Ride, Sally, Ride.

I was sixteen. My ride was a 1977 Cream Yellow Ford Mustang II with a white vinyl top. It had the dubious distinction of being the worst year for the Mustang, and in my hands, it lived up to its legend, sitting in my driveway broken down more often than not. But, when it was functional, I felt indestructible. I had wanted a sporty car; my father kept bringing me to see Buicks and other heavy, big cars he felt I’d be safer driving. I kept showing him Camaro’s, Charger’s, and Monte Carlo’s. We were at an impasse until the ad for the Mustang appeared. I begged him. “It’s yellow!” Yellow was my favorite color. He agreed to go look at it.

For me, it was love at first sight: torn brown vinyl seats, dirty white soft top, narrow-grip steering wheel. I loved it. For dad, it was a huge project. The transmission would need replaced. Engine work. New brakes. Exhaust. It wasn’t worth the $500 we paid. But, I was daddy’s little girl, and he saw how much I loved the car (plus he knew he had a Pinto engine he could use somewhere down in the field of cars he’d been stockpiling)so he bought it for me. The rules were these: I had to learn how to change a tire, change my oil, understand how cars work, and I had to pay him back for the purchase. Agreed.

I think it took two months before Sally and I bonded on the rural roads of Transfer, Pennsylvania. We were a good fit. We were both a little off, each with our own quirks and scars and frequent breakdowns. Sally had a hole in the gas tank and could only hold $2.00 worth of gas at a time, and I had a hole, a chasm, really, growing between myself and most of my friends in high school. I wasn’t a good fit. Wrong clothes, extra weight, always being goofy. My friends were growing more sophisticated (shopping at JC Penny’s) and maturing into boy-crazed young women. More so than ever, popularity seemed critical to a successful high school appearance. I wasn't popular. My interests were band, choir, and the Thespian club, which was disbanded the first year I joined. I wandered through the high school experience trying to balance what excited me (writing, singing, and entertaining) and what would make me fit in (dating, being ditzy, wearing skirts). With Sally, I could drive for hours (of course stopping frequently to refill her tank) and get lost in my imagination: I was a fabulous singer belting out Heart and Tears for Fears songs with all my windows down; I was on a road trip with friends; I was a race car driver…

Sally took me places. One of those places was the doorstep of WGRP radio in Greenville, Pennsylvania. I heard about the job through my communications teacher; they were looking to hire a student for one of their evening shifts. He thought I’d be the perfect fit.

I pulled into the driveway of the radio station, which was a converted ranch-style house. My heart was beating hard. I’d never been on a job interview before. I’d never been on the air before. It was overwhelming. If I could’ve, I would’ve driven away. But, I had made the mistake of turning Sally off completely and now she wouldn’t start up again. This was a frequent occurrence, so I knew all the tricks to coax her into turning on. Pump the gas (not too much or else she’ll flood). Pump. One, two, three. Turn the key. Press the gas to floor. Release. Rest. Repeat.

She flooded.

Resigned to my fate, I got out and walked through the door of what would become my first job and my first, hard lesson in sexism.

"That Was Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline on WGRP AM 940..."

I had a brief phone interview the other day that reminded me of my days in radio. Part of the job would include moderating and introducing guest speakers. Pressed further, I was told moderating would include feeding questions to the speaker sent via email during the lecture. I immediately saw myself as Terry Gross (knowing full well that I’m merely saying, “so-and-so asks” and not delivering my own hard-hitting questions) and for a moment was excited.

I’d been thinking a lot about public speaking, lately, and I don’t know if it’s serendipitous that people around me have been thinking the same thing or not, but it’s equal parts creepy and enticing. My sister recently had suggested I consider becoming a radio announcer, again. It was a shock, as I’ve not given much thought to my early career as a disc jockey for, well, twenty years. But at her suggestion and my brief fantasy of channeling an NPR talk show host had me spending long moments on specific memories of my time at WGRP/WEXC in Greenville, Pennsylvania.

