Audiobook of "The Fourteenth of September" Now Available: Leave the Reading to Us

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Now that I have your attention, I will fess up that the novel has been available as an audiobook via Amazon since the book launch back in September of 2018. However, since I didn’t do any specific promotion on the format, it has just been sitting around, quietly, with modest purchases by experienced audiobook fans who knew how to find it. It’s time I gave it some love.

The Casting Cloud

The audiobook deserves its solo spotlight, given all the time and attention that went into producing it, but also because its development challenged me as an author in ways I’d never expected.

Right off the bat, the process of choosing a narrator sounded like great fun, but in practice it was unnerving. I can see why authors so often hate the films that are made of their novels. As a writer, you spend years picturing and “hearing” specific faces and voices in your head, and it’s very hard to envision, if you will, a stand-in. Very. 

Though I was asked many times to narrate the The Fourteenth of September myself, I felt it needed a voice for my nineteen-year-old main character, Judy, that sounded the right age. The casting process for identifying potential narrators was exceptionally efficient. Over sixty professionals sent audition tapes based upon an excerpt I had provided. Just pick one, easy-peasy, right?

Hardly. I did have the foresight to hire an experienced producer to help me with the project—primarily because I was totally focused on the all-consuming production and promotion of the paperback and e-book. We both thought it would be a piece of cake. Not so much.

Thankfully, my producer winnowed the audition tapes down to a dozen for me to review to make it an easy afternoon project. Instead, it was... just... too much. All those voices—all good, all young, all saying the same thing, all sounding so... SIMILAR, but not at all like Judy. I felt instead that I was listening in on a gaggle of her friends at the Tune Room, the site of so much of the story’s action. I finally had to do what I’d been hoping to avoid—listen carefully to each audition over and over, trying to pick the voice I thought I’d want to listen to for hours on tape, but actually found myself looking for reasons to eliminate, so the last person standing (or in this case, talking) would be the obvious choice. It was a bit like shifting through great candidate resumes back in the day but with higher stakes for me and my story. I finally got it down to three, and the producer and I compared our choices and picked a final voice. Whew! I was ready to turn the nuts and bolts over to my producer to get back to the world of words on paper. But no such luck.

Nailing the Voices

Before I could walk away, the producer sent me the recording of the first two chapters, where each of the large cast of characters appeared at least once, to ensure the narrator had the voices correct. I was appalled. None of the voices matched the characters in my head. And all of them—male and female—had two things in common. They were PERKY, and the inflection of every sentence went up at the end. To borrow the vernacular, we SO didn’t talk like that back in 1969. We were happy or sad, sarcastic or whiney, enamored of the curse-word vocabulary we were trying out like truck drivers now that we had left home, but we weren’t full of endless pep every minute. We were never, ever PERKY. And, not being interrogative-loving French, we preferred to swallow the end of our sentences and let the words descend into unintelligible mumblings that our elders would struggle to understand perhaps, but we would never go UP. After all, that implied asking permission, and in Judy’s era we were more likely to be trying to disappear, be sullen, or have POWER. Oh, the Valley Girl of it all. I considered removing the word like from anywhere in my manuscript. It wasn’t there much, but somehow, after listening to the narrator, it sounded as if it were. I can fix this, I thought.

Author as Actor... Not

After years making business presentations, I told the producer I would settle this quickly. I recorded my own voice reading my own first two chapters, filled with my own intended tone and inflection, so easy then for the narrator to imitate, right? I was sure I’d be great. I’d once harbored an inclination toward the stage. The narrator would probably be in awe, and I needed to be prepared to keep her dauber up by reassuring her that she could do it, perhaps not as well, but she’d be fine.

Again, a surprise. I virtually slapped myself in the face. First of all, it was exhausting. Forget the character voices: I could hardly manage to keep the energy of my voice up let alone on inflection pitch for twenty pages in one sitting. And I... there is no more politic word to use... sucked. As the narrator might put it, “I am SO not an actress, ya know?” I couldn’t listen to myself, and above all, I DIDN’T SOUND LIKE JUDY. It was so hard to wrap my head around that. A few decades on or not, I deep down inside guess I thought the words in my mind would come out the way I heard them, sounding like Judy, and Wizard, and Vida, and David, and all my other characters. It wasn’t age, it was... like listening to your voice on the telephone. It wasn’t me and it wasn’t Judy. Instead I sounded vaguely like a more nasal version of my sister and the guys sounded like cheery kids, not the voices I needed to communicate the sarcastic bravado in the face of fear that ruled the story’s Draft Lottery time frame.

