By Hook or by Cook

Long before the advent of “The Food Network”, foodies were relegated to grainy public broadcasting channels to get their gourmet fix. My mother watched Natalie Dupree, Justin Wilson, and of course, Julia Child. I watched, too. Well, because it was all that was on. There was only one television in the house. Julia became a sort of lead-in to “American Bandstand”.

As far as I can tell, my mother never actually took anything away from her hours of observation. She never grew her fingernails outrageously long like Natalie Dupree or surreptitiously doused our dinner with several extra shots of hot sauce like Justin Wilson…I gar-on-teeeee! And, the only sauces she served were made from packets she purchased at the grocery store. Despite Julia’s efforts to the contrary, my mother retained the title “Queen of Convenience”.

Given this background, I was delighted to see the first trailers for “Julie & Julia”, and couldn’t wait to see the movie. Unfortunately, my go-to companion for chick-flicks went without me, so wait I did. Until yesterday…

We made a deal, my son and me. I would watch “Up” with him if he would watch “Julie & Julia” with me. We each snuggled under a blanket in our favorite chair and settled in for an afternoon of movies. “Up” was delightful. We both enjoyed it very much. And after a short break during which we broke out a tin of Christmas cookies, we re-tucked our blankets for “Julie & Julia”.

No one ever told me this was a movie about a girl with a blog. No one. I find this incredible since everyone knows I am a girl with a blog. It seems at some point it might have come up in a discussion of the film. But, it didn’t. We even blog on the same site, Julie and I, and still no one made the connection. This irony occupied several frames of film. I’m sure I missed something…

As Julie crafted her first post, I found myself silently critiquing the writing. It was far too familiar, folksy, and awkwardly constructed. Within minutes she had sixty-five hits on a single post! I don’t have a meter on my blog. The idea seems somewhat narcissistic and desperate; as though the purpose of writing is to generate hits. But, I feel certain that I’ve never enjoyed that kind of traffic. And, to date, I’ve never made the Top 10 on Salon.com.

If you’ve seen the film, then you know that Julie’s blog goes on to open other doors, resulting in a book/film deal. And, all the while, I’m doing the math. As disappointing as it is to admit, envy stymied my enjoyment of the film.

I could do a food blog. I’ve considered it several times. I love food, and I’m a good cook. According to the film, matching these talents with my writing skills should produce a one-way ticket to fame.

But there are so many food blogs, and just one Julie Powell. Albeit unwittingly, what Julie had was a hook. Naturally this got me to thinking…

A friend and fellow blogger admonishes “Be a storyteller, not a storyseller”. I hope to find a way to do both.

A Way Out

Four inch heels impeded her progress to the entrance of the building, and November winds whipped the tail of her overcoat, whispering of winter.

A Mercedes passed, piloted by a man clutching a cellphone. She shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other. The bag contained her life; a carefully detailed, pored over, poetically enhanced regurgitation.

Most days, she hardly felt the weight of it. She carried it, and cared for it, guarding it against intrusion from any but the most accepting eyes. On long, lonely nights, it provided comfort, just by being there. It offered proof of her existence and answers to questions; in hopes they might be asked.

She crossed against diesel fumes, and hurried up concrete stairs, hoping the winds wouldn’t “undo” her. The weight of glass and steel paled in comparison to that of the artificially warmed air that greeted her upon opening the door. She hurried through the anteroom and breached a second entrance, while her eyes scanned the landscape for an alcove leading to a bathroom.

Satisfied that her morning ministrations had survived the crossing, she shouldered her burden and struck out, in search of a receptionist.

She left her name at the desk, and surveyed the glass-enclosed space for a seat, choosing a chair opposite the desk in an unoccupied row. Her cellphone trilled, giving her something to do with her hands. It was her son, home from school. “Just checking in…” She smiled in appreciation of the sound of a young boy’s voice, knowing she hadn’t much longer to hear it.

