Singing Evenings: What We Lose Without Them

I was fourteen, sitting in a cabin with a rubber bubble cap over my hair, which I was attempting to dry. I was extremely bored — so I decided to start singing. At the time, I was a loyal fan of Joan Baez — so I began with one of the songs on one of her albums.

Within a few minutes, two young men I had secret crushes on appeared at the door. We’d all been signed up for a summer program by our parents, and this was happening on one of the group’s five-day outings. The fact that I was wearing a dryer cap embarrassed me beyond words, so I stopped singing immediately.

But the guys — who also happened to be twins — were having none of that. “Was that you?” one asked. I yanked off the cap and replied. “Yeah.”

“Would you sing with us some time?” they asked, letting me know both of them played guitar.

I agreed, and that night, our singing evenings began. While there was no romantic involvement, as both guys were in relationships with two of my friends — I think, looking back on it, I found something better.

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Photo by Devang Saklani on Unsplash

Talking in My Sleep: I’ve got a bad case of somniloquoy — and no idea how to fix it

 

There’s an old song by The Romantics called Talking in Your Sleep that was always one of my favorites. I have been talking in my sleep since childhood. I like the song because it makes sleep talking sound exciting and fun. It’s the opposite of what really happens when you’re sleep talking:

1. The talker is heard clearly by the guy next to her while they’re sleeping.

2. The talker is making complete sense about how she feels.

The truth is, most of us who talk in our sleep are making no sense whatsoever. (Some people can actually be understood, but I don’t think it’s a majority). My husband Pierce tells me what he hears is a mumbo-jumbo word salad, impossible to sort out. I wish I could speak brilliantly or come up with good dialogue or even let my guy know I love him, like the subject of The Romantics’ song does.

Instead, I make weird ghosty sounds, like a high-pitched, shaky “Hoo — ooo” sound in the Scooby Doo episodes that were popular in my guy’s childhood. Seriously, that is exactly how Pierce describes it. Nothing sexy there, let alone romantic. I can hardly bear to think of waking him up to this sound, though thankfully, he says it usually lasts less than a minute.

I’ve been trying to figure out what I might be dreaming about, to come up with sounds like these. I’m sure I must be having some sort of anxiety dream or nightmare, but what is it? 

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Flying Blind: What I Learned at the Airport from a Woman Who Can't See

Sitting at the departure gate for my flight home from New York, I'm trying to convince myself there isn't a hole in my heart. Leaving family and good friends always means there is a hole, but a give into it, I know I will just fall in and may never be able to get myself out.

I hear the pre-boarding call announcement and see a woman getting up, slowly. Her carry-on bag looks larger than most, and I find myself comparing it to my own little backpack and rolling around in a carpet of self-righteousness. The carpet disappears when I see a white cane.

The woman walks toward me, feeling her way with nothing but the cane to guide her. She does not seem to be turning away, and I decide I’d better tell her how close she is to my knees. I try to sound casual and let her know where I am. I am wrestling with whether or not to ask if she needs help, because some people want you to do that, and others do not.

She instantly lets me know what she’s feeling, which is a relief. “Thank you,” she says. “Would you mind helping me get on the plane?”

Of course,” I say, feeling gratitude that she felt comfortable enough to ask for help. Writing this, I don’t want you to think I am still dragging that righteous carpet around. I know this woman would have helped me if I had asked for it. I know that most anyone reading this would as well.

I am sharing this moment because of what it gave me, not because of anything I did for someone else. 

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Want Your Lead Character to be a Character Actor? Here's Some Ideas

 

Yes, the lead character is the one who leads you through any story you might see on stage, screen, novels and anywhere else stories are told. I’ve always been drawn to those we call “character” actors, though. While everyone was in love with Romeo and Juliet, I was taken by Romeo’s dear friend Mercutio, who seemed much funnier and more vibrant than either of the two famous lovers.

Character actors typically don’t have what we think of as “movie star” looks, though they look much more interesting, in my view. Geoffrey Rush — an actor’s actor if ever there was one — is mesmerizing in films like Shine and The King’s Speech and everything else he’s done.

I also love seeing women character actors and wish there wasn’t such an unspoken emphasis on women’s looks in the entertainment business. If women who aren’t traditionally “pretty” do win big parts, they’re usually comedies at first. Is that because if you’re not beautiful, you’re supposed to be funny?

