Heidi Mastrogiovanni's Blog, page 2

My Writer’s Journey: Some of the Books Along the Way

There are few things I love more than reading. There are few things I love more than writing. And I feel quite sure that I will not be the first or the last writer who, when asked what advice she might give to writers starting out on their creative journey, will respond, “Read. All the time. I mean, ALL the time.”

Books have been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember. I got my love of reading from my second grade teacher, Miss Pat Bonardi. Just recently, I read on Facebook that she is living in happy retirement in New England. I will be sending her a thank-you card soon. She gave me a gift that has enriched my life beyond measure.

I love to talk about reading and writing. I love to read about reading and writing, and I love to write about reading and writing. The topic of books is among my favorite subjects; it’s right up there with happy tales of animal rescue, the latest episode of Law and Order: SVU, and charming hidden neighborhoods in Paris.

Oh, and speaking of books, here’s an annotated list, by no means a comprehensive one, of books that have had a tremendously positive impact on my life.

The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White

Yes, the same E.B. White who wrote the impossibly lovely and heartbreaking Charlotte’s Web. If you ever write anything at any point in your life – a novel, a short story, an e-mail, a shopping list – you MUST read and reread The Elements of Style. It must be on your desk or wherever you write and you must refer to it again and again. Please, just trust me on this. I bought my hardcover copy shortly after I graduated from college (and the fact that I didn’t have a copy in college is one of the many reasons that my prose was at best pedestrian and at worst precious during those years).

It cost $7.95 back then. For a hardcover book. You can’t buy a fancy greeting card at Papyrus for $7.95 now (this is only a slight exaggeration…).

The first time I read the book, I highlighted the significant sentences with a yellow highlighter.

My copy is basically all highlighted in yellow.

Here’s just one section that every writer should commit to memory:

“Clarity, clarity, clarity. When you become hopelessly mired in a sentence, it is best to start fresh;… When you say something, make sure you have said it. The chances of your having said it are only fair.”

Yes, that’s a humbling statement. And it should be. We should be duly humbled as writers. Because words and stories are sacred, and they deserve nothing less than our very best.

Please, just trust me on this. Buy The Elements of Style. Read it. ALL the time.

Writing from the Inside Out: Transforming Your Psychological Blocks to Release the Writer Within by Dennis Palumbo

Dennis Palumbo was a screenwriter and he is now an author of mystery novels and a psychotherapist who specializes in counseling creative people.

He is one of the screenwriters of My Favorite Year, starring Peter O’Toole, which is one of the best movies ever made, in my forever-less-than-humble opinion. I’ve seen it dozens of times. It is utterly delightful and wonderful.

And so is his book for writers. I think that having some dark nights of the soul is pretty much a part of the human condition. More so for creative people? Maybe. Dennis’s (we’re friends on Facebook, so, as far as I’m concerned, we’re on a first-name basis) book is a vital source of comfort for those dark nights and inspiration for every other day. It is wonderfully soothing for your writer’s soul.

Here are the last three paragraphs of the book:

“In the end, there’s just you and your writing. As screenwriter Fredrick Raphael said, when defining what he meant by work, ‘It’s having pages in the evening that weren’t there in the morning.’

You. And your writing. That’s all there is. That’s all there needs to be.

So go. Write.”

I swear, if I had a buck for every time I’ve read those three paragraphs, I could fly all of us to Paris. And I’m not talking in coach, either.

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

When you’re starting on a writing project, it’s sometimes hard not to feel overwhelmed, n’est-ce pas? Maybe you’ve got the story in your mind and you’ve got the characters, and that’s a lot already. But there’s that blank screen staring at you. Or that blank notepad, because I guess some people still write their manuscripts by hand. I mean, I have no idea how that would work (plus, my handwriting is supremely illegible; I can just hear myself saying the next day, when I’m reading my draft… “What is that I wrote? Is that ‘He picked up a machete and…’ Wait, there’s no machete in this story…”), but I guess it still happens, no?

So you’re starting out, and it really can feel overwhelming, can’t it? If you’re writing the manuscript of a novel, you’ve got 85,000 or so words to produce. Yikes. Maybe just go to the gym or to the movies and then start fresh tomorrow?

NO! Don’t do that! And Anne Lamott’s fabulous book gives you two absolutely invaluable tools to get your tuchus down into the chair and to start writing. And why do you want to start writing? Because you LOVE writing, remember!

Here’s one:

“Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm on my brother’s shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird’.”

Is that lovely, or what? I can take just about anything bird by bird. I can write one page at a time. I don’t have to think about the 400-plus double-spaced pages of a manuscript. I only have to have fun with this project one page at a time.

Here’s the other:

“I go back to trying to breathe, slowly and calmly, and I finally notice the one-inch picture frame that I put on my desk to remind me of short assignments. It reminds me that all I have to do is to write down as much as I can see through a one-inch picture frame. This is all I have to bite off for the time being.”

It’s a one-inch picture frame! Who can’t sit down and fill one-inch with prose? My corollary to that is the 15-Minute Rule. As my friend Kevin says, you can do anything for 15 minutes (except ride on a rollercoaster; I am serious, you will not get me on a rollercoaster for 15 seconds… I don’t care how not scary you say it is…). You can set a timer for 15 minutes and you can sit your tuchus down and write for 15 minutes. Because you LOVE to write, correct? And I bet you anything (in fact, I bet you a first-class ticket to Paris…) that after the first 15 minutes, you’ll want to write for another 15 minutes. And then another after that. You get the idea.

I’m not kidding, and I know I sound self-righteous when I say this, but what the hell… I never have writer’s block. Never. And, to a great extent, I have Anne Lamott to thank for that.

