Lakeville Lady

I confess, I have all the attributes of a literary snob. A Master's degree and most of the work towards a doctorate in English literature. A career as a college professor, as a cataloger of antiquarian books, and as a writer of academic and literary publications, whose specialty is putting medical, legal, or otherwise technical material into a format most people can understand. No television set. Zero interest in sports, lotteries, casinos, malls, fast food restaurants, or most other aspects of popular culture. But when I relax in my wing chair with a pot of tea and a book, it's virtually never an enriching work of non-fiction or a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel that I'm reading. My guilty secret is that I'm addicted to tacky genre romance novels.

And not just any tacky romance novels. Specifically, the really, really bad ones. The worse, the better. I'm talking about books in which the heroine's name changes from Julia to Jasmine in Chapter 3, or the writer forgets how many children Julia/Jasmine's sister has, or grammar and spelling errors abound. Books that contain thrilling exchanges of dialog like:
       "Is there no way we can be on our own this evening?" he asked huskily.
       "It's impossible," she whispered. "It's our new diet conscious evening."

 I've never actually bought one of these, even at a tag sale where they can be had for a nickel. I check them out of the library--or, more likely, pick them up off the free shelf there. As a matter of fact, it's been a while since I've actually gotten any further into the library than the free shelf, the pickings there are so interesting. I go back to dump off ten that I've read, and return home with eighteen. It's sort of a disease with me.

One series particularly dear to my heart is British: the Linford Romance Library. For some reason I can't fathom, these are published by the Ulverscroft Foundation, a registered charity in the U.K, "established in 1974 to provide funds to help towards research, diagnosis and treatment of eye diseases." Among other charitable contributions, they endow the Frederick Thorpe Ulverscroft Chair of Ophthalmology at the University of Leicester. How they got into the crappy-romance-novel business is unclear.

 Lakeville Lady is a sterling example of the genre. Matilda Main has an engagement ring foisted on her by her current rich, older boyfriend, Jay Thorndike, who doesn't even bother to propose. Then he leaves town. Matilda decides to assert her independence by buying her own house, which she accomplishes (from checking the want ads, to purchase and sale agreement, to move-in) for $500 down in the space of an afternoon. She acquires a handyman named Rock, who can build a porch, chop a cord of wood and haul all the boulders for a retaining wall in the time it takes the womenfolk to make a casserole. They fall in love. Matilda learns that Jay is a swindler who is actually married to a woman named Thelma. Jay returns, Thelma appears and tries to shoot Matilda, Rock saves her life, the cops show up, Matilda and Rock confess their love for each other, the end.

The best line in the book, however, is on the half title page, penned by an earlier reader. "The worse written story I have ever read."

2014: All of the Above, Plus....

OK, so 2013 was a washout, resolution-wise. But it's a new day, a new year. I'm carrying forward all of 2013's resolutions, and adding a few new ones. Heck, I'm even using the same napkin as last year.

#8 on this year's list is "paint house." I've lived in the Emory House for over ten years, and it was in need of a paint job before I bought it. So it's high time. In case I had been thinking of putting it off for another year, I got a call from my insurance agency. I had changed providers recently, and so the new company sent an appraiser out to look at what they were insuring. Everything got a gold star except for the exterior paint. I'm supposed to deal with that in the spring and send them photos. So suddenly it's a priority.

#9 is "hike in the Dolomites." Some of my disgustingly fit and healthy European friends hike together every year, and I get to look at the pictures. I'm jealous of the camaraderie, but not much else. I'm terrified of heights, hate the cold, have zero experience hiking, don't relish carrying a week's worth of gear on my back all day, and am unimpressed by vistas. However, I've been invited along on this year's trip to the Dolomites, and in the spirit of never saying no to anything I haven't done before, somehow want to go.

#10 is "helicopter." I've never been in a helicopter before, and maybe this is the year. Actually, there's a particular helicopter I have in mind. It takes off from the roof of MassMutual, carrying company executives to meetings in places like New York or Philadelphia. My cousin, who's a director, rides in it all the time. As a preferred vendor for the company, I do my work from home, rarely even having to meet face-to-face with people in the building, let alone elsewhere. But I can imagine some scenarios where I would have to be in Brooklyn for a few hours on company business. So I will continue visualizing, and maybe it will happen.

#11 is "speak French more." I'm fluent, but rusty, as I don't use French on a regular basis. This fact was brought home to me recently as I worked to translate a manual into French for a local company. Granted, the manual was very technical--I don't even know what most of it meant in English--and I did manage to complete the project and do a pretty good job of it, too, if I do say so. But working on it made me realize that I didn't want to lose this skill. I joined a French conversation meetup group, and found them vraiment sympatique. Best of all, I remembered that Americans who speak French tend to be very smart, serious, nerdy people. Not one but two of the women at the meetup were engineers, for example. Just the kind of people I like to be around.

