Reading, writing...that's what I do.

Our Love Affair With Photos

This post first appeared in the Huffington Post in a slightly different form 

Photos of the meal you’re eating, the dress you’re buying, a car crash on your street, the rash developing on your face — all examples of photos that will be deleted from your phone after they have served their purpose. Or not…recently a photo of a woman being shot at, a woman actually being murdered in Minneapolis, has once again changed the way we think about or use our phones. It’s a new development in our society. But is it always a good thing?

A Book About Facebook Photos and More  

In his book, Terms of Service, Jacob Silverman, often referred to as a “thoughtful critic of our evolving digital lifestyles,” points out the negatives (excuse the pun) in our picture-snapping culture.

“Photos become less about memorializing a moment than communicating the reality of that moment to others.”

He develops this idea, claiming that often the purpose of the picture is not to capture the moment (as the photo above in Minneapolis did) but to express the personal anxiety we may feel about our modern lives.

Are others doing things more interesting, more fulfilling than we are?

Because THE PHOTO has truly entered into some timeless competition. Silverman claims, and I think he is right, that some party goers forget about experiencing fun in the hopes their photo on Facebook will instead announce: “YES, LOOK AT ME AND MY LIFE, I AM HAVING FUN.”

But besides the ability to possibly aid in convicting the perpetrator of a crime, we more often use our phones to create a CONTINUING STORY of our exciting lives. 

It is interesting that in our current culture we feel the need not only to send photos of all that we do, what we eat, where we go, what we buy and who we are with — but to often go somewhere and practice mindfulness by listening to our breathing, so we can learn to live in the moment. Really? 

So which is it? MINDFULNESS: living in the moment? How ironic. Do we even know what a moment is? To find an answer, let’s take a step back. 

A BRIEF HISTORY of the  PHOTO

How did we exist before the constant need to capture an action or some object in time and shout it to the world? There was the mind, then the thought. Yes, just the thought!  Now let’s try to sort it out this way:

1. The purpose of a photo was to PRESERVE a human’s image so we would know that person, remember them. Previously, those with wealth sat for a portrait to be painted by either a really good artist or an itinerant one — thus  the job got done, and we know what Elizabeth the First of England supposedly looked like, as well as George Washington etc. You get the picture! 

2. Later, the purpose of a photo became its ability to record history. Yes, there are paintings of battles, coronations, but they took months. Photographs were immediate, allowed for a variety of views. We had Mathew B. Brady (May 18, 1822 – January 15, 1896) a photo-journalist and one of the first American photographers, whose name became synonymous with photos of the Civil War.

3. And as the decades progressed, the daguerreotype and the tintype gave way to a process where a dry gel on paper, film, replaced the photographic plate. Then the photographer could take photos without the clumsy boxes of plates and the toxic chemical previously needed.

Then, film was developed by George Eastman, of Rochester, New York. As early as 1888, Eastman’s Kodak camera was available to consumers. His slogan: “You press the button, we do the rest.” By 1901 the public could take photos using the famous Kodak Brownie, a great little camera that took pretty decent photos.

4. And that was truly the beginning — you didn’t need to hire someone to paint your portrait. Families framed photographs and hung them in their homes honoring grandparents, remembering weddings and births, helping the aching heart that missed those who were miles away. In some cultures, people took photos of their loved ones lying in coffins surrounded by flowers. But it was all about remembering. It was all about preserving and honoring the moment. 

AN ADVERTISEMENT, A TALISMAN OF MEMORY —MINDFULNESS ANYONE? 

In some ways, one could say that a GI having a photo of his sweetheart during World War II, or glancing at a photo taped to the  flight deck while a pilot during conflict, contributed to mindfulness. The photo carried you away from the trauma and for brief moments you could be present to the person you loved. Photos were and for many are still a talisman of memory. Photos ignite thought.

But now there’s a plethora. Taking photos of things that are truly worthy of remembering, and combining that with things you might forget in 15 minutes — has changed our attitudes toward the photos themselves.

