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Two halves of a minute

December 17, 2012

I am sitting in a lecture about sentence structure and style — how to connect fragments to gain momentum, build suspense, create meaning. This is part of my MFA program in creative writing. Twice a year, all the students and faculty gather at a resort in Rancho Mirage for intense workshops, lectures and meetings. It’s a surreal and unbelievably lovely landscape for school — swimming pools, lush citrus trees, conference rooms with silver pitchers of ice water on every table.

Here I have been writing like crazy. I am turning inward and immersing myself in my own transition. My body is longing to conceive something. A story, a book, maybe a child.

It is halfway through this lecture that my phone’s calendar sends me an alert: Today I am ovulating. For the first time in our lives, my husband and I have moved beyond the discussion phase, and we are actively trying to start a family. I downloaded an app to my phone that alerts me to my most fertile days, and today is one of them. I wonder if I am already pregnant.

One moment later I receive another notice on my phone, this one a breaking news alert: Police respond to reports of shooting at elementary school, several dead. More reports follow, and I learn the incident at a Newtown, Conn. school claims 26 victims, 20 of them children.

Two messages, both within one minute of each other. One is about life, one is about death, and the combination makes me wonder what I’m doing here. Not just in this room, but in a time and a culture with such severe juxtapositions. I wonder how a single minute is big enough to accommodate both longing for a baby and grieving lost children.

I also wonder about my husband and our decision. We want to introduce a life into this world — a world that can be tricky, senseless and often cruel. Yes, I know there is immense beauty on this earth. I’ve traveled a lot, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But I also know that there is a brutality and wildness that can never be tamed, no matter how hard we all try.

I think about the balloon release my class had when I was in the third grade. Each student wrote letters, asking for pen pals. Our teacher helped us attach our messages, wrapped in plastic, to the string. All of us stood on the playground, releasing our balloons into the great big sky all at once. As much as I wanted my balloon to find a home somewhere else and go someplace I had never been, I wanted it back as soon as it floated beyond my reach. It was too fragile, too special. And it turns out my instincts were correct — my balloon ended up tangled in some telephone wires just outside Huber Heights, Ohio.

Are my husband and I selfish to want this? How in the hell can we create something so fragile, so special only to release it into a chaotic and unstable world? What’s the sense in that? Would you let the balloon fly away if you knew it was so easy to pop?

I am sad, and I am ripe, and I don’t know if my questions have any right answers.

I text a friend, a fellow student, and say I am having trouble processing the shooting tragedy. He replies: “The world is so complicated. Dark on one side, sunlight on the other.” He attaches a funny story along with it, just something that makes him laugh. It is his birthday, and he is trying to smile even though the darkness seems overwhelming.

My friend and I attend the next lecture together. We are here, putting fragments together, trying to construct a story that makes sense.

Maggie Dreams of Writing

September 19, 2012

The other night my husband and I watched a spare and elegant documentary called “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.” It’s the story of 85-year-old Jiro Ono, owner of the Michelin 3-star restaurant Sukiyabashi Jiro in Tokyo. Although he is already considered to be one of the world’s greatest sushi chefs, Jiro wants to perfect the art form and elevate the delicacy to new heights. His quest becomes an obsession, to the point where Jiro even dreams of sushi.

Of course, the film isn’t just about the sushi. I paused the movie and asked my husband if he feels a similar obsession for his profession.

“Do you dream about teaching?” I asked.

“All the time,” he said. “Do you dream about writing?”

“I do. Scenes and characters and things I haven’t even written yet.”

“When you worked for newspapers, did you ever dream about journalism?” he said.

“Yes. But only in the nightmare way.”

And that’s right about the time I had a writing epiphany. Because when I pressed play and the film started up again, Jiro looked directly into the camera and said, “I fell in love with my work and devoted my life to it.”

Now, I’ve always heard the old cliché, “It’s not work if you love what you do.” But Jiro’s take on it is slightly different.