#12 is "blog." I started writing this blog eight years ago, as an experiment, and it was a successful one. As I am always telling my students: writing is communication, and your most important audience is yourself. Writing forces you to transform those random neural firings in your head into actual thoughts. I credit blogging--and writing a newspaper column for over six years--with enabling me to tackle the more lucrative projects I now am being offered. For a time, I suspended all writing-for-pleasure in favor of writing for pay, but this year I'm optimistic. My goal is to do both, and still have time to play as hard as I choose. And all the while, of course, not neglect my afternoon spot of tea.

2013 Goes Out with a Whimper

Every year for the last dozen years or so, I have written down New Year's resolutions on a napkin, a napkin usually taken out from under my drink at whichever night club I happen to be visiting. Some of these resolutions are pretty ambitious: buy a house, go to Europe, get a hot job. Others can be knocked off rather easily, for little or no money: pierce ears, sing in public. I don't always manage to cross all of them off my list, but I have a pretty good track record. (I'm sitting in the house I actually bought as I type this, taking a break from the hot job I actually have, and I go to Europe just about every year at least once, usually on somebody else's dime.) This year, however, was a shutout. I only made seven resolutions, but I didn't carry out a single one of them.

#1 was "cape." Long, flowing, black, possibly velvet cape. I owned a black cape in college and I wish I still had it. I almost bought one this year on ebay, but decided that sight unseen was not the way to shop. And I haven't come across a really beautiful cape in any shop, auction or sale I've frequented in the past year.

#2 was "J.B.Martin boots." I lust after these every year when I walk through the shoe department of Inno in Brussels. Nobody else makes boots that look anything like these--sort of like pirate boots, with buckles. But again, I don't want to buy online, without trying on, and I didn't go to Brussels this year--or Paris, or London, or anywhere else they can be found.

#3 was "bar novel." I was all set to write a novel in a bar. The bar would depend on which city I happened to be in. In Brussels, it would be Magritte's hangout, La Fleur en Papier Doré. In Paris, it would be La Coupole. In Dublin, Toners Baggott Street, which was the only place W.B. Yeats would drink. But then, life got complicated. The time I thought I was going  to carve out for writing just wasn't there.

#4 was "paint ceilings." Not only did I not do this, I can't even figure out which ceilings I meant.

#5 was "radiant barrier. I was all hepped up about improving thermal efficiency in my house, and this was one of the items I was going to install. But then I decided it was a scam.

#6 was "absinthe." I was going to take advantage of trying genuine absinthe while in Europe. However, I didn't go to Europe in 2013. Worst of all, I learned right after I made the resolution that 1) the best absinthe bar in Europe is in that alley where the Jeanneke Pis is located, and which I pass every time I'm in Brussels, and 2) Brian knows all about, and frequents, that bar, and 3) Brian has a bottle of absinthe sitting right in his apartment. So why didn't I drink absinthe in 2012, or 2011, or 2010, or....? Three strikes and I'm out.

#7 was "electric car." I was going to trade in my vintage Mercedes for one of these. Unfortunately, I can't afford the Tesla I have my eye on (yet!), and it's a little premature to own an electric car in New England anyways. But maybe soon.

So--all of these are being passed forward to 2014.

On the upside, I made it through the year alive (no small feat), all fires have been put out, and I had some challenging (read: lucrative) writing projects. By all accounts, 2013 was a sucky year for just about everybody. I probably fared better than most. The house is warm and cozy, nobody is dunning me, and a couple of exciting developments are in the works for 2014. So it's all good. Now I'm going to pour myself a little glass of cognac, find a napkin, and pen some additional resolutions for 2014.

GGGG

Today was the third annual Author Fair at the Springfield Central Library. I LOVE walking a block or two to a nice event that doesn't cost anything....it's one of the perks of living downtown. (I've only filled my gas tank once since September!) So over I went.

The beautiful library rotunda was filled with tables, behind which sat local authors with copies of their books, their business cards, and whatever other items they wanted to display. Randy Purinton had articles and research materials pertinent to his Civil-War-era non-fiction book, It Hasteth Away, Husein Muhammad had rocks painted to look like the ones in his children's book The Man, Blanche Jackson-Hill had lollipops and Monopoly money for Straight to the Point Financing, Gerry Garner had beautiful bonsai.

Ms. Garner--GGGG, she calls herself, for Great-Grandmother Gerry Garner--was so vivacious and interesting, I talked to her for over half an hour. Her book, Generations Build the Future: Positives Needed Now! is a collection of life lessons from people across the age spectrum. (I feel I'm not doing the book justice by my description, but I've yet to read it!)

Gerry Garner recently started a group for authors, and I intend to join it. I'm hoping some of her energy will rub off on me. She's trim, petite, old enough to be a great-grandmother, but incredibly vigorous. She really packs a lot in a small package. Come to think of it, kind of like her bonsai.

Memento Mori

The worst night of my life took place when I was 11 years old. The doorbell woke me, and as I lay in my bed in the dark, I heard the deep voice of a man, followed by the screams of my mother. An officer was reporting to her the deaths of her sister and brother-in-law in a horrific auto accident. Their two children, my beloved cousins, were in critical condition, in separate hospitals as a result of the triage of the numerous victims. That was in 1961. Over 50 years later, the fallout from that accident still affects my family.

