The Call That Finally Came

My cell phone rang at 9:15 a.m. on Friday, June 29, 2018. When I noticed the area code was 212, my pulse quickened. But only a little. Yes, I enter the New Yorker’s cartoon contest religiously. Yes, the magazine calls finalists at the end of the week to tell them their caption will appear in Monday’s issue. But I had already played and lost over 150 times, so I prepared to hear the spiel of a spammer.

It was Jessica (not her real name, because if she said it, I can’t remember it) from the New Yorker. And yes, my caption was a finalist! Jessica wanted to confirm the spelling of my name, and where I’m from, for accuracy; as an editor, I appreciated that. She said some logistical things I hope weren’t important, because I don’t recall a word. As far as my end of the conversation, I believe I blathered like an idiot.

For almost every cartoon, I solicit feedback from my Facebook friends on five possible captions. (Sometimes I’m stumped and can barely come up with one.) With very few exceptions, I submit the caption that receives the most mentions. Such was the case last week. I am grateful to everyone who commented on the drawing of a man dressed in a suit of armor, standing in front of a three-way mirror.

So, what does this mean?

  1. On Monday, July 2, my caption will appear along with two others in the print version of the New Yorker (July 9th & 16th issue) as well as online.
  2. You (both generally and specifically) can vote for your favorite caption. (Feel free to read between the lines here: “Pick the one by Karen Greenfield from Santa Barbara!”) You’ll need to create an account to vote, but you can always unsubscribe from e-mails later.
  3. It’s my turn to be the object of the statement, “Geesh! My caption was better than that.”

The bottom line is that I’m going to be published in the New Yorker. Even if it’s only eight words.


Judging a Book by Its Interior

It would be grossly premature to add “book designer” to my LinkedIn profile, but I appear to have successfully defined the styles for all the elements in my upcoming collection of blog posts. My husband, a graphic designer who is “acutely aware of typography in use across all media” (his words), suggested two typefaces for me to use—one text and one display—and gave me a crash course in InDesign in an airport lounge. I took it from there!

I was not completely unfamiliar with the components of book design—margins, font sizes, line spacing, indents, page numbers, chapter openers. In my role as an in-house editor for a publishing company almost half a lifetime ago, one of my tasks was to create “design memos” identifying and describing the items in a manuscript that needed to be prettified (by a hired professional) for publication. I don’t mean to brag, but one designer said my design memo was the best she had ever received.

Still, during the process of laying out Determined to Be Visible, I experienced both pros and cons, presented below (with the cons listed first, since I’m a bad-news-first kind of person):

Con: I didn’t really know what I was doing.
Pro: I had the power to make all the mistakes I wanted.

Con: I lacked a working knowledge of InDesign.
Pro: I had the satisfaction of struggling clumsily and then figuring it out.

Con: I wasn’t aware of best practices in book design.
Pro: I had the freedom to try things that didn’t work.

Con: I couldn’t draw on prior experience.
Pro: My next design will be much better.

Con: I had to study already published books to see what looked good.
Pro: This is a totally legit thing to do.

The biggest pro about book designing? It isn’t writing!

Determined to Be Visible

This month’s post is about a sign from the universe—or a remarkable coincidence, depending on your philosophy. Either way, it’s the story of how the title of my upcoming book came to be.

When I try to explain the organizing principle of my collection of blog posts, I expect to be received like someone speaking Mycenaean Greek. But people seem to “get” it, and almost immediately. First, I tell them I had to come up with a way to group my posts into chapters. Then I ask, “Have you ever heard of archetypes?”

Carl Jung, the founder of analytical psychology, introduced archetypes to the modern world (though the idea dates to Plato). I think of archetypes as characters, which can be found in movies, plays, novels, religions, and myths. Examples include the Goddess, Hermit, King, Rebel, and Warrior. Present-day authority Caroline Myss (pronounced “Mace”) defines archetypes as “psychological patterns derived from historical roles in life.”

According to Myss, twelve archetypes make up who we are. We all share four universal archetypes (Child, Victim, Prostitute, and Saboteur), but the other eight vary from person to person. I decided to figure out my dozen archetypes and use them to categorize my writings. I reasoned that if I truly embodied these “fundamental forces,” my blog posts, which are expressions of me, should reflect them. (With me so far?)

