Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Free At Last
All those years I marched for civil rights finally came to fruition in our new president, Barak Obama. I look past the color of his skin and see a man of principle, a man who has ethics and holds values similar to mine: a man who remained calm while the Republicans did their best to play their usual dirty tricks; a man who took a day off and flew 6,000 miles to visit the woman who raised him; a man who made sure his grandmother got to see her great grandchildren last summer. (surely the family must have known that she was terminal at that point) That, to me, said way more than any political stance he has taken—although I agree with most of those too.
A few weeks ago one of my ESL night students asked me who I was going to vote for and I replied that, as a teacher, I choose not to bring my political opinions in the classroom (I admit that my values come to the forefront at times, but if our current president, George W. What’s-His-Name does not uphold those values, then it is a blot on his name, not my value system) I told her, “I’ll tell you after class—out in the hall—as a private citizen, but not while I’m behind the desk in the roll of a teacher.” She understood, dropped it for the rest of class, and then cornered me as soon as I walked out the door. “I’ve already voted absentee,” I said. “For Obama.” She smiled and seemed satisfied.
I love the way I found out the results of the election. I was in the classroom that Tuesday night, as usual. It was around 9:00, Pacific Standard Time. Although I ask the students to turn off their cell phones, I allow the parents in my class to keep their phones on vibrate in case of a family emergency, so I didn’t think much about it when this same woman had her cell phone on her desk. It vibrated, she checked it, then stopped the class to announce, “Obama just won! He got 2,700 votes in that special thing.” I said, “Oh, he received 270 electoral college votes?” “Yeah, that’s it!” So, I found out the next President of the United States from a woman who may or may not be a legal immigrant of this country, she being a transplant to California from our neighbors to the south.
The next day I got a congratulatory note from a former student who has been home in Japan for over a year. She was an ESL student of mine at the University of Hawaii several years ago and went on to get her associates degree in business while her visa was valid. She said,
Congratulations, Marilyn ! I am very happy to hear that Mr. Obama
will become next President of United States. We saw the historical
moment , and you are the one of them who made this history. After
I hard that his wining, I felt the air is lighter. Japanese TV news
showed us the wining speech of Mr. Obama at Chicago a little bit.
I moved it. He is amazing! And I am glad that you did not dust off
your passport.
I just want to say thank you to you, Marilyn. Thank you for teaching
me English. I am so glad that I could understand his speech today.
Thank you for having me as your student of your American History
class in Hawaii. Because you taught me about the history of race
discrimination with open mind, I could share the delight with people
like you, today, even though, I grow up in Japan.
Between the two women, I really felt an international connection—like my daily rounds as a teacher carried farther than just jumping through the next academic hoop; that I had made a difference in some people’s lives other than passing the next test. The international connection came to fruition—that we all share this earth together, and what affects one affects us all.
For a couple of days after the election, I, like many of my friends, said they found themselves shedding tears—of joy, of relief, of feeling like the steam had been let off the top of the pressure cooker of this country. The night I heard of the election results in my classroom, I was able to hold in the tears for half an hour in front of the class, but on the way to the parking lot they rolled down my cheeks and I cried the whole 45-mile drive home. The next day I found myself thinking about the results of the election at odd moments during the day; upon arising the air felt lighter, the sun shone brighter, the clouds skittered lightly across the sky. When I got home from work on Wednesday I sat down to eat my lunch and turned on the TV and happened to catch a newscast of the election results. They showed the clip of Jesse Jackson with tears streaming down his face. Having marched with Jackson and Dick Gregory in the ‘60’s, the relief in his eyes and the tears streaming down his cheeks started me crying all over again.
The day after the election, my landlord put up the American flag out on the fence, next to her Obama/ Biden poster. She said she was finally not ashamed to put up the American flag anymore—that she was proud of her country again. Sad state of affairs, isn’t it? That Americans had become so jaded and ashamed of their country that they would not hang out the national symbol. I knew exactly how she felt. I still cannot sing the Star Spangled Banner—too much violence in it, but America, the Beautiful takes on a whole new meaning again.
As I was driving on the back road to Santa Paula to work the day after the election, I saw a piece of plywood painted red nailed to the fence. I had my eyes on the road, so only caught the last word of the short message, which had been stenciled in big white letters: Socialist. I thought, “Uh oh. Not everyone was thrilled with the results of the election. I won’t jump to conclusions, but will drive slower and look for the sign when I go to work on Tuesday. Unfortunately, it was near the gardens of the best Italian restaurant in town. Oh well. I know how to cook spaghetti sauce…
A few weeks ago one of my ESL night students asked me who I was going to vote for and I replied that, as a teacher, I choose not to bring my political opinions in the classroom (I admit that my values come to the forefront at times, but if our current president, George W. What’s-His-Name does not uphold those values, then it is a blot on his name, not my value system) I told her, “I’ll tell you after class—out in the hall—as a private citizen, but not while I’m behind the desk in the roll of a teacher.” She understood, dropped it for the rest of class, and then cornered me as soon as I walked out the door. “I’ve already voted absentee,” I said. “For Obama.” She smiled and seemed satisfied.