We take a photo…we delete. We worry about how we look, so we take and retake to get it right…we probably always had that worry, but film was costly and you didn’t SEE the photo until after it was developed. Photo phones changed that whole process, and truly changed what picture-taking meant in the moment. Because it’s not always a moment — it’s a photo saved or deleted in the moment until the right one, the photo you can PICTURE…comes along.

THE POLAROID or LET’S GET NAKED

Let’s not forget the Polaroid! It saved folks from the following scenario: you take your roll of film to the drugstore to be developed and when you return for it, you have to meet with a manager and maybe a policeman. (This happened to a friend of mine as recently as the 90’s. She took some photos of her children naked in the bathtub and too much anatomy was showing.)

But the Polaroid allowed people to take these photos — because they developed right there in your home. Now the concept of privacy isn’t even on anyone’s radar, and thus some young people have been labeled sex offenders because they were not aware of the dangers of clicking and sharing without thinking first. Those images could hardly fit into some nostalgia category or talisman of memory…Again — change, change, change.

So What of My Photo History?

My husband and I take photos, because we love our families, want to remember our life with them. 

Photos of family should be protected and treasured, and I don’t think everyone needs to see them. I also don’t believe that we are that protected online. Silverman would probably agree with me. The jacket copy on his book reads: Social networking is a staple of modern life, but its continued evolution is becoming increasingly detrimental to our lives. Shifts in communication, identity, and privacy are affecting us more than we realize or understand… (consider) the identity-validating pleasures and perils of online visibility; also…our newly adopted view of daily life through the lens of what’s share-worthy; and the…(ability of ) social media platforms — Facebook, Google, Twitter, and more — to mine our personal data for advertising revenue…(invading our privacy)

In his recent address to the graduating class of Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, Ken Burns took the opportunity to reflect on past history while stressing the major points in his talk–fight to keep history from repeating itself and fight to change human nature for the better. While doing so, he took a swipe at Facebook and social media.

Do not allow our social media to segregate us into ever smaller tribes and clans, fiercely and sometimes appropriately loyal to our group, but also capable of metastasizing into profound distrust of the other…

He makes a very valid point. Possibly it’s time to reconsider what each photo means and how to use it, honor it. The fact of instant photos can be helpful…but also can be damaging. Maybe we need to think as we use this technology.

What do your photos mean to you? As a dear friend of mine once told me in her practical and knowing way: if your house catches on fire, grab your photos albums. Everything else can be replaced.

Well people, I guess you better take your phones!

Mama, Did He Take a Bus?

My brother Bill Pfordresher died this week, after a brave struggle with a disease that gradually affects one’s memory and motor function…a truly cruel disease. But I’m writing, not to focus on endings, but to write about Bill’s life, how awesome he always was…and from the very beginning. 

We were a family of five…until my father died of a massive coronary at the age of 45, leaving my mother Jinni with a six, three and three-month old, Bill. And though this was truly part of his very early life, Bill gradually learned about fathers, and thus began to ask why he didn’t have one…later, hearing more family conversations, asking if he did have a father, had he gone to heaven? Certainly, Bill was hearing those words in our home, and being wise for his age, only three or four, he was trying to figure things out.

So one day (our mother said she was ironing in the kitchen) Bill came in with a question: “Mama, did he take a bus?”  

In our family, the story is legend, because our wise and amazing mother Jinni, knew exactly what Bill was asking. She also knew the importance of truth…that it is linked to trust. And that very day, Jinni did what she had done with John, who was six when our father died, and later with me who had been only three…she drove Bill to the cemetery, doing her best to explain heaven, death, sorrow and love…loving attempts to help a child understand where his father had gone.  

REUNIONS  

And now it is only days since Bill died and left us…the youngest of the three, life unpredictable, life always a pattern of sorrow and joy. Surely Jinni our mother, and Al our father….were there to great him. Surely, Bill no longer has questions, his body free of the weight of illness…his new life one of peace and understanding. 

Bill did not take a bus…but after enduring illness and death…he is now free to live beyond human bonds. We miss him, cry for him. He taught us how to love, to have faith, to sing when you are sad, to always look for joy and happiness. 

