Shadow Stories Revisited

Part of this blog appeared on The Writing Life last April. I have been thinking about “the stories behind the stories” ever since I wrote it and have decided it's time to tell a few, just to see where they might lead.

What do writers do with their published work? Well, I keep mine. In fact, I have kept every article and book I've ever written. Over the years, I’ve done my best to consolidate, organize, and even purge; but I still have a lot of printed material. Why do I cling to more than 40 years of writing? One reason is that, behind every story I’ve written there is another story, a shadow story, of the real people behind the carefully phrased quotes and of what I learned or experienced that never made it into print.

Here is one of my favorites. It was called “St. Louis’s Modern Medicis,” and it was about 10 corporate and civic leaders who put their time, energy, enthusiasm, and influence behind "the arts" in all its varied forms. Without them, I wrote in 1978, St. Louis would not have enjoyed the richness of cultural life that made it such a wonderful place to live and work. At the time, I was the assistant editor of St. Louis Commerce magazine, the official publication of the St. Louis Regional Commerce & Growth Association. The RCGA’s board of directors comprised the most powerful corporate executives in our nine-county region, and those were the very men, who, along with their wives, supported the arts.

I had no illusions about the importance of my position when I called to ask for appointments and received timely return calls. It was the magic words “Commerce magazine” that opened the doors. Each of these executives had a pet civic project and was only too happy to see it get some free publicity. Maybe there was a little healthy competition there, as well. Who knows? What I did know was that they were willing to talk to me and were, for the most part, quite charming and down to earth. In one case, we shared coffee in bone china cups; in another, I saw pictures of grandchildren. In every interview, I heard real passion for the arts and how important they were the viability of our region.

At the time, I was so immersed in trying to tell their stories, I don’t think I realized that I was talking to the true giants of our community. Thirty years later, it seems quite obvious. I remember feeling comfortable with most of them. Only one was what I would call a “snob” (he shall remain nameless). The rest seemed to take me quite seriously, which was a mark of their professionalism, not mine. And one got my vote as the nicest person I had ever interviewed. (He still holds that designation.)

His name was Pete Love, and he was between jobs, in a manner of speaking — leaving Granite City Steel to become president of National Steel Corporation. He flew into St. Louis in a blizzard for the interview and photo shoot, which took place in the airport. I met Pete Love once and have never forgotten what a warm, unassuming gentlemen he was. Over the years, I have contacted him several times for different reasons, and he has always responded or had someone on his staff call me back.

At a time when corporate CEOs are known more for their greed and arrogance than for good manners and civic responsibility, I like to remember a time when the business world seemed a very different place.


(Just for the record, St. Louis's Modern Medicis were: Howard Bear, retired president of Aloe Company; W. L. Hadley Griffin, chairman of the board of Brown Group; Charles F. Knight, chairman and CEO of Emerson Electric Co.; Howard K. (Pete) Love, president of National Steel Corporation; Morton D. (Buster) May, retired CEO of the May Department Stores Company; Joseph Pulitzer, publisher, St. Louis Post Dispatch; George S. Rosborough, president of The Measuregraph Co.; Homer Sayad, managing senior partner at Haskins & Sells; Tom K. Smith, senior vice president, marketing of Monsanto Company; and Ben Wells, chairman of the board of The Seven-Up Company.)

Breaking Blogging Rules

I receive a great many e-mails filled with advice on how to make the most of my blog, or Facebook, or Twitter, or some other social networking site I belong to. The advice is all good, and I wouldn’t be getting it if I hadn’t subscribed to the newsletters or blogs that are dispensing it. The most important piece of wisdom is to have a purpose for your blog and stay focused. People will read it if it is giving them what they have come to expect. If you wonder all over the place with subject matter, blog directories will have a tough time finding you.

It makes perfect sense, and it is a rule I observe quite strictly on my other blog, “The Writing Life,” which is full of musings, observations, and reflections on the craft of writing. “PRISM,” on the other hand, has a less focused raison d’être. Its tag line is “reflections on the many colors of life,” which allows my thoughts to roam in all directions. In other words, I am breaking all the rules here. Why? Because I don’t really expect the blog directories to find my little philosophical musings on life. Let’s face it; life is a pretty broad topic.

It takes discipline to stick to the subject, and, though I’d like to think of myself as a disciplined writer, there are times when I want to wander off the path and see where my meanderings will take me. This is one of those times. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit, I didn’t start off with a subject in mind. I just put fingers to keyboard and wrote a sentence.

I don’t teach creative writing, but I suspect that those who do may give such an assignment to their students: Just start. Write a word, then another. Write the first thing that enters you mind, no matter how foolish or irrelevant it may seem. Keep going, and see what happens. For those of us who don’t allow ourselves that total lack of discipline, it is both scary and liberating.

