PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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My Calling In Life Involves An Eraser.

posted in: Day In The Life 0
It might be true, or interesting, or worth publishing (Anne thought so, as did her publisher) but is it funny? Oh, person. Photo: Me.
It might be true, or interesting, or worth saying – it was published by a major publisher, which gives it some weight already – but is it funny? Oh, person. What secrets do you hide? Photo: Me.

I have found my calling. From this day forward, I pledge to have an eraser with me when I visit the library so that I can erase, page by page, any pencil marks found within the books I select. I have surprised myself by how grumpy this makes me. I’m a lil’ grumpy.

Generally speaking, if you read books you’ve checked out of the library, there’s a high probability that we’ll find some common ground, even if the books we read are different. (If they’re really, really different we might have to work at it, but I’m willing if you are, WWII-submarine-engine-repair-handbook-reading guy.)

But you cannot mark up that book. People who markup library books do not realize that when you go into a library, acquire a library card, check a book out at the librarian’s desk and get a slip of paper that tells you precisely when you are to bring that book back, that book is not your property. Not permanently. It’s your property for the length of time you have it checked out, but after that, it’s someone else’s, and this is the beauty of the library. You need to bring the book back so other people can use it – other people who might not want to underline that particular passage that you just underlined, starred, and put a smiley face next to. I know! It’s really good! But you don’t have to do that to make it more good than it already is.

The only productive thing I did yesterday was to amble up to the library to get a copy of Anne Lamott’s Bird By Bird. It’s a great book for writers and I wanted to locate a couple things in it for my class this week. I opened up the only copy they have and wouldn’t you know it: pencil marks on almost every page. Underlined passages, asterisks, and an excruciating “Imp.” absolutely everywhere. The “Imp.” meant “important”, surely, though one could argue the entirety of Bird By Bird is important, seeing as how it’s still in print after several decades, so couldn’t one just consider the entire book underlined and save a little time?

Of course, the underliner might have a good friend named Imp whom she knows would love this snippet and that one and if she doesn’t underline it and put Imp’s name next to it, why, it might be lost forever. What I like to do is have my journal nearby when I read. This is so I can copy down good stuff into its pages. I recommend this because then I have all the things I want to share with my good friend Imp in one place, you see. The difference between my journal and a library book is that I own my journal. Also, no one can check out my journal and read it. That would not be good.

You know what’s really funny? In every single book I’ve ever found that has markings in it, the markings never go all the way through. They always, always stop halfway (or even part-way) through the book. I’m not sure if that means the marker lost interest in marking or lost interest in the book; I’d like to think it’s the former, but I also would like to think I can have ice cream for breakfast every day without negative consequences.

Horace Mann said, “Until you have done something useful for humanity, you should be ashamed to die.” I have my Pink Pearl eraser in my library totebag, now, and I have already used it in Bird By Bird. I’m ready, Horace.

 

5 Blogging Essentials From Pendennis.

posted in: Art, Work 0
Pendennis, at this exact moment. Photo: Me
Pendennis, at this exact moment. Photo: Me

I’ve been working on my syllabus for the blogging class I’m teaching at the University of Chicago. It starts on Monday, goes from 6-8:30pm, and runs four weeks. There are a couple spots left if you’re interested and it would be so cool to meet you. Do it!

The syllabus is just a guide for the students to know what’s up and a little map for me, structuring how I’ll go about giving away absolutely everything I know about writing a decent blog.

“Writing” is the operative term, here. Anyone with a computer and a mouse can open a blog. Making space for yourself in the blogosphere via WordPress, say, is easier than setting up your new remote control. (Far, far easier. I hate remote controls so much.) But that writing part. That’s what my class is about. Uncovering your voice. Pushing yourself. Exploring. As hard as writing is – and it is hard – that’s how rewarding it is when you get cookin.

Since not everyone who reads PaperGirl can make it to class (I’m looking at you, New Zealand) I thought I’d share some blogging essentials. We’ll noodle on these in class and go deeper via writing exercises, discussion, practice. There’s so much more – but you’ll have to come to class to learn it.

Until then, here are Pendennis’s 5 Blogging Essentials. He’s the secret to my success, you see.

1. It is all about content.
Forget widgets, plugins, fancy web designers, social media, ads, and the rest. All that can come later. If you don’t have great content, you will have nothing to give. Content, content, content.

2. Your blog has to serve people. 
It has to help in some way. Your blog can help people by offering shrewd editorial, gorgeous photography, easy-but-yummy recipes, scuba-diving news – anything. But it can’t be about you. My aim for PaperGirl is to offer you one tiny spot on the internet that feels real. Life is funny, and sad, breathtakingly hard and unspeakably beautiful. I give you what I see because I want to see it with you. If all I wrote were complaints, if all I did was promote myself, if all I “gave” you was secretly – or not so secretly – all about me, I’d be giving nothing at all. (I have a diary for all the “me” stuff. A blog is not a diary.)

3. Show up. Do the work.
Tired? Feelin’ blue? Post anyway. I’ve been blogging for eight years. Eight! Gah!

4. Traffic doesn’t matter. Readers matter.
…which is why No. 1 is No. 1. Do you want a zillion clicks – or a few thousand readers who can’t wait to see you’ve posted something? Google Analytics tells you something called your “bounce rate.” That’s what percentage of people click on your site and then click right on out. I’ma brag for two seconds to make a point: my bounce rate is 8%. That’s…not normal. I hope it’s because people come over and take off their coat and stay awhile. I’m hoping it’s because I’m following No. 1, though Pendennis is pretty cute.

5.  Never, ever write a post about how you have nothing to write about. Ever!
No one, not even your mom, wants to read that post. And neither do you! Go take a walk, look around at stuff, think about stuff, then come back and try again.

