Hello Friends. You know how--when you, um hypothetically, buy the DVD of The Notebook-- there are all those special features and deleted scenes with Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling that you're so glad you got a chance to see, because they really have a great chemistry? Well  consider this blog entry a sort of writing deleted scene fresh from the floor of the editorial cutting room. What you're about to read is an entry I wrote for my This Writer's Life column that wasn't used because it focused entirely too much on my personal as opposed to my professional writing life. Rather than just burying it in the time capsule in my backyard with the rest of my rejected works, I thought it would make a nice teaching point to show that--even after three years of writing a column--I still get things rejected. Plus, with global warming and everything, I think it's part of my duty to recycle, especially 1100 words worth of material. Anyway, here she is, for no extra charge, my Special Edition Deleted Column.

The Best of,
What's Around

DMB


Several weeks ago, I got a call from my mother. Normally, I get lots of calls from my mother, most of them focused around the infrequency with which I answer my phone, but I could tell from the tone of her voice that this was more serious. She informed me that my grandmother had rather unexpectedly gotten very sick very fast and that there was little that could be done. After a few moments of stunned silence, my mom then informed me that my grandmother had a request. She wanted me to write something for her to be read at an upcoming family gathering.

“Did she specify what she wants me to write?” I asked my mom, hoping what she really wanted was some sort of 3 or 4 line rhyming poem, a pre-pubescent Kevin Alexander specialty.

But I wasn’t going to get off that easy. “Whatever you want to do is fine, dear,” my mom said. “Grandma said you’d know just what to write.”

After I hung up with my mom, I sat and thought about what I was going to do. I felt both honored and extremely nervous. I was upset, of course, as I love my grandmother and she’s played a large part in raising me and sickness and loss are never easy to deal with, but I also knew she was older now and she’d lived a great life and so I couldn’t pretend that a small part of my mind wasn’t expecting something like this. And seeing how I’m the only one in my family who writes anything longer than a grocery list, my grandparents had long ago asked me to write and read their eulogies when they passed.

As a writer in a family of non-writers, you come to expect to handle these types of tasks, and, personally, I think they’re the most rewarding. Don’t get me wrong, I love and crave the vanity and personal pleasures of seeing my name in print and spend upwards of twenty minutes a day Googling myself in new and creative ways, but there is something so intimate and honorable about being given the chance to celebrate the life of someone you loved, something so emotionally powerful and important that you can’t help but be taken in by it. Writing is one of those rare skills that afford you the chance to take thought, emotion and coherency and put it towards the memory of another. But writing something honoring someone’s life after they’re gone is one thing. Doing it while they’re still alive is a completely different story.

I spent the next week or so in a daze, my work falling off, my head clouded by the task at hand. No matter what I’m writing, I tend to go through three stages during the writing process. The first is elation, because I’m so excited about getting a new assignment. This usually consists mostly of me bragging to my friends about the cool and unique opportunity I’ve been afforded and why my life is so much more artistically profound than theirs. Other people tend not to like my elation phase. Standing in direct contradiction is the second phase, which could be most aptly summed up as the despondency phase. It’s during this phase that I realize the weight and breadth of said task, and begin to, in the words of my roommate, “lose my shit”. The one positive aspect of this phase is that my apartment gets very, very clean. The final phase is, of course, the “you’ve left yourself with no time to do anything else so you better sit your ass down and finish this before you get fired” phase, which is pretty much self-explanatory.

Because of the uniqueness of this assignment and the limited time frame I was working in, I seemed to be experiencing all three phases simultaneously. I was obviously excited, but that excitement was crippled by a horrible fear of failure, and a voice in the back of my head that kept reminding me of the importance of the task at hand. Talking to Ramsey didn’t help much either.

“Dude, you have to make this perfect, like some Gettysburg Address/Good Will Hunting type shit,” he said, when I told him about what I was expected to do. “Wow. That’s a lot of pressure. If I was you, I’d probably have completely freaked out and—as you know—I pretty much dominate pressure situations.”

My main problem was that I didn’t know what sort of thing to write. Should it be some sort of eulogy-esque remembrance or a nostalgia-inducing poem or something funny to rise spirits? Should I get other family members involved? What about word count?

After another week of sleepless stress, I finally decided to ask my grandfather. I’d been putting off talking to him about it, mostly because I feared that any more talk of my grandmother’s sickness would be too stressful for him. And, if I’m being honest with myself, I also kept quiet because I secretly fear bringing up sad or distressing topics, often taking painful lengths to avoid talking about them while internally freaking out. Not exactly healthy, I know.

So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that my grandfather was more than happy to talk about it. And when I asked about what specifically I should do, he laughed.

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” he said. “You think your grandmother will be concerned about the form of whatever you present? She’d be thrilled if you read from a science book, as long as it was you doing it. Just do something that will let her know how much we care about her. Maybe you make us laugh a little, maybe you make us cry, whatever, just so she knows we’re there and we’re thinking about her.”