When Jiro says “fall in love with your work,” he isn’t talking about having a strong affection for your chosen career path. This is a matter of loyalty. It’s doing this thing for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you live. Jiro fell in love, and he made a lifetime commitment — the guy has been creating sushi since age 10, and I bet making sushi will be the last thing he ever does.

For me personally, that means putting my ass in the chair and writing, even when the mail brings me nothing but rejection letters, even when I’m scrounging for grocery money, even when I wonder why I bother. It means standing by writing’s side, even when she is a nagging whorebeast who refuses to do the dishes.

It means that I’ve already made the commitment — I quit the only career I’ve ever known; I sent myself back to school to learn more about the craft; I’m giving myself ample time and opportunity to write. Now it’s time to see it through. No more messing around. If I’m going to be putting my ass in the chair anyway, don’t I owe it to myself to be the best possible writer I can be?

Sounds so simple. But, then again, so does sushi. And Jiro’s been working on that for 75 years.

Later in the film, a Japanese food critic ticks off the five attributes that separate great chefs from average chefs. I believe these attributes could apply to anyone, no matter the field.

1. “They take their work very seriously and consistently perform at the highest level.” — Strive for excellence, which requires unyielding focus and determination. Sacrifices must be made.

2. “They aspire to improve their skills.” — There is always room to learn something about your craft. The day Jiro received an award that declared him to be a national Japanese treasure, do you know what he did? He returned to work.

3. “Cleanliness. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t feel clean, the food isn’t going to taste good.'” — Keep it simple. You want your readers/customers to focus on the thing they showed up to do — and they’re here to savor your work.

4. “They are better leaders than collaborators. They’re stubborn and insist on having it their way.” — Trust your instincts. Don’t accept substitutes for your vision.

5. “Finally, a great chef is passionate.” — Fall in love with your work every single day, all over again. Wine her, dine her and slip her the tongue. It’s your job to make this relationship work.

World-class architecture in … Columbus, IN.?

July 20, 2012

I first heard about Columbus, Indiana from a boyfriend. He said it was the greatest non-city he’d ever seen — a rural town stocked with extraordinary architecture, fantastic public art and some very cool shops. However, that boyfriend also snacked on dried cuttlefish, had a pill-popping habit and stretched out my skirts by wearing them while I was at work. We really didn’t have all that much in common, other than that we both liked sleeping with men. When the relationship dropped off my radar, so did Columbus, Indiana.

That was years ago.

This summer, I traveled to Indianapolis with The Husband, a man who doesn’t eat any variety of dried fish or delve into my closet. Looking for fun things to do with him and my mother-in-law, I suddenly remembered Columbus and suggested a day trip.

“Why Columbus?” The Husband said. It was the same tone of voice someone might use to say, “Why eat deep-fried horse poop?”

Since he grew up in Indianapolis, sure, he’d heard of Columbus before. But he’d never actually gone there, and he certainly didn’t know it was supposed to be something remarkable.

I rattled off the facts about the place: Columbus has a population of just 44,000 but is ranked sixth in the nation by the American Institute of Architects for innovative building designs. Only Chicago, New York, San Francisco, Boston and Washington D.C. rank higher. “National Geographic Traveler” magazine ranked Columbus as number 11 on their list of 109 great historic destinations in the world. And it was less than one hour from where we were standing.

For our day trip, we didn’t create an itinerary, do any intense research or sign up for the official bus tour, though I’m sure it’s very nice. We simply hopped on the highway and drove straight to the Columbus Area Visitors Center, 506 Fifth St., located in downtown Columbus.

There we got a map, downloaded the Columbus tourism iPhone app and put the two together to create our own custom tour. First stop was the Large Arch by sculptor Henry Moore. It stands immediately in front of the Bartholomew County Library, designed by I.M. Pei, the same architect who created the glass pyramid in front of the Louvre.

Across the street was First Christian Church, 531 Fifth St., a buff brick and limestone structure designed by Eliel Saarinen in 1942. The light hit it in the most perfect way.

The Bartholomew County Veterans Memorial, 200 Washington St., is one of the most effective memorials I’ve ever seen. Twenty-five limestone columns, rising 40 feet into the air, are engraved with the names of those who gave their lives — along with excerpts of selected correspondence.