When I started working at the radio station, it was known only as WGRP AM 940. It was a classic, small town station, gripping with dirty fingernails to the ledge of progress. WGRP was old guard: news headlines every half hour, dinner music hour (classical), and evening opera and ‘classy’ Broadway. Sandwiched in-between was Adult Contemporary (i.e. Neil Diamond). The announcers were old school, as well: barrel-chested, deep voiced, often chauvinistic (my goodness, the posters of young, busty women plastered all over was so comforting for a sixteen year old girl elbowing her way in to the boy’s club), and a stickler for how things were done.

But, times were changing and the General Manager was young and eager to move the station into the competitive future. During my time, WGRP split in two and her sister station was born: WEXC FM 107.1. WEXC had a younger format (Top 40) and heavy reliance on sports (Pittsburgh Pirates baseball). The DJ’s were younger (myself and a few Ryan Seacrest-like boys with DJ-inflection and cockiness. One of my favorites was a thin, well-coifed guy who had a penchant for Pierce Bronson Remington Steele era impersonations).

On one of my infrequent trips back home years ago, I’d learned that the small hometown radio station had given up the ghost and went fully automated, now located in a small room in a discreet Elk’s building or something to that affect. I felt a pang of sadness. So many memories of the little station on the hill: would my 1974 yellow Ford Mustang make it up the steep icy hill to McCracken Rd. or slide back down; making out with my now husband under the satellites behind the building; working the night shift and bringing in dates; finding porn records that the male DJ’s listened to while Porgy and Bess went out over the airwaves; being sexually harassed by my boss; ahhh, good times).

A quick google search reveals that WEXC is back in the game (sort of. They have so few listeners that they don’t even rank on the Arbitron rankings) with a Christian format and, no surprise, an active participant in recent ‘tea parties.’ WGRP has gone oldies, then sports, and now classic country, "America's Country."

I have many fond memories of my time at the station. I also have many negative memories (and, I’m still haunted with the same dream every time I encounter stress in my life: I’m at the control board, the song is ending, and I can’t remember what to do. DEAD AIR! Dead air is every DJ’s worst nightmare, and apparently, still mine. When I have a dream about dead air, I know I’m having too much stress in my life).

In the next few posts, I will write about individual memories. I feel I was in radio at an exciting time, at the intersection of old and new: from cuing up and spinning records to pressing buttons on a tape machine; ripping news (literally) from the large AP news ticker that chugged like a monster as it printed the headlines (we’d rip the paper, run into the studio, flip on the mic, and cold read the headlines) to potting up national and local news pre-recorded someplace far away.

I hope to recapture these memories and post them for you to enjoy. I also found my old air check tapes and hope to create an MP3 and post some of my airtime for you to laugh at. I do this awesomely, cheesy Valentine’s commercial for a local flower shop using a ‘sexy’ voice that is less sexy and more…well, you can be the judge. In the meantime, put on some Neil Diamond to set the mood...

Beekeeper

Playwrights Center of San Francisco presents a staged reading of my play: Beekeeper!

Oleta, an apiarist's daughter, grew up believing she was special, but special is a double-edged sword. Haunted by a tragic childhood accident, and the mysterious death of her father, Francis, Oleta struggles to unlock the secrets of her own Colony Collapse Disorder, while a series of events reveal that the accident may not have been an accident after all.

Directed by Jessica Holt

CAST
Oleta.........Molly Holcomb
Francis.......Aaron Murphy
Uncle Bob.....Bob Ayres
Aunt Ida......Sheilah Morrison
Darla.........Sallie Romer
Child Oleta...Siena Bogatin
Daniel........Jessica Lundy-Paine

Tickets at the door $10 (PCSF members free)

For info please visit www.playwrightscentersf.org

Let the Writing Begin

RowanD and I are sitting in Panera. Two writers racing toward the 50,000 word count finish line. She's a veteran. I'm a newbie. This is an official NaNoWriMo write-in, a meet up of writers who crowd in to cafes, libraries, and other public places, put up our "Novelists at Work" fliers and, presumably, get to work. The write-in's are designed to inspire, to keep the pen/keys moving. Think of the peer pressure: the newbie surrounded by opened laptops, fingers typing vigorously, headphones on...I can't just sit here while others are creating the great American novel. So, on go my headphones, up goes my laptop lid, and, fingernails groomed for the occasion, the typing begins. Wish me luck.