Caroline Myss’s Archetype Cards

As I mentioned, everyone has the Child archetype. But in her written materials, Myss identifies variations:

  • Wounded (suffers a traumatic upbringing)
  • Orphan (is excluded from the family circle)
  • Magical (sees beauty in all things)
  • Nature (bonds with natural forces, befriends animals)
  • Eternal (remains young forever)
  • Divine (is united with spirit)
  • Dependent (is needy, self-focused)

Unfortunately, I didn’t identify with any of them.

A neighbor’s newspaper

As I walked my dog one morning, however, I listened to Myss’s archived podcast (she used to have a radio show) about the Invisible Child. When the program ended, I felt I had found my Child archetype. Within seconds of making this observation, I encountered a newspaper at my feet. Just below the fold was a headline in big red letters: “DETERMINED TO BE VISIBLE.” I had never received a more obvious sign—or experienced a more stunning coincidence. (If you’re curious, the article was about Leonard Nimoy’s widow, Susan Bay Nimoy, whose short film was about to debut at Sundance against enormous odds.)

Myss states the following regarding the Invisible Child:

There’s nothing comfortable or pleasant about feeling that, as a child, you were invisible. . . . The positive end of the Invisible Child is that it can bring out in a person the opportunity to create an extraordinary journey toward visibility. Because developed in you is a yearning to become a visible person. And the option is that you can become a visible person through creativity, through clever, clever paths of using your imagination.

I could see that my book was a step in my journey toward visibility. Naturally, I appropriated the newspaper headline for its title.

Strike a Pose

Earlier this month, I came as close as I ever will to being on America’s Next Top Model (though the current season does feature a preternaturally youthful forty-two-year-old). I had found myself in need of a self-portrait for—wait for it—the back cover of my upcoming self-published compilation of blog posts! I include “self-published” as a sort of qualifier or apology; I haven’t sought or attracted the attention of a Big Five trade house or even a small press. Still, I have enjoyed applying my developmental editing skills, honed for others, to my own book.

Judy Blume

Writer Judy Blume, chin on hand

I needed a photo in which I looked professional, or at least authorly (perhaps resting my chin on my hand or smoking a pipe). Anyone who has tried to capture my visage knows I am intensely camera-shy. When pictures are being taken, I try to slip in behind someone else—which is pretty easy, since I’m five-foot-three and have a small head. I knew I would require help with hair, makeup, and clothing, and I found a photographer who provided that—and had excellent Yelp reviews! And she turned out to be the daughter of a woman I have known for many years.

Hidden in a group photo

Here’s where a simple head shot morphed into a production worthy of reality TV. I mentioned to the photographer that in addition to wanting a “personal branding” image, I was about to turn fifty—so the session could be an opportunity to document, visually, the end of my first half-century (before, I assume, everything really turns to s#!t). As the date of the shoot approached, I hit upon the idea that maybe I could even use a photo of myself—gasp!—on the book’s front cover. To ramp up the crazy, each of five wardrobe changes would represent a different aspect of the book (more on that in a future post).

Turning fifty is in my comfort zone. Being the subject (object?) of a photo shoot is not. To get through it, I think I entered a fugue state, or one of my other personalities stepped forward. As if through a filter of tulle, I recall snippets from that afternoon. I remember panicking a bit when I saw how heavily my face was made up; my typical regimen involves relatively minimal goop. I wore only two of the ensembles I brought; the other looks came from the photographer’s collection. I donned as many dresses in three hours as I had in the previous three years. One of the gowns I got into was an experimental garment made of book pages.

The creative shutterbug who directed me so patiently specializes in making women feel beautiful, showing them how their loved ones see them. Apparently, our loved ones have Photoshop vision.

I’ll view my retouched likeness tomorrow, when I return to the studio to meet with the photographer!

Get Ready to Match the Stars!

February is my least favorite month for writing a blog post, because it’s the shortest—month, not post. I know what I want to write about: a current obsession. The current obsession: the 1970s version of the TV program Match Game. But what angle should I take? If you write without a point, that’s journaling, and I hate journaling. Apparently, however, I’m a fan of stream-of-consciousness blogging.

What I’d really like to know is why watching grainy YouTube videos of this forty-year-old comedy/game show makes me so happy. (I launched a similar inquiry into Christmas music several winters ago, and again the following holiday season.) I won’t belabor the precise format of Match Game, but contestants try to anticipate answers given by celebrities to fill-in-the-blank-style questions. Originally, in the 1960s, the questions were straightforward: “Name something you pour gravy on.” They evolved to be more suggestive: “Mary likes to pour gravy on John’s _____.” (The shift was a ratings boon.)

