PAULA WHYMAN
curiouswriter

In which we wonder about writing, food, music,  
& random curious events. 

Painter Kristin Herzog's first solo exhibition--COLOR WORKS--opens TODAY at the Arts Club of Washington. I met Kristin at VCCA, the artist colony, and I'm pleased to have this opportunity to view her work.

Details, details:

Arts Club of Washington
2017 I St., NW
Washington, DC 20006
202-331-7282
Open hours: T-F 10-5; Saturday 10-2

COLOR WORKS runs through Feb. 25.

Last summer, when Google+ was introduced, I was lucky enough to get in early and check things out before the seats started filling up. Back then, I had lots of hopeful things to say about the newest social media platform and how writers might be able to use it to their benefit.

All these months later, I would like to tell you how I, as a writer (primarily of fiction) have been using Google+: [cue elevator Muzak here]

That's right; I haven't been using it.

I have not started any "hang-outs" with other writers--I prefer to write by myself. I have not been using it to chat. I have not been diligently dividing my peeps into appropriate "circles." Okay, yes, I did divide them into circles, but in practice, the divisions have had very little meaning for someone like me whose work is meant to be read by everyone. Yes, I have been posting links to my work--the same links I post on Facebook and Twitter. I'm sure I'm reaching a slightly different audience at G+--that is, if any of the people who have me in their circles are reading my stuff. (In fact, if you're reading THIS, G+ people, I would like to know. A show of hands?) But more important, I haven't been reading many of the posts I see on G+, not because they're not interesting; I'm sure there are many interesting conversations going on, and some of them may even be about topics other than social media platforms and cats... I could blame web-fatigue in general; I've cut back drastically on my Facebook usage, too. But that's not it, because when I do read stuff I find in social media, it's most often through links posted by friends on Facebook.

The thing is, writers write. If I'm on three or four social media platforms ACTIVELY, and I'm not there to promote a book that comes out in a month or two, that's not called research, networking, or marketing. It's called procrastinating. I've vowed to do less of this. I'm still paying attention to what my MVP's are saying. But I'm not checking in as often or commenting as frequently myself. MVP, by the way, is Most Valued Poster.

Back to Google. What I'm trying to say about G+ is that I didn't drink the Kool-Aid. I may have Gargled with it (sorry! couldn't resist...), but that's all. When you've got Hawaiian Punch, there's no need to make a drink where you have to take powder and add water to it. If you do, it's probably going to be too watery anyway. Or oversweetened. I'll let someone else unpack that...

Now Google tells us that if we stick with them, we're basically going to do the Net equivalent of taking off our trenchcoats and flashing little old ladies at bus stops. Except without the trenchcoat in the first place. Or maybe fig leaf is a better metaphor. Google is taking our fig leaf away.

The important thing about the fig leaf is that it was an illusion to begin with. Larry Ellison of Sun Microsystems said, years ago, "You have no privacy. Get over it." Yes, he really said that. And it's basically true. But that doesn't mean we have to feel good about it or participate in it to the extent that we do.

Now here is the part where I do something The Simpsons have mocked, to paraphrase: "I can't believe this totally free service that I'm using voluntarily is doing stuff that I don't like!" The problem with this thinking of course is that Google is pervasive. It's hard to do much of anything online and avoid showing up on its radar. And if you're a writer, or a "content provider" (ugh), you want to be on Google's radar. You want to show up in searches, etc.

But, Google, enough is enough. If you make these proposed changes to your privacy policy, in which, for instance, you take content from inside my emails without my permission and use it to sell ads that will appear wherever I go on the Net-- G+, gmail, YouTube, etc.-- and refuse to give me a chance to opt out of this "exciting new service!" --I'm outta here. I'm done with you.

I'm taking my trenchcoat, my fig leaf, and whatever is left of my dignity, and I'm going home.

At fifteen years, he gave her the pavé bracelet; at eighteen, the trip to Lake Como; and at twenty, the divorce. At first, there was only the single long, fine auburn hair wrapped, knotted really, around the button of one of his white shirts, the bottom button, the spare one that’s hidden underneath the front flap.

My short story, The Rose Garden, is now online at Redux, a new journal devoted to bringing worthy stories that were previously published by print-only journals to the attention of a wider audience. The Rose Garden first appeared in 2004 in North Dakota Quarterly's "Fiction Issue."

Redux is edited by novelist Leslie Pietrzyk, who also writes a fabulous blog about the creative process, Work-in-Progress.