I love the way I found out the results of the election. I was in the classroom that Tuesday night, as usual. It was around 9:00, Pacific Standard Time. Although I ask the students to turn off their cell phones, I allow the parents in my class to keep their phones on vibrate in case of a family emergency, so I didn’t think much about it when this same woman had her cell phone on her desk. It vibrated, she checked it, then stopped the class to announce, “Obama just won! He got 2,700 votes in that special thing.” I said, “Oh, he received 270 electoral college votes?” “Yeah, that’s it!” So, I found out the next President of the United States from a woman who may or may not be a legal immigrant of this country, she being a transplant to California from our neighbors to the south.
The next day I got a congratulatory note from a former student who has been home in Japan for over a year. She was an ESL student of mine at the University of Hawaii several years ago and went on to get her associates degree in business while her visa was valid. She said,
Congratulations, Marilyn ! I am very happy to hear that Mr. Obama
will become next President of United States. We saw the historical
moment , and you are the one of them who made this history. After
I hard that his wining, I felt the air is lighter. Japanese TV news
showed us the wining speech of Mr. Obama at Chicago a little bit.
I moved it. He is amazing! And I am glad that you did not dust off
your passport.
I just want to say thank you to you, Marilyn. Thank you for teaching
me English. I am so glad that I could understand his speech today.
Thank you for having me as your student of your American History
class in Hawaii. Because you taught me about the history of race
discrimination with open mind, I could share the delight with people
like you, today, even though, I grow up in Japan.
Between the two women, I really felt an international connection—like my daily rounds as a teacher carried farther than just jumping through the next academic hoop; that I had made a difference in some people’s lives other than passing the next test. The international connection came to fruition—that we all share this earth together, and what affects one affects us all.
For a couple of days after the election, I, like many of my friends, said they found themselves shedding tears—of joy, of relief, of feeling like the steam had been let off the top of the pressure cooker of this country. The night I heard of the election results in my classroom, I was able to hold in the tears for half an hour in front of the class, but on the way to the parking lot they rolled down my cheeks and I cried the whole 45-mile drive home. The next day I found myself thinking about the results of the election at odd moments during the day; upon arising the air felt lighter, the sun shone brighter, the clouds skittered lightly across the sky. When I got home from work on Wednesday I sat down to eat my lunch and turned on the TV and happened to catch a newscast of the election results. They showed the clip of Jesse Jackson with tears streaming down his face. Having marched with Jackson and Dick Gregory in the ‘60’s, the relief in his eyes and the tears streaming down his cheeks started me crying all over again.
The day after the election, my landlord put up the American flag out on the fence, next to her Obama/ Biden poster. She said she was finally not ashamed to put up the American flag anymore—that she was proud of her country again. Sad state of affairs, isn’t it? That Americans had become so jaded and ashamed of their country that they would not hang out the national symbol. I knew exactly how she felt. I still cannot sing the Star Spangled Banner—too much violence in it, but America, the Beautiful takes on a whole new meaning again.
As I was driving on the back road to Santa Paula to work the day after the election, I saw a piece of plywood painted red nailed to the fence. I had my eyes on the road, so only caught the last word of the short message, which had been stenciled in big white letters: Socialist. I thought, “Uh oh. Not everyone was thrilled with the results of the election. I won’t jump to conclusions, but will drive slower and look for the sign when I go to work on Tuesday. Unfortunately, it was near the gardens of the best Italian restaurant in town. Oh well. I know how to cook spaghetti sauce…
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Shawna, Queen of the Tree Tops
It seems, once again in my life, a black cat has adopted me. When I moved into Live Oak Cottage, the landlady told me I might expect a visitor. “Her name is Shawna, Queen of the Tree Tops,” she said. “She doesn’t come down to the ground much—she mostly lives in the trees. She is feral, but friendly. She won’t come in the house, and you’ll probably never be able to pet her, but she’ll come around outside.”
I moved in about a month ago--on a Saturday. The next morning as I was making coffee in the kitchen, I looked out the window and saw a black cat on the landlady’s roof. Figuring that must be the famed Shawna, I went to the door, stood on the front stoop and presented myself. She halted and watched me intently. I spoke softly—she wouldn’t have been able to hear from that distance, but I figured her spirit would understand—“I’m the new person who moved into the cottage. You may come to visit any time you like.” I let her take a good look at me and then went back in the house, watching her from the kitchen window. She ambled along the roof-line, sniffing at cedar shakes as she went. Just as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee and doctoring it with milk, I heard a tapping at the door. Figuring it must be the landlady, I went to the door and looked out the screen. No one. I looked down and there was Shawna. She had put her paw on the door and pressed the door against the jam—her way of politely knocking. I opened the screen. She hesitated for a moment and then came in. Since I had the milk out (and nothing else to offer a guest), I poured a little milk in a bowl and set it on the rug in front of the sink. She accepted my humble offering graciously, as is her way. After she lapped up the milk, she took a tour of the house, sniffing around the piles of boxes. I was busy and kind of ignored her, figuring she’d complete her tour and let herself out the open French doors in the bedroom. Instead, when she was satisfied she’d inspected the premises, she meowed and stood by the screen at the front door. Before I let her out, I picked her up and held her, thanked her for coming and invited her to come back again.