Her smile faded quickly as she pocketed the phone and lifted the tote to her lap. She glanced at the receptionist’s desk as she removed a document from the front pocket of the bag. A striking young man approached; his carefully manicured hands striking the desk twice before he unleashed his artificially whitened smile. The receptionist, at once bored, and barely breathing, reacted as expected by reciprocating. A conversation ensued, uninterrupted by the approach of a second visitor.

She shifted the paper from one hand to the other, uncrossing her legs, and re-crossing them in the other direction as she watched the trio. The young man bent over the counter, reaching, as the receptionist giggled and the visitor cleared his throat. They answered with laughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting his cap.

“Ahem…” She wondered why he thought it would work, this time.

The doors behind her yawned again, sending a blast of cold air through the empty chairs, and an arc of reflective light after it. Irritation marred her painted features, as the receptionist tilted her head. The second visitor moved to block the light, giving his name, before turning.

She plucked at a dog’s hair, caught in the weave of her skirt. She checked her watch. Metal scraped against linoleum. A sigh escaped him as he sunk into the synthetically covered chair, and warmth, generated by the proximity of his body, told her he was near.

It was her turn to clear her throat as she cast her eyes past the reception desk in hopes of spotting her prey.

“Ain’t love grand?”, he started.
She looked up, before meaning to, allowing him to lead her eyes back to the desk.

She smiled and shifted the paper.

“Whatcha’ got there?” He shifted against the firmness of the seat, pulling his jacket together and turning, slightly, in her direction.

“I have to get this document signed…” She held it out, slightly, before training her eyes on him.

“And, you?” She lowered her hand, moving slightly in her seat.

“Meeting with a client. I’m a writer.” His voice carried pride.

“Oh? Really?” She smiled as she let one hand drop to the bag on the floor at her feet.

“What do you write?”

“Ad copy, mostly. And, I blog.”

“Really? Great!” She re-crossed her legs, wishing she had taken off her coat.

“Are you a writer?” His eyes, behind his spectacles, were kind.

“Oh, I write…some. I have a blog.” She shifted the paper, again, watching as it moved from one hand, to the other.

“Cool! Where are you? I could look you up!” His voice carried enthusiasm.

She laughed, self-consciously.

“It’s not public.” She said quietly, before clearing her throat, again. “I mean I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year, but only one person has access to it.”

Confusion, as it crossed his features awakened her insecurities, giving her pause.

“Why?” The word was spoken softly.

Her eyes searched the multi-faceted linoleum at her feet as she considered the question, and, as she turned them on him, spoke before she did.

“I don’t know…” She stopped, as he pulled back his head and shifted his weight. “It’s vulnerable, you know?” Her voice trailed with the last syllable and she mentally berated herself for her weakness.

“But…” He started quietly, before sitting up taller in the inhospitable chair. “Isn’t that the point?” The words were direct, and clear, and spoken by his entire being; and, his face, earnest.

Footsteps approached her chair, and she hastily collected her bag while smiling in his direction. She watched him watch her.

“Thank you…” She efforted to bring her voice above a murmur as she pulled the heavy, oaken door closed before clicking her way down the hallway.

“Hey, kid!” It was the man.

“Yes.” She spoke through a smile, as she shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Walk you out?” The bounce in his step repeated in his eyes as he led the way out of the building.

Love Me…Please!!!!

For almost a year now, I have subscribed to an online community of baby-boomers. I was drawn, originally, by the writing groups, one of which actually held writing competitions in which a published author critiqued pieces, constructively. I got really jazzed when she pointed up something she liked about what I had written, and though I never actually won “first prize”, I always placed…

As time went on, I began to explore the site more deeply and came to enjoy many other groups, which also offered me the opportunity to spread my wings. I would browse the questions, and delve into any subject I found of interest without thought to what someone might think, or expect. I have, over time, received many “kudos” and “friend requests”, and have come to know many people on varying levels.