Why do I love 1970s Match Game?

a. The campy host, Gene Rayburn

b. The big-name panelists, including regulars Richard Dawson, Charles Nelson Reilly, and Betty White

c. The irreverent, off-the-cuff humor

d. The party atmosphere

e. All of the above

But “all of the above,” in this case, isn’t everything. If it was, I would have the same warm fuzzies for the latest incarnation of the show, hosted by a quick-witted Alec Baldwin and frequented by funny people such as Jason Alexander, Cheryl Hines, Tim Meadows, Jane Krakowski, and Jenna Fischer.

What does 1978 Match Game have that 2018 Match Game lacks? Charm, I think.

What makes 1970s Match Game charming?

a. The retro (then au courant) hair and clothing styles

b. The need to tailor answers to get past the censors

c. The lack of political correctness

d. The low-tech set (relative to today’s standards)

e. All of the above

I (barely) remember watching Match Game as a kid; I’m sure I didn’t understand much of the banter. My clearest recollection is of the audience saying, for example, “How dumb is she?” in response to a question that started, “Dumb Dora is so dumb . . . .” Seeing the show now gives me self-perspective: “I was six, or eight, when this was filmed. The dated references reflect the world in which I grew up, and of which I was just beginning to become aware. I am a product of this time.”

At the very least, I think my heavy exposure to Match Game’s ad-libbed comedy has improved my cartoon captions!

Long Story Short

Gazebo in the main square, Canary Falls

I’ve asked around, and it seems normal not to want to look at something you’ve created after it’s finished—though I’d hate to think Shakespeare read Hamlet just the once. The subtext here is that I finally completed a writing project! My creative coach, Ziva, had tasked me with entering the Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition. I was still drafting, editing, and proofreading thirty minutes before the deadline.

After I submitted the piece, I never wanted to see it again—which didn’t stop me from tossing and turning that night as I reflected on its flaws. These gyrations were purely mental, as there was a 45-pound dog lying across my legs. While my feet fell asleep, I lamented numerous aspects of the work I had delivered with my entry fee:

  • Length. The composition was based on a synopsis I had written for a story intended to be 3,000 to 5,000 words. Contest entries, however, were limited to 1,500 words (hence, “short short”). Telling the tale was like trying to squeeze a size-ten foot into a size-six shoe.
  • Word choice. Every time I proofed the story, I would change certain words—and then change them back in the next pass. I should have changed them one more time.
  • Perfectness. I had only two weeks to write the story, so I wasn’t able to craft it to the level I desired. Ziva had advised me to take my perfectionism down to 70 percent, even speculating that 70 percent could turn out to be 100 percent. I still don’t get the math.

The result of the exercise described above appears below. Should you decide to read it, please forget the negative things I just said about it. To pique your interest (or save you seven minutes), the story is about a combat journalist who experiences a close call in the field and returns to her hometown.

Canary Falls

Thirty-seven-year-old Leigh Forrester had been scared before: When she started prep school mid-semester. When her first boyfriend asked her to have sex. When a 1974 Ford Cortina collided with a black bear, making her an orphan. But as a cable news reporter from the globe’s conflict zones, she possessed a preternatural composure. Untrained to deal with dangerous situations, and protected only by a helmet and bulletproof vest, she never considered she could die. Her determination to capture major world events, sustained by adrenaline, insulated her mind from such thoughts. Nor did she worry when her lover, Michel, a war photographer, hadn’t made contact since Christmas; he always resurfaced.

Embedded with U.S. Marines in the volatile Helmand province of Afghanistan, Leigh confronted her vulnerability. On a bright, brisk morning, as she recorded footage outside a reopened clinic in a district liberated from the Taliban, rocket fire from the city limits spread mortar bombs over the area. One landed on the hunter-green Afghan police truck in which she had traveled, sending shards of metal and glass in all directions. Shaken, Leigh realized she needed a respite from peril. She didn’t even wait for the network’s approval. Rather than return to the Notting Hill flat she shared with other combat journalists, however, she wanted to feel the comforts of home.

