Tell a Story in 100 Words or Less, Part 2

How many different people will you meet in your lifetime? Say it’s one new person a day, on average. Over 50 years, that’s more than 18,000 you come across, say hello to, fall in love with, help, hurt, or touch in some way. That seems ridiculously, even outrageously high. Ponder this: The vast majority you won’t see more than once. Some will cross your path regularly. A smaller number will become friends or family. Even fewer will have a lifelong impact. How many people have you met and touched in some way? How many have touched you?

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Got a minute? We need to talk...

I’ve always loved to talk. People who know me say I could start a conversation with a wall, and fill in the parts when the wall doesn’t respond.

Of course, talking to the wall sometimes is the only intelligent conversation I can find.

I’ve used that pithy response many times over the years, largely because it’s my best self-defense. Looking back as an adult, my perception is that I had a lonely childhood. And I believe that perception has a lot of truth, at least as I see it now.

Since I was a kid, my mind has run a million miles a minute, thoughts skipping from one to the next like a game of hopscotch. My brain was an RSS feed, anxious to deliver opinions and observations on anything that crossed my cerebral cortex. To paraphrase, I could have been ADHD before ADHD was cool.

In reality, I was a person desperate to connect, and I didn’t know how. I needed someone to understand, to listen, to acknowledge these often disparate — and occasionally fleeting — thoughts. Of course, few people have the capacity for unfiltered, 24/7 access to what someone is thinking, even if the thoughts aren’t mean or malicious. It’s just too tiring.

Oddly, on several administrations of the Myers-Briggs, I have straddled the line between the “I” and the “E.” Depending on the day, I’m either classified as an introvert or an extravert, which only contributes to my personal mystery. It also partly explains why, despite needing the occasional dose of Immodium for my mouth (or, in this case, fingertips), I hate it when people speak in meetings just to hear themselves talk. Amazingly, despite my ongoing inner dialogue, I have learned not to speak out unless I have something to say.

That’s one reason I find the phenomenon of social networking so interesting. Sitting behind a computer screen evens the playing field. It’s an emotionally safe way to make those connections. Even if the friends we have are only casual acquaintances, or long-ago people we knew as children (Facebook is in many ways the high school reunion from hell), the fact that it thrives speaks loudly to our need to share our thoughts with the world.

How this manifests itself in my children is interesting. Despite lacking a formal diagnosis, Nicholas is the first to tell you he’s ADD, while Katharine is the recipient of ADHD with extra sprinkles. Ben always must express himself, even if he doesn’t comprehend fully at times what he’s trying to express. Only Emma has thus far escaped that portion of my DNA; in so many ways she reminds me of her mom, which is one reason she has that special allocation of space in my heart.

Talking, and the ongoing desire to connect, does have its advantages. But accessing those does not come without a key skill, the ability to listen. What I found when I became a journalist was that I had the opportunity — and often the privilege — to listen to the stories of others. With and through them, I built the life that today allows me to tell my own.

I believe everyone needs to connect to others in some way. But I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s OK to have dead air. Silence, after all, has its place.

Homework Hell

It’s something that happens to every parent, something so tried and true that it has become the Mom and Dad equivalent of, “It was a dark and stormy night…”

It’s the homework project from hell. Or in formal education terms, it’s called project-based learning.

“OK, fine,” the teacher seems to say. “You leave them with me 5½ hours a day, 180 days a year, expecting me to impart my wisdom and knowledge so they can be successful. You are therefore expected to spend money on art supplies you use once, subject your household to more crafts and pieces of cardboard and paper than you ever thought possible, and help them come up with something unique that can show what they have learned.”

Sounds fair, on the surface, except that it fosters this underground competition that subjects parents to peer pressure like we haven’t felt since seventh grade. There’s nothing like telling your child to “do your best” and “hang in there” when you know that her papier-mâché diorama stands no chance next to the four-camera exhibit complete with visual effects commissioned exclusively from Industrial Light & Magic.

To be fair, teachers always say, “This needs to be your child’s work.” Some parents take that literally, while others use it as license to create a life-sized replica of the U.S. Capitol out of cake batter.

