An Oprah Nightmare

(To help promote Sucker Literary Magazine, I'm guest blogger this week at Lisa Voisin's wonderful webiste, where I discuss a reoccuring nightmare and offer an excerpt from my short story, "The Missing Ingredient."  Be sure to check it out, and pick up a copy of Sucker Literary Magazine volumes 1 and 2!)

In my dream, I’m either on Oprah or on Fresh Air with Terry Gross, but it could just as easily be The View or The Ellen DeGeneres Show or The Tonight Show.  In this alternate universe, authors are treated with esteem and appear regularly on talk shows, so right off the bat there’s a sense that reality has been suspended, and since I’m actually being interviewed, I appear to have had some success as a writer, hence pushing the dream towards the realm of fantasy.

But the next part is far too realistic.

I’m asked a question.  Oprah, having apparently come out of talk-show retirement, asks “Are there authors out there, successful ones, whose work you find prosaic?”

Prosaic.  Prosaic.  A word I should know.  Do know.  Sort of.  I mean, if I read it in a book, I’d probably be able to deduce its meaning.  But to actually have to respond to it in front of millions of people who are only watching me because the next guest is Tom Cruise?  Well, that’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

Not knowing the meaning of a word is a reoccurring theme in my dreams, for vocabulary has never been my forte.  Sure, I can string together words to create an effective sentence, but if you ask me to use demur and demure correctly in a sentence, I’m going to be in trouble.

I take some solace in that the average educated English-speaking person knows an average of 17,200 base words, a mere percentage of the total number of entries in the Oxford American Dictionary (over 180,000) and the Unabridged Oxford English Dictionary (over 600,000).  (Base words are “word families.”  So the base word “love” might extend to words like lovely, lovable, lover, etc.).  There are words I clearly know, like the ones I’ve written thus far in this blog.  There are words I clearly do not know, like rehoboam.  This I can accept.  What kills me are the words I kinda sorta know but would be hard-pressed to define or use in conversation.  My kids have exposed this gaping hole in my chest of knowledge numerous times when asking me the meaning of a word that I thought I knew, but couldn’t for the life of me explain.  (“Well, capricious means…um…why don’t you look it up?”)  And even when I sort of know a word, like bereft (meaning: void of), I would never use it in conversation for fear of making a fool of myself in case I used it incorrectly.  I once used the word “indoctrinate” when I actually meant to say “inoculate,” which is sad an embarrassing, but I DO happen to know the word that describes the misuse of another word – malapropism.  I should have that word tattooed on my forehead.

In an effort to reinvigorate my quest for knowledge that took a major detour about fifteen years ago (two daughters), I’ve reintroduced an old custom of mine of looking up words unknown to me while reading novels.  If it’s a word I feel I can use in my own writing, I jot it down and later transfer it to an Excel spreadsheet of vocabulary words.  I find this much more useful than, say, following the word of the day at Dictionary.com, because so often these words are obscure to the point of uselessness.  I’m not sure I’m going to impress my readers by using a word like tergiversate.  When I see a word in a book I’m reading, I at least have some assurance that it’s known and in use.

Widening one’s lexicon is something all writers should do, so that when the moment arises we can tap into the perfect word for the perfect situation instead of using five words that don’t do nearly as good a job.  Of course, there’s nothing wrong with writing directly and plainly if it’s done well and if that’s your style.  But sometimes a word can really enhance one’s message.  Consider the following two sentences:

The man walked in, clothes soaked and dirty, and plopped down on the bench with a saturated slap.

The bedraggled man walked in and plopped down on the bench with a saturated slap.

Neither sentence will win me any awards, but bedraggled is the perfect word for this situation, and one I wouldn’t have even known existed if I hadn’t written it down some years ago in my Excel spreadsheet of words I’ve come across.

The book I’m reading now, Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys, is a fairly accessible read, but that didn’t stop me from not knowing the meaning of the following words (how many of these could you use in conversation?):

Imprecation.  Praxis.  Ranunculus.  Filigreed.  Exhortatory.  Incipient.

And this is from a mainstream writer!  Give me a copy of Ulysses and I’d be toast.

Sure.  Some words, even after I catalogue them, don’t sink into my list of usable words, but over the years a few have managed to squeeze into my lexicon (so if I’m average, I now know 17,202 words).  I can now successfully use the word nonplussed (completely perplexed) in a sentence, and I’ve recently added aplomb (self-confidence).  I’m still waiting to come across the word that means, “Ineptitude at expanding one’s vocabulary.”

And yes, I now know what prosaic means.   Do you?  If not, here’s a hint: for some of you, it might describe your opinion of this blog.

