le flaneur

My students want to read more, and it is a huge win for two reasons

Hello, everyone. This will be a short post, but I have been thinking about this thing that happened since it happened, and so I want to share it with you.

Some of you may know that I teach creative writing for non-traditional students at an area university. This has been one of the best things I have ever done. You see, this course is required, part of the students’ “Self-Expression” requirement, and so the students come in reluctantly, just to fulfill a requirement. I usually get some variation of “I just need this class to graduate.”

But our class, only ten short weeks, is buckets of fun. My students learn something, and they are exposed to new things, and so I am not only happy to do this, but it feeds me, on some primal reptilian level.

Last week, I read my students some essays from Brian Doyle, one of my favorite essayists. And then I had them do an assignment in which they mimicked a writer of my choosing for each of them. I only have three students this time around, so it was super easy, even this early in the term, to decide who was going to get the most out of what.

One of my students was really taken with the Doyle I read, so I assigned another essay of his for her to mimic.

Here’s what she said this week, in the middle of class, in outburst fashion.

“I never knew people like this existed. After I read ‘Joyas Voladoras,’ I read everything I could find of his work. And I read about how he died and about his books. And I feel so stupid, that I didn’t know this kind of writing existed.”

Well, look. I about died, and not in a good way, either. My damn heart cracked, and I wanted to cry, because people, you shouldn’t ever feel stupid about something you didn’t know existed. I can’t remember exactly what I said back to her, but it was this torrent of something that was equal parts hopeful and sad: joyful, right, because she’s got this huge canon of stuff that she can’t even categorize yet right in front of her, and sad, because hello, I don’t want my students feeling terrible about something they’ve never encountered before.

Maybe the upshot here is two: I am so happy that my students are discovering new things. But also, imagine what else we don’t know, haven’t read, even those of us whose professional and personal lives only exist because of words.

Imagine all the people we haven’t met yet, whose stories we get to hear.

Read on.

 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

I’m reading Moby-Dick, so you don’t have to

…Actually, I think everyone should read Moby-Dick. That doesn’t mean I admire the thing, it just means I’m finding it intriguing. This is my second attempt at reading it; I last tried in 2015 and made it all the way to chapter 18 before I realized the whale wasn’t going to show up anytime soon. This time, I’m halfway through it. Moby-Dick himself still hasn’t shown up yet, but enough interesting stuff has happened that I thought I would share it with you. I don’t know that I’ll make it all the way through this time. It’s a testament to the book, I guess, that I remembered enough of it to continue on nearly four years later. Or maybe it’s a testament to the fact that nothing of real interest plot-wise has happened yet. As my Twitter friend @angryreporter put it:

 

At any rate, here we are, 62% of the way through Moby-Dick. And here’s the link to my spreadsheet of my reading of Moby-Dick. Or, rather, so far of the things that made my ears go up. Let me know if it doesn’t work. Let me know what you think. Commenting is on. I’d especially be interested in hearing from those of you who have already read it.

 

 

 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

That smirking boy is me, or, the old world has a thing to say

In my home country of Taiwan (and probably in many other cultures), your elders are not to be questioned. Whatever they say goes. There is no discourse, no discussion, and you are most definitely in for a world of hurt, both physical and psychological, should you dare question that line of thinking. You just live this way, with these values.

The only L.A. Times story my parents ever clipped out and kept for me to read was about a Vietnamese-American girl who served her father first at dinner and then stood behind him as he ate, before eating her own meal. My parents said they wished I could be this obedient, this good.

Now, I know a lot of Asian kids who might yes-ma’am-yes-sir with the best of them. I also know these same kids did things like hiding their live-in relationships from their parents. (Whenever the phone rang–this is in the days before Caller ID–the kid with the parents who might care answered the phone, and not the relationship. If the parents came to visit, the relationship moved out.) These kids lived double lives. They might have done like me, and changed clothes in the school bathroom twice–once before going to school, once before coming home. They might have dated behind their parents’ backs. They might have pursued a Creative Writing degree while blithely telling their parents engineering classes were going great, thanks.

But they never, ever, would have raised their voices to their parents, to hear my parents speak of it. Rolling their eyes would be, like–Wow, you’d better duck for the slap that was surefire coming your way. They would never have questioned anything. They would just go along with, and know that it was for the better.

This is a lesson I never learned. Whether by innate personality, rearing, or perfect storm of circumstance (or perfect storm of all three), I cannot abide it when someone tells me something my gut knows is wrong. Or says something I’m hurt by. Or remarks on anything in a way that is rude and unseeming. Even if it comes from someone older. I got into a lot of trouble with my parents, growing up.

Here in America, there seems to be a kind of respect for elders. But I’ve also seen–and watched, and read–a lot of media portraying kids as talking back to their parents, or even shouting at them. These kids are portrayed as standing up for themselves, thinking for themselves, having healthy debate and discourse with their parents. I’ve seen such a thing happen in real life, even. And in the American media my parents watched growing up as kids in Taiwan–think James Dean, think Elvis, think Steve McQueen and others–there was always the kid who talked back to adults, who treated them with disrespect, calling them outdated or in general showing elders just what they thought of them, just because they were older, less strong in body.

The adults in American culture were not respected, is the message my parents walked away with. Not so in Taiwan. And therefore, their children would be raised according to Taiwanese traditions.