It doesn’t help that your child waits until the night before said project is due before informing you that she needs glue sticks and a packet of construction paper. Seeing other parents in the supplies aisle of an all-night CVS takes on the appearance of a support group meeting.

Again, to be fair to the generations of parents who preceded us, this is something that is wired into every child’s DNA. More than once, my mom has said my epitaph should be, “If I could only do this tomorrow.” As a kid, I believed procrastination should be considered an Olympic sport with no time trial.

So you can imagine the flashbacks I had when Emma announced that she needed help on a project for National History Day. Mind you, this is a project that has been three months in the making, and it was due this week.

Emma, in many respects, is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa, and Eddie.  She is the child located perfectly in the center of the bell curve. She is a very good student, conscientious and with an innate desire to be successful. She also is the most linear human being I’ve ever met, a child who would alphabetize her prayers if you let her.

You would think, given these traits, that she would understand the difficulty of conceptualizing large, outside-the-box projects. Not this time.

Emma’s decision to take on the “History of the Steam Engine” was fraught from the start, but never more so than when the deadline loomed this week. When she finally admitted that she needed help — and glue sticks — it was almost too late.

And so I faced the parenting dilemma, the choice of whether to let her do it herself or join the Industrial Light & Magic crowd. I opted for a compromise position, offering to help with the project’s broad parameters while relying on her to do the actual work herself. 

Over the next 36 hours, she cut and glued and groused while I made suggestions. Work projects that lingered for me remained on hold. At one point, our family computer failed, losing documents left and right. I helped Emma retype the work.

Slowly, agonizingly at times, it started taking shape. As midnight loomed on the day before it was due, amazingly, it was done. The next day, we were both bleary eyed, but I saw my daughter’s obvious pride in her work. It was better than she thought it would be, and I helped her get it there.

We don’t know what her final grade will be, but for once, I received an “A” in parenting. 

On Valentine's Day

I come to you with empty hands


I guess I just forgot again


I only got my love to send


On Valentine's Day


I suck at Hallmark moments.

It’s not that I don’t try. Truly I do. I’ve bought cards, sent flowers (live and nearly dead ones), delivered champagne, searched out romantic restaurants. But mostly my inner barking seal seems to come out and, well, bark.

Somehow, in those connect-the-dots moments between Christmas, Groundhog Day, and the most romantic day of the year, I see my shadow, declare six more weeks of winter, and hibernate until it’s too late.

There's so much I want to say


But all the words just slip away



The way you love me every day


Is Valentine's Day

Unfortunately, my sense of bad timing also can be applied to birthdays, and odd-numbered years that coincide with my wedding anniversary. (Of course, the dysentery on Mother’s Day that year wasn’t a great choice either; I prefer to think of it as an extraordinary case of bad timing. It certainly was the last time I’ll opt for an all-you-can-eat buffet on a major holiday.)

If there is anything that convinces me that my inner nerd — complete with pocket protector — is capable of overwhelming my inner romantic, or that I should do everything in my power to eliminate the 11 federal holidays and 47 pre-programmed greeting card days from my life, it’s times like this.

For some reason, my situational Tourette’s kicks in, and I say or do something to screw it up. It feels like Butch and Sundance jumping off the cliff into the rapids below. The fall may not kill me, but I definitely cuss on the way down.



If I could I would deliver to you


Diamonds and gold; it's the least I can do


So if you'll take my IOU


I could make it up to you


Until then I hope my heart will do


For Valentine's Day

Thanks to Steve Earle, I can pass along what you have just read in the italic passages. I can pledge to try again, no matter what the fates may choose to say about it. And I can thank God for the 350 or so non-holiday opportunities that I have each and every year to say how much I love and cherish the wife and family I have.

I don’t need a Hallmark moment to tell me that. Fortunately for me, they don’t either. 

Transitions, Creation, and Evolution

As a writer, I pride myself on transitions, leading the reader in the process from one thought to the next. As an editor, there is nothing worse than reading a story where the transitions are the equivalent of shifting from fifth to first without hitting the clutch.

Transitions are part of life, the chapter breaks in our story. Sometimes they make sense, a natural progression. Others come all too abruptly, with little rhyme or reason.

