Such long fingers he has, I thought, upon seeing Garrison Keillor for the first time. I'd come to the First Congregational Church in downtown Portland to hear the writer speak. Even from my seat high in the second balcony I could see that Keillor was a man who liked red socks and had a tendency to go too long between haircuts. These traits, combined with his glasses, gave him a sort of elongated Stephen King look.
I also noticed something that made my heart sink. When he walked onto the stage, Keillor carried with him a copy of his new novel. I was disappointed to see this because I was tired of paying $12.50 for a lecture ticket only to have the speaker read from a book that I could just as well read from the comfort of my own bed.
But a few minutes into Keillor's speech I realized he'd also known disappointment. Perhaps that explained why, before breaking out his book, he buttered us up with several minutes of funny stories. Keillor is a skilled speaker with a soft, deep voice and a studied stammer that almost makes you believe he just now thought of what he's going to say next. For a few minutes I even forgot where I was and imagined myself sitting in a farmhouse across the kitchen table from Keillor, swapping stories over glasses of buttermilk.
Keillor's performance was nostalgic, sad and silly. The sappy parts particularly endeared him to me, for I consider it an act of courage for a grown man, especially a tall grown man, to act goofy.
Several of his sentences burned deep: He described his hometown of Anoka, Minnesota, as a town where "at least twice a year nature tries to kill you." Life, he said, is "a continual conflict between loyalty and curiosity." And a storyteller is "someone who feels more comfortable with his relatives at a distance." His monologue went on to include a sing-a-long and more than one dirty limerick, by which time Keillor had me in the palm of his large, long-fingered hand.
After the reading, everyone was invited downstairs to meet the author. I hoped I might have enough nerve to go up and talk with him but that did not prove to be the case. I did spend some minutes hanging around the water fountain, pretending I was getting a drink when in fact I was watching the writer from a safe distance, which was when I noticed his shoes ─ black with thick rubber soles and somewhat scuffed. I imagined Keillor walking the sidewalks of New York City in those sensible shoes. Perhaps he even wore them into the offices of the New Yorker. Like Keillor, I come from a small town where people buy shoes because they fit, not because they look good, so when I saw Keillor's shoes I knew we had something in common, which, when I thought about it, was all I'd hoped for that night. I did not go home disappointed.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Name Recognition
The summer sun felt warm on my back as I stepped into the dim lobby of the hotel. Inside, the air was cool, even overly air-conditioned, and heavy with the scent of desperation, which only made sense. I was at a writers' conference.
I'd signed up for the conference to, among other things, avoid writing but had only been there a few minutes when I spotted the familiar face of a rich and famous local author. Even in the low light I could tell it was her. Rumor had it she'd made enough money from selling her books to buy a tile-roofed house on the coast.
"May I help you?" the volunteer sitting behind the registration table asked her.
"I came to pick up my packet," the successful author replied.
"And what is your name?" the volunteer asked.
What is her name? I thought. Doesn't that registrar know who she's talking to? The woman standing before her was nothing less than the conference calling card. That very night, in fact, at a $25-a-plate dinner, she was going to be presented with the We Wish We Were You Award.
"I was just thinking there might be a packet or some tickets for me here," the famous writer said softly.
And I immediately felt a little better, to see that even a successful writer can go unrecognized when doing something as simple as requesting a laminated name tag.
I'd signed up for the conference to, among other things, avoid writing but had only been there a few minutes when I spotted the familiar face of a rich and famous local author. Even in the low light I could tell it was her. Rumor had it she'd made enough money from selling her books to buy a tile-roofed house on the coast.
"May I help you?" the volunteer sitting behind the registration table asked her.
"I came to pick up my packet," the successful author replied.
"And what is your name?" the volunteer asked.
What is her name? I thought. Doesn't that registrar know who she's talking to? The woman standing before her was nothing less than the conference calling card. That very night, in fact, at a $25-a-plate dinner, she was going to be presented with the We Wish We Were You Award.
"I was just thinking there might be a packet or some tickets for me here," the famous writer said softly.
And I immediately felt a little better, to see that even a successful writer can go unrecognized when doing something as simple as requesting a laminated name tag.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Swimming in Ideas
One of the best ways to guarantee I’ll get a great writing idea is to distance myself from paper and pen.
A lot of my ideas for essays and articles come to me while I’m swimming in the Northeast Community Center pool, where I do laps.
I no sooner don my swimsuit, cap and goggles and dip into the pool than I’m bombarded with the last lines of essays and opening lines for poems.