Leigh walked into town carrying her duffel bag as the sun, still below the horizon, started to color the sky. She barely remembered arriving in Canary Falls, though she knew she must have taken planes, trains, and a bus to get there. She feared she had a concussion from the blast and made a mental note to visit the physician—for as much as a mental note was worth to a person with a brain injury. She had heard Dr. Starr passed a while back and was replaced by a young woman.

The local diner, Logan’s, hadn’t opened yet, but Leigh noticed activity inside. Approaching, she marveled that the business looked just as it had in her youth: mint-green walls, mismatched tables and chairs, tchotchke-stuffed shelves. The eponymous proprietor, who already seemed old when she was a girl, unlocked the door and led her to a hickory stool at the counter, next to an antique cash register. He gave her a big breakfast free of charge.

Leigh set off toward the Dandelion Inn, where she planned to spend a week under a floral quilted bedspread. The breeze carried spring’s freshness, with a hint of summer’s warmth. “I used to love a day like this,” she thought. “In this picturesque New England burg,” the correspondent in her added. After a few minutes, she stopped in front of a two-story, sky-blue house with a wraparound porch. Fifteen years earlier, she had sold the dwelling, furnished, to a young family. She wondered if the Kims still lived there and, if so, why “FORRESTER” still appeared in faded black letters on the white mailbox. Aware she might be committing a felony, Leigh eased the metal door toward her; it creaked a tune she recalled from childhood. Inside was an envelope bearing a single word in a graceful hand: “Leigh.” She slid her thumb beneath the barn-red wax seal, impressed with a calligraphic C. A shiny key fell into her palm. She must have sent word ahead and forgotten.

The walls were still buttercup yellow with white molding. Vintage rugs still dotted the maple floors. Leigh recognized her grandfather’s cushioned rocking chair, beside the brick fireplace with a built-in niche for logs. Her gaze lingered on a framed photograph of a radiant couple on a beach, holding hands as they ran in the surf; she always thought of her parents this way. Leigh crossed the living room to a lampshade painted with violets, which she recalled “improving” with a purple crayon; she fingered the fabric, which was unmarked.

Upstairs, Leigh filled the claw-foot cast-iron tub from a faucet mounted on the rim. She stripped, lowered herself into the steaming water, and closed the pink pinstriped curtain around her. Settling back, she sought to understand how her home from ages eight to eighteen had remained intact and immaculate since she exchanged it, following her grandmother’s death, for enough cash to leave her comfortable. Did the Kims never move in? Do they rent the place out to vacationers? She would go into town and question the selectman or the gossip, whichever she encountered first. Back downstairs, in her old bedroom off the kitchen, she dressed in khakis and a white button-down shirt; in the field, she would add a scarf or jacket as necessary.

Through the textured glass of the double front door, Leigh thought she saw a carriage, drawn by two white horses, waiting at the curb. Indeed, roses, tulips, irises, and dahlias filled the spokes of the wheels. A plume of white feathers adorned each steed’s head. “Welcome home, Leigh!” the townsfolk shouted upon seeing her. When the team reached Main Street, Leigh found herself in a parade. The thoroughfare was lined with people displaying congratulatory signs and shaking ribbons on sticks; they smiled, waved, and yelled her name as she passed. Leigh viewed a truck-drawn float decked with streamers up ahead, and heard a marching band behind. She never expected such a reception, despite being a television personality. She laughed, her eyes filling with tears, and blew kisses to the crowd.

The procession ended in the main square, where lemonade was served, and a three-piece band played Dixieland. Leigh joined former friends and acquaintances, though none could provide insight into the old Forrester cottage. A message spread that a community barbecue would take place at five o’clock. Exhausted, Leigh excused herself; she was hoping to see the new doctor. On the walk over, she mused at the demographic shift in Canary Falls. The inhabitants seemed generally older, with a smattering of middle-aged folks and hardly any children. Perhaps others of her generation had also moved away.

The name on the shingle confused her: “Dr. Richard Starr.” She should have checked her sources; the doc’s wavy hair was still carrot-colored, without a trace of gray. “You’re the picture of health,” he announced, after examining her, “and will probably live forever.” He attributed her mental lapses to the trauma she suffered. Strolling home, Leigh noticed a familiar-looking dog with a curly brown coat. “Babette!” she called out. The mutt trotted over for an ear scratching and went on her way.

