So You Want to Be a Writer....

When I first heard that Tony, the 20-year-old son of our good friends Hank and Mary, had made the decision to drop out of college to become a writer, I paled. It's such a risky business. He was doing so well in college and he could only be helped with more training, more education, more time to mature.

But, of course, he wasn't asking my opinion of his decision -- and who can talk a 20-year-old with a dream into or out of anything anyway?

His rationale did make a certain amount of sense: when better to take a risk like trying to break into the writing business than when one has two well-employed parents, supportive of his dreams, who can offer food and shelter and when a part-time job can bring in whatever additional money one needs? And when an absence of other obligations gives one the opportunity to drop back into college if that turns out to be the best option after all?

When I visited Tony and his parents last night, he showed me his work in progress. He is off to a good start. He does seem to have a good sense of the fantasy niche and a compelling story to tell. There are aspects of his writing style that reveal inexperience and a nervous inclination to tell the reader too much. But he is working. He is writing. And he is open to constructive criticism, which is good.  I am working on very specific comments to share with him that I hope will be helpful.

Of course, as an experienced writer, there is so much more I would like to tell him. But how do I share the realities of the business without dampening his enthusiasm?

One reality is that here are many people with talent, with a dream and with wonderful stories to tell.

On the other hand, there is the business of writing and publishing.

For every newcomer who snags a six-figure advance, there are many thousands of others, some equally talented, who never publish or, if they do, get considerably more modest advances.

There are the career ups and downs and the fact that many experienced, published writers don't make a lavish living or, indeed, a living at all.

There are trends. Niches and genres go in and out of fashion. Certain kinds of writers can become unfashionable as well.

When I was younger, someone with an M.D. or Ph.D. was a shoo-in to write non-fiction books. At the advice of an agent with whom I was briefly associated, I returned to graduate school in my forties to complete an academic Ph.D. and a clinical Master's degree in psychology. In part, this was to create an alternate source of income for the lean writing times, but, in large part, it was to increase my marketability as a writer in the areas of psychology, health and self-help. However, when I emerged from eight years of school, clinical internships and the prolonged licensing process, I was greeted with the news from the publishing world that "experts are out, real people are in..."

Just as in other speculative ventures, it's hard to time the market and anticipate trends, especially when your attempt to be trendy takes some years.

There is a blockbuster/celebrity mentality that goes with many of the publishing houses now owned by entertainment conglomerates.  In this culture, the celebrities rule and the lesser knowns pay the price. In one memorable instance, a publishing house had paid Jay Leno millions of dollars in advance for an autobiography that bombed. To partially recoup losses, they cancelled the contracts of about 100 lesser known writers.

Recently, best-selling novelist Scott Turow, who is also a lawyer and current president of The Authors' Guild, wrote an opinion piece in the New York Times decrying a recent Supreme Court decision to allow the importation of foreign editions of American works -- often cheaper than domestically produced books and now being sold on a secondary market with no royalties for the authors. He pointed out that, until now, such a move has been forbidden as a violation of copyright laws and that this new erosion of copyright will not hurt best-selling authors like him as much as the lesser known "mid-list" authors and newcomers to the business.

He also saw bad news for new and mid-list authors in traditionally published e-books, pointing out that while these are much less expensive to produce than paper books, the savings have not been shared with authors. He stated that the six major publishing houses all insist on limiting e-book royalties to 25% of net receipts. While best-selling authors like Turow can negotiate better deals for themselves in their contracts, lesser known writers don't have such power. He said that they find their earnings declining as a result and "that will accelerate as the market pivots more toward digital."

Despite declining fortunes, there are many still eager to publish. And now there is another challenge: the Platform. You don't just need talent and hard work. Now you need to have a platform to ensure the success of the book -- a platform that will enable you to promote yourself and your writing to the widest possible audience. Celebrity is the ultimate platform. Blogging is an essential part of a platform and the ability to promote yourself and to use social networking to your best advantage are other essentials.

And despite all these efforts, most published writers are not rich or famous. Many of us are like working actors -- there is some rub-off glamour, but not the riches or the fame a beginner might imagine.

Of course, whether one becomes rich at writing or not, or even publishes, there is still the joy of doing what one loves -- and that's a huge reason to take the risk of trying.

I know well the joys of doing work one loves -- and I've been doing it for a long time. I have skills. I have multiple degrees in journalism and psychology. I have a track record: a dozen books and hundreds of magazine articles published. I have a wonderful agent. And still it isn't easy.

I can well understand -- and applaud -- the growth of self-publishing, giving writers more control and a chance to bypass traditional gatekeepers. New possibilities bring hope in a time of diminishing prospects for people who are not already famous.

But, of course, many -- including my young friend -- still hope for a traditional publishing contract and a chance to make a living as a writer.

What equips one to compete in such a fierce and changing marketplace?

A strong need and will to write.  This is quite different from wanting to live the imagined writers' lifestyle, to be famous, to pen a lucrative best seller.

It means that writing is a part of who you are, something you've always done for fun and for personal satisfaction and growth. It means that you love the process and would write even if you didn't get paid but yet dream of having your passion also be your career.

Excellent skills. Even those young writers who have hit the jackpot with a lucrative first novel or break-through non-fiction book may well have worked for years to hone their craft before what looks like an overnight success.

The best writers make it look easy. But it isn't.

When I was a college sophomore, I thought I knew everything there was to know about writing. Then I encountered my toughest writing teacher ever -- Elizabeth Swayne, an Australian journalist who taught me everything I didn't know -- and that was a lot. I shuddered as I looked over her syllabus for my first writing class with her. She began it with "Do not bore me!" And she proceeded to write more than I did -- in blazing red grease pencil -- on my first paper for the class and gave me a "C-minus." I was crushed until I realized that was the highest grade in the class. Some of us eventually got A's in her class, but we worked hard and listened and put our egos on hiatus to learn what we so needed to learn: to write clearly and concisely.