My aunt Cora was already a grandmother when this accident occured. She had eight brothers and sisters living. But my grandmother--her mother--never got over the loss of this child. Babu, as we called my grandmother, was a Polish immigrant who didn't speak English or work outside the home. One of her newly-arrived cousins, according to old country tradition, got permission from the funeral director to view the closed caskets before the wake and snapped some memento mori images of the horribly disfigured corpses. These he gave to my grandmother. Where she hid them, nobody ever figured out, but frequently she would be found in her bedroom, weeping uncontrollably, and we knew she had been looking at the pictures. Other than cursing that Polish relative, for over forty years no one ever spoke of the accident or of my aunt and uncle.

These days we know a bit better. There's no virtue in that rigid silence. My poor cousins were deprived, not only of their parents, but of the many happy memories of them we might all have shared, and of the healing and consolation which speaking about them and that horrible night would have brought. For most of her life, my girl cousin blamed herself for the accident, because she had wanted to go on the excursion which turned out to be fatal. Decades passed before she learned from older family members that her parents had planned the trip before she even mentioned it. Nobody even knew the guilt she carried in her heart, because everyone was too busy "sparing" her the difficult memories.

British Columbian college professor Cathy Sosnowsky has lost, not one adult child out of nine, but all four of her children. One, before birth, to abortion. One, a gregarious and well-adjusted teen, to accident. Two troubled adopted children to the streets. (The latter are alive, but estranged, and one is in prison.) She coped the only way she knew how, by writing about it, all of it. First poems, then this book called Snapshots: A Story of Love, Loss, and Life.

The title is a literal one. Sosnowsky has assembled over 50 family snapshots, and she organizes the book around them, talking about each one in turn. The pictures start before the children are born and continue after they're gone. The story zigzags from Canada to Europe and back, to pretty much all over the world as the author seeks the "geographic cure." Although we're treated to intimate details of the kids' lives, it's not just a story about them, but about an entire family with very complicated dynamics.

Writing probably saved this woman's life...or at least her sanity. And her book is useful to us, perhaps, too. The stories of others help us to piece together our own stories. Written stories are especially useful because writing allows the opportunity for reflection and organization which speech does not. Everyone has experienced some loss, whether of life or health or love or ambitions.

Sosnowsky currently conducts writing workshops internationally, focused on grief and healing. Her personal website is http://cathysosnowsky.com/ What I admire most about this woman is her courage in putting on paper, for the whole world to see, not just the sweet and sentimental stuff, but the gritty stuff, too. Her mistakes; her shortcomings: it's all in there. If you want to heal yourself, that's what you have to do: come clean. Writing's a bitch. If you don't believe me, try it yourself.

APA Style....Ugh!

The way to stay young and fit, physically and mentally, is by exercising. Exercising your muscles and exercising your brain. Walking your little black dog all over town, swimming, doing the Strive circuit at the Y. Reading, writing, listening to punk and rap, jazz and mbalax and zouk. Changing your job every two weeks so you're constantly having to learn new things.

Every time I change my job, I have to learn new and different procedures. I learn them, usually become proficient at them, but I don't have to like them. Take style manuals, for example. I was weaned on Turabian in high school, laboriously typing out term papers on erasable onionskin using a Smith Corona manual typewriter. College trained in MLA (Modern Language Association) style with that same typewriter and a bottle of White-out. Grad school, MLA style again. An angry ex threw the typewriter down the stairs, or I'd still have it.

For cataloging Judaica, I use a hybrid style my bookseller employer, Dan Wyman, developed. I don't mind it because I was right there with him the whole time, testing out the modifications to it. At Channing Bete and when writing for the newspaper and certain online sites, it's AP (Associated Press) style. Yuck! Picky little differences like one space after a period instead of two. E-mail instead of email. Web site, not website. Nothing that's to my taste.

Now that I'm starting to teach online classes at Kaplan University, I've got to learn APA (American Psychological Association) style. This one I really, really can't stand. What the hell is wrong with MLA style, the doyenne of them all, and why can't everyone just agree on it? Harvard-style in-text citations make sense, I'll grant them that. Nearly everything else about it irritates me. Like putting the date directly after the name in a bibliographical reference. Who thought that up?

What galls me the most is that I'll have to dock my students for misusing it. When I don't even see the point of it myself. Oh, well.

Lunch With Vernon Hill

For almost two and a half years now, I've been writing a weekly column in Springfield's The Republican newspaper. It's published in the Wednesday pull-out section, which has several other regular features besides. Mine's about the YMCA. I don't work for the newspaper; I'm 100% freelance.

The "Plus" section of the paper contains articles and columns which are local in nature. It varies somewhat in content from edition to edition. If I profile a person who lives in Chicopee, that column might appear on the front page of the Chicopee edition, but be buried in the middle of other editions. Or not even appear at all in, say, the Metro West edition.

