Writing Memorable Words

Adjust the Volume in Your Mind

2011-11-30T13:39:00.000-08:00

Imagination is an enriching, harmonious soundtrack playing in one's mind; worry is distracting, cacophonous background noise interrupting the mind. As you turn up the volume on imagination with the help of inspiring voices--of friends and mentors, authors, artists, Nature--who help you dance through life, you will simultaneously turn down the noise that paralyzes you.

The key to volume control is not just a good sound system, but a strong listening system, powered by intention. If you think of your life as a movie, you will intentionally choose a soundtrack to enrich the daily flashing images that constitute your life. Some moments require sounds of Nature, others require the harmony of artistic voices, and still other scenes beg for the sounds of silence. How you listen to those chosen sounds will determine how they affect your mood as the story pulls you along.

Right now, as I type, I hear harmony in the steady clicking of my keyboard, the birds twittering outside the open screen door, the scratching of my little dog, asking me to let him in ("Just a minute!" I call now, as a still smooth bridge section of my soundtrack)....

Suddenly, worry about the editing job I'm behind on blasts a jarring note into my head as I think about finishing this blog post, and forget about enjoying the process.

I'm tuning it out, adding this paragraph instead. And as I type these words, I hear my magical wind chimes start ringing outside, coincidentally, in a sudden breeze that has crept into the room and up my back. Sounds of imagination become multisensory....

I shiver, smile to myself now, and type:
End of post.
Off to dance now...

Prompted by a Picture from Facebook

2011-10-05T12:19:00.000-07:00

I saw this incredible photo of a sculpture on Facebook (thanks to Glenda!), and my mind went into action, creating tag lines:

Nothing's set in stone--break free!

We are never stuck if we just step forward.

Emotional paralysis comes from letting others sculpt your identity.

Don't let the medium into which you were born define the artistry you create of your life.

The most memorable moments in life occur when we leap beyond the walls that form our illusory boundaries.

I think I can, and I do! (Okay, it's kind of borrowed from a little engine...)

What would YOU write to go with this inspiring picture?

Finding Common Ground

2011-09-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

A dear friend of mine, Bob Nelson, is a motivational speaker and author, and in his presentations of his recent book, Ubuntu (http://www.ubuntuthebook.com/), he opens with an ice-breaker game that forces participants to find one thing in common with every person they meet during the session. That simple, yet brilliant, getting-to-know-you game got me thinking....

Shouldn't we all try to find at least one thing in common with EVERY person we meet, EVERY day? Wouldn't life improve on earth if all people practiced looking for commonalities with strangers, rather than avoiding getting know others based on assumptions about NOT having anything in common with them?

Many social enrichment programs today claim to foster togetherness and unity, when, in fact, they foster the opposite by stressing the very concepts that divide people from each other. Ironically using slogans like "teach tolerance," "celebrate differences," and "embrace diversity," such programs focus on how we treat strangers, rather than on how we find friends among former strangers.

A shift in mindset, focusing on commonalities, would be best represented by new slogans, such as: "teach acceptance," "celebrate commonalities," and "embrace unity." Focusing on that which unites us is the only way to eradicate xenophobia and break barriers. The current approach in many social programs does nothing to break down the walls between cultures and countries, neighborhoods and nations; rather, we find ourselves merely painting those walls, to disguise their function by painting them with brightly colored slogans, as though they were art.

"Find one thing you have in common with a stranger." Powerful, memorable, life-changing words.

Sparked by FIREGIRL...

2011-08-11T21:36:00.000-07:00

In writing the following review of one of my new favorite children’s books, I learned a painful lesson about a problem in one of my own book projects—a problem I did not see clearly until now. More on that later....

Here’s the review: Firegirl, by Tony Abbott , is a middle-grade novel that I want every one of my students to read—even the ones older than 13. The first word that comes to my mind to describe this book is HONEST. The second is REALISTIC. The narrator is a 7th grade boy who crosses the invisible boundary created by his fearfully judgmental classmates between themselves and the new girl--a horribly disfigured, lonely burn victim. He first communicates with her not out of courage, but out of obligation; he then befriends her not out of heroic compassion, but out of poignant empathy.

Tom is not an author’s mouthpiece, a puppet-like hero character who acts extraordinarily mature or philosophical to show other characters, as well as readers, how to act toward people who are different and suffering because of their differences. No, Tom is an ordinary, awkward, insecure, and sincere middle-school boy, which is why his reluctant boundary crossing makes him a realistic hero in the end. He admits to being afraid of his burned friend, and to feeling scared about speaking up for her. His fear is how readers connect to him, and his admirable introspective ability evolves naturally from his experience, rather than appearing as a gift with which the author has blessed him, conveniently, to help teach a lesson. This book offers, in addition to a heart-warming story, a writing lesson in characterization—a lesson I have learned.

The main character in my middle-grade novel has been called “too good” and “too wise” by some of the fellow authors who have critiqued my novel-in-progress. Though my protagonist’s hardships helped him develop his introspective quality, he communicates his acquired wisdom far too well, I realize, to be believable. He needs to be more awkward, less confident, more himself, less me. Even if my story has a fantastical bent, my character will garner more love if he is more like my readers. An “Aha!” moment…

THIS IS WHY NOVELISTS SHOULD REVISE BASED NOT ONLY ON CRITIQUES AND THE ADVICE OF OTHER PROFESSIONAL WRITERS, BUT ALSO—AND MOST IMPORTANTLY—ON THE LESSONS LEARNED FROM READING NOVELS IN OUR GENRES UNTIL WE FIND THE PARTICULAR NOVEL THAT PRESENTS THE PARTICULAR LESSON THAT PERFECTLY APPLIES TO OUR PARTICULAR STORY. Whereas the critiques I have received have certainly helped me, reading Firegirl has fanned the sparks I’ve received from others into a blazing recognition. Now off to revise I go…for the last time, I hope.

Prompted by a Clever Email...

2011-06-11T17:08:00.000-07:00

"To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target."

A friend of mine just emailed me a list of lines like that one, lines called "paraprosdokian," which make the reader back up and reread, smiling with a new understanding. One of the best emails I've received in years! I plan to use many of the lines as writing prompts for my students, but first I will use the one above as a prompt for my own writing, here....

What a circular feat of marksmanship, when you can declare yourself a bulls-eye no matter where your mark lands! This reminds me of people I've met who need to win at everything (or at least to appear successful), so they reinvent the goals as they pursue them, so that they can always end with the convincing assertion, "That's exactly what I meant to do/say/prove," no matter what happens. This is like the author whose book gets banned for actually inciting drug use among teen readers, but rather than express remorse or outrage, the author nods and says, "It's a sad consequence, but that's why I had to write those passages--to bring forward those predisposed to drug abuse, so that they could be treated and helped." Random consequences that seem to "miss the mark" thus disappear when the end is not predetermined. It's like the justification, "Obviously, this just wasn't meant to be then," when used as a cover up for feelings of inadequacy. That's not to say that I don't think "things happen for a reason," or some occurrences are "meant to be." I do. I just DON'T think they serve as rationalizations for missing one's mark; I thing that part of pursuing one's goals with integrity and tenacity is the equal ability of admitting one's inadequate results, with the aim of finding a more effective manner to pursue similar goals in the future.

Similarly, some take credit where none is due, claiming that they intentionally "hit the mark" when they did so accidentally. But to save face, they move their target, so to speak. One of my poems was once featured in a poetry analysis column in The Writer, and the columnist praised my poem for its Shakespearian double entendres in the final line--two of them. I knowingly created ONE of those double meanings, and only realized the second one when she pointed it out. I could have claimed, "Of course, that's exactly why I chose that word," but I'd be lying. (To this day, I tell that story to my students when pointing out some of their unintentional, serendipitously perfect word choices, making them laugh over their own subconscious, natural brilliance!)

The idea of changing the target as our shot lands also reminds me of using situational ethics--changing the rules to fit a context and serve one's ego. For instance, a person justifies accepting an illegally burned film on DVD, saying, "I'm only showing it to my friends because they'll get a thrill out of seeing the film before everyone else. It's not like I'm charging admission and making money off the filmmaker's work. THAT would be stealing, but this isn't." Translation: "My friends will think I'm cool for giving them a sneak preview, AND for saving them money." Never mind the fact, when pointed out to the DVD "owner," that the friends would have been paying patrons of the film if they had to wait to see it in a theater! That's not stealing? Change the definition, change the legitimacy. Aim for a fixed target and you could end up on the outer rim, or worse, on the dirt beside the target. But move the target to meet the flying arrow, and you're sure to seem like a winner.

That paraprosdokian pondering sheds light on the irony of self-righteousness in a world governed by relativity. We cannot "miss our marks" in the absence of clearly defined, stationary targets/goals/values. But is hitting the mark really as important as the manner in which we aim? And is missing what we aimed for actually something to be ashamed of, or an opportunity for continued growth?