National Novel Writing Month

In an hour and a half, the 2009 National Novel Writing Month will commence. I’ve signed up. This will be my first time with NaNoWriMo, and I’m excited to jump head first into a new writing challenge even if I have a full plate this month. Not only am I immersed in another round of revisions for my play, but I’m also working on a chapbook of essays, and, of course, the ever-present memoir requires a few spare minutes of my time. So why start another project and one that is as intensive as writing 50,000 words in 30 days in a genre I’m not used to writing? Adrenaline, perhaps. Like a long relationship, being with familiar projects for a length of time can cause complacency and a certain level of comfort that feels safe. Pretty soon, you’re curled up on the couch, enjoying each other’s company, not really doing anything other than pushing words around routinely, but it feels good, like hot soup. But after months of hot soup, you need to try blow fish because blow fish will awaken dormant taste buds. Writing 50,000 cohesive, plot-driven words will be my literary blow fish. (yes, I really said that).

It’s also writing without purpose and without pressure (if you forget that the goal is 50,000 words in 30 days). Writing for writing’s sake. I have no other goal than to put words on a page, one after another, until they form sentences, paragraphs, chapters…I can let the pen flow, my imagination open, and my taste buds awaken. It’s going to be a total adrenaline rush!

Lady Cave- Working Without a Muse

My friends and I spend one day a month secluded together in one of our homes. We promise to write all day, share ideas or the latest books we’re reading, discuss our anxieties over our latest projects, make dinner and drink (a lot), and end with a movie or two. We pick a theme each month. September was Patrick Swayze. Lindsay, the music guru, created a lengthy CD of Swayze inspired music, mostly soundtracks to his movies, and we watched Dirty Dancing. This month’s theme is third wave feminism. I rented Thelma and Louise. We call these monthly meet ups our Lady Cave.

Lady Cave emerged out of our writing salon started earlier in the year when we realized that we spent a lot of time catching up and socializing and not having enough creative time to write. So, we decided to extend the length of time we spent together from a couple hours to an entire day and evening. In theory, we would have enough time to shop together at Whole Foods, prepare food, eat, gossip, read, write for hours, listen to music, drink wine, watch a few movies, do a reading…we would ‘hang’ unscheduled and loose and accomplish a lot of work. In reality, the first Lady Cave was more like a long party. I started on the wine too early, we invited too many people, and we hadn’t had any structure for how the day would pan out. We had a great time socializing, but accomplished very little in terms of writing. We left, determined to set a more structured (but not too structured) cave for October.

None of us wanted to feel as though we were in class (8-10 free write; 10-12 shop; 12-2 cook and eat, etc.) and we each equally balked at the idea of ‘schedule’ and ‘structure.’ At the same time we each equally wanted to be productive. Our solution was to create a loose schedule. What does that mean? Well, it means that, in theory, we will free write from 8-10, shop from 10-12, cook and eat from 12-2, etc. Basically, a loose schedule is a schedule.

All of this planning to not over-plan got me thinking about the creative process and why we are so adamant about not allowing ourselves to be structured. It would seem ‘structure’ equaled ‘stricture.’ How can you plan your creative moments? “My writing comes when it comes, I can’t force it.” This is a declaration I hear from many writers. “My process is that I have no process.” Or “I write when inspiration hits.” For many of us, we like to think that is how great writing happens. It happens and if you try to force it or put it on a schedule, you kill the muse.