When the Pilgrims stepped onto Plymouth Rock, I wonder if they anticipated the traffic jams, family antipathy, and baking traumas their activities would eventually inspire?

My post from Thanksgivings past,The Pie Crust Debacle, says it all about why I now routinely avoid making my pie crusts from scratch and opt instead to merely make them look homemade.

This holiday, I'm continuing my tradition of passing off store-bought crust, though if anyone asks, I readily admit the source. And, just to be consistent, I'm passing this post off as a new one, while I take a short break from blogging to make the pie.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

Just when you thought it was safe to jump in that leaf pile...

I'm pleased to announce that coming up in early 2012, I'll be teaching a new occasional series of literature classes at Politics & Prose Bookstore in Washington, DC. The subject: Hazards of Suburban Living.

In Part 1: Domestic Upheaval and the Short Story, we'll read and discuss three stories, one each by Lorrie Moore, Amy Bloom, and A.S. Byatt. Each story is told from a woman’s perspective; each is focused on a particular brand of domestic disharmony.

In Part 2: Coming of Age in the Columbine Era, we'll discuss Jim Shepard's novel, Project X. In this disturbing yet darkly humorous story, a misfit adolescent and his outcast friend, persecuted by other teens and misunderstood by adults, hatch a potentially devastating plot. "Shepard...has a lock on the new American paranoia." --Chicago Tribune

Part 1 will be offered Tuesday, January 10, 10 a.m.-12 p.m. Part 2 will take place Tuesday, February 7, 1–3 p.m. You may sign up for one or both classes.

For a detailed description, and to register, see the Politics & Prose Bookstore web page for 2012 classes.

My suburban lit street-cred: In addition to writing my own brand of "suburban dysfunction" fiction, I've blogged for Bethesda Magazine about Semi-Charmed Life in the suburbs, and I created the parody site, Bethesda World News, which pokes fun at suburban institutions and values.

I'm headed to an artist colony for a few weeks to continue working on my novel, so I may not post here too often during that time. But before I go, I want to let you know about some things that are going in the art and lit categories that I'm sure you won't want to miss.

Artist Sara Klar has work on exhibit at Standpipe Gallery in Chelsea, as part of the show called "Taking Shape," along with James Bills, Alec Dartley, Peter Dudek, Raymond Dumas, Douglas Goldberg, Sue Havens, Michael Lee, Elisa Lendvay, Abraham McNally, Christopher Saunders, Zoe Pettijohn Schade, and Christopher Schade.

Standpipe is located at 150 West 25th St. between 7th and 6th Aves, New York. The show opens runs from October 13 to October 29.

Artist Craig Cahoon has work on exhibit at Covington & Burling LLP, 1201 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, Washington, DC, from September 27 to December 16.

Also, check out this new Wikipedia entry describing the dizzyingly productive career (so far) of multimedia artist Tim Guthrie.

In publishing news... Gargoyle #57 is now available. In its 600 pages (!) you will find a huge selection of fine work from the innovative to the traditional. Full disclosure, my first ever flash piece, "Another Story," is included in this issue. In poetry, a shout out to Alex Chertok and Barbara Crooker, whom I was lucky to meet at VCCA. I only wish you could hear them read their work, because they are both wonderful readers. And in fiction, Bettina Lanyi, Meredith Pond, Rae Bryant, Janice Eidus, Meg Pokrass... There are so many great writers represented here, I know I have probably missed someone--I apologize!--but it's 600 pages, like I said, so... Gargoyle, carefully edited by Richard Peabody and Lucinda Ebersole, is always worth the wait.

And, finally, if you have not yet seen the brilliant new online literary journal edited by novelist Leslie Pietrzyk, you need to check out Redux. The idea is to reintroduce worthy stories and poems that were published some years ago in print-only journals, introducing them to a new readership online, offering them a second life, if you will. I particularly admire the story "Clockwise," by Dana Cann.

That's all for now. I will post updates when possible from the wilds of New Hampshire.

This is a little true-to-life anecdote I wrote up last year for another writer's blog. Since that site has gone off-line, I'm re-posting it here, where it can live forever in infamy. Or something.

Ode to the Hand Dryers of LaGuardia

I was on the shuttle to New York to meet my spouse for an Important Work Event (IWE). Most IWE’s involve dressing up. This one did not. At least for dressy events it was easy to figure out what to wear. Something dressy, which I had maybe two of, since most IWE’s in my own job are BYOC (bring your own coffee) and require a special dress code of sweatpants. My spouse, however, lives in the Real World of Real Work where appropriate dress means dressing to appear in public places and not looking like a mug shot. This is, I’ve decided, also the secret to Real Pay. So I’ve begun to dress up for work in the hopes that the mailman will notice and bring me a paycheck.