Bill was a gift of joy to Rita, his wife, to me, my brother John, my mother and so many others. Now he will be with both of his parents and many friends who went before him. I like to think there are guitars in heaven, Bill will once again finding freedom and joy as his fingers create new and heavenly music. 

PS This post is only normal in length…it being impossible to include all aspects of Bill’s amazing and wonderful life. 

Fiction…..A Very Short Story: The Result

Angela is in love. But HE doesn’t know it. At least Angela is pretty sure. She sees him once a week when she goes for the therapy…having a bad knee has become fun.

Angela sits at the edge of the table, watching him. His hands touch her kneecap, the back of her calf. His hands are warm, his eyes….she waits. They sometimes talk.

She knows she is waiting for the knee to get better, but also waiting for him to see if anything lies between them, in the silences. They talk of exercises, how to go up and down stairs…body mechanics. He says words to her like femur, soft tissue.

In the car driving home, she listens to the radio, has it loud, vigorous in her ears. But also his words, “Let’s see how you do this week. You’ll be okay.”

But in some ways she is not okay. She thinks of him, plans what they will talk about, considers that maybe her knee isn’t getting better, because her mind doesn’t want it to.

She turns down other opportunities, using her knee as an excuse. At some level she knows that’s crazy. It’s all crazy. He is married and she…what chance does she have…soon her knee will heal; then she reminds herself to make a new appointment.

In four weeks, he is ready to dismiss her. Feeling foolish, she smiles at him, goes through the motions, flexes her knee, lets her leg rock back and forth…the knee working, her calf hitting the deep edge of the table. He stops writing, reaching out to grab her leg, stop these unnecessary movements.

They don’t speak, though they are looking at each other. Soon his hand drops away. Her therapy is done, it’s over. He’s given her the help she needed and what she came for.

As she slides off the table, he taps her knee one last time, because now she is pain-free…right?

She tries to say something like Thank You…forgets herself, has to smile, has to walk away.

Excerpts from a Seasonal Favorite: A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS in WALES

If you have never read or heard A CHILD’s CHRISTMAS in Wales….here is part of this wonderful work by DYLAN THOMAS  (1914-1953)  We had a recording of a famous actor reading this…probably Richard Burton. As a family, we listened to it every Christmas. 

It was on the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero’s garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, although there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes.  …

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, towards the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, “A fine Christmas!” and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

“Call the fire brigade,” cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong. “They won’t be here,” said Mr. Prothero, “it’s Christmas.”

There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.

“Do something,” he said.

And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke—I think we missed Mr. Prothero—and ran out of the house to the telephone box.

“Let’s call the police as well,” Jim said.

“And the ambulance.”

“And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires.”

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim’s Aunt, Miss Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said: “Would you like anything to read?” …

There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. …

For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Aunt Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush.

I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, then when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o’-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar…

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.” It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

To Stay Young….Be an Older Mom…A Story for the Holidays

Once upon a time, on a high summer evening, a woman stood in an empty room in her home. Her husband and two daughters were off on a bike ride, but through an open window, she could hear the carefree shouts of neighbor children. And thus, she couldn’t stop herself: Andrew, she called out, in the vacant room that could become a nursery…yes, on this evening trembling with green breezes, slanting sunlight…the name chosen for a son, even before college. She did feel a bit crazy standing there, alone, calling for a child who didn’t exist…but she got hold of herself, leaving the room that might someday become a nursery.

And why? This woman already had a perfect family…and she was almost 40. But there was that thought…you only live once.

THE HISTORY

Of course the woman was me, and the catharsis of that summer night created an even stronger desire to have another child. With some tears, laughter and the dubious argument that our midlife crisis should not be a snappy red convertible but another child, I convinced my husband. And being a numbers guy, he pointed out the 50% possibility. No problem. We picked out a name for a girl too.