This did not work for them. It probably didn’t work for a lot of parents who had kids who wanted to be “more American.”

I really, really longed for an American-style relationship with my elders. I craved discourse, conversation, learning from them in a fashion other than being lectured at.

*

When I was in Taiwan last winter, I bought my SIM card from a MyFone store in the village center. I was with one of my elderly aunts. The girl behind the counter was maybe in her twenties. My aunt asked her if she was married. The girl said, “Nope! No time.” My aunt said, “You should make time.” The girl grinned and nodded.

My aunt then said to me, “She’s so cute! Look at her hair!” The girl had a messy mop of curls cut short on the sides, so her whole head fluffed  at the top, kind of, and the whole thing moved exaggeratedly with her every movement. “You look like a little rooster,” said my aunt to the girl, and the girl obligingly bobbed and nodded her head, and the whole thing moved, and my aunt laughed, joyfully, and the girl smiled with her eyes and a little quirk of her lips. She bobbed again, just to make my aunt laugh again.

A few minutes later, an old woman who had once worked in our household when I was a baby walked into the store. My aunt introduced us, or re-introduced us, I guess. I didn’t remember her, but she knew me when I was still pooping my pants. “Your aunt says you’re married,” she said, by way of introduction.

“I am,” I said.

“Children?”

“Nope,” I said, girding myself.

“Have some, why don’t you?”

“Too late!” I said, maybe a little stridently.

“You’re still young. You can do it!”

“My ovaries are shriveled!”

“It’s better if you have some. Try.”

“I’m too lazy!”

At this point something popped in my head. What the hell was I doing? Why was I struggling? Why not just tell her okay, and move on?

  1. I probably was never going to see her again.
  2. No one really has any stakes in this conversation.
  3. No one’s mind was going to be changed about anything during our interaction.

It struck me then that I’d be a lot better off in a lot of my interactions with my parents if I could just stop taking everything like it was criticism. And, maybe, if I cared just a little bit less. If I were better at “live and let live.”

In the case of the interaction with this particular elder, in my parents’ parlance, if I had just respected this woman more, maybe it’d be easier. Instead of arguing with her, the answer was to just nod and say, “Yes, uh huh, okay.”

But it’s not about respect, you might say. And yet, in my home culture, it is. No matter what you think, or feel, treating someone with respect looks like you’re giving them their due, letting them have their say, giving them the room they’ve earned.

Later, my aunt told me that this woman’s own daughter had run away. That they don’t speak to each other.

*

Earlier this week, the Indigenous Peoples’ March happened in Washington, DC. Nearby, the March for Life was also going on. You all know what happened. Some people from a Kentucky Catholic school stared down, shouted over, and in general were disrespectful to some Native American elders who were singing a traditional song. (There is another interpretation to this, and if you watch an entire two-hour video, or even just read this post, you can make your own decision. But I don’t think that changes, much, what I’m saying here.)

The teenagers apparently mocked the elders. In one portion of the tape, one can be heard saying, “Yo, this is deep,” and others are shouting to drown out the elders’ song, making tomahawk motions and some other stupid shit.

We should all agree that this is disrespectful behavior. And disrespectful behavior towards our elders is on my mind a lot lately, as I spend more time with my parents and look ever inwards to my culture and my own behavior. Where does the urge to roll my eyes come from? Where does the need to second-guess my elders and their frame of reference come from? Where does the need to meet them head-on, like an angry bull, come from?

Sometimes, second-guessing is healthy curiosity. But most times, I think, it comes from a need to defend myself, a need to prove that I Have Degrees and that I’ve Learned Things and Been Places. This fragility leads me to act as someone not myself; it leads me to be mean where I don’t need to be mean.

Perhaps most importantly for my own sanity, it leads me to be angry when I don’t need to be.

More germane to this conversation: I have been this young man, at least to my own parents. I have mimicked them behind their backs. I have stared them down. I have openly, flagrantly, confronted them.

I have been intolerant of their views.

I’m not equating myself with these young men. I’m certainly not calling for you to understand them, or give them a pass. And I’m definitely not equating what happened this weekend to what happens in my own head and heart on a day-to-day basis. The parent-child relationship is deserving of more than this simple comparison.

But what I am saying is this: When we speak of disrespect, we must know that, at any given minute, we are a hair away from being just like these young men. You might think it’s different because we’re not disrespecting people from another culture, say, or disrespecting someone from another age group, or of another body type or of a differing level of ability, but it’s disrespect, all the same.

I still struggle with this, when it comes to my own family. I still think everyone has a right to their opinion, and that there is a moral, humanitarian right and a corresponding wrong. At some point in my life, I told my dad that it was because I respected him that I wanted to have what I termed “the good fight.” But he didn’t see it that way, and he still doesn’t.

Families are one thing; society is another, but we still must, at a minimum, tolerate each other. We must practice this tolerance. We must understand that respect for each other also doesn’t always come naturally, especially when it is countered by intolerance. So we must practice this as well.

Practice with the people you naturally respect. Listen to all they have to say. Then carry that through, to people you don’t always agree with, or even respect.

Practice tolerance. Practice respect. Head off the simmering desire to disregard someone else’s point of view; to shake your heads mournfully at their ignorance.