Walking through the pillars is a meditative, intimate experience.

The Second Street Bridge, designed by J. Muller International, was completed in 1999 and is the first of its kind in North America.

The local newspaper, The Republic, has this gorgeous office building at 333 Second St. It was designed by Myron Goldsmith of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill in 1971, specifically for the newspaper. I love the openness and transparency of the building — just perfect for an office of communications.

This whimsical door (photobombed by The Husband) was at the Children’s Museum, 309 Washington St.

Columbus City Hall, 123 Washington St., has cantilevered arms to frame the two-story, semi-circular window wall of glass.

Even the Bartholomew County Jail, 543 Second St., is rather pretty. It fits right into the downtown structure and design.

First Baptist Church, designed by Harry Weese and completed in 1965, is covered in hand-laid slate, drawing attention to the dramatic, non-dimensional bell tower. Located at 3300 Fairlawn Dr.

This minimalist showpiece is First Financial Bank, 707 Creekview Dr. “Dwell” magazine said, “It may be the most refined bank branch in the world.”

Another First Financial Bank, 2580 Eastbrook Plaza. Another Harry Weese design. This one isn’t really my style, but it does nicely blend with nearby bridges and businesses.

And this is my favorite thing of all — North Christian Church, 850 Tipton Lane. I’m told locals call it The Oil Can Church. Designed by Eero Saarinen and completed in 1964, this church has a six-sided building, a sloping roof and a slender 192-foot spire, topped by a teeny-tiny cross. If the Jetsons were regular churchgoers, they would probably go here.

I absolutely fell head over heels for Columbus, and our day there was decidedly too short. I only saw about half the things I wanted to see. It actually made me regret not going there many years ago with the ex-boyfriend.

Though it was the architecture that drew me there, what hooked me went well beyond the bricks and buildings. Columbus just does so many things right, from plentiful, free wifi to chic bike racks all over town. It is a place that values creativity, art and originality, which is rare to find in many cities of any size, let along a small, Midwestern town.

Columbus has a small-town, friendly feel with many modern touches. Somehow they’ve managed to respect the past while continually moving forward. I can’t wait to go back.

Last Christmas redux

April 6, 2012

MAGGIE: So I’ve been thinking. You know how one of my biggest goals in life is to create a shot-by-shot remake of Wham’s “Last Christmas” video?

HUSBAND: Wait. What?

M: “Last Christmas.” Classic Wham. Remake.

H: I have no idea what those words mean.

So I busted out the video in all its mulleted-hair, reindeer-sweatered, Eskimo-hooded glory.

HUSBAND: You realize there’s snow in this video. And we live in Palm Springs.

MAGGIE: Hello, MOUNTAINS ACROSS THE STREET. We just need to wait for the next snowfall and then go up the tram.

H: Fine. That’s not until, like, November, but I’m not going to argue. So which character would you be?

M: The girl with the curly hair.

H: And who would I be?

M: Well, I thought you’d make a very nice Andrew Ridgeley. With a wig, of course.

H: Which one is he?

M: He’s the guy who hangs on my arm while I shoot longing looks across the table at George Michael.

H: Oh great. So I’m the guy who gets cheated on?

M: No! George Michael is my former flame! Haven’t you been paying attention to the video?

H: I was, but I got confused.

M: It’s all about the broach. FOLLOW THE BROACH.

H: This video makes no sense.

M: Hrumph. I don’t know what you’ve been doing since 1984, but clearly you weren’t watching any important videos.

H: Why were you involved with George Michael in the first place?

M: It’s like you don’t know me at all.

On the trail of Anne Shirley

March 15, 2012

NOTE: This is my first post for Scintilla, a two-week blogging project. Today’s prompt is: “Life is a series of firsts. Talk about one of your most important firsts.”

