How many slices? Hundreds? Thousands? Like kisses, few are individually memorable. The Bronx pizzas of my eary childhood are lost in the mists of time. Only a handful (plateful?) of others offer themselves up for recall.
1. Mike's Submarines, Montreal, 1975. I was 11. I had never seen mozza that artificially elastic. Appallingly, I was expected to eat it with a knife and fork. Worse was in store. I had to take off my shoes on entering suburban homes, use a "serviette," and attend a sex-segregated Sunday school. Hello middle-class Canada, good-bye preppy/bohemian NY.
2. Portofino Pizza, Vienna, 1979. 15 years old. My best friend was an orthodox Jew. The pizza wasn't great, but (accidentally) it was kosher. We felt utterly grown up as we sipped our cheap wine. Three topics of conversation (boys, school, the future) in endless rotation.
3. An unnamed counter, Rome, 1981. 18. I threw countless dorm-room parties at my boarding school. As these reached full-tilt, and often just as some boy was starting to hit on me, I'd head out into the cool winter night, wearing my grandfather's green jacket.
The place was 2 blocks up the hill. Standing room for three customers. Two men, shirts pasted to sweat-soaked backs, heaving massive slabs of ai funghi from the ovens. 800 Lira/100 grams. Then I'd go back and let the boy keep hitting on me. This rarely turned out as well as the pizza.
4. Gino's, Kingston, Ontario, 1985. 22. A dozen toppings graced the Gino's special. My boyfriend and I substituted pineapple for sausage, and got anchovies on (my) half. After months of phoning in this order several times a week, we discovered that Gino's was only 2 blocks from campus. Gino was so tickled when we made our first order in person, he gave us free drinks.
That boyfriend has been my husband for 19 years.
There have been many pizzas since. Some were memorable. But you remember the slices of your youth with a sharpness and sweetness that the others never achieve.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Building the Platform
Not so long ago, I was fat. Sixty pounds overweight to be exact.
I hardly even saw it. I assumed that clothes were getting shoddier (and tighter) and that there was something wrong with my haircut.
When I started going to the gym, it was because a half-hour on the stationary bike meant I could watch TV uninterrupted by my 3 year-old.
One half hour. Three or four times a week. At the pace of a senior citizen.
After three years of this, I got a trainer. I ignored half of what she recommended.
But I did the other half. Three or four times a week.
A few more years passed.
I wasn't fit. I wasn't strong. I was still fat. But I was ready. I had built the platform.
When a rare lull at work let me go to the gym every day, the scale started to move. So I trimmed my intake, just a bit. In a year, I lost 40 lbs. 20lbs more went in the next few months.
Without the platform, I never could have done that. Five years where I got little to no results, except for the pleasure of dropping by the gym, watching the tube, and showering in peace.
The Lessons:
1. Keep writing, undettered by a slow pace and barely adequate performance.
2. Make it a pleasure. Otherwise you'll quit. All that slow work you've done on your platform will be lost. Write about what you like, when you like.
Don't worry about progress, as long as you're showing up at your desk at regular intervals.
Just like the lull at my work, your great opportunity may be coming. Make sure your platform is ready when it does.
I hardly even saw it. I assumed that clothes were getting shoddier (and tighter) and that there was something wrong with my haircut.
When I started going to the gym, it was because a half-hour on the stationary bike meant I could watch TV uninterrupted by my 3 year-old.
One half hour. Three or four times a week. At the pace of a senior citizen.
After three years of this, I got a trainer. I ignored half of what she recommended.
But I did the other half. Three or four times a week.
A few more years passed.
I wasn't fit. I wasn't strong. I was still fat. But I was ready. I had built the platform.
When a rare lull at work let me go to the gym every day, the scale started to move. So I trimmed my intake, just a bit. In a year, I lost 40 lbs. 20lbs more went in the next few months.
Without the platform, I never could have done that. Five years where I got little to no results, except for the pleasure of dropping by the gym, watching the tube, and showering in peace.