I work on this every single day. Now, more than ever, I work on it. Maybe it’s the right thing to do; maybe something bigger and stronger is needed. But the sorrow I experience from seeing the smug, awful look on that young man’s face only makes me wish that he had had parents and a culture like mine, one where elders were never, ever to be disrespected.

*

Ultimately, I want to live a life where I’m not as angry; where I’m not as frustrated, by things I don’t have to be angry and frustrated by. This means a lot of heading things off at the pass. When I first lived in New York in the mid-90s, it took me ages to realize that getting angry at the subways being late was only not useful; it was downright silly. I couldn’t do anything about it in that moment. If I was going to get angry, it should have been years ago and on a larger scale; campaigning for more straphangers’ rights, say.

Letting go of that anger did wonders for my state of mind.

Not swearing as much unless I really meant it (another long project) was a part of that, too.

This is way bigger, obviously. It has huge implications, this letting the elders have their say. Yes, they’re wrong a lot of the time, but so am I. And anyway, I think the point is to not react to so much with anger, so much defensiveness.

*

I have a friend whose default questioning expression is, “Hmmmmm.” This expression accomplishes so much. It tells you she’s mulling things over; it buys her some time; it doesn’t express one opinion or another.

(For contrast, my default questioning expression is one raised eyebrow, or a squint, and a relatively explosive, “Hunh!”)

Moreover, I think my friend’s expression is very, very respectful. By the same token that it tells you she’s mulling things over, it tells you that she’s giving what you’ve said or done some thought, letting it knock around in her head.

I’m not sure that she means all of that in that one long, drawn-out syllable. But at the very least, “Hmmm” takes a lot less energy than “Hunh!” and my raised eyebrow, and expending less energy can go a really, really long way towards a happier, less angst-filled life.

I tried it on my parents at dinner the other day. It made for a much more pleasant evening, took the charge out of everything.

I think what happened is that my parents felt heard, rather than challenged.

Who knows? Next month I may discover a more worthwhile coping mechanism. But for now, this, this thing I had formerly lumped in with other unfortunate side effects of colonial lag–this I think is something I can put to good use.

What’s your preferred method for defusing charged situations? Tell me below. 

 

 

 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

The lenses through which we see may not be our own

When I was 18 or so, I went to Oregon to be a camp counselor. All the counselors had camp names–Seaweed, Alpine, Whinny, Weed, Shaggy, Scribbles, Moondog, Kramer. One of the ones I admired the most was about my age, but she was way, way cooler than I was. Or am. I only remember her real name, if that’s any indication. Anyway, she had a boyfriend who came to visit. I met him once, and he was coming to visit us at camp at some point in the summer. Just before he came, Turtle, whose real name I also remember, asked me what he was like. Or maybe she didn’t ask me.

See, in the family I grew up in, my parents just gave opinions, willy-nilly. They didn’t ask if anyone wanted to hear them; they just gave them, because no one but your family would ever tell you the truth, or some other adage designed to excuse the hurt such opinions could cause.

Anyhow. I started talking, talking, talking, telling Turtle about the guy, and then Turtle said something like, “How about you let me meet him first?”

It was the first time it ever really occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t be influencing other peoples’ opinions with my own jabbering. It was the first time, actually, that it ever occurred to me that maybe I didn’t need to have an opinion, really. And maybe it was the first time that it occurred to me that other people most definitely didn’t need to hear my opinions on everything.

(That last part is constantly a work in progress; the pressure to seem relevant is always there.)

Anyway, it’s been slowly occurring to me that anything we do or say; any time we appear, is meant to imply, to impress something upon the viewer, or the reader, or the persons you interact with. I’ve had this thought a number of times over the last two decades or so: People walking their dogs in their pajamas, for instance, imparts for me not an admirable sense of independence, but, rather, a sense of sloppy insouciance, a lack of pride in one’s appearance.

Likewise, when I walked down the street with my dog off-leash, it was meant to imply confidence over a blatant disregard for the rules, but I couldn’t have that much control over people’s reactions. Or could I?

When I wrote for the J. Peterman and Patagonia catalogs, those pieces were meant to convey very specific emotions built around getting people to buy things. Earlier this week, I gave some brief remarks on behalf of a nonprofit I volunteer for; I did it in a logo’ed top and an exaggerated houndstooth-print skirt and walking boots, an outfit I chose to convey the efficiency and yet, continued relevance and constantly evolving nature of the charity.

Sometimes these things go awry. Years ago I delivered an earnings report in a nice suit, but I did it leaning against the wall, in a posture meant to convey confidence and a modicum of intended arrogance (it was a complicated relationship) but I know for a fact–could sense it, even while I was doing it, that would backfire. And I once walked into a meeting of marketing people with my huge French cuffs deliberately undone, but they flapped while I was talking, causing a terrible distraction.

All of these things seem sartorially bent–it’s the easiest thing for me to think of–but really what I’m referring to is narrative. What I’m referring to is context.

Take, for instance, the podcast Serial, which I’m finally listening to. (If you haven’t heard it yet, pick it up here.) In the first season, the reporter tries to make sense of a murder case she feels has gone awry. I haven’t heard the end of it, so I don’t know what we’re going to find out. But there are so many moving pieces to this story–the characters, the settings, the very social backdrop of the time the murder took place–that I couldn’t help but wonder why this reporter chose to tell this story in the way she did. Why, for instance, is it crafted in segments like this?