I feared what the narrator would think when she listened to my version; suddenly I felt that I was the one auditioning. “You call this acting?” I could hear her complain. “Don’t give it to her,” I said to my producer in a middle-of-the-night, follow-up email. Too late. “It did confuse her,” the producer admitted. “I think her narration is fine,” she added after a long, diplomatic pause, asking how I wanted to proceed. Someone needed to listen to the narration chapter by chapter as it was recorded, to be sure it was accurate, words weren’t dropped, etc. “It was critical,” she said.

I humbly told the producer to take me out of the loop and just run with the project. Like Puff, this little dragon sadly slipped into her cave, realizing that there was a reason I had chosen the boardroom over the stage in my earlier career.

In the end, I came to see why movie directors ban authors from the set. We are pathetic, not capable of suspending our belief. We are in love with the vision we put in words, yes, but also the one in the netherworld between the words we write with our inside voice and how they are delivered out to the world. Mere mortal actors/narrators who cannot hear inside our minds will never rise to this impossible-to-articulate ideal. And in fact, once I was out of it, things proceeded just fine; as pointed out by my producer, the narrator may not be “me,” but she is Judy. And isn’t that the point? I was a bit taken aback—after all, there would be no Judy without me—but of course she was correct.

 
Listen to an excerpt from the audiobook.
 
A message from Marissa DuBois, audiobook narrator.

At this point audible Judy is doing pretty well. See listener reviews on Audible and Goodreads, and listen to the excerpt. And also hear the narrator, Marissa DuBois, talk about her excitement for the project in this interview. Then, check out the audiobook yourself, which is available on Amazon on the same page as the other formats for The Fourteenth of September. One tip, be sure to turn up the speed when you listen, Judy has a lot to say... she needs to talk fast.

Audio Is Cooler Than You Think

My first audiobook was my own novel and that helped me catch the bug for my long, fair-weather walks along Lake Michigan and car rides. The more you use it, the more you think about where to use it. My trainer listens to audiobooks while she cleans her apartment, an idea I can absolutely get my head around. I’ve begun to inventory life activities that don’t require paying attention.

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Above all, to my friends and family who tell me they support my story but just aren’t “readers,” or who only read nonfiction: Please try The Fourteenth of September on audiobook, and Judy’s voice will make it all go down in an exciting way. Let me know what you think... and about new creative ways to listen. I personally, for example, think my brother should read it during those endless hours of home repair and tinkering in the garage. I mean, he’s already on engineering-genius autopilot—he can listen to a story at the same time, right?

Time flies when someone’s telling you a story.  For me, the audiobook experience is like Mrs. Sellen, my first-grade teacher, reading us Dr. Seuss’s The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. Its like a personal movie. They talk and you imagine. You know, just like a book. Hands free. Enjoy!

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Torn Between Two Lovers: A Tragicomic Tale of Second-Novel Rivalry 💔

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My first love, a thirteen-year affair, caused a lot of emotion over its long life—excitement, rage, fear, euphoria, satisfaction, frustration. It was both thrilling and exasperating and, truth be told, there were a few breakups, one I thought would be irrevocable. Friends were concerned we wouldn’t make it, calling it my phantom novel. But we went the distance and finally celebrated going public nine months ago. Since then it’s been a party, all champagne and celebration. A victory lap full of hard work, yes, but mostly pure joy.

One of the names I call the object of my affection is The Fourteenth of September. When I’m in a rush, I use its pet name, “A Woman’s Story of Vietnam,” sometimes just a short but sweet “Set in ’69.” We’ve had our moments. Never will a relationship be so volatile, meaningful, or memorable, and it will always be with me.

But I’m ready, as they say, to move on. It’s me, not it. No fault, harm, or foul. It’s just time.

