Posts Tagged ‘journalism’
Cindy on September 7th, 2009
Grace must find expression in life; otherwise it is not grace.” — Karl Barth
On vacation in northern Michigan two years ago, I visited a secondhand bookstore and stumbled on a copy of Home Edition, a collection of “Experience” columns by Nancy Brown (a pseudonym for Anne Louise Brown). One of the first advice columnists in the United States, Brown launched her column in The Detroit News in 1919 and kept at it until 1942.
Unlike most advice columnists of the era, Brown wrote “Experience” from the seasoned perspective of middle age, counseling her readers on everything from financial worries to marital woes. Her responses were always compassionate — and considerably longer than the bite-sized paragraphs spooned out in newspaper columns today.
Having been a columnist several times in my own writing life, I’ve always taken a special interest in the work of other columnists, past and present.
Until recently, though, my yellowed copy of Brown’s Home Edition simply occupied space on my bookshelf, a quaint reminder of how column writing has changed over the decades.
Then, one morning last week, I was somehow drawn to the shelf where I’d placed Brown’s book. At that very moment, I was thinking about a recent talk radio program on our country’s financial crisis. The show’s host had focused on the emotional (and spiritual) aspects of losing a job, asking her unemployed callers to share how they’ve been forced to redefine the meaning of success. Their answers were humbling — and inspiring.
So, grabbing Home Edition from the shelf, I felt my heart race when the book fell open to a letter from a desperate middle-aged man who identified himself as “Crowding Fifty.”
Writing in 1938, Crowding Fifty told Nancy Brown that he was once employed by “a large Detroit outfit” that had been forced to liquidate during the Great Depression. Before the bottom fell out, he said, he had enjoyed a life of relative prosperity that included Saturday night dances and a golf club membership. (He added that he and his family had lived within their means — albeit comfortably.)
When “the large Detroit outfit” went under, Crowding Fifty scraped together his remaining resources and tried to start his own small business. But despite his hard work and determination, that business failed, too. He’d nearly hit rock bottom. Describing his own financial crisis, Crowding Fifty wrote: “The present so-called recession has raised havoc with my plans….By the time my insurance premiums are paid, my car expense of $25 monthly and other incidental items are cared for, there is just about enough for food and a few clothes.”
Worst of all, Crowding Fifty’s wife began shaming him in front of their kids — and soon withdrew her emotional support. His whole family, as he put it, “belittled” him.
Crowding Fifty went on to say: “It is beginning to look to me that perhaps I am a washout and a detriment to my family and, looking at it from a bystander’s viewpoint, that to avoid all future scenes and arguments and to promote content to my family, it will be the proper procedure to quietly arrange to cease living — to have my wife collect that $20,000 insurance before it is lost, too.”
While the letter was written more than 70 years ago — and its style seems formal or wooden now — the pain it expressed is still raw on the page. I fought a wave of tears while reading it. It was, if not an official suicide note, a plea to the columnist to convince him that his life still mattered; that there was some way out of the private hell that had swallowed him.
In 13 paragraphs, Brown gave Crowding Fifty a heartfelt answer, which contained some practical solutions as well as words of encouragement and comfort.
“Take a firm hold of yourself,” Brown wrote. “Square your shoulders. And tell yourself that you — are — going — to — make — good — again — and you will. I know it.” Concluding her response, Brown asked Crowding Fifty if he would please send another letter — “ten days from now” — telling her that he had decided to start over instead of taking “the desperate step that would bring nothing but unhappiness to those who love you best.”
For several days now, I’ve been wondering if he ever wrote back.
– Cindy La Ferle
– The photo of Nancy Brown working in her office is from The Detroit News archives –
Cindy on August 24th, 2009
I believe that modern Americans are feeling less and less satisfied even as their freedom of choice expands.” — Barry Schwartz
When I was a gangly, insecure kid in junior high, I kept a green eye on others who were smarter, cooler, prettier, and more athletic than I was. Like most preteens, I measured my worth against the status of my peers. And like most kids, I often found myself lacking, no matter how much encouragement I earned from my parents and teachers.
As I matured, I grew thicker skin and self-respect, and even began to trust my own insight. I understood, as my folks often reminded me, that I’d always encounter people who were faring better or worse than I was. I also caught on to the fact that conformity was a dead-end street and not a path to personal fulfillment.
