All posts by Masha Levinson

A Little Reconnaissance

mermaids

Lately, I have become obsessed with book reviews. Not in terms of what I should read, but what I should (or shouldn’t) write.

The whole thing began when a writer friend of mine, who is very much published, lamented about stinging reviews. As a very entrenched NPI (non-published individual), my only concern with the other side of the fence (getting published) is how to scale it. I never once gave thought to what I would do if.. gasp!.. I’d ever make it over the hump. But being able to perch on my friend’s shoulder as she navigates through this publishing maze has opened my eyes. And those eyes went straight to reviews.

As I scour through the reviews, I’m fascinated, riveted and scared witless. In many instances, they are like a bad car wreck (i.e. carbeque). And even though I know I should look away, I can’t turn my head away from the good, the bad.. and the, oh, holy moly, OUCH! And there are many ouches out there. From Smart Bitches to Mrs. Giggles, these folks don’t pull any punches. They throw them down, one after the other.

I keep telling myself that I’m performing an epidemiological study into the mind of a reader and reviewer. It’s fascinating to understand what people liked or didn’t like and why. I’m hoping, through this exercise, it will trigger an a-ha moment for my own stories, although, I can’t help but feel like a grave robber – trying to steal gold nuggets from the coffins of writers who were trampled by bad reviews.

At times, I do wonder if I’m using this voyeuristic journey as a way to stymie myself, through fear, into a writing corner. It’s not as if the pontifications of some nameless web weenie will have any bearing on floppiness regarding my own story. But as much as I’m kicking and screaming that bad reviews of other writers have no effect on my own writing, in reality, of course they do. Beyond the floppiness, I think it eats at the core of my desire for perfection and if every part of the story isn’t perfect, it might as well be trash.

The big question is whether I have scared myself to write, or, if by reviewing the possible mistakes of others, I’m realizing and understanding my own mistakes. Right now, the ONLY upside to being unpublished is that, unlike the published writers, I can go back and re-do portions that don’t work.

I’ll probably wean myself off these review drive-bys, but I won’t entirely forget them. In a world where anyone with a keyboard and an opinion can electronically transmit their thoughts to zillions of people around the globe, the question of when to listen and to whom becomes greater. Although in the end, we can do all the reconnaissance we want, but after all the research, you gotta go with your own gut.

New York City, Nationals and the Creepy Crawlies

mermaids

Bed Bugs!  My attention from Nationals was diverted by an abundance of urgent discussions on this topic amidst the WRW loop.  Shuddering, I firmly pushed aside thoughts of infestation and focused my attention on the conference and all the whispers that I had heard – “ overwhelming, awe-inspiring.. “You’ll laugh, you’ll cry.. your life will never be the same again.”   Yeah, sure, I thought, assuming the adage applied to those earthlings who have not been able to reign their emotion to such perfection it should be introduced as an Olympic sport.    

On the first day of the conference, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was off.  Don’t get me wrong, there was NOTHING wrong with the conference.  Compared to the millions of others I attended for work purposes, this one rivaled anything I had ever seen; efficient and organized and with attention and preparedness for every detail. 

But as day one morphed into day two, I could no longer keep at bay the creepy crawly feeling seeping into my consciousness.  Past the protective layer of denial I chose to build around the anticipation and anxiety, it wove an ethereal web of fear and uncertainty that infested me worse than any bed bug on the planet. 

It wasn’t the hordes of faces, famous, infamous and yet-to-be-famous faces flitting from room to room.  The creepy crawlies, which I was so worried would be in my bed, were actually in my head.  And so they began to mess with me.  I wandered from workshop to workshop, trying to locate my “place” and not really finding it.   When people asked what I wrote, the only words I wanted to push out of my mouth were, “I’m not a writer.”  And so, like a flattened bed bug, I left.  On my trip home, I thought about the positives; I met up with great WRW friends (hello a few mermaids), attended two FABULOUS workshops and soaked up the greatness of being surrounded by so many writers.  But on the flip side, the conference left in its wake a nest of creepy crawlies that intensified my feelings of doubt and inadequacy. 

In bed that night, as I replayed the events of the days, I realized the conference didn’t “bring” out those feelings.  It just allowed me the opportunity to feel them, something I don’t like doing.   In the end, I’m glad I went, despite the creepy crawlies.  Because as we all know, running from the bugs is a great way to ensure they’ll catch you.  Facing them head on is the only way to go.  So as I nurse the ouchie left on my pocketbook by a pricey stay in NYC, I’m cautiously motivated to utilize those gems of wisdom I learned in those workshops to create a better product.  And hopefully, it isn’t infested with bugs.   Anyone else?