It’s easy to be optimistic when you have a bicycle basket full of Twinkies and are 8 years old

You wave goodbye to your small, ranch-style home, to your family’s brown station wagon and to your little world of Huber Heights, Ohio. You don’t yet know that this is a troubled neighborhood with sagging porches, overgrown bushes and lawns cultivated with weeds. A place where you will someday find broken beer bottles in sewers, leering men in the park and a syringe in your friend Stacy’s driveway.

All you know is that this is America’s largest community of brick homes. Highway billboards declare it so in proud, 200-point type. And today you are leaving it behind.

There is hope in your feet, and it makes you pedal hard and strong for many miles — at least three of them — all the way to the AAA travel office.

“Can I help you?” says the woman behind a desk. She wears a nametag and navy blue suit.

You hand over the membership card that you swiped from your mother’s wallet. You’ve been to this office before, planning road trips with your parents to Gettysburg battlefields and Colonial Williamsburg, so you know the drill.

“Hi. I … I mean, we need a map. To Canada. We’re going to Prince Edward Island,” you say.

”You want a map from Ohio to Canada?”

The woman carefully examines you.

“Yes. Just a map. That’s all,” you say. “Um, my mom is waiting in the car.”

You hope this lady doesn’t notice the pink Huffy parked in front of the office storefront.

She sighs and walks over to a display case filled with maps and brochures.

“Would you also like some pamphlets for hotel and entertainment options in Nova Scotia?”

You have never heard of Nova Scotia, which sounds like a terrible affliction of the spine, but you smile and nod anyway.

The travel agent stuffs everything into a plastic bag. She returns the membership card, which you carefully place into your plastic wallet. It is already bulging with the money your grandmother gave you for Christmas and your birthday, plus some quarters you lifted from your dad’s dresser. You’re rich, and you know it. There’s got to be at least $50 in there.

You ride for many blocks. You are on your way to faraway places and wonderful things. The ribbons in your hair are made of yarn and they fly like the banners that trail a skywriting airplane.

The past few years, you have ripened inside a house of books. This is both a literal and figurative statement. Your father always has a book in hand to read in line at the bank or during halftime at the basketball game. Your sister has thick college texts that look simultaneously intimidating and enticing. Your older brother makes you look up words in the dictionary for his homework. You help your mother carry paper grocery sacks full of books home from the library, and then you build forts out of them. You sit inside books on top of books to read more books. And you love them with a passion that you don’t feel for anything else.

Your very favorite is “Anne of Green Gables,” a book that doesn’t read like a book at all but more like a very long letter from an old friend. It is the completely fictional story of Anne Shirley, a plucky, freckled orphan who is adopted by cranky old siblings. They live in a house called Green Gables in the quaint little town of Avonlea, Prince Edward Island.

You don’t believe that Anne is a work of fiction. In fact, you are convinced that you and Anne are exactly alike. While Anne puts liniment instead of vanilla in a cake, you learn not to put hot dogs in the microwave. Anne feels uncharitably toward classmate Josie Pye, and you push Cheryl Lacy off the monkey bars. Anne lets a mouse drown in the plum-pudding sauce. You dunk a cockroach into the ranch dressing on the salad bar at Sizzler. (This is an accident.)

The book feels so incredibly real that you ignore the laws of space and time. It doesn’t matter that “Anne of Green Gables” is set in the early 1900s and you are living in the thick of the 1980s. The only thing separating you from Anne is 1,500 miles. Or kilometers once you get to Canada.

It begins to drizzle. You pull to the side of the road and eat a Twinkie underneath a tree. It is cold. You are not prepared for this. You eat another Twinkie, because you are fat and gluttonous and happy you don’t have to share this food with your sister and brother.

You decide to ride through the rain, because who knows? Maybe it is raining in Canada too. You just want to get there.

You stop again when you get to the highway. You already don’t know which way to go. The cars are too fast and confusing. You are scared.

You turn around and pedal home.

This day is imprinted in technicolor on your memory, but it never even registers for the rest of your family. Years later when you retell the story, none of them remember it happening. It is just another Tuesday.

For you, this is a day that matters. It is your first taste of possibility. It is your first failure. And it lights the fire that burns for escape.

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