It’s as if the minute my mind is distracted from writing, writing ideas come pouring in. Maybe it’s because my mind, temporarily emptied, now has more room. Maybe it’s that repetitious activities open up parts of my mind that are otherwise closed. (I also get ideas while knitting, walking and driving. Watch out – I’m the one swerving down the interstate while jotting down an idea at the same time.)
Whatever the reason, it’s immersion in water that, for me, has the most consistently creative results. Taking a shower, for instance, works wonders. While standing in the warm water, covered in soapsuds, I often find ideas streaming down on my head.
Maybe it’s because, in some ways, writing is like being surrounded by water. To some degree, writing means being intentionally submerged. When I sit down to write, I’m immersing myself into thoughts and feelings, staying with them as long as I can, before slowly surfacing with the results.
A lot of my ideas for essays and articles come to me while I’m swimming in the Northeast Community Center pool, where I do laps.
I no sooner don my swimsuit, cap and goggles and dip into the pool than I’m bombarded with the last lines of essays and opening lines for poems.
It’s as if the minute my mind is distracted from writing, writing ideas come pouring in. Maybe it’s because my mind, temporarily emptied, now has more room. Maybe it’s that repetitious activities open up parts of my mind that are otherwise closed. (I also get ideas while knitting, walking and driving. Watch out – I’m the one swerving down the interstate while jotting down an idea at the same time.)
Whatever the reason, it’s immersion in water that, for me, has the most consistently creative results. Taking a shower, for instance, works wonders. While standing in the warm water, covered in soapsuds, I often find ideas streaming down on my head.
Maybe it’s because, in some ways, writing is like being surrounded by water. To some degree, writing means being intentionally submerged. When I sit down to write, I’m immersing myself into thoughts and feelings, staying with them as long as I can, before slowly surfacing with the results.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Word Length
“How long is the article supposed to be?” Janet asked. “650 words? 700?”
It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and Janet (a freelancer writer working on an article for a publication I edit) and I were standing in the middle of a quiet street in Northeast Portland.
Behind me, bearded blue iris bloomed in the front yard of the house we’d just left, where Janet had interviewed the homeowner, a local artist, while I took a few photos. We were outside now and returning to our cars.
“I trust your judgment,” I said, while brushing orange cat hairs off my shirt (hairs shed by the artist’s friendly 15-pound English tabby named Eddie).
Before driving off, Janet told me what a journalism professor once told her about how long an article should be:
“Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be of interest.”
It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and Janet (a freelancer writer working on an article for a publication I edit) and I were standing in the middle of a quiet street in Northeast Portland.
Behind me, bearded blue iris bloomed in the front yard of the house we’d just left, where Janet had interviewed the homeowner, a local artist, while I took a few photos. We were outside now and returning to our cars.
“I trust your judgment,” I said, while brushing orange cat hairs off my shirt (hairs shed by the artist’s friendly 15-pound English tabby named Eddie).
Before driving off, Janet told me what a journalism professor once told her about how long an article should be:
“Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be of interest.”
Monday, June 9, 2008
Trying to Lighten Up
Several months ago, I took a writing-for-the-radio class. During one session, I practiced recording “Lighten Up Already,” an essay I’d written about how I think people should lighten up.
The recording didn’t go well. The reason? I was finding it difficult to lighten up and be funny because the whole time I was speaking into the microphone, the instructor’s Labradoodle (a dark-haired Labrador/poodle mix) was running around the small room, chewing on a squeaky dog toy and, every so often, humping me and the other two students, who included a Jewish woman who’d written a piece about what it felt like to have a Christmas tree during the holiday season and a woman who’d written about her trip to Southeast Asia.
“What’s the matter? You sound angry,” the instructor kept asking me, as I tried a second recording and then a third. “Try to come across as flabbergasted and vulnerable,” the teacher insisted, as her large, untrained mutt continued to run and hump and squeak.
The recording didn’t go well. The reason? I was finding it difficult to lighten up and be funny because the whole time I was speaking into the microphone, the instructor’s Labradoodle (a dark-haired Labrador/poodle mix) was running around the small room, chewing on a squeaky dog toy and, every so often, humping me and the other two students, who included a Jewish woman who’d written a piece about what it felt like to have a Christmas tree during the holiday season and a woman who’d written about her trip to Southeast Asia.
“What’s the matter? You sound angry,” the instructor kept asking me, as I tried a second recording and then a third. “Try to come across as flabbergasted and vulnerable,” the teacher insisted, as her large, untrained mutt continued to run and hump and squeak.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Interviewing Myself
"I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.” – P.G. Wodehouse
Some days, like Wodehouse, all I want to do is write. I don’t want to leave my office, drive anywhere, interview anyone or write one more article based on someone else’s expertise.
