A Visit From My Former Self

A few days ago, I received the following text from one of my oldest friends:  "Just found a stack of letters from you as far back as 1987.  Mostly letters from Madrid."  My friend lives only a few miles from where I work, so I stopped by her house and picked them up on my way home yesterday.  Just seeing those 20-peseta stamps, emblazoned with King Juan Carlos's handsome profile, brought back my Spanish adventure in striking detail.  I flashed on the ornate post office at Cibeles Square, where I would go to buy stamps and airmail envelopes.

I was a prolific letter writer back in those days.  I was trying hard to create a writer persona for myself, which included sitting in Madrid cafes, scribbling  journal entries, poems, short stories, or letters to my friends back in the States, among other, late-night activities.  (Anyone who's ever visited that city knows there is no lack of those.)

If you've ever had the experience of reading letters you wrote 25 years earlier, you know it's an odd sensation.  It's kind of like turning a corner and looking your young self in the face.  In the words, you recognize bits of your identity, but it smacks of pretension, making you remember the discomfort of youth, when you tried so hard to convince those around you that you were comfortable in your own skin, all the while sure they would see through your flimsy disguise.   

My writing in the letters is embarrassingly overdone at times.  One, written in November of 1989, starts with, "Closing out the eighties, you and I've known each other more or less this whole sad and best-forgotten decade.  If you could collect all the proverbial water that's passed under that ole bridge you'd have one hell of a reservoir..."

I have no choice but to forgive myself; ultimately, I couldn't have written any other words but those.  That was who I was, and perhaps I'm kidding myself to suggest that I've changed much at all since then.  I still write the occasional letter, but mostly it's emails and text messages, along with Facebook status updates and tweets.

Which is not the same.  There's an intense intimacy in letters that you don't find in those other forms of more modern communication.  My mother was a letter writer.  I got it from her.

The most jarring admission I can make to myself about these found letters is that they are a chronicle of unfulfilled dreams and desires.  I had the audacity at age 25 to imagine myself as a famous actor ("They will name diets after me!"), and brag about having met a literary agent who loved my writing and encouraged me to write a novel, a task I have not yet accomplished, nearly 25 years later.

Once again, forgiveness is due.  A young man is supposed to dream big dreams.  If I hadn't been imagining big things for my future, something would have been amiss.  And besides, I've got another confession to make:

At age 49 I still dream of writing great novels and being a movie star.

And you know what else?  It just might happen, because I ain't dead yet.....

A Thanksgiving Memory

Lately, my children have a fascination with all things British -- I think it's a result of watching "Flushed Away" over and over, or maybe meeting my friend Janet Gordon from London not too long ago. ("Daddy," Diego whispered, as Janet charmed him and his brother in my living room last month, "she really speaks British.")

One of my favorite Thanksgiving memories is from 1987, when my girlfriend and I were living with our college friend, Tim Knight, and a band of BUNAC (British University North America Club) American expats for about a month in a flat in the Kilburn section of London, where we were studying to become certified English teachers. We were a pretty clueless crew, incapable of simple tasks like cleaning the shower curtain, which was an impressive science experiment of mold-cultivation. We were a fun bunch, though, and we knew how to laugh it up on the regular.

London was gorgeous in that month or so I was living there -- adorned with Christmas lights, which looked especially lovely in that historic city. On Thursday, November 27, the holiday season was in full swing, and outside our little group of expatriate misfits, the day was just another winter Thursday.

We, however, were aware that it was the last Thursday of the month, and we felt compelled to make something of the day. Between the 10 to 12 of us, we managed to throw a turkey in the oven and have it come out pretty well. There may have been some imbibing going on that day, as well, so we didn't stand on ceremony, as far as the table setting was concerned. In fact, I don't remember any plates at all.

We were a dozen young, unkempt and carefree Americans living in an Irish neighborhood in London, drunkenly devouring turkey with the trimmings. It was a unique moment, a moment verging on perfection, a moment steeped in the joyful ether of youth.

It's a moment I won't forget.