So, now I have written an entire blog with no discernable direction, no adherence to the accepted rules of blogging, no real purpose except to write. I apologize to anyone who stumbles across it expecting to find some piece of wisdom on life. I owe you a conclusion. If there is one, it would be this:

If you always walk straight down the road of life, you probably won’t get too lost. On the other hand, you may miss a lot. Every once in a while, why not take an unexpected turn? Why not walk down some unmarked path and see where it takes you? You may just be amazed at what you find.

The Reading Gene

It’s funny the things our parents leave us, often without realizing they are doing it. My mother bequeathed to me an enduring love of reading. When I think of her, my mental pictures almost always involve books. She read constantly, especially in her later years. In her nineties, I think she was consuming a book a day, though she sometimes forgot she had just read a particular book, read it again, and enjoyed it just as much the second time. When we visited each other in Phoenix or St. Louis, people often asked me what in the world we did to pass the time. We read. We sat on opposite ends of my couch or hers with our feet up and our noses buried in our respective books, and we read together. It was our ritual.

My mother belonged to the Literary Guild and Book of the Month Club for years. She hung out at public libraries and gave advice to people perusing the shelves at local bookstores. She read fiction — mysteries, espionage, historical, and romance. She had to keep recycling books because, even though she seemed to be constantly installing bookshelves, they always overflowed. When she died, her daughters and granddaughters felt like we had won the lottery as we packed up many of her most precious titles.

If there is a reading gene, she definitely passed it down to us. We read, compulsively. We buy books; we trade books; we borrow books; we own multiple library cards. We are addicts. We read different kinds of books for different reasons. I read to escape, to relax and unwind, to learn, and, sometimes, just to be doing something. Some people crash in front of the TV; I curl up with a book.

My fondest memory of childhood was of the annual book sales at my school, P.S. 51, in New York. Every year, the newest and best children’s books — later to become classics — were displayed like jewels on long tables in the library. My mother and I would examine each one and then thoughtfully order our selections. The titles and covers are vivid, even today, some six decades later: Anne of Green Gables. Heidi. Misty of Chincoteague. The Happy Prince. Geraldine Belinda. Mary Poppins. Lad of Sunnybank. The Crystal Locket.

Alas, too many of these treasures have disappeared over the years, but some remain as testament to my mother's precious gift.

Watching History

It is election night 2008 after the longest presidential campaign in history. My sister insists it will be over by bedtime, but I think that’s a bit optimistic. Nonetheless, I am camped out in front of the TV watching Brian Williams light up one state after another on an electric map.

It is 48 years since I’ve watch an election night with my heart in my throat. The world was charmed by John F. Kennedy in 1960; it is charmed by Barack Obama in 2008. Kennedy faced some tough issues then, including civil rights, the threat of nuclear war with Russia, and his own poor health, which was never revealed during his life. His extracurricular love life made Bill Clinton look like a boy scout, but that wasn’t public knowledge either. Whatever unspoken contract existed between the president and the press in those days has been shattered in the intervening years.

It’s amazing how mesmerizing this coverage is, considering how sick to death I was of the whole thing. The pundits appear to have memorized every election statistic ever recorded. It sounds a lot like an entire team of announcers doing color commentary at the World Series. One wonders how they can keep all of this straight. (Ah, the Internet, perhaps.)

My son-in-law, who knocked on doors in Florida while I was knocking on doors in Missouri, just called to see how I’m doing. Frankly, I wish I were there because it would be much more fun to be watching this with other like-minded people so we could all yell and scream when our guy wins.

It is 10:00 p.m. My sister was right. It’s over by bedtime. Barack Obama, the first African American in this country's history, has just been elected president of the United States. (Imagine me yelling and screaming.)

Looking for “True North”

Just four days before the 2008 presidential election, I’m listening to NPR, yet again. One would think I would be on overload to the point of nausea by now, but, the closer we get to the big day, the more addicted I become. Pundits and commentators are tripping over themselves, seeking new ways to say the same things. As they drone on, it all feels like background music with no discernible melody. But I just heard a new note that made me sit up and take notice.

In describing Barack Obama’s campaign, one of the speakers observed that a single, underlying philosophy has guided all of its decisions and activities. That philosophy has kept the campaign disciplined, cohesive, and on track.

This doesn’t sound too remarkable, I know. Yet, it reminded me of a piece of wisdom I have long known but repeatedly forgotten. It has to do with one, simple question: What are your values? If your actions are out of sync with your values, your actions are wrong.

Wrong? Yes, wrong. If you think of your value system as a compass pointing toward what Stephen Covey calls “True North,” you’ll never wander off course. Ignore the compass, and you will surely get lost in the maze of choices available you.

Even though everyone is sick to death of this campaign, this blog post is not about the election. It is about taking the time to figure out what really matters to you and then making sure your life reflects your deepest values.

Getting Away From It All

I went off by myself once for four days to think and write and figure out what to do with my life. I had traveled for business and been alone in hotels and restaurants before, so that part wasn’t strange. But I had never in my life just gotten in my car, driven to a destination, and checked into a hotel, with the intention of spending the time in complete solitude. People may do that all the time, but, to me, it was the bravest thing I had ever undertaken.

