This essay won first prize in the Golden Nib for non-fiction and just appeared in the 2023 edition of The Golden Nib, an anthology of the work of Virginia writers.

0:00

/

0:00

Love Is Blind-ish

            Last winter, we bought a car that came with many safety features, including a blind spot monitor. Unfortunately, the monitor did not prevent someone who borrowed the car from backing into a Mercedes Benz. I’m not upset about the mishap.I have great affection for the borrower of my car which caused me to frame how I viewed the accident. I decided that the driver had been facing a Bermuda Triangle of extenuating circumstances: a drainage gulley, an impossibly narrow road, and of course, the Benz in a blind spot that our new detector did not detect. Fortunately, the Benz owner had a great attitude. She said, “Accidents happen. That’s why we have insurance.”The collision disabled many of our car’s safety features, including the blind spot monitor. Because of supply chain issues, a dearth of repair persons at the dealership, and blah blah blah, we’ve had to wait seven months for the car to be fixed.So, up until recently, whenever I started my car, a message flashed on the dashboard, “BLIND SPOT MONITOR UNAVAILABLE.” Those words sent a quiver of anxiety through my soul. My mind filled with possibilities of myriad annoying and/or lethal automotive and personal situations for which I now lacked warning.Physiologically speaking, blind spots are a fact of life for us humans. A blind spot is an area within your vision that you cannot see, an area where your view is obstructed. Our eyes possess two blind spots at the entry point of each optic nerve, places where there are no light sensitive cells. The absence of light sensitive cells means that the brain receives no messages from those two areas. We don’t notice these blind spots because our minds fill up the blank areas with information it creates apart from reality.German neuroscientist, Benedikt Ehinger, wondered if we subconsciously know that our filled-in vision is less trustworthy than real vision. He devised a study to test this question. Even when given evidence that shows the opposite, the study found that subjects trusted the information invented by their brain more than what they clearly saw in the outside world.            Ehinger observed that this information fits in with what we know about cognitive biases. He says, “When people hold strong beliefs, they are likely to ignore any evidence to the contrary.” Years ago, when my oldest two boys were toddlers, I believed I was the paragon of parental parity. I recognized that one of my boys tended to pitch a fit to get his way, whereas his brother tended to go with the flow. Regardless, I knew I loved my five-year-old and three-year-old equally. Moreover, I felt convinced that I treated them equally. But one day, my friend, Margaret, gently told me that I often placated the fit-pitching boy to the detriment of his go-with-the-flow brother.“Thank you for your observation,” was what my mouth said while my mind protested, “You’re dead wrong.”Not long after, my father filmed the two boys and me as we banged on rhythm instruments while singing two thousand verses of She’ll Be Coming Around That Dang Mountain. At one point, the fit-pitching child declared that he wanted to switch instruments with the go-with-the-flow boy. Determined to make it to the end of the song without interruption, I grabbed the instrument from my easy-going child and handed it to the demanding child. As fit-pitching boy and I bellowed the last verses of the song, my other son looked bereft, which, of course, I didn’t notice at the time. Later, when I saw the clip, I faced visual evidence of my blind spot, me responding to one child in a way that harmed the other. Soon after, we visited a family therapist who made some great suggestions for how to change the dynamic. I listened to the advice, following it closely, which resulted in a positive shift in family dynamics and the overall keeping of peace.            People say that love is blind, meaning that when we love someone platonically or when we are in love with someone romantically, our love may blind us to certain realities, hence another blind spot to worry about. That characteristic of human love can come in handy when forgiving someone for banging up your new car, but it can have a damaging result when navigating youthful romance.            While in college, I’d met my first serious boyfriend on a camping trip with a large group of people who were training to be volunteers at a counseling center. We discovered our many multiple common interests (art, music, hiking) and clicked immediately. That first night, in the moonlight, beneath a stand of fragrant pine trees, we talked about our childhoods, our families, our hopes for the future. I had found a kindred spirit.The next few months, we’d eat supper together on weekends, mostly just warming up tomato soup with shrimp bits on my illegal two-burner hot plate. Once, we snuck into the dining hall kitchen after hours and baked brownies. Distracted by the effort it took to be stealthy, we forgot to include eggs, so the result looked like molten lava. On winter break, we hitchhiked to Vermont, planning to ride the rails north into Canada, which, thank God, turned out to be too cold to attempt. I even brought the boy home to meet my Italian American family. I should have taken it as a sign when my grandmother whispered to me in broken English, “He too tall. Should cut off at knees.”That spring, trouble arrived in Paradise. The guy lived in a coed dorm clear across campus. One of my friends said, “He is cheating on you with a girl in his dorm.”Of course, I responded, “Ha ha. Not possible. We are soulmates.”A little while later another friend said, “Your boyfriend is hooking up with that girl from Long Island. You’ve met her at his dorm.”The girl with the heavy make-up, painted nails and a thick Long Island accent? No way.However, where there is a will, there is a way. Apparently, the Long Island Lass had been lurking in the wings for weeks, perhaps months. I should have known. I’ll spare you the details, but the boyfriend’s behavior had left me plenty of hints. However, “there’s none so blind as those who will not see.” My infatuation had obscured what should have been obvious. Eventually, my kindred spirit and I parted ways.            Novelist Junot Diaz’s thoughts seem to resonate with my experiences and Ehinger’s research. He says, “We all have a blind spot and it is shaped exactly like us.” The nature of a blind spot is self-deception and lack of self-awareness. It is the filling in of a space with what we imagine and hope what might be there, instead of what is.Are we doomed? Maybe not.            Back to the car. Prior to owning a car with a faulty blind spot detector, I compensated for blind spots by adjusting my mirrors before turning on the ignition, by looking into the mirrors before making any motoring decisions and by asking a passenger for help if my view is obstructed.            Did this method achieve perfect results? Nope. While trying to learn how to drive, I tended to look in my rearview mirror so much that my instructor decided to flip up the mirror as we rode around.  And, later, after I got my license, I did manage to rip off my side mirror while backing out of a narrow garage. To be completely honest, the garage wasn’t all that narrow, I just hadn’t mastered backing up.Although I’m not great with real life mirrors, when I remember to do so, making use of metaphorical mirrors has been helpful:  routine self-evaluation, surrounding myself with wise, observant friends who care enough to give kind feedback, and being open to explore new ideas and opinions, even when they challenge what I firmly want to believe.            One last thought, some blind spots, the ones due to blinding love may belong in their own category. Blinding love is that inexplicably fierce love that empowers a person to make great sacrifices for a relative, friend or even a stranger. For example, think about the blinding, prodigious love people often feel toward their newborns, who arrive after nine months or so of a pregnancy that usually includes challenges and then labor, which almost always is painful.  Babies pee and poop prodigiously and with great regularity. In the early weeks, they may scream through the night causing parents to abandon all hope of ever sleeping again. Despite that, most of those sleep-deprived parents would leap in front of a tractor trailer truck to save their peeing, pooping, screaming offspring.Of course, there is the heroic blind love that ordinary folks extend to those around them in times of great peril, like the man who threw himself over his dance partner when the shooting began in Half Moon Bay or the young teacher in Virginia who, although grievously wounded, led her children to safety in another classroom before collapsing.            Yes, we need to beware of some blind spots, especially those that cause us to overlook danger. A solution? Consult your mirrors, both literal and metaphorical. Yet other blind spots, those blinding love blind spots just need to be appreciated and embraced.### (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