My grandfather paused for a little. “Oh, and one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Just make sure it’s not another one of those damn rhyming poems.”

Freed from the shackles of my own mind, I wrote the entire thing one afternoon at my mother’s house, looking through some old pictures and albums. I’m presenting it to the family in three days. Hopefully, there are things in there to make our family laugh, cry and remember just what my grandmother means to us.

And perhaps most importantly, none of it rhymes.

I am working on a deadline for Boston Magazine. The deadline is this  
Thursday. And, at the moment, that seems manageable. I am (mostly)  
done with the reporting, I have (partially) transcribed the  
interviews, I even (vaguely) know what I'm trying to say. Of course,  
there are other things for me to do as well, smaller-ish things, like  
preparing a presentation about the mechanics and literary devices  
employed by Philip Roth when beginning and ending chapters in The  
Human Stain, re-writing a portion of a chapter to turn into my  
workshop and writing, you know, this blog, but the deadline is the  
major looming thing in my life this week. The deadline rules. And  
this stresses me out.

Now, in my "writing life", I have written several blogs, columns, and  
features about my procrastination issues. As my editors can surely  
attest, they are more than well-documented. They are, perhaps, over-
documented. So this is not another recounting of the various  
techniques I actively and passively employ to facilitate not writing  
(examples I will not be giving: constantly getting up to refill my  
water, organizing my books by author then re-organizing them by  
genre, typing 200 words worth of swear words or catch phrases,  
etc.) . No sir. Totally not that. Instead, I am attempting to examine  
the psychology behind my dangerous and job-threatening need to  
procrastinate. Because if we can get under the hood and take a look--
to use a semi-incompatible cliche--maybe this baby will finally drive  
right. Onward self-examination!

Reason 1: I need the pressure to focus.
Analysis: Because I wait till the last moment to do things, I like to  
leave myself with little to no choice about whether or not I can work  
because--if I know I have time-- I will then rationalize doing  
something else, usually involving Netflix. Pressure leaves me no  
wiggle room, which forces me into a corner, which unleashes my  
creative side, which is something to behold a 4 AM. This excuse may  
have some legs.
What My Dad Would Say: You are lazy and unbecoming of the Alexander  
lineage.
What My Mom Would Say: I'm very proud of you, but I want you to get  
more sleep.

Reason 2: I have an acute fear of failure and/or not knowing what I'm  
doing.
Analysis: Every time I sit down to begin another article/blog/
chapter, I am stricken with the thoughts that I can't do it, I can't  
possibly pull off something again, that I will never write (blank)  
like the last (blank) that I wrote, and that I shouldn't even bother,  
and I should just get an internship at an Art Gallery.
What My Dad Would Say: You're not a closer. And an internship at an  
Art Gallery sounds unpaid.
What My Mom Would Say: You're the best writer ever, but I want you to  
get more sleep.

Reason 3: If someone else is doing something, I need to also be doing  
that thing.
Analysis: Like most people who spend their days locked up with their  
thoughts, I get lonely, even (or especially) when surrounded by  
hippies., which makes me susceptible to--like the title of R&B group  
'Nuttin Nice's song says-- being "down for whateva". Also, people  
with 9-5 jobs don't "think I do anything all day", and always call me  
when they a) have a day off, b) want to go out during the week, c)  
want to do something stupid like go to Europe for 4 months, and can't  
find any takers. Of course, when I say "people with 9-5 jobs", i mean  
my friend Casey.
What My Dad Would Say: If your friends jumped off the Tobin Bridge  
and into a low paying, non-health benefits filled "sea" of self-
doubt, would you? Oh God, don't answer that.
What My Mom Would Say: You're very unique, but I want you to get more  
sleep.

Reason 4: I'm just lazy.
Analysis: Maybe I'm just lazy.
What My Dad Would Say: Yep. You nailed it.
What My Mom Would Say: I agree with your father.

Anyway, I don't have time for this. I have to go stress about my  
deadline while watching a documentary about the rise of R&B on VH1  
Soul. I'm up to the part where they talk to Boyz II Men about Jodeci.  
Feel free to leave your own reasons as to why you think you  
procrastinate in a little something the Internet 2.0 likes to call  
the Comment(z) section and I'll try and update you on how things turn  
out. Let's get this money.

Thank,
You (live)

Boyz II Men

In order to sell your novel, books recommend having a unique "voice"
that separates you from the pack and wins you literary, commercial,
and social-emotional praise. The fact that books also recommend that
you be married to the chairman of Random House and/or Judith Regan is
neither here nor there. But what kind of voice do you want to have? Do
you want your voice to be strong and masculine like Hemingway and that
dude who told Oprah he woke up on an airplane with no teeth or clever
and flirty like Lauren Weisberger or whomever writes Candace
Bushnell's books? If you said neither, books would point out that
you're lying.

Either way, to discover where your voice fits in on the voice
spectrum, please take this short, two question quiz and then feel free
to spend the rest of the week in a semi-concussed state of food coma
remembering the vaguely worded story of Squanto and the Pilgrims
before venturing to the mall at 5 AM on Black Friday to buy
vanilla cookie candles at 40% off. It's totally worth it.