It was Memorial Day weekend of 1984. I went to a resort in the Ozarks and stayed in something that was supposed to look like a little cabin. It was actually a hotel room located in a building some distance from the main lodge. I didn’t choose the best weekend because families tend to descend on resorts over holiday weekends. It was also cold and rainy, and I had packed clothes for hot and sunny, so I almost froze to death. But, that aside, it was the adventure of my life.

What did I do for four days? I flowed, doing whatever felt right at any given moment. At first, that was very difficult because I’m not a go-with-the-flow person. Not to mention that I was so stressed out, I was ready to come apart, which is why I had embarked on this “journey” in the first place. I was pretty desperate, as I recall.

I read, I wrote in my journal (pages and pages and pages), I meditated, I watched TV, I went to one of the restaurants when I was hungry, I ran or walked on the road in front of my cabin, I slept, and I did something I had never done before: I consciously thought. It was pretty amazing.

1984 was 24 years ago. What is astonishing is that it was not only the first time in my life I did something like that; it was also the last. I have never done it again, not even for a weekend. I have thought about it many times, remembering the magic of it, even though the room was probably on a par with Holiday Inn, the weather was horrible, outdoor activities were pretty restricted (I was into exercise in a big way then), and there were irritable parents and kids all over the pace.

I came home completely restored, though I could never explain what had happened that brought about the change. Those four days were a hyphen in my painful and pressured life — a time out that probably saved me, at least for a while. Why I have never done it again is beyond me, but, on some deep level, I don’t seem to believe I deserve such a gift. The fact that I have needed it, and it could have had the same curative effect many times over the years, is pretty apparent.

I have lived in my beautiful, cocoon-like condo for 24 years, and every time I think I should get away, I look around me and wonder why I couldn’t just do the same thing at home. So, I stay and, of course, I don’t do it. Instead, I work or clean or shop or flit from one activity to another; and at the end of the weekend I am in exactly the same condition I was in at the beginning.

What's wrong with this picture? Why would any sane woman wait 24 years to take another time out? Apparently, I just can't do it at home; so, when my daughter told me she was going on a cruise to celebrate her anniversary and was worried about her dog (read, child), I volunteered to come to Florida to dog sit. It was exactly what I needed. I had the house, the pool, the dog, a pile of books, and a laptop computer. By the end of 10 days I was as relaxed as a spaghetti noodle and I had found my solution: hop on a plane; bask in the sun; walk the dog; and u-n-w-i-n-d.

The Best of All Possible Worlds

When I first became a magazine editor in 1972, I read everything that came across my desk. Some of it was OK; some of it was terrible. On rare occasion, I would read something heart-stoppingly good. The first time that happened, I was reading an article by a writer and photographer named Bob La Rouche. It began this way: “The man, and the mountain. The mountain is Dhaulahiri … in Nepal. It is majestic implacable, inanimate, and a killer.” It could have been yesterday, but in fact it was 32 years ago. I still remember how I felt that day. Stunned, I think is the word. I had chills. I read the whole article, then, reached for the phone to call Bob La Rouche and tell him I thought what he had written was wonderful.

Now, I’m teaching writing — one six-week class a semester in continuing education, through the community college system. I wrote a workbook to help me do a better job. It was good but not great, so, I updated it. Then, I updated it again and again. It’s now in its fifth edition and 120 pages long. I’ve taught the same class — Writing, Publishing, & Promoting Your Nonfiction Book — for five or six years at different schools. In each class there is at least one special person who has talent and who might actually write a book. When I read something that person has written, I react as I did all those years ago. I read the whole thing, whatever it is. I barely breathe. I get chills. Then, I reach for the phone.

Once upon a time, a writing teacher told me I had talent and should keep writing. I took those words to heart. In fact, I built my life around them. It is beyond joy to say them to another person, especially one who may not know it yet. I had that experience recently when a former student read one of her essays to me. I just had it again when I got an e-mail with chapter summaries for a book one of a current student is planning. Maybe I’m no longer stunned, as I was the first time. But I certainly am moved and touched and impressed and just plain wowed. Every time.

A few years ago, when I was in a fast-track class for wannabe professional speakers and those who served them, we were asked to identify our vision. What did we do, or if we weren’t doing it yet, what did we want to do? I wrote, “Help writers write,” though, at the time, I had no idea how I was going to do it. I had written a book on freelancing, which hadn’t done well due to lack of any discernible marketing. I wasn’t yet a speaker and, it turned out, probably never would be. I wasn’t teaching yet. I was trying to reinvent myself but discovered that, in my case, that was going to take years.

Since then, I have created my program, written the workbook, taught classes, ghostwritten three books for other people, and designed a new website devoted to, of all things, helping writers write. “Do what you love; the money will follow,” they say. OK, I’m doing it, I’m earning a living at it, and I'm loving it. I think that is the best of all possible worlds.