I've got a new editor for this column, and I like him very much. Vernon Hill is experienced and he's professional, having worked in different areas at The Republican for years. Best of all, he has a willingness to communicate. That's the elusive quality I'm always looking for in an editor. You turn something in; he shoots back a "Thanks--looks good!" You ask a question; he immediately emails an answer. You query him with an idea; he promptly lets you know if he's interested or not.

My colleagues at the Y invited Vernon Hill to lunch today, and asked me to join them. The Republican's offices and the Y are only two blocks apart, but I don't think Vernon had ever been inside our facility. He got a tour, a nice lunch, and an opportunity to brainstorm a bit with us. We learned something about the issues and constraints he has to deal with in producing the weekly editions, and he heard our concerns as well.

I'm pretty happy these days because I have a picture, a byline, and photo credit. My articles are never cut, and the paper has stopped treating them like news items and editing them rigorously according to AP style. (My pet peeve was seeing all my verbs changed to past tense, when I had purposely used the present tense to lend immediacy to a conversation. Tom Shea gets away with it! Now I do, too. Thanks, Vernon!) I didn't bother to mention that they had massacred the title I was asked to design for the column. That was before Vernon's tenure, and I didn't want to appear greedy.

For the past year I've been profiling people associated with the Y, which everybody seems to think is a good idea. People like to read about other people, even though it's the same message buried in there about the mission of the YMCA. Apparently, though, that tactic is somewhat limiting our coverage. So we've decided to focus in the future more on issues, like, say, prevention of gang violence, which may be seen by those in charge of laying out the editions as equally relevant to all neighborhoods.

A while back, one of my resolutions was to be syndicated. At that point, I didn't even have anything to syndicate! This column, while too locally focused to be a candidate for syndication, has been reprinted with fair frequency (mostly without permission). So it's a step in the right direction. It's been a small but steady source of income, good practice in meeting deadlines for a person whose middle name is "procrastination," and an excuse to ask shameless questions of loads of people I would not otherwise have license to badger. Of course, I can't shoot my mouth off exactly the way I'd sometimes like. But for that, there's always the blog.

Tzedakeh Is Its Own Reward

Today I walked downtown to interview Atty. Philip Hendel for my next newspaper column. Atty. Hendel is an übercool guy who could probably well afford to retire at this point in his life. In fact, he's still very active in his practice, in various legal associations, and in the community. He's got a beautiful office on State St. in one of those nice old buildings that's solid marble everywhere inside, with heavy doors and lots of polished brass trim. Very impressive and lawyerly.

Atty. Hendel is the man who, about fifteen years ago, rescued the YMCA from near financial ruin, and is responsible in large measure for its excellent fiscal health to this day. His firm, Hendel and Collins, P.C., specializes in insolvency cases, and is well-known for its ability to get organizations, particularly non-profits, back on track without resorting to bankruptcy. He used his considerable knowledge, experience, and clout to galvanize the entire YMCA community and the community at large. Lots of changes were made in the way the Y does business, and lots of donations poured in. In the process, Atty. Hendel forged strong friendships with members of the board and administration of the Y, and became committed to the YMCA mission himself.

Most successful people of Atty. Hendel's caliber are generous, even philanthropic. Some just write a big check to the United Way every year and get it over with. Others like to target their benificence somewhat. Atty. and Mrs. Hendel particularly like to enrich the lives of little children, giving them experiences which will make a lasting impression on their young minds.

Although the Hendels often act anonymously, the preschoolers at the YMCA's Magic Years Daycare have figured out who's responsible for all those trips to the dinosaur exhibit at the museum or to see the Muppets on Ice. Last month, a delegation of four and five-year-olds paid a surprise visit to the venerable offices, singing songs and bearing gifts. One of the gifts they brought was a large poster they had made themselves, edged with jigsaw puzzle pieces, depicting several smiling youngsters thanking him for his many years of generosity.

Philip Hendel was overcome by this display of loyalty and affection. He had the poster framed and prominently displayed on his wall. And I know just how he feels. All kids are cute, but those kids over at Magic Years are somehow extra, extra cute. Tzedakeh is its own reward, of course. But having all that adorableness directed straight at you for something you did has got to be sweet.

Ring! Ring! Your Novel Is Calling

A friend, who is not a writer and who has never been less than encouraging about my choice of career, recently sent me a link to an article about a new literary genre, the cell phone novel. I guess he thought since it pertained to my field and was something new (I'm a confirmed neophile) I'd be interested. However, the unintended effect of this missive was to depress me mightily.

Cell phone novels, like text messages, are both written and read on phones. The most prolific authors can input text much faster (using only their thumbs) than they can type on a keyboard. Since the screens are so small, readers must continuously scroll or turn pages. The cell phone novels are short by other literary standards, but pretty long considering the format.

Plot tends to be thin or nonexistent. These are formulaic cliffhangers, with horror and love stories most popular. Many are written by high school girls who have had no other literary output.

