The View From Here
“There is a way to write that solidifies story lines–and a way to write that liberates you from them.” – Susan Piver I know it’s cliché to be sad at a wedding, but that’s just what I was; sad, plain ol’ sad. When I mention this to a friend days later, I’m reminded that yeah, weddings are funny like that; they trigger all sorts of stuff. Still, I was surprised. I hadn’t been to a wedding in a while, and when I fell into something I can only call melancholy, I thought it was my own damn fault – some way in which I’d failed in love and was now on the other side of happiness, watching love from my own lone distance. I was glad for the groom – my young cousin – and his bride. They’re good people and they’re primed for every happiness. But standing there on the dry, rocky cliffs of Malibu, overlooking the sea, I found myself fixating on the bride’s face as they stood under the chuppah, and she gazed up at my cousin, a look that seemed to say, “I’m yours, I’ll follow you everywhere, your breath is my breath.” I was alternately worried for her and envious. Worried because marriage is a brave and bold journey – a complex web of expectation and disappointment – a real ego buster – and everyone who’s ever been in a relationship of any length will tell you that. It takes more patience and more faith than most of us can imagine. We say “for better or for worse,” but better is always more fun...
Drink, Drunk, Drank.
A couple of years ago when I realized my marriage was over, one of my first thoughts was, “Now I need to stop drinking.” I didn’t think, “Who will love me now?” or “How are my kids going to handle this?” I thought, “Shit, I have to stop drinking.” The thing is, I don’t think I was an alcoholic and I don’t think alcohol broke my marriage, but I did like to drink, and something about my drinking had been bothering me for years. Like almost every morning after some rousing night out with friends, I’d wake up and think, “I’ve got to stop.” And it wasn’t because I’d done anything wrong the night before, but it did have something to do with waking up tired or hung over in the midst of a big life with a family and a business and students and friends – everything I cared about. Sometimes I hadn’t even had too much to drink, or maybe I’d had one drink too many. Sometimes I didn’t drink for weeks. It was confusing. At times it felt like I had a problem, other times not. I’d make deals with myself; I’d only drink on weekends. I’d carry a little pocket-sized sign alerting my friends that I could only have one, and could they please remind me when I’m ordering my second? And if I did manage to only have one, I’d make sure to have it on an empty stomach so I could feel the buzz doubly big. My mother – a champ of a drinker – taught me that. None of those schemes worked,...
The Doggy Dog Truth
Here’s the doggy dog truth. It’s Thursday night and for practically a whole week, when I haven’t been teaching – which I do every morning – or going to the gym for a run, I’ve been sitting in this chair in my living room trying to write a piece on family, which someone has asked me to write. I’ve come at it from every angle, trying to find a way in, a great first line or an anecdote. I thought I had it at one point, but two smart writer friends sent me back to the drawing board. It’s due in a couple of days and I can’t say that I’ve gotten any closer to moving into the heart of the piece