You can do it. See you on Monday.

 

Girl On Film: Scorcese’s “The Color of Money”.

posted in: Art 0
It all starts -- and ends -- here. Photo: Wikipedia.
It all starts — and ends — here. Photo: Wikipedia.

I’m not a film critic. I’ve probably only seen a couple hundred movies in my life, and that’s a whole lot fewer than most, I suspect. So what I have to say about it might be of zero consequence, but I gotta talk about The Color of Money. 

An article I read the other day referenced Scorcese’s 1986 film and I thought to myself, “Oh, yeah… The Color of Money. I should watch that.” Today has me feeling really puny, so my evening was me, tea, and a $2.99 YouTube rental of the classic pool shark vs. pool shark tale based on the novel by Walter Tevis. (I could get used to this, too; getting into bed and watching a streaming movie on a laptop balanced on one’s chest is one of the greatest things about being alive in 2016.)

It’s just a damn good movie. I’d pay a lot of money to watch Paul Newman and Tom Cruise just sit in chairs and make facial expressions, but in The Color of Money they do so much more. If you could bottle the swagger between them it would be do more damage than nuclear fission. Newman plays Fast Eddie, a first-rate but aged pool hall hustler. Eddie discovers Vince (Cruise), and takes him under his dark hustler wing. They go play in the fields of billiards and no one in their wake is safe.

Eddie teaches Vince his tricks. But then Vince plays Eddie. But then Eddie plays Vince right back. Turnabout, turnabout again. Newman — who, it cannot be denied, bears an eerie resemblance to my ex-father-in-law it almost ruined it for me — is so manipulative, so “Daddy knows best,” so “Let them hate so long as they fear” about everything you just hate him. But you find yourself desperate for his approval, just like Vince. And Paul Newman is my favorite male movie star of all time. I don’t think you can beat Newman for sex appeal, talent, and charisma. But Tom Cruise… I hardly have words. He was 24 when he made that movie. Twenty-four. He is boyish sex incarnate. He’s pure hormones. Phermones. It’s hot in here, I can’t think straight. Jesus, take the wheel!

But then there’s the girl. Yeah, the girl. An achingly young and pretty — but fierce — Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio is Vince’s girlfriend and I realized that she is a Disney princess in human form in that movie. Watch it; you’ll see that I am right. Her character is great: layered, conflicted. One wonders if the film had a sequel, we’d learn Carmen was the one playing the boths of ’em.

Perhaps the single most compelling reason to watch this movie asap is this: those boys are actually playing killer pool. Newman and Cruise can play the game for real. I said “Waaaat??” several times over the course of the movie; you can’t believe you’re seeing what you’re seeing. Tom actually sinks an eight-ball while he’s looking in the other direction, being adorable. There are dozens of sequences that are filmed in one take and you see shot after successful shot pulled off by these impossibly beautiful men who are supposed to be acting. Fabulous.

It’s funny and depressing to note that when this movie would play on cable when I was in high school, I distinctly remember thinking, “In no universe will I ever be interested in a movie about pool. Ugh!”

That was a long time ago, Eddie.

 

 

 

Julia, Part Three.

posted in: Day In The Life 0
This is a fractal, categorized as a "Julia set." I don't know what it means, but it's gorgeous. Image: Wikipedia.
This is a “Julia set” fractal. I don’t know what that means, but it’s named Julia and it’s gorgeous. Image: Wikipedia.

This is the third part of the blog triptych about the birth of Julia. If you’ve just joined us, it started here (lions) and then went here (goo.) And now, like the tiny superstar herself, we’re here.

When she came out for real-for real, I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had a face. A face! Not a squinchy sorta-face, but a face-face with a nose and lips. She had a bluish cast and was balled up tight, but there wasn’t a sac around her or so much blood I couldn’t discern anything; I could discern everything, and it shocked me. (I can see every person who grew up on a dairy farm shaking their heads in wonder, doubting, even, that I took high school biology.) That she was so ready to go, so on her way to learning to read and write was revelatory.

Once she was totally free and could be given to Heather for those first, all-important, long moments with Mom, Julia was whisked to the salamander. I tiptoed over after Sam had had time over there and I took a look. Oh, my, I thought. That’s a really new person. 

When I put the back of my index finger against her head for the smallest, gentlest stroke, I marveled at how soft she was: soft hair, soft skin, soft head. (I didn’t poke at her to find out that last part, by the way; I just happen to know that babies’ heads are soft when they first come out. They have to be to get out of, you know.) Julia weighed in at seven pounds, eight ounces. She has all her fingers and toes. She didn’t cry a lot but I can confirm she has a good set of pipes. The baby has lots of hair, too; it looked dark at first but as it dried we could see that she has gorgeous, natural highlights…in red. Total heartbreaker.

After Heather was all stitched up and she and Sam were enjoying that internal endorphin cocktail that nature orders up in such situations, I took my leave. If I was concerned about being in the way before or during the birth, I was on high alert afterward; I seemed to remember something about bonding pheromones and attachment-forming neuron pathways being forged in the first moments of life and I wasn’t going to get in the way of any of those, that’s for sure. I hugged and kissed Sam and Heather and gave Baby Julia another touch on the head and slipped out.

When I went out the doors of the hospital, I was thrust, Julia-like, into the bright, bright world outside. I walked south on Michigan Avenue toward home. What I haven’t mentioned is that I was terrifically hungover that morning. All my pain went away when the call came from Sam and over the hours I had been with them I hadn’t felt a thing. But now, with the sun out and the summer crowds crowding the sidewalk, I remembered how badly I needed water and sleep. Julia is now four days old and she needs milk and sleep. We have a lot in common, baby.

 

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