Burgers, ribs, chicken, trout, and vegetable kebabs cooked on innumerable grills. Side dishes—corn on the cob, zucchini, asparagus, sweet potatoes, coleslaw, baked beans, biscuits, ambrosia—were ubiquitous. Assorted pies, cakes, and cookies blanketed a long table. Donning the sleeveless plaid-print red dress she wore under her gown at her high school graduation, Leigh wondered if this cookout was being held in her honor. Her answer came after sundown, when Zack St. James, the town selectman, invited her up to the central gazebo, its columns wrapped in garlands of white stargazer lilies. Zack directed everyone’s attention to a theatrical screen hung on a building bordering the square. “Leigh Emily Forrester, this is your life!” his voice boomed over the mic.

The highlight reel mesmerized her: Running around the house in Dad’s gigantic shoes. Getting a shot, slurping a milkshake. Swinging on the veranda with Gramp while it rained. Riding in a car, blindfolded, with members of a secret society. Crossing into Darfur on a moonless night. Making love with Michel in his Paris apartment. Lying on the dusty ground in Bost, bloody, unmoving.

The final image faded, but Leigh remained transfixed. “Could I be dead?” she murmured, staring at the blankness.

Zack held the microphone to her lips.

“Am I dead?” she demanded.

“As a doornail, dodo, or mutton,” he replied, garnering laughs from the audience.

Someone squeezed Leigh’s right hand. She turned to see her mother’s sparkling eyes. When her knees gave way, her father caught her on the left. Behind each parent stood a set of grandparents. A sweeter reunion could not be imagined.

“While you get reacquainted,” Zack interjected, “I’d like to thank the former residents of Canary Falls for making this homecoming possible. You all got together and, through collective concentration, created this remarkable replica of the hamlet we cherished on earth. Sudden transitions can be difficult, but as you can see, Leigh is doing wonderfully.” The assembled souls applauded. “Soon you will be returning to your usual forms and roles, but for now, enjoy the party!” They cheered. To Leigh, he added perfunctorily, “Your guides will be in touch.”

Assuming she had eternity to catch up, Leigh took her leave after a while. In her mind, she still needed sleep. As she neared the house, she was startled by a shadowy figure on the steps.

“The village is adorable.” He used the French pronunciation. “Just as you described.”

“I am a journalist,” she responded. “Or was. You know you’re dead, right?”

Michel grinned. “C’est la vie.”

Hand in hand, they went inside.

Yes, Coach!

Seven months ago, I started a writing project: a collection of short stories. I surprised myself by completing synopses for 10 short stories in 12 weeks; the synopses average a little over 1,500 words. Following such a promising kickoff, my plan was to spend a month writing each of the 10 stories. But I got stuck on the first one (“Story 1”), a redo of a piece I had submitted for an online course a few years ago. I logged approximately 4,500 words of a projected 6,000+.

I knew I needed to see my creative coach, Ziva.

We met two days ago in her white Dodge camper van, parked with the windows down in the scenic lot of the local natural history museum. (Ziva was hosting houseguests, so we couldn’t conduct our session at her condo.) I thought she would tell me how to get “unstuck” so I could finish Story 1 and move on to the other nine. But turning to face me in the cab of the vehicle, she blew my mind with a quick-and-dirty way to produce my entire first book (“Book 1”): a curated compilation of my blog posts.

I loved her idea for speedily transforming content (that already exists!) into a publication. I will pull my 77 blog posts off the Web, put them in Word, organize them into sections, cut the ones that don’t fit (or that suck), write an introduction and maybe section intros, do some editing, format the manuscript, and distribute the document through CreateSpace (Amazon’s self-publishing tool). I assume this activity is meant to be psychologically liberating and affirming, and to provide a sense of accomplishment.

Before my 90 minutes with Ziva were over, I had enthusiastically accepted three additional assignments, none of which was to complete my partially written story:

  1. Hone one of my synopses for the Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition. (That’s two “Shorts”s; entries must be 1,500 words or less.) The deadline is two weeks away.
  2. Write synopses for 4 additional short stories for “Book 2,” my short story collection (with a new target of 12 to 14 tales total).
  3. Set up an underutilized room downstairs as a writing den for myself. I am tempted to enlist a professional organizer to tame the space—or “kill the monster,” as Ziva puts it.

I’ll get back to Story 1 eventually, possibly in the spring. I kind of miss it already.