Archive for the ‘Journals’ Category

Goodbye, October

Posted: November 2, 2015 in Blogging, Journals

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10/29/15
Normally, I love the month of October. The weather is traditionally wonderful – cool but not cold – and the colors on the trees are breathtaking. I drove through the hills of Watchung this morning and they were aflame with beauty. Also, the smell of working fireplaces fills the air and the comfortable boots and sweaters emerge from their closeted hiding spaces.
This year, though, I am very happy to see October coming to an end. Just before my birthday at the end of September a friend challenged me on facebook to write “a page a day” for the entire autumn month. I tried to back out but other people chimed in on the thread and told me I should just do it. Some actually mentioned that they missed my blog and wished that I would post more stories. I tried to tell them all that I was tired of trying to be a writer but they would hear none of it. I really am tired of it though. I’ve been writing – poetry, song lyrics, novels, a memoir, short stories and an ABC book – since I was 12 years old and I’ve had exactly two short stories published. I’m done with it. I do it mostly for myself anyway so it’s enough, for me, cathartic, if I write things in my head and then forget them.
To those demanding people who have said they need more of my blog and that I should post more stories I would like to say, (but never really would), sure, pay my Verizon bill for a month and I’ll gladly write you a tearjerker. Take care of my gas and electric charges for a while and I shall happily write you a sonnet.
I’m willing to bet a thousand bucks (which I can’t spare) that I’m the only one on that facebook thread who actually did take up the challenge of writing a page a day and then stuck with it. Once October is over and the ghouls and goblins have crawled back to their dank, dark, cobwebby caves I will close my journal and sigh. The plan thereafter will be to crack it open only when I travel to someplace interesting. So, there.

The Journal

Posted: October 12, 2013 in Journals, Travel, Winter Olympics
Tags: , , ,

Image  About six weeks ago, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the realm of blogging by the wonderful women in my coaching group.  They told me I had a lot to say that needed to be shared with the world.  Someone even said it would be selfish of me to keep my stories and scraps of memoir writing to myself.  I argued that I didn’t like this new way of “publishing” and that anyone could have a blog.  I wanted to be recognized as a writer, yes, but I wanted to try to do it the old fashioned way.  I wanted some smart New York editor to tell me I was worthy.  I wanted to appear in print.  My friends didn’t care what I wanted.  What they wanted was for me to blog.  I gave in.

I am not normally that much of a pushover and when you consider just how long they had to work on me to get me to agree, I guess I can’t really be considered a pushover at all.  I think I simply got tired of hearing them insist.  When I was in college, a favorite professor told me I could be one of the writers of the 20th century if I would just write every day.  But I was lazy, so I didn’t.  And now it’s too late for that to come true, considering that here we are, well into the second decade of the 21st century.  Another professor, after reading my initial essay assignment out loud to the class and giving me my first A+ as a freshman, tossed me out of English 101 after only three lessons, saying, “You don’t need this class, Kim.  And don’t bother taking English 102, either.  I’ll fix it with the department.”

All of this came just months after being voted Most Literary in my high school yearbook, along with a nice young man named Peter.  So I’m willing to accept that I’m an okay writer.  I’m not the writer that I would like to be, though.  I think I could be someday if I could stop being so lazy and really put some work into it.  If I make posting something on my blog every day look relatively easy it’s only because I have been cheating.  This, what I am writing right now, is being written hours before it will become a blog post tomorrow morning.  But about 75% of what I have posted so far has come directly from the journals I have been keeping for years.  I have been rifling through them for interesting ideas, thoughts, television memories and pieces of the memoir I am trying to conjure.  Whatever I have borrowed from the past I have re-written, of course, but having all that stuff socked away has made it less complicated for me to post something every day.  Eventually, I suppose I will run out.  When that happens, my posts will appear less frequently.