Agents and editors get many thousands of submissions a day. When I was a magazine editor, for a publication not known as a major market for writers, we still got thousands of submissions a month. Most were totally unacceptable -- not the correct tone or subject matter (about 99% of those submitting short stories or articles had not bothered to read our magazine first).  Most were also badly written, something we could tell from the first paragraph.

So you may have mere seconds to make an impression on an editor or agent.

The wisdom to treat writing as a business.  It is an art. But, if you want to make a living at it, writing needs to be a business. If you want to support yourself as a writer, you put your rear end in the chair and write, hour after hour, day after day, whether you feel like it or not -- just like any other job.

During the years I was working full-time as a free-lance writer, people would smile and ask me how I got inspired to write, how often inspiration came. I would reply that I got most inspired when I looked at a stack of bills to be paid.

It was true, at least in part. If you want to be a writer, a self-supporting writer, you can't be a tortured artiste awaiting inspiration. You just sit down and do it. You meet your deadlines. You deliver what your agent and publishers and readers expect.

Once, when on a trip to New York, I had lunch with another well-established writer who told me about her trials with her publisher when the book she delivered was radically different from the outline of the book idea they had bought a year before. She asked how closely I stuck to my original outlines. Like glue. That was the deal. Unless my editor felt something wasn't working. Unless I thoroughly discussed a change of direction with an editor before trying it. Of my dozen books, only one had to be re-written -- and that was because the turnover at that publishing house was so bad that I had seven different editors on the project and each one had a somewhat different vision for my book.

When you see writing as a business, in addition to a passion and an art, you can discuss possible changes with an editor without getting hysterical about defending your golden prose. You learn to pick your battles. You learn there are many good and right ways to say something.

Over the years of my freelance writing, some people have said to me "It must be so great to not have to work! I mean, to just sit around and write and be creative and have that freedom."

They had no idea. I had the freedom to work seven days a week -- which I often did when an article or book deadline was looming. There were a lot of setbacks and disappointments as well as triumphs. I did not have the security of a regular paycheck or benefits. The riskiness of the business made me work harder than I ever did for a regular paycheck.

The confidence and skill to make your writing like fine music.  There is a difference between writing that is technically excellent and writing that leaps off the page and sings. Later in my college career, I began to learn the difference in a critique from yet another writing teacher -- Clarus Backes, who was editor of the Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine at the time.

He gave me back a paper with the comment "This is excellent, but you need to take your writing a step beyond this. You need to put something of yourself into it. The fine pianist hits all the right notes, but the vituoso puts something of himself into the music and that makes all the difference.  I know you can do that in time. Everything else has come along beautifully."

His challenge has given me a goal to strive for to this day.

Building life experiences, skills and options.  The lovely thing about being a writer is that every life experience you have adds to the richness of your literary expertise. Every class you take, every person you meet, every failure and disappointment, every small step toward success is a growth opportunity, both personally and professionally.

Sometimes experience in a field besides writing can ignite a wonderfully successful writing career.

Although I did things backwards and became a psychotherapist years AFTER my first book was published, my training and experience as a therapist brought a whole new depth to my writing.

Continuing to study and learn all your life is essential: fine-tuning one's writing skills, learning more about the world  and, not so incidentally, developing skills that offer support and options through the ups and downs of the writing life.

Many established writers go the academic route. The novelist Joyce Carol Oates can certainly claim considerable success as a writer, yet she spends much of her time as a college professor.

Scott Turow's writing career grew out of his profession as a lawyer,  Patricia Cornwell's from her career as a medical examiner. There have been successful doctor-writers -- from Michael Crichton to the amazing author-performer-director Jonathan Miller to Samuel Shem, the pseudonym for the Harvard psychiatrist who wrote the classic "House of God" that amused and inspired several generations of young doctors. Some of these left their original professions to become full-time writers; others, like Samuel Shem, wrote strictly as an avocation.

All of the above doesn't mean that my young friend Tony, the aspiring novelist, shouldn't be writing. If he has what it takes to succeed in this business, nothing I say will dampen his enthusiasm.

But it's important that he -- along with other aspiring writers -- follows his dream with his eyes -- and his mind -- wide open. I would encourage him in so many ways: to keep working on his novel; to study writing; to learn the business; to learn from his failures; to celebrate his successes, both large and small, to keep questioning and exploring the world around him. Doing all of this will not only give him a chance to make his dream reality but will also give him the resources to have a good and satisfying life as well.

Being Present

Settling in for a lovely solitary lunch at a local bistro recently, I noticed two women sit down at the table next to me. They were both casually dressed and looked a great deal alike. They appeared to be mother and daughter. I thought how nice it was that they could enjoy a pre-Mother's Day meal together.

Then I noticed.

The older woman was talking on her cell phone. She talked through the drink order, the meal ordering, the salad and soup courses, the meal itself. Mostly, the younger woman sat staring at the table. Once,  her phone rang and she had a brief conversation and then dove into her salad. The older woman was still on the phone, eating her meal, when I left.  And I wondered why she even bothered to go out to lunch with someone else when this prolonged phone conversation took precedence? What was keeping her from being present in the moment?

It's easy to blame technology. But we're the ones who choose to allow technology to intrude. So we ignore someone we're with in favor of talking on the cell or texting instead of talking with our companion, savoring a meal out or just enjoying the presence of another.

And it isn't always our addiction to technology that's the problem.

Sometimes it's a habit --  like being:

Too busy looking ahead to the next goal, the next adventure, the next trip to enjoy what's happening today.

Too busy finding fault to enjoy the unique strengths of another.

Too busy worrying about making a good impression to be truly present -- and at our best -- with another.