Our House in the Cornfield

0:00

/

0:00

Life on Aspinook

(First published in The Blue Nib Journal.  Re-printed with permission.)            For four years, I lived in a little white Cape Cod perched atop a bluff above Johnson’s Cove on Aspinook Pond, a small body of water that spilled out of the Quinnebaug River.  You can locate the exact site on any good map of Connecticut.  I had joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America), a branch of the Peace Corps. I’d rented the house with John and Sheila, two other VISTA volunteers.  I worked with troubled teens, wards of the state who had been committed to a psychiatric hospital.  Most of my 17-year-old patients had behavioral not mental health problems and were warehoused at the facility as they waited to turn 18, at which time the state would deposit them on the curb. My job was to “de-institutionalize” them before that sad day. Despite my optimism, passion and hard work, no one became de-institutionalized and no one was adequately prepared for emancipation day. John and Sheila worked at a legal aid office as an attorney and paralegal, respectively, advocating for clients with benefit and housing issues. All three of us staggered home at the end of the day, exhausted from our emotionally draining jobs.The Arpins, a French-Canadian family, had owned the fruit and vegetable farm before we moved there. To get to the property, you’d have to drive through Jewett City, head down route 12 for a while, then turn onto a steep gravel road.  On either side of the narrow lane stood a ten-acre cornfield. A careless farmer rented the field. Possibly, he was drunk as he sowed the seed. Raggedy stalks leaned against each other in chaotic rows. He rarely remembered to gather his harvest. The only time the fields looked impressive was the end of the summer when the dense green wall of stalks and tassels obscured the random rows. In August, we’d pick the ears and shuck them as we ran toward the house. Then, we’d plunge the corn into boiling water for exactly six minutes. My mouth still waters at the thought of their sweet deliciousness.A quarter mile down the road sat the house, dwarfed by the huge oak and maple trees growing alongside it. In the spring, the grassy field and the steep hillside behind were awash in color: first the crocuses, then narcissus and daffodils.  Later, several rows of peonies bloomed. Too bad we never remembered soon enough that peonies needed to be supported. The first stiff breeze toppled them, scattering blossoms, a crazy quilt of color.            If you walked south from the house along the ridge above the water, you’d come across a tangle of raspberry canes. Each fall, we’d tried to prune the dead cane, but never got far, our interest waning as the thorny branches shredded our wrists and hands.            Beyond the raspberries stood huge blueberry bushes, at least fifty plants, all taller than I.  Birds stole most of the raspberries, but the blueberry bushes stayed loaded with fat berries.  We made pies, jellies, jams, cobbler, poured them on our Cheerios, once threw them in salad (yuck). When I was unemployed after my VISTA stint, I sold them from a folding table set up alongside Route 12.            Adjacent to the blueberry patch, we grew a vegetable garden. After we tilled a large rectangular area, we planted tomatoes, peppers, carrots, lettuce, green onions, beets, radishes, and marigolds. Hoping to keep insects away, we sprayed the plants with a castile soap/hot pepper mixture.  The bugs did not depart, but the pepper spray burned our eyes and made our fingers red. To keep the furry pests out, we fenced off the area with posts and chicken wire.            Chicken wire did not block entry to the local groundhog, nor to a family of star-faced moles.  We never figured out how to combat the moles.We wanted that groundhog dead, but we were squeamish about doing it ourselves. So, we asked for help from our friend, Michael, who was preparing for the LSAT’s at the time.  One day, Michael sat in the hot sun, a law review book in hand, with a .22 rifle across his lap, and waited for the groundhog to appear. From the house, late in the afternoon, we heard one shot, then another. Michael came into the kitchen and reported his success. Still squeamish, we did not walk out to corroborate.            Heading further south along the ridge above the cove, a well-worn path led to a tiny cemetery.  Several gravestones lay broken at the edge of the field.  All were illegible, except for one.  You could barely make out the words, “Capt. Ambrose Pierce, 1779...” I made many visits to Captain Amby. I’d lie in the grass by his lichen-covered stone. I’d tell him my various woes, mostly concerning the terrible situations of my patients at the mental hospital. On the backside of the cemetery, a huge chunk of land had eroded way, making a U-shaped indentation in the hillside.  Judging from the pattern of the headstones, we assumed some had wound up in the water below.  