Regardless, I was boggled by the options open to me after I earned my liberal arts degree. I was told that the world was my oyster, and if I really wanted to I could pursue journalism, art, advertising, marriage, motherhood, travel, teaching, publishing, public relations, law, or writing for non-profit organizations. Or maybe several of those things at the same time. On a good day, I labeled myself a Renaissance woman. Most of the time, though, I felt like a dilettante. A dabbler.
After a five-year stint in reference book publishing, I finally settled on marriage, motherhood, and freelance writing, all of which I found truly satisfying. Still, I didn’t stop looking outside myself for answers.
All too often, I questioned — or doubted — my abilities and choices. Did I really have anything new or interesting to say? Was my writing worth publication? If there were so many books, essays, and articles in print, well, why would anyone bother to read anything of mine? (Even now, as I edit this blog entry, I can’t help but think of all the other good blogs and worthy Web sites competing for attention.) Thankfully, I’ve ignored the voices of my inner critics and forged ahead.
All of this came tumbling back when I started reading Barry Schwartz’s The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less, which Business Week voted a “Top Ten Book of the Year.” Thanks to a tip from another blogger, I rediscovered this fascinating book after overlooking it (too many books to choose from!) when it first hit the bookstores. And I’m glad I did.
The Paradox of Choice would be an excellent gift for any new graduate who’s wrestling with “what to be” when they grow up, as well as for anyone who’s chronically overwhelmed by modern culture and its smorgasbord of “options” — from electronic gadgets to graduate schools.
As Schwartz points out, our abundance of “choice” comes at a great price. “We get what we say we want, only to discover that what we want doesn’t satisfy us to the degree that we expect,” he writes. “We are surrounded by modern, time-saving devices, but we never seem to have enough time. We are free to be the authors of our own lives, but we don’t know exactly what kind of lives we want to ‘write.’”
Covering everything from the perils of conspicuous consumption to the virtual emptiness of extreme competition, this book will get you thinking about the choices you make. It might even help you find the courage to simplify your life and find more satisfaction in having just enough. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 12th, 2009
Irrespective of what she reads, though, when she goes back to sit before the computer, there is the same stubborn emptiness, the same locked door.” — Elizabeth Berg, Home Safe
As soon as I hit the “Publish” tab, I started worrying about last week’s blog post. Not that I regretted exposing my family’s elder-care crises. I know many of you can relate to or sympathize with the heartache of witnessing the decline of aging parents. But later in the post, I got a little too gloomy about journalism, blogging, and writing careers.
I didn’t mean to discourage anyone.
This site was originally designed to keep in touch with my newspaper column readers, and over the years it also morphed into a blog for my writing workshop students. I usually don’t give writing “advice” — but I try to offer some insight on the writing life. Most of my students tell me that getting published seems like a mysterious, impossible thing that other people do. So, I make a point of reminding them that that’s not the case at all. Published writers are ordinary people who grow tomatoes, burn casseroles, gripe about politics, miss their kids when they move out, and wish someone else would wash their cars. People like me.
Until recently, though, I’ve rarely said much about the lonely hours of isolation, the frightening abyss of writer’s block, the times I’ve been annoyed at editors and baffled by agents, or the times I’ve wondered if I’m just wasting time. I’ve avoided discussing all that because I believe my role is to encourage, inspire, and excite new writers — to remind you that your dreams of publication are not out of reach. And yet, with so many newspapers and magazines folding lately, and with the book publishing industry in a major crisis, too, I think it’s misleading to suggest that being a writer is loads of fun right now. When the only ones signing fabulous book deals are loons like Sarah Palin (who can’t even deliver a coherent speech), well, to paraphrase Anne Lamott, you too might be inclined to get “down on your hands and knees and drink gin straight from the cat’s dish.”
Regardless, last week I wondered if it was wrong to broadcast how pessimistic I’d been feeling about the future of publishing. And wasn’t it a bit unfair or mean-spirited to announce that “the magic just isn’t there for me” in blogging — especially when I know that many of you take pride in your blogs? So, I almost went back to delete that downer of a paragraph from last week’s post.
But then I finished Elizabeth Berg‘s sweet new novel, Home Safe, and I changed my mind.