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

This superb novel was written in the 19th Century. And, I swear to you, it saved my life in the 20th Century. That, my friends, is the infinite and universal power of great literature.

It was an unusually humid summer in New York City, and my boyfriend had just quite unceremoniously dumped me. We had been living together, and so I had to get a new apartment. The best I could find and afford was a fifth-floor walk-up with the bathtub in the kitchen.

With no air conditioning. And no cross-breeze. I felt about as miserable and defeated as I could stand to be without spontaneously combusting.

My best-friend-since-high-school’s father was a wonderful writer. He had told me many times that The Count of Monte Cristo was one of his favorite books. I don’t know why the timing turned out the way it did, but in my sweating loneliness that summer, I decided that I finally had to read Dumas’s novel.

I walked to one of the many bookstores that then existed in Manhattan. They had a copy of the book, but it was abridged. I never read abridged works. I don’t want anyone other than the author to decide how much of his work I’m going to read. So I went to another bookstore. And another. None of them had the complete version of the book. One of the salespeople suggested I try the public library. They had the book, but not at my local branch. I had to wait for what felt like an eternity, but I’m sure was only a few days, for the full 1,500 pages of the novel to be sent to my branch from Queens via inter-library loan.

It was worth the wait. And, P.S., I absolutely adore libraries.

I couldn’t put the story of Edmund Dantes down. Sweet Mother of Baby Jesus, did that poor man suffer at the hands of his supposed friends, or what? And, Spoiler Alert, I’m half-Sicilian, so his revenge spoke to me on a visceral level.

That book changed my sorrow into optimism. If I was having a bad day, I would say to myself, “Yes, this is a rather difficult time, but at least I’m not unjustly imprisoned in the Château d’If.”

The final words of this superb novel are a mantra for never giving up: “…all human wisdom is contained in these two words, ‘Wait and Hope’.”

I waited. And I hoped. And things got better. Much better. And I have enduring faith that they just about always do. And I believe that, to a great extent, because of The Count of Monte Cristo.

Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis

This is one of the funniest books ever written. Ever. This book is laugh aloud funny. This is one of those books that makes you lock eyes with someone when you see that they’re reading it, or makes you nod in joyous communion when you hear that someone has also read it. You look at each other and you smile and you silently or with voice agree that it is just one of the funniest damn books EVER written.

Here’s Amis’s description of a hangover being suffered by his protagonist, Jim Dixon, a lecturer at a provincial English university:

“Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth has been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by a secret police. He felt bad.”

Disagree with me if you must, but I think the phrase “too wicked to move” is freakin’ hilarious.

Reading Lucky Jim is one of the major milestones on my journey to describing my writer-self as a “humorist.” Along with anything written by P.G. Wodehouse, Lucky Jim showed me the sublime value and brilliance of prose that brings laughter. It helped me to find my writer’s voice. If there’s a gift to a writer that is better than that one, I don’t know what it is.

A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving

This is my favorite contemporary novel. And it is also the reason I am able to read less-than-enthusiastic comments regarding my work online and not respond by locking myself in my home office with one of those freakishly large tubs of ice cream you get at Costco and watching a marathon of Law and Order: SVU while I sob uncontrollably and my four senior dogs look worried that mommy has finally gone off her rocker.

For me, A Prayer for Owen Meany is one of those novels that you don’t want to end. And when it does end, you immediately miss all the characters because they are very, very, very dear to you, and you immediately envy anyone who hasn’t read it yet, because they have that exquisite experience to look forward to. For me, this novel is perfection.

And the key words in that paragraph are “For me.” I know people who completely agree with me about how utterly superb this novel is. And then I also know people who hate it. And I do mean hate it. I remember one of my closest friends from college, a woman whose opinion I greatly respect, telling me she thought that it was one of the worst books she had ever read, and she in fact couldn’t finish it because it was so god-awful.

I’ve come to understand that there is no work of creativity that will earn universal acclaim. None. There must be someone, somewhere, who thinks the Mona Lisa and Handel’s Messiah and The Simpsons are crap.

This fact is by no means an excuse to send anything less than your absolutely best work out into the world. But it is a way of soothing your ego and your feelings when someone watches or reads or listens to or gazes at your baby and deems it “dreck that cheapens the concept of dreck in its surpassing dreadfulness” on Goodreads. (I am being entirely disingenuous in my use of quotation marks in this attempt to heighten the drama underlying my thesis; no one has referred to my novels as dreck on Goodreads. Yet.)

I can now face the world’s response to my prose with a relatively solid base of self-confidence. When people don’t like my work, it still causes a twinge of pain, and sometimes more than a twinge, but it’s not nearly as devastating as it used to be. I have John Irving and Owen Meany to thank for that.

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And What Author Doesn’t Love to be Interviewed for Her Alma Mater’s Online Newsletter?

I’m such a proud graduate of wonderful Wesleyan University.  When Cynthia Rockwell, Associate Editor of the Wesleyan magazine, asked if I would be willing to be interviewed for their online edition, I think my gleefully yelped response was something to the effect of, “Willing?  I AM UTTERLY THRILLED!”

My huge thanks to Cynthia, and to Laurie Kenney, Wesleyan’s books editor, and my classmate Gary Breitbord, one of our two excellent Class Secretaries!

You can read the interview, here.

The post And What Author Doesn’t Love to be Interviewed for Her Alma Mater’s Online Newsletter? appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

Los York and New Angeles – Or, As I Like to Call It, My Adult Life

I went to college in a small town in Connecticut, having grown up in a small Connecticut suburb of New York. No disrespect (Don’t you love sentences that begin with “No disrespect…”? Because you know something snarky is about to follow…) to the people who love living in the bucolic calm of suburbia, but you couldn’t get me to the big city fast enough once I had my B.A. in my sweaty, eager palms.