John and I once paddled a canoe to the area then poked long sticks into the muddy water, looking for broken markers.We found no gravestones but noticed a large wooden chest floating below the cliff.  We dreamed of the treasures that might be contained within. The ancient Egyptians would have envied our technique for dragging that chest up the steep incline.  First, we tied a thick rope around the handle.  Then, as well as we could from the canoe, we eased the chest onto the narrow strip of shore.  John disembarked and clambered straight up the hill with the thick rope tied around his waist.I paddled back to Johnson’s Cove, climbed the path, and ran across the field to the cemetery where John had set up a mini-pulley system.  I don’t remember the details of how we got it up the hill, but I do know we had sore backs that night.Once home, we forced open the clasp, hoping to find gold coins or at least a few soggy dollar bills.  Instead, we discovered, saddle soap, bridles, saddle oil, rags, and other small metal items we couldn’t identify—horse toenail clippers?  Do horses have toenails? Both of us being from a small city, New Britain, John and I had no idea.We found a name and address glued on a card inside the case.  When we called, a gruff man said that the previous Saturday night,  his pick-up truck had gone off the bridge over the Quinnebaug.  Heavy drinking might have been involved. He didn’t provide any details except that he managed to swim ashore.  His truck had been pulled out, minus the tack box.  Grumpy came by the next day. We were broke and hoped for a small reward.  He didn’t offer us one, so we kept the saddle soap. I’m not proud of that.One year, that same careless corn farmer planted a field of tall reed-like grass.  Once again, the man never did anything with it.  Sheila was a weaver.  Our attic was filled with her enormous loom, rows and rows of threads at one end, a beautiful, patterned cloth at the other.  She had been reading about Native American basket weaving. So, late November, she and I built a simple loom, constructed out of branches and twine. After about two days’ labor, we had woven a reed mat, about six by eight feet in size. I have it in my garage to this day.Between two large trees near the house, we’d strung a wide hammock made of rope.  In theory, it was a shady place to spend a blistering summer afternoon.  Many of our friends enjoyed resting there.  I could never get the hang of getting in and out without tipping onto the grass.Near the hammock, we kept a weather-worn picnic table with a splintery bench on either side.  Summers, we hosted huge gatherings, picnics for everyone we knew, their children, their parents, their pets.  We’d set up volleyball, croquet (minus one wooden stake and with bent clothes hangers for hoops) and rent canoes to paddle on the pond.  One time, a couple boys who were playing with lit marshmallow-making sticks, set the cornfields on field.  A guest ran into our house, pulled the cover off my bed, and tried to smother the fire.  The oversized yellow and white woven cotton blanket had been my grandmother’s.  The man only succeeded in fanning and spreading the fire as the blanket billowed up and down.  Ultimately, the Jewett City fire department came out, doused the blaze then gave us an incoherent fire safety lecture.  My blanket sustained many burn holes.  Despite many washings, the smell never left it.You could enter our home only through the back door and had to cross a long wooden walk elevated above the ground. The walk ran along steep hillside directly over the cove. All in all, it felt as if you were entering a treehouse. A front door existed but it was jammed shut. Our landlord  refused to fix the door and we lacked the both the initiative and skills to do so. The only time this mattered was a day when I was home sick from work. Dressed in my pajamas, I walked into the kitchen to see a burglar carrying our stuff up the steps from the cellar. He’d already piled many of our belongings outside on the wooden walkway—a pathetic collection of old record players and speakers. We owned little of value. My first impulse was to run, but the scraggly young man happened to be blocking my only means of egress. I briefly considered trying to push him down the stairs but wasn’t positive I possessed the heft to manage that. Instead, bizarrely, I said, “You must be from the quarry next store. You must need to use my phone. Go ahead.” Equally bizarrely, he pretended to use my phone, then quickly left. I called the police who were not interested enough to come out since he hadn’t taken anything.From the wooden walkway, we had a gorgeous view of the pond and open sky above it.  Sunsets took my breath away.  Sometimes we’d clap while watching particularly spectacular display of color.  One night at sunset, the whole sky was filled with rows of vertical blinking red lights, from the horizon straight on up....

