writing – Page 26 – Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

June 17, 2014June 17, 2014

A Purposeful Post

The young me and the noisiest typewriter on earth. Lordy, did I love it. — The young me and the noisiest typewriter on earth. Lordy, did I love that thing.

A couple weeks back, my blog pal, Harula, posted a writing exercise. The theme was “Purpose” and the idea was to complete the following four sentences with whatever spontaneous thoughts sprung to mind.

* When I was a child, I believed I was here to…

* As a teenager, I believed I was here to…

* As an adult, I believe I am here to…

* The most important thing life has taught me about why I’m here is…

I decided to give it a go. The answer to the first two prompts are below. I’ll post the next two soon:

***

When I was a child, I believed I was here to…

…become a “dinosaur expert.” I was fascinated by Stegosaurus and was rooting for the poor devil in his Fantasia fight with Tyrannosaurs Rex. I loved Stegosaurus so much that at times I wanted to be a Stegosaurus. Is that odd?

I also was fascinated by the sheer size of Brontosaurus. He was as long as three city buses laid end to end! Dang! Who wouldn’t want to be a dinosaur expert?

Many years later that I learned that Stegosaurus was extinct by the time T-Rex appeared on the scene, making Fantasia scientifically inaccurate — despite what that egghead Deems Taylor would have you believe. Then I learned that Brontosauruses never existed at all. So The Flintstones? Lies. All lies.

I am still fascinated by dinosaurs today but now possess the self-awareness to understand that I am way too impatient to be a paleontologist.

By the way, my favorite dinosaur has since changed. I am now a fan of Triceratops. Especially the adorable and slightly derpy looking stuffed triceratops who sits on my son’s bed. This fellow has gone by many names over the years. When Alex was three, he called him Oscar Lotion. I have no idea why. Later the name changed to Susie, then Harold Lloyd, and now, simply Triceratops. I call him Oscar Lotion Susie Harold Lloyd Triceratops and pretend he is a prehistoric accountant.

No, Mr. Allegra. I'm afraid stuffed animal purchases are not deductible. — “Sorry, Mr. Allegra. I’m afraid stuffed animal purchases are not tax deductible.”

As a teenager, I believed I was here to…

…be an actor. At an early age I noticed that I had a sort of fearlessness in front of crowds and could quickly remember lines. I didn’t do much acting growing up, but what I did was intoxicating. My big high school break was when I played the voice of Audrey Two in our school’s presentation of Little Shop of Horrors. I wanted to be the sadistic dentist, Orin, but I was the only one in the school who could pull off that deep, Ron Taylor voice. In other words, my high school had way too many white people.

In college I lied my way into acting classes (Ha! Acting!). I soon recognized that I liked acting students much, much more than graphic design students. This was kind of a problem because graphic design was my major. Horrified by the idea of actually using this graphic design degree, I contemplated going to acting school. I auditioned for and got accepted into the American Musical and Dramatic Academy (AMDA) in New York before deciding that I have already accrued enough debt, thank you. Besides, I knew that deep down, acting was too uncertain and unstable a career for my personality.

This turned out to be a wise decision, for in tandem with my passion for acting, I had developed a passion for writing. A person can write and hold a steady day job. Four short years after I graduated from college, my day job switched from graphic design to writing. I got my start as a newspaper man and found the experience to be amazing. I wrote during the day for a salary and then wrote at night and on the weekends to draw a supplementary income. In other words, I became a very happy person.

***

And there you have it! Part two is coming soon.

When you were a kid what did you believe you were meant to do? Tell me in the comments below! C’mon, be a sport!

June 3, 2014August 3, 2014

Why I Will Never be a Teacher

I’m crazy about teachers. They are selfless, fun, ridiculously dedicated, and a wee bit nutty. I should know, for I have been surrounded by teachers — either by choice or design — my entire life. Both of my parents were teachers. My older sister is a teacher. My wife, Ellen, is a teacher. And, for the past 15 years, I have worked in schools.

But I do not teach; I write and edit alumni magazines — and this is for the best. I would not be a good teacher.

To best explain why I feel this way, I need to tell you a little story:

***

Back in 1995, one of my short plays was accepted into a one-act festival. The cast and the director were selected without my input, which is pretty common. I also found everyone to be pleasant and fun, which is far less common. I especially liked the director, a weather-scarred longshoreman named Joe who was built like a vandalized brick house. He was tapping into his artistic side, apparently – and was very successful in doing so. He came up with many excellent ideas that I embraced without reservation.