If Voice Found, Please Return to Rightful Owner

mermaids, Uncategorized

Here, voicey  voicey.  Come out, come out wherever you are.  Dang blast it.  I’ve lost it again.  My dratted voice.  Not the one I use to issue dictates to errant children, ultimatums to disobedient husbands or false sincerity to overbearing bosses.  Definitely not that one.  The voice I lost, or maybe never had at all, is that mellifluous fingerprint-like identification of that quality only the best writers can convey.  It’s like a lineup or a taste test.  If I had a slew of books, covers, bios and dedications ripped away, with only my eyes as the guideposts, I can tell you which writer wrote which book.  You know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s that voice, takes you by the lapels and yanks you into whatever or wherever it wishes you to go.  That’s the voice I’m looking for.. and the one I still can’t find.

That’s not to say I don’t hear voices.  Oh, believe me, I do.  My voice hearing ability can rival all the faces of Eve.   The problem is, as I struggle to find my voice, all the other ones drown it out.  My voice finding process goes something like this: 

10:30 pm.  I’m at the computer, trying to find my voice, when I hear another one,  “Mama, I want you to buy me these shoes when I get to be your age.. you know, when I’m 68.”  How nice, I’ve aged over three decades in under a minute.  The 4-year-old owner of that voice shows me a pair of 5-inch platforms I once bought for a Halloween party and shoved to the back of the closet.  How did she ever find them?  I assure her that of course, I will buy them for her, while silently mouthing over my dead body.  She happily totters off to bed..  for the 14thtime that night.   I close my eyes and try to feel the characters, whose emotions I’m trying to convey on a page.  Is the message coming through?  Do I even know what I want to get across?  As I try to answer those questions, I hear another voice, “Aaaaaiiiiiiiwwwaaaaa… babababababababab…  phluuuuuuuuu.”  I look at the video monitor and see the 8-month-old trying to tear apart his bed.  For the past few months, it appears he has been finding his voice too, although it sounds more like a mating call since all the neighborhood cats congregate under his window.  He’s not crying so I still sit at my computer.   Now I’m just trying to remember what I was even thinking about before.  I look back at the monitor and see he’s trying to eat the blanket with his one shiny new tooth. 

6:43 am

I’m on the Metro, paper and pencil in hand.  I have 23 minutes to find my voice before I enter the “corporate world.”  I close my eyes, in hopes of hearing it, that stupid, annoying, all important voice I’m trying to find.  Instead, an unfamiliar voice blasts through the intercom:  “The next stop is Dupont Circle.  The train will be moving shortly.  Sorry for the inconvenience, especially for the one car that has no air conditioning.”  Now I don’t even remember what it was I was thinking about.

11:45 am

I’m in my office.  The meeting is done, another brilliant use of my time (and everyone else’s).  I open up my notebook and stare at whatever it was I wrote last.  Suddenly, an inspiration strikes me, I begin to write.  The words are a melody flowing from my head.  A few sentences and I can barely keep up with my thoughts.  I feel my blood pumping, I’m exhilarated.. and then I hear it.. “Um, I wanted to talk about the meeting.  Do you have a few minutes?”  I placate my boss and just as I sit down, a gaggle of co-workers come in and we commence discussions about.. you guessed it, the meeting.

And so it goes on, and on.  Somewhere in the midst of bathroom breaks, I take a moment to think about my writing.  What works (very little), what doesn’t (almost everything).  I think about my favorite writers and try to reconstruct what quality their writing possesses that makes me want to beg for an introduction.  And amidst it all, I hear the silent but deafening voices in my own head.

 “C’mon fat ass, the Stairmaster won’t climb itself.  I need to call my cousin.  Did I remember to brush my hair?  The presentation isn’t done yet.  I need to write that dreaded synopsis.  Am I happy?  Where are my daughter’s ballet shoes?  I have to buy my mom a card.  You’re an illiterate foreigner, stop trying to pretend to be a writer.”

On the way back home, I sit in what seems like the same non air conditioned Metro car, thinking about how little I was able to accomplish.  Most importantly, I still couldn’t find my voice.  The thought is very depressing.  Right now, finding my voice is all consuming.

I get back and home and the cycle starts all over.  I hear the kids, “Mama, mama, mama… bllaaaaaa….aaaiiiii… wwwhhhhaaaaaa.”  I hear my husband, “… and then we have to prune the tree.  I went to Target and bought more formula.  Let me tell you about my day at work…”   I don’t tune out.  I’ve learned to listen as the kids are getting fed, I’m cleaning up the kitchen and trying to herd the cattle for the bedtime/bathtime route.  As he passes me in the hallway upstairs, he gives me a lopsided smile and I hear his voice in my ear, “Maybe after the kids are asleep…” his voice trails off and somehow, despite all the voices, my heart skips a beat.