I moved to Manhattan at a time when you could actually find a one-bedroom for considerably less than $3,000 in monthly rent.  And I lived in the City (THE City) in various apartments for sixteen glorious years. Then I moved to Los Angeles, where I have lived for the past twenty-two years, and from where I never intend to move. Never. Not ever. Ever.

Herewith, a few very random thoughts on the Big Apple and the Big Orange (this is an actual nickname for L.A.; I looked it up). All opinions expressed are my own. Like I needed to tell you that.

And no disrespect to the four other boroughs, but when I write “New York,” I’m always referring to the Glorious and Incomparable Island of Manhattan (which is, I believe, the official name given to that magical place by the British when they took it from the Dutch…or something like that…).

New York is the best city in the world.

Los Angeles is the best city in the world.

These two statements are not contradictory. No need to try to disprove my point by schooling me on the definition of “best.”  I know what “best” means. And I’m also old enough to have learned that stuff can be true without meeting the strictest standards of definition. Some stuff is true just ‘cause it’s true.

People will live in spaces in New York that no reasonable person would ever define as an “apartment.” Because it’s in New York. I lived in a fifth floor walk-up with the bathtub in the kitchen. Because it was cheap and it was within walking distance of Bloomingdale’s. And I loved every minute of it.  Except for the times when the cockroaches ran across the floor while I was rinsing off with the hand-held showerhead. And, P.S., try schlepping bags of groceries up five flights of stairs. But I did it all…because I was in Manhattan.

The weather in L.A. is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The first months I lived here, I was missing New York something wicked.  And then it was February, and I was walking along the beach in Malibu in shorts. And I remember thinking, yeah, I can live here…

L.A. pretty much has anything you can get in New York. We have theater. We have museums. We even have good Chinese food and good pizza and good bagels. They are just WAY more scarce than they are in New York, so you have to hunt for them, as opposed to finding them on each and every block.

New York has great beaches, and they’re as lovely as the fabulous beaches in Southern California. Granted, I’m not strictly talking about the Island of Manhattan here… I’m referring to Montauk, on the tip of Long Island. Go there and tell me the beaches aren’t gorgeous. Go ahead, I dare you. I’m already calling bullshit on that if you even try to tell me, so maybe don’t waste your breath…

Central Park is brilliant. Can you imagine New York without Central Park? No, don’t even go there; it’s too distressing…

The Hollywood Bowl is brilliant, but getting to it can be a huge pain in the ass. Don’t let that discourage you, though. It’s a must-see/hear location.

People do walk in L.A. I’m one of those people. I love walking in L.A., as much as I love walking in New York. Once, when I was living in West Hollywood, I took a delightful half-hour walk to my dentist’s office in Beverly Hills. Upon entering the office, the office manager must have noticed that I was a little schvitzy. She asked me what was wrong, and I told her absolutely nothing was wrong, I had just had a lovely walk to the office. She knew where I lived. Her eyes got huge, and she gasped, “But you live in West Hollywood! That’s impossible!” This is the very reason why people write disingenuous pop songs about nobody walking in L.A.

Hiking in L.A. can be utterly fabulous. You can hike up to the Hollywood sign. And you should and must.

New York has it way over us in terms of history. Walk in the Financial District in New York and see where President Washington was inaugurated for the first time. We have nothing like that here. We think it’s impressive that El Cholo (a fabulous Mexican restaurant) has been serving food since the 1920s.

L.A. has fabulous Mexican restaurants. New York’s are good, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t know one that’s L.A. good…

I’ve been to vegan restaurants in L.A. and in New York, and there are wonderful options to be found on both coasts, which is a very nice thing, in my forever-less-than-humble opinion.

I still giggle when I think about how narrow the aisles are in grocery stores in Manhattan. And we still don’t have anything to match a bodega here in Los Angeles. Salad bars. I miss easy access to superb salad bars. Here, I have to drive to get to one.  But once you get there, they’re great.

The celebrity sightings are legion in L.A. and in New York. And the show biz atmosphere is lush in both cities. So that particular metropolis-v.-metropolis skirmish is a wash.

Driving in L.A. is nuts. NUTS. Rush hour now lasts from 7:00 to 10:00 in the morning and from 3:00 to 7:00 in the evening. At a minimum. A BARE minimum. And people on the freeways will tailgate you at 80 miles an hour, which is NUTS. Also, just about no one signals when they change lanes in L.A., which is just NUTS. And really irritating.

Nobody drives in Manhattan. Nobody. Why in the hell would you?

It’s actually difficult to get a good dinner in L.A. much past 10:00 p.m. during the week, unless you go to a 24-hour diner.  Which is ridiculous. In New York, you can get food at any hour of the night. I used to order pizza and light beers at 4:00 in the morning. And it was delivered speedily and it was delicious. What’s up with the early-to-bed stuff, L.A.? That’s a question, not a criticism. Okay, it’s kind of a criticism…

When you live in New York or Los Angeles, friends and family from around the world will want to visit you all the time. ALL the time. Because you live in New York or Los Angeles. Who doesn’t want to visit there? So get used to hosting and to playing tour guide. Do it with grace and enthusiasm. You owe it to your city, which has always been so good to you, no?

Getting to LAX is a huge pain in the ass. No one expects to be picked up at JFK when you live in NYC and they want to visit you. Don’t get suckered into picking anyone up at LAX. Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, maybe, but not LAX. That’s what Uber and Lyft are for, for god’s sake.

The main branch of the New York Public Library System, on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street (the one with the lions in front; Patience and Fortitude, named by Mayor LaGuardia) is glorious. The main branch of the Los Angeles Public Library System on 5th Street in downtown Los Angeles (there is, in fact, a downtown in sprawling Los Angeles…don’t ask; it’s weird…) is equally glorious, in a very different way. Visit them both; you won’t be sorry you did.

