There's an old adage: "It is easier to be forgiven than to get permission." Some truth there, for sure. But when it comes to gathering permissions for a book, this is certainly the case.
At present I am engaged in the arduous task of wading through this permission-gathering process. This involves forms, phone calls, and cover letters along with legal documentation (some to other countries). It is all quite involved and time-consuming. That's why writing fiction is generally a more relaxing state of affairs. With a novel, one can simply write. Non-fiction often involves carefully-crafted paragraphs and tons of Alka-Seltzer tablets.
I am, by now, and old hat at gaining permission, however. My wife has taught me this art.
I generally ask permission to use the toilet, for example. (This goes back to my childhood, when I also asked my mother.) I also ask my wife if I can go outside to play and, if I'm going to be staying up past my bed-time, I ask permission to write for another four hours while she hibernates. I ask permission to leave the table, often using the phrase, "May I be excused from this smorgasbord so that I can retire to my study with a cigar and brandy and write for five hours?"
My wife always points out that I don't smoke cigars and I don't drink brandy and I answer, "Well, I guess that just leaves the writing, then."
Permission is usually obtained unless my wife just has to have me for other rewards of marital bliss (this can include cleaning the dinner plates, wiping down the microwave, or sweeping the floor).
In the morning, before I get out of bed, I usually begin with the phrase, "Permission to rise, ma'am!" This can be as early as 3 a.m. and my wife generally doesn't answer. I always take her silence as an affirmation.
I have a lot of these affirmations in marriage. And I have learned to abide by them.
Recently I wrote a column about the impact of a handwritten letter. Now that everything is facebook, email or twitter, it's quite impactful to receive a handwritten note . . . or to send one. I still create these dinosaurs myself. In the past two weeks I've written letters to:
* A publisher in New York, thanking the firm for agreeing to publish my next book (likely in 2015) and informing the editorial team that I plan to hand-deliver my manuscript to their offices in October.
* An editor, thanking her for giving me an opportunity to write for her magazine.
* Several letters to my wife.
These latter letters, of course, are part and parcel of what I hope to collect in my epistolary anthology before I die. I think people would love to read these personal letters that I leave on the kitchen cabinet or send back to my wife (who is usually the first one to address to dire food supply in the house, or writes, wondering why there is a thin film on the kitchen floor that resembles pea soup). Some of the letters I hope to collect are superb examples of the fine domestic tradition of exchange, as you can see:
Sweetheart,
Yes, I do plan to cook dinner on Wednesday night, but will not be able to eat until much later. Please enjoy your defrosted chicken gizzards and succotash without me. Naturally, I will be thinking of you every minute I am away and will count the moments until we see each other a week from next Tuesday, at which time I would like for you to review a bank statement and sign two documents (in triplicate) that grants permission for me to make health-initiative decisions on your behalf, should you become incapacitated or lapse into dementia or worse. Thank you for marking this date on your already-full calendar. Perhaps, after we decide your fate, we can pick up some ice cream afterwards. Do you still like butter-pecan?
More hugs than kisses,
Todd
Dear Becky,
It is with a full heart and deep gratitude that I accept your invitation to dine with you a week from Friday. I am, indeed, honored. Please know that I weighed your invitation against many others but, quite frankly, I'm just not that popular and I don't typically do much on Friday nights anyway except a bit of personal grooming. I hope you will forgive me when I say that, all things considered, you look ravishing and I have truly enjoyed our many conversations over the past thirty years, especially those conversations that have touched upon more intimate matters such as laminate flooring and making paint selections based on the color chips from Sherman Williams. Rest assured I will bring along notes that will guide our dinner conversation and keep things focused on the issues that matter (this will include an Excel spreadsheet that I have created of certain high-moments in the marriage, including one childbirth--with accompanying photos.) Also, please excuse the formality of receiving this hand-written letter through your office courier (I folded it twice and smeared spaghetti sauce on it to ensure confidentiality). If you are offended by this, perhaps we can add this to the discussion list when we meet, and we could also add any other bullet points of improvement that you'd like to interject into the mix. At any rate, have a great week. I look forward to our meeting and promise to address your question: "Why don't you get more jiggy wid' it?"
Your comrade,
Todd
A few days back, soon after the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, I began taking mental snapshots of the actor's movie roles, or at least the movies I had seen. Hoffman, much like Meryl Streep, was a brilliant character who could assume accents, facial tics, even mannerisms of the persons he was portraying on film.
