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

As a journalist, I asked my share of tough questions. Today I answered some.
At 1 p.m., I had a blog talk radio interview with Patrick Morgan. For the most part, we talked about my memoir, "Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey."
During the conversation, we discussed my reasons for writing the book sharing the delicate -- if not controversial -- subject matter included therein.
As I explained, "Truth" is the true account of how I met, fell in love with and married the man of my dreams, and how I learned that he self-identified as and planned on having gender reassignment surgery to become a woman. In the book I also share what happened after I learned the truth.
On a couple of occasions, Patrick hesitated before posing difficult questions. He prefaced each by apologizing for asking them and telling me I didn't have to answer if they were too personal.
I could have chosen not to comment and left it at that. Instead, I answered even the hardest questions as fully and honestly as possible.
As far as I'm concerned, I lost my right to privacy when I chose to share my story. After all, my life is an open book.
Until next time, "That's life..."

So here's a question for you. When was the last time you went to elementary school? No, no, no. I am not asking about the school your children attend. When was the last time you set foot in the school where you spent your early childhood?
I went back last week.
After paying a surprisingly reasonable admission fee at a high-end art show here in Greenwich, I decided to check out an indoor tag sale and flea market at Julian Curtiss Elementary School. If nothing else, the free admission was enticing.
When I arrived, I parked next to the field where as a little girl I played soccer, baseball and ran the 600-yard dash with my classmates during annual physical fitness assessments. Funny but it seems so much smaller now...
I walked across the access road I once knew as "the bus loop" and remembered the pride, sense of independence and maturity I felt the first time I was allowed to take the bus home instead of going to the after-school program at Diamond Hill.
Through open doors, I spotted the gymnasium that I hadn't set foot in since I "graduated" back in 1981. Blocking out the clamor and looking past the tables topped with tag sale items, I saw the climbing ropes that frightened and enthralled me as a kid. I remember how determined I was to get to the top -- and how I came close but never quite succeeded.
Motivational quotes now line the walls in the gym where I learned how to play basketball, do forward and backwards rolls and traverse a balance beam. Looking to the left, I saw the stage where I had the starring roll as the Tin Man in the fifth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz.
Though open, the doors leading to the rest of the school were blocked with "Do Not Enter" signs. If that hadn't been the case, I would cheerfully have ventured into the hallways I ran -- or walked in straight lines with my classmates -- so long ago. And had I done so, even more childhood memories would have come to light.
Perhaps, if I'd had the time and opportunity, I would have found the classroom where I wrote my very first story. Based on a popular role-playing game, the tale pitted good against evil; but in my story evil triumphed.
And perhaps, if I'd had the chance to wander further, I would have reached the playground where I vanquished a grade school bully as my teachers watched and silently cheered me on.
Then again, it's probably better that I didn't have too much time to dwell on the past. For better or worse, it can't be changed... and truth be told, it's best left in the rear-view mirror.
Until next time, "That's life..."

In case you've missed it, there's a debate swirling across America. The Washington Redskins football team is once again being pressured to change its name.
Some people find it offensive because of its racial connotations. Others aren't bothered at all.
My personal feelings about the issue are irrelevant. Even if I cared to share them -- which I don't -- this blog would hardly be the proper forum in which to do so.
Speaking in general, I will say this. People today are way too easily offended. And there is way too much pressure to be politically correct.
As an author and as someone who values freedom above all else, I believe that can be a very dangerous thing.
On meriam-webster.com, the term politically correct is defined as "conforming to a belief that language and practices which could offend political sensibilities (as in matters of sex or race) should be eliminated."
I agree that we should all be held accountable for what we say. Hate speech, in particular is intolerable. The consequences of making hateful comments -- maliciously or out of ignorance -- are justifiably harsh.
But when has societal pressure to be politically correct gone too far? When our fear of offending someone effectively stifles our freedom of speech? When it precludes open and honest debate? When it prevents us, as authors, from sharing our stories?
While I tried to share my own story as honestly and responsibly as possible, I knew many people -- including some in the transgender community -- would find my memoir offensive. I weighed the pros and cons of publishing it at all. But in the end, I didn't let fear of what people might think dissuade me from speaking my truth.
In print and in person, I will always speak my truth -- but I will never, ever be "PC."
Until next time, "That's life..."

