Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "heroes"

Here's a thought. If you've ever read a book, written a book or even thought about writing one, chances are you've got a literary hero.
For readers it's probably a character. But for authors, the odds are even better that it's a fellow wordsmith. For some, perhaps, it's a master of the craft. Or maybe it's an obscure writer whose name -- known only to a select few -- evokes the image of a starving artist driven solely by their passion.
For me it is Snoopy. Yes, that Snoopy -- the loveable beagle of Peanuts fame created by Charles Schulz.
For the record, I loved him long before it ever dawned on me to use a pen or pencil for anything other than doodling or homework -- and long before I could type, for that matter. I mean, what child wouldn't fall in love with a dog who could play baseball, fly an airplane, hold his own with a BFF as hip as Woodstock, and write the great American novel -- or at least try to write it?
To this day, the fact that he didn't quite manage to become a best-selling author hasn't diminished my respect for the pup. If anything, Snoopy's dogged determination in the face of so much rejection heightened it. But in all honesty, he didn't officially become my literary hero until a few years ago, when I received a book called "Snoopy's Guide to the Writing Life."
Edited by Barnaby Conrad and Monte Schulz, the hard-cover book features commentary, essays, anecdotes and Peanuts comic strips. Collectively, they show just how Snoopy dealt with criticism, rejection and writers block. In the book, some fairly decent authors including Ray Bradbury, William F. Buckley Jr., Clive Cussler and Sidney Sheldon, offer advice to help Snoopy hone his craft.
But to me, the best part of the whole book is the front cover. On it are frames from an old Peanuts comic strip in which the brilliant beagle struggles to create one of the best sentences ever written. Painstakingly, word by word, we see it evolve... "It was a dark and stormy night."
Pure genius.
And until next time, "That's Life..."