I do predict, with surpassing affection, that L.A. and NYC will always be in a friendly competition with each other. Because they are the two most fabulous cities in the United States. I’ve never been to Chicago, so no disrespect to the Windy City…

Bottom line? I am convinced that, once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. And I am also a proud Angelena. I’ll always be in a New York state of mind, and L.A. will always be my lady. I visit the City That Never Sleeps at least once a year, and I live in the City of Flowers and Sunshine (yeah, I know it’s called the City of Angels, but that was too easy; City of Flowers and Sunshine is an actual nickname for L.A.; I looked it up).  Seriously, how lucky am I?

Rhetorical question.

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Being Transported By Romantic and Sexy Movies

I had such a superb time visiting with wonderful August McLaughlin of fabulous Girl Boner radio!

What Sexy Movies Turn You On? 10 Awesome Possibilities

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OH, YES, I DO THINK OF MYSELF AS QUITE THE AUNTIE MAME…

If you haven’t already seen Rosalind Russell in the movie “Auntie Mame,” please go watch it right now.

Seriously. I’ll wait. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to take care of today, and there’s also a “Law and Order: SVU” marathon on (because it’s a day of the week…), so no rush, no pressure.

Okay, seriously, was that movie delightful, or what? And is that title character fabulous, or what?

I don’t think I ever thought I wanted children. I’m pretty sure, if I am indeed remembering correctly, that I knew even when I was a young kid that I never wanted to be a parent. I have infinite admiration for people who are able to do a good and kind job of raising children. I knew instinctively that I wouldn’t be one of those people. I have never had the patience to be around someone else for long and uninterrupted periods of time. Which I guess is part of the definition of being a parent. Babies and small children seem to need a lot of attention, don’t they? I have a visceral need to spend a lot of time alone. I am able to be happily married because my husband is an independent soul and he can entertain himself for long stretches of time, unlike toddlers, who seem to need constant input and stimulation.

Several years ago, I offered to babysit for our friends’ six-year-old, because she was a sweet little kid and I figured I’d plop her down in front of the TV (something educational, you know, like “Sesame Street”… I mean, I had the best intentions… It’s not like I was going to have an SVU marathon on…) and I’d just go on reading and writing and working while I sat on the sofa and kept an eye on her. When her dad dropped her off, he announced – quite out of the blue, as my assumption would indicate – that his daughter was not allowed to watch TV. I think my exact, sputtered response was, “What the fuck?,” the subtext of which was “What the fuck am I supposed to do to keep her entertained for hours? Seriously, what the fuck?”

We read books and we had a tea party and we walked the dogs and by the time her parents came to pick her up again, I hadn’t spent one minute that didn’t involve interacting with her and I thought I was going to have a complete nervous breakdown.

But that No-TV Policy bullshit and my flirtation with mental collapse aside, I have to say that I have come to be quite the Auntie Mame. I remember reading somewhere that every child and young person should have an aunt and uncle who don’t have children and who have the time and energy and resources to spoil them and fuss over them. It’s a noble calling in my book, and one that I embrace with joy and enthusiasm. I absolutely adore my nieces and nephews, and I am proud of them beyond description. They are all delightful people, and I love spending time with them.

I had to wait until I got married to have any actual nieces and nephews, because I don’t have siblings, but I have also always had an expansive view of what it means to be an aunt. Three of my first cousins have children with whom I am very close, and I always introduce them as my nieces and nephew. One of my closest friends is like a brother to me, and there’s no question that his son is my nephew. I also really love being the fun person with my friends’ kids, the one who says and does silly things to make them laugh. I think young people and animals are so wonderfully straightforward and honest, so when one of them likes you, it’s really quite lovely, isn’t it?

I do, in the interest of the ubiquitous demand for full disclosure, have to admit that I’m rather a bad influence as an aunt. I’m going to try to keep the following confessions vague enough that my relatives and friends don’t rethink their enthusiasm for having me be Auntie Mame to their offspring, but, since being a writer should involve bearing one’s soul for public display, if Hemingway can do it, so can I.

My bad influence tends to manifest itself by my weighing in too heavily on the side of having fun. My nieces and nephews crack me up. I’m the aunt who laughs when the kid does something funny but also inappropriate, and any parent will tell you (and will tell me, repeatedly) that that sends a mixed message which the parents then have to clean up when I drop the kids back at their house and go to join Tom at Happy Hour somewhere.

When my nephew, who graduated from college a few years ago, was around 10 years old or so, he was in the car with Tom and me.  Every few weeks Tom and I would take him out to lunch and to a movie and to shopping for a treat (I’m a firm believer in bribing kids and animals to love you; it’s quick, it’s effective, and, when I do it, it’s honest… I literally say the words, “Here. Now, remember, when I get old, you have to take care of me.  Enjoy your present.”). This particular visit, our nephew suddenly said a vulgar word.

A very vulgar word.

A shockingly vulgar word. One even I hesitate to say, and I’m a member of a Facebook group called “Smart, Sexy Women Who Say ‘Fuck’ A Lot,” so you know where I’m coming from.

And when he said that incredibly vulgar word, I immediately did a dry spit-take because I wasn’t actually drinking anything at that moment, and I started guffawing and I could barely get out the words, “Sweetie, I know I’m laughing, but you must never, ever, ever, EVER say that word again!”

Yeah, we still chuckle about that one, Tom and our nephew and I. And I still haven’t told my friend-who-is-like-a-brother about it.

Yikes, I am giving away far too much information. If my friend-who-is-like-a-brother reads this, he’ll know I’m referring to his son. Oops.