I confess I’ve been flirting for about a year with a tall, dark, and handsome story with a foreign accent—about expats in San Miguel de Allende searching for their last dream. I admit I love rolling my tongue around its working title, “La Querencia,” and intriguing the curious with its definition: “The place in the ring where the bull feels safe.” The intrigue. I want to dance! In March, we slipped away together for a delicious month at the Ragdale Artist’s Retreat where we fantasized about our future in a ninety-page plot plan. It’s fresh, it’s sexy. It could work. But we have to commit.

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And yet, The Fourteenth of September won’t let me go. And part of me—and I confess this is a surprise—doesn’t want it to. It’s done well for a debut novel by an unknown, already in a second printing, in fact. But it’s so needy. So many months since launch and it still takes up 75 percent of my time. My juicy next novel beckons, and if I pause for even a moment to look over my shoulder and give it an encouraging wink, promising I’ll come soon, sales of the first just stop. It’s fond of these foot-stomping tantrums for attention. I will not be ignored, Rita!

I admit, sometimes I rather like the rivalry, if I can say that out loud—as I type this and have just moved the stacks of San Miguel research out of view. Each week I have opportunities to talk about the attractions of Lover #1, now fully wrestled to the ground and lovely. We’ve been through so much. I enjoy telling the tale: how my personal experiences became integrated into the story of an important historical time, the characters I both offed and paired off, the “soundtrack” I peppered throughout the action, the journey I renamed from “coming of age” to “coming of conscience.” It may be rough around a few edges, but it was my first love, a dream come true, and I relish sharing it. It still has a long runway, with the 50th anniversary of so many of the events it recounts upon us. And I owe it. I’m a different writer than before we met: better, wiser. Without it, what would I be? I don’t think I can give it up yet.

It’s just not a good time, I keep telling Lover #2, but realistically how long can I ask it to wait? The thought of it is so wonderful when I’m dreaming of how the plot will spin, but exhausting when I buckle down into the daylight of bringing it to life. I remember how much #1 took out of me, and my knees start to wobble. I sweat. Give me at least half your time, #2 demands, or I’m outta here. And, in fact, the details of some of the squishy parts of the plot plan have come to seem insurmountable. We’re no longer dancing. I already miss our early days: the spark, the promise. The certainty that this affair would be so much better, so much smoother, so much more. . . efficient.

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I’m at a crossroads. My publicist sends intoxicating Friday afternoon emails about major media that have requested review copies of #1, potential placements that are targeted for as long away as December, as far into the future as next spring. How long can I sustain this affair, I wonder? At the same time, book club members and other readers clamor for news of an arrival date for #2, when I’m not even sure how serious we are. My hairdresser tears up when I tell her about the bullring. Can I balance both? Must I walk away from one of them, shutting the door, drawing the line, refusing to answer the plot dreams that visit nightly about #2, or coldly let those unsold copies of #1 sit spurned in storage.

I need couples therapy. To sit them both down and duke it out. Who gets visitation on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and who gets the long, productive weekend mornings? The need for discipline and organization blasts at me through a subconscious voice of authority as I lie on the couch. “I know, I know,” I answer, as it regales me with stories of the unwavering work habits of Ernest Hemingway and Edith Wharton. 

I am weak. I am fickle.  I simply cannot live without them both, for now. A remedy will present itself, a favorite will emerge, I’m certain.

Well, isn’t it pretty to think so?

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Rita's POV on Art vs Artist: Should We Judge a Person's Work Through the Lens of Their Character Flaws and Bad Behavior?

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I've been getting a lot of questions about my position on the subject of Jim Morris's guest post sent out last week and that's fair. I didn't want to include it until I heard from you all and it was a lively series of comments indeed. In thinking this through, I got a little carried away given the complexity of the Art vs Artist debate. I hope you'll find it provocative as we all struggle with this tricky issue. Let me know what you think.
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Many of you have asked my “stand” on this fraught issue. So here I am weighing in and wanting, really wanting, to purely say that the Art should be above the behavior of the Artist. But is that an absolute? I find censorship anathema and have always felt that people who reject the pleasure of Wagner’s music (or Cate Blanchett’s sublime performance in Blue Jasmine — it's worth it, Frank) are being way too rigid in a world that requires more flexibility. But then, does that very flexibility give permission beyond what our viewing or listening, or overall enjoying of the art, intends? Are we, God forbid, enabling?