 All around me, it’s quieter now.  And then I start to hear them.  Not my voice, but the voice of the characters.  They want to be let out.  I walk up the darkened stairs and they are louder, more demanding.  I make it to the landing and I can really hear them, juxtaposed against the silence of the house.  There’s still an hour before midnight, if I write for just a bit, I can still get six hours of sleep, provided the kids don’t wake in the middle of the night.  I stand in the darkened hallway, the voices are calling me to write.  I look toward the bedroom and see a sliver of light underneath the door.  I turn to look at the computer room and it is dark.  I shift my head from side to side.  The voices inside my head are now screaming, begging to let them out.  I almost turn toward the computer room and then an image pops into my head.  I see my husband as he walks into my hospital room, his eyes are red but dry.  I’m still groggy from the anesthesia but he sits at my head and smoothes my hair.  He rests his forehead on mine and I feel something wet hit my cheek.  “I promise you,” he whispers, “this is the last baby we send up to the Heavens.”  I snap back to our darkened hallway.  The voices are still ringing in my ears.  I take one last look toward the computer room and with wistful smile head toward the bedroom.   If I do have a voice, it will still be there in the morning.

At Least I Have Choices

Motivation, Uncategorized

Choice is a concept that is scary and liberating all at the same time. I find, as I sit to write another manuscript, I am sometimes frozen by having choices. The choice to use whatever word I want, to depict whatever emotion I wish, to whatever characters I create. But choice also gives way to fear: what if I use the wrong word, the wrong description, the wrong simile? This conundrum of choice reminded me of my decision to pursue another Masters degree, this time in something other than finance or economics. This was my essay that helped garner an admission and I find it more relevant than ever, now that I have forced myself to sit down at yet another book.

I knew if I focused my gaze on the greasy Kalashnikov slung across his back, I could disassociate myself from the rough hands that were fumbling my threadbare coat. The solider who was rifling through my pockets was looking for money, gold, diamonds or whatever other treasures he was instructed to unearth. Unable to find anything of value, he grunted and pushed me away from him and toward the turnstiles. Using as much force as my seven-year-old body contained, I shoved past the metal gates and ran as fast as I could toward my parents. With a sigh of relief, they grabbed my hands and we quickly headed toward the waiting staircase. As we sat on the tarmac, I knew what my parents were thinking. Finally, we had done it. We had crossed the Iron Curtain.

The first seven years of my life were spent living in a “A Room and a Half.” My room, my parents’ room, the living room and the dining room were all the same room. It’s no irony that the words “privacy” and “fun” have no direct Russian translation. My memories of life in Communist Russia are an intricate patchwork of fear, nostalgia, paranoia, oppressiveness, entrapment and constant longing. The longing was like a grumbling stomach that quietly but incessantly begs for food. Technically, we had almost enough to survive: enough potatoes, enough cabbage. But somehow, it was never enough. The first word I learned in English was orange. Not the color, but the fruit. That’s because I had only read about the sticky nectar of that forbidden delicacy in books and longed to try it. It was only when we came to American, that for the first time, at the ripe old age of eight, I was lucky enough to taste a slice of heaven.

These days, few can imagine there was a point in my life, when I was bewildered by things such as Crayons, peanut butter, fitted sheets, shampoo, shorts, bananas, pizza and bowling. On the surface, other than somewhat Slavic looking features and a misspelled name, I’m as American as any of my colleagues. But my veneer of Americanism is very thin. Beneath the surface, I am still a myriad of fear and longing, so similar to the seven-year-old child I supposedly left behind. Like a mewling kitten trying in desperation to push through a closed door on a cold winter night, I am in constant longing to accomplish the next thing in life. It’s the combination of that longing and fear that contributed to my incessant hunger for accomplishment. Writing had always been a part of my life. I can’t live without it. But it was always done in secret. A furtive undertaking used as a tool to express all my pent up anguish that is in such contradiction to the serenity I portray on the surface.

So now what? Now, I am done. Literally. Although literally, I hope I am just beginning. The advanced degree has been earned, the “real” job is taking off and the children have been birthed. Now it is my turn. I spent many years trying to stifle my longing for writing. But like rising dough escaping from a bowl, the longing to write has once again begun a drumbeat in my ear. And now, it’s hard to ignore. Fear was always the cold water that suffused my longing to write. You’re not a writer. Your missives are a joke, are thoughts that would permeate my existence. After all, I am a product of my environment; Russia’s brilliant method of encouragement through belittling and degradation in order to inspire a fighting spirit. But maybe finally it has worked. I operate in an environment where it’s either or. I’m either talented or I am a worthless nobody. I am either as good as some of my favorite writers or I am a useless statistician, relegated to live in the underbelly of financial analysis. But maybe it doesn’t have to be so black and white. As I remember the greasy Kalashnikov on the back of that solider, I’m also struck with an inspirational thought. If I was lucky enough to escape from behind the Iron Curtain, maybe I am strong enough to break down whatever self-imposed curtains I created in my mind. After all, what’s the worst that can happen? At least I am still free.