For probably my last blog about the cemetery (for this year), I’d like to take you on a brief tour.
Meet the Putnam family headstone:
I love that font. Very elegant. And don’t worry—individual Putnams are either listed on the reverse or accorded their own tiny stones around the family one. That’s not the point of this post.
Meet the Mischitellis:
I don’t know what to call that font but it reminds me of the Pre-Raphaelites for some reason. And the stone is nowhere near Pre-Raphaelite-era.
And the Lipperas.
Black granite would not be my first choice but this works very well. That’s not the point of this post, either.
Now, meet these folks:
And there’s the point of this post. A grave marker (pink granite obelisk atop concrete) with a punctuation mark.
As in “Period. End of sentence.”
Punctuation on a gravestone. Well, it is The End—for those Barrells, at any rate.
As I was driving out of the area, I passed a building with punctuation. I thought it was the same family, but no. Those were Bartletts. As in
(That’s from their website; it’s the same font that’s painted on the 1870 building, only a different color.)
With the grave marker, I’m thinking maybe the guy realized too late that he had extra room and threw in a period for balance. But I don’t think that excuse holds for whoever painted the “Bartlett House.” sign.
No one will ever mistake me for the most organized person in the world. I strive to be prepared, but I doubt I’ll ever make it to “over-prepared.”
Certainly not to the degree of one couple around here. (And yes, “around here” means the cemetery in the midst of which I’m living this month.)
I’ve grown used to seeing gravestones with room for another name or two. Sometimes, for instance, they’ll go ahead and engrave the wife’s name when only the husband has died. I guess they figure it’s a pretty good bet she’ll end up there eventually. On those stones, you’ll see hubby’s name with dates of birth and death and the wife’s name and birth date. That’s preparation.
And then there’s over-preparation. One gravestone here features husband’s and wife’s names and dates of birth. But no second dates.
In the immortal words of Monty Python, they’re
Not Dead Yet.
The plan ahead-stone
Now, I know people pre-plan their funerals. They pre-pay for the services, pick out their burial plot. It takes some of the responsibility off the shoulders of their grieving families. Nice.
I can see picking out a gravestone—voicing your opinions on material, design, font. Surely someone has come up with the wedding registry equivalent for funerals. (If not, a free business idea for you, readers.)
But erecting and engraving your own headstone seems a tad much to me. Are they over-prepared or just overly controlling?
Then again, with some of the gravestones I’ve seen around here, folks might be wise to take things into their own hands…while they still have hands.
I’ve written about graveside decor (soon to be a Martha Stewart magazine, no doubt)—but that’s stuff added to the plot. Some of the more modern stones carry their own decorations. Supposed to be whimsical, I guess.
One features a traditional front—name, dates, etc. But the back of the stone shows a kitten pawing a ball of yarn on the left corner facing off against…Snoopy as the World War I flying ace on the right corner. The sizes are way off: Kitty looks like Godzilla compared to poor Snoopy. If someone slapped “art” like that on my gravestone, I’d haunt them forever. And report them to the copyright office, too.
Is there a Story Safari™ in this?
Probably. It could be about taking too much control vs. letting things take their course. It could be a about the dangers of giving the wrong people room to exercise their own creativity. It could be about having so many different points of view that none of them makes sense—Godzilla Kitty about to defeat Snoopy’s flying doghouse by rolling a giant ball of yarn into it.
I saw a pizza stone today.
No, not a stone you put in your oven to make the crust turn crispy. A gravestone with the family name on it: Pizza. It was rectangular, not round; I guess they’re Sicilian.
I can only wonder what travails Mr. & Mrs. P. endured. For instance, imagine this conversation:
“I’d like to order a large pepperoni pie to go.”
“Sure, sir. What’s the name?”
“Yes, a pepperoni pizza. What name should I put that under?”
[and…you get the idea]
Whatsamattafayou? You haven’t registered for my Story Safari™ Field Trip to the Getty Center yet? My neighbors here are dying to go—but they can’t. Take advantage of your time aboveground and learn how to spice up your writing as only you can.
Dr. Marlena Corcoran, today’s guest blogger, is the author of The Athena Mentor College Application Workbook and Passport to College: The International Student’s Guide to the Best Education in the World (see her website, athenamentor.com, for more information). While participating in some of my daily writing challenges earlier this year, Marlena returned to her passion—stories inspired by her childhood in Brooklyn. I’m delighted that she’s chosen to share a story based on that work with you today.—Elaine
It wasn’t like that
by Marlena Corcoran
“It wasn’t like that,” says my sister.
She says it every time. Every time I publish something, the phone rings, and it’s my sister.
“It wasn’t like that.”
I listen to the list of factual errors, misrepresentations and misremembrances. Unlikelihoods. Conjectures.