Moving Pictures

2011-04-25T21:48:00.000-07:00

Writing that comes alive in a reader's mind uses what I call the D.A.D. Technique(Description, Action, and Dialogue) to connect the movie playing in the writer's imagination to the blank screen in the reader's head. The vivid verbal movie is in "HD" and "3D" when the writer employs multisensory imagery and realistic dialogue, along with revealing close ups on characters, to transfer the footage to the reader. Writing that uses only dialogue conveys a mere audio clip, with a blank picture. Writing that uses only visual description without enough action serves as a mere slide show; whereas action scenes, with little description and no dialogue, portray nothing more than a silent movie in the reader's cerebral screen.

Memorable words comprise experiences, first conceived in a writer's mind, and then translated into words that SHOW, not merely tell about the scene. If we writers cannot get a clear picture of a scene in our own heads, we are not yet ready to transfer that scene to paper, and then to a reader's mind. Writing to communicate word pictures requires time to imagine and time to craft a preview version, time to share the preview, and time to revise it before the debut of the fully developed feature film of words.

As books move more and more to screens over pages, we writers need to keep in mind the importance of creating memorable images to compete with our sister industry, that of Film.

Prompted by Poetry...

2011-04-21T19:41:00.000-07:00

Miller’s Faithful Ball-Fetcher
(a dog’s-eye view response to Miller Williams’s poem “Listen")
By Susan L. Lipson (4/11)

Where’d it go? Where’d it go?
He threw the white ball, I saw it!
So where’d it go?
No smell to follow?
Maybe the chilling wind grabbed the scent from me?
My nose feels so cold, freezing cold,
Colder than my paws, now sinking into shifting, wet ground—
What humans call “snow,” I think.
Maybe the ball sunk, too?
“I’ll find it, Master!” I bark.
He barks back my name, “Fritz,” and “Come!”
I ignore him and keep searching,
Fearing that he’ll lose faith in me,
The Best Ball Fetcher, his Good Dog!
I’ll make a bigger loop.
Sniff, sniff, sniff…no luck.
He barks again,
And I bark back, “No, I didn’t find it yet!
But I will! I’m trying! I’ll bring it back to you!”
Round and round and round I run,
Till my paws feel numb.
I hang my head.
Failure. Bad Dog.
I shake off the dampness
And trudge toward him,
My tail between my legs.

Why does he pet me now?
He can’t possibly be proud!
So why?
He won’t stop petting me,
Softly speaking my name,
Petting and petting me
With his warm hands,
Till we both feel warm again.

AND HERE IS WILLIAMS'S POEM THAT PROMPTED MINE:

Listen
By Miller Williams

I threw a snowball across the backyard.
My dog ran after it to bring it back.
It broke as it fell, scattering snow over snow.
She stood confused, seeing and smelling nothing.
She searched in widening circles until I called her.

She looked at me and said as clearly in silence
as if she had spoken,
I know it's here, I'll find it,
went back to the center and started the circles again.

I called her two more times before she came
slowly, stopping once to look back.

That was this morning. I'm sure that she's forgotten.
I've had some trouble putting it out of my mind.

The Game of Things

2011-04-04T00:53:00.000-07:00

My friends brought over a fun word game the other night: The Game of Things. One person picks a category card that describes "Things that...," and everyone writes her/his example to fit that category on individual slips of paper. The player who chose the card collects all of the slips and reads them aloud. Then the players guess, one by one, who wrote which example/answer, pondering and usually laughing over the appropriateness of each response.

One of the players at our table picked a category card that read something like, "Things that Will Keep You from Getting to Heaven." My smart friend Tina's response will stay with me for a long time: "A lack of good direction." Literally and figuratively, one needs good direction to get to Heaven, yes! That answer won my prize for memorable words--a mention in my blog! Woo hoo!

How would YOU answer this category with a double entendre: "Things that Move"? Or how about "Things that Slow People Down"?

Can you make up your own category that might lend itself to a profound double meaning? Try it; it's fun!

P.S. My answers to the above two proposed categories: "letters being typed into words" and "worn-out soles/souls."

Enlightened Eskimos

2011-03-23T02:16:00.000-07:00

"Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy." --Eskimo Proverb

I had read this proverb years ago, and then read it again today on a friend's Facebook page. (Who says that Facebook pages have no words of depth, huh?) I find this image of stars as openings in a temporarily black sky-cover so comforting. These words remind us that we cannot know Light except by contrast with Darkness, just as we cannot know Goodness without Badness, or Life without Death to outline it for us. We must therefore embrace, not fear, Night; for the twinkling stars that illuminate our visions could indeed be powered by the still-glowing soul sparks of those we miss during our darkest hours. The lost loved ones are thus never lost, but rather, like night lights to chase away nightmares and bring on sweet dreams. Like peep holes to heaven, the stars seen by wise Eskimos offer an opening to connect us with the universe itself.

I look at the night sky with awe and nostalgia, silently thanking my ancestors, both ancient and contemporary, for reminding me where they are, and where I will meet them someday. I'm hoping to form a brilliant new constellation with my beloved stars then....

New Vision

2011-03-09T11:29:00.000-08:00

Vision
By Susan L. Lipson

If hindsight could play leapfrog
with current sight, we’d know
that what we saw as hurtful
was a chance for us to grow;
and what we saw as pain
would look like setting up a stage
for joys we’ll soon experience
once we get past our rage.
If hindsight took the foreground,
would we make the same mistakes?
Would we then notice our blessings,
and develop what it takes
to live, not just survive,
to see the lessons in each day,
to feel our will at work with God’s,
and our power as we pray?
If hindsight could play leapfrog
with current sight, we’d know
that faith expressed through ACTIONS
is the leap that helps us grow.

Was Einstein Right About Imagination Being More Important than Knowledge?

2011-02-24T08:33:00.000-08:00

To analyze Einstein’s assertion that “imagination is more important than knowledge” requires definitions of “knowledge,” “imagination,” and “important.” Knowledge is an attribute gained by study, synthesis, and application of information and materials already in existence. Imagination is an innate ability exercised by creative impulses that bring new information and materials into existence. Knowledge requires information; imagination inspires information. The depth of our knowledge depends upon the strength of our commitment to study, and upon our memory. The depth of our imagination depends upon the strength of our creative impulses and our willingness to act upon our inspirations. Anyone with a functioning brain can develop knowledge, but not anyone can develop an imagination.
Imagination leads to evolution, a forward movement like swimming to a new shore, while knowledge leads to enrichment, which is less like swimming and more like treading water. For example, Einstein, dissatisfied with the body of knowledge available to him in his search for answers to perplexing problems of the universe, instead created entirely new theories within his own mind, countering established information, and leading to an evolution in physics itself. Since his creation of the theory of relativity, scientists have expanded upon the knowledge he created from his imagination, enriching his theories. Consider also the ancient invention of aspirin as a pain reliever and fever reducer, an invention that evolved from a scientist’s imagination (and historians still debate the identity of exactly which scientist invented aspirin). When the use of aspirin eventually revealed a side effect, blood-thinning, modern scientists applied their knowledge of aspirin’s effects to the modern-day prescription of aspirin in smaller doses for maintaining healthy blood flow. Invention obviously precedes new knowledge, but the new knowledge may then enrich our lives even more than someone originally imagined. Thus, while knowledge keeps us afloat and strengthens us, only imagination truly propels us forward.
If we define importance as “the potential for affecting the world,” then yes, imagination is more important than knowledge, as Einstein declared. If, however, we define importance as “value for the sake of personal growth,” then a balance of knowledge and imagination is more important than an abundance of only one. The pursuit of knowledge connects us with our predecessors by honoring their imaginations, whereas the exercise of imagination connects us with future generations who will build upon the knowledge we have established. The weighing of imagination against knowledge is thus affected by…relativity!

Ignoring Signs

2011-01-28T09:23:00.000-08:00

Signs on the highway foretell upcoming construction, accidents, bumps along our way. They glare in yellow or red, catching our eyes and redirecting us, sometimes in the nick of time for the least aware drivers. Do divine signs--the intangible ones that disguise themselves as coincidences--glare in the same way in our lives, yet without flashing lights or glow-in-the-dark metal? Do we need some special awareness to notice them BEFORE life happens? How do we cultivate the vision we need to perceive such signs and to avoid recognizing them only when it's too late: "Ah, I should have see that coming! All the signs were there!" Furthermore, how do we know that the signs ARE signs, and not just our imaginations colored by hopes or fears?

Lately, I've been wondering whether I've been overlooking signs regarding my writing career. My printed words have garnered surprise praise from unsought sources, while I continue to mail out children's book manuscripts to agents who reject them for lack of their own time or enthusiasm; or agents (TWO) who actually LOSE my submissions, after months in which I imagined them reading and sharing my words with the members of their office, and after ignoring my email inquiries about the status of my submission finally write sheepish replies to admit that they lost my work and apologize--without offering to make it up to me by reading my work as a new, top-priority submission. Did you hear the long sigh that punctuated that run-on sentence? Ah...