Too busy to see another person's need or subtle reaching out to us.

Too busy to savor solitude and all its possibilities.

Too busy to look into another person's eyes, to listen, to connect warmly.

Too busy to savor a sight, a sound, a smell, a moment.

How much we miss.

The Joy of Reunions

My 50th high school reunion has come and gone -- and it was memorable. It was, at once, joyous, poignant, instructive.

                                                     

It was a celebration spanning three days -- starting with a cocktail party at our classmate Julie Smith's Pasadena, CA home and going on to an all day event at our old high school -- Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy -- atop a hill overlooking the Rose Bowl and the Los Angeles basin. We were feted by the school as "The Golden Girls" and received roses, golden diplomas and a new yearbook of sorts that featured our youthful senior portraits and descriptions, updated ones and space for our reflections on our high school experiences, favorite memories and teachers. We ended the day with a dinner at an old, familiar local steakhouse and a few of us squeezed in a Sunday brunch before departing back to our homes and lives that stretch from Maine to Cabo San Lucas.

                                     

                                                Graduation Day - June 5, 1963

                                         

Class of 1963 - April 20, 2013

Amidst our celebration, there were painful moments as we remembered the one classmate -- Janet Zieschang -- who has died and the classmates who chose not to attend -- including those who harbored bitter memories about the abusive behavior of one of our teachers and those who said they just couldn't face the prospect of a reunion. And we missed those who wanted to attend, but were too far away to make coming economically feasible -- including our classmates from El Salvador -- Dora Emilia Molina and Maria Teresa Lopez Harrison Barrientos -- who followed the reunion from afar via social media, Liking the resulting pictures on Facebook. All of those who weren't there -- those who chose not to come and those who couldn't -- were very much missed.

There were the wistful, nostalgic moments.

Being in a wonderfully familiar place made the march of time suddenly more significant. There were only minor changes in some of the school's decor, but major advances in the academic curriculum. We looked at the very dated pictures of our tenure at the school and then at the bright and incredibly short uniforms of current students, all of whom looked impossibly young and beautiful.

                                       

                      Current Students: were we ever so young and beautiful?

                                         

Sister Ramona next to me at reunion lunch

Sitting in the dining room where the boarders ate their meals (and where I, a famously freeloading day student, dined often back in the day) seemed like a step back in time. And yet, it is a very different time now. Most of the students now are day students. There were some familiar, beloved faces at the dining tables. But we were strangers to the young, who listened to our stories and took pictures for us and served us lunch with admirable patience and grace. And I thought about how we had done the same, sure that we would never be as old and gray-haired and sloppily nostalgic as those alums -- and now, here we were.

Only one of our teachers was alive and present -- Sister Ramona, whose first year of teaching high school was our senior year. She was my favorite teacher and a favorite of many other students through the years. But there were some others -- Sister Gerald, Sister de Fatima, Sister Mary Joseph, Sister Benigna -- who live only in memory and in the difference they made in so many of our lives.

There were moments that were instructive -- those of us who carried extra weight had suffered somewhat more with aging than those who kept their lithe figures. And yet, there was no criticism, no judgments. Those in better shape reached out to help those who struggled with steps or with prolonged standing.

And there were the moments of pure joy and shared happiness.

There was joy in finding that superficial differences fall away with time and that the rich essence of another survives, made even more marvelous with time and life experience. We were no longer divided and classified. Those of us who tended to be more academic as adolescents mingled easily with the jocks, the cheerleaders, the alienated and the socials. True, we were still quite different in some ways. Some were grandmothers, even great-grandmothers. Some were childless women who had focused on a variety of careers. Some of us were feminists and some more traditional. Some were religious and some not. Our differences, both past and present, didn't matter. We were simply thrilled to see each other.

                                                           

Toni Park (r), Eileen Adams and me

Cheryl Jensen (l) and Pat Hill

Joan Palmer (l) and Julie Smith

                                         

Sheryl Nadler (r) with her sister Carolyn (class of '58)

Eileen Adams (l), Sister Ramona, me, Joan Palmer

                                         

                                A dinner celebration to conclude the joyous reunion 

There was the warmth of reconnection. In some cases, I was reunited with some marvelous women who were my classmates from kindergarten through high school: Pat Hill, Toni Park and Sheryl Nadler. The rest had been friends through adolescent angst and high points. And each time a classmate appeared, it was new cause for celebration. My former classmate Doreen Gardner was a bit late to the golden diploma ceremony but in time to hear her name called. When she walked up and took her place beside me, we looked at each other and embraced warmly, like dear old friends.

Although we always liked each other, Doreen and I had little in common when we were teenagers. She was so cute, with perfect hair and a bubbly personality and was a cheerleader. I was none of the above. But she told me once, I think, at our fifth or our tenth reunion, that she had always envied me because people took me seriously. And I was stunned -- and pleased -- understanding better how insecure we all were way back then despite perfect hair and cuteness and bright futures ahead.

There was reassurance that the goodness of others can survive decades of life experience. Julie Smith was still incredibly kind and funny. Sheryl Nadler's sense of fun and emotional generosity hadn't wavered through the years. Toni Park's eyes still sparkled with warmth and joy. Joan Palmer and Sue Adams, classmates who left to attend other schools before we graduated, were back and still so dear and insightful and fun. And Pennie Eiben, so diligent and so quietly thoughtful and reassuring in her teens and in her young old age, was responsible for getting us all together once again -- devoting herself to contacting our class and urging us to attend for the past three years.

There was the pleasure of remembering ....and being remembered. Mary Mullins smiled when she first saw me at the Friday cocktail party. "I'll never forget your playing King Herod in the Christmas play!" she said, embracing me.