MOVIE REVIEW: BANK OF DAVE

0:00

/

0:00

Bank of Dave

 Bank of Dave is a true-ish story about a successful van salesman named Dave Fishwick. He’s a native of Burnley, a former mill town north of London. During the global financial crisis, Dave gave low-interest loans to his fellow townspeople, all of whom had been rejected by British banks. He donated all profits to local charities.       His efforts were so successful that Dave decided to hire a tony London law firm, asking them to help him establish a local bank, run by a commoner for the benefit of commoners. He planned to continue his practice of donating the profits to local charities. The firm accepted Dave’s case, not because they thought it was winnable, but because Dave would pay well. They sent a lawyer named Hugh to Burnley. Hugh was pessimistic about the venture and felt contemptuous toward the town’s inhabitants. Actor Joel Fry does a good job of portraying Hugh. You might recognize him as Hizdar zo Loraq from Game of Thrones.      Hugh’s pessimism regarding the task was warranted. The British Financial Regulation Board (FRB) had not approved a new bank in 150 years. Worse yet, the board was a closed club of elitists who made all the banking rules.  Hugh Bonneville, (Lord Grantham in Downtown Abby), plays Sir Charles, an influential member of the FRB. When he heard about the Bank of Dave, Sir Charles declared: “Once ordinary people start thinking they can get in on the act, the floodgates will open…. The Financial Regulation Board exists to ensure that the people’s money is entrusted to the right sort of chap.” In his view, “the right sort of chap” was a high class, affluent, person who has attended all the right schools, not a commoner like Dave.     After stubbing his toe, Hugh, the lawyer, went to a hospital where he met Alexandra, Dave’s niece. She was an ER doctor there. Hugh made a bad first impression by trying to jump the line ahead of other patients who were waiting for care. Alexandra put Hugh in his place which, somehow, caused him to be smitten by her. My guess is that there was no love interest in the real story of Dave and his bank. However, in the “true-ish” film, the relationship adds spark to the tale. Alexandra is played by Phoebe Dynevor ( who is Daphne in Bridgerton.)      Director Chris Foggin makes an interesting choice regarding the portrayal of the character Dave in the movie. Real Dave is talkative, outgoing, emotive, tells a joke a minute—a guy who gives highly entertaining interviews. Actor Rory Kinnear plays Dave as a pleasant, smart, measured man who is quick with a clever retort and will give a solid karaoke performance, but overall is not a showman. Real Dave is a hoot, but I’m glad Foggin decided to portray a more moderate version of Dave in the movie.     Although the topic of banking might seem dull, the tone of the film is exuberant and has plenty of funny scenes. With humor, timing is everything. Watch for the kitchen scene when Dave is standing by the table where Alexandra and Hugh bounce clever lines from one to the other. Their timing is spot on. All the actors form a wonderful ensemble, riffing off each other from scene to scene.     If you like the rock band, Def Leppard, this is the movie for you. So as not to spoil the plot, that’s all I’ll say.     Is this feel-good movie predictable? Yes, especially if you happen to see the YouTube interview of the real Dave Fishwick before watching the film. Predictable or not, I thoroughly enjoyed the story and felt thrilled when the plot points arranged themselves in a way that made me happy. This would be a good movie to watch at the end of a stressful day.

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

AMERICAN SYMPHONYMOVIE REVIEW

0:00

/

0:00

American Symphony

If you can watch American Symphony without crying at least once, then you might need to have your tear glands checked. The documentary is about musician, Jon Batiste, and his wife, Suleika, a bestselling author and Emmy Award-winning journalist. Around the same time Batiste decides to compose a symphony that reflects the diversity of music in America, he learns that his wife’s leukemia has returned.The opening scene showed Batiste sitting in a snowy field, staring into the distance. As the camera stayed focused on his face, I noticed a drop of “moisture” clinging to the tip of his nose. The mother in me wanted to hand him a Kleenex. How could the film editor not notice that drop?Further into the film, I realized that leaving the drop in the scene was intentional, a foreboding that the movie wasn’t going to shy away from gritty details of both triumph and tragedy in the couple’s life. In the trailer, Suleika says, “I feel like we’re living a life of contrasts.” Batiste responds, “I’m always in awe of Suleika, how she deals with hardship.” She says, “My first day of chemo, his eleven Emmy nominations were announced.”The movie follows Suleika’s grueling chemo treatments. Juxtaposed with those scenes, we view Batiste composing music, collaborating with musicians of all backgrounds, and ultimately performing the symphony. Often, Batiste plays his music in Suleika’s hospital to comfort her. I appreciated that those scenes were never saccharine or emotionally manipulative.I wept through the last hour of the film, touched by the wide range of gorgeous music, beautiful cinematography, heartbreaking suffering, and the challenges Batiste had to overcome to create the symphony. Viewing the live performance of the symphony before a packed house at Carnegie Hall took my breath away. This is a film worth watching.

