Shaking

I read a fair number of blogs on a regular basis.  I guess if you're a blogger, it's part of the job.  Some of these blogs are really good, and some of them are not.  But I read them all.  Many of the ones I think are terrible are far more widely read than my own.  I am trying to figure out the secret to success.  (If you know, would you please e-mail me?)

The best blogs are the ones that get me thinking, or that inspire me to write posts of my own.  This week, I again owe a debt of gratitude to Misty of The Family Math.  You might remember Misty; she does not plan to encourage her son to believe in Santa Claus, and her post on that subject inspired me to write one of my most popular posts, In Defense of Santa.  She has inspired me again this week with her post Five Reasons I Won't Read Fifty Shades of Grey.  (I encourage you to read her post, as it will help you understand what I am talking about below.)

Fifty Shades of Grey is a bestselling novel, currently popular among women's reading groups.  As of this writing, like Misty, I have not read the book.  I understand that it contains passages that are sexually explicit, and that makes it the Wifey of the current generation.  By that, I mean that, like Judy Blume's iconic novel, it has been roundly criticized as obscene, stricken from library purchase lists, preached against, banned, discussed, and read in the subway under a plain brown wrapper (or on a Kindle or Nook), for anonymity's sake.  No one wants to admit it, but everyone wants to read it, to see what the hubbub is about.

Except for Misty and her readers.  Misty, who, I repeat, has not read the book and does not plan to, says her friends who have read it tell her that "[i]t's terribly written, but it's sooooo good!" Despite what sounds to me like a pretty enthusiastic endorsement from her friends, Misty has concluded that the book is not worth reading because it is - and these are her exact words and her emphasis - "poorly written shit."  She worries that reading such works will damage her own writing craft.  (Misty claims to be a professional writer, so she has legitimate concerns about the ongoing quality of her work.)

Misty lists other reasons why she thinks the book won't appeal to her.  She's not into erotica, she's uncomfortable talking or reading about sex because of her upbringing, and she is sure her husband wouldn't be "into" it.  I usually don't clear my reading list with my husband (or my parents) ahead of time, but those aren't the big problems I see with Misty's approach.  The big problems I see are twofold:  (1) the ethics of calling another writer's work shit without having actually read it and (2) the generally anti-intellectual refusal to read something that might expand a reader's preexisting limits and make her uncomfortable.  I'll address each in turn.

1.  The Ethics of Shit.


When I was a child (and I believe I'm a little older than Misty), shit was what we called a bad word.  Bad words were words that you did not utter in the presence of anyone older than yourself, or anyone in a position of authority.  When you were around Grandma, your friends' moms, or the parish priest, you would never, ever, in a million years, say the word shit.  Seeing it in print was titillating, and hearing someone say it aloud in public was scandalous.  (Remember George Carlin?  He made a career out of the scandal associated with saying bad words out loud.)  Though shit and many of Carlin's other favorites have lost some of their shock value over time, mostly because they have come into common use, there is no denying that calling someone else's craft shit is a stinging insult.  I also can't get past the idea that the use of shit to critique someone's work evidences a lack of a more creative and expansive vocabulary.  In criticizing a novel I don't like, I might call it uncomfortably and gratuitously explicit or stylistically unappealing.  But poorly-written shit?  What does that even mean?  It does not give your reader the slightest clue as to what you think is wrong with the work.

The bigger problem, though, is the ethical one.  To my great disappointment, I am not a professional writer.  Despite my best efforts, I have never had a single creative word published for profit.  Nevertheless, I do consider myself a writer, because that's what I spend big chunks of my day doing.  In this day and age, anyone can call herself a writer by setting up a blog and publishing an essay or three.  My blog, while not widely read, does have a small, fairly devoted readership, and I feel I owe my readers a responsibility not to be misleading, mean, or disrespectful - to them or to other writers.  I do not review products that I have not used.  I do not accept money to say things I don't necessarily believe.  I do not criticize art works that I have not seen, or music that I have not heard.  And I do not review books that I have not read.


In response to a comment I left on her blog, Misty assured me that she was not reviewing Fifty Shades of Grey - she was merely explaining why she did not plan to read it.  I see a distinction between saying "I have heard a lot about this book, but I don't plan to read it because I'm not into erotica" and saying "That book is poorly-written shit, and reading it will damage my own craft."  That's a heavy criticism to levy against some other artist's work, and if you plan to say things like that, I think you have an ethical responsibility to know what you're talking about.  Read the book, and then criticize away.  But do not use a blogging platform to publish uninformed opinions that insult other writers - and readers.  Doing so is, in a word, unethical.