One thing that would help me to continue posting something every day is finding the missing journal.  I don’t keep a journal all the time.  It’s a sporadic activity for me, quite often brought about by travel.  My oldest one is from when I was 14 and in the 9th grade.  I still have it and it’s hilarious to look through but if I told you its title I’d have to kill you.  Okay, okay, I named it Hey, I’m A Teenager.  Now you know.  I promise not to kill you.  Just don’t tease me about it, please.  I was a teenager for crying out loud!

I kept writing after that.  Mostly, through high school and college and beyond, I wrote bad poetry and science fiction short stories.  There are 5 poems of which I am truly proud.  Three have appeared here.  Number four will appear next month.  I’m looking for the fifth, another sonnet.  I don’t care that they’re not good enough for the New Yorker.  I like them.  Five.  Out of more than 300.

There’s also a sci-fi novel I wrote as a sophomore in college, because I was bored in a geology class and needed something interesting to do.  It’s 60,000 words long and obviously written by a 19-year-old young woman who had fun ideas about the future and space travel but not one millimeter of physics knowledge to make the story plausible.  It’s in a box somewhere and I have not peeked at it in decades.

My next foray into journal-keeping came when I was the stage manager of the Morton Downey, Jr. Show and we did weeks, here and there, on the road.    Detroit, Houston, Kansas City.  I wound all of those journals together to form a bad book called A Dyke Does Downey.  The subtitle was going to be Blow Jobs Don’t Count, after how Mort would explain to anyone who would listen just how he managed to remain “faithful” to his wife.  Quite a character, that Mort.

After that I stopped writing for a while.  Then CBS asked me, in 1998, to go to Nagano to cover the Olympic Winter Games.  I was thrilled, both to be covering the Olympics and to be going to Japan.  I knocked two wishes off my bucket list in one glorious month.  Before I left, my friend DML gave me a beautiful journal and encouraged me to write in it every day, reminding me that that’s what writers do.  Oh, yeah, I thought, and happily added it to my carry-on messenger bag.

We lived in Park Slope then.  I filled that Nagano journal to the brim with stories, drawings, pictures and stickers.  The only drawing that pops up in my memory now is one of me, in stick figure form with my winking DJ logo face, seated at a restaurant table with the hugest bottle of beer I had ever seen.  I think it was an Asahi, but I can’t be certain.  The only actual story I can recall is the one about the day KB, Bob and I went to the Bobsleigh venue, up in the mountains, and almost got shot by the police.  I’ll write that one again someday, with whatever details I can remember.  There was another thread in that journal about how Martha Stewart kept staring at me, smiling my way and bringing me small presents of fresh, native-to-Nagano apples and grapes, but those details are gone.

Two years later, with a toddler in tow, we moved from Park Slope to Sunset Park, to a tiny frame house on 33rd and 5th.  I know I packed that Nagano journal so it would make the journey with us.  And ten years ago, when we moved here, I’m pretty sure I packed up everything meaningful and brought it all to this leafy suburb.  For the whole ten years I pictured that journal somewhere in the attic or the basement, tucked away in a box or a crate with other books and papers and when I had to sell my house earlier this year the one thing I looked forward to while going through everything to decide what to keep and what to jettison was coming across that beautiful journal again.  I was filled with anticipation every time I opened a likely box of printed materials, notebooks and papery objects.  I kept thinking, this one, it has to be in this one.  But it wasn’t.  There was no Nagano journal in any of those boxes upon boxes upon boxes that sat idle for 10 years with stuff inside that we didn’t really need but also didn’t want to throw out.  I found all my poetry, all my short stories, all my pictures.  No journal.  And I miss it so.  Sometimes I wake up in a sweat thinking that I’ve misplaced something seriously important, like one of my children.  Or the dog or all my tax returns.  And then I remember that it’s the journal.  And I’m really glad that it’s not a kid, not even the dog, but I’d go through 100 tax audits after losing all my important papers if I could just have that journal back.  I think you would have liked it, too.

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