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

DEAR SANTA

0:00

/

0:00

Dear Santa

Dear Santa:As you might remember, when I was seven, all I wanted for Christmas was a live horse and a real gun. I envisioned myself patrolling our neighborhood, on the lookout for bad guys. I didn’t intend to shoot the bad guys, only brandish my firearm, telling them, “Stop picking on the little guys. Be good or else.”And Santa, you know we did have some actual bad guys in our neighborhood, two gangs similar to the Sharks and Jets, but our gangs called themselves The Earls and The Lords. They sounded like British royalty, instead of the petty criminals which they were. I’m guessing those bad guys routinely wound up at the top of your Naughty List. To be honest, the Earls and Lords bothered adults, not us. So, the bad boys I was after were the ones on the playground who knocked us off of our bikes and gave killer wedgies.Back to the horse. You’re probably wondering where I planned to keep the animal since I lived in a brick apartment building with asphalt behind and concrete out front. Neither place offered much in the way of grazing. The horse could have nibbled on the tiny square of grass by the front stoop, but that “hardly would have filled his eye tooth” as my Italian relatives like to say.And, how about that gun? How likely were my parents to allow me to ride around pointing a gun at people? My folks came from a long line of pacifists. Moreover, they were not the kind of crazy people who would consider arming a small child. Did I let those facts stop me from requesting a gun and horse each year?Ever the optimist, I’d peer out my bedroom window on Christmas morning expecting see a horse tethered to the doorknob of my father’s little upholstery shop. Santa, you never delivered the live horse and the real gun. Instead, I’d find one of my father’s white tube socks filled with onions and small change. To be fair, other presents sat under the tree, which soon made me forget about the lack of a live horse.When I was about ten, I gave up on you. I realized there was no way you could fit down the stovepipe of our gas range. Yet, that year a medium-sized box with my name on it arrived under the tree before Christmas. Could it be a gun? Dare I hope?Turned out, my grandfather had given me a Rainbow children’s Bible, the one with Jesus on the cover, peacefully sitting on a rock, teaching a large group of children who also look quite peaceful (and a little Swedish--fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes). So, my gift was a Bible, not the gun for which I’d pined. Even at that tender age, the irony was not lost on me.As disappointed as I was to receive the Bible, I’ll concede that the “Love your enemies” style of relating to people advocated in the book of Matthew is a better way to deal with folks than my “Hands up! Behave or else!” method of crowd control.However, the cover on that Rainbow Bible still gives me pause. Why would all those pale Swedish kids be sitting around Jesus right in the middle of the burning hot desert? They’re not wearing hats and likely did not apply sunscreen. It just doesn’t make sense.Regardless, at a time where there’s not much of either, here’s to peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Happy holidays, Santa!Lots of love and I really mean it.Debby

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

UNSTICKING A STUCK STORY

0:00

/

0:00

Unsticking a Stuck Story

An idea for a great character drops into your mind. Then, you compose what you believe to be a magnificent first sentence, “Two hours before Simon’s life took a nightmarish turn for the worse, he stood in his grimy bathroom, under the dim light of a single yellow bulb, hacking away at his shaggy brown hair with his ex-wife’s dull garden shears.”            As you write the last word of that sentence, you feel triumphant.  In fact, you are so bold as to say the word, “Brilliant!” out loud.You spend the next few days, months, or maybe years finishing your first draft. Later, when you read your manuscript in its entirety, with a sinking heart, you realize your opus is more blah than brilliant.You can’t pinpoint the problem. Could it be the circuitous plot, droopy narrative tension, clunky dialogue, wonky flow, flat tone, loathsome main character, or perhaps, the limp ending?Your brain is fried. All you know is that your story is not the Great American Novel you’d envisioned. You feel stuck, sad, and too embarrassed to get input from a trusted colleague.            No worries. Give your muddled mind a break. Unstick your stuck story by using the Pixar, Indiana Jones, Jerry Seinfeld technique. With any creative endeavor, when you’re blocked, the best strategy to use is to lighten up, loosen up, and let your brain breathe. (I know that lungs are the body parts that accomplish the breathing, but I love the oxymoronic image of a brain breathing.) Watch how the Pixar folks handle story telling. Check out a clip from Indiana Jones that portrays how to gain empathy for a character. Listen to Jerry Seinfeld’s thoughts on structure and timing. For an added boost, read the book I suggest. This process will cheer you, clear your brain and re-orient perspective on your work. Best of all, watching the clips and reading the book entails little effort and no risk.  As simplistic as this seems, the process opens my eyes to problem areas in my manuscript. The links are all in this blog post:**This PIXAR video describes the “spine” of a story. Watching the description of simple story elements will help think about your own story structure.**Here’s more advice from Pixar about storytelling in general. Go through the list of twenty-two suggestions. See if any apply to your manuscript.**If your issue is an unsympathetic character, use the “save the cat” method for engaging a reader/viewer. Create a scene that leads your audience to believe that even though your character is flawed, she/he is a good person who deserves their empathy. Check out examples of this approach.**If you think your problem is pacing, story structure or timing, watch Jerry Seinfeld talk about how he writes a joke. He walks the viewer through his process, touching on each of those elements of writing. Here is a clip of his helpful suggestions**Want to delve into the topic more deeply? Lisa Cron’s book Wired for Story  discusses “what the brain craves from every tale it encounters what fuels the success of any great story and what keeps a reader transfixed.”So, when your brilliant idea devolves into a blah manuscript, give your brain a sabbatical. Watch these clips, read the book, then chill as you wait for a new perspective reveal itself to you. Bottom line, I’ll bet you get unstuck.