But this event was a cookout, and as such, the dress code was disconcertingly open to interpretation, with options ranging from frilly sundresses to madras shorts. And, it would take place at the boss’s house, which really changed the equation to, which outfit is least likely to show perspiration? I finally settled on off-white cropped pants and a cute blouse. I’m telling you this because it will be important later. I don’t remember if I had a sweater, but I should have, and if I didn’t it’s because I was too busy making sure I had all 48 pieces of reading material stuffed in my carry-on, just in case we were stuck on the runway for 2 hours on a brilliant sunny day, which was what had happened the last time I boarded the shuttle for an IWE.

I was of course the only person on the shuttle wearing cropped pants, because everyone else, men and women alike, had dressed to look important, in tailored suits. And they probably were important. I, on the other hand, was a spouse.

I sat next to a man who, until the flight took off, talked on his cell phone (“Tell him we’re there. At least we can get dinner out of this fiasco”), and in front of a woman who talked on her cell phone (“The cat? But how much blood??”). I tried not to listen, really… I stared at one of my five issues of the NYT Book Review, which I save because I’m sure I’ll get to them someday, certainly by the time the books are out in paperback. And then, an event that now seems mythical, old fashioned, and quaint: A flight attendant gave me a package of shortbread cookies and asked me what I wanted to drink. When I think of it now, my vision gets a little blurred with tears of nostalgia for the travel customs of yesteryear. Or at least, last year.

I asked for apple juice, with no ice, to ensure the greatest quantity of actual beverage in the cup. Why I did not just ask for water, I will never know. But then I would not have this story to tell. Wherein there was turbulence uncharacteristic for a shuttle flight on a brilliant sunny day. Wherein there was no little cup-size indentation on my pull-down tray to safely hold my apple juice cup. Wherein the turbulence came on so suddenly and was so concentrated and jolting that I had no opportunity to grab the cup of apple juice before it slid forward and spilled directly in my lap. And when I say “lap” I mean “crotch.” Just so there’s no misunderstanding.

And now is the time to remember that I’m wearing off-white pants; pants of a thin, summer-weight fabric which, according to REI, is “wicking.” And so it did.
The liquid, which expanded in quantity as only spilled liquids can, soaked through my (light-colored! wicking fabric!) pants so that I was effectively sitting in apple juice, marinating like a really great recipe I have for Belgian chicken. Except I think that uses cider. So I should be grateful for small things. Cider would’ve been worse. I will spare you some of the rest---the biodegradable napkins I was offered that left little napkin spitballs on my pants, the sopping blanket I put between myself and the seat to raise myself out of the puddle that my pants (wicking!) had not yet absorbed, the flight attendant’s helpful reminder to buckle up and remain seated during turbulence.

I had no change of clothing with me. This was a day trip. I seriously considered wrapping myself in back-issues of the book review. I thought, well, they’re finance people, they’ll just think I’m one of those eccentric artist types making a statement. A saturated statement that smells suspiciously like my son’s lunchbox.

When we landed at LaGuardia, I tried not to panic. I went to the public restroom. I don’t know if it has ever been said before or will ever be said again, but that morning, there was nothing I wanted to see more than the public restroom at LaGuardia Airport. And there I found the thing that saved me. Someday there will be a poetic tribute to the Hand Dryers of LaGuardia. The hard part was how to position myself in order for the airflow to reach the key saturated areas. I had two options: I could disrobe in LaGuardia’s restroom and climb onto the counter by the sink with no pants on. That seemed unwise for reasons I don’t think I need to list. Or, what I chose to do, which was to practice for my next career as circus contortionist and simply adjust my still-clothed body to the proper angle. And the less said of that, the better. Except I will tell you that it worked. Within a few minutes, I was dry. And the pants were close enough in color to the apple juice (off white! And did I mention wicking…?), that the mishap left no stains discernible by anyone who wasn’t looking more closely than would be polite.

In case there’s any doubt, I’m looking forward to my next shuttle flight. In fact, I’ve already picked out my clothes.

A colleague sent me this clever column, which lists Elmore Leonard's ten "rules" for writers. The article dates back to 2001, but it's as relevant as ever. Leonard offers these guidelines for writers who want to "remain invisible," unless, he says, "the sound of your voice pleases you."