When it comes to writing, everyone's got an opinion. And in my humble opinion, J.K. Rowling is a genius. So, for that matter, is her "alter-ego" Robert Galbraith.
While I realize that her (their?) genius is a matter of considerable debate in literary circles and the among general public, that is not the topic of this post. However, it is tangential to the point I'm about to make.
Bear with me just a little while longer, and you'll see why.
In the opening pages of The Silkworm, our hero, Cormoran Strike, meets with a journalist. During the course of their conversation, the journalist, Culpepper, asks Strike how he got someone "to talk."
"I listened," Strike says.
And that simple bit of dialogue -- that little snippet --is what brings me (albeit it a bit belatedly) to my point.
He listened.
Just stop and think about that for a second. Let it sink in.
Now ask yourself this: in the day-to-day craziness of 21st century life, when was the last time I listened to someone?
In this instant information age, when was the last time I had a personal conversation without being distracted or interrupted by an incoming text or phone call?
Am I really "plugged in" to the world? Or am I out of touch with life?
Which matters more?
In this age of rampant narcissism and instant gratification, when was the last time I listened to someone without interrupting to share my opinion?
At a time when making and spreading harsh judgments about others based on limited or inaccurate information is celebrated, when was the last time I listened without judging?
At a time when I'm faced with so many demands I can hardly hear myself think, when was the last time I stopped long enough to listen to a child's laughter? Or waves lapping on the shore? Or gentle rainfall on the roof? Or birds chirping in the morning? Or leaves rustling in the breeze?
Then take a deep breath. Exhale. Find a quiet place to listen to your inner voice... and follow it where ever it may lead.
Until next time, "That's life..."

For some reason my friends are on my mind quite a bit these days. Perhaps it's because I haven't seen any of them for a while -- although that's hardly unusual.
Some of my closest friends live in other states. Some live nearby. But geography isn't the issue. All of us are busy.
Lately it seems we've all been extremely busy. Too busy to return phone calls. Too busy to return texts. Too caught up in the stress and frenetic pace of 21st century life to put our own issues aside.
It's not an indictment. I'm not upset. In fact I've never judged or based friendships solely on the amount of time people are willing to invest. I measure them against far more intrinsic values.
My dearest friends aren't the people I've known the longest or those that I hang out with most. They are the people who have been loyal through thick and thin. They've put up with the drama and they've never hesitated to give me a swift kick in the butt when I needed one most. They haven't asked me to trust them. They've just shown that I can.
There's a fierce, unspoken bond. I know they've always got my back. And I'll always have theirs.
My closest friends are an elite group. I can count them on one hand.
As I do, I remember something my father always said. He told me that you'll be lucky to have a few truly good friends in life.
I am definitely a lucky girl.
Until next time, "That's life..."

I have a confession to make. I committed an egregious sin this week...
But before we go any further, let me set the record straight. It is not a sin worthy of disclosure to a priest, nor is it anything morally reprehensible.
Come to think of it, Eli is probably the only one who really thinks I've committed a sin at all. But before we go any further, there's something you should know about Eli. He's my cat. And the "sin" I committed was trying to clip his claws.
Now those of you who don't have pets -- or more specifically, those of you who don't have cats -- are probably wondering why that's such a big deal. Just trust me, it is.
For my 8-1/2 year-old buff and white American Domestic Short Hair cat, claw clipping is the single worst thing that can possibly happen. Well, aside from missing a meal, of course.
In fact Eli, who also weighs in at a relatively hefty 14 pounds, hates having his claws clipped so much that his old vet had to sedate him in order to get the job done.
To make a long story short, let's just say that for various reasons Eli hasn't been to the vet for a while. And let's just say that for reasons known only to him, he failed to heed repeated warnings about sharpening his claws on the sofa.
So when he sunk his claws into the sofa on Wednesday night, I'd finally had enough. I picked him up, put him in my lap, and successfully clipped one claw. Eli then had what can only be described as a screaming, yowling, hissy fit. He also used a few of his exceedingly long claws to express his displeasure.
Wounded, I decided the fight wasn't worthwhile, and let him go. Not surprisingly, with tail lashing and hackles raised, he stalked away.
And not surprisingly, I felt horrible about what happened. I tried to give him his space. I tried to apologize. But he rebuffed each attempt with flattened ears and a warning hiss. After several hours, he deigned to eat some treats out of my hand, but rejected further peace offerings.
"Wow, he's really mad," I told my mom. "I guess I'm really in the doghouse."
Until next time, "That's life..."