For the past month, I have mulled this entry over in my mind, as our family embarks on yet another in a series of never ending transitions. And every time I have sat to write it, the words just don’t seem to come.

One reason I hesitated in starting this blog was that I didn’t know if I would have enough material to write on a regular basis, knowing full well that the fall of every year brings so much to light that I could chronicle things by the hour without a loss for words.

There’s something about winter, however, that makes us burrow under. The post-traumatic stress disorder of the holidays is followed by the cold snap — some would say slap — that January and February bring. In our Virginia subdivision, we rarely discover our neighbors until the spring, or so it seems.

One month ago today, “Ragtime” closed. Instead of pulling up stakes and heading home, we decided to stay with the back-and-forth commute so Ben could finish the school year in New York. It just made sense, although the wear and tear on us has only been exacerbated by work and family demands and a climate shift that has left us buried by record snowfall.

As I posted to Facebook earlier this week, Mother Nature definitely needs some Depends.

••••••

The little bullets you see above this paragraph are another form of transition. Perhaps I’m taking the easy way out this time, but a random thought crossed my mind that I’ve wanted to write about for some time, so why not do it now?

Recently I started a blog entry titled “Creation vs. Evolution.” (No, it wasn’t my attempt to wade into that debate, although anyone who knows me — and my politics — would know which side I come down on without giving it too much thought.) But like several entries I’ve started and aborted recently, I just couldn’t get it out.

“Creation vs. Evolution” was talking about the process of working in an art form. In this case, and this one only, I definitely come down on the creation side. There is something about making something out of nothing that always has fascinated me, whether it’s the process of reporting and writing a story, putting out a magazine, or putting on a show.

To me, creating is the fun part; I’ve always said that rehearsal is much more fun than performance. Once the paper is put to bed, or the show is up and running, it’s time to move on to the next challenge/project/ thing.

For the first 13 or 14 years of my career, I never stayed in one job more than 36 months. I went into each new position determined to learn as much as I could, knowing I would give it everything I could. (It’s one reason I call myself a workaholic in a 12-step program.)

Once I mastered the task or the job, it was on to the next. For me, boredom was (and still is to large degree) the equivalent of a slow death. It represents a life without fun and interesting challenges.

When I left newspapers in 1996, I changed careers and went into communications. It was time for a change, and the 4½ years I spent in that job definitely set me up for the position I’m in now. 

I didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into when we moved to Northern Virginia in 2001. I certainly didn’t think I would be at the same company almost nine years later.

But fate, combined with some fortuitous timing, intervened. And over time, I’ve been lucky enough to move from one position to the next to the next, each one presenting me with enough challenges to keep that dreaded boredom at bay.

Also, as I’ve gotten older, patience has slowly come to be a word I use without rolling my eyes.  Mature, I know, but I prefer to think of it as appreciating the nuance of evolution. Over time, I’ve learned that if you’re patient enough, you can watch the arc of your personal or professional life extend beyond the immediate gratification we all desire.

As much as I love theater, I never understood how some actors could go to work and do the same thing day after day after day. It wasn’t until I saw “Ragtime” over a period of months that I realized the actors’ performances were slowly, subtly evolving into something far deeper and more satisfying. It’s a shame that the evolution can’t continue.

••••••

So here we are in a state of transition again, not just for the purposes of this entry but as a family. Sadly, we won’t get to see Nicholas this weekend due to the weather that has buried the Mid-Atlantic region, making the roads treacherous from here to there and points beyond.

Things do seem to come full circle in our little world, however. Nicholas is trying out for “South Pacific” this weekend at his school; ironically, Ben went to see his good friend in the show here in New York tonight. (See the Musical Obsessions and Circle Backs entry I wrote on this for more instances of irony.)

And, thanks to a break in New York City’s school schedule, we do get to spend the weekend and all of next week together as a family in Virginia. I have a new employee coming into work next week, and it’s less than a month from now that Ben starts rehearsals on a show at The Kennedy Center.  (Another circle back.) Things are evolving amid our transitions.

Now that my writer’s block has ended, I pledge to return to this space more often as well. Creating a blog, I’ve discovered, was fun. The challenge, I’m learning, is how it will evolve over time.

Stay tuned…