Anyway, the unsolicited praise I HAVE received lately concerns writing that I am NOT currently submitting for representation or publication: scripts, songs, and essays. Maybe this weird recurrence of compliments is a sign that I should refocus my attention? Maybe the compliments are gifts of guidance from Beyond, to help me redirect my efforts? Let me explain the possible "signs" I have lately received....

In the last two weeks, my scriptwriting skills have been praised by my daughter's acting coaches and casting directors who, while auditioning her with a script that I wrote for her (an adaptation of one of my unappreciated novels-in-submission!), asked her where she got this "amazing script" and even approached me after the audition to commend my writing skills. My songwriting skills have brought me requests to either sing or grant permission to another singer to sing my original liturgical music in synagogue. And my essay-writing skills have brought me surprising emails from parents of prospective students and other bloggers who have invited me to contribute to THEIR blogs. What does this mean? Should I switch to writing screenplays and songs and essays? Am I overlooking potential success outside of children's book publishing? Or are these peripheral mini-successes, meant to spur me onward and not lost my drive for my goal of publishing another novel for kids?

I even wrote myself a song about this very topic, months ago, but never heeded the advice that sang itself into my ear until I wrote down the lyrics and sang them into my computer's recording device. "Am I manufacturing signs, signs to guide me, since I am lost?... Am I overlooking connections, connections who'll get me further along? Maybe it's a matter of timing, timing that's part of some divine song?"

Signs, or willful imaginings? How do we know? How do we learn to trust ourselves? On the other hand, how do we keep from "poo-pooing" signs that scare us--about our health or the health of others, for example? How I wish the signs would appear in neon lights instead of ghostly flashes of insight! How I wish the "chills of confirmation" that many of us imagine/perceive (?) would instead become physical shaking by Divine "hands"!

I hereby vow to trust myself to see more clearly. But I also plead with the Giver of Signs to be a little more obvious, pretty please? Maybe this blog post is a sign?

Memorable Words on Fame

2010-11-03T09:57:00.000-07:00

My actress daughter and I were discussing the desperate behavior of some teary-eyed fans who appeared at the window of a set she worked on last week. "There she is! Hi, Victoria! Look over here!" they shrieked at the 17-year-old star of the show. My daughter called the gawkers "freakish" and told me that Victoria showed more tolerance for the crazed fans than they deserved.

"After all," my daughter explained, "even Victoria doesn't think of herself as being in some higher class than others. She talked to me like one high school girl to another. And I liked her because she was really friendly and fun to talk to, not because she has her own TV show. If I met her at school, and not on a set, I'd want to be her friend. Some of the other extras on set with me only cared about getting a picture of themselves with her, while I wanted to know her."

I replied, "You want to know her because you want to know her. The star-struck fans want to know her so that they can SAY they know her. That's one of the difficulties of fame: knowing who really admires you versus who wants to use you."

My daughter described Victoria's demeanor as one that says to others, "Hey, I'm just like you, except I have my own TV show, rather than, Hey, I'm just like you...only better!" The latter type are usually in the business of seeking fame, not artistic achievement, and most often, they are the "wannabes," not the successful. "I can't stand it when an acting teacher asks our class why we want to act and some of my classmates say, 'To be famous.' That's not a reason to act."

Remember this the next time you meet a "star": He or she is just a person whose achievements have brought not only admiration from others, but public visibility as well. Most "stars" don't think of themselves as some higher class of human; fans put them in that awkward position. Imagine their point-of-view, being more visible as a persona than as a person. Sounds as lonely as it is exhilarating.

On Tolerance

2010-09-21T00:53:00.000-07:00

"Tolerance" doesn't guarantee "acceptance" any more than "legal" guarantees "ethical." I see "tolerance" as a smile over gritted teeth, while "acceptance" is a relaxed smile and a nod. I see "tolerance" as a euphemism for "I'll pretend to like you if you pretend to like me." I see "acceptance" as a heartfelt "It's so nice to know you and learn from you."

To tolerate someone is to put up with them. To accept them is to connect with them.

We need to abandon "tolerance" as a loosely disguised term for politically correct civility; a phony, self-righteous word for people who wish to appear open-minded and loving to their fellow human beings; and an erroneous synonym for acceptance. We need to use words honestly.

Lyrics from My Newest Song, "Breathe"

2010-09-20T14:06:00.000-07:00

Breathe
A song by Susan L. Lipson, Copyright September 2010

Some days every stranger seems familiar
And yet when I smile at you, I get a blank stare in return.
You see walls between us,
Such illusions, such delusions, such intrusions
That prevent us from connecting.
And yet when you think about us scientifically,
How can we be strangers when we share the air we breathe?

CHORUS 1
I breathe you
So to deceive you
Is like lying to myself.
I breathe you
So to relieve you
is like comforting myself.
I breathe you
So to conceive of you
as one with me is true…

BRIDGE
For how can we be strangers
When we intimately share
The air that we both breathe;
Exchanging each breath from birth to death,
So what are ‘strangers’ when we all share air….

CHORUS 2
I breathe you
So to believe you
Is like trusting in myself.
I breathe you
So to retrieve you
Is like rescuing myself.
I breathe you
So to receive from you
Is giving back as well….

BRIDGE REPEATS, followed by an instrumental, bringing it down to opening melody:

Walls dissolve between us when we really wish to see;
How can we be strangers when we share the air we breathe?

Please let me know if you like the lyrics. I've recorded this a capella on an mp3, but I plan record to add instrumental accompaniment soon, once I can lure my accompanists back from their college lives for a school break. If you want to hear it when it's done, let me know....

The Music of Language

2010-08-25T22:58:00.000-07:00

In Italy a few weeks ago, as I listened to the musical cadence of spoken Italian, I imagined notes on a staff: three or four on the same line of each measure, then one longer note jumping to the top of the staff, followed by a final note on the same line as the initial three notes. Every sentence, even the most mundane, sounds like a melody in Italia....

"Ba-BA ba BAAAA ba," bleets the Italian sheep before supplying the milk for the creamy balls of wet mozzarella hiding beneath the freshest basil leaves and sugary tomato slices.

"Please, signOOOOra, allow me to HEEEELP you," insists the fawning sales clerk in the Limoncello store, pouring shots of lemony liqueur for anyone, regardless of age, who checks out the beautiful cello-shaped bottles filled with yellow syrup that warms the throat and stomach on the way down.

"One pomoDOOOORa pizza--si, signOOORA?" asks the waiter in Naples, who believes that his meter-long pizza outclasses all other pizzas simply because pizza was invented in Naples.

Yes, even I, asking the basest question, "Where is the toilet/restroom?", feel compelled to imitate the cadence of the Italian musical phrase: "Do-ve la toi-LEHEHEHEH-te?" My kids smirk. They say I imitate everyone with an accent when I talk to them. I argue that if I DO imitate a foreigner, I have shown a sincere form of flattery, to show respect for the foreigner, not a desire to poke fun at him/her.
When in Rome...

ArrivedEEEERci!

BLT

2010-04-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

In my computer documents file, I found my old submission for a Writers Digest "Your Assignment" contest, instructing writers to rewrite, in 75 words or less, a scene from a well-known piece of literature so that the antagonist defeats the protagonist and the story ends "unhappily ever after." I chose, of course (as a children's book author myself), a children's book to "blacken." I hope you find my alteration of Charlotte's Web as amusing as I did in rediscovering the short piece today (even though it never won a prize).

B.L.T.
by Susan L. Lipson, Poway, CA

Templeton, fed up with the attention lavished on that stupid pig Wilbur, scrambled up the barn post toward Charlotte's web, planning revenge via vandalism. The spider's newest woven word for Wilbur, "BRILLIANT," shone in her web--yet another phony testimonial to keep the superstitious farmer from slaughtering Wilbur. Templeton snickered as he pulled out the letters "ril," then ripped out "ian," leaving 3 letters that would seal his porcine pal's fate.

Tap Dancing and Courageous Writers

2010-03-20T17:13:00.001-07:00

Tap-dancing has much more embarrassment potential to a beginner than jazz dancing does. I know--I've been taking tap classes. Sometimes I wish those metal plates would fall off so that my missteps would not broadcast themselves to my fellow dancers. Sometimes I think I would have been better off in jazz dancing classes, where the shoes are soft and the missteps easier to cover. But jazz wouldn't have helped me as much with my writing as tap does.

Just as tapping on the wrong beat will call attention to my need to practice more, sharing my writing with a critique group makes my errant verbal beats public and undeniable, calling my attention to my need to revise. I used to keep my works-in-progress mostly to myself, until I felt they were ready for submission, and my soft-shoe approach allowed me to overlook what the tap-shoe approach--the public read-aloud in a critique group--would have made apparent. I wasted a lot of time by not tap-dancing as a writer and overpowering my own former insecurities.