I recognize transitions, metonymy, interior monologue. That’s what this is to me. Words on the page.
And then there are the plain old unattractive details that happen to be true, but did I really have to mention that.
And errors. If this were a quiz in a history class, I would fail. Even if every iota is, shall we say, correct, it just doesn’t add up for me in quite the same way it added up for everybody else. Each fact becomes a piece in a very wrong puzzle.
And then there are the things that only I would know. I get no phone calls there. Continued radio silence would have been so preferable.
So one day I joined an art action called “The Former Resident Project.” It was for people who used to live in Brooklyn. No current inhabitants allowed. This ensured we all were writing from memory. Our memories. Not a fact-checker in sight.
We were all invited to submit a story. I sent in eighteen. I’m sorry, but once I got going, I was on a roll. Decades of zip code 11209 got sent back to Rewrite.
The organizing artist printed out the stories on sheets of refrigerator magnet, and cut the stories to size. She traveled to the location of each story.
Did I mention they were site-specific.
She slapped each story on any metal thing that would anchor the magnet. Her idea was that people would take the stories home.
I don’t think anybody wanted my stories on their refrigerator. None of these stories was the King James Version of what went down in that particular neighborhood. But I was gratified to see the lamppost outside my childhood home covered with refrigerator magnets telling story after story of what went on behind those walls.
At least, as I saw it.
One of the magnets was set up far away, in an empty field. An airplane in the distance. Weeds. At the time, I couldn’t talk about it. The sign said only, “This was Barren Island.”
“Please return the family photos.”
You have to be kidding me. Return them to whom?
For once in my life, I did not ask myself what I had done wrong. I didn’t even reply to my cousin’s mail. I figured some day she might even think what a miracle it is, that someone twisted our lives into little pipe cleaner figures on a stage, that maybe might mean something to somebody else, or maybe might mean something all by themselves.
I thought back to my mother’s friend Audrey, talking to my mother about a movie that had just come out. It was set in our neighborhood: Saturday Night Fever.
“It wasn’t anything like that,” she hissed. “How could they say those things?” My mother nodded in agreement. “It’s nothing like that.” They turned to me. “Is it.”
I turned away. Maybe the miracle is that we agree on anything at all. How things are. The way they were.
Wie es eigentlich gewesen: how it really was.
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“We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.”—Anaïs Nin
Whenever we create—whether in paint or stone or words—we edit what we see. Our perspective unconsciously creates stories from the information we take in. And those stories shape perspective in our art. And in our lives.
“There are eight million stories in the naked city. This was one of them.”
Homer and Virgil might have said the same thing about the city they chronicled. So can you—whatever story you’re telling. Start with your own perspective, your own feelings and observations, and you’re much more likely to create something original.
Proof that stories shape perspective
In the Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words Department, I give you this video from Canon. Six photographers take pictures of the same man. Each hears a different story about him, and those stories shape the portraits they produce.
Have a look. And think about how the stories you tell yourself shape your perspective.
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How many times have you waded glassy-eyed through the personality-type alphabet soup? Introvert-extrovert…I’m sure there’s valuable science in there, but all those acronyms—ESFJ, INTP—make my brain hurt. Still, when you’re dealing with people, it’s important to understand the different personality types you might encounter. Don’t just present the same old material in the same old ways; give it a cliché makeover
That’s what my friend Joan Garry did in her book Joan Garry’s Guide to Nonprofit Leadership. And at the risk of digressing, I often remind my writers to put themselves in their story especially when they’re dealing with subjects that might seem clichéd because while many other people can write about an issue, no one can write about it from your perspective. You’re not going to find a Joan Garry’s Guide to Nonprofit Leadership written by Joe Smith. You know from the get-go you’re getting Joan’s advice, delivered from Joan’s perspective.
And Joan’s perspective can be wildly inventive sometimes. Perhaps that explains why we’re friends.
Cliché makeover: Personality types
So, the personality types. Instead of the ENTJs, Joan presents us with a series of archetypes. And not the standard Joe Go-Getter. No, she gives us characters we all know well:
Kermit the Frog
And then she invites you to choose one for your next board chair or executive director.
Each contender has something to recommend him. Of Superman, for instance:
“Would you say ‘No’ to him if he asked you for a donation?”
You have to admit, that’s an excellent point.
Joan uses real-world anecdotes to demonstrate what each character could offer in terms of nonprofit leadership. Finally, she outs herself as
“an ‘SK’—a Superman-Kermit combo. (Yes I am now making fun of every personality profile test you’ve ever been subjected to at work or during a retreat.)”
The gentle parody of the cliché makeover makes the material memorable.
Perhaps in the next edition she can find a place for Wonder Woman.