Unfortunately, being a freelance writer frequently requires me to do just that, to interview people, in person and on the phone. Some days though, like today, after having finished three interviews, all I want to do is spend some time by myself.
In many ways, interviewing can be exhausting. For one thing, it requires me to be in a hyper state of alertness, paying close attention to everything that is said and not said. Like a ventriloquist, I have to throw myself at the source. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. Unlike a ventriloquist, instead of throwing my voice into a dummy, I have to throw my brain into someone else’s head.
As the interviewer, it’s my job to set myself aside and, often within the space of just a few minutes, figure out the source’s entire life story, or at least as much of it as is relevant to the article. In some ways, I have to become an instant expert on the person and the person’s field, which isn’t possible, of course, but when you’re a freelance writer on deadline, you do the best you can.
Interviews can be particularly trying if the source is difficult (second-guessing my questions, forcing me to bow down before what I can only describe as their self-appointed importance, insinuating I’m ignorant for not already knowing the answers to my questions when, not once, do I expect them to know how to write). And don’t get me started on sources who mumble or go on and on about the general corruptness and ineptness of all forms of media, (including but not limited to newspapers, magazines, radio and TV) while insinuating they could do a much better job and asking me to clean up their grammar and not use the best quotes.
On the other hand, some interviews can be enjoyable, even fun. The source is relaxed and forthcoming. The topic is interesting but not technically overwhelming. But even then, after the interview itself is completed, there’s the tediousness of filling in my notes and listening and re-listening to the audio recording (if there is one), to figure out if the fast-talking source said she did or didn’t like to plant roses in her garden.
And we haven’t even started writing the article yet.
Which is why, every so often, on a day like today, I take some time to write something that doesn’t require an interview, unless you count the interview with myself, which only took a few minutes. To matters even better, not once during the entire encounter did I insult my intelligence, tell myself how to do my own job or get off the track. At no point did I have to repeat myself because I talked too fast or was I forced to tread on thin ice for fear of offending myself. Unlike a lot of sources I won’t mention, I didn’t hold the interview on a cell phone while driving through a tunnel, expect me to talk over the sound of my dog barking in the background or demand to see the copy ahead of time to make sure every word made me look unnaturally smart.
Some days, like Wodehouse, all I want to do is write. I don’t want to leave my office, drive anywhere, interview anyone or write one more article based on someone else’s expertise.
Unfortunately, being a freelance writer frequently requires me to do just that, to interview people, in person and on the phone. Some days though, like today, after having finished three interviews, all I want to do is spend some time by myself.
In many ways, interviewing can be exhausting. For one thing, it requires me to be in a hyper state of alertness, paying close attention to everything that is said and not said. Like a ventriloquist, I have to throw myself at the source. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. Unlike a ventriloquist, instead of throwing my voice into a dummy, I have to throw my brain into someone else’s head.
As the interviewer, it’s my job to set myself aside and, often within the space of just a few minutes, figure out the source’s entire life story, or at least as much of it as is relevant to the article. In some ways, I have to become an instant expert on the person and the person’s field, which isn’t possible, of course, but when you’re a freelance writer on deadline, you do the best you can.
Interviews can be particularly trying if the source is difficult (second-guessing my questions, forcing me to bow down before what I can only describe as their self-appointed importance, insinuating I’m ignorant for not already knowing the answers to my questions when, not once, do I expect them to know how to write). And don’t get me started on sources who mumble or go on and on about the general corruptness and ineptness of all forms of media, (including but not limited to newspapers, magazines, radio and TV) while insinuating they could do a much better job and asking me to clean up their grammar and not use the best quotes.
On the other hand, some interviews can be enjoyable, even fun. The source is relaxed and forthcoming. The topic is interesting but not technically overwhelming. But even then, after the interview itself is completed, there’s the tediousness of filling in my notes and listening and re-listening to the audio recording (if there is one), to figure out if the fast-talking source said she did or didn’t like to plant roses in her garden.
And we haven’t even started writing the article yet.
Which is why, every so often, on a day like today, I take some time to write something that doesn’t require an interview, unless you count the interview with myself, which only took a few minutes. To matters even better, not once during the entire encounter did I insult my intelligence, tell myself how to do my own job or get off the track. At no point did I have to repeat myself because I talked too fast or was I forced to tread on thin ice for fear of offending myself. Unlike a lot of sources I won’t mention, I didn’t hold the interview on a cell phone while driving through a tunnel, expect me to talk over the sound of my dog barking in the background or demand to see the copy ahead of time to make sure every word made me look unnaturally smart.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
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