Everyone in my tap dancing class can hear each other's missteps as we try out our new routines, just as my fellow writers can hear each other's mistakes loudly and clearly. Tap dancing has reinforced for me my need to goof up publicly without the ability to cover up with fancy footwork. Jazz dancers, with soft shoes, like writers who never share their work in a public way, can attempt to revise their errors and hope that no one notices. Tap dancers and courageous writers who share their works-in-progress can't take back the sounds they've emitted, and thus become more determined NOT to make the same errant sounds again.

When people ask me, "What on earth made you agree to take tap classes?," I answer, "It's a challenge--embarrassing sometimes, but actually fun. And, my writing critique partner talked me into it! She's very convincing."

Words to Benefit Others

2010-03-11T18:27:00.000-08:00

"Happiness comes when your work and words are of benefit to yourself and others." -Buddha That's my reason for writing words and songs, and for teaching. The Buddha summed it up!

I wrote a song the other day for the purpose of healing my community, despondent as many of us are since the discovery of the murders of Chelsea King and Amber Dubois. Some might assume that I want to share the song, my husband pointed out, out of egotistical reasons, to get fans. That thought had not occurred to me, because I only thought of the song as a kind of offering, to benefit myself by healing others, to feel as though I could do something to help, instead of feeling so helpless, as most of our community feels now. I know my husband is right, that people assume writing and sharing is about ego. But it's not for me. It's a higher purpose.

Contradiction Within a Metaphor

2010-03-04T13:55:00.000-08:00

While discussing my plans for the enormous success of a newly finished manuscript with my son (as if planning has anything to do with success!), I mused, "Ah, I'll be in heaven when that happens."

My wise son replied, "That's a weird expression, Mom. It can be both negative AND optimistic. You could be saying that success won't happen till after you're dead. Or you could be envisioning the joy you expect to happen."

Maybe I should have used a simile instead: "Ah, I'll feel like I'm in heaven when that happens."

Word power...

Reverberation

2010-03-04T13:45:00.000-08:00

You get an idea for a poem or a story, but you're in your car or out walking, somewhere impossible to write. And the idea spins into lines in your head, begging to be recorded. You worry that you'll forget this windfall of words before you can write them down. My advice to you: Don't strain to record them later if they were but temporary traveling partners. You wouldn't try to force a friendship with someone you met on the road unless some surprising, special bond had occurred. The same applies to your words.

I have learned to trust the power of reverberation in my writing life.

Reverberation is a quality directly proportional to the quality of the words. Great words tend to stick around and echo in your head till they're recorded. They are memorable because, by definition, they are "able to be remembered"--by the author as well as the reader. If you've forgotten your own words, chances are that someone else will forget them, too.

Trust the power of reverberation, and recognize that memorable words flow--they can never be manufactured.

On Passion: Thanksgiving-Related, Spiritual Thoughts

2009-11-22T14:24:00.000-08:00

If we are vehicles traveling various roads to spiritual fulfillment, then passion is our driving fuel. Yet the price for that fuel is the full investment of oneself in living in the present—our Gift from God. Those who constantly live in the past, muttering over the “good old days,” or fretting over the “could’ve-would’ve-should’ves,” cannot feel true passion for any aspect of their existence; the best they can feel is heartfelt reflection, or a sentimental ache. And those who live longingly for the future, murmuring “Someday…” and gazing off to imaginary “better days,” sacrifice the chance for experiencing passion by miring themselves instead in mere anticipation. Those who never experience any intense inspiration, any awe for a process, any fervor for a cause or another living thing, or any overwhelming gratitude for an experience, merely exist, rather than live. Thus, the discovery and nurturing of passion brings with it a heightened awareness of the Now, and an acceleration toward what I call “Shalom Shalem,” meaning “complete peace” in Hebrew.

To pursue one’s passion with love for God and our fellow humans—that is the key to balancing the universe and healing the universe, for in receiving the joy of self-fulfillment, we give our fulfilled selves to our world. We “heal” the breaks between the pieces of God that we all are, those breaks representing the egos that separate us. We abandon our egos and glue ourselves together, thereby solving the puzzle that is GOD. In sum, the pursuit of passion along a road paved with awe, gratitude, and love, is a sublime journey toward Oneness with all.

We must find the sparks within us to be lights unto others.

Dishonoring the Power of the Word "Honor"

2009-10-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

“To honor” is a verb applied to one deserving admiration for strength of character and/or good deeds. Why do people today throw it around as a term to apply to anyone who died, regardless of his/her character or the circumstances of the death?

I’m looking at a news article using “honored,” “honoring,” and “honor” multiple times to recount the death and funeral of a seventeen-year-old boy killed in a car accident as the passenger of a drunk teenage driver. The accident occurred at 1:45 a.m., in a wealthy suburb, long past the legal curfew for underage teens. The driver was reportedly drunk enough that his three passengers could easily have recognized that getting into the car with him posed a danger to them and any other car they encountered. The kids all attended one of our area’s most highly ranked schools, so they were presumably educated about drunk driving, probably with some special presentation at school involving a smashed vehicle and a tear-jerking reenactment of a fatal crash. In other words, not one kid in that car, even the now dead one being “honored,” had an excuse for breaking the law and the hearts of family and friends by 1) being out driving after curfew (the laws were created to protect kids, after all!); 2) drinking alcohol; and 3) getting into a car driven by a drunk.

And we “honor” the dead boy WHY?

“Mourn,” yes.

“Grieve,” certainly.

“Memorialize,” of course.

But “honor”? Was he an admirable asset to his community, a promising scholar, a selfless do-gooder, a pillar of strength for his family? The article says only that he was a surfer, that kids deemed him “funny and a good friend.” Either the journalist left out some very important details to show why he was worthy of “honoring,” or the journalist and all those quoted in the article who used the verb “to honor” in some form have misused, and indeed desecrated, a term that ought to be reserved for the worthy, not just the dead.

Death doesn’t make you honorable. Life, and good choices, do.

I sympathize with the mourners who feel the needless loss of a young man’s life. I really do. Especially with his parents, since I have precious teenagers of my own.

I am not negating the painful love and loss endured by the people at the funeral. On the contrary, I am calling attention to it, to the fact that his death is about pain and loss. Not about honor.

This seventeen-year-old boy’s funeral was deemed by one interviewee in the article as “a celebration of his life.” I see no cause to celebrate the probable misguidance of an irresponsible kid who died due to his own bad choices, pitiable and tragic though that may be. I do see a cause to mourn. And to memorialize, to prevent similar mourning in the future.

By “honoring” a kid for dying in a drunk-driving accident in which he was an accessory to his own manslaughter, we become accessories ourselves—to the denial of responsibility that will lead to the next drunken killing. Let us honor, instead, the power of words, used appropriately: their power to teach by implication.

A Little Alliterative Commentary on Idiotic Idioms

2009-09-09T18:32:00.000-07:00

All Litter Rationalized
By Susan L. Lipson

“My bad!” they say,
Moralizing minor mistakes,
Like leaving litter lying,
Forgetting familiar faces,
Dripping dirty dishwater,
Clumsily creating clutter,
Erroneously erasing email—
Instilling immorality in innocent interactions
by saying, “My bad.”

Whatever happened to “Oops—sorry”?

On Truth

2009-09-07T14:24:00.001-07:00

What is Truth, really? Does it exist independently of perception? To paraphrase the philosophical question about the sound a falling tree makes in a forest: If a truth shows itself, but no one is there to perceive and record it, how can it exist or be shared? I do not believe that truth can exist independently of perception any more than sound exists without an ear to hear it. Furthermore, one ear might perceive the sound of a dropping tree as a crashing death, while another hears it as a soft thud marking a natural cycle; the same applies to our perceptions of truth. Thus, Truth appears to be a relative concept.

Given this philosophical theory of relativity (I nod to Einstein here), I have concluded that truth exists only in the intersection between all of our ideas. In other words, in a Venn diagram of disparate beliefs, the section where our circles overlap is the closest thing to “absolute” truth we can find. Ironically, humans have based most of our world religions on relative truths declared by prophets who received their “revelations” while alone, without numerous witnesses to corroborate and establish an intersection between their relative perceptions of the so-called “revelation.” Why do we accept one person’s perception as a basis for our beliefs? Why do we accept that someone else would be closer to God than we are, as if our own search for truth is unnecessary and meaningless because of some preexisting hierarchy of closeness with God? Are we so sure that our search for truth would only reveal the same truths revealed to some lone prophet from another time, culture, and spiritual place? Or are we lazy, satisfied to have let someone else’s search set precedents for us, without daring to overturn any outdated ideas of the “lower courts” by bringing our contemporary thoughts before the most Supreme Court of all?

In imagining this common view of a hierarchical access to God—through prophets and priests, popes and pastors, rabbis and imams, monks and nuns—I see a mathematical factor tree, with the individual believer viewed as the lowest common denominator. And then I think: but the individual, best represented by the number 1, is part of the top tier of every factor tree. Isn’t it “absolutely” true that 1 multiplied by any and every number equals itself? I don’t think that particular truth is a matter of perception, is it? One is the most important, closest factor of all. You can find it in any Venn diagram of factors, too.