The cast was also a pretty good fit. The actress playing the lead – let’s call her Marla – was playing slightly against type, but Joe, who had nothing to do with the casting either, was addressing the problem. He figured Marla would work out just fine. He turned out to be right; Marla was a quick study, and the rehearsal process proceeded apace.

But, as you probably guessed by now, something happened.

Something always happens.

On the week before opening night, the play was on its feet and the actors were off book. Now Joe was just working on little things — sharpening the timing and making sure that the actors not only remembered their lines but also understood why they were saying the lines as written.

It was at this very, very late point in the process that Marla started to forget large swaths of the play.

This surprised everyone — for Marla had her dialogue down pat for weeks — but no one was more surprised than Joe, who I discovered, to my delight, was even more control freaky and detail oriented than I was.

Joe decided that an interrogation was in order. He called for a break and pulled Marla aside while the rest of us sat around pretending to not eavesdrop. After a few minutes, the two of them broke away and, with a sigh, Joe called me over.

“She quit smoking,” Joe said.

“Does that affect memory?” I asked.

“It does if your brain keeps yelling, ‘I want a cigarette! I want a cigarette! I want a cigarette!’”

Despite everyone’s best efforts, Marla could never find any spare brain real estate for her lines. It was like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Short of pinning Marla down and blowing smoke into her mouth (and I’m pretty sure Joe considered this option), there was nothing any of us could do.

Our fears were realized on opening night as a jittery Marla regaled the audience with an improvisational nic-fit fueled monologue. It was quite remarkable, really; what she uttered was so dissimilar from any of the lines I had written, that the rest of the cast was too fascinated to interrupt. Their silence only seemed to prompt Marla to spew more words in the hope that something coming out of her mouth might eventually sound familiar.

It took a while — a very long while — but Marla did find her way back to the script. The rest of the cast lunged at this opportunity and wrestled the play away from their co-star.

At that moment, I heard Joe, who was sitting two rows behind me, groan, “Oh, thank God!”

Joe’s outburst prompted me to giggle like an idiot until the play was over.

***

I recently told that story to a teenage actress I was interviewing for The Lawrenceville School’s alumni magazine. After she stopped laughing, I asked her, “Do you smoke?”

“No,” she replied.

“Great!” I said. “Don’t start.”

Then I added, “But if you do start, don’t stop.”

Something tells me a teacher would never urge a smoker to keep on smoking.

But I do not teach; I write. And, as a writer, I stand by this advice, now and forever.

May 6, 2014May 7, 2014

My Versatility Responsibility 2.0

I would've preferred congrats from Bert, but it'll do. — I would’ve preferred Bert on my napkins, but I suppose this will have to do.

I don’t usually do blog awards. It’s not that don’t appreciate receiving them – because I do — I just don’t think I update my blog frequently enough to dedicate posts to answering questions about myself. So a big part of me is inclined to thank the nominator and beg off.

But sometimes another part of me — the part who doesn’t have a new post ready this week — is inclined to say, “Hey, why not?”

That “Hey, why not?” inclination is also more likely to surface when some of my favorite people nominate me. Laurel Leigh and Jilanne Hoffman selected me for the Versatile Blogger Award and Tess from Let’s Cut the Crap nominated me for a blog meme.

Versatile Blogger nominees are supposed to write seven tidbits about themselves. The meme-ers are supposed to answer four specific questions about their writing.

Since answering a question about my writing is sort of a tidbit, I answered Tess’s four questions and tacked on three extra tidbits at the end. Done and done!

By the way, if the above didn’t spell it out clearly enough, I think very highly of these folks. Follow their blogs if you don’t already. They’re good people who all have interesting things to say.

Onward with the meme-ing!

***

What am I working on at the moment?

I have three projects I’m working on right now:

I am revising a picture book manuscript about a science-minded mouse.

I am revising a picture book manuscript about a cow that is not exactly a cow.