I went back to the business of unpacking and forgot about her. Twenty minutes later I heard the unmistakable gravely “meow” of a tomcat and peeked out the screen. There sat Shawna. She meowed once, my introduction to her gray and white sidekick, Phil. I opened the door and they both came in, Shawna leading Phil to the sink area. Phil meowed and the meaning was clear, “I’ve come for my milk.” I poured him a splash of milk, which he devoured while Shawna sat quietly in the middle of the kitchen floor. After he finished his treat, she took him on a tour of the boxes. I stopped what I was doing and followed them around the cottage, almost able to hear their conversation. “…And this is the couch—it goes here, and the chair… in here is the bedroom, Phil.” Again, I thought they would just march out the bedroom doors when they were done, but no. Shawna has a strong sense of manners and decorum. She brought Phil to the screen door again and asked to be let out. They were guests and they would leave the way they came, thank you very much.
Since then, Shawna has been a regular visitor at the cottage; Phil less so, but then Phil is old and feeble. The landlady, Barbara, said he was very ill last year and barely made it. He used to be the tom of the neighborhood, taking on all comers. Now he is an old man, skinny, frail, and a little on the grumpy side. Phil comes over when he feels like it, but won’t come in the house anymore. He prefers his treats on the porch—a few crunchies with his milk.
The other cat that claimed Live Oak Cottage as part of his territory was the neighbor’s orange tom. I would see him come through on his morning rounds when I would be sitting at my desk writing in the morning before work. Last Saturday, as I slept in, a coyote made a visit to the estate, boldly trotting up the lane and nabbing the orange tom right off Barbara’s porch. She had just come downstairs and was in the kitchen when she heard the tom yelp. She ran out, waving her housecoat to scare the coyote. Tiny Barbara must have stirred up quite a ruckus because the coyote dropped the cat and trotted away. She scooped up the terrified cat up, coyote drool dripping from its neck, wrapped it in a towel, and marched down the lane to take him to his owner. As she got to Foothills Road, the coyote was sitting across the street, waiting. She stared it down, hoping that she wouldn’t be attacked as she turned her back on it to go up the road to the neighbor’s driveway. She delivered the cat and came back down Foothills, then turned and headed down the lane. She felt, rather than heard, something behind her and looked over her shoulder. There was the coyote, following her up the driveway.
As I sit here this morning, Shawna rests on the braided rug at my feet after having had her morning crunchies and splash of milk. She slept in the house for the second night last night, gracing the overstuffed chair that Barbara left. Knowing how incredibly "street smart" she is, I figure that she's decided domesticity trumps feral, live trumps coyote lunch, and she's made herself at home.
I moved in about a month ago--on a Saturday. The next morning as I was making coffee in the kitchen, I looked out the window and saw a black cat on the landlady’s roof. Figuring that must be the famed Shawna, I went to the door, stood on the front stoop and presented myself. She halted and watched me intently. I spoke softly—she wouldn’t have been able to hear from that distance, but I figured her spirit would understand—“I’m the new person who moved into the cottage. You may come to visit any time you like.” I let her take a good look at me and then went back in the house, watching her from the kitchen window. She ambled along the roof-line, sniffing at cedar shakes as she went. Just as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee and doctoring it with milk, I heard a tapping at the door. Figuring it must be the landlady, I went to the door and looked out the screen. No one. I looked down and there was Shawna. She had put her paw on the door and pressed the door against the jam—her way of politely knocking. I opened the screen. She hesitated for a moment and then came in. Since I had the milk out (and nothing else to offer a guest), I poured a little milk in a bowl and set it on the rug in front of the sink. She accepted my humble offering graciously, as is her way. After she lapped up the milk, she took a tour of the house, sniffing around the piles of boxes. I was busy and kind of ignored her, figuring she’d complete her tour and let herself out the open French doors in the bedroom. Instead, when she was satisfied she’d inspected the premises, she meowed and stood by the screen at the front door. Before I let her out, I picked her up and held her, thanked her for coming and invited her to come back again.