Another example of me deeming paying homage to comedy far more important than acting like an adult happened with friends of ours who have three delightful young children. I’m just crazy about them. Their middle child is a five-year-old boy, and he’s a hoot. He’s always giggling and he’s full of energy. So he was being silly and he said to me, “You smell like farts and I smell like flowers,” and I started guffawing and his parents looked horrified and they began to chastise him for saying that I had the air of gaseous emissions, and I couldn’t stop laughing and I tried to apologize for being a bad influence by rewarding their son with laughter when he had said rather a rude thing, and then I just had to add, “Listen, you have to give it to him. He’s got a great appreciation for alliteration and he sure knows how to land a joke.”

I’m not sure how I can hide the identity of the niece involved in my final example of being an out-of-control Auntie Mame. I just hope my sister-in-law forgives me…

My niece was visiting us when she was 15. She’s now 17.

Really, it’s ridiculous that I’m not using her name. I’ve only got one niece who is currently 17. I’m being disingenuously coy in the service of hiding a secret that’s no secret at all. Certainly not to my sister-in-law.

At any rate, and out of habit, I’ll continue to call her my niece and eschew any proper nouns…

My niece and I are very close. We really understand each other. She’s a fabulous young person. When she came to visit, I was determined to show her a delightful time in Los Angeles. We went shopping and hiking and to the movies, and on one of her evenings here, she was going to go out and have adventures with my other niece and nephew, her cousins, who were in their mid-20s at the time. So, you know, adults. Responsible adults.

Of course, I’m the adult who was ultimately responsible for my younger niece. She was staying with us. And I was going to do everything I needed to do to make sure she got on the plane to go back home safely.

Everything necessary to ensure her safety…while still being her Auntie Mame.

So the kids go out, and Tom and I watch a movie at home and have a bottle of wine, and before I know it, it’s midnight. And my niece isn’t home. No phone calls or texts from anyone.

“Gosh, it’s midnight,” I say.

“Yeah,” Tom says, “it’s late. What time did you tell [insert name here; my sister-in-law certainly knows which name to insert] she had to be home?”

I tried to buy some time by taking a big sip of wine and pretending I was choking on it. But there’s only so many minutes that can be wasted by your dear husband smacking you on the back while you sputter with over-the-top theatricality.

“I didn’t tell her she had to be home at any particular time,” I whispered into my wine glass.

“You what?” Tom gasped.  “She’s FIFTEEN!” he bellowed.

“I know,” I said. “But I’m the fun aunt.”

“SHE’S FIFTEEN!”

I started sending cheerful texts to my nieces and nephew.

“Hey there, Cutie Pies! Having fun?”

No response.

“Hi, my Darlings! How’s it going out there in the thrilling City of Angels?”

Nothing.

“Soooo, when were y’all thinking of coming back? Just checking in case I need to leave out a key if we go to bed because IT’S ALREADY SO FUCKING LATE AND WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING NOT SETTING A STRICT CURFEW FOR A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD?!”

I didn’t type that last part.

They got back just after three o’clock. And my niece got on the plane home the next day safely.

I hope if my sister-in-law reads this, she’ll let my niece come visit again. I can’t promise I’ll be any more of a grown-up than Rosalind Russell was as Auntie Mame, but I do promise I’ll get my niece back on the plane in one piece. With lots of wonderful memories of memorable times. Just like Auntie Mame would.

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Allergies, Shmallergies…It’s All About Loyalty…

I didn’t know it was a litmus test.

Shortly after I met my late husband Dennis and started spending a lot of time at his apartment, which included spending a lot of time in the company of his wonderfully surly cat, I found myself doubled over, gasping for air.

A trip to an allergist showed that I was vulnerable to a number of things, but none of them more than cats.

“Your boyfriend will have to get rid of the cat,” the doctor said.

“That’s not going to happen,” I replied. “Tell me what I have to do to live with Mr. Joe.”

When I returned to Dennis’s apartment, he interrupted me right after I recounted the doctor’s declaration and before I could get to the punch line.

“That’s not going to happen. Mr. Joe was here first.”

And I loved Dennis all the more for his loyalty. Here was a man who took his commitments very seriously.

Allergy shots and inhalers and baths for Mr. Joe (don’t ask) restored my ability to breathe quite nicely. A few years after Dennis and I got married (and after our beloved cat passed away at a very old age), we moved from New York to Los Angeles so Dennis could do more film and TV acting. I missed Manhattan terribly those first few months, but then it was February and I was wearing shorts on El Matador Beach and I decided living in Southern California was going to suit me just fine.

Three years after we moved to Los Angeles, Dennis was diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer that had spread to his bones and lungs. He died in just under six months. But for the love and care of our family and friends and the three precious cats we had adopted when we got to L.A., I feel quite sure I would have withered away from sorrow.

Eventually, I did begin to think that maybe I could one day have a relationship with someone who wasn’t Dennis. My friends introduced me to a friend of theirs who was in town from Australia for their wedding. We had a lovely time together during the entire weekend of their fabulous celebration.

You know what “a lovely time together” is a euphemism for.

Six months later, my same newly-married friends introduced me to a friend of theirs who was in town on business from upstate New York. We had a lovely time together for an entirely memorable weekend.

I realized afterward that it was especially nice that neither of these men lived in Los Angeles. It seems I wasn’t ready to have a long-term relationship with someone who wasn’t Dennis. Also, both of them were allergic to cats, so they each announced that they wouldn’t be setting foot in my apartment. Ever.

A year and a half later, a big group of us who loved Dennis gathered at St. Nick’s Pub near the Beverly Center to celebrate what would have been Dennis’s fiftieth birthday. I remember when I came home that night, I kept wondering if I was going to die just from the physical effort of crying so violently.

That was a Thursday. The following Sunday, I had been invited to a party at Molly Malone’s on Fairfax.