I don’t know, but one of the female actors that always inspired me is Meryl Streep. She doesn’t look like most versions of a model, but transcended typical Hollywood parts to become one of the most reknowned actors we’ve got. Other actors like Jodie Foster have leading lady looks, but deliberately shun roles that would emphasize that.

Thinking of character actors also made me think of my own plays and novels, and whether or not I write roles for them. I want to, certainly, but do I?

How You Got That Story: Thoughts for the Writer Seeking It

 

The house stood in the middle of Jerusalem more than 2,000 years ago and was owned by a priestly family known as Katros. When Romans destroyed the city in 70 CE, the house burned to the ground, like many others. Archeologists who discovered it in the 1970s called it Burnt House, and I first heard of it on a trip to the city in my twenties.

The story itself was intriguing, but what attracted me most was the idea of using the archeological site surrounding the house as a setting for a new play. I thought about it the entire day after being there, and when I came home, I started writing dialogue.

My story went its own many-tentacled way beyond the facts, but Burnt House offered a rich background for the tale I wanted to tell — which was about a family in our own times. I know I wouldn’t have even thought of it without discovering the house. As a writer, I’ve learned to look for moments like these because they spark our creative storylines in unexpected, out-of-the-ordinary ways.

While travel is one of the best ways to encounter story lines, there are plenty of them waiting for us at home. I was visiting a friend’s church once at Eastertime when his daughter noticed a woman ahead of us in a black blazer. A white thread was spread across her back, curving at one end. The woman was completely oblivious to it.

My friend had the perfect answer to his daughter’s questions about the blazer and thread. “Maybe it’s something you can write a story about when we get home,” he said. “Think up reasons for how that thread got on there.”

That’s how you can tell if someone is a great writer, I thought. It isn’t just about being observant of what’s around you. It’s about having the ability to imagine what happened before and after you encounter any given moment where something new is presented — and preferably, that something is surprising and unusual.

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Is New York Still the Best Place for Authors, Playwrights, Actors and Artists?

 

She was thirty something, smallish, brunette. Her hair was chin-length, and her eyes were almost too dark to be real. When she came out of the kitchen, I had no idea how or when she materialized — all I knew was she was standing before us, waiting. The overall feeling I picked up from her was boredom, only it was boredom elevated to an art form.

"What do you want?” she asked. She had no pad or pen, just a little white apron that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but that she managed to wear while still looking cool. We were the only people in the diner, probably because it was a few days after Christmas and stormy outside.

My friend replied, “Watcha got?”

“Nothin’,” the waitress responded. It seemed like a preview of what you might find in the city itself; a profound indifference to politeness, small talk and nearly everything else.

I had met the two men sitting with me a few hours before, when they decided we should all go out to eat. Their names were Rafael and Henry, and my college teacher had recommended Rafael highly as a person who could “introduce me to New York” when I moved there.

I couldn’t tell them how nervous I was about moving to the city. Born in Brooklyn, I had grown up mostly in suburban New Jersey. I visited New York many times with my family to see relatives or plays/movies and eat at restaurants. But the idea of living there and trying to make a career of acting seemed like a whole other animal, one I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to ride.

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Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash

Seeking Reasonably Priced Scottish Castle

 

When my husband and I first started thinking about the possibility of buying a house, he insisted that we watch The Money Pit. The movie stars Shelly Long and Tom Hanks, who do a spectacular job of showing you the pitfalls of home ownership--admittedly on a larger scale than you would likely experience. The movie made my husband and I laugh hysterically, but it turned out his caution was not exaggerated.

We bought a house built in 1914 after falling in love with the architecture and structure. I have since learned that while old houses are beautiful, they are hell to maintain, and you do have to maintain them. We had to redo the entire basement and lift one side of the hosue before we could sell it years later.  

Luckily, we made more money than we ever thought possible, so we must have done something right. Our new house (bought in 2018) was built in 1957 and also had its share of problems. We don’t care because every house has problems, and this one has a public lake across the street. In other words, I know how lucky we are to be here. So.

Am I thinking about Scotland? (Shhh)

Why am I thinking about Scotland?

I don't know, exactly. Is it a good time to flee?

Read more at:

https://medium.com/the-narrative-arc/seeking-reasonably-priced-scottish-castle-efd2e375f9e1