I was momentarily stunned. How many people in my present daily life could imagine me with a paste-on beard (which made my father queasy), flowing robes and brandishing a wicked looking rubber dagger while yelling "Not if he were my own son! I did it to three of them. I would do it to three more! The child must die!!" King Herod, by the way, was the much coveted starring role in our traditional Christmas play. Mary and Joseph were mere non-speaking walk-ons. And my friend Eileen Adams, with whom I have had some fun "dueling Herods" sessions over drinks and nachos, played Herod the year after I graduated. She laughed with us as Mary and I remembered.

There were unexpected reminders of a time past. Cheryl Jensen, always so smart and so committed to her faith both then and now, surprised me with the question "Have you kept your faith?" I found myself explaining to her that my faith has changed somewhat over the years as I let go of Catholicism and embraced a more eclectic spirituality, but that the ethical lessons from long ago are very much a part of the person I've grown to be. And I reflected for quite some time on the fact that no one had asked me such a question for many years, nor had I felt compelled to define and explain what faith meant to me now. And I was grateful for her gentle question.

There were the insights from sharing old misconceptions. When we were in high school, I thought that my classmate Claire Griffith was too sophisticated and cool to approach. I doubt that we said two words to each other in school. I had no idea that she was really struggling to adjust to boarding school life and by her own admission "was not a happy camper." She thought I was a "super religious brainiac" when I was really shy and seeking comfort and peace through a painful adolescence. And now we were standing in our classmate Julie Smith's kitchen dishing and laughing and thoroughly enjoying each other. I was struck by Claire's gentle kindness, amazing resilience and great sense of humor. She was struck by my irreverence and earthiness. And I was filled with gratitude at this chance to know her in a whole new way.

                                                   

                              Eileen Adams, Sue Adams, Claire Griffith and me

There were the people who have been dear friends of mine through all these years -- Eileen Adams, Pat Hill and Sister Ramona -- who made this celebration extra special for me just by being there. (Sister Ramona was also present to be honored as an all-time distinguished alum -- class of 1952 -- for quite literally saving our school when it hit rock bottom financially around 1970. Sister Celeste, the current principal, said none of us would be experiencing this wonderful day were it not for Sister Ramona's hard work, inspiration and ability to turn the school around both academically and financially. I was filled with happiness hearing the words of praise for this very special woman.) And there were those with whom I was thrilled to reconnect, those with whom I want to maintain a warm connection once again.

And there was an awareness of time. While it's quite possible that some of us will never have the opportunity to see each other again, we wished for future reconnections -- to stay in touch, to plan another reunion in a year or two arranged by Claire in Cabo San Lucas, hoping that our numerous south of the border classmates would be able to attend.

I hope it happens. I hope we all do see each other again.

But even if we don't, this wonderful celebration will linger as a golden memory, keeping a group of kind, smart, feisty and funny women very close to my heart.

Dear Old Friends

The email from my dear friend Tim  a few mornings ago ended on a poignant note: "Dear dear dear dear friend -- take your vitamins!"

What had prompted this admonition was shocking: Ed Keifer, one of Tim's closest male friends for many years had died of cancer. Tim reflected back on all the holidays their families had shared, watching their children grow up together. The last time Tim saw Ed, who now lived on the East Coast while Tim is in Chicago, was last June at Tim's daughter Eliza's wedding. As they toasted the occasion together, Tim looked at his obviously ill old friend and knew that this might be one of the last times they would see each other. Still, Ed's death was a shock. Tim wrote to me, grief-stricken, with new awareness of his own mortality and a heightened fear of losing other old and treasured friends.

Our old friends -- who were children with us or college classmates or co-workers when our careers were new and our lives still so open to possibilities -- are ever more precious as we age. They understand us in ways that no one else can. They know where we've been. Who we are now. They know -- firsthand -- our life challenges and triumphs, sorrows and joys. And we know theirs.

Perhaps my oldest friend is Mary Laing Vaughn. We were babies together as our families moved into a newly built L.A. neighborhood shortly after the end of World War II. Our fathers were war veterans. Our mothers were newly stay-at-home moms after their wartime jobs ended. And we kids grew up as near siblings.  Mary and I celebrated my second birthday by eating the cake with our hands, grossing out the other party guest Sandy Gahan, who was a more sophisticated four-year-old. Mary and I played together, put on neighborhood shows and adored the Mouseketeers together. And even though we haven't seen each other in decades, we communicate by email, snail mail and occasionally by phone and it's as if we saw each other just yesterday.

                                                     

       My 2nd birthday with Mary Laing (r) and a bemused Sandy Gahan (c)

                                         

             Mary (l), Diane Uglow (c) and I during childhood playtime

Mary, who lives in Pennsylvania and Florida, also sent me an email this week, telling me how sad she was to hear of former Mouseketeer Annette Funicello's death.

It was an interesting moment of the blending of our child selves and older selves: our young selves mourned an idol we adored together when we were children, someone who was an icon of graceful adolescence. Our older selves can't help but reflect on our own mortality even as we feel sad for Annette and her family.

This mixture of youth and aging is an inevitable part of our long-time friendships.

Bob's best high school friend Wellington Stanislaus (Stan) calls him "Rocky" -- an affectionate nickname only Bob's high school friends ever called him. Stan, who was a popular athlete in high school, befriended Bob when he was a shy newcomer to the school. He helped Bob get a succession of summer jobs at the Camp for the Junior Blind in Malibu during the last years of high school and the first years of college. These summers still have a special place in Bob's memory -- a time when he was doing work he loved, feeling that he was making a difference, particularly when teaching the campers music. He loved working side by side with Stan and the companionship of the other camp counselors. And he greatly admired the camp's director who had used much of his wealth to build and run the camp.