I went back to the business of unpacking and forgot about her. Twenty minutes later I heard the unmistakable gravely “meow” of a tomcat and peeked out the screen. There sat Shawna. She meowed once, my introduction to her gray and white sidekick, Phil. I opened the door and they both came in, Shawna leading Phil to the sink area. Phil meowed and the meaning was clear, “I’ve come for my milk.” I poured him a splash of milk, which he devoured while Shawna sat quietly in the middle of the kitchen floor. After he finished his treat, she took him on a tour of the boxes. I stopped what I was doing and followed them around the cottage, almost able to hear their conversation. “…And this is the couch—it goes here, and the chair… in here is the bedroom, Phil.” Again, I thought they would just march out the bedroom doors when they were done, but no. Shawna has a strong sense of manners and decorum. She brought Phil to the screen door again and asked to be let out. They were guests and they would leave the way they came, thank you very much.
Since then, Shawna has been a regular visitor at the cottage; Phil less so, but then Phil is old and feeble. The landlady, Barbara, said he was very ill last year and barely made it. He used to be the tom of the neighborhood, taking on all comers. Now he is an old man, skinny, frail, and a little on the grumpy side. Phil comes over when he feels like it, but won’t come in the house anymore. He prefers his treats on the porch—a few crunchies with his milk.
The other cat that claimed Live Oak Cottage as part of his territory was the neighbor’s orange tom. I would see him come through on his morning rounds when I would be sitting at my desk writing in the morning before work. Last Saturday, as I slept in, a coyote made a visit to the estate, boldly trotting up the lane and nabbing the orange tom right off Barbara’s porch. She had just come downstairs and was in the kitchen when she heard the tom yelp. She ran out, waving her housecoat to scare the coyote. Tiny Barbara must have stirred up quite a ruckus because the coyote dropped the cat and trotted away. She scooped up the terrified cat up, coyote drool dripping from its neck, wrapped it in a towel, and marched down the lane to take him to his owner. As she got to Foothills Road, the coyote was sitting across the street, waiting. She stared it down, hoping that she wouldn’t be attacked as she turned her back on it to go up the road to the neighbor’s driveway. She delivered the cat and came back down Foothills, then turned and headed down the lane. She felt, rather than heard, something behind her and looked over her shoulder. There was the coyote, following her up the driveway.
As I sit here this morning, Shawna rests on the braided rug at my feet after having had her morning crunchies and splash of milk. She slept in the house for the second night last night, gracing the overstuffed chair that Barbara left. Knowing how incredibly "street smart" she is, I figure that she's decided domesticity trumps feral, live trumps coyote lunch, and she's made herself at home.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Volunteering at the Writer's Conference
I show up early the morning I am to volunteer for Agents and Editors day at the writer's conference. This is the way it works: people pay $35 a pop in order to pitch their story to an agent for 10 minutes.
Tables for two are set up in the back half of a cavernous room at the hotel--five rows with four agents per row. (the other half of the room still has rows of chairs set up for the evening lecture--sorta funky, right--a less than professional setting when you consider the cost of a hard-back book). Is it noisy in there? You bet. Are people nervous? Is the Pope… Do bears…
I must digress and say that I do understand the nervousness of the writers--I really do. At my first writer's conference I studied the agents carefully, picked two that I thought were just right for me, forked over my hard-earned money, and stood in line. However, one of the agents I had signed up for was unable to attend at the last minute due to a family emergency. A well-meaning volunteer (with strict orders not to refund money) placed me with another agent. I sat down across the table from the agent du jour, smiled, made eye contact and held it--precisely as I had been taught--and began my well-rehearsed pitch.
The agent listen briefly, then narrowed her eyes and squinted at me in a manner that suggested she thought I'd just landed my space ship on the lawn, bolted up the stairs, and plopped down at her table.
Her attitude was disconcerting, to say the least, but I continued on.
Finally she had the wherewithal to stop me and ask, "Are you pitching a novel?"
I nodded. I must be doing something right, I thought, for she had perceived the nature of my efforts.
"I don't handle novels. My company sells craft books. Do you knit?"
So I must confess that experience toughed my tender writer's skin. In hindsight, I can laugh--the Writing Gods gave me a quick lesson in not taking this writer/ agent thing too seriously. I learned not to stake my life behind the pen on success at the agent's table.
This year at the writer's conference there seemed to be agreement among the heads of the committees that everything be done at the last possible second, thereby adding even more stress to an already stressful situation.. The first order of business that day was to get the agents placards on the tables in alphabetical order. The head of the committee grabbed said placards and ran up and down the aisles, placing the signs thus:
F G H I J
E D C B A
Our job, then, was to inform the "boss" that she was thinking too far outside the box--that this was not a matter that required creative thinking, but one of logical order. Hoping that she was remotely familiar with the alphabet, I suggested the tables be arranged thusly:
A
B
C
Someone shoved a pile of papers in my hand and said, "Put these on the agent's tables."
"OK," I said and began my assigned task.
In the meantime, the agents (having flown in from New York on the red eye) arrived, One agent, her luggage trailing behind her like a comet, asked for the most direct route to the bathroom so she could freshen up. Others buzzed to the coffee pot. Only after their physical needs were met were they willing to look at their sign-up lists, scanning down the list to see what time they could cut out early for a round of golf or shopping on State Street.