Today, as I entered the site and browsed the topics, I found myself hesitant to answer a question. I was intrigued, and had a ready answer, but after I typed it, I hesitated. I found myself thinking, what will “they” think? In a characteristic reaction of rebellion, I posted my answer. But the question remains…

I have tossed it around all day.

This is what I have come up with…

I am a free spirit. In my “real” life, I am a “live and let live” kind of person. What you see is what you get. If you like it, that’s great! If you don’t, and decide to keep moving, then that’s ok, too. Our time here is too short to spend great amounts of time and energy on something as simple as human relationships. If you don’t like what I have to offer, chances are, there is someone more to your liking just around the bend, and I encourage you to keep walking. I’ll even show you the way!

A forced relationship, in which you feel you have to adhere to someone else’s standard isn’t real, and, thus, a waste of valuable time.

I have a couple of handfuls of friends, to whom, I feel real obligation, and many, many acquaintances, who I enjoy, but, from whom, I entertain no particular burden.

Over the last year, I have engaged in an exchange of ideas with people with whom I have in common a market share, and I have come to value them.

What I have discovered is that, on many levels, I value them as much, or more than. people I see, and speak to, and share air with, every day. With this esteem comes obligation, as in any relationship, and what they think of me has become important. I no longer participate in an open forum with a group of herded strangers. I have uncovered personalities. I am aware of expectations. I feel a need for approval….

I am, and always have been, a big fan of online communication. I love the way it takes down barriers and leaves just what matters….puts it out on the table for our consideration.

And, as I’m wondering why, after 47 years I am suddenly craving approval from a group of people I might not even recognize should I meet them on the street, I have realized there is a drawback….

This morning, I had a ready answer, and I hesitated. I know what these people think, but as I consider their viewpoints, I cannot study their body language. I cannot look into their faces and decide if they are serious or just feeling me out. I cannot read a smile, or feel a look of disdain….

I drive for a minimum of an hour to, and from work. This afternoon, as a sat, in my new-found quiet, waiting for opposing traffic to pass, I thought of a friend; fragile, unhealthy, brave. I tried to remember the last time I had called, just to tell her I love her, and my heart double-clutched…

In the last 24 hours, I have shared opinions, and “vibes”, and stories with hundreds of people I wouldn’t even recognize in a police line-up, and I hadn’t called her once.

We talked tonight, often at the same time. And, as she talked, I didn’t have to wonder what she really meant, or what her facial expressions might have been, because I knew…..

Are You A Writer?

Are you a writer?

The question, as it came after reading something I had posted, affected me; made me think, made me question, embarrassed me a little…

It was as though, after I’d introduced my son, he had asked, “Are you a mother?”

Or, upon meeting me, sweaty and winded, on the track, “Are you a runner?”

My defensive reaction to a simple, albeit unwitting question, paced back and forth in the recesses of my mind for the rest of the day, occasionally coming out front and tapping, lightly on my brain…

“Hey! Are you? Are you a writer?”

In the few quiet moments I had to consider the question I was left with this…

I readily admit to being lots of things; I am Mom, I am friend, I am employee, I am daughter, I am sister, I am family to those whose own has forgotten them, and, I am object of affection, too tired, too drained, too raw, to give anything back.

And, none of these things define me.

In a remarkably transcendent way writing does. There is something about describing myself as a writer that leaves me feeling bare and open; exposed.

Because that’s what writing does. Writing takes all the ugly, half-used, naked, and very real stuff we all carry around with us, and puts it out on the table.

And declaring that you are a writer demands, “Look at it.”.

I am a writer.

Just As You Intended

Just as you intended…

Your words wash over me in waves, a soft caress

soothing

As my soul relaxes, I answer your request to look inside,

at the wonder of you,

and am blinded by strobe-like flashes

of your hunger

of your need

of your brilliant capacity for love.

I ride the crest, luxuriating in your warmth,

until, longing for more, I turn to you

and sink inside your silent void.