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

MOVIE REVIEWS:LEAVE THE WORLD BEHIND AND LOVE & OTHER MONSTERS

0:00

/

0:00

Leave This World Behind

A glutton for punishment, last weekend I watched two end-of-the-world movies: Leave the World Behind and Love and Monsters. (Yes, my social life leaves a lot to be desired.)Leave the World Behind stars four wonderful actors, Julia Roberts, Mahershala Ali, Ethan Hawke, and in a supporting role, Kevin Bacon. Early one morning, Amanda (Roberts) and Clay (Hawk) leave their NYC apartment with their teenagers and head to a vacation home at a nearby beach.  Opening scenes are captivating: the city skyline, the shoreline vistas, and the spectacular rental home. However, in juxtaposition to the visual beauty, we hear eerie, atonal, background music. The relentlessly ominous score telegraphs that this family is about to experience a horrific event. Starting a movie with such intense foreboding messes with the narrative arc. When you create tension that high at the beginning of a story, it’s tough to continue to increase the intensity. The viewer tends to become numb to the sustained high intensity. This movie depicts terrifying events. We viewers should feel that terror, yet the overall tone of the film seemed muted and flat.On many occasions characters delivered their lines in an emotionless, robotic way. You can hear an example of this in the first scene when Amanda tells Clay how rough the year has been and that she went online and booked a getaway at the beach, starting that morning. Her words possess a staccato quality and sound more like a speech than a conversation. She is a skilled actor, so I’m assuming this style is an intentional choice of the director. Even Amanda’s children deliver their lines in a similar way. An exception is to this style is Kevin Bacon. He plays a bad guy survivalist with great gusto who delivers his menacing lines with manic glee. The characters experience horrific events that would have caused me to be bug-eyed and screaming, but Amanda, Clay, and G.H. Scott. (played by Ali) seem either in denial or in shock. I don’t want to include plot spoilers, but suffice it to say, while the world is literally and figuratively on fire, those three characters react more like distant observers rather than front row participants at the of the end of their life as they know it.G.H. owns the luxurious vacation home that Amanda and Clay are renting. When G.H. and his daughter, Ruth, show up in the middle of the night, Amanda and Clay do not give them a warm welcome. Amanda acts especially hostile and suspicious.At this point, the film lightly touches on racism. Forced to bunk in the basement of a house they own, Ruth tells G.H. that she is angry about the racist way Amanda and Clay are treating them. G.H. doesn’t say much.Later, after getting to know the Scotts better, Amanda states that she hates all people. Is Amanda attempting to excuse her initial racist behavior and remarks by saying she hates all people equally? I wish the film explored the issue with more depth. Regardless, Julia Roberts does a great job of portraying Amanda as a thoroughly unlikeable character.Would I recommend this movie? Maybe.I wanted to care about the characters more than I did. Each one felt off putting, even the children. I wished each one would have displayed a more visceral response to what was happening. The end did not satisfy. When the credits started to roll, both my husband and I said, “Wait! What?”On the other hand, perhaps the creators of this film intended for it to be understated. Maybe that was the whole point, and I missed it. I am reminded of the line from a T.S. Eliot poem:  This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.The bottom line? I haven’t stopped thinking about the movie since I viewed it. So, maybe that makes the film worth watching.LOVE AND MONSTERSLove and Monsters is set in a post-apocalyptic world where oversized insects, reptiles, and sea creatures terrorize the few humans left alive on earth. The main character, Joel, shelters underground in cramped, dark quarters with his small colony.By all counts, Joel’s life is grim. At the onset of the global disaster, he loses track of Aimee, the love of his life. Soon after, his parents are eaten by oversized termites. To make matters worse, Joel lacks survival skills. He invariably freezes when faced with dangerous vermin, so he’s never allowed out to defend the compound Joel stays underground where he is revered as the guy who makes a terrific minestrone. One night, via short wave radio, Joel discovers that Aimee lives in a colony eighty miles away. He decides to make the trek to her, even though everyone in his community tells him that he has no chance of surviving the trip.  Besotted with love, he leaves anyway. On his quest, he’s joined by a stray dog and later by an unlikely pair of guides who give him some survival pointers, but most importantly, a grenade, which comes in handy. After battling gargantuan land and aquatic creatures, Joel reaches his destination but doesn’t find what he expected. What does he find? No plot spoilers here. You’ll just have to watch the movie to see what happens.Even though this film is unapologetically absurd, I appreciated the emotional depth portrayed in the main characters. The ending is refreshing and fun, although a tiny bit predictable, if you pay attention to foreshadowing.  Joel’s self-effacing humor and the preposterous situations he encounters makes this story feel like a light romp through the ashes of civilization. This movie provided me with a warm-hearted distraction from life.***So, if you have time on your hands, as I did last weekend, which move should you watch? Maybe both. Leave the World Behind provides plenty of food for thought and Love and Monsters delivers a fun, lite dessert.