Clearly, Irish bars were figuring prominently in my destiny that week.

My friend was dating a musician and he was celebrating the release of his CD. My friend had placed an ad in L.A. Weekly announcing this. A few months before, as fate apparently was determined to have it, a guy named Tom had moved to Los Angeles from San Jose to pursue his music career. My friend’s boyfriend was in a band that Tom had followed with great enthusiasm for many years, so when he read about the CD release party in L.A. Weekly, Tom made plans to be there.

I’m going to confess that I don’t remember all the details of meeting Tom because Molly Malone’s has a lot of excellent beers on tap. I do remember seeing him as soon as he walked in and I do remember thinking that he was very handsome. It didn’t immediately occur to me that he might be younger than I am. That only became clear when he gave me his e-mail address and it included four numbers that indicated a year that was ten years after the year of my birth.

Tom drove me home and I gave him my phone number. He called in two days and didn’t specify an evening for us to get together. He just said, “So when can I see you again?” Which I found entirely charming.

Tom began spending a lot of time at my place. In the company of my three wonderful cats. And ended up doubled over, gasping for air.

A visit to an allergist showed that he wasn’t allergic to anything except cats. He told the doctor that he would do whatever was necessary to be able to live with Sam and Gus and Marpie because, “I’m not giving my girlfriend the ‘It’s me or them’ ultimatum. I know which of us she’d pick.”

And he was right. They were there first. I made a commitment to them.

Tom passed the litmus test perfectly. We’ll be married for twelve years in November. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…

I’m deeply grateful that we both take our commitments very seriously.

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Those Who Leave Us Behind

There will be a two-pronged lead-in to this blog entry. Here’s the first one: When I do readings for my novel, or when I answer Q&As for websites, I’m often asked how much of Lala’s story is autobiographical. My answer, as part of my ongoing attempt to make the audience giggle (which I love to do), is “A great, great deal.”

Lala and I both love our rescued senior dogs, and we both feel that adopting senior dogs is our calling in life. We both really love wine and champagne (and also beer and the occasional mixed drink). We are both madly in love with words and with language. We both overuse ellipses in our writing…and we’ve both been very, very, very lucky in love, twice.

And both of us had to be very, very, very unlucky in love a first time in order to be lucky in love the next time.

Here’s the second lead-in: Have I mentioned before that I live in Los Angeles and I walk to my gym? Seriously, how many people get to do that in the widely-spread-out City of Angels? I love it. I’m so spoiled. When I lived in New York City, of course I walked to my gym. Lots of people can do that on the glorious Island of Manhattan. In L.A., it’s a rare joy.

My gym has lots of magazines available to read while working out. I love that. I love magazines. I’m only semi-ashamed to admit that I love gossip magazines. And I love Oprah’s magazine and I love Real Simple. It was in the latter magazine that I read an article that was deeply moving.

I think I’m done with the lead-ins. Here’s the sum and substance:

Lala and I were both widowed at an age that is generally considered rather young to lose one’s spouse. Though, since being widowed and while my first husband was sick, I came to realize that life is very fragile, and that people old and young die all the time. Dennis had cancer. While he was receiving treatment at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, there were children who were also receiving treatment. Life is very, very fragile.

One of my dearest friends (we met in college and he’s really more like a brother to me than like a friend; he’s certainly part of my family) lost his partner to cancer a few years before Dennis died. He said something life-altering to me while Dennis was sick. We were reflecting on love and loss, and he said, “The answer to the question, ‘Why me?’ really is, ‘Why not you?’ This is life. We’re all going to die. It’s just a question of when and how.”

So I’m at my gym and I’m reading an issue of Real Simple, and there is an article in this issue that is profoundly moving. It’s called “Dancing With My Father,” and it’s by writer Michal Lemberger, whose father died when she was 21.

If we all live long enough, we will lose someone we love. And sometimes we don’t even have to live very long. I have three women in my life to whom I am very close. One is a very dear friend (my first husband and I introduced her to her husband), one is my sister-in-law (her husband and my first husband were brothers; they were born on the same day, five years apart, and they both married women named Heidi; yes, my sister-in-law’s name is the same fairly unusual name as mine), and one is my aunt, who is also one of my closest friends (her husband and my father were brothers). They all have one daughter, and their daughters are among my favorite people in the world. My cousin is like my baby sister, I absolutely adore my niece, and my dear friend’s daughter is like a niece to me. Those three women all lost their husbands at a far-too-young age, and those three young women all lost their fathers when they were around 14 or 15 years old.

If we live long enough…and sometimes we don’t even have to live very long…

I was 41 when Dennis died. He was 47. He died just under six months after his diagnosis of Stage 4 stomach cancer. The character in my novel who is based on Dennis is named Terrence. That was Dennis’s middle name.

Almost 18 years have passed since Dennis’s death. I met my husband, Tom, two-and-a-half years after Dennis died. Dennis and Tom are different, of course, and they also share certain lovely qualities – decency, kindness, and a very warm and generous spirit.

I have been very, very, very lucky in love.

Dennis and I were together 16 years, and we were married 13 years. Tom and I have been together 16 years, and we have been married 12 years. I am a much better person now than I was before Dennis got sick. I was glib and prickly before Dennis’s diagnosis and before I saw Dennis deal with his illness and impending death with so much grace. What a high price that wonderful man had to pay for me to start paying attention to the things that are really important in life.

I haven’t been able to speak to Dennis for almost 18 years. I have the option of seeing photos of him, and I have the option of watching video of him (he was a wonderful actor); I am able to look at the photos and smile, but it’s still too painful for me to watch videos and to hear his voice. Or I imagine it would be, because I haven’t done it yet.