The Venn diagram can thus illustrate figuratively that we, as factors in the calculations of Truth, are all One. Our Oneness is the common thread that connects each to the other. Therefore, we all should have the same power in the equation resulting in Truth, if we seek the intersection of ideas, rather than focusing solely on our own.

My goal as a person, and as a writer, is to share my perceptions, my truths, with the hope that others will find an overlapping point between their views and mine, and then share their findings with me, so that we can move closer to Truth together. That is how writers and readers come together, and how person and person come together as People.

Choosing Our Convictions Through Contrast

2009-09-03T23:14:00.000-07:00

As the dusk defines the day, and sadness defines joy, knowing who we're not helps us define who we truly are. To fully discover and appreciate who we are as individuals, we must get to know individuals outside of our familiar social circles. Only by understanding the concepts and customs of those whose views differ from ours can we understand the meaning, and our acceptance, of the ways we call our own. We see most clearly with the help of contrast.

Contrast in our social groups enables us to see that many people's choices and actions often amount to no more than the circumstances of our births: our parents and our communities drive our earliest expressions of identity, until those expressions are challenged by contrasting expressions from very different kinds of people. And opening ourselves to challenges to our beliefs is a risky action. We risk developing doubts, or discarding our lifelong ideas. We also risk not even entertaining doubts, and stifling our thoughts with dogmatic certainty. Personally, I'd rather think, even if it does confuse or upset me; I'd rather know other perspectives to broaden my own views. I purposely choose friends who differ from me in fundamental ways, because I enjoy learning and growing from simply knowing them. That's not to say I can't experience growth with my "comfort zone" friends, who share my kind of background and beliefs; I can indeed grow with them, but not necessarily from them.

Exploring other perspectives via unlikely friendships can change us profoundly. We may reject our former identities, but that would mean they had weak foundations. On the other hand, we may discover that our own identities, by contrast, now ring much more true than ever before. In that case, we grow from knowing that we have chosen our beliefs and actions consciously and wholeheartedly, based on knowledge, rather than on social pressure or apathetic acceptance.

Recently, while helping a college-bound senior evaluate her college application essay, we discussed an article offering guidance in choosing the best college for one's specific needs and desires. The article posed a guiding question about the composition of the student body: Do you prefer to live among mostly people like yourself or among those who are very different from you? The student said she preferred to be among people like her. I found my eyebrows rising, despite my effort not to judge her answer. She preferred a lack of contrast because it felt safe to her. I imagine seeing her after four years in such a homogeneous environment. She will look older, have a bit more book knowledge, maybe even some social skills she never had before, but fundamentally, she will have the same externally formed sense of her identity that she had as a teenager. The passion of her convictions will stem from fear, insecurity, and ignorance, as well as from group expectations.

To know ourselves enough to assert our convictions credibly and passionately, we must get to know a stranger or two. The brown cliff viewed against a brown sky would not inspire a painter, nor would a blue seagull skimming a blue ocean. Beauty and truth illuminate us via contrast.

Polite Executioner: A Summertime Poem

2009-07-13T22:35:00.000-07:00

Standing in an unusually slow line at the drugstore,
two spray cans of ant killer in my hands,
disgruntled customers in front of, and behind me,
cursing under their breaths and aloud
(one storming out after he slams his unpurchased bottle of mouthwash on the counter),
I imagine the ants in my house having a dance party,
celebrating their stay of execution
as I wait patiently and politely, thanks to my amusing imagination,
and to the notion that this ridiculous line at the store could very well be part of some divine plan to enable a certain, special ant to escape certain death,
or simply to give my six-legged houseguests a chance for a last hurrah
before I succeed in buying and applying their chemical nemesis.
And as the cashier sighs with relief when I greet her with a friendly voice,
I smile at my own method of anger management,
and at the irony of this civilized prelude to a mass murder.

The Thread that Connects Us All

2009-05-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

Nothing exists by itself; everything is part of a greater whole, an unwritten, unspoken Covenant of Being. Isolation is an artificial state contrived to work against the interconnectedness of the natural world. Even actions, as Newton proved, have equal and opposite reactions, and never occur without interconnection. The rock is part of the crumbled mountain—or the sandy beach, solidified. The lone wolf is still part of the pack, and part of his environmental system. The seed, via photosynthesis, is connected to the oxygen that sustains us, as well as the chemicals that break down our bodies when we die. The suicide bomber is connected to a community and to his victims, despite his attempt to sever that connection. The atom is part of a larger cell, and part of the universe. Humans are all part of each other’s existence, and the existence of every being, sentient or not, with whom we share this planet. Natural laws show us that a common thread always connects disparate things in this universe. Again, nothing exists by itself, and no one can deny this unavoidable connectedness between all things.

So, what is the common thread that connects everything? I ask atheists to identify this supreme Connector. They will, of course, try to find some scientific explanation, something that does not in any way acknowledge religious beliefs—despite the fact that many of the world’s most brilliant scientists acknowledged that their answers ended with that very question. But no one can deny the existence of this unifying thread, whatever they choose to call it. Both simple and brilliant minds identify it as “God,” or some alternate name related to this intangible entity. Thus, without any better name, I assert that GOD is the thread that connects you to me, and us to everything. And even the atheist, who denies that which connects him to his world, will learn this truth someday, when his brain expires and mere thinking gives way to understanding—the soul’s domain.

Raising Admirable Kids

2009-05-05T10:11:00.000-07:00

To be an admirable Mom, one of my main goals in life, I need more than admiring kids. After all, it's no feat to get KIDS to admire you; if you simply show them gentle love, fierce support, and calm trust, you're a virtual superhero in their early years. But to get my grown-up children to admire me...now, that's the kind of admiration that really matters, for it is based not only on how I treat them, but on how I treat the world. And such admiration from them results, most importantly, in their becoming admirable themselves. My desire for their admiration is thus not about feeding my ego, but about contributing to the world.

When my son spontaneously hugs me after I've come home from visiting a sick relative, and whispers down (DOWN now, he's so tall!) into my hair, "You're such a good woman, Mom," I've begun to meet my goal. When my youngest teenage daughter says, "Mom, thank you so much for helping me follow my passion for acting and singing; I'm going to be the same way with my own kids," then I see HER as a future admirable Mom. When my oldest daughter, from college, tells me that her new friend is interested in reading my newest novel manuscript, I feel awed that my daughter admires me and my work enough to make it a topic of discussion with some young woman whom I've never met. "Oh my gosh, you told your friend about my novel?" I gush. And she replies matter-of-factly, "Well she loves poetry novels and yours is great, so I recommended it. I wish it would get published already!" My daughter, my fan. Sigh.

As I continue to raise my daughters and son into adulthood, I try to remember to ask myself, "Now how can I set the best example for the sake of my grandkids and great-grandkids (if I am so blessed)?" And though I might gripe about their lack of help with dishes or laundry, or try to instill responsibility with too many "No's" and not enough "Okay's" sometimes, I honestly, earnestly, try to be the kind of parent who catalyzes, rather than stifles, growth. Some of the most important words I can say as a Mom are "I trust you to make the right choice;" however, the importance of those words is contingent upon the value of my trust. Admirability must precede admiration.

Peace Lost

2009-03-27T18:57:00.001-07:00

One pure moment of world peace, even if it immediately vanished, would do more to inspire us than all the moving words and often futile actions of peacemakers throughout the centuries, for having seen peace as a reality, we would certainly unite in desperation to REGAIN what we all lost.

In Response to My Student's Prompt To Write a Poem Related to the Holocaust

2009-03-26T12:27:00.000-07:00

My student came to me with a school assignment: write a poem in response to a Holocaust victim's poem, "The Butterfly," by Pavel Friedman. We discussed the particular juxtaposition of a yellow butterfly's beauty with the haunting images of life in the Jewish ghetto, and the symbol of hope amid the ruins of life. I asked him to imagine himself in a concentration camp: "So, as an inmate, what would you see every day as you worked, something that you could see in another way, a brighter way, out of both desperation and hope?"
He mentioned a barbed wire fence in front of flowers on the other side. I replied, "How about the barbed wire fence itself--how might a hopeful, yet hopeless person view such an ugly fence in a new light; what simile could describe the wire and the barbs as looking like something happier?" I drew a line with asterisk-like barbs across his paper. "What does it look like to you?" I asked.
He replied, "Flowers on a metal vine." And so his poem, and mine simultaneously, was born. He turned in his free verse to his teacher with pride; I'm posting mine here, hoping to elicit your comments.

SONNET FROM ANOTHER LIFE
by Susan L. Lipson

Metallic flowers on a silver vine
Stretch taut to keep us in their garden walls,
Where worms like us must dig, but never whine,
Must bury seeds of hope before they fall;
No birds alight upon these petal spikes,
Lest they get pierced like friends I’ve loved and lost,
Friends who were but “vermin,” “dogs,” or “kikes,”
Rebelling, not considering the cost.
To sniff these blooms brings blood, not pleasant scents,
Yet still the petal barbs tempt me to climb—
Just up and over!—leave behind this fence,
Escape to fragrant fields and summertime…
Confinement alters views, both tempts and taunts;
Like a relentless ghost, our minds it haunts.