Deep Love was the first cell phone novel. It was authored by "Yoshi," and tells the story of a teenaged girl, Ayu, who is prostituting herself because she values money above all else. Ayu meets an old lady who teaches her there are more important things in life. Ayu thereupon begins earning an honest living so she can pay for a desperately-needed operation for the old lady's son. Sniff, sniff.

Popular cell phone novels get turned into manga, movies, and hard-copy books. Fifteen-year-old authors are getting obscenely rich. I don't think I'll be jumping on this particular bandwagon. And that realization is making me feel like an old fuddy-duddy.

Scottevest Rocks!

A kind of freaky coincidence occurred last month. I had hopped a ride in Ali's car, and as usual my cell phone had slid out of the side pocket of my hoodie and landed on his seat. By the time I realized what had happened, I was back home and Ali, his car, and my cell phone were long gone. When he returned the phone the next day, I said to him, I need a hoodie with pockets that zip or something; I can't tell you how many times I have dropped my phone or keys in the car or while walking the dog. Then I went upstairs, opened my email, and found this:

Dear Editor: We are pleased to bring you breaking news about SCOTTEVEST®'S new line of Technology Enabled Clothing-TEC®. We appreciate your consideration of this news in your upcoming holiday gift guides, and special product sections. Please visit the online press room here for hi-res photography or contact us directly for product samples and with any questions. Below is the full press release. Best regards, Scott Jordan, CEO

Product samples??! I love this guy already! I checked the link and read the full press release, and I was charmed. "Technology-enabled clothing" turned out to be geekwear: jackets, hoodies, vests, and even pants with loads of strategically placed, SECURE pockets all over. Pockets for cell phones, pockets for keys, pockets for cameras and iPods and blackberrys, wallets and change and sunglasses, water bottles, and all the other gadgets people can't walk two feet these days without needing. Well, the kind of people I hang around with, anyway. The clothing is designed so that weight is evenly distributed and the pockets don't bulge. Loops and holes and closures manage all the wires.

The product catalog shows an X-ray view of each item so you can see what's inside all the pockets. No less a gadget guru than Steve Wozniak endorses the vest as "an exceptional accessory for the iPod."

I wrote right back to Scott Jordan and asked if he'd be willing to send me an "Ultimate Hoodie Microfleece," size medium, in gunmetal. A couple of days ago, it arrived. I haven't taken it off except to shower or sleep.

The hoodie is extremely soft and comfortable. A man's size medium is big enough and long enough to go over all my other layers, yet not too bulky. It has 11 pockets and compartments, some with zippers and some with magnetic closures. A card was thoughtfully tucked into each pocket, suggesting which items would best fit there.

Scottevest makes a vest with 22 pockets! And carpenter pants that zip off at the knee and become shorts, and have an "airplane pocket" way down on the leg where you can stow a few dollars, for example, so when you're trapped in your teeny seat and can't get at your wallet, you can get at enough money for a drink. But for me, the hoodie is perfect. At $70 it's a steal; at $0 it's pinch me, I must be dreaming.

Spin Doctoring

Recently I've been writing articles for an online site still in beta version. It's all about divorce: all divorce, all the time. Except for the fact that I have to use AP style, which I dislike, I'm having a good time. I've contributed an article on older couples forced to divorce in order to qualify for medical benefits, and another on the teams of experts (lawyers, financial planners, and therapists) which are a feature of collaborative divorce law.

Right now I'm struggling with an article on African-American divorce. Is it harder for African-Americans to get back on track financially after a divorce? What do the numbers say? That's the topic as proposed to me by the editor.

I was talking to a friend of mine about this article the other day. She's divorced herself. We agreed that finding a person willing to speak with a journalist about his or her experiences, knowing they'd be splashed online, would be difficult. Changing or eliminating the names, of course, is an option. Her own story, in fact, is illustrative--she's African-American and divorced. Before her divorce, she was okay financially. After the divorce, she struggled badly. She raised her son alone, and never got any child support. The boy is a grown man now, and she's still poor.

That would be a great illustration, except for one thing. I'm not African-American and I'm divorced. Before my divorce, I was okay financially. After I left my husband, I struggled badly. The two boys stayed with me. They're grown now, and I'm still poor.

Long story short: I still don't have a hook.

Pandora Martini

This evening I had the pleasant duty of dropping by Max's Tavern for a martini. As a freelance writer, I can do most of my work from home. When I do have to leave the house, it's surprisingly often for something like a dinner party, a couple of nights at the beach, or--in this case--a happy hour. (Thank you, Miss King, Mrs. Morrill, Mr. Black, for teaching me how to write!)

The occasion was the kickoff of an interesting fundraiser from the fertile brain of Andrea Luppi, director of community relations at the YMCA. From tonight until December 31, $250 will get you a Pandora martini at Max's. A Pandora martini is Stoli Elite vodka, Chambord, grapefruit juice and a sprig of mint, garnished with a lemon twist and a sterling silver Pandora bracelet. The bracelet's strung with five charms: a letter "Y," a wrapped present, a heart, and two colored Murano glass beads. $100 of the gift is a tax-deductible contribution to the Springfield YMCA.