I got my wish, less than 2 years later–Andrew was born. There must have been some nameless force inside me, propelling us forward. In some ways, wanting a child, then being blessed with one, often happens that way. And though this post emphasizes all the positives, after the birth I actually went back to school, became an RN, schooled myself in the risks of pregnancy over 40: increased chance of miscarriage, fetal anomalies, infertility problems. With a friend, I even wrote a book about it, and though it was never published, the upside of this decision far outweighed the downside. Plus, at that time, the National Center for Health Statistics was stating: in American women ages 40 to 44, birthrates have hit their highest point since 1967. Births have also become increasingly common among women in their late 30s. YES! 

OLDER WOMEN HAVING CHILDREN 

Even today, many women wait to have children, realizing the positive aspects of having a career, insuring a strong economic foundation before having a family. And thus women like me have forged the pathway for older moms having babies. We made the decision to not care if when preschool began, someone might think the grandmother had showed up instead of the mother. The current culture enfolds us, reminds us to fight grey hairs, keep the body trim, flexible…the latter being easily accomplished when you have to chase after a two-year-old. 

Our son’s presence welded our family together in a new, exciting way…despite adjustments. His sisters embraced him, both became his godparents…yes, Andrew had it made from the start. My Aunt Imelda, on hearing of my pregnancy stated: “He’ll add years to everyone’s life.” And he has. His grandmothers were thrilled, eager to experience the first word, the first step of a grandchild once again. Children just fill you up, pull you into their world.

Because I was an older mom, my son once said that his oldest sister is the luckiest, because she will always have had more time with me. He knows I won’t be here forever, and would his sister agree? I’m not going to ask her!

• he says he wouldn’t trade this older mom, even if I couldn’t run the rapids like Meryl Streep in THE RIVER WILD;
• he taught me about legos, Game Boys, guitar riffs and appreciating music of the 70s 80s and 90s that had passed me by;
• I never minded when: I found guitar pics in the dryer; he changed my screen saver to read: I LOVE ANDREW; we had open talks about sex; and he refused to part with the remembrances of his childhood (what a gift that these things meant so much to him, and yes, we have the room to store it all)
• and finally, he taught me once again, that yes, we all belong to each other!

MOTHERS SHED YEARS WHILE KEEPING UP

There is no doubt, our son kept us young. John became a Boy Scout leader, went on camp-outs, complete with raccoons invading his tent. I did a short stint of rappelling during scout camp, rolling down a hill like I was only nine, and numerous times sledding and hiking. Final report: no broken bones!!

But then the most amazing thing happened, a small thing, but it touched me…Andrew was taking a tennis lesson; I was sitting in the bleachers listening to the thump, thump of the ball and reading a magazine. Then later, I got distracted, was just staring into space…and then hearing the name HAVEY. Of course it was his coach calling to Andrew, urging him on, saying something like way to go HAVEY.

But my skin tingled, my heart rate increased…I was back on a Chicago park bench with my girlfriends, waiting to hear that name blow across the baseball field or the tennis court. Waiting for the love of my life to show up with his friends, John Havey.

At that moment, I had been a HAVEY for most of my life. But when I looked up to see Andrew swinging his racket, that same deep love extended back to him, to my son, to this child of an older mom. Because I know he will inspire my heart, keep me young.

As another older mom wrote: Motherhood is a big tent and it matters little if you step inside at 18 or 40, or somewhere in between.*  

ALL THE POSITIVES 

What did matter was my desire to grow and change with this child. To open up to new experiences, to adjust to thought patterns and ideas that might never have presented a challenge had my husband and I not taken up the role of parent again. And it’s all good–it’s all amazing. We have thrived under the big tent of parenthood.

And now Andrew and Amy can begin to feel these same emotions…because they have Arthur, our grandson, who joins our other amazing  grandchildren and even offers a WAVE…these are the Blessings of this Christmas Season. 

Adding Flesh to the Bones of Your Story: Those Bad and Good Guys

Adding adversarial characters can give your novel depth.

These minor characters can be annoying, comedic, overly positive, argumentative, despicable, totally generous etc.

Donald Maass writes: “Adversarial allies can deepen characterization and help us understand why the protagonist does what he does. …These characters help develop your main character’s personality through interaction and reaction. They force your characters’ emotions onto the page. Conflicts that deal with love, danger, success, death, missed-opportunities etc require that your MC bump into these people who don’t have much time in your story, but who can contribute greatly to your reader’s interest. Adversarial characters cause your reader to root for your MC and thus they will be turning to the next page.”