One of the things I love most about being married is the shorthand of being a couple for a long time. I can make one-word references to a scene in a movie, and Tom knows exactly what I’m talking about. We have shared so many trips and movies and events and adventures. We have the same language.

Dennis and I had that as well. But now, when I hear or see something that he would enjoy as much as I do, when I see something that refers to a shared experience of ours, I can’t share it with him.

Before I read Michal Lemberger’s article, I had been thinking a lot about what it would be like to see Dennis again. I think I’ve been thinking about that since he died. As time passes, I have less and less of a visceral memory of what it was like to spend time with Dennis. Someone I saw just about every day for years and years has faded with time from my vivid memory. In a way, that’s a good thing. The first agonizing months after his death, I couldn’t think of him without sobbing, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Now, I am able to think of him and smile. I might get a tiny bit teary, but it’s not that horrible, overwhelming grief of the first months and years after he died.

I still can’t watch video of him, though…

And so these words from Lemberger’s article vividly resonated for me.

“But the true tragedy of losing someone you love unfolds over time. There’s the loss itself, the empty space that used to be filled by that person—his voice, the sound of his footfalls in the hallway, the face you inherited from him looking back at you. And then there’s the fact that the sorrow you feel changes you, so that you are no longer the person he once knew.

My father’s death set in motion a series of changes in me such that I wonder whether he would recognize the person I’ve become. As the years pass, he is more and more lost to me.”

 

What would I say to Dennis if I saw him again? How would I share with him all the adventures and changes and accomplishments and challenges of my life since he left me behind? His death has changed me. The sorrow and anguish have changed me. I have learned so much, at such a high price for him. He wouldn’t know me anymore. He might like me more as I am now than as I was when I was with him. At such a high price.

The truth is that I am so much happier now than I ever have been because of the lessons I have learned, and those lessons really started when Dennis was diagnosed. And typing that, and thinking it, as I often have, feels like a betrayal of Dennis. But at the same time, I feel sure that he wouldn’t see it that way. When he was sick, and this is something I found out after he died, if friends and family asked him how he was, he always said that he was fine, “but please take care of Heidi.” That’s all he cared about. He knew he would die, and he wanted to make sure I would be okay.

Our friends and family more than honored Dennis’s request. They surrounded us with love and care while Dennis was sick, and they surrounded me with love and care after he died. They still do. And they embraced Tom when I met him and fell in love with him, and they made him part of our extended family. I imagine that Dennis would be very happy. I imagine that he would like Tom very much. They’re both great guys. I’m very, very, very lucky.

The program for Dennis’s memorial service included one of his last headshots as an actor, and also a photograph of him when he was a toddler, sitting joyously on a beach. There was a quotation from “The Bridge of San Luis Rey” by Thornton Wilder: “There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

If I have learned anything from being left behind, it is that these words are absolutely true. Well, certainly they are true for me… Nothing is more important than love. Eternally.

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The Admiration is Mutual

I am so honored and delighted that my wonderful colleague and friend, Lucy Banks, enjoyed Lala’s story. And I know I will be reading all the books that Lucy recommends! I recently had the great pleasure of reading Lucy’s “The Case of the Green-Dressed Ghost (Dr. Ribero’s Agency of the Supernatural)” and I LOVED it!

You can read Lucy’s post here.

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Because Sometimes Your Thoughts Just Demand to be Random…

I think it might be overly generous to call what follows here “musings,” and I wouldn’t even begin to feel cheeky enough to label them “My attempts to create a one-off homage to the late Andy Rooney of 60 Minutes.”  Let’s just go with calling this all “a mishmash of stuff,” shall we?

I was rushing to get ready to go out the other night, and I had a huge mishap with my mascara. Without even thinking, because I didn’t have to think because I’m living in 2017 and what I was about to do is entirely second-nature to me, I grabbed a Q-tip and in mere seconds my face no longer resembled that of a sobbing raccoon.  And I had to reflect, even as I was running out to the car, that life with Q-tips is miraculous.  And how did we even function as individuals and as a society before Q-tips?  Did people not wear mascara, for fear of the possible hideous and irreparable results of one false move?

Of course I had to look at the entry for Q-tips on Wikipedia. It’s under their generic name, “cotton swabs” (and apparently “cotton buds” in Britain; who knew?).  Here’s a bit of history:  “The cotton swab is a tool invented in the 1920s by Leo Gerstenzang after he attached wads of cotton to toothpicks. His product, which he named ‘Baby Gays,’ [Blogger’s Note: WTF is that all about?] went on to become the most widely sold brand name, ‘Q-tips,’ with the Q standing for ‘quality.'”

Anyone who knows me or who has read my work will know that I absolutely adore animals. I love cats, but for the past several years we’ve only had dogs in our family.  I love dogs.  Honestly, I just adore them.  And so, I am, of course, moved and mesmerized by the fact that “dog” is “god” backwards.  Wow.  Just wow.  There must be some cosmic significance in that.

But here’s where my wonder goes astray.  It’s only in English, right?  Am I missing another language where that’s also the case?  Dieu and chien?  Uh, no.  Hund and Gott?  Nope.  Perro and dios?  You get where I’m going with this…

P.S.  I’m serious, shit like this keeps me up at night…  Also, please note that I gave the word for “god” in German an initial cap because they give all nouns initial caps.  It’s not a statement of preference on my part.

What, for the love of all things gracious and sublime, is going on with people dropping consonants all over the damn place?  I watch a lot of television.  Well, I don’t actually watch it much of the time.  It’s on in the background when I’m writing.  That’s just the best way for me to compose.  The low-volume television chatter is like a lovely little white noise soundtrack while I put words together.

But sometimes I do focus on what’s happening on the screen, especially when I’m looking for a plot point or a character trait or a special turn of phrase.  It’s a nice distraction while my mind buzzes on a subconscious level.  And I’ve been noticing while I focus on televised offerings that more and more PEOPLE ARE NOT PRONOUNCING CONSONANTS!