                                               

                                       Stan, a star athlete and stellar friend, in 1962

Stan's life since those idyllic summers has not been easy. He spent some years in a Catholic religious order and emerged -- as another friend of mine has -- in his later years underemployed and with scant Social Security benefits. Stan is strong in spirit, but his body has been frail. He works off and on as a cook, living alone in an apartment in Fresno, CA. But when they connect on the phone, Stan and Bob slip easily back into the friendship of their youth, seasoned by the wisdom and experience of age. No one but Stan knows first hand what those summers so long ago meant to young Bob. And an older Bob rarely fails to close a conversation with his old friend without telling him that he loves him.

Our old friends are irreplaceable. 

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't hear from a dear old friend. I see certain emails and they always make me smile.

There are the almost daily uplifting messages from my Hawaiian friend Jeanne Nishida Yagi, one of my most treasured and enduring friends from college. She has remained filled with faith and optimism even as she has endured recent back surgery and her husband Jimmy had heart surgery. They have been recovering both apart -- cared for by family members -- and, finally, together.  When I think of Jeanne, I remember the fun and challenging times we shared in college and also the unspoken depth of the friendship we still share.

                                                 

                   Jeanne, a bridesmaid at my 1977 wedding, with me and our friend Jane Martin (r)

There are the fun and newsy ones from my childhood friend Pat Hill. Pat and I went from kindergarten through high school together. She stood up for me in grade school when other kids shunned me because my parents weren't married in the Catholic Church. She refused to attend parties when I wasn't invited. I marveled at her courage and loyalty then and now. We've seen each other through many challenges and many changes, including her battle with spasmodic dysphonia that make speech difficult until her surgery several years ago. Now she helps others with the disorder both individually and at conferences. And I'm looking forward to catching up with her face to face when we attend our 50th high school reunion together this coming weekend.

                                     

                                                         Pat Hill circa 1977

                                                   

Pat at UCLA Voice Conference 2013

There are the wistful emails from my friend Dr. Chuck Wibbelsman, with whom I wrote several books, including the best-selling The Teenage Body Book. We have shared much more than simply a professional relationship. Once we were lovers and talked of marriage before he came to the then painful conclusion that he was gay. His initial coming out nearly 40 years ago was tempestuous and it was something that we shared, changing both our lives. We've since shared many major turning points in life -- from the joy of my wedding to Bob to the grief over the loss of Chuck's entire immediate family of origin. He currently lives in San Francisco with David, his companion of 34 years. Since I've moved to Arizona, Chuck and I have seen each other only once and miss the long talks over dinner we used to have so easily when I still lived in California.

                                                 

                                                 Chuck with me at my wedding 

                                         

                                         Chuck with his beloved Aunt Angie in 2011  

There are cherished emails from my friend Sister Ramona, whose first year of teaching high school journalism was my senior year. That year launched a 50-year friendship that has been one of the joys of my life. Even though we don't get a chance to see much of each other -- she's now a counselor for students at Stanford University -- we keep in touch and our occasional dinners together are great fun -- and filled with her unique insights and witty observations.

When Bob and I were living together before we were married, I invited her over for dinner and Bob was aghast. "Does she know our situation??" he asked frantically. "What do I call her, for heaven's sake? I've never met a nun before. I mean, do I call her 'Your Majesty'?? Or what?? Oh, this is going to be terrible!" But it wasn't. Two minutes after she walked in the door, Sister Ramona had Bob laughing and she later came to our non-Catholic wedding in a spirit of joy and celebration.

Not long ago, Bob and I were discussing the meaning of success as well as who might be the most successful person we personally knew. He beat me to the obvious conclusion: Sister Ramona. "She has had such a lasting impact on so many lives," he said. "Hands down, she's the most successful human being I know." I smiled in agreement.

The fact that she is flying down to L.A. for the 50th reunion celebration next weekend is wonderful news!

                                       

                  Sister Ramona visiting when Bob and I were living in sin - 1976

There are the fun emails and periodic get-togethers with my high school friend Eileen Loubet Adams, who lives in Northern California, but who joins me for high school reunions at 4-5 year intervals (she was in the class behind me) and whom I see when she comes to visit her sister in Tucson. We laugh together as we remember lines from plays we did together in high school. And we have supported each other through some major challenges in our lives, mostly recently when her wonderful daughter Andrea, only 30, died suddenly of a congenital heart condition. We'll be roommates during my upcoming 50th reunion -- and also next year when Eileen celebrates her 50th!

                                     

                        In high school, Eileen (1) and me (r) with Cathy Casey (c) 

                                           

                                                         Eileen and me in 2011
                                        
Then there are the encouraging, loving emails from my friend Mary Breiner, whom I met more than 40 years ago when we both worked at 'TEEN. We shared so much when we were young -- dishing on romantic relationships that didn't work out and the emotional fallout of growing up in literary, but hard-drinking Irish families. We shared and accomplished our dreams of becoming psychotherapists. We also, in time, celebrated the relationships that worked -- my marriage to Bob, where she was maid of honor, and her marriage to John in 1985. We've also shared some of the challenges of aging -- John's health concerns among them -- and enjoy each other's calm reassurance, listening, caring and humor.

                                   

Mary and me in 1977

Mary and her husband John in 2012

And then there are the fun, sweet, and loving messages from Tim Schellhardt, my best friend from college with whom I've shared a close and loving friendship for 50 years as we segued from students to working journalists to writers facing all the issues of aging -- our weight, our cardio-fitness, our triumphs and our disappointments and, most lately, our mortality and fear of losing each other and the other people whose lives brighten our own.

