Joan Bauer's Journal

The Shower Curtain

Philadelphia. Spring, 2007. I stood in the bath center of a large department store -- I don't remember which one. I'd been given an important shopping task. My mission was to buy a shower curtain and towels for my father-in-law's new bathroom. This might not sound like a big deal, but you have to understand, my father-in-law, E. Steven Bauer, was a very big deal. He was a retired pharmaceutical executive, a pharmacist, a man who led the team that brought the first local production of antibiotics to India and Pakistan in the early 1950's. He built the factories, rode in a a Jeep wearing a pith helmet, and oversaw the inoculation of thousands of people, thereby saving countless lives. He could converse in seven languages and was a gourmet chef -- witty, urbane, intelligent, and charming. And I am telling you, none of the shower curtains I was looking at was suitable. Not one.

I went to another large department store that looked exactly like the department store I had just been in. I marched to their bath section, picturing Steven flying around the globe, making a difference. I looked at their shower curtains, nixed the Tweety and Sylvester, pushed past the one covered by large yellow fish, stood stunned before the one with "Peek-a-boo" written across it. I looked for someone to help me, but large department stores never have actual people working in them.  Tweed, I thought. Steven loves tweed.  here were no tweed shower curtains. You'd think tweed would have occurred, at the very least, to Ralph Lauren.  

Blue, I thought. He likes blue. There was baby blue, metallic blue, sky blue, no Steven blue. I went to another store, finally found a employee, and blurted, "I need a very significant shower curtain." I found it -- non-fussy with vertical brown, blue, and cream stripes. I picked out brown towels -- lush, though purposeful. Steven nodded when he saw what I'd chosen. I put them in his bathroom. "Very nice," he said, and that was that.  

I was remembering this last week as I sat in his bathroom, crying. Steven passed away on Saturday, November 14th, after a wretched parade of injuries and illnesses took their final toll. I knew him for twenty-eight years. He never made small talk; he was ethical to his core; he possessed deep wells of courage; and he loved my apple pie. This Thanksgiving, as our family gathers in Philadelphia, the joy of knowing him and the pain of losing him will be deep.  Dear God, how he will be missed.

Yawn If You Love Dogs

My dog Max is terrified of garbage trucks. No matter what I do -- talk soothingly, give him his favorite treats, put him in another room of the house -- he acts as though the Evil Death Star has come to suck him into its atmosphere.  

I got a book about calming dogs' fears, and one of the things it mentions is yawning. Seriously. Dogs yawn sometimes when they are trying to calm themselves, so the books suggests that we humans yawn when our dogs are nervous. This is supposed to show the dog there's nothing to worry about.   

I've tried doing this when the garbage truck comes on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I walk casually into the room yawning, trying to be subtle. "I don't know why I'm so tired, but it sure feels good to yawn. Why don't you try it, Max?" But he looks at me and bolts from the room. I follow him yawning, and since it's early in the morning, yawning comes naturally to me. However, have you noticed that the more yawning you do, the more tired you become? So by 7AM, I'm ready to go back to bed while Max is shaking at the top of the stairs, hoping the garbage truck can't find him. I sit on the stairs with Max and move into deep yawning, stretching out my legs and my arms. He looks at me like I'm crazy.  

The garbage truck is backing up now, brakes screeching, and Max tears downstairs to sit in the shower stall. Yes, that's what I said. I go to the window and watch the garbage guys hurl my trash can half way down the street, then they roar off to terrorize more dogs in Brooklyn. So I go to work on my novel and I hit this confusing part in the story. I'm not sure what my character should do. I sit there, yawning a little, stretching, and then it becomes clear what my character needs -- a dog.    

Dancing with Words

When I was in school, I wrote all the time -- short stories, essays, poetry, songs, greeting cards. I had a few poems published in my high school literary journal. I was on fire with the love of writing. Over the years, sometimes that fire has gone out. It's usually when I'm too busy or too stressed to remember that I love what I do. Deadline pressure can kill the flame, wanting more to happen than is realistic always drops me in a sinkhole. But here's what I've learned.

    To be a writer of any age, you have to love words.

    So play with them, toss them around and see what they can do.

    Be a crazy kind of reader, too, the kind who gets so excited about a certain sentence that you just have to read it out loud to someone.

    Think about stories -- why they work and why they don't.

    Take risks with your writing.