This one's a no-brainer, as far as I'm concerned. Lots of men are going to buy jewelry for women during the holiday season anyway. This is for a good cause, plus it's beautiful. The lady can sport what is probably the hottest jewelry fashion these days, and everyone will know that she--or the donor anyway--has a good heart. Then she can start collecting charms, customizing the bracelet however she wants. Birthdays, Valentine's Day, anniversaries become a snap; just buy her a new charm to add to her bracelet.

That bracelet on the left stuffed with charms is $770 worth of Pandora jewelry from Hannoush. Bracelets and charms come in gold as well, some gem-encrusted, so it's possible to spend waay more than that. Right now there are about 300 different charms, with new designs being added all the time.

Pandora is a Dutch company. Everything in their line is designed in Copenhagen. It's been around for awhile in Europe, but only available here for the last three years or so. The charms are unique in that they're threaded on the bracelet, rather than dangling from it by a little soldered link.

Tonight was the kickoff, but nobody was expecting actually to sell any jewelry. Andrea and CEO James Morton were tickled pink when six were sold on the spot. Let's see how it goes as the shopping season gets more frantic. Max's only has to give away a few martinis. Hannoush gives a slight cut on the bracelets, but draws all the repeat business. The Y gets money to serve the underserved. Women get beautiful jewelry, and the givers get heartfelt thanks. It's a win-win-win-win-win situation.

R.I.P. Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. died yesterday, and I feel a little as though I've lost a family member. I liked him very much as an author. And for most of my academic career, I've been in his very long shadow.

Vonnegut was from Indiana, but eventually moved to Massachusetts. I did it the other way round. He lived in Northampton with his daughter for a while, recuperating from an accident, and taught at Smith--my alma mater--during that time. He also taught at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop, where I studied. To my knowledge he never taught at Purdue, but he was close to some of the English Department there, among them my brilliant dissertation advisor, Virgil Lokke.

Vonnegut's official website, www.vonnegut.com, replaced all content with this graphic after his death. Vonnegut was an artist in addition to a novelist. The birdcage was a familiar element in his work.

Vonnegut wrote satire, to my mind the noblest genre. I always tell people I only like funny books and movies, but when I say "funny," it's satirical I mean. Funny, but moral. Moral, but never explicitly so. I could do a lot worse than emulate Kurt Vonnegut.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Wednesday is the day my column appears in Springfield's daily newspaper, The Republican. The idea for this column was conceived a year and a half ago by board members of the YMCA. Rather than just run ads encouraging people to join the Y, the board thought to submit articles which would promote awareness of the organization's mission. It didn't hurt that one of the board members happened to be an editor at The Republican (since promoted to Managing Editor). She offered to run the articles in her section every week if the Y could produce them.

Yours truly was offered a nominal fee to write the column. So for a year and a half, I have been contributing articles about every YMCA program and event the board can think of. And for a year and a half, I have been patiently explaining to people that I am not "the reporter from The Republican." I work for the YMCA, not the paper.

And since I don't work for the paper, my articles have been treated for a year and a half like press releases. Although they are formatted like a column, with the familiar Y logo in a box, my repeated requests for a byline have been ignored. Instead, the line "submitted on behalf of the YMCA by Cicily Corbett" appears at the bottom, as for a press release.

Until this week. I'm not sure what happened in the offices of The Republican, but suddenly I've got, not only a byline, but a headshot. For a freelancer, after a year and a half, finally some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Inching Toward Community

Northampton Screenwriters' Group tonight. Only a few of us showed up, and nobody picked up the key to the Media Education Foundation in time, so we ended up in a booth at Packard's, an extremely congenial pub a couple of doors down. Wade and Matthew ordered dinner, Diane had a glass of wine, and frugal Cicily had what was undoubtedly the cheapest thing in the place, a highball made with bar booze. We ate and drank and worked all at the same time.

Tonight was an industry discussion, and it proved very fruitful. We shared lists of resources and personal experiences. Wade and Mike, who between them have a couple of dozen completed scripts, had brought query letters, which we critiqued. Mike passed around a few pages of a screenplay he's working on. I thought all the comments were pretty useful.

Packard's, a former florist's shop, has a back room they call "the Library." It's the former refrigerated flower locker. Now it's lined with bookcases and portraits and furnished with an elegant conference table and clubby chairs. Any group can reserve it at no charge; of course it's presumed that a goodly amount of food and drink will be consumed. I had suggested it as a venue, knowing that the Northampton Poets use it for their meetings.

Wade had nixed it sight unseen, saying it would be too small and too noisy. But tonight, peeking in, he seemed impressed. He might be right about the size and the noise, but if so, it's too bad. Sitting around a big table, eating and drinking, is my solution to just about any situation. It certainly helped make tonight's meeting extremely productive. After breaking bread with these guys, I'm starting to feel like they're family.