Why does she feature the defendant’s voice in some episodes over others?

Why does she include her own musings as she’s reporting?

Why does she follow the very specific timeline she follows?

For me, all of these questions are leading to even more questions, and although I’m only just nearing the end of season 1, I’m worried that I’ll walk away from the podcast feeling like I’ve been played–that I won’t actually feel happy about the outcome of this particular series, because it will have just opened in me–has opened in me–the desire to see it for my damn self, to root through the stuff, before I can believe what the reporter has told me.

Some things are like this. Maybe the whole intent of Serial is to make you ask questions, make you realize what else might be out there that you’ve either misinterpreted, or just taken for granted because something you deem a higher authority told you so.

Or if, like Turtle, you’d been primed to see something one or or another because of something someone said.

It strikes me that this is a key part of art, the capability to shape someone’s view of things, to prime them with a narrative of your own making, before they even get to witness the thing themselves. Last weekend we took my dad to see a photo exhibition featuring pictures his friend Dr. Dean Hsu had taken on his travels around the world. Every part of that show–from the photo itself to the placement of the photos and the editorial choices made by the curators–was meant to imply and help you to form an opinion of the places Dr. Hsu had been, even if you’ve never been there yourself.

We walked around the town of Visalia a little bit between lunch and the exhibition. I took some photos of the buildings there, because I love the buildings of that era, and I like to do watercolors of them. They’re my safe spot. And before lunch, we took a tour of the cancer care practice Dr. Hsu used to work at. It was such a warm, lovely place.

I never thought about it this way before, but the intent of the drawings I do is meant to convey to you, the viewer, my own impressions of the place I’ve visited. So when you look at these pictures, the first of a window in Dr. Hsu’s office; the second of a building I particularly liked, I hope you get the sensation that these are places that made me feel warm and happy. Whether or not they imply the things I want you to feel is a mark of the work’s success–or failure.

I’ve spent a lot of time writing and teaching about intent and its importance in writing stories and essays, but this is the first time I’ve thought about my visual art this way. Which is funny, because surely there must be some kind of internal desire around each painting I do.

It’s good to approach everything, I think, with intent, whatever that may be. The conveyance of who we are and what we’re about comprises these small details. More importantly, we have the power to change the way that others see things, and I think that’s not something to be wielded lightly.

For my part, I like to keep reminding myself that these things have more weight that we might have otherwise considered–or intended.

What have you seen, read, or heard that’s irrevocably changed your opinion or the way you think and view things? Tell me in the comments below.

 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

Yogis I have loved

When Mr. Gooddirt and I went to our first-ever yoga class in Chicago in the mid-2000s, we only knew a little bit of what to expect. We hoped it would change us from being tight-hamstringed runners and cyclists into better athletes. I’m not sure mindfulness, or whatever, was really of interest. But since then, we’ve found ourselves repeating over and over again a phrase that first yoga instructor we had used. For me, the phrase has become a little bit of a situation barometer. (I’ll explain below.)

Since then I’ve been to several more yoga classes and encountered several different instructors, obviously. Some were great. Some were downright terrible, including one right here where I live who felt it her right and place to engage in publicly shaming people in class. (Yes, I complained. No, they didn’t care, which just underscored the impression I sometimes have of yoga here in America being the domain of the privileged—see here for more reading.)

But I want to tell you about the ones who stuck with me in positive fashion:

Chicago Parks System, 2006ish? 2007? Can’t remember exactly

It was almost always cold and dark when we walked the two short blocks to our yoga class at an offshoot of the Chicago Parks System. It was winter, and I think we were looking to try something new. Our instructor was about as far away from the modern interpretation of a yoga instructor could be: short, in her late 60s, maybe, tight curly hair and dressed in a tracksuit. The room was huge, lots of space for everyone, and darker than I expected.

Her pacing, tonally, was about what you’d expect, though, slow and measured, and out of her mouth, with every stretch and bend, came this phrase:

“See…what…it…will…do.”

With this gentle phrase, she encouraged everyone to take their muscles and limbs a little further, and also, to bend a little the bounds of what you think your body can do.

I don’t think we went to very many classes, maybe a handful? But that phrase is linked now to every situation where there might be a squishy variable:

“Our timing looks tight tonight. Do you think we can get Huckleberry to the dog park for a little bit?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just play it by ear.”
“Yes. See…what…it…will…do.”

“I don’t know if I can make it up this hill.”
“Well, just…See…what…it…will…do.”

This instructor’s voice happens internally, too, whether I’m sending out submissions or puréeing veg for a little soup. “Ooh. I’ve never tried this before. Let’s See…what…it…will…do.”

It’s a remarkably handy phrase.

Claremont Club, 2017ish sometime

If I could take this next yoga instructor around with me in my handbag, I totally would. Her name is Emily. We don’t belong to the club anymore, but she is easily one of the most supportive people I know on a cursory level.