    Know your characters until they seem real -- actually, they have to be real (almost) because there's a point in the process where they will begin talking to you. This does not mean you need medication. It means you need to listen, and eventually, you'll learn to talk back.

    Develop your style and your voice. An artist paints with a brush, you paint with words.

    Don't be discouraged by criticism for too long.

    Editing is the key to the writing process. Listen to it. Be challenged by it.

    Revision is your friend.

    Keep practicing -- it's like playing scales on the piano, like batting balls over the net in tennis, like rehearsing lines for a play -- the better you get at writing, the more fun it is.

So many things can put out the flame. A big one for new writers is focusing too much on getting published. I had someone write me and announce, If I don't get published I'm going to throw up! It feels like that sometimes, I know. Being published is great, but don't make it an all-consuming goal. You'll lose the joy of dancing with words. Keep dancing!

**Adapted from Joan Bauer, TEEN READS: Student Companions to Young Adult Literature by the great and glorious Alleen Pace Nilsen, Greenwood Press.

    

Then and Now

I imagine in my mind a play that asks two questions: The first, Where were you on September 11, 2001? And from every part of the theater, people young and old answer. I was in school. I was just getting out of the shower. I was landing at O'Hare. I was going to work. I was so little I don't remember. I was buying coffee and a croissant. I was getting my teeth cleaned. I was there at the World Trade Center. And then comes the second question: Where are you now as the 8th anniversary draws close?

Where am I anyway? I'm in Brooklyn, so I'm around the World Trade Center site a lot -- my tailor is there, a great Cuban restaurant is there, Century 21 is across the street. It feels normal, but not really. Every time I get close to Church St. the heaviness rushes back at me. When I was two my grandfather died and I announced, "The house is sad." That's how I feel on Church St. -- this lingering, palpable sadness.

I don't think about the event every hour the way I did eight years ago. I'm not scared to take the subway anymore, not afraid to fly, I don't pause and look at candles on doorsteps because there aren't any. I don't need to see large armed men with dogs at the airport to feel safe.

My husband knew twelve people who died in the attacks and he could have been one of them. Evan had been invited to the breakfast at Windows on the World; he didn't go because we were moving. I remember trying to unpack. I was colossally scared. I couldn't focus, couldn't' process. I wrote what I called "my sheet of clarity". It had things I needed to do each day, it had things I knew, but needed to remember, like, My husband loves me. My daughter loves me. God hasn't gone away. My blood type is B. It didn't take long for me to lose the sheet. I searched for it everywhere, upended pillows, dug through boxes. I was so upset. "I've lost my sheet of clarity!" I wailed to my daughter. Back then, clarity was holding onto something, writing it down so I wouldn't forget. Back then, laughter seemed inappropriate against the backdrop of so much pain. 

That's where I was, but I'm not there now. Still, where I was has marked me like a fossilized leaf imprinted on rock. 

This year I won't watch the 24/7 news shows. I won't watch the images of the towers falling. I will light a candle. I will have more sugar than I should. I will pray, and probably for a few moments, I will cry. I will remind myself that I have it easy and so many still ache for loved ones lost. I will contemplate the day when so much of me and the world changed, and remember how far we've come. 

Peace.

Please visit my Teaching 9-11 web page:  http://joanbauer.com/teaching-9-11.html

Here's a photo of me and Sonny. I visited his school on 9/11/2008 as part of the day of service.

 

The Wonder of Small Things

I remember a walk I took when my family and I lived in Connecticut. I had a great deal on my mind that day and I was trying to think through what seemed like a hundred things on that walk, and being a multi-tasker, I was also determined to do this while achieving a full aerobic workout. I was pumping my arms back and forth and picking up speed as I walked. I was not looking around, or down, or thinking about the weather when I heard: "Look up."  I don't like stopping when I've hit the A zone of exercise.

"What?" I said, and saw an old woman standing there looking at me and smiling. 

She pointed to the sky. "Look up."

She didn't give me much choice. I looked up and my face broke into a grin. The sky was true blue, the clouds were clustered in wondrous patterns, a flock of geese flew in a V formation. I felt ten pounds of tension lift. I looked back at the old woman who smiled at me, then she waved and began to walk away slowly.

That's all it was. Such a simple thing, and with it she changed my perspective on that day.

I've seen other people do this and I always remember:  The woman on a New York subway who, for one blessed moment, blew bubbles into the car before she got off. A man who carried a can of oil and stopped to fix every creaking gate and latch he came to. My neighbor who sweeps leaves off my sidewalk.  

