In retrospect, I’m recommending a movie that came out in 1970. I’m speaking with people born in 1990 or later, because, see, they’re less than 25 years old. It’s thought arresting for me, that thes…
Source: Love Story
Love Story
In retrospect, I’m recommending a movie that came out in 1970. I’m speaking with people born in 1990 or later, because, see, they’re less than 25 years old.
It’s thought arresting for me, that these folks, now 20-25, were just exiting the womb as I finished my twenty year military career. And the movie I’m recommending, ‘Love Story’ was released 20 years or more before they first breathed. Full disclosure: I was a ninth grader when the novel and movie exploded into my cultural sphere, entering mostly through the girls (like Melissa in Science, and Vicky and Joy, who lived up the street) in my classes in Penn Hills, Pennsylvania. For some reason, I was paying close attention to their opinions.
Gosh, darn, I’m not feeling old from this, just philosophical. I don’t think of it as proof I’m old but that I’m different from them, and born in an earlier year. I recall going through similar things with others. Those older than me were astonished I’d not heard of certain people or events. They were WWII vets who remembered hearing their grandparents’ stories about new inventions and stars of their day. Each generation has passed over this ground. We believe here and now imposes its will on all equally, that pop culture is homogenized for everyone’s intake even while we know we all have different tastes. But through repetition and mass exposure, we become conditioned to believe we’re all for one and one for all, watching DWTS, MNF, or TBBT. I remember asking a co-worker ten years older, “You haven’t heard of the song by David Bowie, ‘Fame’?” He, shaking his head, answered, “No. I don’t recognize it. Maybe I’ve heard it but I don’t know that title. I know who David Bowie is, of course, but I don’t know that song.”
He astonished me, that he didn’t know this song, which was being broadcast everywhere as part of the Top 40. Not everywhere, I know now.
Now, a few years ago, I heard joking references to this new phenomenal singer, what was his name, Justin something? Beaver? What?
(Just to clarify what I mean, because that’s how I am, I’m referring to Justin Bieber, and I enjoy his song, ‘Love Yourself’, learning of it through the car FM, enjoying the lyrics and mellow melody before discovering it was him.)
So, it isn’t surprising that I’m asking them, “You’ve never seen ‘Love Story?’ Based on the Erich Segal novel, with Ryan O’Neal and Ali McGraw?” (And it’s striking to me that I remember those details so vividly, when, while watching ‘All the Way’ on HBO the other night, I was asking myself, “Who is that actor? Where do I know him from?”)
And it’s not surprising that they’re shaking their head and replying, “No, no, who? Who?”
No, it isn’t surprising. And in twenty years, they’ll probably be asking someone something of the same thing that I asked them, as others asked me, inserting the event, movie, person, whatever.
Of course it won’t be the same as me asking them, or the older people asking me. After all, neither of them had the great rock music, television shows, movies, books and actors that I had when I was growing up.
Things were a lot better…then.
I mark the small firsts
The first story I wrote. Shuddering and shaking my head, I recall it was just yesterday, sitting in sunshine, that I attempted a memorable first sentence, a yesterday that’s 37 years back on …
Source: I mark the small firsts
I mark the small firsts
The first story I wrote. Shuddering and shaking my head, I recall it was just yesterday, sitting in sunshine, that I attempted a memorable first sentence, a yesterday that’s 37 years back on time’s circle.
The first joy from creating and telling a story.
The first rejection. Yes, that first form letter from Issac Asimov’s Science Fiction and Fantasy.
The first dejection and introspection on what went wrong. Introspection – another way of saying that my heart and soul were torn out of me, leaving burnt, shadowy images of my existence. Really.
The first book purchased on short story writing. Damon Knight’s book. Bought it through Writer’s Digest. It’s still up here on my bookshelf, to my right.
The first decision to try again. Not really a decision. Hurt and angry, I was certain I was a writer. Still trying to prove that, but I think most writers are always still trying to prove that in myriad ways.
The first pilgrimage to a writers’ conference to figure out how others do it. That was in the late 1980s, when I attended a writer’s conference in Yellow Springs, Ohio, chosen as much for what was being offered as its close proximity to home. I was in the Air Force and assigned to Germany then, so if I was going to the United States to attend a conference, I’d also visit Mom in Pittsburgh, PA.
A personal rejection from an editor or publisher, instead of the form rejections. I never met George Scithers, but he wrote me a beautiful rejection letter. I was upset because I was rejected but my wife pointed out the positives in the letter. TYVM, George Scithers.
The first critique group, and the first insights into the creative writing reading publishing editing marketing selling labyrinth. Some people like everything explained. Others want to unravel themselves. Some enjoy happy or Hollywood endings and some think life is gritty and there aren’t happy endings. After a while, I recognized, just write what I enjoy. I know that what I enjoy is far of the mark for most people, but I’ll have one happy reader.
Finally, the first sale and publication. “Marketing Wars”, Abyss and Apex Magazine. Yes, I remember.
A fan, the first! Sure, it was my nephew but he’s smarter than me and effusive in his praise.
The first glimmer that I wanted to write a novel.
The first draft of the first novel.
The first overwhelming sickness when reading the first novel and realizing I’ve written a piece of shit. Still have it, with the promise, I will edit it. Yeah.
The first realization that every almost writer experiences this.
The first jealousy of other first writers’ debut successes. Yes, I get jealous of them, of their writing, their talent, their success, their interviews, their big money. But I hunt down information on them. I learned that Andy Weir wrote and was rejected and gave up for a while before The Martian. JK Rowling went to being an overnight sensation after years of efforts. Kathryn Stockett endured five years of rejections before The Help was published.
The first time that I sucked in my breath, grit my teeth, and told myself to keep writing. I don’t recall the exact date/time/space or the events surrounding it but I do recall sitting, fists clenched, sighing with dejection and thinking, do I want to keep trying?
And the first time that I realize that I don’t want to, nor stop, writing, no matter how hard it is. No, because writing is fun, satisfying, intrinsically rewarding. Concepts, ideas, stories and characters wash in, an ocean that never stops. Many hit the beach and I wander along, picking them up, adding them to the collection. Some grab me tightly and don’t let go.
So I write.
By the way, Returnee, up there at the top, is the first novel I decided to self-publish. It’s available over on Amazon.
Michael Seidel, writer 