July 2012: What a difference a year makes

A year ago this week the brittle grass had all but given up.  Vegetables that had flourished briefly in the spring clung to life only because of daily watering sessions that both my wife and I were already tired of providing.  Normally, we’d hit a wall by early August, but this year, after having reached the 80s eight days in March, after breaking high temperature records twice in May, and after enduring the sixth warmest and fifth driest June on record, we’d already had it.  And it was just beginning.  Patience was wearing thin.  Tempers were short.

On July 1, I road home on my bike from my Sunday morning gig at Elmhurst Presbyterian Church, and on the way noticed a distinct line of foreboding clouds to the west.  As I neared home, I saw people watering their flowers and I shouted out, “There’s rain coming.”  I made it home, and my son and I took out lawn chairs in the back yard to watch the approaching storm, a welcome sight after such a dry June.

We lasted about thirty seconds.

The violence of our annual Storm of the Century forced my family and me inside and into the basement, where we could hear from outside the cracking of tree limbs, followed by the all-too-familiar sound of our electricity shutting off, as our smoke alarms yelped out a short, high-pitched siren of protest before falling silent.

A half an hour later, the sun was out, and our neighborhood spent that afternoon surveying the destruction, comparing stories and pulling branches to the curbs, careful to avoid those areas that had downed power lines (my house was one such area).  The destruction outside was far short of the images we’ve seen recently from Missouri and Oklahoma, but for the residence of north Elmhurst, this was close enough.  My poor tree in the back yard had shed yet another limb (one a year for the past three years), striking my neighbor's newly installed roof and gutters.  Neighbors across the street had a new hole in their roof, and down the street stood an invisible SUV, fully-encased in the branches of a downed limb.

And then the heat came.  The whir of generators could be heard all around us, a constant drone that only added to our frustration, because none of the sound was to our benefit.  We emptied our freezer and refrigerator and took the contents to our neighbors who still had electricity a block away, and as we put the last of our groceries into their freezer, their electricity went out.  It seemed that saving the chicken we’d purchased at Costco was not to be.

Our son was leaving for camp the next morning, and we’d planned on making a meat loaf for his “Last Supper,” but now we had to improvise.  We got in the car, heading down Roosevelt, expecting to find a restaurant open somewhere.  There was.  One.  Almost seven miles away.  Boston Market experienced what was probably its busiest Sunday evening ever.  From miles around, people had flocked for roasted chicken, meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn, as the storm had shut down power as far west as Wheaton, through Glen Ellyn and Lombard and into Villa Park and Elmhurst. 

I summarized the mayhem in a text to my brother who was out of town…

Lines down. Transformer on fire.  Poles off kilter.  The works.  No flooding though.  If it weren’t for the heat I wouldn’t really care.

Ah, but there was heat.  That evening our second floor reached 94 degrees, as temperatures outside his 98.  On Tuesday we hit 96 with a low of 77 and still no electricity, and my wife, who was enjoying a day working in air conditioned bliss, texted me at home…

Any progress?

I texted back…

If u consider nothing as progress, then yes.  There’s progress.

That evening I decided to get the hell out of my hell-like home and go to York High School for a community band rehearsal, where we practiced in air conditioning and shared stories of the storm.  I was one of the few left without power.  Then I received the most welcome text ever from my wife…

Power is on!!!!!

I arrived home, and we aborted our temporary sleeping quarters in our relatively cool basement, and returned to our bedroom with the air cranked.  The next morning we took off for New York to see my sister-in-law, and here’s what we left behind:

July 4^th, 102 degrees

July 5^th, 103 degrees

July 6^th, 103 degrees

All three days were records.  We’d go on to have our third hottest July on record, with not one day offering a high temperature of less than 80 degrees. 

Today, July 2^nd, 2013, we expect a high temperature of 73.  Our grass is lush and green.  Our vegetables our flowering.  Our power is on.  True, we haven’t really had to use our band new air conditioner much this year, but that was to be expected.  And really, if we could have the summer we’re currently having every year from here on out, I’d be happy to never use our air conditioner again.

New Fiction: The Song

I submitted an entry for found 11 of NPR's Three-Minute Fiction contest last month, and though I didn't win, I quite like my story, "The Song."  The winner and two finalists of the contest are all commendable with some beautiful writing, my favorite being "Chips" by Kristina Riggle.  Check out my story and the winners - short fiction can be very compelling.

Enjoy!

Song Forms: Doing away with AABA

Paul Simon once wrote the lyric, “I seem to lean on old familiar ways.”  And so it is for most songwriters, Simon included.  When it comes to song structure, inertia is strong, and few writers deviate substantially from one of two general song forms: AABA (most jazz songs follow this format, many show tunes, and several pop songs as well.  Think “Yesterday” by the Beatles) and, with modest modifications, ABAB (more identifiable as verse, chorus, verse, chorus, often adding a bridge after the second chorus).  Composers do it almost without thought, which makes exceptions all the more impressive.  Sure, it might not take a genius to write a song with the form ABCDCBA, but it’s not something that occurs to most people, so in that sense, maybe it does take a genius to compose a song in an interesting format, if only because no one else thought to do it.

