The Requisite Rewrite

I wrote my first book, which totaled about 90,000 words, in eight weeks.

It showed.

Sure, it had a beginning, middle and end. I even had characters with solid emotions and experiences, but what I didn’t have until more recently was a clean story. A clean story keeps the reader moving along without the distraction of flowery writing or too much back story. I thought my first draft was great. I’d even gotten to plug in the word insouciance (always wanted to use that one) but, after reading it through the eyes of different beta readers, I realized that the first draft, basically, sucked. I had dangling modifiers, overboard metaphors and too many adjectives. I had a character who really could have been somebody, if only I let her. Instead, she read like a caricature. I had so many meanderings away from the real story, I forgot where I was going.

Then there was the issue of too much telling. “You need to show, not tell,” says one of my trusted set of reading eyes. “Rather than say ‘I love you,’ have him show it by placing his hand on her lower back and leaning in to kiss her.” Hmmm, I’d have to think about that one.

Back to the drawing board I went and I did so with a vengeance. Like Edward Scissorhands, I went at the manuscript chopping, cutting and tearing. I shredded the first and last chapters. I even resurrected one of my characters who died in the first draft. Too sad. Yes, an agent had said she had to pass on the book because it was “too sad and serious.” This is not why I resurrected my character, although I didn’t like someone describing the book as sad and serious. I brought her back to life because she turned into such a real person, I could not have her die.

The rewrite of book 1 has been more fun than the writing of book 1. I never knew how much power a writer has to rewrite her story, in whatever way she wants. Oh, it’s downright liberating.

The rewrite is ready for a reread. This may sound masochistic (I think a writer needs to be this), but I look forward to more rewrites. I do. It is like the fire purifying the gold, and I wouldn’t want anything but pure gold getting printed with my name on it.

Bring it on!

Finding Voice

It has taken me 43 years to find my voice. Being the youngest of five children, I stayed mostly silent as a child except for periodic squeaking after ritual teasing by my brothers and sisters. I tried my voice a couple of times, but it too often was met with disapproval or confusion. So, rather than rock the proverbial boat of a traditional home, I just kept most of my thoughts to myself. Mute.

Born and raised in a strict Catholic home, I couldn't help but question Jesus' bodily resurrection. Inquiring minds want to know. My scientific mind could not make sense of it. My faith in Him did not need his rising to be in a physical way. My questioning too often was met with, "If you had faith, you would just accept it." This rationale seemed preposterous, but I accepted that the conversational doors on this issue were closed and so would be my mouth.

"Can we please discuss the fact that Mary was a virgin and pregnant with our Lord? What if I told you I was pregnant and I was a virgin?" I once asked my mother. You can only imagine her response to that question. Seriously, if it happened to Mary, and we're all supposed to believe that it did, is it so far-fetched that it could happen to someone else? I really needed to discuss this. But it was not open for discussion.

I learned to write in my journal. Here I could struggle to host the conversations I needed to have come out of my mouth. The writing was stilted, most of the time, as if the words on paper might manifest themselves into the atmosphere, prompting the predictable disapproval I would get had I spoken them aloud. The voice was not perfect and free, but it was some small way of expressing my soul.

I dreamed of writing like Maya Angelou or Amy Tan. I played with words, tried to make them dance on the page like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, romanticizing the possibility that I could one day write something as beautiful. Even in my journal, the flow of my writing was disrupted by something. As if a big tree had fallen in the river of my natural flow -- the tree was the conflict between how I wished I could write and the silenced voice that was trying to come out. These two were not friends. I wished I was Maya or Amy but what wanted to come out sounded more jaded and sinister. Without this flow, I struggled with simple sentences because I spent most of my time resisting what wanted to come out.

Finally, I wrote my first short story and divulged the unspoken horrors of my heart. I let it pour out of me, hideous monsters living inside of me, scaring me, taunting me. I took a huge risk and put them out on the table. I looked at them. Secrets, thoughts, shame, terror. I let my imagination rip at my fingers and I typed the unthinkable. I read it back and winced. Horrible darkness on paper. Then I read it again. Not so bad. And again. That's actually kinda funny.

What appeared so scary became laughable. Fear transformed into something that could be manipulated into clever prose. By writing the short story, I had coughed up the fur ball that sat in my throat for too many years. I dislodged the tree that had fallen into my river and I let it flow. Ahhh...a free-flowing voice. Finally.

But, after I finally let her roar, I must admit that it came with a mild disappointment. The words came unencumbered and emancipated but not with the intellect of a Maya or Amy or the grace of Fred and Ginger. Instead, the voice I found was simple and used the verb "to be" way too much. But it came, it flowed, it continues to roar and that, really, is all that matters.

