Friday, January 23, 2009

Writing About Your Life (A Book Review)

I’m recovering. I’m not yet up to running or cross-country skiing or heading to the gym, but I am back to work and feeling pretty good and hopefully by Monday, I’ll be back at the gym. Thanks for your concern. As I said, it was minor surgery, but as I’ve never faced a scalpel in my life, I was apprehensive. A few weeks ago I reviewed Zinsser’s Spring Training. I enjoyed that book so much that I also read another of his books and I recommend it to you.


William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life: A Journey into the Past (New York: Marlowe & Company, 2004), 228 pages

Years ago, I read Zinsser’s classic work, On Writing Well, which came out of Zinsser’s experience of teaching Creative Writing at Yale in the 1970s. He was in his fifties when he wrote, On Writing Well, having already done stints as a journalist and a free-lance author. Now, late in his life, Zinsser has published a new book on memoirs. This book is based on lectures given during his “post-retirement years” as a professor at the New School in New York City. Although the title sounds like a text book, and the work could be used as one, this book is a pleasure to read. In each chapter, Zinsser draws from stories of life and he presents them in a way to engage the reader to think about their own stories and how they might tell them. Zinsser life has been variety and he constantly reminds his readers that “change is a tonic” that often leads to new discoveries. (126 & Chapter 13)

Borrowing Dickens’ cliché, Zinsser describes the 1990s were the best of times and worst of time from memoirs. Great works such as McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes and Karr’s The Liar’s Club were published along with a host of tell-all books that “wallow in self-pity and self-revelation.” (157) He reminds his readers that if you expose your own humanity and the humanity of those whose path you’ve crossed, you will connect with your readers, but that readers won’t connect with whining. (173) Writing should be useful, he insists (156). Readers need to have our “terrifying age” explained honestly. (155) Zinsser, who sees his writing as a ministry, strives to affirm, to build up and to celebrate. (176)

Although our stories often contain universal themes, Zinsser suggests that we don’t set out to write about such themes, but instead tell our stories and let the theme(s) flow from our experiences. He also suggests that we not set out to write about events we see as important and interesting for others. “Write about small, self-contained incidents that are still vivid in your memory. If you remember them it’s because they contain a larger truth that your readers will recognize in their own lives.” (7) Later, Zinsser suggests that if we have the choice between two projects, one we feel we ought to write and the other we see as fun, to take the fun one for it will show in our final product. (48) “Write about things that are important to you, not what you think your readers will want to read or your editors will want to publish or agents will want to sell.” (201) When we write from our passions, we are more convincing and more able to connect to our readers. The challenge is to tell our story in a way that connects with our readers.

Zinsser reminds us that “an interesting life doesn’t make an interesting memoir. Only small pieces of a life make an interesting memoir…” Instead of writing a memoir, he describes himself as cannibalizing his life for memorable moments. (29) In writing about places and institutions, we have to remember they “have no life on their own.” The writer brings them to life through the stories of people who inhabit or experience such places or institutions. (22) Zinsser also warms about writing on big events which can overwhelm us. Instead, write about something manageable. As an example, he quotes extensively from an article he’d been asked to write for an anniversary of the invasion of Normandy. Instead of focusing on the invasion itself, he tells his own experiences as a member of a reserve unit in Algiers, who watched the invasion of Europe on a large map in the center of his camp, and how as the days went by, painters would color in the newly liberated territories on the continent. (30-32) As for travel writing, he describes it as “detective work,” where the author collects the small details and then crafts a story. (75)

Writing About Your Life is so much more than a writing manual. It’s Zinsser desire to give his readers permission to be who they are. (216) This has been the ministry of his writing and it shows throughout this book. In the opening pages, Zinsser recalls his father’s work (he owned company that made shellac). “Quality was my father’s passion. I never felt that he thought of his business as a means of making money, but as an art, to be practiced with only the best materials.” (2) The quest for quality has remained with Zinsser and is evident in his writing. Even if you don’t inspire to be a published writer, I recommend this book.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

The Big News (and why I'm unable to do a joy dance)

I know, I should be all excited and doing a joy dance! After all, the Steelers are headed to the Superbowl and Georgie Boy is back on his ranch in Texas and his frequent flier miles on Air Force One have expired. That said; let me start with the events on Sunday evening. The game was incredible. I was a nervous wreck (but not so nervous that I couldn’t iron shirts) until the 4th Quarter when Troy Polamalu incepted a pass and ran 40-some yards for a touchdown which pretty much assured Pittsburgh the victory. Then I could breathe a little easier and put away the iron to enjoy the remaining few minutes of the game. I hope McGahee is doing okay. On another note, it’s nice to know our President is a Steeler fan and that he received one of the game balls from Dan Rooney, the Steelers' president.