                                               

               Tim and I in 1977 as he perused Bob's and my wedding album

                                         

                                                               Tim and I in 2012

The singular joy of long-time friendship was underscored recently when Sharon Hacker visited us from California.  She and her now ex-husband Steve were Bob's best friends during his first marriage to Sue.  After Bob and Sue divorced and I came into the picture, they were kind and welcoming and became my beloved friends, too. We greatly enjoyed watching their delightful children Brian and Carrie grow up to be talented, successful and caring adults. And, for the four days she was with us, it was so lovely to look back with laughter and fond memories and  somehow comforting to be looking ahead with hope, shared apprehension and a newly present sense of mortality -- together.

                                     

                                                  Sharon with Steve and Brian in 1976

                                         

                                           Sharon and Bob - 2013

Sharon grew reflective as she was leaving to return home. "Let's not let so much time pass between visits," she said. "At this stage of our lives....well, you never know."

Her words have resonated and made us resolve to be in closer touch more often with all of our old friends.

Now is an excellent time to contact a dear old friend.

Now is a great time to plan a visit to see and touch and simply be with each other.

Now is the time to tell a dear old friend how much he or she has meant to you in the past and means to you still.

Now is the time .... because love shared is never too soon or too frequent... and because you never know...

Connecting Across Generations

My first reaction was sadness, then a flicker of anger.

I was reading a recent New York Times opinion piece "Digital Era Redefining Etiquette" by Nick Bolton. This obviously young, rather self-important writer decried the rudeness of people who send emails or texts simply to say "Thank you." Or someone who leaves a voice mail instead of texting. "Don't these people realize they are wasting your time?" he asked with a hint of petulance.

He went on to say that he had ignored a dozen voice mails from his father because he just doesn't do voice mails. When his exasperated father called Nick's sister to complain that Nick wasn't returning his calls, she told him that "No one listens to voice mail anymore. Just text him."

He said that this taught his father a lesson and that "My mother realized this long ago. Now we communicate mostly through Twitter."

While I'm all for communication however people can manage it, it made me sad and angry to hear the "My way or the highway" tone of the piece and that someone would ever consider a word of thanks -- however sent -- a waste of time.

We need to honor each other's favored means of communication.

Our friend Sharon learned to text expertly in order to keep up with her two young adult children. And they are quick to call her (her preferred method of communication) and to visit her, at least in part because they feel she truly cares what's going on in their lives and has gone to the trouble to communicate their way -- and so they meet her half way.

There are advantages to all the various forms of communicating. There is a wonderful immediacy to texting and emails. Hearing the voice of a loved one on the phone is a special joy. Spending time face to face with a loved one is life enhancing. And a written letter via old-fashioned "snail mail" is beyond special.

After all, you can't treasure a text 50 years later.  I have a little box of letters that never fail to bring a smile to my face and, at times, a few tears.

There is the letter my friend and former teacher Sister Ramona Bascom wrote to me on my high school graduation day, telling me how much she valued both my friendship and my character and specifically what she valued in me as a person and her heartfelt wishes for a bright future. I have it still -- and it warms my heart every time I see it and remember how much her love and confidence in me meant when I was an adolescent and have continued to mean so much throughout my life.

There are the letters from my parents when I was in college, telling me how proud they were, how excited they were for my future, along with my father's cautionary advice to not let boys be a distraction from my studies and my career goals.

There are the two letters I found in Aunt Molly's nightstand after she died. Written ten years apart, they are long letters I wrote to her, telling her how much she meant to me, to my brother, sister and me, and the impact that her kindness and guidance and example as we were growing up had had on our lives.

One letter had been prompted by her surprise over my dedicating my Teenage Depression book to her with "To Aunt Molly, who gave me inspiration and hope in my teens and a lifetime of very special joy."

In my long letter to her, I told her very specifically how she had inspired me and given me hope during dark times. She said at the time that she intended to keep that book and that letter to read over and over during her own times of doubt and depression. The second letter, written in response to a phone conversation when she expressed regret about not being more in touch with her own aunts, now long deceased. And I wrote to her that she did the best she could, during a youth marred by becoming an orphan far too soon, by struggling to complete college at the height of the Great Depression and start her work life when the world was at war. And she agreed, saying she was going to keep that letter for re-reading, too. And she did. And now I have them back-- and they give me a certain peace even as I mourn the loss of this extraordinary aunt, knowing that I did let her know how much she meant to me, to us.

And there are some wonderful letters from Aunt Molly, filled with love and firm guidance ("Get down off your cross and get your sense of humor back!") and simply inspired writing. The last one I have from her in my little memory box was posted on the day of her sudden death from a heart attack. It was a thank you note -- one of hundreds she sent to us during her life -- filled with gratitude for the festive Christmas we all had spent together, one lovely last holiday we enjoyed with our beloved aunt.

I love to hold the letters, trace the cursive writing -- that generation had such great penmanship -- and feel a connection once more.

Of course, times change.  I just got an email from Sister Ramona -- who is now working as a student counselor at Stanford University -- telling me that she is coming to my 50th reunion next weekend and would love to get together for dinner afterward. She gave me her cell phone number. And so we change with the times.

But saying "Thank you" or "I appreciate your kindness" or "I love you!" by whatever means you prefer never goes out of style.

It's important that we value messages from loved ones whether they are Twittered or texted or emailed or come by phone or snail mail.

These connections between people who care, whatever form they take, are to be treasured.

Unforgettable Untold Stories

The Untold Stories challenge in Rosaria Williams' sixtyfivewhatnow.blogspot.com blog intrigues me. She challenges fellow bloggers to share the tales of ordinary people living their lives without the pomp and glamour of celebrity culture, without the extravagant wealth of the 1% and without the dark drama of the criminals we hear about on the evening news.

What are some of the stories that have a wealth of courage and sadness and hardship and hope that will never make the news? All of us know such stories. Maybe we have lived them ourselves. Maybe in our work lives and our personal lives we have encountered people who will never be famous in the media and the world at large, but who are nevertheless unforgettable. I've met many such memorable people, but when Rosaria issued her challenge, there were three who immediately came to mind.