The Lessons:
1. Keep writing, undettered by a slow pace and barely adequate performance.
2. Make it a pleasure. Otherwise you'll quit. All that slow work you've done on your platform will be lost. Write about what you like, when you like.
Don't worry about progress, as long as you're showing up at your desk at regular intervals.
Just like the lull at my work, your great opportunity may be coming. Make sure your platform is ready when it does.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
How I Know
I've been busy lately. You know how it is.
The busy has been snowballing. When this happens, I build a pebbly crust around it. The current crust is about a week thick, and consists mostly of emails, and bits of my to-do list.
Not so long ago, the layers of my crusts were numbered in years.
The crust's insides can ripen into dusty emptiness, if left unchecked.
When I find some quiet time, the crust cracks. The busy blows away.
Then I start to write again. It makes me happy.
That's how I know.
The busy has been snowballing. When this happens, I build a pebbly crust around it. The current crust is about a week thick, and consists mostly of emails, and bits of my to-do list.
Not so long ago, the layers of my crusts were numbered in years.
The crust's insides can ripen into dusty emptiness, if left unchecked.
When I find some quiet time, the crust cracks. The busy blows away.
Then I start to write again. It makes me happy.
That's how I know.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
100% Unguaranteed Anti-Block #4
So how do we clear the forest from the trees of your writing? Today, some cheap tricks.
Its a beautiful day, you should be writing more of your novel, but you're blocked.
Try this.
Take a good chunk, say 15 pages or so. Ideally, this is something you DIDN'T write recently and haven't read in a while.
Cut and paste this chunk into a three new documents. Open the first document. Take a deep breath, go through and cut out every other page. It'll take you less than thirty seconds.
In the second document, cut out every other paragraph. This will take longer, maybe 3 minutes.
In document three, cut out every other sentence. Its sounds tedious because it is, but it'll take less than ten minutes. Your writing is worth that, right?
Close the files and let them cook for a week or so. No peeking at the original chunk during this time. Now open the first of the files. Fill in the missing bits from memory if, and only if, you need them to maintain the integrity of the story.
Repeat with the other two files.
Prepare to be amazed. And yes, I plan to patent this technique.
Its a beautiful day, you should be writing more of your novel, but you're blocked.
Try this.
Take a good chunk, say 15 pages or so. Ideally, this is something you DIDN'T write recently and haven't read in a while.
Cut and paste this chunk into a three new documents. Open the first document. Take a deep breath, go through and cut out every other page. It'll take you less than thirty seconds.
In the second document, cut out every other paragraph. This will take longer, maybe 3 minutes.
In document three, cut out every other sentence. Its sounds tedious because it is, but it'll take less than ten minutes. Your writing is worth that, right?
Close the files and let them cook for a week or so. No peeking at the original chunk during this time. Now open the first of the files. Fill in the missing bits from memory if, and only if, you need them to maintain the integrity of the story.
Repeat with the other two files.
Prepare to be amazed. And yes, I plan to patent this technique.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
A short bit of clarification....
I promised you tips for pulling the weeds out of your work, but that's going to have to wait for tomorrow.
First, a brief note of clarification.
I know you are probably not trying to write a bad novel. I get that. I'm not trying to write a bad novel either.
I'm a realist, that's all. Our stuff will likely be bad. Oh, I could use weasel words, like amateur or starter, but I respect you too much to waste your time.
Loads of other people will tell you how to a novel. They'll suggest that you can get great results by just following the rules, or, at the very least, they'll hide from the truth that the odds are dead set against this result.
I consider my willingness to admit that our results will likely range from adequate to abysmal to be my distinguishing feature.
Any badness is just a result of the probabilities and our own frailties.
As for writing a good novel, I don't think any one can tell you how to do that. You have to figure that out for yourself.
First, a brief note of clarification.
I know you are probably not trying to write a bad novel. I get that. I'm not trying to write a bad novel either.
I'm a realist, that's all. Our stuff will likely be bad. Oh, I could use weasel words, like amateur or starter, but I respect you too much to waste your time.
Loads of other people will tell you how to a novel. They'll suggest that you can get great results by just following the rules, or, at the very least, they'll hide from the truth that the odds are dead set against this result.