Small things, wonderful things that make a colossal difference.

Cracked Pots

My daughter Jean called the other day and said, "Mom, I have a metaphor for you." Instantly, my writer's heart was stirred because Jean doesn't mess around when it comes to a metaphor. She and her husband had just been to an exhibition of Japanese ceramics in D.C. where she learned of the "golden seams," a special method created by Japanese craftsmen to mend cracked ceramics. Instead of trying to match the color of the pot to make the crack less visible, they decided to flaunt the flaw by repairing it with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The result is wonderful, as the golden repaired cracks make the piece seem more unique and valuable.

I began to think of the places in my life where I felt cracked and broken; places I just wanted filled in so no one could see there had been an injury. And yet, what I've learned from dealing with those cracks, injuries, disappointments, setbacks, and times of grief and discouragement is far more than I've ever learned from any time of ease.

I guess without my knowing it, they'd been sealed tighter and stronger with a bit of gold. And gold doesn't just show up, it has to be discovered, then mined, then melted by a torch in a place so hot it's called the crucible -- that's what filters out the impurities. Then there's more time in the heat, a cooling off, and, finally, a hardening. 

May we look at our cracked pots with new eyes, celebrate the golden seams, and be colossally grateful. 

In the Company of Children

I was walking through the playground near my house when it beckoned to me. The swing, that is. I was never a climbing across monkey bars kind of kid, but a swing was one of life's great inventions. I looked around -- I was alone. I walked to the swing, plopped down and pushed off, slowly at first. But it didn't take long before I was stretching my legs to get maximum height and throwing back my head to feel the freedom of it all. I felt ageless, weightless, fully energized, and so happy. A woman with a toddler walked past toward the baby swing. She was smiling at me, but I felt awkward now. The toddler was eyeing me strangely.  I did a hard foot stop, got off the swing, feeling silly. That's when I saw the sign:

ONLY ADULTS  IN THE COMPANY OF CHILDREN ARE PERMITTED ON THE PLAYGROUND

It went on to mention that adults weren't to use the equipment either. I slumped off, all my glee gone, a rejected, misunderstood middle-aged swinger. I wanted to say to someone, look, I write for children. Well, not little children, exactly, but lots of my readers can't drive yet.  I'm always in the company of kids, metaphorically speaking.

And then I thought about what Jesus said: "Unless you become as a little child you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven." What distinguishes childhood anyway? Things like trust and love and not being so worried about what other people think. Kids have the capacity to fully embrace mystery; the sweet forgetfulness to make up instantly after a fight; the ferocious focus to catch fireflies.

I thought about my inner child and how I needed to listen to her more. She was talking deep: "Joan, do something fun. Get a cupcake." I obeyed instantly and when I got home holding my moist red velvet cupcake, another thought came to me -- put out your Easter egg collection.  I wasn't going to do it this year-- I've been traveling so much, I had so much work to do, but I got the eggs out that I've collected for thirty-some years -- the ones from Africa, Sweden, Croatia. I put them in a clear bowl on my table and stepped back so satisfied as new life surged through me. I've got to listen more.  

Going Deeper

A few birds are singing in my yard and I'm thinking, easy for you to chirp away -- have you seen the headlines? My yard is covered with snow from our big storm. I've got work to do to get ready for spring and I don't much feel like it. I had big dreams for my garden this year -- I was going to bring in a landscaper and get an arbor built. With the economy, that's not going to happen. For a minute I think nasty thoughts about greedy bankers and how we're all paying for the monumental money mess they've created.  

This is a time when we need to adjust. Work is changing, life is changing. It's a lot like winter -- bare branches on bare trees, everyone waiting for the ice to melt. But I like to think that underneath the surface of our lives is a place that is teeming with life and dreams and new beginnings. The biggest trees have the biggest roots. The trees that withstand the fierce winds and storms have roots that plunge deeper under ground. It's easy to look at the world right now and not think much at all about thriving. We're surviving, we're adjusting, we're making do, we're disappointed, we're angry, we're scared. We've never faced something like this before and most of us don't feel ready.