Remembrances of P-Town Past

This morning, as I put the cream and too much sugar in my coffee, after riding my bike over to the donut shop, I flashed back to the summer of 1984, when I followed my girlfriend's dream to Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

While the majority of the summer population – a number that bloats by a factor of ten every year between Memorial Day and Labor Day – slept in, gearing up for cocktails, Tea Dances and beach time, I was getting up to go to work. I would get on my bicycle every morning and ride from our apartment at 8 Pearl Street, down Shank Painter Road to Route 6 and the MarSpec Warehouse, which supplied Marine Specialties, “Provincetown’s Most Unusual Shop,” and its mail order customers with everything from plastic lobsters to surplus German Mannlicher rifles from World War II.

I worked there as a shipping/receiving clerk. Even though I was not packing sandwiches and beers for the beach, the taste of the salt air was a treat on my lips. I absolutely loved the taste of that place.

Sue and I must have been quite a sight to see for the regulars there – this nubile young hetero couple who chose to come live in the middle of a seaside Bacchanal.

While others were partying at night, I was working my second job, scooping gourmet ice cream into cups and cones for a mostly drunk clientele at “Glaceteria,” right next to the historic Town Hall building. Run by a surly French Canadian couple, it stayed open way too late each night, and catered to customers coming out of the closing bars and clubs on and around Commercial Street. I found that if I smiled shyly at the glassy-eyed men who ordered ice cream for themselves and each other, my tips would increase, at times exponentially.

Even though it was only a few blocks down Commercial Street from the Pearl Street place, Susan would sometimes express concern for my safety, due to how late I worked.

I brushed off her worry; it was a five minute walk home, if that. There were occasions, though, when, after closing up shop at 3 or so in the morning, my walk home was a bit eerie, particularly for a starry-eyed ingénue of 21 with feathered, sun-bleached hair and honey-tanned skin. I looked straight ahead in the direction of my destination, all the while occasionally aware of men doing things, to themselves and each other, in the shadows at the edge of my vision. To this day I’m not sure how much of this is real and how much is a product of my imagination. Even though it would be another year before the death of Rock Hudson, and another six until Magic Johnson’s historic announcement, people were very much aware of AIDS, so the all-night party that had been P-Town was a bit of an anachronism, even then.

Still, there was one night when I became aware of a figure in the shadows that began to move toward me as I made my way home. I quickened my pace, but each time I looked back, the figure was there, the same distance behind. When I finally made it upstairs to my apartment, I turned out all the lights and peeked out to see a man standing under a streetlamp, his features peppered by shadows, straining to get a better look at the Young Thing in the darkened window above.

He lost interest and wandered, stumbling, I now saw, up the street and out of sight. Eventually my heart slowed to its natural rhythms, and I was lulled to sleep by the sounds of the pre-dawn coastal morning.

A Moment of Criticism in This Young Writer’s Life

I’m a little surprised that I remembered this, but the first short story I ever work shopped with Toby Wolff as an undergrad at Syracuse University was a piece called “The Gray Rose.” It was a classic moment; I came in there fancying myself the Young Author, much celebrated as a high school student and now finding out the difference between the kind of critique I received there and how things worked in college.

Toby had taken my story and made enough copies for the group of about ten other young writers. He had already read and critiqued it, but the process was that you first read your story aloud as your colleagues read along, making notations. Then there was a feedback session, after which you received copies of your marked up manuscript, including the one marked up by the instructor.

I was excited that my turn had finally come up; there had been some good discussion concerning what good short stories were comprised of, and I was certain this one had it all.

I don’t remember the particulars – you’ll understand in a moment why I might have put “The Gray Rose” out of my mind since that back in the early 1980’s. It was a love story, and it ended with the woman setting out on her own, despite the riches that her man offered her.

When I finished reading it aloud, I looked up and saw that my classmates had been moved by the plight of my heroine.

“Okay,” said Toby, “What do people think of ‘The Gray Rose.’”

One by one, my classmates raved about the story. They found it powerful and moving. The could really feel her feeling her feelings. A lot of talk about feelings; that much I remember.