I consider my willingness to admit that our results will likely range from adequate to abysmal to be my distinguishing feature.
Any badness is just a result of the probabilities and our own frailties.
As for writing a good novel, I don't think any one can tell you how to do that. You have to figure that out for yourself.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Ditching the junk
Lurking in your work are likely flashes of truth and beauty. Odds are good that they're buried under a load of junk. Your junk.
If you lack faith in your readers, you do a lot of explaining to them. This would make sense if you were teaching grade 9 English, but you're not.
If you lack faith in your ideas, you repeat them. Again and again. Over and over. See how annoying that is?
The antidotes for this faithlessness will be personal. Good editing requires detachment. There are a few tricks that can help (which I'll share next post). But there is one pre-requisite before any of these will work, and that's time.
You can't edit something you just wrote. You can and should proof-read it, but that's not editing. Your only hope of seeing your work as others see it is to put it in a drawer and forget about it.
For how long? Here's a rule of thumb: One month for short stories, 2 for one-act plays, 6 for longer plays, and a year for a novel.
A year.
Why?
In a year you will become a slightly different person. And you need those new eyes to show you what your old self couldn't see. Because your new self will see the junk covering up whatever your old self wanted to say.
If you lack faith in your readers, you do a lot of explaining to them. This would make sense if you were teaching grade 9 English, but you're not.
If you lack faith in your ideas, you repeat them. Again and again. Over and over. See how annoying that is?
The antidotes for this faithlessness will be personal. Good editing requires detachment. There are a few tricks that can help (which I'll share next post). But there is one pre-requisite before any of these will work, and that's time.
You can't edit something you just wrote. You can and should proof-read it, but that's not editing. Your only hope of seeing your work as others see it is to put it in a drawer and forget about it.
For how long? Here's a rule of thumb: One month for short stories, 2 for one-act plays, 6 for longer plays, and a year for a novel.
A year.
Why?
In a year you will become a slightly different person. And you need those new eyes to show you what your old self couldn't see. Because your new self will see the junk covering up whatever your old self wanted to say.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
My Microwave
My $800 microwave died four months ago. Its metallic corpse is still mounted above our stove. Like an exotic thoroughbred, it was elegant but frail, and fell ill if handled without ritualistic care and attention.
Life without a microwave was unthinkable. We consoled ourselves that we could drag our old one (an unsightly plastic workhorse), out of the cellar in an emergency, until we bought bought our replacement.
Imagine our shock to discover that you don't need a microwave. Period. You can defrost your breakfast blueberries on the stove top in the same time that it takes to zap them. Bagels are tastier from the oven, as is anything involving cheese. Popcorn without the chemicals is a revelation. Other foods no longer taste like science experiments.
There's even a convenience advantage to ditching the microwave. Thirty seconds too long in the mike can be a disaster. Five minutes too long in the oven is (mostly) no big deal.
Life without a microwave is not only manageable: its better.
I haven't missed the microwave once. Really. The old one is still in the cellar. I would never have thought that was possible, if it hadn't been forced on me.
Sizable chunks of your writing (and mine) are just like that microwave.
Next post, we'll talk about how to find them.
Life without a microwave was unthinkable. We consoled ourselves that we could drag our old one (an unsightly plastic workhorse), out of the cellar in an emergency, until we bought bought our replacement.
Imagine our shock to discover that you don't need a microwave. Period. You can defrost your breakfast blueberries on the stove top in the same time that it takes to zap them. Bagels are tastier from the oven, as is anything involving cheese. Popcorn without the chemicals is a revelation. Other foods no longer taste like science experiments.
There's even a convenience advantage to ditching the microwave. Thirty seconds too long in the mike can be a disaster. Five minutes too long in the oven is (mostly) no big deal.
Life without a microwave is not only manageable: its better.
I haven't missed the microwave once. Really. The old one is still in the cellar. I would never have thought that was possible, if it hadn't been forced on me.
Sizable chunks of your writing (and mine) are just like that microwave.
Next post, we'll talk about how to find them.
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