How My Kids See Me

2009-03-12T15:21:00.000-07:00

To them, I am a laundress, a perpetual dishwasher and cook, a nag--"Put away your dish! Close your drawers!"--a chauffeur in a minivan, and an ever-ready editor (even though I can barely see straight, let alone THINK, at 11 p.m., when their first drafts are finally ready for my editing). I am the one who volunteers them for community services "without asking," but also the one they later thank for getting them involved. I am easier to convince than Dad, and quicker to forgive and forget--clearly the one to ask for money or special privileges (does that make me The Pushover?). I am unconditionally loving, even when I'm stressed, and they know it, because one of us always fails to conceal a smile when I still insist on a kiss goodnight, even after an argument.

Because of them, I have a lot of half-finished manuscripts, a lot of double-bookings, and a need to clone myself. Their busy lives make me frantic when I can't find my pocket calendar or my keys, because I struggle to know where I need to be and when, and to do so on time, so that I'm not constantly yelling, "Come on! I'm leaving without you!" Because of them, I'm a liar, because I almost never leave without them, and so I deserve the angst of having late kids, don't I?

They tell me that they hope I won't sell "their" house, that I'll stay in our neighborhood so they can always come "home," that I'll dedicate a book to them, that I'll babysit their kids and always stay healthy, that I'll live to 110 and stay "cool." And I will try to fulfill their hopes as I now fulfill their needs, so they can still see me as cook, a pushover, a guaranteed kiss, and an editor (even if not a chauffeur or laundress anymore)--even when I've finished the half-done manuscripts and am busy squeezing in visits with them between book tours.

That's how I see my kids seeing me.

[This post was written in response to a writing prompt I gave my teenage writing students, a poem titled "How My Father Sees Us," by Kirsten Smith, in her poetry novel The Geography of Girlhood. You can read more about the prompt and how the kids responded on my other blog: www.susanllipsonwritingteacher.blogspot.com).

On Faith

2009-03-02T12:23:00.000-08:00

On Faith
by Susan L. Lipson

People often say, “God gives me faith;”
But what faith is it that God gives?
Faith in oneself?
Faith in humanity?
Faith in God?
All of the Above?

Sounds like a kind of conflict of interest to me.
For if God just gives faith to us,
then our faith is not an achievement,
not a blessed state of mind
based on appreciation,
deep understanding,
and our suspension of doubts;
rather, such faith would be
a mere manipulation by God.
And since God does not manipulate us—
for then why would He have given us free will?—
it follows that our faith doesn’t come from God,
But from our coming to know God.
Faith is OURS,
to seek, find, and develop;
The faith we get from God
Is God’s faith in us.

Glowing Cross in Chopped Down Tree--Surely a Sign?!

2009-02-06T10:58:00.000-08:00

Every day for the last few weeks, as I drive into my friends' driveway to pick up their kids for the school carpool, I notice the pile of tree chunks--yes, chunks, not trunks--in front of their home, left behind after they had an overgrown tree removed from their yard. The circular chunk of trunk that faces the street has a two-way split through its center in the shape of a cross, and the cross is surrounded by cracks like the rays a kid draws on a picture of the sun. I must admit, the image looks impressively intentional, and if I weren't a Jewish skeptic when it comes to alleged appearances of the Virgin Mary in cheese sandwiches, or tears and/or blood leaking from Christian iconic art, I might fancy that I even heard ethereal music and saw the rays glowing. I might even contemplate calling the Pope to report the sighting of evidence of the holy spirit....

But I'm too jaded for that.

And thus, I've been joking with my kids that any day now, the media will be at our friends' door when we pull up, and they'll be snapping photos that will appear in the local papers with the caption: "Holy Spirit Makes Appearance in Poway Tree"--or something like that. I also joked that my friends should put the tree on EBay, in slices, like the grilled cheese sandwich in which the blessed virgin's face supposedly appeared (I still marvel that people recognized her after so many years!). So imagine my surprise when I noticed on Facebook that a different friend had as her Facebook photo a picture of the very same glowing cross! I sent her a message, asking whether she'd taken the photo on E--- Road, and she wrote back that she had indeed, and was happy to hear that I'd noticed the cool cross, too.

Imagine again my continued surprise when I called my friend, the tree owner, to tell her about the funny Facebook coincidence, and she asked, "What cross in the tree?"

"You mean to tell me you haven't noticed it?!" I exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that you, the good Catholic, overlooked it? You let your Jewish friend notice the holy ghost in your front yard before YOU did?"

We both cracked up (my same friend from the earlier blog about my demented memory), and she had her daughter pull up the Facebook picture so she could see it for herself. She promised to go look at the log in person when it stops raining. It's still raining as I write this, but shouldn't the glowing cross be worth some wet hair and stained shoes?

"Maybe I can sell slices of the tree," suggested my friend between guffaws, "and pay for the backyard projects I can't justify doing right now!"

"Yeah, and maybe you can put the pieces on EBay and finance that new kitchen you want, too!" I added. "You can call it the Jesus' Kitchen Project."

Oy, such irreverence in the face of possible miracles!

The Problem with Memoirs: They Are Fiction

2009-02-06T01:21:00.000-08:00

Given the fact that memories are unreliable as objective recordings of facts, and that memories merely offer perceptions of actual incidents, why call written recollections of the past “memoirs” at all? To create such a genre implies their “nonfictional” status, when in fact, they ought to be labeled “based on a true story,” to keep them from later being called “lies” or “misrepresentations” of the “truth” (whatever the heck that is!).

Recently, a Holocaust survivor published a widely acclaimed memoir, but he enhanced his actual story with a romanticized fiction portion. Thus, he was deemed a fabricator, and his book, a phony memoir. He didn't intend to deceive with his words, though; he intended only to touch hearts. He could have avoided that misconception of himself altogether merely by calling his Holocaust romance a “mostly true” story, or a tale “based on a true story.”

“Memoir” is a bogus word anyway, one created solely for marketing purposes, I think. My siblings and I could write three different memoirs about the same incident in our family life, and each account would sound markedly different, because memoirs merely reflect perceptions of past events, not objective facts. A memoir is not necessarily an excerpt of an autobiography; its most important truth lies in its emotional resonance. Truth is a matter of opinion sometimes....

Sharing Thoughts with Strangers

2009-02-05T17:24:00.000-08:00

Although I was at first disappointed about not getting to sit beside my husband on my recent long plane trip to New York, I discovered how a friend can materialize out of thin air--literally, considering our altitude!--when I started conversing with my seat mate, Donnie. Our conversation began with a handshake and my observation that Donnie looked like a younger Morgan Freeman. He laughed, and his eyes twinkled just like Mr. Freeman's, as he nodded. "I've heard that before," he confessed. From the mundane details about why we were traveling, where we live and where we are from originally, and who makes up our respective families, we soon found ourselves immersed in a heavy discussion about our own childhood experiences (with very similar family dynamics!), our shared philosophies regarding child-rearing and education, our views on love and marriage (we have been married the same number of years), religion and spirituality, life and death....

When the pilot announced we'd be landing, we both smiled with disappointment and told each other how much we'd enjoyed this surprise new friendship's evolution during a plane flight. I gave him my business card and told him to email me if he and his wife ever make the trip to San Diego that they have discussed in the past. I added, "Please don't think I'm just talking. I really mean it--stay in touch. My husband and I befriended a guy on a boat in San Francisco, and he gave us his card and told us to contact him if we ever visit Vancouver. We did visit, last summer, and we all had a fun lunch together. So please, don't hesitate to write, okay?"

I got an email from Donnie two days after I got home. He thanked me for a great conversation, and told me it was "exactly what I needed." Now, how 'bout that for memorable words?

Memory--the Operative Word!

2009-01-14T14:21:00.000-08:00

My friend Cindy and I were teasing each other this morning about which of us was more forgetful, kind of like a battle of "Yo Mama" jokes about dementia--but WE are the Mamas. She assured me that my forgetting to phone someone, or to take the clothes out of the washing machine, merely reflects that I have three jobs--Mom, Writer, Teacher--and am approaching 50. Some assurance, huh?!

Not five minutes after saying goodbye to her, I reached into my cupboard for a cup so that I could take my fish oil capsule (per Cindy's admonition during our morning get-together--oy, do I sound old or what?). To my shock, I found a half-full cup of coffee sitting among the empty cups! "What the heck!" I could feel my eyes popping out, followed by my hysterical laughter. Alone in my house, freaking out my poor dogs, I howled till my eyes started streaming, and then I picked up the phone.