Because I have done this sort of work before, I made sure that the piece of paper I was putting down matched the name on the placard. I was going along fine--until I got to "S." Thank God it was in the last row that the alphabet disintegrated. Every file clerk knows S-A comes before S-I. The S-A agent (the one with the luggage) had parked it beside her table and was in the john. Thinking I was helping out, I wheeled her luggage to her new table at the head of her row, instead of the middle. The poor agent, usually quite on top of things, came back to "her" table and threw a fit because she thought her luggage had been swiped. I got her settled down at her new table and pointed out that she was no longer at the mercy of the airlines, assuring her we were there to assist her in any way possible.
Oh yes, one other glitch in the system: two glitches actually. Six popular agents had cancelled before the conference, thereby disappointing those who had signed up on-line. Who knows why they elected not to show: previous commitments, not worth the increased airfare? There was never any explanation that passed my ears, but at least we knew they would not be present and the sign up sheet had been adjusted accordingly a couple of days earlier. What we didn't know until the last minute was that one agent was not coming. She represented literary fiction, and therefore her docket was full. Her husband, an attorney, had arrived, however.
"I told you I wasn't going to Santa Barbara," I heard as he held the cell phone away from his ear when he grabbed a cup of coffee. I mulled over the apparent lack of communication in that marriage… What was the poor guy to do? By default, he was forced to agree to see the people that had signed up to pitch to his wife. He leaned his golf clubs against a chair, thereby throwing away a perfectly beautiful afternoon on the links and setting him up for a day in which, I'm sure, his first thought to an aspiring writer was going to be "No."
The drill is this: I am stationed in the hallway outside--at the beginning of the slaughter ramp, so to speak. My job is to call out "9:00! 9:00! 9:00" announcing the time for the people who have their appointments. Then, "9:10, 9:10, 9:10." I keep this ten-minute interval announcement up all day, joking that I'm practicing for my interview as the Amtrak station master. My clear speech and diction are an important part of the job since I am afforded neither a microphone nor cattle prod.
After the writers have checked in with me, they are allowed to pass an invisible line to the next holding area. There they mill around until Volunteer Cheryl gives them the next set of instructions: "This is your big chance to talk to an agent. When we open the door, you will stand behind the table for two more minutes. When we release you, you will go to your table. You have eight minutes to pitch to your agent. When you hear the first whistle, that is the eight-minute mark. It's time to wrap up your pitch. Another whistle will sound at the ten-minute mark and a trap door will automatically open up below your chair if you have not vacated the table." Unfortunately some writers actually believe the line about the trap door, and the look around nervously, wondering what the hell they have gotten themselves into. These writers are the smart ones--at least they are listening. Most people are so nervous that the instructions float over them like a leaf floating down the babbling brook.
Finally the double doors open and the writers are prodded into the next holding area behind a row of tables. Really, the agents are just people with a job to do, but due to their exalted status and the pedestals they are given to perch upon, one could do no better strolling in the gardens of Versailles. The air in room is stifling and you could cut the adrenaline with a knife, but this is a rarified environment and the time clock is ticking away at the steady beat of a little less than $5 a minute. The writers' nervousness increases with the proximity to the agent. In this last and final holding area, they are given further instructions which sails over their heads. They are assured that if they have made it this far and not fainted, they will be allowed to see "their" agent.
The eight minute whistle is blown by Jim, the timekeeper, who is sports an aloha shirt designed with cream-colored skulls instead of the standard hibiscus flowers, giving everyone a taste of his wicked sense of humor. He stands on the far side of the tables, holding a stopwatch and a silver Army whistle. He brings the whistle to his lips with a flourish and blows at the eight minute mark thus signaling the agents to stand, shake the writer's hand and say, "Nice to meet you," thereby clearing the table for the next sacrificial lambs…er, authors.
Presumably the writers have dressed in a business-like manner, have arrived sufficiently early, have availed themselves of the bathroom to my right (nervous bladder syndrome strikes men and women in equal proportion), have their appointment sheet in hand, know the name of the agent they've paid to speak with, and have practiced their presentation. There is potential for disaster in so many steps of the process…
The sheaf of papers I hold is arranged by agent's, not author's, name. Seems simple enough to me, but no--the writers don't think like that at all. They are so nervous that they invariably blurt out their name first and assume that we consider them as important as they have pumped themselves up in their minds to be (in order to subject themselves to this process in the first place). They are insulted when I don't automatically recognize them (for the important "wanna-be" they are). They shove their name badges under my nose and adopt the stance of "I'm so important I can't imagine why you haven't recognized me--however I will do you the service of stating my name."
I ignore the name badge and flip through my papers. I ask, "Who are you seeing?" Their minds go absolutely blank. Thus begins the mad scramble in their notebooks or briefcases for the sheet with their agents name on it. Many have signed up for more than one agent--can you see the masochistic tendency among writers--and they haven't a clue which agent their seeing or when. The paperclip goes flying in one direction, the precious manuscript in another. A man comes out of the bathroom and innocently steps on page 1... The anguished shriek of the author echoes down the hallway. They stumble over to a chair, plop down and dissolve into tears.