Have you ever read a book review that criticized a story for being “thin?” Or maybe you remember a book where that label applies. It’s not a length problem. It’s a fleshing out the story problem, so that the reader lives in the world you are creating and wants to stay in that world.     I didn’t want to put the book down. I was actually sad when it ended.

When I’m working, I do the following to deepen my story.

1. read world news, how people are struggling and winning, sometimes losing and dying. But diverse characters that walk on a bigger stage, a world stage, are finding a prominent place in today’s literature. Such a character could be a major presence in your novel, even someone who just passes through, leaving an echo, a mark. Knowing about lives you never thought you would be interested in can enhance your work. So explore.

2-3. The news you read could stimulate the following: someone with narrow ideas is in conflict with your MC …who lives on a wider stage, whose beliefs fuel her decision making. Can the person of narrow ideas change your MC? Try it and discover who will win. Think of the possibilities of placing your MC in a typhoon, a sandstorm or the middle of a war or conflict. It’s your world to create. (And kudos to all women fiction writers who write historical novels.)

4. Read novels; I do consistently: finish a book, go back to my own, thinking, I’ll never write like that. But when reading good fiction, becoming immersed in the life of a character, the character’s world and conflict, all can stimulate ideas.
5. I also take notes. Ideas are free—not a line of text, but the idea within it. There is nothing new under the sun. You can riff off another writer’s ideas – no law against it.
6. Writers HAVE TO READ, as it gets our juices flowing. We cannot love what we do—writing novels to be read by our readers—if we are living in a vacuum, not reading. All must read and share what you read. Yay. Enough said.
7. Go to the library, find non-fiction that pertains to subjects that will add depth and knowledge to your work. I love doing this. Often the subject I work with is medicine—not a narrow topic. But having been a Labor and Delivery RN, I need to expand what I already know, because in any field, things change. Whatever you are working on, it is a good idea to read nonfiction, expand viewpoints, arguments that can fuel your subject, imbed ideas more deeply in the work.
8. And take notes; I think we all do this. I write down personal experiences and phrases I hear. I record conversations (with permission) or eavesdrop to find a rhythm in speech or a peculiar repeated phrase to color the place or life the character is leading. I find images either in printed material or on the Internet, television etc, images that can build color and theme into my work. Thus, I have notes all over my desk.
9. AND YES….we writers must always have a note pad or a cell phone handy, so the moment, the idea, the words are not lost. I often get ideas at 11:30 pm when I am trying to fall asleep. So I keep a pad of paper and pen at the bedside. I think this is a common habit for many writers, especially if it’s a time when we are rewriting. Personal experiences can linger, but that phrase, that word someone used, or that remark—get it down now.

        10. Create a Vision Board, photos from a magazines or in a file on your computer: a beach scene, car crash, a                   lighted window—cut it out. These visuals can stimulate colorful words, help describe a room setting, create the             sentence that reveals how light is coming into a garden. The possibilities are endless.

         Finally, read book reviews, specifically for thematic concepts. Maybe I’m crazy, but I find this stimulates my writing brain. Michele Filgate, in the LA Times, reviewed Katie Kitamura’s novel, A Separation, the story of a marriage. She quoted the author. “I think there’s such a fine line in a relationship…The role of imagination and privacy… how much space can you allow before that becomes distance? And similarly, imagination is empathy. That’s how you achieve empathy. It’s how you can be with another person and understand how they are in the world. At the same time, imagination is what’s behind jealousy, obsession and fantasy ….everything that can also tear a relationship apart. So I think marriage is this crazy contract that you go into which is completely irrational.”

If you have a couple’s conflict in your novel or are thinking of creating one, there is much to ponder in this quote. Yes, this is another author’s way of attacking a universal subject that will be written about for centuries, but I do find her point of view, her reference to imagination and empathy fascinating. Such thematic ideas can add flesh to the bones of a story. Happy Writing.