You don't want the reader to be conscious of your presence, or let's say, to feel the hand of the godlike genius manipulating your characters. For instance, the godlike genius might say to itself, 'gee, wouldn't it be cool if this hockey player started quoting Swedenborg? Because like, Swedenborg is his secret passion?' Um, yeah. That's fine if it's true of this particular hockey player, but if it's true only because you just read this fascinating thing about Swedenborg and can't wait to use it so everyone can see how smart you are...not so okay.

One of my favorite pairs of rules here is "never use a verb other than 'said' to carry dialogue," and "never use an adverb to modify" it. I have to fight the urge myself at times, but to me to do otherwise too often sounds self-conscious and feels like a substitute for effective dialogue and gesture.

Some people might disagree with Leonard on points like "hooptedoodle"--That's the technical term he discovered in Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, for when, as a Steinbeck character explains, writers "spin up some pretty words...or sing a little song with language...[But] I don't want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story." In fact, Steinbeck conveniently placed his own "flights of fancy" in separate designated chapters, so readers can skip them if they want.

I realize it's hard not to be attached to one's hooptedoodle. I think the point is to use it sparingly.

Leonard also advises that writers "leave out the part that readers tend to skip." Which part is that? Probably the part we are most proud of: "...thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them."

Are you laughing?

When readers are involved in the story, they want to know what's going to happen, they read faster and faster the more suspense you've generated. If the reader is suddenly stopped by a paragraph of description, it deflates the tension. So really, this is about pacing. It's not that you can't have those long paragraphs--IMO--if they add to the story, but you have to know where to put them.

And, if you're using your characters effectively to tell the story, this eliminates a lot of excess.

His most important rule, which sums up the others:

"If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it."

Good advice, and so often hard to do when it comes to your own work.

On Facebook the other day, I announced that I was working on a new novel. I was about 10,000 words into it, which made it seem to me likely to work out. When I passed the 10k mark, I labeled an actual folder with the working title of the book. I know, we're talking a strong commitment there. But that made it seem real-ish to me, since I often keep new drafts in a folder on my laptop called "short stories" until they get to be oh, about 150 pages long.

I announced this project on Facebook intentionally, because I figured once people knew about it, some of them would bug me about it on a regular basis. It will be pretty embarrassing if, three months from now, I haven't made any progress. Nothing like a little friendly peer pressure to keep you going when you have no actual deadline other than a self-imposed daily word-count minimum.

One of my colleagues noted that her litmus test for project viability is getting through the first fifty pages. I remember another writer telling me that she would know after five pages whether it was a go. FIVE.

You can have a story that really interests you and a character you're excited about and still, when you sit down to write it, it doesn't go anywhere. It seemed so perfect when it was in your head, too... So, how do you know? What are the signs? For me, with this particular project, I'm certain that it's not a short story, because the plot has a much longer arc, and there are threads that are just starting to opening up, secondary characters that are just being developed. The story still seems wide open. It could go in a number of directions, there seems to be tension, and the pace doesn't feel too slow. But, I'll let my fabulous writing group weigh in on that...

There may be particular ways you know a project is working, but when do you tell people about it, and how much do you say? Sometimes it helps to talk out particular problems, but in general, I don't like to say much about a novel in the early stages, because I risk imagining too much of it in advance. Once I've done that, I don't need to write it: The discovery process is complete, it's just been completed in a way that doesn't result in a book. The same thing happened to me when I tried to write using an outline. That was a long time ago, and I never did it again.

The way I know for sure that this project is a novel is that my son told his teacher about it. The first week of school, my 13-year-old was told to write an essay about his family. In it, he says his mother is working on a novel. So I guess I better keep him honest. Of course, he also wrote that his father likes to go camping, and his mother likes to be in air conditioning. Did he have to say that? But I'll be the last person to tell him what to write. Besides, it's true...

In case you haven't seen it yet, my latest interview for The Rumpus.net is now online. This time, I spoke with Dave Engelhardt, who was the pro bono lawyer for several Gitmo detainees, including one who committed suicide. I first met Mr. Engelhardt in a writing group, where he critiqued my work for more than 10 years. He does not mince any more words in his assessment of the situation at Guantanamo than he did in commenting on manuscripts.

A sample outtake: On his client's suicide, Engelhardt explains, "The finding of his innocence was a state secret, and could not be told, even to HIM, who, lacking this knowledge, hanged himself."

You can read the complete interview here.