Listen here, missy.
I joined a book club in June. I am not a joiner, so this was kind of unusual for me. Actually, I made myself join. T had told me one evening that she thought that having lunch with my sister every week and going to family things occasionally was not socially enough for me.
"You need to get out more," she said. I tried to tell her that I DO get out plenty. I DO talk to people plenty.
"Doctors, nurses, and lab techs don't count," she said.
I mentioned that I have lots of friends in the park that I talk to every day. Well, most days. Ok. Some days.
Point taken. I joined a book club at my local downtown library. I was pretty picky about it. I didn't want to end up in some ladies club where we read Debbie Macomber novels. I'm snobby like that. I wanted to read relevant literature. I found a book club for writers. It doesn't get much snottier than that. Once, I got there, I found that while I didn't love this group, I didn't hate it either. And I liked the books we read. It is not a huge group. We hold the line at 20 and now have 17 participants.
I also like the fact that it met in a room that was right next door to a bathroom. This was important as I still have days where I just feel pukey and as every chemo survivor will tell you: we all know exactly where the nearest bathroom is all. the. time.
Sherry is one of our group. She is in her mid twenties and works nights at a bookstore. She has an English degree. She is easily the youngest person there but we are a pretty mixed group. There are thirty something Moms. Business women in their forties who take long lunches on our twice monthly meeting days. There are two men in our group. One is a much older man who reminds me of Atticus Finch. He's a retired accountant. The other man has never said one word to anyone so I know nothing of him, except that he carries a briefcase and wears a suit. He listens intently to what people say and sometimes will jot things down on a legal pad. I find this kind of flattering even though he has only written what I said once. Or maybe he just wrote down lady with really bad haircut cannot shut up about Cheryl Strayed. I'll never know.
But, back to Sherry. I dislike her. I don't dislike people easily, especially writers. I tend to give most writers a pass on nearly everything but Sherry just annoys me. Mostly, I think, because Sherry is a know-it-all.
I know. I know. The people you dislike the most are usually the same people with whom you share traits. Maybe I am a know-it-all, too. And I do get her. I just think that maybe, just maybe, this is all a big act with her.
Like when we read the book Brooklyn. She said that she found Tóibín's writing of Eilis' grief over her sister's death to be "excessive and maudlin."
"I mean, does Eilis really have to grieve forever about her sister? Move on with your life already," she said, tossing her head.
I was going to write tossing her head prettily but truly? Sherry is no beauty. She's average. She tossed her head in AN EFFORT to appear to be pretty.
This is a problem that I often run into with young people who write. They think that they know what they're talking about, but they don't. Not really.
Afterwards, as we all ate the brownies that Minnie brought, I privately asked Sherry if she had ever had anyone close to her die. Like nuclear family member close.
She gave me a withering look. "I know where this is going," she said, in her know-it-all voice. "You think that just because I haven't lost a sister that I can't write about it or recognize good writing about it."
I just looked at her for a long moment without speaking. People hate it when you do that. Finally, I said, "My Dad died when I was ten. My family has gone on but you know, none of us have really gotten over it. He was our DAD. You go on with your life, but there is always some part of you that grieves. And it hits you suddenly, too. You'll be just fine and then you'll hear a Jimmie Rodgers song and you'll suddenly be six years old again, sitting on the front porch, listening to your Dad play his guitar."
She sighed and dramatically looked at the ceiling. "So, I can't write about cancer because I haven't experienced it? I can't write about death because my Dad is still alive?"
No, I told her. Or....wait...yes. Yes, you can write about it. But, if you want to be a better writer about your subject? Talk to someone who has experienced what you're writing about. Don't be vain enough to think that you can tap into something just because you have a good imagination.
"A lot of great writers were very young," she retorted. "They didn't need to know their subjects intimately to write well about them."
"True," I agreed. "But, the best writers do their homework. Just sayin'"
She gave me one of her superior smiles. The one that says that she knows every bit as much as I do, maybe even more. I let it go. Because, frankly, I have been there. Done that. When I was younger, I was not in thrall of my elders.
I should have been.
Because we know so DAMN much. And age has brought a certain amount of wisdom. In fact, my age has given me the wisdom to know that I can learn just as much from young people as they can learn from me. Being around young people, hearing young opinions gives me so much food for thought. I seriously doubt that the young people in my life feel like we older ones are fonts of knowledge. But, I know MANY older people who say that being around younger people keeps them sharp.
So, listen here, missy. Take it from the older woman with the really bad hair cut.