And then there was yesterday. When I first started this blog, Georgie Boy and his henchmen (and women) were often the target of satire. I wrote about Georgie encouraging America to adopt the metric system and how he and his fellow Republicans switched to dark beers. I also commented on Dead-eye Dick’s hunting forays and how Condi in one of her fashionable pantsuits, challenged Satan on his lack of credibility. But then, reality became so absurd that it overshadowed satire and writing about Bush & Company was no longer fun. So it was with great excitement, mixed with fear and anticipation that I watched the inauguration and Obama’s speech. He was wonderful reminding all of us that we have a responsibility in making this great nation work. But as I watched, I got more and more nervous. For you see, I had a meeting with the doctor yesterday afternoon, at 1:30 PM, for some minor surgery… When I set this date back in December, the inauguration didn’t cross my mind. So instead of watching the gala in Washington last night, I slept soundly thanks to the wonders of some little pills.
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Today I’m a bit sore. Joy dances, along with shoveling snow and cross-country skiing will have to wait a few days. But don’t worry, I am doing okay. In other news, for the second time in a week, we had temperatures in the positive this morning (it was 16 degrees F). Of course, that was at 8:30 AM, I didn't get up at my usual 6 AM, so I'm not sure how low the temperatures dropped last night.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Cold Weather, Skiing and Birthdays


It’s still cold here. Yesterday morning it was -16 degrees F; it was about half of that in town. Today, it was -11 F, but there was wind, making it bitterly cold. This evening, I’m enjoying listening to the crackling of a fire and glad I’m inside where it’s warm. The first photo is a trail that is often skiied and walked, that's just outside of town. This afternoon, I started out on this trail (later on the trail runs across a dam that I write about). The second photo shows the row of large maples, flanked on one side by a dirt road and on the other by a rusty and broken wire fence.

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I enjoy being outdoors when the sun is low and the shadows are long. Today, my birthday, I went out for a late afternoon cross-country ski. It was cold and windy, but felt down right balmy after our morning low of -11 and the good thing about skiing in the woods is that much of the wind is blocked. Hearing the wind overhead, where it swayed the tops of the trees, reminds me that I am in the elements and am not completely in control. I ski across the dam of a lake, long frozen. To the north, a creek appears at the base of the dam, a small trickle of water flows mostly under a sheet of ice. Crossing the dam, I head south and climb the hill and pass through a pine forest that is need of thinning. Bob planted these years ago; he’s no longer with us but his wife allows me to ski through their property. Coming around the lake, I take the old farm road that crawls up and down hills, along side of large maples and a broken down fence. Nobody has been back here since the last snow and I break trail, my skis sinking into the deep snow. It’s good that I’m wearing gaiters to keep the snow out of my boots as I plow through the powder and set the trail. I pause occasionally to take it all in. The giant limbs of the maples are blanketed with snow. The pasture to my east, where Bob kept horses and a generation earlier had cows is now slowly maturing into hardwoods, with trees eight and ten inches thick. I ski around one a maple that has fallen and blocks the road. It’s been decades if not a half-century or more since these trees have been tapped for their sweet nectar. I ski till the sun dropped behind the horizon and its rays are no longer striking the top of the trees, then I turn around and head back, making better time as I’m flowing my own broken trail. With the disappearance of the sun, the temperature drops and I’m glad to get back to my truck.


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I got a surprise delivery today, a new ski hat for my birthday (and I do believe it's Carolina blue!). If these photos look a little skewed, it’s because I held the camera myself and the lens was a little wide for such close-up photography. Also, Murf has honored me for my birthday, digging into her archives and coming up with some of her more creative inventions.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoir



It's cold here--but warmed up a bit overnight (it was -5 AM at 10 PM and 6 degrees F at 6 AM). Last night started out clear with brillant stars (or maybe they seemed that way as we have so seldom been able to see the sky over the past few months). Then it clouded back up and started snowing small flakes, the kind of snow you get with real cold temperatures. The snow squeaks under your feet. I've had night meetings ever night this week--which makes me sad as I haven't been able to curl up with a book in front of the fire place. I read this book back during the Christmas break--it's great.
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Bill Bryson, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoir (New York: Broadway Books, 2006) 270 pages.

