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.
Monday, June 9, 2008
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
Friday, May 9, 2008
Feeling the Need to Fondle Books
Every so often, I feel the need to fondle books, to run my hands over their slip covers, pat their pulpy pages and caress their naked spines until they relax and open up, revealing their innermost thoughts and feelings.
I love how books, when properly attended, release their characters and plots, offering experiences I may never have, each paperback or hardcover a new lover giving up untold mysteries, occasional torture, sexual innuendo, explicit description, in exchange for my undivided attention.
When it comes to books, we all have our favorites, from self-help to spiritual, gothic to horror, with the occasional action-packed adventure thrown in. New books, with their virginal covers and pristine pages have their own followers. Me, I prefer used books, some of them sorely abused, ripped and torn apart, covered with the sweat of previous owners. Who were they? Did they hesitate over the same pages? Did they read out loud? Silently? Alone or with someone else? After paying with cash, I bundle them home, to decipher the words and the stains – coffee? chocolate? Or something more?
Entering one bookstore aisle after another, I seek out romance, search for the hottest bestseller, the latest diet book on how to lose weight by eating, hover over the poor, forgotten remainders, like cheap hookers sold by the pound or box.
New and used, large and small, hard-covered and soft, they reach out, teasing me with covers that entice, promises to deliver. I flip through their pages, breathe in the scent of ink and paper, while glancing sideways at fellow book lovers, especially the ones hanging out in the Tantric Sex section.
Then it’s on to the next bookstore, in search of more passion. Before stepping inside, I stop, run my eyes over the shiny selections displayed in the front window, then place my hand on the smooth door handle, turn and push, take a deep breath before stepping in.
I love how books, when properly attended, release their characters and plots, offering experiences I may never have, each paperback or hardcover a new lover giving up untold mysteries, occasional torture, sexual innuendo, explicit description, in exchange for my undivided attention.
When it comes to books, we all have our favorites, from self-help to spiritual, gothic to horror, with the occasional action-packed adventure thrown in. New books, with their virginal covers and pristine pages have their own followers. Me, I prefer used books, some of them sorely abused, ripped and torn apart, covered with the sweat of previous owners. Who were they? Did they hesitate over the same pages? Did they read out loud? Silently? Alone or with someone else? After paying with cash, I bundle them home, to decipher the words and the stains – coffee? chocolate? Or something more?
Entering one bookstore aisle after another, I seek out romance, search for the hottest bestseller, the latest diet book on how to lose weight by eating, hover over the poor, forgotten remainders, like cheap hookers sold by the pound or box.
New and used, large and small, hard-covered and soft, they reach out, teasing me with covers that entice, promises to deliver. I flip through their pages, breathe in the scent of ink and paper, while glancing sideways at fellow book lovers, especially the ones hanging out in the Tantric Sex section.
Then it’s on to the next bookstore, in search of more passion. Before stepping inside, I stop, run my eyes over the shiny selections displayed in the front window, then place my hand on the smooth door handle, turn and push, take a deep breath before stepping in.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
A blog about blogging
It took me a while to start blogging. The form seemed so different from everything I’d learned as a traditional print journalist that I was hesitant to begin. To test the digital waters, I took a few possible blog entries to my writing group to ask if they thought the items could be used as blogs.
I hadn’t even finished handing out the copies when Shanna, one of the group members, turned toward me from where she sat at the other end of the sofa and said, “They aren’t blogs.”
“They aren’t?” I asked, feeling defeated before I’d even begun.
“No,” she said, laughing. “They’re printed out.”
“Oh, right,” I said while smiling weakly and feeling like the technophobe I was.
Later, after the group finished reading my writings, Shanna assured me that the items could be used as blogs, which made me feel good, because Shanna is a digital diva with her own blog, so she knows what she’s talking about.
“They are?!” I asked with a smile on my face and feeling bloggin’ proud of myself.
I hadn’t even finished handing out the copies when Shanna, one of the group members, turned toward me from where she sat at the other end of the sofa and said, “They aren’t blogs.”
“They aren’t?” I asked, feeling defeated before I’d even begun.
“No,” she said, laughing. “They’re printed out.”
“Oh, right,” I said while smiling weakly and feeling like the technophobe I was.
Later, after the group finished reading my writings, Shanna assured me that the items could be used as blogs, which made me feel good, because Shanna is a digital diva with her own blog, so she knows what she’s talking about.