There is Angie, the world's greatest waitress, who came to me for therapy shortly before I retired. She is a lively, still pretty blonde woman who looks -- truly --30 years younger than her 79 years. She loved her job working at an upscale Los Angeles area steakhouse for 44 years. Her customers were like family to her and she was thrilled to serve customer families for generations, enjoying the grandchildren of the children she had once befriended.

Despite her modest pay, Angie was frugal, saving enough money to buy herself a small mobile home and a dependable car. Even uterine cancer, when she was in her fifites, didn't slow her down. She loved her work. She loved her customers. She couldn't imagine retiring, often saying that she hoped she would simply drop in her tracks one day -- after a shift. She marveled at her good fortune in finding a place where she could belong -- and work as long as she liked.

But her good fortune screeched to a halt when the restaurant owner died and no one in his family wanted to keep it going. It was sold to an investment group that changed it into a somewhat upscale version of Hooters, featuring lithesome young wait staff in skimpy costumes. And, despite her attractiveness and fitness for her age, Angie didn't fit the new profile. She was fired.

And though she has been contesting her firing and filing suit against the new owners, Angie is facing some tough new realities: despite her efforts to get a new job, she's finding that no one seems to want a 79-year-old waitress, no matter how experienced, efficient and delightful she is. And, because her Social Security payments -- even working past 70 -- are firmly in the mid-three figure range, Angie can't live solely on her benefits. She is doing what seems to be the best option: opening her second bedroom for rent to a disabled stranger for whom she will care. And the rent and caregiving fees will allow her to get by -- for now. But she worries about the future. She never married or had children. She was an only child. Her two closest friends have died. She wonders what will happen when she can't be a caregiver any more? What will happen when she needs care? But most days, Angie faces the day with a smile, an earthy sense of humor and hope -- that she will be able to get even a part-time waitressing job, that her health will hold up, that somehow life will go on with all its challenges and the joy of giving to others.

There is my friend Joe, who was a Catholic monk for many years. He left the religious life -- which he had entered when he was a 13-year-old aspirant -- when he was in his early 50's. For a while, life was good. He taught at Catholic high schools. He got a graduate degree in psychology and work as a school counselor. Then his mother, back on the East Coast, became ill and he went home to care for her during this last illness.

After her death several years later, he found himself depressed, rootless, unable to find another teaching job. He returned to California and, still applying for teaching positions, worked at Home Depot. But he was laid off when the company was cutting back in the height of the recession. And he now subsists on meager Social Security benefits from his 15 years as a lay teacher and counselor (since his many years of teaching as a member of his Catholic religious order were not counted or paid into Social Security).

This means that he sometimes stays with friends during cold, stormy nights and sleeps in parks or in his aging car during more clement weather. But he tells me that he is happy with his life most of the time. Yes, there are times of sadness when he thinks back on the great satisfaction he found in teaching and his disappointment at not being able to continue to work in that field. But he says that his life still feels meaningful because not a day goes by that he doesn't find an opportunity for a random act of kindness. Sometimes, this means talking with and listening to a depressed teenager slumped against a tree in the park where he spends most of his days. Sometimes it means sharing the wealth of a found coin or money given by a friend or stranger with another homeless person who may be as hungry as he. And he says he finds joy living in the moment -- feeling gratitude for sunshine, for life itself, for having had, in his own estimation, so many blessings all his life.

There is my sister Tai, who is 57 and a divorced single parent. Tai works as a nurse in the Seattle area, where she has lived for nearly 30 years. She yearns to move back to Los Angeles, but she is currently under water with her condo, which she purchased at the height of the housing bubble in 2005. So she continues to work 12-hour overnight shifts as a labor and delivery nurse at a public hospital. The work has been particularly tough this past year when she began to suffer back pain and gastro-intestinal distress. After extensive tests, doctors suggested that her symptoms might be stress-related. And that didn't seem unreasonable.

However, despite her efforts to meditate and to let go of a myriad of daily stresses, her symptoms grew worse. This past week, she wasn't able to keep food down. Her weight plummeted. When she was about to clock out of work on Friday morning, a co-worker who is also a close friend urged her to go to the Emergency Room. When she did, doctors found her potassium level dangerously low and her gallbladder filled with stones. After a day of IV's, she was rushed into surgery Friday night. Now she is recovering at home, amazed that all of her symptoms, including her back pain, have vanished with the removal of her gall bladder.

But there are worries: there is no light duty in her department. If she can't move a 300 pound patient onto a gurney to take her to the delivery room, she can't work, which means that she will have to be off work longer than someone with an office job. She lives in a state with no state disability benefits. She has only one day of sick leave left. Her daughter felt alone and distraught, suffering panic attacks, as her mother faced surgery. But then my sister's ex-husband, who is a nurse in the same hospital, rallied to their side, caring for their daughter and my sister in a way she said he never had when they were still married. She shrugged off my offers to fly up to Seattle and help. "I'll be fine," she said. "I'm eating. I'm not in terrible pain. I'm home. I have a job to go back to whenever the doctor releases me to work. I just have to take it easy and heal."

Tai's fighting spirit serves her well. I thought back to the rough times she experienced growing up in our dysfunctional home and the pain of marriages that didn't work, her education interrupted when survival had to be her top priority. There were the hard, unsatisfying jobs and then, when she was 37, a life-threatening aneurysm that required emergency brain surgery and a long recovery, during which time her second husband left her. Somehow she survived. Somehow she managed to care for her toddler, enroll in a community college and work as a nurse's aide, eventually being admitted to the college's registered nursing program. Those were incredibly tough years. I don't know how she managed. But she did it, becoming a dedicated and accomplished labor and delivery nurse. She loves her work. She is dedicated to her patients. Only her two closest friends on her shift last Thursday realized that anything was amiss. The rest -- other nurses, doctors and patients -- had no idea that she was ill and in pain. When challenges come up, she just deals with them and then goes on.