Then cam the moment that changed me forever as a writer. Toby Wolff, who I now knew after having taken a literature class with him, and whose book I owned and admired, said, “Well, I frankly didn’t find the main character believable or very interesting.”

My heart sank. It felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart. He must have seen my expression or picked up on my shock, because he added, “But clearly this story was a success with your audience, so that says something.”

No, this was not comfort. In fact, it made it worse. I didn’t want to be a popular writer – I wanted to be good.

Toby went on to point to some turns of phrase he found interesting and/or original. These were always underlined with a straight, thick line, followed by the word “good” or “nice.” He then picked out a few clunkers – sentences and that strained under the weight of cliché. These were underscored with a squiggly line.

I didn’t really hear anything else he said. I looked up occasionally as he went on, ultimately stating, “This really just feels like a very formulaic “bird-in-a-gilded-cage” story.”

Home at my apartment that night, I licked my wounds, and was faced with a decision. I could either give up on improving and continue to put out this level of material, I could stop writing altogether, or I could look over Toby’s comments and think about what it would mean for me to step up to the plate in the way he was talking about.

By the next week, I was back, listening carefully to his critiques and also reading very closely the published short fiction he assigned us as part of the class: Raymond Carver, Barry Hannah, Tim O’Brien, Bobbie Anne Mason, Richard Ford, and Grace Paley come to mind. All are heavy on character; their stories are peopled by memorable characters who stay with you after you’ve finished reading. They go through something and come out the other end of it changed somehow.

The next story I shared in workshop was called “Looking in Windows” about a voyeuristic little boy who lives his life by looking into the windows, and into the lives, of the people in the building across the street. Still a bit of a too-tight, clichéd ending, but I was on the right track. Toby complimented me on the narrator’s voice, and I knew I was on the right track.

I have since written fiction that has been pretty good, including a novel I’m hoping to find while in New York, and some pretty bad stuff, as well. Toby taught to keep trying. Above all, his message has always been to make the characters matter, and to work, work , work, and read.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m grateful for his guidance and kindness. I was also appreciative of his criticism; it made me a better writer.

The Man in the Mirror, The Boy Back Then

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning and thought, “Who is this guy?” Stubbly, bald head, goatee and moustache, big and beefy. I often wonder – if someone were to come up to me, like that “filmmaker” in the Paris Metro back in 1988, (more on him later) and said, “Excuse me, but would you care to see a photograph of yourself, thirty years from now?”

First of all, I wonder if my 25-year-old self would have said yes. And then, if I did get up the courage to agree to see such a thing, and he handed me that particular photo of the man I saw in the mirror today, what would I say? “Yes, that looks like me, I suppose.” Or maybe, “Holy shit, I look like my dad.”

Perhaps I’d say, “Do I become a professional wrestler?” More likely, I’d have said, “Get the fuck outta here!”

So let me tell the story of the guy on the Paris Metro. Susan and I were on the train, trying our best, I’m sure, not to look like tourists but likely looking very touristy, just the same. A man approached us, probably in his 40’s, with long, stringy hair that he wore pulled back in a pony tail. I remember thinking he looked a little like Bono in the "With or Without You" video. “Parlez-vouz anglais?” he asked. When we answered “oui,” he turned his attention to me, speaking English, with some undetermined European accent that drew out his “s” sounds, giving him a snakelike quality.

“Excussse me,” he said, “but are you an actor by any chance-ssss?”

Before I could form a response, Sue’s eyes widened . “Oh yes! He’s been in a bunch of student films, and he’s done some English-language theatre in Madrid where we live.”

“Well,” he went on, “I don’t know how long you’re in Parissss, but I’m shooting a film you’d be jussssst perfect for.”

“Really?” Susan said, nudging me excitedly. “What’s it called?”

“’Angel’ssssss Poissssson’,” he smiled.

The shooting schedule didn’t work out, but I was obviously flattered to have been approached in this way, albeit a little on the, well, creepy side. I’d like to believe I avoided being cast in a really bad porno movie, rather than the possibility that I may have missed out on my Big Break.

I did look it up on IMDB, and there is no such title listed, so I guess I dodged a bullet.