Mr. Caswell Comes Calling

Today Philip Caswell, President of the Beveridge Foundation, paid a visit to the Polish Center for Discovery and Learning. The PCDL had asked the BF for money, and the grant application had been approved. Step two of the application process was this site visit.

Stas Radosh, Executive Director of the Center, and Joe Topor, President of the Board, invited me to be present for the visit since I had written the grant. We gave Mr. Caswell a tour of all three floors of the new Center. Stas explained what had been done to the building since the Center acquired it, and what remained to be done. Joe had all the figures for work completed, and careful estimates for future phases.

Polish people are nothing if not fiscally conservative. Every repair and improvement in the building has been paid for in full, and nothing future will be done until the money has been raised to do it. Several banks, Joe explained, had offered low-interest loans, but they had been politely refused. Philip Caswell, who's Scottish by ancestry and a former banker, seemed impressed by our financial health, and also by the contrast between the before and after (as evidenced in these photos). A good deal of the labor was donated.

Mr. Caswell had had no inkling of the existence of our organization, although he's originally from this area (living in Boca Raton now). He was full of helpful advice and encouragement, suggesting names of other foundations from which we should also solicit funds.

The Beveridge Foundation Board meets on April 25 to pick this year's grantees. I'm not counting my chickens, but I did get very good vibes from this visit. So we'll see.

Society of Professional Journalists

Today I renewed my membership in the Society of Professional Journalists. The SPJ, largest organization of its kind in the U.S., works to maintain the highest journalistic standards and to ensure freedom of the press, granted to us by the First Amendment to our Constitution.

The First Amendment states:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

The SPJ recently pledged its support to independent journalist Sarah Olson of Oakland, California. Olson had been subpoenaed in the case of Army Lieutenant Ehren Watada, the first military officer publicly to refuse deployment to Iraq. The Army charged Watada with conduct unbecoming an officer. The Army's case is built primarily on statements to the press, notably those which appeared in an article by Olson. In order to use the statements published in Olson's article as evidence, Olson herself needed to testify as to their authenticity. Many reporters do consent to testify in similar circumstances, mainly because fighting a subpoena is so expensive.

"If conscientious objectors know that they can be prosecuted for speaking to the press and that the press will participate in their prosecution, it stands to reason that they would think twice before being public about their positions," Olson states.

The Army dismissed the subpoenas of Olson and one other journalist, and dropped charges against Lieutenant Watada on January 29.

Sarah's attorney, David Greene of The First Amendment Project said, "This is a tremendous victory for both Sarah and for every journalist who fears being dragged into the middle of a dispute between a source and the government."

The National Press Club, The Nation, Mother Jones, Alternative Radio, the Center for Media and Democracy, and a host of individuals, among them Noam Chomsky and Gloria Steinham, joined SPJ in publicizing the Constitutional-rights violation case and in supporting Olson. I'm not proud of where my taxes go, but I'm happy to pay my dues to the SPJ.

Screenwriting Group

I am a member of the Northampton Screenwriters' Group, which ordinarily confines itself to scripts for movies and television, as opposed to theater. (That's the "screen" in screenwriting.) This week, however, we gave the floor to playwright Ezra LeBank, who wanted to workshop his new play, Fresh Air.

At meetings of my poetry group, we each read a piece and others critique it. Since screenplays are typically longer than poems, that format would be unwieldy for the Noho group. So each screenwriting meeting focuses on one writer. That person presents a complete draft, one act, two short pieces--whatever he or she wants help with. Everyone else contributes suggestions, speaking parts, or whatever's needed. The presenter is also responsible for refreshments.

Ezra had a complete draft and mainly wanted to hear it read. Wade Wofford, founder of the group, has an actors' group as well, and pulled some readers from it. Because Ezra is a graduate student at Smith, he scored a meeting room in Smith's gorgeous Mendenhall Center for the Performing Arts. Fifteen or twenty people showed up.

This is a pretty new group, and Wade's still working out the kinks. Ezra's play took almost an hour and a half to read. We didn't break until after the full read. With the preliminaries, that took us to over two hours. Snacks were some soda, juice, and chips. Outside it was starting to snow. A pot of hot coffee--the real thing, with caffeine--would have hit the spot.

After the break, we discussed the play. A number of people didn't stay till the end (three and a half hours is a long time for a meeting on a weeknight), but I did. I was more interested in the critique than in the play itself. Some of the comments seemed goofy to me, but Wade's were right on the money.

Wade, who's new to the area, was fairly wowed by the Mendenhall Center, and eager to lock in a room there on a regular basis. Or find another roomy, convenient spot. Next time, we're scheduled to meet at the Media Education Foundation, but they don't allow too many continuous bookings. Packard's, a congenial Noho bar, has a back room available to groups, but the room's not very big.

Will the screenwriters find a home? Will the format get ironed out? Will the refreshments improve? Will Cicily have anything to present by spring? Stay tuned.