                                                     

My sister Tai

These are just three people I know who are living real world lives with challenges and with little or no safety net. There are many other stories I could tell.

There are, to be sure, people who have had even harder lives. There are people who are having hard times financially AND have no insurance and who are also in poor health, people who have to choose between food and essential medications, people who were once middle class who have slipped into poverty. There are people who have always been poor and have never known a moment of life without hardship and struggle.

And yet, there are small triumphs of the spirit.

There was the man I used to see every day who slept and also spent his days on a certain street corner in West Los Angeles, who greeted all passersby with a smile and a "Have a blessed day!" while never asking for anything.

There was Diana, a bright and gentle soul who was a patient of mine some years ago. Despite a shocking and tragic personal history over which she agonized and shed many tears in our time together,  her warmth, humor and intelligence made her unforgettable.

And there is Phyllis, my friend and neighbor, who is getting chemotherapy for her advanced cancer and kidney dialysis due to kidney failure. She is frail and bruised. She has lost the use of most of her left arm because of dialysis and now her right arm is being surgically prepped for use in dialysis. There are times when she is in pain and scared and depressed. But her joy in living and fierce will to live prevail -- and she lives a very full life with her husband, her dogs, her children and grandchildren and her many friends. And she still keeps up on all the latest news of the neighborhood and is a formidable presence at Mah Jong.

                                                     

Phyllis and my cat Hammie visiting

There are, in short, so many heroes among us: people who work hard, obey the law, find ways to survive without much money or connections or privilege. There are people who remain unbroken through crises and ordeals that may be the stuff of our personal nightmares.

The stories of these extraordinary ordinary people aren't neat or relentlessly uplifting. There are no sure-fire happy endings. There are ragged ups and downs and uncertainties marking their days. Angie the waitress is still unemployed as is my friend Joe who also is still largely homeless. My sister Tai is recovering well from her surgery, but I know she worries about the toll that her illness and recovery will take on her income. And what ails Phyllis isn't curable. She isn't going to get well. She will be getting chemotherapy and dialysis for the rest of her life. But she is alive and finding precious moments of joy in her life.

The Hollywood happy ending, indeed, will always be elusive for most of us.

Most people will never have the money or fame that the puzzlingly ubiquitous Kardashians enjoy. Most of us won't be headliners on The Evening News or the front of The New York Times. There are many people whose lifetime earnings may be less than a single year-end bonus of a Wall Street bankster.

But most of us don't dream of great wealth or power or fame as a life goal. For most of us, our homes and lives and dreams are modest.

But everyone has a story....and some of these untold stories are truly unforgettable.

Retirement: The Third Anniversary

It was three years ago today that I left my office at UCLA Medical Center for the last time.

It seemed surreal, unbelievable. No more long hours on the commuter bus. No more increasingly tedious days at the office. No more office politics. After so many years of working multiple jobs -- a full-time job and two part-time jobs -- my time was my own.

It didn't really sink in at first. For the first few weeks as my husband and I packed up the last of our belongings and our three cats and headed for our new home in Arizona, it all seemed like a wonderful long vacation.

That first glorious spring and summer, as we spent long, languid afternoons in the community pool with our neighbors, was a dream come true.

Little by little, though, real life intervened. There were health problems. There were limitations -- as my cranky arthritic knees and feet balked at tap dancing. There were ups and downs. We went from being delighted by all our neighbors to caring deeply about some and actually disliking others -- just as in our previous neighborhood.

As time went on, I found there were people -- back at the office and among my California friends -- whom I missed very much. When I got an emergency call from a former patient who just needed some reassurance, I found that I missed -- at least for a moment -- the chance to help make a difference in other's lives.

There have been times when I've missed the convenience of Valencia -- with everything from great restaurants to movie theaters and shopping -- not more than five minutes away. And there have been times when, despite living in my absolute dream house, I've missed that little house that was home for 29 years with its green, tree-filled yard and the sound of the waterfall we named "Molly's Falls".

But most days I am filled with gratitude that we were able to retire at all. There are days I marvel at the spaciousness of our new home and the vastness of Arizona skies and the abundant sunshine. I love being part of a small community. Just this morning, as Bob and I were sawing and cleaning up a large tree limb that was torn from the tree in our front yard by a violent windstorm last night, workers from the Town of Florence drove by and abruptly stopped, offering help and loading the limb onto their truck. Larry, a neighbor from across the street, rushed over with his trash can to help pick up other debris blown into our yard. And our friend and neighbor Phyllis called while she was having kidney dialysis just to check on us and make sure all was well.

Life is quite different now. The exhausting grind that the last years of my working life had become is now a faint memory. And the dreamy, long vacation is over, too. What has replaced both is daily life in retirement. It's no longer a novelty. But it's always a joy.

I often think of Aunt Molly's retirement mantra that she used to say every morning when she woke up: "Today is mine!"

Today is mine, indeed. And with it comes opportunities to make a difference to others in new and different ways. With it comes the blessing of doing meaningful work and, at times, enjoying doing nothing at all.

At my third retirement anniversary, I find that I never take my new freedom for granted.

I still love waking up to my own internal clock instead of the insistent alarm. I still love planning days filled with work and fun and exercise and friendship. I thoroughly enjoy experiencing all the seasons of the year after so many years of leaving for work in the dark and arriving home in the dark.

I've learned to stop watching the clock as I talk with a loved one or pet one of my cats or read a book from cover to cover or immerse myself in music I love.

I've never stopped being grateful for the blessing of retirement and waking up each day to the reality that today is, indeed, mine.