“They are?!” I asked with a smile on my face and feeling bloggin’ proud of myself.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Almost Fifteen Minutes of Fame
My fame as a writer was short lived. In fact, it lasted less than two minutes, the time it took me to read my essay inside a noisy coffee house in Southeast Portland. The espresso machine hissed steam into the air, drowning out most of my talk. Every few seconds another customer would burst through the door, bringing with her the roar of car engines, blast of air brakes and squeal of city buses.
I was just one of several writers who read that evening. An eclectic group, we were united by the fact that our essays had just been published in the same anthology. Other than us, only a few people showed up that night; and I have a feeling most of them were there for the coffee. Still, it was a real reading and we were in print. Afterwards, a woman came up and asked me for my autograph, which I gave her. The evening may have been the peak of my career, the fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol was talking about. Well, in my case, ninety seconds.
I was just one of several writers who read that evening. An eclectic group, we were united by the fact that our essays had just been published in the same anthology. Other than us, only a few people showed up that night; and I have a feeling most of them were there for the coffee. Still, it was a real reading and we were in print. Afterwards, a woman came up and asked me for my autograph, which I gave her. The evening may have been the peak of my career, the fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol was talking about. Well, in my case, ninety seconds.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Real Virtual Friends
One way to find out who your real friends are is to have a computer problem and then see who sticks by you.
I’m working out of my home office today, using my laptop, because the desktop in my regular office is on the fritz. For whatever reason, it started sending out multiple copies of each email I sent. I had no idea it was happening until my email recipients started emailing me back.
“How strange,” Don emailed me. “Your message came to my Inbox 66 times!”
I’m “coming to your house to give you a noogie,” Sheila, one my editors, wrote back. “Got this four more times. It is, however, making me laugh!!”
I wanted to apologize but couldn’t, at least not by email from my desktop. It would only have generated more multiple copies. So that night at home, I emailed everyone I remembered having sent emails to, to say how sorry I was for having blitzed them with messages. I was all too familiar with what it felt like to be bombarded by email offering everything from replica watches to cheap meds.
My emailed friends, to my surprise, stuck by me, wrote back that they understood.
“Not a problem,” Don wrote. “I'm just glad it's your computer and not mine! God love technology.”
“No worries,” an editor replied. “Who knows, maybe you'll get a good essay out of it!”
“The Quill Pen!!” a fellow writer wrote back. “I say, the Quill Pen Age Shall Return!! The Spawn of Hal shall be overthrown! I don't know why any of these machines work the way they do, but I still have a Rolodex, just in case the electricity goes out but the phones still work. And I keep my quill pen and notepad nearby. Have a good weekend!”
Still, I felt horrible knowing that I’d showered everyone with multiple copies of messages they may not have wanted one copy of.
Since then, I’ve made an appointment to get my computer repaired. Until the problem is solved, I’ll continue to work out of my home office, where I gingerly send out emails and hope each recipient receives only one.
I’m working out of my home office today, using my laptop, because the desktop in my regular office is on the fritz. For whatever reason, it started sending out multiple copies of each email I sent. I had no idea it was happening until my email recipients started emailing me back.
“How strange,” Don emailed me. “Your message came to my Inbox 66 times!”
I’m “coming to your house to give you a noogie,” Sheila, one my editors, wrote back. “Got this four more times. It is, however, making me laugh!!”
I wanted to apologize but couldn’t, at least not by email from my desktop. It would only have generated more multiple copies. So that night at home, I emailed everyone I remembered having sent emails to, to say how sorry I was for having blitzed them with messages. I was all too familiar with what it felt like to be bombarded by email offering everything from replica watches to cheap meds.
My emailed friends, to my surprise, stuck by me, wrote back that they understood.
“Not a problem,” Don wrote. “I'm just glad it's your computer and not mine! God love technology.”
“No worries,” an editor replied. “Who knows, maybe you'll get a good essay out of it!”
“The Quill Pen!!” a fellow writer wrote back. “I say, the Quill Pen Age Shall Return!! The Spawn of Hal shall be overthrown! I don't know why any of these machines work the way they do, but I still have a Rolodex, just in case the electricity goes out but the phones still work. And I keep my quill pen and notepad nearby. Have a good weekend!”
Still, I felt horrible knowing that I’d showered everyone with multiple copies of messages they may not have wanted one copy of.
Since then, I’ve made an appointment to get my computer repaired. Until the problem is solved, I’ll continue to work out of my home office, where I gingerly send out emails and hope each recipient receives only one.
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