The news stops you dead in your tracks. Shock sets in. Numbness follows. There is denial -- and there are questions.
You wonder why. How? Why?
You are angry. You are sad. In your grief you cannot shake the nagging questions that will forever go unanswered. Still, you wonder why. How could this happen? Why?
You've just learned that a friend committed suicide. It is incomprehensible, but all too real.
When I was 18, a friend and mentor killed himself by jumping in front of an Amtrak train just blocks away from my house. The sound of a blasting train horn haunts me to this day.
I still miss him. And although I know why he took his life, I still don't understand. In some ways, I hope I never will.
Yes, the death of Robin Williams brings back painful memories. With millions I grieve for a man I never knew, but who nevertheless had a deep and lasting impact on my life.
In a blogtalk radio interview about my memoir just last Friday, I shared that my favorite all-time movie is Dead Poets Society. In it, Williams portrayed a maverick teacher who dared young men to embrace the world of literature, their identities and their individualism.
The film was a fantastic statement about the power of words and the power of non-conformity. The message was delivered by a truly unique and amazing individual.
Rest In Peace, Mr. Williams.
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.
---------------------------------

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.
----------------------------------------

Until next time, "That's life..."

This week, I'm taking a page out of Eli's book. After all, there's nothing that he loves more than curling up with his favorite person (me) and and some good reading material. Don't believe me? Just look at him! Anyhow, in the interest of lightening things up a bit, with tongue in cheek, I hereby present Eli's all-time favorite books...
_________________________________________


10. The Cat in the Hat
9. Stuart Little
8. James Herriot's Cat Stories
7. Diary of a Cat
6. Dear Tabby: Feline Advice on Love,
Life and the Pursuit of Mice
5. Everything Here is Mine: An
Unhelpful Guide to Cat Behavior
4. All I Need to Know I Learned from
my Cat
3. The New Yorker Book of Cat Cartoons
2. How to Talk to Your Cat
1. The Intelligent Cat

...Oh, Eli also loves classical music. His favorite composer is Johann Strauss and his favorite operetta is "Die Fleder-Meows!" (Cue groan and rimshot...)
Until next time, "That's life..."

Not too long ago, I shared one of my biggest regrets with you. If you recall, I bemoaned the loss of my favorite childhood books. More specifically, I bemoaned my decision to let my mother sell my collection of Hardy Boys® and Nancy Drew® mysteries.
Today I am happy to report that I am once again the proud owner of two dozen Nancy Drew® books. I am also happy to say that I got them for free and came by them honestly.
It happened as I was leaving the animal shelter where I volunteer on Tuesday afternoons. In a never-ending quest to find homes for all of the books donated to the organization, the director asked me if I wanted to have a look through the crates in the front room. As I had in the past, I happily said yes. And I was immediately glad that I did.
It took less than a minute to spot the hardcover books with the bright yellow spines, and I couldn't hide my delight when I realized what I'd found. When I explained why I was so excited, the director agreed to let me have the books. As a bonus, she threw in the crate, along with a few Bobbsey Twins® books and one of the Harry Potter® books that were already in it for good measure.
So just why was this acquisition such a big deal? No, it's not that I think the books are worth a great deal; in fact only a few are older editions. But to me they have tremendous nostalgic and sentimental value. I have no doubt that rereading these classics will take me back to my childhood; a time that wasn't perfect, but was pretty damn good.
It was a time when reading offered escape and opened my imagination. It was a time when I smuggled a flashlight under my sheets so I could stay up past my bedtime and read under the covers. It was a time when I spent countless winter days curled up with a good book, and countless summer afternoons reading at the beach.
Of course I didn't know it back then but it was also a time when reading sparked the interests and helped me develop the skills that ultimately made me a successful journalist and an award-winning author.
It was a time I'll cherish forever.
Until next time, "That's life..."