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

EVERYONE HERE IS KINBOOK REVIEW

0:00

/

0:00

Everybody Here is Kin

Using only thirty-eight words, the first sentence of Nash’s debut novel vividly describes two main characters, their behavior, beliefs, and financial status. Nash writes, “Naomi and I slogged through sand so hot it scalded our tender feet, lugging two rusted lounge chairs and a bag between us—her Coppertone tanning oil, my SPF 35; her Thermos of Pinot Grigio, my lemon water.”            Throughout the book, Nash writes with great economy, making every word count. By page three, we know Lucille is passionate about climate change and the environment. She cares deeply about the injustices of racism. She’s about to turn fourteen and was supposed to celebrate by going to Key West with her mother and young siblings. Lucille is eager to see the place before, in her words, “it becomes Atlantis.”            Lucille’s mother, Naomi, depends on her daughter to care for the two younger siblings. Naomi reneges on the Key West promise. Instead, the woman takes a detour to Boneyard Island, Georgia, where she plans to re-connect with a former high school flame, Tom. He is divorced and works as a developer. The detour angers and disappoints Lucille. She wonders if Tom is the kind of developer who “tears up paradise.”            While waiting for Tom to show up on the beach. Naomi pops a Xanax and then chases it with wine. Soon after they meet, Naomi and Tom take off on a trip to another island. They leave Lucille at the Palmetto Tourist Court to care for her younger brother and sister. A young veteran named Will manages the motel in exchange for housing. Broke, broken, and paralyzed by depression, Will earns a meager income by creating sculptures out of found wood. When he realizes Lucille and the children are on their own, he overcomes his hesitation to become involved and starts to include them in his rocky life.            Nash tells this story by alternating between Lucille in the first person and Will in the third person. This choice adds zip and sparkle to the prose. We readers dip into the bright, curious, remarkable mind of a complex and earnest teenager. We hear her dazzling thoughts and empathize her as she experiences a confusing and unsafe world. Nash’s use of third person from Will’s perspective provides a good counterpoint to Lucille. Will’s sections round out and expand the book. Will deals with the aftereffects of his combat experience, his self-doubt, how to eke out a living, how to care for Lucille and her siblings, and a complicated romance.            Nash’s gorgeous descriptions of Boneyard Island made me feel as if I could smell the low tide, see the Spanish moss, and sink my feet in the swampy mud. Nash creates images that are especially powerful in the last section of the book when Lucille and her elderly friend become lost in a thicket on the island during a devastating hurricane.  Here’s an example of the writing, “Rain finally seeped inside the dense canopy…. The wind grew louder and cried like a person, like many, many people, marching, snapping branches, crashing trees, the wet woods halfway muting the violent noises.”            Throughout the novel, Nash creates unique ways to portray her character’s emotion. For example, Nash conveys Lucille’s disappointment about missing her trip to Key West by having her think: “I gulped salt air. It stung my raw heart.”            The novel contains several storylines. Is it possible that Will can get back on his feet? Will Naomi get treatment for her issues? Will Lucille make ever make it to Key West and more importantly (for this reader), will she find family to embrace her?  Nash avoids wrapping up the story too tightly and at the same time, she delivers a satisfying ending.