I don’t believe this going backwards in history. We don’t have the ability, as Jim indicates, to résumé check those from the past against the norms of the present. While not necessarily “excusing” past behavior, there’s no question that some things considered beyond the pale today had a different moral ranking in the past, and it’s asking a great deal for otherwise notable people to have had the insight and courage to have behaved above their era. History is something to learn from and build upon. To reject it is like ISIS blowing up the incredible monuments of their own heritage for a short-lived (hopefully) religiously un-PC moment.

The current case under the biggest microscope appears to be the nine lives of Woody Allen, who may be finally facing his moral comeuppance. Is it a cop out for me to say that he’s never been a fav (not being from NYC, Jewish or in therapy, his humor often escapes me), so it’s easy to turn against him? I think so. Though I shudder at the prospect of re-watching Manhattan, which, though it had a subplot creepy even at the time, I remember thinking was one of his best. It’s a puzzle, but I can I really choose with a clear conscience?

I also must say I have a tremendous sympathy for collateral damage. As soon as Kevin Spacey was booted from House of Cards, I immediately thought of Robin Wright, poised at last for her character’s blow-out year (and I’m thrilled that she’s going to get it.) And, I really feel for Allen’s actors, out of which he’s brought remarkable performances, seeing them struggle to make amends within the shifting sands of acceptability.

So if I hate censorship and equally abhor harassment where am I? In the end I’m with Jim, and Sandy, with an extra “layer,” I’d say. I’d love the Venus de Milo if it were sculpted by Vlad the Impaler. But today, for the first time, I’d be curious about the model and if she posed willingly. I won’t give up the pleasure of Shakespeare in Love because it was produced by a pig. But on next viewing, I hope I won’t wonder at what point in production Harvey Weinstein tried to assault Gwyneth Paltrow. Will this backstage knowledge ruin my appreciation moving forward? I really hope not.

That said, in this seminal #MeToo moment we know there will be casualties and we’ll go too far (Franken?) before we swing back, so we need to agree on fundamentals, yet make sure we don’t end up with some sort of litmus test a genius needs to pass to be appreciated.

So, I guess I say, let’s not throw the art out with the bathwater of what’s been done to date. As Jim says, we don’t know enough of the backstory to be fair. Let’s continue to enjoy, laugh, listen and view. Let’s let all of it enrich our lives. Moving forward, let’s use this moment to “upgrade” the broad-strokes of what we consider acceptable behavior for humans so that producer, process and product are equally admirable. Brilliant ideas are vital. Art is joy. May we never cut them out of our lives.

And now, this very prickly ball is back in your court. What do you think?

 
 
 
 

Art vs Artist: Should We Judge a Person’s Work Through the Lens of Their Character Flaws and Bad Behavior?

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By Jim Morris

This month I’ve invited my first Guest Blogger, advertising veteran Jim Morris aka Tagline Jim (whose brilliant tagline for his own business is “long story, short”) to share his POV on a difficult subject. Jim is a radical thought leader in his industry, per his bio below. As an engaging and opinionated author, speaker, teacher and blogger, he often branches out into topics with ramifications for us all. His recent white paper on “Art Versus Artist” caught my eye as a subject that’s been around as long as Hitler and Wagner, and is as blazingly current as the behavior of Woody’s Allen’s actors. It’s a tough issue. Please read and weigh in, even if the answer remains “It depends.”

The question of whether we can separate the art from the artist has been much discussed for centuries. This current sexual harassment brouhaha that seems to preoccupy our news media compels us to visit, (or, for some of you, revisit) this question. Of course, character flaws and bad behavior extend far beyond sexual predation. They include, among other things, bigotry, various addictions and compulsions, non-sexual violent behavior like assault, mental torment and murder, as well as a host of other bad acts from embezzlement and thievery to bribery, plagiarism and combinations of deplorable behavior of which, one could argue, Hemingway and Picasso are prime examples.