But maybe we are. I try to think back on what I've faced in my life. My dad was an alcoholic -- I learned to separate myself from his disease and still love him. I was a waitress -- I learned to smile when I was irritated and survive the extreme demands of breakfast rush when I was the only waitress who showed up. My dad died tragically -- I learned to keep going. I've moved from place to place, overcame a serious car accident, said no to toxic relationships, dealt with great disappointments, kept believing when I was hopelessly stuck on a writing project, forgave people I never thought I could. I've learned how to live in New York City during and after 9-11. 

You've got your stories, too. We need to remember them and tell them to ourselves and the people around us as we go forward. We've not seen a world like this, that's true. But that could be said of living through the Sixties, or 9-11, or whatever personal tragedies we've faced. The headlines are grim, but we're not wimps. We've got serious roots, and thank God for them. So let's stretch them even deeper and stand strong against the storm. We did it before, we can do it again.

The Wrong Voices

Max my dog is licking my hand like it's a popsicle, particularly interested in my engagement ring -- it belonged to my husband's grandmother. I had to take the ring off when I had neurosurgery over twenty years ago after a man in a Volvo station wagon rammed into my car, injuring my neck and back. I remember the fear rumbling through me when I handed my husband the ring. I remember being wheeled down the hospital hall with Evan walking next to me. It was our seventh wedding anniversary and we were trying to kid about how next year we were going to go someplace where the food was better.

But today from all the memories of that horrid time, I'm recalling the voice and face of a lawyer. It was several months after my surgery, my insurance company said I had to sue the man who hit me. It was this lawyer's job to make it seem like I had lost no earning potential from the accident. Back then, I was a new writer making hardly any money. My lawyer had coached me on how to handle this and I was confident I could, that is until the sneering questions began.

Oh, so you're a writer are you?  How much money have you made?

How is it exactly that you spend your days -- being a writer, I mean.

What have you written that I'd know?

I'm trying to understand how you think this little accident set you back...I mean, professionally...is that the right word?

Those words cut through me. I felt like crying. I didn't respond well at first; I was tongue-tied, confused. And then I got mad. "Look, I've been killing myself to get the words right, to yank the stories out of my gut. It takes hours and days and years! You want me to bring in my boxes of drafts? I'm a writer, sir. Nothing you say can't make it so."

He asked if I would send him a copy of my first novel when it came out.  What a turkey.  I'm not comping you.  "I think you'd better buy it yourself," I told him. He laughed a lawyerly laugh. When I got home that day, I wrote like a thing on fire.

There will always be voices out there telling us we don't matter. It can be the memory of a snide lawyer, an inner critic, something from the past that keeps pulling us away from who we are and what's important. We've just got to learn to turn down the volume when the wrong voices rise up and get to work. But that car accident? It was the event that got me into writing for young people. I don't recommend it as career enhancement, but it was one of those ejection seat moments that propels you to a special place.

"So," people ask me. "How did you start writing for kids?" Well, you see, this guy in a Volvo plowed into my car a long time ago, and something in that just jarred the stories free.

My Valentine 4 U

I have a complicated relationship with Valentine's Day (see my novel, Thwonk). But it's time to celebrate chocolate without boundaries, to run to the store at the last minute and realize that only the bad cards are left, the ones that read, To my husband and forever friend/I pledge my love to never end/but grow more sweet and ever strong/For you, my dear, alone I long. It's the time to remember Valentines past, and this can be very grim indeed. My memories are of my grammar school where the popular kids got big valentines and the lowest of the low, like me, got ones with "Occupant" printed on the envelope. It's the time for some to be celebrated and some to be lonely. But it is the time to send a card, so here's mine to you:

I wish you dreams that are worth waiting for.

I wish you friends who won't just tell you what you want to hear.

I wish you the thrill of being paid to do something that you love.

I wish you an alarm to buzz when you're about to say the wrong thing.

I wish you wonderful comebacks for the bullies in your life.

I wish you confidence to not second-guess your supreme moments of courage.

I wish you energy on rainy days.

I wish you a joke that only you can tell that leaves people in hysterics.

I wish you moments of pure joy when you feel like a little kid.

I wish you memories that won't bruise you, and enough forgetfulness to let the small stuff slide.

I wish you the ability to laugh long and deep.

I wish you a bathroom to be there whenever you need one.  

I wish you a heart of good cheer and a soul filled with hope.   

Happy V Day,

Joan

And for my husband and true Valentine of twenty-seven years, who cooks and manages my website and does umpteen things to enhance my life each and every day, no card could say how I feel. Even if I got to the store a week early, there just wouldn't be one good enough.