I’m serious; I hear the sentence “It’s kew,” for “It’s cute.”  I hear “I dih-int” for “I didn’t.”  When I’m watching my much-loved Say Yes to the Dress, I hear “sah-in” when the wedding gown is clearly made of “SAT-in.”

For a lover of our glorious English language, it’s just too damn much.  What are we, speaking French?  Let’s pretend we’re speaking German and do as they do…pronounce EV-ER-Y FUCK-ING LET-TER, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

Grated cheese is one of the best things in the world. And iced tea; that’s also one of the best things in the world.  It’s even better with a splash of lemonade.  Not a full-on Arnold Palmer.  Just a splash.

I could never do a low-carb diet.  If I had to give up pasta (or noodles, as we called it in my youth), I would… I just wouldn’t even see the point of going on.  Ditto with bread.  But more so with pasta.

Smoothies are really soothing.  There’s a reason those two words share so many letters.

Potato chips?  The best thing ever created?  Yeah, pretty much.  Pizza is also a miracle.  I don’t say that glibly, nor do I think I’m devaluing the word “miracle” by declaring that pizza is one.

If you take a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a scoop of strawberry ice cream and you put them in the same bowl and you let them get a little soft and you mash them up into a mixture, it will be one of the best things in the world.  Trust me on this.

Our beagle Maggie is kind of obnoxious when the time comes for her to be fed.  I say that with love.  Our three four-legged kids get breakfast, dinner, and a third meal just before we go to bed (because if they didn’t, they would wake us up at maybe three o’clock in the morning demanding food; I mean, demanding it).  And each time, Maggie whimpers and paces and occasionally bays because we’re not getting her food ready fast enough.

Maggie is a beagle.  Maggie loves to eat.  I say all this about our precious girl because I am basically just like Maggie vis-a-vis food.  Without the baying.  Most of the time.

I am such a feminist.  I am such a proud feminist.  I am such a proud, furious feminist.

How did the word “feminism” ever get a negative connotation?  I’m guessing it’s because the patriarchy didn’t like women getting uppity.

Don’t get me started…

Women haven’t had the vote for 100 years yet in the United States.  We’ve never had a female president.  And look at the rest of the world.  In Saudi Arabia, women aren’t allowed to drive.

Don’t anyone try to tell me that feminism isn’t necessary or that it’s negative or it’s too aggressive or any of that other undermining shit.

Oh, and you know what I really hate?  I really hate mansplaining.  I mean, really hate it.

I do however think that the word “mansplaining,” solely as a construct, is fucking brilliant.

I will say this though about my upbringing, and it’s kind of surprising… My parents were born in the 1920s.  My mom grew up in Europe.  And both of my parents, despite being of their generation, were more-than-reasonably okay in terms of not trying to limit my options because I’m female.  I’m really happy about that.

You know how there are certain movies that aren’t especially brilliant, but when you’re scrolling through the channels and you see that they’re on, they’re kind of deliciously not brilliant and there are moments that you kind of enjoy in them, and somehow you’ve ended up seeing them a lot because they’re kind of addictive, despite being entirely not brilliant?  Here are a few of the ones that fall into that category for me:

The Rocker

Couples Retreat

That remake of Arthur with Russell Brand

And apropos movies, here are my Top Five Favorites of All Time.

Casablanca

Random Harvest

Now, Voyager

Victor, Victoria

Moonstruck

Reading is the best thing in the world.

I honestly don’t think anything needs to be added to that statement.

If I could have a wish for one ability, it would be to be able to sing beautifully.  I can’t sing.  I can’t hear the notes and I can’t match them.  I love music.  I love singing.  My husband has a gorgeous singing voice.  He says sometimes I sing in “perfect thirds.”  Other than understanding that that has something to do with harmonizing, I have no idea what he’s talking about.

I always knew — I mean, from a very early age — that I didn’t want to have children.  I always knew that I wanted to have pets.  And at some point after I got married (because, being any only child, that was the only way I was going to get nieces and nephews), I knew that I wanted to be one of those legendarily crazy, legendarily fabulous aunts.

I swear, my nieces and nephews had better be reading this blog post right now, and they had better start making incredibly laudatory comments about me in the comment section below.  Heads up, kids; I haven’t written my will yet, and the jury is still out on who’s going to get what…

I am convinced that my hair can hear me when I call my stylist to make an appointment for a cut and color.

I usually wait too long to schedule an appointment.  I’m so lazy and I’m so easily distracted. So even though I write in my calendar that I should call for an appointment after a certain amount of time has elapsed since my last appointment, I generally end up adding a few weeks to that.  So what happens is I wake up one day and my hair is too long and it’s suddenly driving me crazy.  So I call my stylist and I beg for an appointment as soon as possible, and my hair hears that, and the next day, when I wash and blow-dry it, it looks fabulous. And I’m thinking, maybe I don’t need to get it cut and colored just yet.

I guess my hair just really hates being cut and colored, because, I swear, it does that to me every time.  It’s like it pushes me to the limit, and then I go nuts, and it realizes that it has gone too far, and it resolves to behave.

I do want to add that I know that I am obviously taking this whole anthropomorphizing everything too far… But… I’m still not entirely sure that my hair isn’t a sentient being unto itself…

Do I even need to add that the opinions expressed herein are entirely my own?  Though I bet that if our three senior dogs gave it even a few minutes of thought, they would all agree with me on just about everything I’ve expounded on. Especially the part about the ice cream.

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Bette Davis’s advice is timelessly brilliant!

I had such a wonderful time chatting with fabulous Ella James on her delightful and insightful podcast! Enjoy!

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