Which means maybe JamesTaylor is a genius.  His 1991 song, “Shed a Little Light,” follows that song form – ABCDCBA - and somehow makes it flow nicely and memorably.  You would think after four sections foregoing repetition, the listener would be left to flounder, lost in a sea of unfamiliarity, but JT pulls it off impressively.  Most listeners probably aren’t even aware that the song is proceeding to unexplored territory; they’re only aware that the song continues to move forward, to gain momentum, before reversing the momentum and slowing to a halt, as if completing a four-minute train ride.

Of course, composers don’t need to go to these lengths to inject new life into their songwriting.  Even slight alterations from the standard formats can be inspiring.  For example, instead of following a format such as verse – chorus – verse – chorus – bridge – chorus, what about pushing the bridge up, or repeating it, or adding a second unique bridge?  Elvis Costello does a particular good job of mixing up song sections.  Consider the following song from his 1994 release: Brutal Youth:

“London’s Brilliant Parade”

Verse – Chorus – Bridge – Verse – Chorus – Verse – Chorus

ABCABAB

What I particularly like is the addition of a bridge immediately after the chorus, delaying the return to a verse.  I borrowed this technique for my song, “No Point In Seeing Me Through” from my album Pause.  After the first chorus I go to a bridge before returning to the verse.  To me, this keeps the song moving forward, plus I add a modulation up a step for the final verse before returning to the original key for the final chorus.

Costello song forms deviate even further in some of his compositions by repeating a bridge or by adding a second bridge (The labels of the song sections I use here are relatively irrelevant, and likely disputable, for in some of these songs each of the sections carry nearly equal weight):

“The Other Summer Side”

Verse – Chorus – Bridge – Chorus – Bridge – Verse – Chorus

ABCBCAC

“All Grown Up”

Verse – Chorus – Bridge – Chorus – Different Bridge – Verse – Chorus – Different Bridge

ABCBDABD

Even a successful song, like Costello’s modest 1989 hit, “Veronica,” can depart from the usual fare.  Here, Costello and Paul McCartney inject the bridge in a different place: after the second verse.  A very unusual tactic, but, in my find, an effective one.

“Veronica”

Verse – Chorus- Verse – Bridge – Chorus – Verse –Chorus

ABACAB

It’s odd that in light of these and countless other examples, so many songwriters – me included – continue to follow the formats we’ve grown accustomed to over the years.  Perhaps it’s time to try a little harder to mix things up.

42: A Film that Polishes the Past

Watching the Jackie Robinson biopic 42 last week, I couldn’t help but feel that I was watching ABCs movie-of-the-week in a theater.  Sure, the acting was good (it was great to see Harrison Ford actually act instead of relying on smirks), the story is of course compelling – it practically begs to be filmed – and the film does a reasonably good job of telling the story.  Chadwick Boseman and Nicole Beharie do fine as Jackie and Rachel Robinson (even when they have to spout cornball dialogue).  What’s troubling is how unreal the film looks and feels.  So little attention was made, aside from vintage cars and clothing, to make it feel like 1946-47.  Instead, we get a polished version of the past.

In 42:

No one sweats.  Seriously.  No one.

No one smokes.  (For a sense of how smoking should be used in a period film, check out this scene from Good Night and Good Luck)

All clothing is new, clean and pressed.  No dirt.  No grime.  No tatters, even of the clothing from kids in Florida, who I presume weren’t exactly rolling in the dough.

Everyone is beautiful (except for the bigots), from the lead characters to the woman who babysits the Robinson’s son.

Baseball jerseys, even after nine innings of play, are bleach-white.  We only see dirt directly after Jackie dives or slides into a base.

All men are clean shaven or have neatly trimmed beards.

In short, it has the look and feel of The Truman Show or Pleasantville, except this isn’t supposed to be a farce of a 1950s sitcom.  This is supposed to be a film dramatizing real life, not an antiseptic version of the past.  Some directors are so careful to make films look realistic, but Brian Helgeland misses the boat on this one.

He also falls short on the screenplay.  It’s amazing how the writer of such terrific films as Mystic River and LA Confidential managed to write such contrived, cornball dialogue.  Maybe Jackie and Rachel Robinson really did have a marriage as strong as the one depicted in the movie, but it doesn’t make for good film.  No arguments?  About anything?  Never anything mundane to say?  Only perfectly executed love notes to each other?  I’d put good money on the real-life Rachel Robinson actually being a full-fledged three-dimensional woman.  Instead, Nicole Beharie does what she can with a two-dimensional script.

See the film, if only to watch it with your kids, as it may provide an education for them about racism and baseball’s tarnished past.  But for the most part, the past has been polished in 42, keeping the story from ringing true.  One has to wonder how good this film could have been in the capable hands of a filmmaker like Spike Lee.