In Home Safe, middle-aged novelist Helen Ames is coping with the loss of her husband and her father — and facing a newly emptied nest. Despite all the free time she has, Helen is impossibly blocked, unable to do the writing that has always fulfilled and saved her. I won’t spoil the entire plot for you, in case you’d like to read the novel, but I suspect that Elizabeth Berg herself has endured some of her main character’s career angst. What writer hasn’t?
Like the fictional Helen Ames, I’ve often thought about throwing my drafts in the trash compactor and applying for a “real job” in retail. (I’ve seriously wondered if I’m better suited to a gig at an Eileen Fisher boutique or a cozy independent bookshop with a resident cat.) But along the way, Helen reluctantly tries teaching a writing class, and ultimately learns that she is lifted by coaching others. Just as I’ve been lifted by every hopeful student who’s had the courage to share his or her stories in my classes.
Reading Home Safe, I felt at times as if Berg were holding a mirror to my own conscience. But the real gift in this novel was the permission it gave me to admit aloud that I do get burned-out and discouraged; that no matter how much I’ve achieved, I’m not immune to doubt and insecurity.
Burnout, discouragement, doubt, and insecurity are inexorably chained to the writing life — yet they often precede a second wind or a second act. If you’re in it for the long run, there’s no way you’ll fully appreciate the thrill of seeing your byline under a magazine article or your name on the cover of a book until you’ve battled these demons and gremlins. I wouldn’t be honest, or fair, if I didn’t share that with you too. -- Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 7th, 2009
Try to relax and enjoy the crisis. — Ashleigh Brilliant
Summer arrived with its boxing gloves on. Or, as John Lennon pointed out, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” Which is why I haven’t been filling this space with new material lately.
By mid-June, it was obvious that my father-in-law’s dementia was more than my mother-in-law could continue to handle at home. For several weeks my husband Doug made it his mission to help find the right nursing facility — a frustrating family story of trial-and-error that’s way too complex to rehash here. Thank goodness, Doug is semi-retired and has more time for his folks now. How do middle-aged couples handle these situations if they both work full time?
Well, we finally found the right nursing home for Dad in July, but within a week, his condition plunged to the point where he was suddenly confined to a wheelchair (he had walked into the facility) and couldn’t swallow his food. He now qualifies for hospice care. Friends have told us countless stories of how dementia patients get even worse after they’re put into nursing homes, which never fails to pile more guilt on over-burdened families. Through it all, my mother-in-law has been incredibly brave and strong. The rest of us are just plain sad.
But wait, there’s more. My widowed mother, whose health is also fragile (and complicated by a stubborn case of anxiety) has needed me more than ever lately. In mid-July — two days after my father-in-law was driven to the local ER from his new nursing home — my mom called to announce that she had to get to the hospital – that very minute – due to a mysteriously bruised and swollen leg. Her call came while Doug and I were having dinner with our son Nate, who’d been visiting from Chicago for the weekend and was preparing to leave. So, I finished my dinner and said good-bye to Nate, who soon headed off to the airport with Doug while I drove Mom to William Beaumont Hospital’s emergency entrance. (I drive Mom to the ER often enough to call it a routine, and to know the doorman personally.) Regardless, that short weekend visit with our son brought a flash of sunshine to us, making up for the inevitable shadows cast by our visits to the hospital.
August is my birthday month, so it often inspires a few moments of retrospect, if not a twinge of melancholy or nostalgia. And from this vantage point, I can see that the decline of my mom’s health — combined with my father-in-law’s move to a nursing home — unearthed some tender strands of grief that I thought I’d buried after my beloved father died in the summer of 1992. Not to mention my only uncle’s slow death from pancreatic cancer two years ago in August. When loved ones have been gone awhile, everyone will remind you ever-so-gently that you really should be “over it.” And of course, you are over it, most of the time. But Lord knows, that doesn’t mean you just stop missing people.
Anyway, I hadn’t fully realized how numbed out I’d been this summer. Once again, gardening was my sanity saver, my best antidepressant, right up there with reading a fabulous novel and having birthday lunches in outdoor cafes with old friends. I dead-headed perennial blossoms and transplanted hosta and watered thirsty ferns every chance I could get until I felt whole again. And I spent more time with people who make me feel loved and supported, just for being me.
Meanwhile — and I won’t go on too long about this — my enthusiasm for my writing career seems to have wilted like impatiens in the August heat. The national crisis in print journalism has left several of my friends jobless, and seriously impacted the type of work I do. I’d love to resume column writing, but the only columns available to me now are in the form of online blogs that offer zero (or minimal) payment.