In The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Bryson writes about his childhood years in the fifties and sixties in Des Moines, Iowa. With his keen memory and ability to take small, often absurd, things and blow them out proportion (a trait that Bryson has honed over the years), Bryson has written a very funny book. Writing must be in Bryson’s blood as both parents worked for The Des Moines Register. His father was a sportswriter and his mother an editor for the “Home Section.” I found myself both envious of his childhood (what boy wouldn’t love to have a father that was a sportswriter who would take you along on a trip every summer where you get to meet the greats of baseball). At first, like most children, he seems ashamed of the stupid stuff his parents did, but you a sense of his great love for both of them. In addition to writing about his childhood, he includes some of his fantasy life as the Thunderbolt Kid who, with his laser gun, could vaporize bad guys, morons and teachers. Bryson also provides insight and commentary into the changes that was going on in America during the 50s and 60s.

This was the era of rabid anti-communism and the fear of the bomb. Bryson couldn’t imagine any enemy wanting to bomb Des Moines, but his father informed him that since the Strategic Air Command was headquartered in Omaha, 100 miles away, they’d be bombed and Des Moines would have fallout and they’d all be dead before dinner. Knowing this, Bryson refused to participate in the schools nuclear drills, earning him the scorn of teachers and principals. It also leads to him nearly becoming the only American casualty in the Cuban Missile Crisis. Hearing the President somber words on TV, he stole the last piece of pie that had been saved for his sister and went out onto the porch to watch the fireworks over Omaha. They never came, but his sister did come home.

Bryson seems befuddled that the Gallup Organization named 1957 as the happiest year in America, even going so far as suggesting it might be because the next year the Giants and Dodgers moved west. (235) Unfortunately, living in the American heartland, he was unaware that in North Carolina a woman was giving birth to her first child, a son (and no, she didn’t wrap him in swaddling clothes, as he was also the first grandchild and thereby spoiled). This child now wishes he had thought to describe a tornado as a “killer apostrophe.” (181). He is also glad to see that Bryson paid due respect to Bill Mazeroski’s homerun in the 1960 World Series, giving the Pirates a victory over the loathsome Yankees. (82) Knowing that Bryson’s father was there, at Forbes Field, in the press books, gives Bryson more respect than he previously had as a slacker along the Appalachian Trail.

Most of this book is about his early years, but he does have a few stories about junior and senior high. Here, we meet Katz, who went from buying beer with a forged id (made by Bryson) to stealing cases of beer from railcars. Katz would later join Bryson in his feeble attempt to hike the Appalachian Trail. (Told in Bryson’s best seller, A Walk in the Woods). He also tells about the Willoughby brothers, who built a confetti bomb. They set it to go off at 3 PM, as school was being released, but they set it the night before and was using a clock as the timer and when 3 AM came around, it went off in their bedroom, waking the community. Bryson also had his troubles in high school (he graduated in 1968). After having managed to stay out of reformed school for his “license forging ring,” he insulted a guidance counselor and found himself being required to write a letter of apology in order to remain in school. This he did, he says, for in 1968, “the only thing that stood between one’s soft tissue and a Vietcong bullet was the American education system.” After handing the letter to the counselor, the Thunderbolt kid struck one final time. (258) In his last chapter, Bryson admits he used pseudonyms for all but one of the characters in the book. A few months ago, while traveling and bored, I saw Bryson on C-Span (late at night, they often feature authors). It was a tape made just after the publication of this book and he said he and his family were moving back to Britain. According to him this was because he and his British wife wanted to give their children both the American and British experience. After reading this book, I can’t help but to think that another reason might be that a few folks in Iowa were planning an ambush.

This is a great read. If you’re in your 50s, fond memories will come to mind. If you are younger, you need to know what those who passed before you endured. In both cases, you’ll laugh.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Honest Crap, Take 2


It’s cold and snowing here in West Michigan. But last night, the clouds parted long enough to allow the moonlight to bathe the landscape. It was beautiful! The photo of the road was taken last January, but it pretty much looks the same around here this year.