In contrast to the yoga instructor I told you about earlier, she’s exactly what you’d think of when you think of a yoga instructor. Tall, but muscular. I wouldn’t call her willowy. Perfect manicure/pedicure every time I’ve seen her. Long dishwater blonde hair. Great yoga clothes. Emily runs her classes without using a mat herself. She’s confident and also intimate. If you need to approach her about a problem you’re having (I first started coming to her when I had a back problem) she sits down across from you and talks to you about it, taking all the time you need before or after class.

She is demonstrative. She spends a huge chunk of her time walking around the class, showing people poses from different positions, correcting you when she can, using her body as ballast or support for you if you’re trying something new. She’s hands-on, and hands-down, my very most favorite ever yoga instructor. I did my very first headstand in her class, and I did it because of rambling commentary like this:

“What’s going to happen if you fall over? Nothing. You’re not going to fall very far. Just try it. And see if you can touch the floor. Ready? Boop! Touch the floor.”

(I wish I could remember what pose we were doing when she said this. It was some kind of warrior into half-moon into crescent pretzel horrible thingy.)

Emily is a master at sound effects. It turns out she’s a kindergarten teacher, which explains so much. I was encouraged to do stuff in her class I never even thought I could do. I got stronger.

I spend a good portion of my energy trying to be like Emily to others.

Hangar 18 Climbing Gym, last week sometime

Genuinely unlike any yoga class I’ve ever been in. This one takes place in the upstairs loft portion of our climbing gym, which we only recently joined after giving up our stupidly expensive membership to the Claremont Club. ($179 a month for two of us, and the benefits weren’t what we wanted, although the facilities were gorgeous.)

The space is freezing, because the windows are open to accommodate sweaty people climbing and bouldering downstairs. It’s in the 40s outside. People are falling off walls onto mats and calling out that they’re on belay or climbing. It’s a climbing gym, so high walls and echo chambers are everywhere.

Our instructor is a young man in glasses that are my favorite shade of blue. He’s in climbing pants, which are basically pants you might see on the hiking trail. There’s very little yoga garb in here, because a lot of people have probably come straight from climbing to yoga.

Because of the noise, Tylor has to shout. Like each yoga instructor I’ve mentioned above, he’s encouraging, but he doesn’t come by and correct you or anything, although he does position himself so folks can see what he’s doing from different angles. And he does verbally target things you’re probably doing wrong. “Pull your shoulders away from your ears.” Oh, hey! That’s me.

This is a different type of class. I get the sense we’re not working on our practice or whatever, we’re getting stronger with an end purpose in mind. Of course, this could just be me.

At the end of the class, when we’re in corpse pose for way too long for such a chilly, chilly space, Taylor talks his way up our bodies, from toes to crown of head, telling us that we should be mindfully encouraging our individual body parts

“…to relax.”

He repeats this over and over again, shouting over the noise in the gym. When you get told

“to relax”

over and over again, some part of it probably begins to sink in. Now, recalling it, I remember, certainly, how cold I was. But I also remember Tyler voice, yelling “to relax,” and although the grammar bitch part of me wants to tell him to change up his phrasing so that we just hear “relax” instead of the infinitive, well, there’s something weirdly, uh, relaxing about hearing that phrase over and over again.

It’s weird, the things that stick with you over time. I’m glad for things like this, popping up in unexpected places, that give me tools to play with at times when I might need help.

What phrases have stuck with you over the years? Tell me in the comments below. 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

New Year’s Eve in Morro Bay

I met some people over the two days and a night we were in Morro Bay.

Well. That’s not entirely true. I met one person. Watched another from afar. And found an item that helped me to write the first entry to my new column at The Writer magazine. (Launches in print in April, and it’s about the things I learn from my various writing and editing and teaching jobs.)

I don’t know either of the person’s names that I’m going to write about, but they made an impression on me. I wish I’d gotten photos of the one I talked to; he was a real gem. The odds that I’ll run into him again are low, but he was pretty special.

He was walking along the beach, in a helmet, drysuit, and booties, carrying a surfboard. He was walking north along the beach, checking the waves, and so I asked him: “What kind of water are you looking for?”

“Oh,” he said. “You want a wave that kind of peels, but with an open end to it. There, there! Like that one, but…oh, it’s closing up now. You want to be able to ride it for a long time, see.”

We talked for awhile longer. He said he’s been surfing for sixty years, and that he’s never had a shark encounter. He also said he’s been a white-water kayaker, a race-car driver, a sky-diver–and that surfing is the sport that he loves the most. But he also said that, in every other sport he’s ever tried, there’s been a kind of community, a kind of sharing. Surfing, he says, doesn’t have that. “There’s a kind of selfishness,” he said, but differed with Jim’s assessment that it was about preserving the best breaks for yourself.

I wish I’d had a chance to talk more, but he wanted to get on the water. I don’t blame him. I just thought he was really cool, and I wanted to share him with you.

All I have from the second person I want to tell you about is this photo:

No big deal, right? We’re on a beach, so why wouldn’t someone be barefoot? Well, it was January 1. I was bundled up in a sweater and a jacket and jeans and a hat; Jim was wearing a jacket, even. We were both wearing gloves. This guy, RayBans on, bluetooth headphones flapping around his neck, was in shorts and T-shirt, striding through the water, up the beach and then back down it. He had his shoes in his hand.