Directions: Read then choose, then read then choose, then learn.

1. Your protagonist finds themselves seated across from their true
love at the Olive Garden. Please describe said scene.

A. The breadsticks were warm and garlic-scented and I was hungry.
First, I was thirsty though and I ordered a whiskey and thought about
bull fighting and other sports. I like sports. A girl was there, I
think.

B. Unless he's being ironic or something, the fact that Jeremy even
considered taking me to an OG (in the burbs!!) is kind of ridic. Olive
Garden's are full of ew people, and ew people cannot appreciate the
fact that I squeezed into this Bottega Veneta Camel Shearling Shrug
and these Jimmy Choo Biker Leather Flat Boots With Rabbit Fur Lining.
I need like eleven Cosmo's.

C. Music. The gentle hum of the synthesized version of "Hey Ya"
reverberated off of the plush, faux-Italian decor. A cold rush came
over me, a suspicious rush of season's past, a remembrance of things
before, before a flood of emotions crept up on me like our vaguely
mustachioed waiter. As Daphne ordered her Endless Pasta Bowl, I
reflected on a time when the song of my love still played, still
reflected towards me like a pool of reflective water. That my heart
still beats is a wonder at all. I ordered the Tour of Italy and became
dour.

D. Don is famous for a lot of things, and most of those things have
something to do with being a naughty, naughty boy.
"Have you been a bad boy," I asked in a whisper, leaning over the
table as the waiter brought the breadsticks.
"You know I have," Don said, his crystal clear blue eyes running up
and down my body. I picked up a breadstick, seductively. Three minutes
later, we were doing it in the men's lavatory.

2. Your character finds themselves at an ATM machine needing money.
How do they handle it?

A. We went to the woman at the bank and requested money. She said to
use the machine. I told her I don't use machines. Walking home, I
tried to think of what she meant.

B. Jeremy made some joke about going "dutch" to dinner tonight, so I
went to the ATM, the one down on Houston and Mott in Nolita by that
cute brunch place Nolita House with the morning margarita's. Going
"dutch" wasn't my problem. My problem was that as I was walking up to
the ATM, I got my Purple Label Grey Metallic "Lizard" Crissy Evening
Sandals stuck in a grate and I slipped, nearly ruining my Adriano
Goldschmied Boyfriend Shorts and that cute top I borrowed from Kristin
(whose new thing, apparently, is not eating). I should have moved to
the Village.

C. Doors. Opening and closing, exposing and then covering up. The
automatic doors at the ATM remind me of the clapping hands of a
babysitter I once had, a small Latina woman with strong, callused
hands. Isn't life often like the closing and opening of doors, be they
automatic, manual or otherwise? Friends become enemies, enemies,
friends and the seasons pass with nay a look in the direction of God.
I've forgotten my ATM card.

D. "Where are we going to do it?" I asked Don, the bad boy actor. I
felt bad. So bad that I kind of felt good.
"I don't care baby, as long as it's hot and in public," Don said. He
was smoking a cigarillo.
"Well," I said, slyly plucking the cigarillo from his mouth and taking
a long pull. "The ATM machine has a camera."
"You're bad," Don said with a mischievous smile.
"I know," I said. "I am bad."

Key:

Mostly A's: Your sparse prose gives the bare minimum of details and
doesn't really let us "inside". You pull it off, you're Hemingway. You
don't, and you're (insert any male high school writer after just
reading Death in the Afternoon by Hemingway). I'm pulling for you.

Mostly B's: Your voice is a little bit sexy and a little bit city. As
long as your protagonist is 23-25 and working in a cool, creative,
city job (fashion, magazines, advertising, corporate accounting, etc)
with some boy trouble, you're pretty much already published.

Mostly C's: Oh, pseudo-literary. The eternal quest to flood the page
with hyper-symbolic prose and internal reflection. When it's good,
it's amazing, when it's bad, it's the worst. A little bit like sushi.

Mostly D's: You are Jackie Collins. And you are naughty.

Ok. Let me know where you stand in the comments. And--if you feel like
your voice wasn't given a shout out-- feel free to drop where exactly
you place yourself, preferably in that Hollywood movie-pitch style,
"Tom Clancy meets E. Annie Proulx at Ken Follett's house". Don't use
that one though, that's mine.

I Wanna Be,
Rich

Calloway

By all accounts, Edith Wharton is not a sadist. Although she did marry a man twelve years her senior who happened to go insane and intentionally chose to spend most of her life in France, she was an influential taste-maker, a friend of Teddy Roosevelt, and somewhat embarrassed by boozehound F. Scott Fitzgerald's social awkwardness. According to Wikipedia, she was damn prolific, and I'm even willing to admit that I read (most of) The Age of Innocence and I really liked it. But her novel Ethan Frome almost ruined me on American Lit....4...eva:(. &nb