“Reverse direction.” Okay, that’s not what my friend’s painting teacher told her. He told her to turn her painting upside down, but the SEO gods only know one direction: up.
What happens when you turn your painting upside down? Well that still-life you’re drawing stops being a bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine. Instead, it becomes a collection of shapes, of light and shadows. Draw that and when you turn the canvas rightside-up again, you’re likely to have the best wine bottle and fruit bowl you’ve ever drawn. Because you were thinking about it from a different perspective.
Of course, that advice works for writers too. Tell the story backwards. Bring a seemingly minor detail to the forefront. Take a different approach.
Change your perspective. It might turn an ordinary message into something memorable.
Reverse direction — platitudes become profound
One of my clients gave me permission to share some of my work for her in my class last week. I wanted to show them how the right story can elevate an ordinary message.
“Take care of yourself,” “unplug,” “focus on the task at hand”—these are not messages likely to stir anyone’s soul. But find the emotional center and weave a story around that, and what might seem to be platitudes turn into memorable advice. These true stories resonate with her audience; they write back and share their own experiences. They are engaged, finding the truth of the message in their own lives. And the more an audience engages with you, the longer they will remember what you have to say.
And the truth shall make you unique
There’s another benefit to this storytelling. Because we’re using true stories and talking about my client’s honest reaction to them, we know her message will be unique. Anyone can say, “I taught my daughter to ride a bicycle this weekend. It taught me the value of persistence. You can do anything you put your mind to!” Only my client can say,
“Letting go was the hardest part. For me, not for my daughter. She kept shouting, ‘I’ve got this, mom! Let go!’ And I did. And she did.”
And then we weave in the business part. For the record, I made that stuff up about the bicycle. To paraphrase what they used to say on TV, the anecdotes have been changed to protect the innocent.
But coming at your message sideways instead of head on, that’s the key to it all. Reverse direction and see what happens.
Q: If writer’s block isn’t real, why do so many writers have it?
A: Because they think they should.
True story: I used to have a stereo whose sound cut out intermittently. Speaker wires coming loose or something. The problem persisted for a good long while. Annoying, but an easy fix: just jiggle some connections.
One Saturday morning long, long ago, I was kneading bread, happily singing along to a record playing on the stereo. The original London cast album of Side by Side by Sondheim, if you must know. The first track finished and I waited for the next song to begin—”You Must Meet My Wife,” a slyly acerbic duet. Only…nothing. No sound at all.
The speakers must have cut out again, I thought. But I couldn’t do anything about it; my hands were covered in dough. So I resigned myself to kneading in silence. Then I realized that “You Must Meet My Wife” was not the second song on that side. It was another duet, “The Little Things.” And the moment I realized I’d been listening for the wrong song, I heard the music again.
It wasn’t the speakers that broke; it was my brain. Having decided which song I would hear, I became incapable of hearing the song that actually played. Once I adjusted my expectations, allowed myself to be in the moment, I heard the real song loud and clear.
I think writer’s block is like that.
Don’t pathologize writer’s block
I suppose I could have reacted differently to the blip in my hearing. If the internet had been around back then, I might have Googled “sudden hearing loss” and gone down a rabbit hole of diagnoses, each scarier than the one before. But I didn’t have the internet (or health insurance, for that matter), so I just chalked it up to a strange case of mind over matter. And filed it away as a metaphor that would surely come in handy some day.
Maybe you have something think you should write—like the thank-you note to Grandma. Or something you’re scared of writing—like that semi-autobiographical novel. Or something you have to write—that unaccountably boring assignment from your client. I should state for the record that my clients’ assignments never bore me, but I can imagine that such things make the Muse run screaming in the opposite direction. And who can blame her?
Does that mean there’s something wrong with you? No, it means you’re a human being. A creative one. And there’s a reason Henry Ford didn’t put writers on his assembly line: we can’t turn out an unbroken stream of quality words every time the factory whistle blows.
Thinking, not knowing exactly what to write every time you look at your keyboard—they’re perfectly normal processes. Don’t pathologize a perfectly normal process. Because once you allow yourself to believe that “writer’s block” is real, it’ll come back again and again. And writing will become progressively more difficult.
Hear the music that’s playing
Maybe you’re listening for the wrong tune. So be present and try writing to the tune that is playing.
Set yourself a writing exercise. Write something irredeemably silly. Write something serious—but write it in crayon. And not the staid black crayon, either. I’m talking neon green.
Allow your pet rabbit to take over as guest author and write the next chapter from her perspective. Get out of your lane, get out of your head. And stop thinking it’s writer’s block. Because writer’s block doesn’t exist.
If you’re secretly attached to your files full of unfinished writing …if you enjoy collecting rejection emails…if you worry that effective marketing would generate too much income for your business DO NOT register for my VIP class on Revision.