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCASTBENEDETTA'S LENTILS

0:00

/

0:00

Benedetta's Lentils

Benedetta, my grandmother, made the best lentil soup, food that warmed body and soul on many a cold winter evening. She’d send it home with us in a Mason jar, frequently accompanied by a delicious loaf of bread. As hard as I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to replicate that bread—crusty on the outside, sweet and chewy on the inside. However, I believe I’m getting close on the lentil soup.A few years back, when Benedetta was around 103 years old and could still hear telephone conversations, I called her and asked for the lenticche recipe. This is what she told me, more or less.First you get a heavy pot. Pour just enough olive oil in it to cover the bottom. Don’t use that virgin extra virgin-virgin stuff. Use oil with a little kick, like the dark green Spanish variety. Any kind of lentils are fine, green, or brown. The tiny orange ones tend to disintegrate.Check the lentils for stones then throw one or two cups into a bowl of water. Scrub and dice a whole bunch of carrots, maybe five or six. Leave the peel on. Go ahead. It won’t kill you. Dice, don’t mince. You want some slightly crunchy texture in the soup. Don’t use those already peeled mini carrots. There’s something not right about them. Heat up the olive oil.Wash three or four stalks of celery. Keep those leaves at the top. Chop them up, leaves and all, to the same size as the carrots. Cut up a good-sized yellow onion. Place all the vegetables into the heated oil.Mince a couple of big cloves of garlic. Don’t be shy. If you want knock your socks off lentil soup, put in three cloves. If you’re visiting the dentist or spending intimate Face-To-Face time with anyone the next day, restrain yourself to two cloves. (However, if you happen to have vampire problems, go for the three cloves.) Throw in the minced garlic. Grind in some fresh pepper. Toss a few pinches of salt into the mix. Start a kettle of water about now.At this point, hit the simmering vegetables with a couple shots of hot sauce—like Texas Pete or Tabasco. Benedetta never did this, but my guess is that if she were still alive and hadn’t died at 106, she would encourage me to add the heat.Next, when the vegetables looked sufficiently simmered—yellowing but NOT browned—slide in chopped fresh tomatoes, maybe one or two medium ones. Or three. Live big.Here again, I diverge from Benedetta, pour in two glogs of white wine. A glog is that little sound you hear when you briefly tip a full wine bottle and pour a gloggy amount into a glass or pot. I know you know what I mean. Don’t be rolling your eyes.How is everything looking? Is it soup-ish yet? If so, drain those lentils then stir them into the pot of simmering vegetables. Remember, when I told you to put the kettle on a couple of paragraphs ago? Well, now is the time to pour that hot water over the lentils, to just a little more than covering. You can add a little water as you go. For more flavor, add a big glop of Better than Bouillon, organic roasted chicken base.Back to the lentils. Let them simmer for a while, making sure there is always enough liquid to cover them. Honestly, I don’t know how long they should cook. Maybe twenty minutes?  Keep testing.Now, some people are Lentil Geniuses. They can predict the right amount of rice or pasta and throw it into the pot at exactly the right time in this cooking process. Benedetta was a Lentil Genius, but she did not pass on those genes to me, but I am getting better at guessing.When you think the soup is about a half hour from ready, add rice or pasta. My preference is pasta, specifically a type called acini de pepe. I throw in a cup of pasta when I’m preparing two cups of lentils. Make sure that you add enough liquid to keep your soup plenty soupy. Do not overcook the pasta. If you do, you will be sad because your soup will turn into lentil cement.Now it’s time to spoon up a lovely bowl for yourself.  Grate some Asiago cheese on the steaming soup. Spread butter over warm bread and begin your feast.  Oh, and don’t forget a glass of wine. Or, in my case, Orangina in a wine glass which makes me feel very grown up.Buon Appetito!

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST

SAFETY, ITALIAN STYLE

0:00

/

0:00

Safety, Italian Style

            When I was eighteen, my cousin Giovanni visited us from Italy.  I sat in the passenger seat of Giovanni’s rental car as he sped through a red light at a busy intersection.  I shrieked, “Stop.  Stop.  You’ve got to stop!”            Giovanni smiled and said,  “In Italy, red light is optional.”            Giovanni wasn’t kidding.  When my husband and I visited Tuscany, we discovered that some Italians considered all rules of the road optional.             Our most hair-raising traffic event occurred on a curvy mountain road descending from a small village.   When I say “mountain road,” I mean a paved goat path so narrow that it could not comfortably accommodate two fat goats.            Barely navigating the tight turns, our Italian driver careened down the mountainside.  At one point, a truck was coming toward us, a suicidal bicyclist pedaled on the right, while an insane motorist attempted to pass on the left.            Did any of those people slow down?  No.  Not even our fearless Italian driver, who muttered something unmentionable, then hit the gas!On the other hand, we discovered that Italians seemed deeply concerned about bathroom safety. In most hotels, we noticed emergency pull chains hanging in the showers. I didn’t find this safety feature comforting.  Without glasses, my vision is fuzzy at best. I lived in fear of touching the wrong fixture and winding up with a room full of chambermaids and porters eager to assist me with my theoretical shower emergency.  During our trip, we stopped by Giovanni’s place. He brought us to Montenero, a stone chapel overlooking the harbor at Livorno.  The sanctuary contained hundreds of pieces of folk-art depicting over two centuries of near-death experiences.  Painted, sketched, etched, photographed, these images showed lightning strikes, kitchen fires, hangings, plane crashes, drownings, derailed trains, car accidents and swordfights.  In each case, the victims lived to tell the tale then later created a picture to express gratitude. Every depiction included an image of Mary or an angel hovering nearby.  Those heavenly creatures appeared beatific and not exhausted, which is amazing considering how hard they’ve had to work to keep their charges safe.My husband says I have no right to be snarky about Italians and safety. In fact, he claims that I am an unsafe Italian American, citing our pickpocket incident as a case in point.  At the Pisa train station, three thieves surrounded and robbed us as we were about to board. Incensed, I chased two of them through the cars of the train. Finally, I cornered the robbers in the last car and demanded they return our belongings. As I stood toe to toe with the thieves, the other passengers warned me to step away, unless I wanted a knife in my back.  All at once, it dawned on me that I lacked both muscle and firepower and therefore wasn’t prepared for a showdown at the OK Corral. Just before things could have gotten ugly, the train reached the next stop.  The crooks hopped off, leaving me cashless, but still in possession of two intact kidneys.Ever since our trip, I’ve considered drawing the pickpocket incident and sending it to the chapel at Montenero.  Of course, I’d depict myself taller and I’d work hard to create a terrified expression on the bad guys as we faced off on the train. And, I guess I’d have to include an angel in the background with a what the heck are you doing? expression on her face. Then again, if she were an Italian angel, she just might be thinking, “Business as usual."(Names changed for obvious reasons.) 

(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. 

APPLE PODCAST

SPOTIFY PODCAST