I stare straight ahead and say, "Next?"
"Which agent are you going to see?"
"Fred."
"Fred?" I inquire, for we had no one named Fred, neither first name or last name, on our lists.
"Fred," the author insists.
"Are you certain?"
"Fred!" he shouts.
"Would you mind looking at your paper please?"
Then began the aforementioned search. Finally he found his paper crumpled at the bottom of his briefcase and thrusts it at me. "Fred!"
I look at the paper. "Paul," I correct, unable to say the last name (we had two Pauls) before he snatches the paper from my hand.
"Paul," he mutters and backs away.
It amazed me the outfits people managed to throw together for what was, basically, a job interview. One young man wore a t-shirt that exclaimed "F-CK YO-" (since he was panting as he came down the hallway, my guess was that he had slipped on his shirt in a hurry and had run all the way from the car, banking on the "U's" to catch up with him). I wasn't sure that fashion statement was going to get him an agent...
Nor was I so sure about the woman who threw together a delightful ensemble consisting of multi-colored yarn woven into her uncombed hair, a neon green flounced underskirt (think of the half slips under 1950's poodle skirts), blue striped tights and turquoise patent leather boots. She may have been wearing some sort of top--I failed to notice--but quite honestly, maybe not.
The authors I had the most sympathy for were the elders of the group. Their eyesight dimmed by years of reading and writing, their hearing impaired, their gait faltering, they clutched their memoirs to their breasts. Asking them to hurry or follow instructions was out of the question, and so we afforded them the dignity they deserved. However, not everyone was so considerate, as the young are prone to be, thinking the world revolves around them and there is not going to be enough. An agent gained a thousand points in my favor as he, no spring chicken himself, watched a young author dash down the aisle, bowling over an elder. Above the din of the room I heard the agent say, "A memoir at twenty? Honey, you haven't lived long enough."
Tables for two are set up in the back half of a cavernous room at the hotel--five rows with four agents per row. (the other half of the room still has rows of chairs set up for the evening lecture--sorta funky, right--a less than professional setting when you consider the cost of a hard-back book). Is it noisy in there? You bet. Are people nervous? Is the Pope… Do bears…
I must digress and say that I do understand the nervousness of the writers--I really do. At my first writer's conference I studied the agents carefully, picked two that I thought were just right for me, forked over my hard-earned money, and stood in line. However, one of the agents I had signed up for was unable to attend at the last minute due to a family emergency. A well-meaning volunteer (with strict orders not to refund money) placed me with another agent. I sat down across the table from the agent du jour, smiled, made eye contact and held it--precisely as I had been taught--and began my well-rehearsed pitch.
The agent listen briefly, then narrowed her eyes and squinted at me in a manner that suggested she thought I'd just landed my space ship on the lawn, bolted up the stairs, and plopped down at her table.
Her attitude was disconcerting, to say the least, but I continued on.
Finally she had the wherewithal to stop me and ask, "Are you pitching a novel?"
I nodded. I must be doing something right, I thought, for she had perceived the nature of my efforts.
"I don't handle novels. My company sells craft books. Do you knit?"
So I must confess that experience toughed my tender writer's skin. In hindsight, I can laugh--the Writing Gods gave me a quick lesson in not taking this writer/ agent thing too seriously. I learned not to stake my life behind the pen on success at the agent's table.
This year at the writer's conference there seemed to be agreement among the heads of the committees that everything be done at the last possible second, thereby adding even more stress to an already stressful situation.. The first order of business that day was to get the agents placards on the tables in alphabetical order. The head of the committee grabbed said placards and ran up and down the aisles, placing the signs thus:
F G H I J
E D C B A
Our job, then, was to inform the "boss" that she was thinking too far outside the box--that this was not a matter that required creative thinking, but one of logical order. Hoping that she was remotely familiar with the alphabet, I suggested the tables be arranged thusly:
A
B
C
Someone shoved a pile of papers in my hand and said, "Put these on the agent's tables."
"OK," I said and began my assigned task.
In the meantime, the agents (having flown in from New York on the red eye) arrived, One agent, her luggage trailing behind her like a comet, asked for the most direct route to the bathroom so she could freshen up. Others buzzed to the coffee pot. Only after their physical needs were met were they willing to look at their sign-up lists, scanning down the list to see what time they could cut out early for a round of golf or shopping on State Street.
Because I have done this sort of work before, I made sure that the piece of paper I was putting down matched the name on the placard. I was going along fine--until I got to "S." Thank God it was in the last row that the alphabet disintegrated. Every file clerk knows S-A comes before S-I. The S-A agent (the one with the luggage) had parked it beside her table and was in the john. Thinking I was helping out, I wheeled her luggage to her new table at the head of her row, instead of the middle. The poor agent, usually quite on top of things, came back to "her" table and threw a fit because she thought her luggage had been swiped. I got her settled down at her new table and pointed out that she was no longer at the mercy of the airlines, assuring her we were there to assist her in any way possible.