Earlier this week, when I did the original “Honest Scrap” meme, Murf cried foul and challenged me to do it over with things that have happened since I turned 18…. All of these ten "honest" events happened between my 18th and 30th birthdays…

In college, when I didn’t have time to read the book assigned in those “book a week” classes, I’d always read the first twenty or so pages and then speak up at the beginning of the class. Seldom did the professor call on me again.

I once fell asleep in a lecture class. The professor asked a question then directed it to “Sage.” Hearing my name, I sat up and the girl beside me whispered the question to me, and I tried to bluff my way through it, but I didn’t fool the professor.

I got the measles in college. After visiting the school doctor, she called and got me excused from a chemistry exam—this was quite a feat for the professor didn’t believe in excuses. I felt that as a health care provider, she didn't seem sufficently concerned with my peril. She was only concered that I get off campus as soon as possible and that I had not been around anyone pregnant (which, to my knowledge, I hadn't). I got the measles from my brother. There had been an outbreak at his college a few weeks earlier and he was visiting me when he came down with them. Isn't it great the way families share?

I once took a friend into Yesterdays, a private club in Hickory, NC. My friend was African-American and, as we’d come from a business meeting, we were both well dressed (in suits). As I signed him into the club, an over-stuffed bouncer pulled me aside and whispered that I could lose my membership for bringing niggers into the club. This was in the mid-80s. I told him to go ahead and try, that I was sure it’d be perfect grounds for a law suit. He lets us in, but afterwards, I avoided Yesterdays.

The only thing I remember ever buying from a telephone solicitor was the call-waiting option for the phone. I’ve developed the art of quickly saying, “No thanks,” and hanging up. But there was this one occasion when the caller had such a pleasing voice that I started talking and she ended selling me the call-waiting option. This was back when such features were a novelty and the telephone solicitors didn’t speak broken-English.

A week later, I was talking to a woman I’d dated a couple of times when a call came through from another woman I with whom I’d been out with a few times. At that point, I wasn’t dating either of them seriously, but I felt awkward by having both of them “online” at the same time. This, by the way, was long before caller-ID. When I got them both off the phone, I called the phone company and canceled call-waiting.

I think I was 27 or 28 and doing a program for the scouts in a local elementary school when I meet the most adorable young woman. She was an 18 year old college freshman, doing an observation for one of her college classes. I invited her to lunch and was surprised that she agreed. At the restaurant, I was horrified to see two members of my Rotary Club and was so self-conscious of being with someone that much younger than me that I never asked her out again.

Once, when at a meeting near Pinehurst (where I was born), I was with a bunch of guys I worked with at a night club. There was a real good-looking woman on the dance floor and we all enjoyed watching her and her date dance. Right before the club closed, she walked over and said, “Sage? Sage, is that you? I haven’t seen you in like, forever!” Everyone looked at me and I had the deer in a headlight syndrome, trying to figure out who she was. Then she said, “I’m ----, your cousin.” She was in her early 20s and the last time I’d seen her was at our grandma’s funeral, ten years earlier, when she would have been about 12.

Once, after a week long backpacking trip, I found myself staying at the Martha Washington Inn in Abingdon, Virginia. It’s a grand old hotel and I felt seriously underdressed (with only hiking shorts and t-shirts). One of the hikers insisted that we eat in the dining room. I was for going to a more causal place in town, but instead found myself being a part of a group heading to a formal dining room (and hoping they would have a dress code and turn us away or at least make us eat in the kitchen). Instead, we were seated in the absolute center of the room, where folks in sport coats and summer suits could look at the hillbillies that had come to town.

I am normally very honest and will often surprise folks by returning return any overpayment I receive. But I have had my downfalls. One night, while I was staying in a hotel on business, and feeling depressed, I went to get something to eat out a vending machine… I placed the coins in (this was a few years ago as you could get a candy bar for 50 or 75 cents) and not only did I get my candy, I also got my quarters back. So I decided to play the game again, and again, and again, feeling like a gambler at a winning slot machine. I continued till I had accumulated 10 candy bars. I’m sure I’d been more honest had they not been Zagnuts in the machine. Zagnuts is one of my favorite candy bars and are hard to find. The devil must have stocked that vending machine, knowing that I'd be along shortly.