2.  What's Wrong With the World These Days

Now, let's jump from the small picture to the big picture.  Being a well-educated, intelligent human being means, sometimes, reading something that you don't necessarily want to read, because doing so will push your limits and challenge your tastes.  If you think about it, that's the essence of education.  Raise your hand if you really felt like reading The Catcher in the Rye or To Kill a Mockingbird when your high school English teacher assigned it.  Not too many hands, I bet.  But if you read these books, are you glad you did?  Did you learn something?  Did Holden Caulfield or Atticus Finch teach you something you hadn't known or make you think about something you hadn't thought about before?

Now, I'm not saying that Fifty Shades of Grey is on a literary par with Salinger.  The fact is, I don't know, because I have not read Fifty Shades.  What I'm saying is that sometimes it's possible to be pleasantly surprised by a book that you thought - or even heard - was going to be terrible.  The opposite situation is also a possibility.  You simply can't know until you push yourself to try.

And the trouble with the world today is that there are too few people out there who are willing to try.

There are toddlers who refuse to taste green peas because they look funny and unfamiliar.  There are legislators who don't know a single openly gay person but swear they will never vote in favor of same-sex marriage.  There are people who say they hate rock and roll music who have never bought a single rock album.  And there are people who say classical music is "boring" but have never listened to it.  (Good classical music is anything but boring.)  One of my favorites, which I hear all the time, is the old stereotype that the German language is "harsh."  Nobody who says that actually speaks or understands German, or has read Rilke in the original.  German is a beautiful language.

It's willful ignorance.  It's "I can continue to hold onto my preexisting beliefs as long as I don't think about their basis in reality."  It's an unwillingness to educate oneself, or to do anything even remotely uncomfortable, for fear that one's prejudices might fall apart upon close examination.

Does reading a book about sex make you sexually promiscuous?  Does speaking German make you Hitler?  Or Mozart?  (Does speaking English make you Churchill?)  Does reading something that's poorly written make you a bad writer?  Of course not - unless you were predisposed to being promiscuous, dictatorial, musical, or illiterate.  If your foundation is firm, you have nothing to fear by giving it a little shake.

The toddler fears the peas because they're green, they look funny, and they taste different.  Trying them will not make him turn green, and the taste in his mouth will be temporary.  If he doesn't like them after he tastes them, he can move on and try something else.  Or he can go back to his familiar snacks, having made an educated decision about the unfamiliar food.  But he just might like the peas, and if he does, he'll have broadened his world view just a little bit.  He'll have more options the next time he's hungry.  As he gets older, he'll be able to discuss different kinds of food, and express an opinion as to which ones he likes.

So it is with books.  And from books, we graduate to ideas.  And with ideas, we make decisions about how to run our world, and how to treat the others with whom we share it.

Please, writers and readers, treat each other, and each other's work, with respect.  Be willing to try something new, or something you think you might not like.  Shake your foundation a little, and see if it holds fast.

Accelerating, Part Trois

I know you're impressed that I can count to three in French.

My husband and kids got me a motor scooter for Mother's Day.  I was absolutely floored.  I'm the kind of mom who has always gotten a bunch of flowers and some homemade cards.  Once, my husband snuck behind my back and bought me a silver necklace I had admired at the mall.  But I have never, ever gotten a Mother's Day present like this.  We got home from church about noon on Sunday, and when we pulled into the driveway it was sitting right there.  "Whose is that?" I asked, wondering if we had a visitor.

"It's yours," my husband said.  "Happy Mother's Day."

Me and Sparky on our new scooter

I have been riding around on my new vehicle pretty much nonstop ever since.  I run a lot of errands in my little hamlet on the Hudson; about 50% of my trips involve just me, or just me and one child, and 90% of them take me no more than 10 miles from my home.  This little motorbike is absolutely perfect for me.  Not to mention that when the shock wore off, euphoria settled in.  If you've never ridden on one of these things, I highly recommend it.  It's the greatest antidepressant ever invented.