Oh yes, one other glitch in the system: two glitches actually. Six popular agents had cancelled before the conference, thereby disappointing those who had signed up on-line. Who knows why they elected not to show: previous commitments, not worth the increased airfare? There was never any explanation that passed my ears, but at least we knew they would not be present and the sign up sheet had been adjusted accordingly a couple of days earlier. What we didn't know until the last minute was that one agent was not coming. She represented literary fiction, and therefore her docket was full. Her husband, an attorney, had arrived, however.
"I told you I wasn't going to Santa Barbara," I heard as he held the cell phone away from his ear when he grabbed a cup of coffee. I mulled over the apparent lack of communication in that marriage… What was the poor guy to do? By default, he was forced to agree to see the people that had signed up to pitch to his wife. He leaned his golf clubs against a chair, thereby throwing away a perfectly beautiful afternoon on the links and setting him up for a day in which, I'm sure, his first thought to an aspiring writer was going to be "No."
The drill is this: I am stationed in the hallway outside--at the beginning of the slaughter ramp, so to speak. My job is to call out "9:00! 9:00! 9:00" announcing the time for the people who have their appointments. Then, "9:10, 9:10, 9:10." I keep this ten-minute interval announcement up all day, joking that I'm practicing for my interview as the Amtrak station master. My clear speech and diction are an important part of the job since I am afforded neither a microphone nor cattle prod.
After the writers have checked in with me, they are allowed to pass an invisible line to the next holding area. There they mill around until Volunteer Cheryl gives them the next set of instructions: "This is your big chance to talk to an agent. When we open the door, you will stand behind the table for two more minutes. When we release you, you will go to your table. You have eight minutes to pitch to your agent. When you hear the first whistle, that is the eight-minute mark. It's time to wrap up your pitch. Another whistle will sound at the ten-minute mark and a trap door will automatically open up below your chair if you have not vacated the table." Unfortunately some writers actually believe the line about the trap door, and the look around nervously, wondering what the hell they have gotten themselves into. These writers are the smart ones--at least they are listening. Most people are so nervous that the instructions float over them like a leaf floating down the babbling brook.
Finally the double doors open and the writers are prodded into the next holding area behind a row of tables. Really, the agents are just people with a job to do, but due to their exalted status and the pedestals they are given to perch upon, one could do no better strolling in the gardens of Versailles. The air in room is stifling and you could cut the adrenaline with a knife, but this is a rarified environment and the time clock is ticking away at the steady beat of a little less than $5 a minute. The writers' nervousness increases with the proximity to the agent. In this last and final holding area, they are given further instructions which sails over their heads. They are assured that if they have made it this far and not fainted, they will be allowed to see "their" agent.
The eight minute whistle is blown by Jim, the timekeeper, who is sports an aloha shirt designed with cream-colored skulls instead of the standard hibiscus flowers, giving everyone a taste of his wicked sense of humor. He stands on the far side of the tables, holding a stopwatch and a silver Army whistle. He brings the whistle to his lips with a flourish and blows at the eight minute mark thus signaling the agents to stand, shake the writer's hand and say, "Nice to meet you," thereby clearing the table for the next sacrificial lambs…er, authors.
Presumably the writers have dressed in a business-like manner, have arrived sufficiently early, have availed themselves of the bathroom to my right (nervous bladder syndrome strikes men and women in equal proportion), have their appointment sheet in hand, know the name of the agent they've paid to speak with, and have practiced their presentation. There is potential for disaster in so many steps of the process…
The sheaf of papers I hold is arranged by agent's, not author's, name. Seems simple enough to me, but no--the writers don't think like that at all. They are so nervous that they invariably blurt out their name first and assume that we consider them as important as they have pumped themselves up in their minds to be (in order to subject themselves to this process in the first place). They are insulted when I don't automatically recognize them (for the important "wanna-be" they are). They shove their name badges under my nose and adopt the stance of "I'm so important I can't imagine why you haven't recognized me--however I will do you the service of stating my name."
I ignore the name badge and flip through my papers. I ask, "Who are you seeing?" Their minds go absolutely blank. Thus begins the mad scramble in their notebooks or briefcases for the sheet with their agents name on it. Many have signed up for more than one agent--can you see the masochistic tendency among writers--and they haven't a clue which agent their seeing or when. The paperclip goes flying in one direction, the precious manuscript in another. A man comes out of the bathroom and innocently steps on page 1... The anguished shriek of the author echoes down the hallway. They stumble over to a chair, plop down and dissolve into tears.
I stare straight ahead and say, "Next?"
"Which agent are you going to see?"
"Fred."
"Fred?" I inquire, for we had no one named Fred, neither first name or last name, on our lists.
"Fred," the author insists.
"Are you certain?"
"Fred!" he shouts.