It was easy to imagine some self-affirmation stuff going on in through his headphones, especially because of the way he was walking: toes pointed slightly outwards (you can’t really see this in the photo above, but I’m telling you), chest out. He was in a navy-blue V-neck top and white shorts. He was short, a little bit pudgy. He had a full  head of black, wavy hair, and he was Feelin’ It, whatever it was he was hearing through his headphones. He was On a Mission.

I would have been freezing. But he was out there, struttin’ like a seagull. It was pretty cool to see.

Here’s the last thing I wanted to tell you about:


Sometimes you find rocks on a beach that have a lot of holes drilled in them. They’re usually thicker rocks, great big lumps. The holes are made my sponges or sea snails or piddocks that live in them. But this one was probably a mistake, like someone started drilling and went, “Oops! THAT’s not going to be an appropriate home!”

Anyway. I spotted this one and really debated about whether or not I should take it home. I like to leave cool things for other people to find, especially since it’s so easy now to take photos of them. But then I put it to my eye, and I knew I had to have it.

Why? Because looking through that tiny little hole made everything clearer. This little rock gave me the metaphor I needed to write my first column, so you’ll have to wait until then to see what I learned from it. In the meantime, hope everyone is having a great start to their new year. I am.

 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

Getting Creative with Audience: Live-Blogging _The Business of Being a Writer_

This is Part 11 of a multiple-part live-blog of Jane Friedman’s The Business of Being a Writer. Parts 1-10 can be found here.

Writer and editor Jane Friedman believes writing can be a career, and her latest book, The Business of Being a Writer, lays out just what components go into writing as a business. It should resonate with everyone out there who writes or would like to write for a living. It’s my hope that teachers of writing, especially at the MFA level, will also take up this refrain. 

I’m working through Friedman’s book right now, and I am finding places where my own experience either bolsters or informs Friedman’s neat summation and gentle advice. For the duration of my time through this first read of The Business of Being a Writer, I will be posting these experiences for you. I invite you to share widely, and add your own experiences to the comments. Each post will begin with a quote from Friedman’s book, and end with some actionable tips that you can put to work in your own writing career.

In a section on Building a Blog Readership, Friedman posits a few methods. One is “Create Guides on Popular Topics,” and in it, she writes,

“If you’re a nonfiction writer, then this probably come s naturally. Put together a 101 guide, FAQ, or tutorial related to your topic or expertise…If you’re a novelist, this strategy may take some creative thinking. Consider a few examples…”

Friedman then goes on to list a few tactics, including a travel guide if your book is strongly regional, a list of favorite reads by genre/category, or an FAQ around a strong “avocational pursuit” that influences your novels.

Please indulge me while I do a little beating up of myself. For bucket’s sake, my novel is based in Taiwan. And Las Vegas. And New York. My character is obsessed with self-help books. And diaries. 

Listen. You are never going to be able to hit all the marks when it comes to marketing your own books, or building your own platform. Someone somewhere is going to look back on your marketing efforts and see big, black, gaping holes, and if you’re very unlucky, that someone will be yourself, say, two years after your book has been published.

Woe. Oh, woe.

Listen. This is why they created the Internet, so that we can correct our own mistakes. And now, I would like to tell you a little bit about Marty Wu’s Taiwan, or, rather, the Taiwan that *I* know, which made me feel like my heroine needed to go there.

Taiwan 101, for those who might someday want to visit

Nomenclature

My mother calls it “Our Little Sweet Potato Island.” This image has stayed with me for so long that, whenever I look on a map for Taiwan now, I half-expect to see a tiny orange blob in the middle of the ocean, Not only that, I expect to see little tendrils of roots, sprouting into the water on any map.

My late dog used to lie on his belly on the floor, one leg tucked in and the other–*sproing!*–canted out at an angle. From above he looked like Taiwan, and thus like a sweet potato.

Black-and-white dog lying on belly with one foot out

Do not call Taiwan the sweet potato island when you visit. No one will know what you are talking about.

You might see it on older maps as “Formosa.” This is the name the Portuguese gave it in 1542. It was named this for a very long time, well into the 20th century. Although it carries with it a lot of baggage, my parents, at least, never seemed to mind it being called that, since it translates to “Beautiful Island.”

Language

“I speak only Taiwanese, not Mandarin,” is a common refrain for me when I go back home.

The people who have come over from the mainland to make their homes on Taiwan are usually perplexed. “But…are you uneducated?” one said to me. Silly cow,** I said back, this is Taiwan.

In the south, more people speak Taiwanese than in the north. In Taipei, the capital, you will find people who speak English. And most signs are spelled out in both phonetics and Mandarin, although Taiwan seems to have not decided on a system of romanization of the Mandarin.

Ah, the Mandarin. Yes. This is the official language of Taiwan. This is a hangover from the many years we were occupied, and then, the post-war years, when we were under martial law. Also, Taiwanese can be written, but it doesn’t have a strong written tradition.

Which I kind of love. Hearing a story told in my native Taiwanese is probably close to one of my top ten experiences.

Weather

Hot. Sticky. Rainy in the afternoons, providing brief respite from the humidity. Winter is the best time to visit Taiwan, hands down. We took a November visit one year, and although it rained a fair amount, it was still utterly beautiful. I’ll always aim for a winter or late fall visit. I’ve also been in December, and I loved it then, too, although the humidity made it feel like it was summer.

Bring layers. Light sweaters are a good thing.