Bringing Home the News

Earlier this year, Larry McDermott, publisher of Springfield's daily newspaper, The Republican, wrote a column about the top news stories of 2006. He compared his list with the most popular stories on MassLive, the internet arm of The Republican. It's anybody's guess who reads what in a newspaper, but page loads on a web site can be precisely tallied. Of course, people who get their news from the internet are one demographic, and people who read newspapers made from actual paper are another. Still, the comparison is instructive.

The Republican's choice for top ten stories of 2006:

1. Deval Patrick elected governor.
2. Wars in Iraq, Afganistan take toll on Western Mass.
3. Asselin clan corruption scandal.
4. Springfield run by state-appointed Finance Control Board.
5. Pioneer Valley Transit Authority corruption scandal.
6. Gay marriage battle in the Statehouse.
7. Mass Turnpike Authority abolishes tolls in Western Mass.
8. Supreme Court rules local health boards can ban smoking in private clubs.
9. D. Edward Wells Credit Union corruption scandal.
10. Republican Senator Brian Lees steps down from Senate; is elected Court Clerk.

If polled, readers would probably have come up with a similar list. But, according to site traffic stats, here's what they were actually reading:

1. Belchertown family sues over ugly bride.
2. Friend of Hampden victim held in slaying.
3. "Missing" Ludlow mother turns up in Vegas.
4. UMass student/EMT dies just after aiding at first crash.
5. Monson teen charged in neighbor's death.
6. Springfield accident kills postal worker.
7. Agawam cookie tragedy prompts warning.
8. Drugs in Springfield cop's car lead to internal probe.
9. UMass athletic director's 19-year old son killed in 1-91 collision.
10. West Springfield auto dealership raided by IRS.

McDermott chalks up the difference to demographics: MassLive readers are "the community of young people who are so comfortable with the Web and plugged into the cell phone, BlackBerry, instant messaging world that spreads the word and draws non-newspaper readers to the Internet." MassLive blogger Tom Devine chalks it up to intellectual shallowness of the newspaper readership. I'd put a little different spin on it.

Every one of the stories in the second list was local and individual. Not something that affected all of Western Mass--but something that affected one person or one family or one small business. The war in Iraq hits home when some kid who just graduated from Minnechaug Regional High School gets killed in it. A Supreme Court ruling assumes importance when an East Londmeadow mom-and-pop operation goes under because of it. The dangers associated with drugs or alcohol become real when a Palmer teen dies or a Springfield cop gets caught.

People learn from stories, not stats and facts. It doesn't matter if the stories are "true" or fictional, just as long as they're specific. The more specific, the better. We take the elements from stories and file them in our brain attics. Every time we have to make a decision, we shuffle through all that data, comparing and contrasting the situations with our own. The more experiences we've had, or heard about, the more data we've got at our disposal in order to make informed decisions.

I have a feeling it's not only young people with Blackberries who want to read about the ugly bride. Arranged marriages have been taking place--and going wrong in all kinds of interesting ways--for thousands of years in other cultures. Most Americans could care less how people do things someplace deep in the Indian subcontinent. Set the scene in Belchertown, however, and it's a whole different story. That's what it means to bring home the news.

First Christmas Card

I don't get a lot of Christmas cards, so the ones I do get are especially treasured. The first card I usually get--and this year was no exception--comes from Stochastic Press, the imprint of a talented brother/sister team of my acquaintance. Christopher is the writer, and Carolyn is the artist. I don't know too many other people who design their own cards from scratch, even in this age of DIY when computers make such projects a snap.

Christopher, like me, was raised a Roman Catholic, and cheerfully celebrates Christmas, even though on the Belief-o-matic quiz (http://www.beliefnet.com/story/76/story_7665_1.html) he ends up something like a Mahayana Buddhist. (Belief-o-matic, btw, rates me a Unitarian Universalist, and puts Roman Catholicism dead last on my list. Sorry, sister Scholastica.) I can't speak for Carolyn's current beliefs.

Every year Christopher invents a fable, and Carolyn illustrates it. This year's story concerns the three Magi, and follows them on their trip to Bethlehem and back. Chris gives each magus a distinct character.

Right there is the difference between the two of us as writers. Chris has just finished writing a historical novel, and will soon begin editing it. I have no doubt the book will find a publisher, as Chris already has several books in print and other impressive writing credentials.

I, on the other hand, have trouble making things up. I've got a great idea for a historical novel myself, but as I sketch it out, I keep coming up against elements about which I feel I'm insufficiently knowledgeable. I worry excessively about anachronisms, for example, although, if they were okay by Shakespeare, why should I care? I struggle over creating a fictional reality at a point in time and space where, unbeknownst to me, something else entirely actually existed.

I guess I'm underestimating the power of narrative on an audience. All that other stuff goes out the window when you're in the grip of a story. Skeptic that I am, I don't understand how we can ever know anything at all for certain. But maybe, as a writer, I should try writing my way out of this problem. Starting with something small and harmless, perhaps, like a Christmas card?