You could stand to learn a thing or two. As someone once said, "You have two ears and one mouth for a reason."
Listen up.
"You need to get out more," she said. I tried to tell her that I DO get out plenty. I DO talk to people plenty.
"Doctors, nurses, and lab techs don't count," she said.
I mentioned that I have lots of friends in the park that I talk to every day. Well, most days. Ok. Some days.
Point taken. I joined a book club at my local downtown library. I was pretty picky about it. I didn't want to end up in some ladies club where we read Debbie Macomber novels. I'm snobby like that. I wanted to read relevant literature. I found a book club for writers. It doesn't get much snottier than that. Once, I got there, I found that while I didn't love this group, I didn't hate it either. And I liked the books we read. It is not a huge group. We hold the line at 20 and now have 17 participants.
I also like the fact that it met in a room that was right next door to a bathroom. This was important as I still have days where I just feel pukey and as every chemo survivor will tell you: we all know exactly where the nearest bathroom is all. the. time.
Sherry is one of our group. She is in her mid twenties and works nights at a bookstore. She has an English degree. She is easily the youngest person there but we are a pretty mixed group. There are thirty something Moms. Business women in their forties who take long lunches on our twice monthly meeting days. There are two men in our group. One is a much older man who reminds me of Atticus Finch. He's a retired accountant. The other man has never said one word to anyone so I know nothing of him, except that he carries a briefcase and wears a suit. He listens intently to what people say and sometimes will jot things down on a legal pad. I find this kind of flattering even though he has only written what I said once. Or maybe he just wrote down lady with really bad haircut cannot shut up about Cheryl Strayed. I'll never know.
But, back to Sherry. I dislike her. I don't dislike people easily, especially writers. I tend to give most writers a pass on nearly everything but Sherry just annoys me. Mostly, I think, because Sherry is a know-it-all.
I know. I know. The people you dislike the most are usually the same people with whom you share traits. Maybe I am a know-it-all, too. And I do get her. I just think that maybe, just maybe, this is all a big act with her.
Like when we read the book Brooklyn. She said that she found Tóibín's writing of Eilis' grief over her sister's death to be "excessive and maudlin."
"I mean, does Eilis really have to grieve forever about her sister? Move on with your life already," she said, tossing her head.
I was going to write tossing her head prettily but truly? Sherry is no beauty. She's average. She tossed her head in AN EFFORT to appear to be pretty.
This is a problem that I often run into with young people who write. They think that they know what they're talking about, but they don't. Not really.
Afterwards, as we all ate the brownies that Minnie brought, I privately asked Sherry if she had ever had anyone close to her die. Like nuclear family member close.
She gave me a withering look. "I know where this is going," she said, in her know-it-all voice. "You think that just because I haven't lost a sister that I can't write about it or recognize good writing about it."
I just looked at her for a long moment without speaking. People hate it when you do that. Finally, I said, "My Dad died when I was ten. My family has gone on but you know, none of us have really gotten over it. He was our DAD. You go on with your life, but there is always some part of you that grieves. And it hits you suddenly, too. You'll be just fine and then you'll hear a Jimmie Rodgers song and you'll suddenly be six years old again, sitting on the front porch, listening to your Dad play his guitar."
She sighed and dramatically looked at the ceiling. "So, I can't write about cancer because I haven't experienced it? I can't write about death because my Dad is still alive?"
No, I told her. Or....wait...yes. Yes, you can write about it. But, if you want to be a better writer about your subject? Talk to someone who has experienced what you're writing about. Don't be vain enough to think that you can tap into something just because you have a good imagination.
"A lot of great writers were very young," she retorted. "They didn't need to know their subjects intimately to write well about them."
"True," I agreed. "But, the best writers do their homework. Just sayin'"
She gave me one of her superior smiles. The one that says that she knows every bit as much as I do, maybe even more. I let it go. Because, frankly, I have been there. Done that. When I was younger, I was not in thrall of my elders.
I should have been.
Because we know so DAMN much. And age has brought a certain amount of wisdom. In fact, my age has given me the wisdom to know that I can learn just as much from young people as they can learn from me. Being around young people, hearing young opinions gives me so much food for thought. I seriously doubt that the young people in my life feel like we older ones are fonts of knowledge. But, I know MANY older people who say that being around younger people keeps them sharp.
So, listen here, missy. Take it from the older woman with the really bad hair cut.
You could stand to learn a thing or two. As someone once said, "You have two ears and one mouth for a reason."
Listen up.
Comments
Post a Comment