One of the things that struck me was Gladwell’s comment about writers creating private experiences within their work, jokes or phrases that only they (and perhaps a select group of friends) know about.
This came up after Heffernan asked him about the experience of writing for the “radio” versus for the page. She said she heard a kind of irony in his delivery—something more than the “just the facts” delivery of the news anchor and he said:
“There’s always a separate reality to what you’re writing that’s specific to you and your experience. Your father or mother will use some phrase and you throw it into a story and every time you see it you’re kind of—. So when you’re reading, you’re reliving all of that and it’s coming out in the way you talk in a way that you’re not consciously aware of.”
I’ve done that once. Someone challenged me to use the phrase “pink satin”—or perhaps it was “hot pink satin.” And I worked it into a blog post seamlessly. But, yes, if I had to read it aloud—as Gladwell does—I can imagine I’d smile. And my listeners would hear that smile creep into my voice. Absolutely, that hot pink satin exists in an entirely separate reality from whatever concept I was writing about. It would show.
Is all writing a “separate reality”?
When you get right down to it, though, isn’t everything we write a separate reality? We may not always choose our words based on a dare, but we do choose them. That’s why no two accounts of any event will be identical. The things that resonate with me may not resonate with you.
I think I’ll use the idea of separate reality in the retreat I’m planning for next spring: Maybe I’ll show my writers something, or give them an experience, and have them write about it. Ooh, yes. That’s going into the planner.
Thanks to Malcolm Gladwell and Virginia Heffernan. And, seriously, listen to Revisionist History. It’s like New Yorker articles for your ears.
Write better when you write more often. Join my 5-day writing challenge: Write for 15 minutes a day and I’ll donate your registration fee to a global literacy nonprofit. More info and registration link here.
“Radical overconfidence” is like stage makeup. If you’ve got enough makeup on to look good in the daylight, you’ll wash out completely onstage. To command the audience’s attention from the stage, you’ve got to exaggerate your features. Make your eyes pop with some false eyelashes. Redden up those lips.
And so it is with radical overconfidence. Especially for women, what we identify as regular-strength confidence remains all but undetectable to other people (especially the male people). So slap on the metaphorical false eyelashes and learn how to be radically overconfident.
Now, we’ve all seen people whose confidence far outpaces their abilities. (In fact, you may feel that such a person resides in a certain edifice—let’s describe it as a white house—in Washington.) No one wants to be that person. Well, no one with a modicum of self-awareness. As a result, many of us over-correct. Instead of radical overconfidence, we practice radical underconfidence.
The problem is, that doesn’t get us anywhere. Underconfidence keeps the brilliant woman manager from speaking up in a meeting; overconfidence keeps the arrogant men in the room from listening when she finally does. In the world of creativity, underconfidence keeps perfectly good writers from sharing their work even with a writing group—while overconfident writers pound out the book proposals and ink publishing deals. Or self-publish their poorly written drivel.
Radical overconfidence and you (…okay, and me too)
Benincasa writes about “radical overconfidence” in the context of walking into a meeting, perhaps a pitch meeting:
“What would happen if I engaged in radical overconfidence?….if I displayed chutzpah aplenty—the sass and strength that I imagine are the rightful possession of a richer, bolder, better-looking person? What would go down if I waltzed into that joint with my head high, my smile bright, my shoulders squared, and my heart brimming with the belief that I kick fucking ass?”
For Benincasa, radical overconfidence means advocating for herself:
“Rather than being sweet and unassuming, I had to be bold and brave. I could still be nice. I could still be kind. I could still celebrate other people’s achievements and glean wisdom and understanding from studying their feats….But enough of the meek shit….If I was to get what I wanted from life—or at least from the entertainment and publishing industries—I had to act like I owned it. I had to act like I was owed it by virtue of my sheer awesomeness. I had to display radical overconfidence.”
So here’s my challenge—to you and to myself. Let’s practice radical overconfidence. Start with one act of radical overconfidence a day, every day for a week. Just once a day, walk into a room like you own it. Hand something you’ve written to a trusted advisor and ask them to read it. Publish something you’ve written on Medium.
Don’t think you’re good enough? Have you read some of the stuff on Medium? Yes, there’s a lot of good writing on Medium and elsewhere. But I bet you could find five pieces that aren’t nearly as good as the piece you’re afraid of releasing in the world. Without even breaking a sweat.
Get in touch with your “sheer awesomeness” and “be bold and brave.” Put your work out into the world. Listen to Sara Benincasa:
“Life is too short to waste time pretending to be small and inconsequential when you are actually as vast and powerful as a distant star.”
Write better when you write more often. Join my 5-day writing challenge: Write for 15 minutes a day and I’ll donate your registration fee to a global literacy nonprofit. More info and registration link here.