He also portrayed Truman Capote, a writer who, for his time and a time, was the most famous writer in America--especially following the publication of his "non-fiction novel", In Cold Blood. Writing this book about the Kansas family who were murdered in their home for $50 and change sent Capote into a death spiral of his own. He never wrote another book after In Cold Blood, and for the rest of his life he lived off of the fumes of that work and the high-octane lifestyle of sex, drugs and alcohol . . . the latter of which eventually took his life.
Hoffman did a superb job of playing Capote, a writer whom many described as an average writer, but a writer who was famous for simply being famous. Capote had a way of manufacturing his fame, and he was enamored of movie stars and the Hollywood lifestyle that eventually led to his demise.
I know I have read every published piece written by Capote, including his incompleted works. He was an interesting writer, but his lifetime output was relatively small, though of certain quality and clout . . . and hence his place in American letters.
Now, when I think of Capote, I see Hoffman, too. Some tragedies are two-fold. I just wish both men had found a better way to deal with their inner demons.
Yesterday, upon my return home, I discovered a small box on the front porch. It contained a hardback copy of my book, Candles in the Dark: A Treasury of the World's Most Inspiring Parables (John Wiley & Sons, NY, 2002). This gift was surprising on two counts: first, that this was the first hardback copy of the book I have owned (it was only published in trade paper), and secondly, that the book had been sitting on the shelves of the New Orleans Public Library for more than a decade. Now, the book only exists in digital format (or as a remaindered title).
I have never been to New Orleans, but do plan to visit. And now that the public library has gifted me with this book, I know I'm going to visit soon.
The hardback copy of the book also arrives at a significant time, as I just signed a contract to write a new book about parables and teaching stories for another New York publisher--a book that will be published in hardback and, hopefully, translated into several languages. I'm already nearly 30,000 words into this manuscript and writing F A S T.
Actually, I regard Candles in the Dark as my best book to date, so I'm eager to write a new book in a similar vein. It's fun, and I now have more than enough to keep me up late and rising early.
Don't know when this new book will be published, but I don't worry about such matters. Others can make those decisions. I'll just make sure I deliver the goods.
Beloved writer Dr. Seuss died a few days ago, and I thought I'd take some space here to pay tribute. He was certainly one of the best-selling (if not the best-selling writer for children) of the 21st century. Most Americans can recall either having read Dr. Seuss books as a child, or reading his books to children or grandchildren. I suppose the most well-known of his books was The Cat in the Hat.
No doubt Dr. Seuss has been parodied to death, too. His verse lends itself to all manner of humor, which is another tribute to greatness.
Some years back I wrote my own modern-day version of his book Hop On Pop, and I thought I'd offer it again here. Anyway, just my way of saying "Dr. Seuss, you shall be missed!"
Hop on Pop
The bills keep coming
They won't stop
Everybody
Hop on Pop
The wife likes spending
Loves to shop
But she never
Hops on Pop
The college calls
They want a drop
I write a check
They Hop on Pop
The teenage son
Thinks he's Aesop
Believes he's wiser
Than his Pop
The daugher's wedding
The cake top
And all expenses
Hop on Pop
Daddy feels
Like a bellhop
Taking orders
But he's Pop
Sometimes he cooks
The evening slop
But each complaint
Still Hops on Pop
Daddy cleans
He likes to mop
But still there's dirt
That Hops on Pop
The politicians
And their crop
Have a solution:
Hop on Pop!
Sometimes Pop dreams
He'd like to swap
His life insurance
Cash for Pop
But life keeps coming
It won't stop
Everybody!
Hop on Pop!
For the most part, the Oscars are a showcase of "outfront" personalities--the pretty faces and famous names in front of the camera. But secretly I enjoy the Oscars for the small, but essential awards and accolades given to the writers. After all, none of the acting can happen without the words. And words come from writers . . . those men and women who slave away in anonymity (for the most part) and who produce all of the screenplays and treatments. Everything celebrated at the Oscars first began on the page.
If one listens closely enough, some of the actors who receive their awards will thank their writers, and sometimes note them by name (usually the person no one has heard of). But awards are also given to best original screenplay and best screenplay adaptation (meaning it is a screenplay written from another work, or based on a work such as a novel or other original concept).
So, I'll be listening for the writers. These are also going to be the most shabbily-dressed people in the crowd. The writers are the ones who come forward to receive their awards dressed in pajamas and bath robes, their usual writing attire.
And the movie that will win best screenplay? No sure. But some writer our there will be smiling.
