want building relationships with foreign nations. 

Education:  Maintaining a vibrant and successful education system is the most relevant and vital pursuit of an advanced society.  Here in the US parents undermine teachers; teachers criticize parents while expecting their support; and the students’ loyalties are muddled.  I’ve known lazy teachers and brilliant parents.  I’ve known inspiring teachers and self-absorbed parents.  In the beginning there was a teacher in a schoolhouse.  Later came big buildings, maintenance, insurance, credit unions, and pensions.  Then school systems went into the business of feeding children and providing extended day care; in effect, parenting.  The horrifying truth is that out of a lovely dream, a massive sucking beast emerged.  What’s the solution?  I haven’t one, but the approach must be one of constant advancement.  Make changes.  When old changes stop working, make new changes.  Never quit moving forward.  Only through relentless feeding will the beast evolve. 

Writing:  I wrote yesterday morning from five a.m. to seven a.m.  I wrote this morning from five a.m. to seven a.m.  I will write tomorrow from five a.m to seven a.m.  Writers write. 

So.  Branding—did pounding out this blog clarify what I want people’s first thought to be when they see my name on a book jacket?  Absolutely not. 

Targeting—there’s nothing in this posting that would appeal to any particular group, unless that group is composed of women, aged fifty-something, with their adult sons’ voices in their heads. 

This posting didn't really call for a picture, so I put this one of me in.  Do I look flummoxed?  

RV Park

An unknown entity is constructing an RV park up 401, about a mile and a half from our house.  David and I often walk this road and, for the most part, enjoy the views and creature-sightings.  But the place where the RV park is being built must be the most ugly piece of land in the Hill Country.  As there are many extremely attractive RV sites in the area, with clear water, live oaks, and hiking trails, the placement makes no sense.  This project is miles from shops or gentle shadowy hills or any of the lakes.  We’ve been keeping an eye on its progress, and what we see is a big square cut out of the hard dirt, offering nothing but cactus and rocks. 

So, not thrilled about this addition to our calm neighborhood, and realizing that all decisions were finalized long before we moved here, I make a trip to the Burnet County Land Office to find out who owns the land and how this development gained sanction.  Here’s the story as told to me by a heavy woman on the other side of the counter: 

“Herb’s been in trouble all his life, from the time he was a child, all the way to right now.”  She shakes her head in sad disapproval.  “He’s been in and out of jail several times for minor offences, until, finally, the police said next time he got arrested for doing something stupid, they were going to throw the book at him.”

“That’s not good,” I say.  “But what does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m telling you.  And then he got drunk and peed in the fountain, which was right across the street from the police station, and that demonstrates what sort of a lack of brains we’re talking about.  And they threw the book at him, just like they said they would.  So instead of being incarcerated for a couple of weeks, they put him away for a couple of months.  And though I don’t believe in throwing people in jail for being stupid, I’d be the first to agree that something had to be done.”

“Still not getting the connection.” 

“So Herb’s mom, Carol, a nice woman, but troubled, she goes to her brother, Mike—he’s the one with the money in the family—and asks him please to find work for Herb.  This makes Mike none too happy.  He knows Carol’s had a hard time, and she’s never come to him for help, but here she is, expecting him to come up with employment so easy an imbecile can do it.”

“There’re lots of jobs imbeciles can do.”  I hear the panic in my voice.  I see where this is going, and I’m not delighted.

“And it’s best if Herb’s away from town, where he can’t get into trouble.”

“But Main Street’s only seven minutes away from 401.”  I know; I’ve timed it. 

“Mike already owned the land, and the outlay is minimal—just needs some landscaping, plumbing hook-ups, and electricity.”

“And this Herb, who has no sense and drinks too much and pees in public, is going to manage this RV park around the corner from our gated community?”

“Ah, now, not to worry.  Herb’s harmless.  Besides, it’s not going to draw many people when there are so many nicer places around.”

“So an unpopular RV park, built on the cheap, is going in because someone’s nephew peed in a fountain?”

“That’s about right.”

I thank her and take my leave. 

Later, when David and I are on the back porch drinking our evening wine, I tell him what the lady told me. 

“And this guy’s name is Herb?” David asks.  “Are you making this up?”

"Why would I do that?" 

The sign was there months before they got started on the work.  

The hook-ups

Lanscaping