Peaks and Valleys OR Ravines

Ah, Tuckerman's Ravine. It feels so good to stand dwarfed in its belly, pausing before your ascent up the massive rocks to the mountain's peak. We all look happy now because the skies were clear and the energies were high. Ignorance is bliss. Ten minutes short of reaching the top of the ravine, the dark clouds floated towards us, bringing instant rain that seeped our dry clothes and enthusiasm. Our visibility went from hundreds of feet to, maybe, 10 feet, where we had to grope for subsequent cairns, piles of rocks to mark the trail, to help us navigate the trail to Lakes of the Clouds Hut. We did eventually get to the hut and the disposable ponchos did spare our change of clothes in the packs but other members of our hiking team were soaked to the bone. You just don't expect to leave the base lodge on a sunny day, temps climbing into the 80s, and hit rain with hurricane winds on the same day. That's Mt. Washington for ya -- the most unpredictable weather in the United States, so they say.

That's life, too, isn't it? Unpredictable like a sunny day turning into something unexpectedly cold and windy? I never thought we'd use those ponchos from Target -- for emergency only, I told the kids -- but we did use them and we were grateful. Be prepared for anything. With life, be prepared for anything.

I liked being tucked in the ravine looking out over the vast range of White Mountains, the markings of a dormant ski area, fast-moving, white, fluffy clouds. When we turned the other way, we could see the trail ahead and moving spots of red and blue, other hikers who had ventured onward up the mountain. Life is that journey where we can take a pause, re-evaluate where we are and where we're headed, but, oftentimes, it is in vain. I didn't expect the rain.

I didn't expect much of what has happened in my life.

Having that poncho tucked into my backpack was like having a little bit of faith tucked into my heart. Faith keeps me moving along the trail when life brings me unexpected rain. I have it to take those fearless next steps forward. I could succumb to the cold and naked lonely fright of trying to be in control, but I prefer to take pause where and when I can -- like in the belly of the ravine -- and move forward in a spirit of learning and adventure with trust in something greater. Life is just more fun not knowing and trusting in something beyond myself.

The rain just made the whole trip more interesting.

That's how I see it.

Our Future: Micromanipulated Food

Scientists everywhere are looking for the next magic pill, that little jolt of something that will turn us from aging and obese couch potatoes to ageless and vibrant gods and goddesses. We've seen the vitamin pill go from obscurity to being essential. We've watched breads and milk get fortified with a number of different vitamins, all lost in the food processing. If we just ate the whole grain of wheat in the first place, without having processed out the bran and germ, we wouldn't have to add all those B-vitamins back into our Wonder Bread! I think you know where I'm going with this.

The idea of extracting the micronutrients from foods and then either putting them back into processed foods or in a pill form feels like a whole lot of trouble for nothing. Food scientists everywhere take the food, dissect it to death in a laboratory, quantify the amazing coincidence that the food contains all kinds of nutrients that are beneficial for our bodies and then hype up their discoveries to the public. When I was pregnant, I was warned that I needed to get enough folic acid in my diet to prevent my babies from getting spina bifida. Fair enough. I took my daily dose in a pill form. A few years later, I watched as the bread companies decided to fortify their foods with folic acid. This would ensure that all mothers would get enough in their diets. We all eat bread, right? Well, some of us eat bread and take supplements, which then prompted a new study suggesting that we were getting too much folic acid. I'm tired just thinking of the time and money wasted on the whole bloody food science system. Just eat the whole food, assume it's got what your body needs and move on.

But no. We're too smart for that. We must dissect and micromanipulate food until it resembles something from a Star Trek movie.

Just this morning, I read that Mr. McClement, a food scientist at UMASS Amherst, is trying to take the naturally occurring (in milk) butyric acid and put it into a fiber-encapsulated pill so it will be better absorbed by the body. Apparently, its anticancer benefits are lost before they reach the colon where its absorption is optimal for the body. The fiber encapsulation will ensure the butyric acid is NOT absorbed until it reaches the colon. I'm tired already.

How long will it take before Mr. McClement is touted as the guru of butyric acid and the doctors of America start telling their patients to buy the butyric acid pills? We've seen it with C0Q10. CoQ10 became the biggest essential pill for heart patients everywhere. The magic pill. The micronutrient du jour. Why not just get the CoQ10 you need from fish or wheat germ? Oh, that's right -- we ripped the germ right off the whole grain to make our breads more shelf stable and lost the C0Q10 in the process. We're deficient? No kidding. Well, we'll just have to start supplementing with a pill.

Apparently, this same mad scientist wants to create "low fat" versions of naturally high fat foods so we can enjoy the high fat taste without the high fat calories. Yummy. Doesn't that sound delicious? I can stuff my face with chocolate cake and not gain an ounce? The problem here is that this concept is appealing to way too many people out there and will probably find its marketing genius that will make food companies richer than ever. But here's the realilty check. Remember Olestra? The WOW chip? I can have my chips and eat them, too? I could eat all I wanted because Olestra was too big a "fat" to be absorbed by the intestine so it passed right through, calorie-free. But, as it passed, it also ripped the intestines clean of the good stuff and people ended up with vitamin deficiencies and, here's a turnoff, anal leakage.

I'd rather just eat a few natural potato chips than suffer from anal leakage, wouldn't you?