Like most professional writers who’ve been in this business for more than 25 years, I find it hard to feel “honored” when magazines or newspapers offer me non-paying assignments. I miss the days when a byline came with the heady scent of newsprint or shimmered on a glossy magazine page … and generated a decent paycheck. Blogging is something just about everyone can do quite well, and everyone is doing it. And so, with apologies and some reluctance, I have to admit that it’s a stretch for me to think of my blog posts as “published writing.” The magic just isn’t there for me.
Which is partly why I’ve taken some time off. I’ve needed to pull back and rethink what’s next for me. I will continue to post here weekly, but otherwise I’m waiting for a bolt of inspiration or a new streak of luck. Maybe there’s another book in me. Or maybe I’m just burned out and lazy. I dunno.
While trying to figure it out, I’ve been pouring my energies into helping Doug work on the Frank Lloyd Wright home we purchased last year in western Michigan. Designed by Wright in 1957 and completed in 1959, the house is one of Wright’s Usonian models and could function perfectly as a set for the popular Mad Men television series. (I can picture Don Draper in our living room, swilling a martini and chain-smoking.) It’s cool and modern and space-agey — so unlike our cozy but cluttered English Tudor here in Royal Oak. For that reason, I suppose, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.
This summer, the Wright house also gave us an immediate goal, a deadline. The renowned architectural photographers, Balthazar and Christian Korab, had been contracted to photograph it on July 29. Prior to that date, Doug and I spent every free moment we had making the three-hour drive out to the place to get it ready for the big shoot. As soon as we arrived, we’d hit the ground running with our to-do lists. Wash windows. Scrub rust out of sinks and tubs. Steam carpets. Rearrange furniture. Fix leaky shower heads. Power-wash concrete. Weed and revive gardens….
Meeting the Korabs was another incredible summer highlight — second only to our son’s aforementioned visit. While Christian (Balthazar’s son) hauled his equipment around and set up shots of various rooms, Balthazar, now in his eighties, regaled Doug and me with stories of his native Hungary, his studies in Paris, and of course, the time Frank Lloyd Wright examined and commented on Korab’s extensive portfolio of architectural photography.
The physical acts of polishing and scrubbing, of purging our Wright house of its old demons (including the crap left by previous owners), was a saving grace for Doug and me. Earlier this summer, I was watering a new crop of day lilies when I noticed Doug on the roof, repairing a leak in the scorching July sun. Of course, I worried about him passing out in the heat or losing his balance and tumbling headfirst to the pavement below (no more trips to the hospital, please!). But then I saw the look of pure satisfaction and happiness on his tanned face — a look I hadn’t seen in quite a while — and I calmed down immediately. I wanted to wrap my arms around that whole house and the late Frank Lloyd Wright himself, and thank them both for giving my architect-husband something incredible to believe in and look forward to. Something other than sick parents and nursing homes and long good-byes. — Cindy La Ferle
– The middle photo shows one of the gardens in front of our Wright house. Bottom photo is of Balthazar Korab and my husband Doug, taken on the day of our photo shoot. –
Cindy on May 8th, 2009
The creative space is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself. — Alan Alda
The “Summer at the Center” catalog just rolled off the press, listing a variety of creative classes at the Birmingham Bloomfield Art Center. Of special interest to suburban-Detroit writers will be the Writer’s Retreat series, which includes my weekend workshop in writing and publishing short personal essays on June 20 and 21. This will be a relaxed workshop, with plenty of encouragement and writing time. Weather permitting, I hope we can spend some of the time outdoors.
From songwriting to screenwriting, this new series offers several classes for both new and experienced writers. Concluding the summer series on August 8, the “Writer’s Life” afternoon forum gives new and aspiring writers an opportunity to discuss the realities of freelance writing with a panel of Detroit-area journalists and editors. (I’ll be on hand to moderate the panel.)
Space is limited, so you’ll want to register for your classes soon. The summer catalog is now available at the BBAC, or click here to check out the PDF version. Copies of Writing Home will also be available for students to purchase in the BBAC Gift Shop. For class fees and additional info, contact the BBAC, — CL
–”Imagine” garden stone photo by Cindy La Ferle–