Today, at the dog park I was asked by another dog owner if I thought writing was something that could be taught or did I think you were born with it. I replied that writing could be taught, even good writing could be taught. I equated it to learning anything else. You can go to school to be a mechanic and learn how to rebuild an engine or go to medical school and learn how to be a doctor, so why couldn’t you learn how to write? But I also allowed that, as there are doctors and mechanics of various skill levels, the same would be true in writing. Good doctors and good mechanics and good writers all have something in common: they work at it. Okay, here I admit some people don’t have to work as hard to craft the perfect sentence or repair a leaky valve, heart or gasket, with less work than others, but I can guarantee that no writer, doctor, or mechanic had ever just woken up with all the skill and ability to do the job without practice.

And that brings me back to this idea of just letting the writing happen. It can’t. It can’t just happen without putting in the work, the structured, scheduled writing time. Does that mean you won’t experience those inspired moments of unplanned brilliance? No. You will. And they will be fantastic moments. But, if you sit down to write at a specific time and nothing happens, it’s not because you can't, it's because you still believe the muse will appear magically and unannounced and when she doesn’t you say, oh well, wasn’t meant to be. Truth is, you’ve given up at the point where you needed to work. If the writing doesn’t happen to flow out of your body and on to the page easily, that’s when you put those learned skills to use or change your approach. If you wanted to write on your novel, but can’t seem to get the pen moving, then write something different, or revise or edit or start something new or do writing practice. Or, write on the novel, anyway.

Point is, balking at structured writing time isn’t practical and, not to ruin the romance of it, the act of writing requires practice. Punch that time card and get to work.

A Break in the Clouds

“So what do you think of Taos?”

An attractive woman introduces herself as Jill. She’s wearing dark, oval-shaped glasses that mirror the shape of her face, and her brown-black hair brushes the tops of her shoulders as she speaks.

“I think it’s beautiful, but I haven’t been able to explore too much of it.”

“Why’s that?”

“The weather. Seems like there’s always a storm in the air.”

She laughs. “Wait five minutes,” she folds her arms and sits back in the chair, “It’ll change.”

“That volatile?” I ask.

“I’d say unpredictable,” she replies, “but the rain is good. There’s been a drought here for eight years.” She winks. “Maybe you brought the rain with you?”

“Maybe so,” I wonder. And for a moment, the idea of providing something of value to Taos makes me feel less like an outsider, less like I’m here to acquire something without an equal exchange...replenishment...sustainable mysticism. I smile to myself.

“Anyway, it’s good luck.”

“I could use some. My laptop is being touchy, I can’t keep a wireless connection, and last night it wouldn’t play DVD's.” I confess, “I smuggled in some movies. You know, in case I get bored.”

“The point is to be in solitude. With yourself and your writer’s mind”

“Easier said.”

Jill looks past me through the window, “Looks like a break in the clouds,” she pauses, “It must be fate.”

“What?”

”Your laptop malfunction. It’s fate forcing you to be here.” Jill noticed my confusion and added, “To be here, in the moment, in the experience.”

“Oh. I guess. I heard this place…Taos…that New Mexico was…”

“Enchanted?”

“Crazy, huh?”

“This place has an aura about it. I wouldn’t call it Fate. I did, but I mean, it’s not. It’s Taos. I guarantee by mid-week you will break down. Happens to all of us”

“I don’t want to break down.”

Jill laughs. “It’s a good thing. It gets you past everything that’s holding you back. You break through. You have to break down to break through.”

I think about how long I’ve been trying to avoid it, how long I’ve been reassuring my family that leaving California was a blessing, how long I’ve tried to keep them from breaking. I smile, grab my messenger bag containing my laptop, and head for the sitting area.

“Taos is telling you something,” Jill yells after me.

Jill may be right about solitude, but what I want in this moment is to reconnect with something or someone familiar. I settle into an armchair, power up, and turn and watch as the sun breaks through the morning clouds—an opening. When I look back, the laptop has paused mid-startup. I power off, pack up, and decide to take my first walk to town.