"Would you mind looking at your paper please?"
Then began the aforementioned search. Finally he found his paper crumpled at the bottom of his briefcase and thrusts it at me. "Fred!"
I look at the paper. "Paul," I correct, unable to say the last name (we had two Pauls) before he snatches the paper from my hand.
"Paul," he mutters and backs away.
It amazed me the outfits people managed to throw together for what was, basically, a job interview. One young man wore a t-shirt that exclaimed "F-CK YO-" (since he was panting as he came down the hallway, my guess was that he had slipped on his shirt in a hurry and had run all the way from the car, banking on the "U's" to catch up with him). I wasn't sure that fashion statement was going to get him an agent...
Nor was I so sure about the woman who threw together a delightful ensemble consisting of multi-colored yarn woven into her uncombed hair, a neon green flounced underskirt (think of the half slips under 1950's poodle skirts), blue striped tights and turquoise patent leather boots. She may have been wearing some sort of top--I failed to notice--but quite honestly, maybe not.
The authors I had the most sympathy for were the elders of the group. Their eyesight dimmed by years of reading and writing, their hearing impaired, their gait faltering, they clutched their memoirs to their breasts. Asking them to hurry or follow instructions was out of the question, and so we afforded them the dignity they deserved. However, not everyone was so considerate, as the young are prone to be, thinking the world revolves around them and there is not going to be enough. An agent gained a thousand points in my favor as he, no spring chicken himself, watched a young author dash down the aisle, bowling over an elder. Above the din of the room I heard the agent say, "A memoir at twenty? Honey, you haven't lived long enough."
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Bareback Under a Fullish Moon
The other night I sat bareback on my friend's quarter horse, Peyote, and gazed at the night sky. Peyote stood perfectly still as I draped my legs over him and settled behind his withers. I let my legs hang down his broad back and then relaxed into him until I felt a blending of sorts--horse and rider melding into one. From that point on, neither could move without responding to the other.
The moon was still a few nights from full, but bright enough to cast slight shadows in the arena. As it rose over Sulphur Mountain I felt an old yearning to throw my head back and howl. "Yip, yip, yip, aaaahhhhoooooo!" It is hard to tell directions in the San Antonio Creek valley where the horse ranch is because of the steep sides of the valley and the abundance of live oaks and pepper trees, but I could get my bearings by the moon rising on my left. Therefore, I reasoned, Peyote and I were facing due south, the Big Dipper was slightly to the northwest. When I lean back and rested against Peyote's quarters, I could follow the line from the end of the Dipper to the Pole Star directly overhead. I had my reckoning then and I swiveled around, looking for the "w" shape of the constellation Cassiopeia.
I let the hackamore reins go slack, signaling to let Peyote remain still. I spoke to him in a low, soft voice. He twitched his ears and listened to my voice as I patted him on the neck, in the same place, with the same speed and pressure. It wasn't long before the rhythm of the pats and my gentle voice hypnotized him. He hung his head and dozed off, every once in a while waking up enough to swish his tail.
A couple of times when he woke up he turned his head to look at me as if to say, "Are you still there? Let me know if you want to do go anywhere--otherwise, I'm going back to sleep." When I did not move, then he dropped his head again and rested.
I was hoping I would see the bright eyes of a raccoon at the neighbor's artificial waterfall--since I could hear the pump humming and the water gently cascading down the boulders-- but it must have been too early in the evening for the little bandits. It was just me, the horse, and the vast universe.
The moon was still a few nights from full, but bright enough to cast slight shadows in the arena. As it rose over Sulphur Mountain I felt an old yearning to throw my head back and howl. "Yip, yip, yip, aaaahhhhoooooo!" It is hard to tell directions in the San Antonio Creek valley where the horse ranch is because of the steep sides of the valley and the abundance of live oaks and pepper trees, but I could get my bearings by the moon rising on my left. Therefore, I reasoned, Peyote and I were facing due south, the Big Dipper was slightly to the northwest. When I lean back and rested against Peyote's quarters, I could follow the line from the end of the Dipper to the Pole Star directly overhead. I had my reckoning then and I swiveled around, looking for the "w" shape of the constellation Cassiopeia.
I let the hackamore reins go slack, signaling to let Peyote remain still. I spoke to him in a low, soft voice. He twitched his ears and listened to my voice as I patted him on the neck, in the same place, with the same speed and pressure. It wasn't long before the rhythm of the pats and my gentle voice hypnotized him. He hung his head and dozed off, every once in a while waking up enough to swish his tail.
A couple of times when he woke up he turned his head to look at me as if to say, "Are you still there? Let me know if you want to do go anywhere--otherwise, I'm going back to sleep." When I did not move, then he dropped his head again and rested.
I was hoping I would see the bright eyes of a raccoon at the neighbor's artificial waterfall--since I could hear the pump humming and the water gently cascading down the boulders-- but it must have been too early in the evening for the little bandits. It was just me, the horse, and the vast universe.
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