(photo lifted from Lempert Report)

The spirited Henry Louis Gates

Leaving South Beach in Martha's Vineyard today, I found spirit -- the spirited Henry Louis Gates -- sitting on his bicycle. I first noticed the back of his t-shirt that read, "Inkwell," the name of a famous beach in Oak Bluffs. I immediately wanted that same shirt! As I approached him from behind to ask him where he got the t-shirt, I noticed a woman standing behind her car, filming him. Then, my husband, Tim, whispered in my ear, "You know who that is, right?" I looked at him strangely (feeling like an ignoramus) "It's Professor Gates," he says.

My 13-year old daughter, Bea, says out loud, "Professor Who?"

"Don't be afraid," says Gates to the cloistering videographer. "I'll answer your questions."

The questions popped from everywhere. "Mr. Gates, do you think the officer acted out of line?"
"Mr. Gates, what's going to happen next?"

Mr. Gates responded, "Well, we're meeting at the White House this Thursday. I'm sure he's a nice man."

Then we took advantage of this photo opportunity and a robust conversation in the car on the way home. I won't even begin to imagine what took place that night in Cambridge but I will say that I am grateful this unfortunate circumstance has opened up an opportunity to talk about an issue that oftentimes goes underground. Whether this instance serves an example of racial profiling or not, it opens up the door for people to discuss lingering forms of racism around dinner tables across America -- and, hopefully, very soon, as a history lesson to our children.

Fatten Up Your Veggies

So, Iowa State University has concluded in one of its nutritional studies that it is healthier for us to eat veggies that are drizzled with a little oil than, say, raw and plain. Apparently, the nutritional benefit of the plant -- vitamins, minerals, antioxidants -- is better absorbed by the body if we add a little fat to the mix. Those subjects who ate fat-free salad dressing (an oxymoron, really) did not absorb the phytonutrients as well as those who ate regular dressings.

Let me stray onto the path of fat-free for a second. As any of my readers know, I am anti-fat-free. I hate the movement. I hate that it's upped our sugar intake And I hate that people still follow the advice like dumb sheep. The problem lies in the limited word choice -- fat. A rational mind would assume that eating fat makes you fat. That's where the problem begins. The fats we eat are called fat, but we should start calling them "lipids" -- the proper chemical term -- or dietary fats (you choose). Lipids, or dietary fats, are insoluble in water but soluble in organic solvents -- monoglycerides, diglycerides, triglycerides, phosphatides, cerebrosides, sterols, terpenes, fatty alcohols, and fatty acids. The fats we EAT -- lipids, or dietary fats -- give us energy, carry fat-soluble vitamins such as A, D, E, K (Do you think it's a coincidence that we have a collective deficiency of Vitamin D in America? We can't absorb the darn vitamin because we're not eating the fat it needs to be absorbed.) Dietary fats are also used as structural components of the brain and cell membranes. This is extremely important -- brain (for obvious reasons) and cell components. The cell is the foundational block of the human body. Without solid cells, nothing else can be built. We need strong cells. We need fat to build cell structures.

Now we understand the importance of dietary fats. In light of this, it comes as no surprise that the vitamins in the fruits and vegetables are better absorbed if we add a bit of dietary fat. Consider the dietary fat a partner in the digestive process, a helper.

I'm not suggesting we all douse our green beans with scads of butter, particularly if the butter is not organic, but I rejoice when any study confirms that going "fat free" makes no sense. Eating fat does not make you fat. Eating high cholesterol foods does not give you high cholesterol. We need a clearer language to help understand the difference between dietary fat and the extra spongy yellow adipose tissue we're all lugging around and the difference between the exogenous cholesterol (the stuff we eat) and the endogenous cholesterol (the stuff we make in our bodies).

We need new words for a smarter population of eaters.

Happy 22nd Birthday To My Ray-Bans!

Ok, not a flattering picture. My 7-year old snapped it before I had my coffee but I was in a rush to tell my blogger friends my Ray-Ban story. If Ray-Ban hears my story, I might go national!

The aviator shades I am sporting in this photo that were purchased 22 years ago have boomeranged back into fashion. Well, if they had gold or silver or white frames, I'd be more fashionable but the "fly look" is back in full swing. When I saw them hitting the revolving racks in the stores, I almost fell over. Since 1987, I have worn my shades religiously and have caught a lot of heat about it. In Martha's Vineyard, I would pull them out of my beach bag while vacationing with my in-laws and, inevitably, my fashionista sister-in-law would quip, "You look like a fly."

"Fly" as in bug, not pilot.

I didn't care. They protected me from the sun's glaring rays. They stuck to my head while I served in the Peace Corps smack dab on the earth's equator in Papua New Guinea. They jostled around my backpack as I trekked around the Asia/Pacific. My eyes have sparkled, teared and wrinkled behind them over these past 22 years.

They are in perfect shape...
and in fashion once again.

Thank you, Ray-Ban, for the memories.
I have found spirit in your product.
They were worth every penny.