And, using my Susanna Hill writing contest entry, Goldilockup, as inspiration, I am writing a middle grade novel about a Great Escape-style jailbreak in Fairy Tale Forest. The story’s hero works the broiler at a Burger King.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Most writers are peculiar, but each peculiar person is peculiar in a unique way. Those unique peculiarities influence the work. For example, Laurie Halse Anderson and I both wrote picture books about Sarah Josepha Hale. Anderson’s book came out long before mine, but I had no knowledge of its existence when I wrote my story. Even though Anderson and I wrote about the same person, our two books could not be more different in both tone and content.

In other words, if you own Anderson’s book but not mine, buy mine, too. It’s different!

Why do I write what I do?

I used to write a lot of plays. I enjoyed writing them, and found some success. The problem was that I was drawn to flawed, cynical and occasionally immoral characters, which made me delve into the darker side of my soul — a sad and musty place in desperate need of a coat of paint a more comfortable place to sit.

I prefer my silly soul. Writing children’s books nurtures my silliness. And school visits bring out my silliness in spades.

How does my writing process work?

My writing schedule is not as regimented as I would like. I do, however, always put aside a good chunk of time every weekend to write. I also find time to write a couple of nights each workweek. Sometimes, if there’s a lull in my day job schedule, I’ll write a little then, too.

But let’s just keep that information between us, OK?

I almost exclusively compose on the computer. I do, however, sometimes write out ideas in longhand. I often doodle for inspiration. Sometimes I doodle during meetings, because meetings are useless.

Ahem. Let’s just keep that information between us, too, OK?

In fact, let’s pretend I never answered this question.

And, as promised, three other tidbits:

1. When my son is disciplined for saying something inappropriate in school, he is almost always repeating something I had said at home. No, he is not swearing; I never use foul language around children. He did, however, called one of his classmates a “sucker.” He announced that a daunting classroom assignment “will drive him to drink.” And, the day before his winter break, he decreed that The Elf on the Shelf story was “horse pucky.”

Despite all the teacher’s phone calls, I’m still not very good at censoring myself. I recently told Alex the story about how Archimedes developed his principle of buoyancy while sitting in the bathtub. I explained that Archimedes was so excited with his discovery that he leapt from the tub and ran through the streets naked, shouting, “Eureka! I’ve got it!”

“And do you know what Archimedes’ neighbors said?” I asked.

“No.” Alex replied.

“Archimedes! I can see your dingle!”

Alex then laughed for the next six hours.

So, yes, I expect to get a call from my son’s teacher sometime this week.

"Whasamatter? Jealous?" -- Archimedes, after being handed a towel — “Hey, I got it, so I flaunt it!”

2. When I was a freshman in college, I was in a drawing class filled with artists who got offended by everything. This was the late 1980s, the dawn of the PC era where short people were described as “vertically challenged” and lazy people were “differently motivated.” I tend not to seek out things that make me angry, so I found their zealous, relentless ire fascinating. I also found it amusing.

I occasionally liked to poke the hornet’s next. For example, one day I decided to sketch a giant, reverential portrait of Richard Nixon. It produced the expected outrage (“How could you draw a portrait of that…that monster!”) and I was amused.

About a year later, I was working in a local bookstore when Nixon’s book, In the Arena, was published. Nixon’s office was located just a few towns away from where I lived, so I was asked to drop off a box of books for the former president to sign. I did as I was told. I also brought along my portrait bearing a note: “Could you please sign this?” He could and did.

About 15 years later, Antiques Roadshow came to Atlantic City so I decided to bring along my signed Nixon portrait for an appraisal. In case you’re wondering, a Nixon/Allegra collaboration is worth about a thousand bucks.

Not too shabby.

You think you're so hot, eh? Well, I don't see Mike Allegra drawing a picture of you! — “You think you’re so hot, eh? Well, I don’t see Mike Allegra drawing a picture of you!”

3. My wife, Ellen, is one of the most moral and honest people I know. However, I live in constant fear that one day I’ll come home from work to discover that she has kidnapped a wombat from an area zoo.

Believe me, she loves wombats more than most people love wombats — and I’m worried that this love will someday give her a rap sheet. Pray for us!

“Take me home, Ellen! All I need is your looooove!”

***

So there you have it! Thanks again, Laurel, Jilanne and Tess! And thanks also to all the other people who have nominated me for blog awards in the past. I am very grateful.

So, in the spirit of this post, tell me a tidbit about yourself in the comments! C’mon, be a sport.