"Cindy!" I recorded something like this on her message machine: "Okay, I have officially topped you in the battle over who is more demented! I just found a half-full cup of coffee in my cupboard!" I could barely get out the words, I was guffawing so. She called me back within a few minutes, and we continued laughing together. She admitted that my "senior moment" topped all!

At least I called the cup "half-full."

Blog--Not Meant as Onomatopoiea

2009-01-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

When I first heard the word "blog," I didn't know it was a contraction of "web log." I thought of the word as onomatopoeia, because, after reading a few pointless rambling blogs, the word's sound--reminiscent of a burp or reflux noise--seemed an accurate representation of the verbal vomit I equated with "blog." Thank goodness I found out I was wrong.

As I read great blogger's posts, I found myself feeling overwhelmed by the wealth of ideas and talented communicators. Losing myself in perusing blogs, I felt simultaneously guilty and ashamed of "wasting" precious writing time. I wondered why these bloggers were not working instead on writing words for publication in traditional media--a more "credible" job. But then I started blogging...

Now I know why. And if you're reading my words right now, and maybe even smiling, then YOU know why, too.

"Hanukah" means "dedication"

2008-12-22T23:54:00.000-08:00

When people ask me why we light candles for eight days of Hanukah, I usually tell them that we do so to commemorate a tale of a little flask of oil that survived the destruction of the ancient temple and miraculously enabled the people of Israel to relight the temple's holy flame--designed to stay lit continuously. Despite the fact that the small amount of oil was only enough to keep the flame burning for one day, the flame somehow burned instead for eight days. The magically long-lasting oil allowed sufficient time for more oil to be produced, and thus, the temple could be rededicated to God with its "ner tamid" (eternal flame) properly glowing. Now, some rabbis deem this story an invention told, in part, to heighten the concept of the true miracle that arose from that tragic time in Jewish history: the survival of the steadfast Jewish people against all odds.

I thought about those odds tonight, after lighting the first two candles (we add one per day of the 8-day holiday). How slim were the odds that I would be lighting the commemorative candles tonight with the grandkids of Irving (Itzhak) Lipson (Lipszyc), the one surviving member of his own nuclear family, almost entirely wiped out by Nazis? Now that's a miracle! And how slim were the odds that my children, who have grown up in a minority group within a mostly gentile community, would value their traditions enough to want to share them with both Jewish and non-Jewish friends during the eight days of celebrating? Another miracle to celebrate! How slim were the odds that I--whose own original birth family has mostly abandoned, much to my dismay, the traditions that have held our people together for thousands of years, traditions such as the most essential, enriching, and practical tradition of keeping the Sabbath/Shabbat--would find and maintain such a heartfelt connection to the essence of my people, and realize the meaning of dedication as a means of both continuity and evolution? The odds were roughly the same as the odds of me frying dozens of potato pancakes ("latkes") in a mere teaspoon of oil.

Now, despite its proximity to one of the holiest days for Christians, Hanukah is not one of the holiest days for Jews, but rather, a minor holiday. It's lesson, though, is MAJOR. Jews light candles not just to commemorate a miracle and an uplifting tale, but perhaps more so to reaffirm the strength of dedication, from generation to generation, to a way of life defined by a moral code, service to others for the creation of justice and balance for all, and good deeds that honor and appreciate all of God's creations. This way of life has, like the candles, the power to illuminate--but only if fueled by dedication. Without dedication, the candles are nothing but wax and wick, melted into solid drips, to be scraped off a Hanukah menorah the next morning.

Let us all, no matter what our religions, dedicate (or rededicate) ourselves to staying true to the values that enrich each individual soul and promote harmony for all.

A poem to inspire you as you choose holiday gifts for children

2008-12-17T11:44:00.000-08:00

Building Blocks
By Susan L. Lipson

Children are the atoms;
adults, the cells formed by chemical processes
and mutations of those fundamental atoms.
If we fill atoms with the white Light of Truth,
they will, through their evolution into "adulthood,"
remain bright, warm, and illuminated,
and chemical reactions from others
will cause refractions of that Light,
producing rainbows—
colorful adults showing themselves
through the Oneness of the Creator's Light.
Without the infusion of the Light at the atomic level,
from childhood,
our growth as adults is tantamount to
a slow dimming of the spark that we bring to this planet
when we first arrive.
We must continuously stoke the fires,
our passions for beauty's truth and truth's beauty,
adding art, music, and literature as kindling,
and then fanning the flames with love, inspiration, and respect--
the greatest gifts we can give our children
and our future generations.

Lessons from a Morning at a Soup Kitchen

2008-12-15T10:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I served breakfast/brunch at St. Vincent de Paul's soup kitchen. It wasn't my first time serving, and my shift wasn't even marked by any dramatic events (like the time a father tried choking his baby, or the time a homeless guy started yelling hateful anti-Semitic comments at our Jewish group of volunteers); however, I realized something profound on this relatively peaceful day at the shelter: Very few people choose whom they want to be, while most allow their identify to be formed for them, by their circumstances.

Some of the homeless folks I've served have addressed us volunteers by name (we wear name tags), thanking us for giving our time to help them, even blessing us and asking the name of our organization so they can remember our generosity. Perhaps a few of these non-despondent food recipients will use their amiability and confidence to redefine themselves the way one woman did; I volunteered alongside her a few months ago ("Hey, it's my turn to give back now," she explained). But the majority of the recipients seem despondent, hanging their heads, looking surprised when a volunteer calls them "Sir" or "Miss," and smiling awkwardly at friendly greetings and wishes. The most downtrodden can't even muster a "thank you," because that would define them as a civilized member of society, and they don't feel part of anything, apparently. The capacity to say "thank you," I've noticed, is very indicative of one's self-esteem...and not just at the soup kitchen.

Even among the volunteers, I've met those who are serving NOT as an act of choosing whom they want to be, but rather, as a the fulfillment of an obligation imposed by others. Some people I've met give their time because their kids need "credit" for a school program, and so both parent and child serve to fulfill an obligation. Others volunteer because someone else dragged them along so they wouldn't feel awkward as they satisfied their curiosity about homeless people. And I've met some, among the many Jewish volunteers, who do this because "I really need to do a mitzvah--it's been a while." (A "mitzvah" is a commandment from God that one should fulfill.) In short, despite the fact that goodness is accomplished in any case, regardless of the motives of the do-gooder, the goodness itself does not always define the do-gooder.

When another volunteer asked me why I serve there, I answered, "Because they have so little, and I have so much. It's only fair." It's justice--or as we say in Hebrew, tzedek, a balancing of inequities in an attempt to foster peace. I choose to define myself as a do-gooder for the sake of establishing peace, one minuscule step at a time. Now, you might say, "But actually, your circumstances, as a well-off person, have defined you as a giver. Had you been born on the street, you wouldn't have chosen whom you want to be, as you say, so easily." And you may be right. As a street person, I may not have been the type to harness my circumstances and steer my way to personal happiness and a life of helping others. I may never know (I HOPE I never know!) whether I am that type. Very few struggling people are that tough and optimistic. But I think it's important that I, and those reading this blog, realize that ANYONE could be homeless--it's a state, not an identity. Choosing whom I want to be, even without the luxury of a computer at my fingertips, a full refrigerator in the other room, and a warm house on a rainy day, is not about coping with circumstances; it's about creating new circumstances.

No matter whom we choose to be, though, if goodness results, that's what really matters, isn't it? It's all good, as my kids say. Kol tov! It's all good.

After seeing David Wolpe, author of WHY FAITH MATTERS, debate atheist author Christopher Hitchens

2008-11-26T11:13:00.002-08:00

After watching a debate between authors David Wolpe (a renowned rabbi) and Christopher Hitchens, in which they argued the existence of God, I felt inspired to write the following words, to bolster the rabbi's assertions. I'm not idealistic enough to believe, of course, that God's existence can be definitively "proved" to nonbelievers, but I am idealistic enough to think that we can create chinks in the armor with which they steel themselves. And since Thanksgiving is tomorrow, I post these words as additional thanks to God for enabling me to perceive the divine connections around me.

Nothing exists by itself; everything is part of a greater whole, an unwritten, unspoken Covenant of Being. Isolation is an artificial state contrived to work against the interconnectedness of the natural world. Even actions, as Newton proved, have equal and opposite reactions, and never occur without interconnection. The rock is part of the crumbled mountain—or the sandy beach, solidified. The lone wolf is still part of the pack, and part of his environmental system. The seed, via photosynthesis, is connected to the oxygen that sustains us, as well as the chemicals that break down our bodies when we die. The suicide bomber is connected to a community and to his victims, despite his attempt to sever that connection. The atom is part of a larger cell, and part of the universe. Humans are all part of each other’s existence, and the existence of every being, sentient or not, with whom we share this planet. Natural laws show us that a common thread always connects disparate things in this universe. Again, nothing exists by itself, and no one can deny this unavoidable connectedness between all things.