Geography

In the mountains, there is coffee and bamboo.

There are hot springs in vinegar distilleries, at which you can taste the produce.

In the fine, fertile fields of the west, you’ll find such fresh vegetables that you’ll never want to season with anything but a little bit of salt, ginger, and garlic ever again.

Further southwest, mudflats are everywhere, and so are oyster beds. Have some oyster and dried-radish omlette; you’ll never be the same.

In the woods, out on the flats, in the cities–wherever  you go, eat the fruit.

Cuisine

Oops. See “Geography,” above.

Places I have Been and Loved

Anping Fort, or Fort Zeelandia: I love it because it is the last memory I have of my second uncle before he passed away. You will not have these memories, but you will find it very weird that there is a Dutch fort in the middle of Taiwan. Also, around the fort there are people making candy and you should buy some and eat some.

Kaohsiung: I love this city. Another uncle teaches at the medical college there, and my cousin teaches Mandarin for foreigners at yet another university. My aunt, an artist and loosely the inspiration for Marty’s aunt in the novel, had an exhibition at the art museum here. You will not have such memories. But you can walk along the Love River, and go to the wonderful department store, and have good coffee and a kick-ass Taiwan breakfast, all within just a few miles of each other.

Taroko Gorge: The waters through this gorge used to run so clear and so blue, but then there was an earthquake in 1999, one that really rattled the entire island. Since then, the locals say, the waters are still blue, so deep is the gorge, but they are very, very cloudy. It doesn’t matter. This is an extraordinary place and you will walk away knowing there’s nothing else quite like it in your recent history and probably in your near future.

TouLiu: This is home for me. It means nothing to you, except we grow great fruit and coffee. If we go together, though, I will make you visit. There is a street here called “Taiping Old Street” which is…I don’t know. It’s the place I eventually set some key scenes. But it’s also a place of great pain: the Japanese occupied Taiwan for a very long time, and this stretch of shopfronts has been preserved to recall this era of architecture and history. How strange, to remind oneself every day of this period, while you are going about your daily marketing.

japanese colonial architecture on Taiping Old Street in Taiwan

Anything else you need to know

Call me. I will talk your ear off. I will show you my photos. The place will steal your heart, and then some, and you will be happy you went.

Mostly, though, you are likely to be interested because you know me. Maybe you have read my novel, and you are a little bit interested in the things that drive Marty.

What drives us to visit a place, after all, but the stories we’ve heard about it, and the stories we hope to find for ourselves?

I do have tips for you:

  • When you get an idea for anything tangentially related to your book, write. it. down. You do not want to be kicking yourself for later.
  • Don’t forget to review this sheet of paper on which you will write things down. Do not pull a me.
  • Think of your book as a reader might. What things will this reader discover in your pages that would make them curious, or want to Google something or another?

What exciting things can you think of to do with the book you’re working on, or the books you’ve published? Tell me in the comments below.

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

An Obituary for My Aunt (Of Obituaries and Passing Regrets, Part II)

Shu Chuang Wang, my mother’s elder sister, passed away April 8, 2017. She is the first adult to have been there for so much of my own life to die. She is the person we relied on when we moved to the United States. We lived in Kansas, near her family, for our first few months here, and those first few months seemed unreasonably happy, an approximation of our life in Taiwan, where our relatives lived just one door over.

 

We were one town over, and I do not have concrete memories of those months. But I know my cousins Ken and Charles, and Ah Yi and Ah Diun, my uncle, were nearby. Later, we’d meet Edward, the youngest, and with Bor, my younger brother, our playing was nearly always a noisy mess, one or two or maybe all of us getting into trouble.

I know we visited Kansas after our move to Pennsylvania, after our move to California. I know Ah Yi brought her family to come visit us, no matter where we were. I know we took crazy American-family road trips together, all nine of us crammed into one station wagon. We kids were small enough to sit in the footwells. I remember being crammed up again Ah Yi’s leg, as she rocked it back and forth to exercise, keeping herself from getting bored on the long, long drives.

I do not remember Ah Yi in trousers, ever. Ah Yi was a perpetual lady. Long after high collars went out of style, and floral prints, she wore them, and made them look like they belonged. She was the great beauty of the family, see, and she decorated her home accordingly. Bouquets of flowers; portraits of her family everywhere.

She loved them like I’ve never seen anyone love before. Her three boys, my cousins, were–I don’t know–people to admire, people who could do whatever. Love does that to someone. Love elevates you to believe you can do, and my cousins can do. Anything. Whatever they want. Nothing is too far out of reach, or beyond you, if you’re loved.

My aunt is big on personal style. Over the years, she’d say to me, “I don’t have a little girl, so I will buy pretty things for you.” And, from Kansas, boxes sometimes arrived, always in time for Christmas, with pretty things in them, or, better yet, accompanied by Edward and Ah Yi, and sometimes Charles and Ken.

Usually, for me, they were sweaters. I have kept nearly every Ah Yi sweater that still fits. My oldest is a good decade old. I got it while I was living in Chicago, and it looks to me like a roll of Life Savers. it is cheery and fun and I love it. I love it even more because my Dad refers to it as my Lobster Sweater. He thinks its striations look like the belly bands on a lobster.

This made my aunt laugh.