Yesterday was a gorgeous late-spring day, and I rode my scooter to Westwood, New Jersey (about a half an hour from my house, all on very familiar roads) to meet my mom for lunch.  My route took me alongside a reservoir, across some railroad tracks, and through a beautiful wooded area.  As I scooted down the main road in a little town called Harrington Park, the church bells were pealing.  I arrived at my destination in a fabulous mood.  I pulled my scooter into a metered parking spot.

A woman got out of the car next to me.  She appeared to be my mom's age, or maybe slightly younger.  She gave me a big smile and said, "I'm so happy to see someone else enjoying a scooter!"

"Really?" I said.

"Yes," she told me.  "I have a disabled daughter, and she and I ride our scooters together.  We even got motorcycle licenses together.  It's a great thing for her - it gives her the sense of independence she needs and lets her get around on her own."

The lady told me her daughter was 36 and had Down's Syndrome.  The daughter could not drive a car, because the radio and the passengers would pose a dangerous distraction to her.  Nevertheless, she needed to be able to get around, and she needed to be in charge of her own transportation.  The scooter, which has no radio, requires both hands on the handlebars and both eyes on the road at all times.  It's the ideal solution for her.  It allows her to get to work, to the grocery store, and safely home.  Although a small scooter does not require a motorcycle license in our state, this lady and her daughter had taken a motorcycle safety course together anyway, because it seemed like a good idea to have some formal instruction, and they got their licenses together.  Now both of them were hooked.

I listened to her story - the best story I had heard in a long time.  I asked the lady a few more questions, like whether I had to park my scooter in a metered spot (yes) and whether she ever took her scooter on a divided highway (no, apparently forbidden).  She then wished me a great lunch with my mom and drove away, waving merrily at me as I took off my helmet and got my purse out of the seat compartment.  I stood there and watched her drive away until she was out of sight.

I thought about my perfect, beautiful daughter and her shiny new New Jersey driver's license.

I thought about how incredibly lucky I am.  That lady thought she was lucky too.  She was smiling as she drove around, happy to chat with a stranger.  I wish I had gotten her name and phone number.  I bet we would have ended up being good friends.

This gift I got for Mother's Day is worth a lot more than I initially thought.

Accelerating, Part Deux

My oldest daughter, Sarah, turns seventeen on Tuesday, and she already has an early-morning appointment at the Department of Motor Vehicles to take her driver's test.  Thanks to lots of practice, she is already a good driver.  I have no doubt that, by ten o'clock Tuesday morning, she will be fully licensed by the State of New Jersey.

My neighbor asked me the other day what I think it will feel like when Sarah gets into the car by herself for the first time and drives away.

Sarah was born by cesarean section, and for the first couple of weeks of her life, I felt like I had been hit by a truck.  Not only could I barely move, but I was also terrified.  Nothing had prepared me for the feeling of having a new baby in my arms.  She was tiny and delicate and seemed to do nothing but scream.  I was exhausted and didn't know what to do about it.  Because of my fragile physical state, and in preparation for my ultimate return to full-time work, my husband had insisted on hiring an au pair from Iceland.  The au pair's name was Disa, and she was lovely, sweet and helpful.

Except that I gave her very little to do.  I sat in my bathrobe all day, holding the baby, afraid to put her down for even a moment.  I was worried that something might happen to her in a moment of inattentiveness.  What if I hurt her?  I didn't know the first thing about taking care of babies.  Sure, I'd read all the books, but that didn't help me.  That was all theory.  I now had a real, live small person in my arms.  There was no way I was going to let anything happen to her.  I was never going to let go.

One day, Disa, tired of doing nothing and probably annoyed at my disheveled state, said, "Give me the baby.  I'm going to take her for a walk downtown in the stroller.  You need to go take a shower, get yourself together, and put on some real clothes.  We'll be gone for an hour.  That should be enough time, right?"

I knew she was right.  I needed to start recovering from the shock of motherhood and become a person again.  I reluctantly handed Sarah to her and watched her bundle the little girl into the stroller and head for the door.

"Go," Disa said over her shoulder.  "Take a shower.  Do your hair.  Put some makeup on."

I went upstairs to the bathroom and turned on the shower.  Comforted by the sound of the water, I went over to the window, knelt by the sill, and pushed aside the curtain.  I watched Disa push Sarah down the front walk.  When they reached the sidewalk, they turned left, proceeded a few feet, and then disappeared from view.

Something indescribable gripped me.  I wasn't ready to let go.  What if they never returned?

That, I imagine, is how I am going to feel on Tuesday morning.