So, what is the common thread that connects everything? I ask atheists to identify this supreme Connector. They will, of course, try to find some scientific explanation, something that does not in any way acknowledge religious beliefs—despite the fact that many of the world’s most brilliant scientists acknowledged that their answers ended with that very question. But no one can deny the existence of this unifying thread, whatever they choose to call it. Both simple and brilliant minds identify it as “God,” or some alternate name related to this intangible entity. Thus, without any better name, I assert that GOD is the thread that connects you to me, and us to everything. And even the atheist, who denies that which connects him to his world, will learn this truth someday, when his brain expires and mere thinking gives way to understanding—the soul’s domain.

The Risk of Writing Words To Be Remembered

2008-11-21T15:56:00.000-08:00

When we add our words to the body of verbiage awaiting readers' responses, we take a risk that our words a) may not have any impact, b) may be remembered, but not for the reasons we intended, and c) may evoke lasting images and/or ideas that will, in some way affect another human being, thus altering the entire chain of actions and reactions that we call LIFE. Now, c may sound overblown, even hyperbolic, at first glance, but it's not, and I can prove it, and in doing so, risk altering the way YOU, my reader, consider what YOU write in the future by forcing you to evaluate your words in terms of "memorability."
When I wrote my first children's novel, Knock on Wood, I recall a woman coming up to me in tears at a book-signing and saying, "You have no idea how much I can relate to your story! I lost my father when I was 10, AND my name is Sara [like the book's protagonist], and I also had to move out of my house, AND I used to imagine friendly faces in the wood panels of my walls, even talk to them...." I didn't know how to react to this woman's gushing reaction to my work; she wasn't exactly part of my target audience--9-13 year olds--AND she was crying, which could mean that my words were memorable to her, but for painful reasons that I had not intended to create.
After a moment of startled hesitation, I responded, perhaps lamely, with an awkward smile,"So you can really relate to Sara's situation, I guess."
"Oh yes!" she replied. "It brings back a lot of memories." She wiped her eyes.
"Well, I hope SOME are good," I muttered apologetically.
Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth in surprise. "Oh, of course they're good! I'm vividly remembering how I was when I was 10, I had to find my own strength to deal with my fears of moving. I wish I could have had a wise tree fairy to ask for advice! Oh, please don't think I'm crying because I'm upset! I'm actually happy!"
I smiled and shook her hand. "Oh, well I'm glad my book moved you then. Thanks for sharing your story." I still wondered why a woman was reading my work, when the rest of those in line to get my autograph on their copies were middle-graders. And if she had already read it, why was she holding out a copy to be autographed?
"THIS copy is actually my own already. I bought it a couple weeks ago at a teacher's event at Barnes & Noble that featured you among the local authors. Would you sign it for me, personally, and then sign a second one for my students?" She lifted a new copy from the table beside me and handed both copies to me.
On the memorability scale, this scored me high points: I had moved a teacher with my words, and she, in turn, could move young readers by recommending or reading aloud my book to them. They, in turn, might find my words memorable, but for different reasons. So how does this minor blip in the world's major events "alter the entire chain of actions and reactions that we call LIFE"?
Let's say that I awakened in this teacher her inner child and her own self-esteem for that former self. She can now relate to her students on a deeper level (maybe her own family, too), and may even dredge up other childhood memories that enable her to connect to young people in ways she has never connected before. Her enriched appreciation of kids' perceptions will enrich her teaching and, by extension, her students' learning experience. An inspired teacher inspires students, who will then take THEIR positive memories of education and inspire other children someday with their fond memories. And maybe one of those children to whom Sara, the teacher, reads or recommends my book will be going through his or her own challenges related to moving--and moving on--in life; thus, that connection through literature would certainly alter the lives of at least two people in a small, but nevertheless important way. Words have the power to change the world, period.
We all owe it to our world to test our words for memory-making potential before we set them to paper or screen. Writing is a responsibility not to be taken lightly. Our words speak for us and about us, to others and about the future.

A Blessing for the Creator of the IPod

2008-11-18T21:23:00.000-08:00

May the creator of the IPod be blessed with the gift of musical silence, the interior soundtrack that sets the tone of my thoughts while the rest of the world mutters on around me, unable to distract me from my ideas. May the creator of the IPod share the fulfillment I experience after hours of listening to my favorite music, reliving memories that I can record as memorable words. May the creator of the IPod feel protected by the outer silence and inner music, safe enough to sing aloud as though everyone were hearing the same songs. May the creator of the IPod know the joy of isolation within a melody. Amen!

My musical choices for writing and beach walks these days: Jason Mraz's newest album, Celtic Woman, Meorav Yerushalmi, Idan Raichel, Maroon 5, James Blunt, Coldplay, Colbie Caillat, ONCE/The Swell Season, Death Cab for Cutie, and my own kids' original songs, "Pleaser/Appeaser" by Ian, and "Question," by Elle. Now, if I only had an album of my OWN original songs (I must have 40 written by now!), but perhaps soon, on my Myspace... My songs are, in my opinion, my most memorable words; any words accompanied by music, for that matter, are more memorable.

Oh, and speaking of memorable words, one of my students pulled out of his backpack a Thanksgiving choral reading that I wrote and directed in a classroom 20 years ago, and last directed when my now-college-age daughter was in 4th grade; he announced that his teacher was having his class perform the reading for the school (apparently, the teacher--who was my daughter's teacher--has used it throughout the years)! I felt the joy of memory-making that comes so profoundly from writing memorable words.

New Poem

2008-11-18T21:20:00.000-08:00

Covenant of Hope
By Susan L. Lipson

The seed is the promise;
The planting, an act of faith;
The seedling, evidence of a covenant fulfilled;
The plant is prosperity and promise;
The fruit, the fruition of dreams;
The seed, the future—
Ever present.

Check out my blog for students and teachers of writing!

2008-11-12T03:05:00.000-08:00

While this blog will present ponderings on writing and life, and excerpts from my works, all from an author's perspective, I will simultaneously post blogs about learning and teaching writing techniques on this URL: www.susanllipsonwritingteacher.blogspot.com .
Check it out if you're an aspiring writer or a teacher of writing!

Writing for Change (Checks Accepted, Too!)

2008-11-05T10:26:00.000-08:00

Making change is my life goal--not counting back pennies from behind a counter, but offering my two cents from my computer keyboard, and my common sense from the experiences I have both enjoyed and endured. Maybe that's why Barack Obama's campaign slogan, "Vote for Change," struck such a chord in my heart. Change yields evolution. Evolution brings us all closer to fulfilling our potential, and inspiring others to do the same. And we evoke change via communication, which I have chosen as a career by becoming both a writer and a teacher.

Obama's message inspires me now, in this blog, to review my career in terms of its change-making history and potential. With two books in print, I have managed to make change on a small level: children who read my first novel, Knock on Wood, change their perspective regarding the unseen benefits of moving forward in life, even if that movement involves painful sacrifice (I have fan letters to prove it!); teachers who use my second book, Writing Success Through Poetry, to prompt critical thinking and writing in their classrooms within an interactive workshop style of teaching, have changed their own and their students' attitudes about writing; students who have created works from the poetry prompts in my book have proudly published some of those pieces, and now view writing as a challenge to communicate, rather than a task to do for a grade. So my previous books, although hardly blockbuster bestsellers, have produced positive change.

That change also shows up in the teaching aspect of my career. My private writing students change my expectations by writing words that awe me, as well as their fellow workshop students, who then change their level of effort in a desire to emulate the awesome words they hear read aloud in my home. My students change my methods continuously, by presenting different learning styles and interests, to which I must cater so that I may elicit their very Best, and thus, by extension, continue to change the attitudes of their regular school teachers, who marvel at the changes they observe in our shared students. My young writers change their world by writing essays that get them into great colleges, by publishing poetry they created under my tutelage, by winning contests, and by simply winning enthusiastic applause during workshops in my home. I change my students by showing them the power of carefully chosen words, memorable words that really matter, words that resonate in others' minds and act as catalysts for change.

I catalyze change most, I believe, via communication with my own children, who have evolved into Change-makers themselves...and strong writers, of course! Their memorable words not only get them great grades (and a great college, USC, for my oldest), but most importantly, they comprise my favorite gifts, years of beautifully written cards and songs that fill my files with my greatest personal treasures. Their words are treasures that change gloomy days into joyous ones with the opening of a file or the playing of their CD recordings for me.

My husband's memorable words have changed my life for the last 29 years; he claims he's "no writer, like [me]," but he's wrong. His letters to me throughout years were among the precious cargo I whisked out of our home during the forced evacuations for Firestorm 2007. He has made me change for the better by simply noticing how I make change in life: he enjoys my stories about student breakthroughs, even remembers the pieces I recall to him after a successful class; he has written me supportive messages about my justifiable persistence in my writing career--and he lets me whine, too. I think he understands my motivation for writing--the desire to change the perspectives of my readers in some way. Thus, I can enrich the world in my small way. Making small change--no, I'm not complaining about lack of royalty checks!--small change is what my life is all about. Memorable words are my tools.