The sweaters are always on-point. I picture her, holding one up to the light in a department store, turning it this way and that…”Can I see her in this? Maybe not. Maybe this one. It’s cute. It’s a little trendy. I think she would like this.” I like this imagery, so I keep the sweaters my aunt got me, and I imagine that image, that thought process, every time I wear one, every time I wrap myself in one, every time I pull some lint off one.

Of the women in my mother’s family, my aunt is the most touchable, the least prickly. I don’t know if this comes from a lifetime of living with boys or what, but she never balked at holding your hand, or patting you, or saying hello with a squeeze. I love this about her.

I went to visit her yesterday for Mother’s Day, with Jim. We sat and talked to her and put some flowers in the little vase-thing and clipped a balloon to them, and then we sat on the grass and looked over the view, and when we left, we waved and said, “Bye, Ah Yi.”

She was like that, you see. You could always go talk to her, and leave, and then come back, whenever you liked. This was the feeling she gave you.

 

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

A short story

Hello,

I woke up this morning with a memory floating around my head. If you know me in real life, it’s probably a story I’ve told you before, but I’ve never actually committed it to paper, and I want to tell it to you now.

A long, long time ago, a close friend asked her friends to meet her in New York to celebrate her impending nuptials. Now, it wasn’t quite a bachelorette party, with sashes and penis straws and belly shots, but it was an opportunity for us to get together and celebrate our friend and the fact that she was getting married, something she had wanted for a very, very long time.

The problem was, I didn’t want her to get married to this particular guy. There are lots of gory reasons why; let’s just say they were good reasons and leave it at that. Anyway, we were getting together to celebrate my friend, is the way we all looked at it. It was a nice evening night out. My friend had moved away from New York by then, and so had I, but it was nice to re-live our days together as single women tearing around town and being irresponsibly drunk. Plus, I got to meet some of my friend’s other lifelong friends, people who predated me, and I’d known my friend for close to a decade.

At the end of the night, we found a taxi cab driver who was willing to let six of us into his cab (it was his last fare of the night), and since I was staying the furthest north, I was also the last to be dropped off.

The cab driver engaged me in some conversation en route:

“She’s getting married, is she?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem very happy about it.”

“I’m not.”

I can’t possibly detail the conversation that took place after this little exchange, because this is not a novel: I sat in his cab for 45 minutes, talking to him through the little transom window, about my friend and our friendship and what it meant that I didn’t feel I could go to her wedding and stand up for her union with this person.

You guys. 45 minutes. I remember the glow of 2nd Avenue; the light bouncing off the asphalt, gold in places and turning red…green…yellow in other places. Red…green…yellow, over and over again, and we talked about what friendship means and whether or not I should go to this wedding. I remember he had a piece of paper in his hands, and he folded it over and over again, and then unfolded it and started all over, as he listened and gave me feedback and talked to me about what I should do and what it would mean if I did or didn’t go.

In the end, his advice was this: You need to go to this wedding, because if you don’t, and the marriage falls apart, she’ll never know if she can trust you to support her.

In the end, I didn’t go to the wedding. My friend was hurt, and angry for a very long time. I don’t blame her, although part of me knows it was better for me not to go, and the other part of me is so deeply regretful that I didn’t go. In some ways I haven’t progressed past that night in the cab.

But of all the amazing things there were to remember that night–being near my good friend, meeting the other people who were important in her life; backtracking through time, it seemed, to a place I thought I’d left behind–I return to that conversation with the cab driver most often. His kindness; the fact that he was willing to give me some time out of the end of his night (and no, there weren’t any expectations or anything gross like that you guys); his very good advice–

I’m so glad someone out there like that exists in this world.

Now I’ve told you this story, and I hope you get as much out of it as I did experiencing it. It cemented something I was beginning to really actively practice back then: everyone has something to offer you.

photo: inquisitr.com

photo: inquisitr.com

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.

HELLO THERE I KNOW I HAVE BEEN GONE A LONGGGG TIME

Hello!

I have missed you guys. Well. I have not really been gone. I have been dutifully sending out a monthly newsletter. You can see a sample and sign up to get it here.

But I actually do have something NEW to tell you. Some of you may know that I volunteer for ShelterBox USA, a disaster-relief agency. Last October, I went on my 10th deployment for them, and I made something to commemorate it. It is this tiny little book:

IMG_6198

It is a book of 10 short stories, one for each of my deployments, and they are accompanied by hand-drawn maps, like so:

IMG_6199

They are meant to be a fundraiser for ShelterBox USA. More importantly, they are meant to be a front-row seat to what it’s like to be in a disaster zone. It tells stories of the people we meet there, of what it’s like to be a witness, of the ways this experience has changed me.

So many of you have played a part in supporting our work at ShelterBox. This book, I hope, will help you to tell our story to others. In some ways, it’s meant to be a way for you to share your commitment to being a humanitarian.

The books are $15 each. Shipping and handling is $5 extra. ShelterBox USA gets $7.50 for each book sold. So far I’ve printed 100 copies, but there may be more if demand, uh, demands it. Write to me directly: yishun(at)thegooddirt(dot)org to arrange for a book of your own. And then share these stories, which are yours, too, because you have helped to make this, and the work we do, happen.

Thanks very much.

Writer, editor, general crazy-pants.