Author's/Blogger's Note: The following is dedicated to rabid sports fans around the world.
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Once upon a time, there was a little girl who grew up in the New York City suburbs. Although she was raised in a multicultural household, she quickly developed an appreciation for anything American... especially baseball.
She fell in love with the New York Yankees at the tender age of seven and by the time she finished elementary school, she had amassed a bigger baseball card collection than any of the boys had. She also had a crush on catcher Rick Cerone.
Sadly, one thing led to another and her passion for baseball waned. But all was not lost. As a teenager, she fell in love with ice hockey and developed a whole new passion -- this time for the New York Islanders. By the time she jumped on the bandwagon, the team was in its glory, having won the Stanley Cup three straight times. The teenage girl adored brash young goalie Billy Smith, and feisty Bobby Nystrom. But ultimately a big, rugged winger named Clark Gillies won her heart.
Around the same time, the girl realized she could write fairly well, and with the help of her freshman English teacher, started covering high school sports for the local newspaper. Her dream at the time was to become a beat writer for Newsday and -- you guessed it -- cover professional ice hockey.
In fact she was so vocal about her passion for the sport -- and her favorite team -- that her classmates named her "Class Islander" in the senior yearbook. Her classmates also decided that any girl who could write so well would be found working at Sports Illustrated within 10 years after graduation.
As it turned out, our heroine's dreams came true much sooner than anyone predicted. Soon after graduating from college, she started going to New York Islanders practices. There, she met her best friend, a young talented photographer. And together, they began covering minor league and professional ice hockey.
In their 20s, they were living every sports fan's dreams. They knew all the players and had locker room access. Life couldn't have possibly been any better. Or could it?
Along the way, something happened to our heroine. She no longer idolized the athletes she once adored. She realized that professional sports aren't all they're cracked up to be, and that the men who make a living playing games don't deserve the blind adulation society showers upon them.
Oh, some of the players she knew were phenomenal athletes. Some were even good people. Others weren't so good. For better or worse, all were human. Not gods. Not superheroes. Not even heroes. Just men blessed with skill, talent and good luck that allowed them to reach the highest level of their chosen profession. Nothing more, nothing less.
As soon as that reality set in, the "little girl" grew up, and the sports fan she once was disappeared for good.
Yes, you guessed it. I was that little girl. And I have no regrets.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Author's/blogger's note: Today we remember and pay tribute to those who perished in the terrorist attacks on the United States of America 13 years ago and in the aftermath. We are eternally grateful for those who survived, and grieve with those who suffered unimaginable loss.
The following is an excerpt from my memoir, Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey. In this particular chapter, I document my own experience as a journalist living and working in the New York City suburbs on 9/11.
I am sharing it not to call attention to myself, but to serve as yet another reminder that we must never forget. Never, ever forget.
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It happened on a Tuesday -- on a warm, sunny kind of early September morning when college students lobby for class on the quad, high school seniors contemplate skipping class altogether and adults are tempted to play hooky from work.
Doing that wasn’t an option for me. I got up, changed, worked out and, with a few minutes to relax, turned my attention to the television in my bedroom. There was nothing interesting on any of the home shopping channels, or on any of the other channels, for that matter. It was almost nine o’clock, and with limited options I turned to one of the morning news shows. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“A plane has just hit one of the World Trade Center buildings,” a tense news anchor reported.
As live footage of the smoking building rolled, another plane slammed into the second tower.
“Oh, my God!” I screamed. “What the hell is going on? Oh my God! No! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
I lunged for the phone and called my mom at work. “Do you have any idea what is going on?” I shouted when she finally answered. “Turn on the television, now! Two planes just hit the World Trade Center!”
American Airlines Flight 11, en route from Boston to Los Angeles, had slammed into the North Tower around 8:46 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175, also bound for L.A., barreled into the South Tower less than twenty minutes later. Smoke poured from the buildings. Firefighters and police continued to rush towards them to try to help the people trapped inside. Even as they did, some victims jumped to their deaths while panicked New Yorkers screamed in horror and disbelief.
Chaos reigned. At 9:37 a.m., another hijacked airliner -- American Airlines Flight 77-- hit the Pentagon. United Airlines Flight 93, a fourth hijacked jet destined to cause even more carnage in Washington, D.C., crashed in a Pennsylvania field at 10:03 a.m., after the passengers learned about the earlier incidents and fought back.
Then the Twin Towers fell.
Deeply shaken and unable to understand fully the magnitude of what had happened, I only knew I had to do my job. I went straight to the Rye Police Department. The atmosphere there was unbelievable. From the lobby, I could hear occasional radio chatter and news reports on the television near the front desk. Other than that, it was quiet -- too quiet.
My hands shook as I silently accepted the police log from a secretary and began to take notes. I leafed through the pages without seeing the words, knowing the contents paled in comparison to mass murder.
“You seem to be really affected by all this. Do you know anyone who works in the Towers?”
Startled, I looked up to find the Rye police commissioner, a former New York City cop, standing in a nearby doorway.
“No,” I replied.
But for the second time in less than two years, unexpected events shattered my sense of safety and security, turning my world upside down.
I knew one of Lisa’s best friends worked on Wall Street. Not all that long ago, Adam had worked for a federal government agency with offices in the heart of the Big Apple’s financial district. I thought his dad still worked somewhere in the five boroughs, and hoped it wasn’t anywhere near lower Manhattan.
Everyone’s fine, I kept telling myself. Everyone is fine.
Our phone didn’t stop ringing that night. Relatives around the world called to talk about the terrorist attacks and ask if we were okay. As much as I appreciated their concern, I quickly
tired of answering the same questions over and over again. After all, I still had unanswered questions of my own.
Between calls, I tried to reach Lisa out on the Island, but I couldn’t get through. I was just about to try again when the phone trilled for what seemed like the trillionth time. Without Caller ID, I had no idea who was on the line. I answered anyhow.
“Hi, Alex, it’s Adam.”
“Hi. I am so glad you called. Is your dad okay? Was he in the City?”
“Yes, he’s okay. It took him forever to get home, but he’s fine.”
“I can’t believe what happened,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
“Look, I’d love to talk but I’ve got to try and get a hold of Lisa. I’ve been trying all day and haven’t gotten through.” “Okay, I understand,” Adam said. “Take care.”
“You too.”
Lisa finally called me a few hours later. Her friend who worked on Wall Street and her mom, who managed a Manhattan hotel, were both safe.
I went to bed finally knowing that all of my friends and their families were okay, but the world would never be the same.
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Until next time, "That's life..."

The day after the terrorist attacks in Paris, I went to the movies.
Seeking comfort, and thinking I might find it in a film featuring characters beloved since my childhood, I considered seeing the new Peanuts movie.
I settled for Spectre instead. In all honesty I wasn't sure I could handle the make-believe violence 24 hours after real life violence claimed the lives of so many innocent people. But I went because I needed reassurance.
In the wake of so much sadness and so much mindless hatred, I wanted to be reassured that the good guys do win. That evil can be vanquished. That the values we cherish in free, civilized societies are worth fighting for. That there are still a few people who are brave enough to defend them.
In the midst of all of the predictable car chases, car crashes and general mayhem that is an integral part of any Bond film, I found what I was looking for. I went to see Spectre and I found "a quantum of solace."
In the weeks since then, more real-life violence erupted, this time in California.
Much like a James Bond martini, my faith has once again been shaken. It feels like the world is upside down, or maybe sideways. Any way you look at it, it's a big, bad, scary place. There's no doubt about it.
But I still have faith. The good guys will win.
It's just a matter of time.
Until next time, "That's life..."