There is a long list of elected officials, up to and including U.S. presidents and prime ministers, who were philanderers, bigots, misogynists, anti-Semites, homophobes, and on and on. Jefferson, Jackson, both Johnsons, Buchanan, Monroe, Polk, Wilson, Coolidge, FDR, Eisenhower, LBJ, Nixon, Bush, (the younger)—all of these presidents committed heinous acts during their terms in office. Many of our other most celebrated leaders and statesmen were guilty of these attitudes and behaviors. So, should we stop crediting such people for their accomplishments? Or at least reduce the amount of credit we give them? Should we delete mentions of these people and their contributions from our consciousnesses and history books because they were flawed in some of the ways I’ve just mentioned?

Similarly, there are many, many great artists in all corners of the creative arts world who were/are guilty of such bad behaviors and beliefs. T.S. Eliot, Edith Wharton, Richard Wagner, Roald Dahl, Renoir and Degas are just a few on a long list of anti-Semitic artists. Dr. Seuss was quite the bigot. If you widen the aperture to famous anti-Semitic people who made great contributions, the list includes Winston Churchill, Charles Lindbergh, Henry Ford and Walt Disney. And if you widen the aperture further, to include misogynists, racists, sexual predators and other deviants, well, forget about it.

The thing about rattling off a litany of bad people who have done great things is that, surely, this is just the tiny tip of a colossal iceberg much, or most, of which we will never glimpse. I have this argument often enough, usually triggered by the case of Mel Gibson. The consensus is that he’s anti-Semitic. I’ve never had this conversation with a Jewish person who didn’t express a commitment to boycotting his work. My point to them is that it seems a little disingenuous to advocate boycotting Mel Gibson movies, while unqualifiedly embracing the art produced by countless other people, some, (many), of whom are no doubt raging bigots or anti-Semitic or wife beaters, just because we don’t have specific knowledge about these flaws. If we’re not going to separate the art from the artist, doesn’t it then behoove us to devote ourselves to determining the moral character of every artist or politician before we can justifiably judge, or even just experience, their work? And in the absence of such knowledge, aren’t we obliged to withhold any judgment about their work?

Call me misanthropic, but I’m going to wager a guess that most people possess some degree of one of these character flaws, or have displayed the kind of bad behavior we’re talking about, somewhere on the bigotry continuum or the anti-Semitic continuum or the misogynistic continuum or some other bad behavior continuum. Am I obliged to cease enjoying art, or appreciating the achievements of politicians, business people, scientists and other accomplished public figures, simply because there could be a good chance that they are bigots or in some other way have behaved very badly toward others?

Take Roy Moore versus Al Franken. Assuming all of the accusations against these two men are true, does the fact that they’ve committed these acts, ranging from naughty to unconscionable, preclude them from serving effectively in the Senate, from authoring or at least supporting legislation that makes our country better? Does this question exist on a continuum? Perhaps, because Al Franken is funny, and we might like his politics, and his sins are less egregious than Roy Moore’s, we give ourselves permission to go a little easier on him than on Moore, who is apparently a pedophile, not merely a butt-grabber, and whose views and political positions are repugnant to us, regardless of his bad sexual behavior.

Or consider a more complicated situation than that of Roy Moore. Woody Allen has been recognized as one of the great writers and filmmakers of the last half century, right up until the controversy about his relationship with Dylan Farrow arose. Now much of the world assumes he’s a child molester. He categorically denies it. Dylan Farrow seems credible. Meanwhile, the list grows of those who are publicly distancing themselves from Allen, expressing guilt and regret about working on his films. I find it curious that many of these people are just now speaking up, since the controversy over Woody Allen’s relationships is not new, but that’s another issue. The most recent of these celebrities to speak up is young Timothee Chalamet, who says he’ll donate to some appropriate organizations, his pay from an upcoming Woody Allen movie, A Rainy Day in New York. He claims he doesn’t want to profit from that film. Of course, a cynic might think this is disingenuous since Timothee has already profited in less directly monetary ways from his work on the film. And one can’t help but wonder whether no one in his life mentioned Woody Allen’s presumed sordid past to Timothee before he accepted the role. But, again, that’s another discussion.

Not that you asked, but for me, a work of art is great or not, the political achievement or technological innovation or scientific discovery is great or not, entirely separate of whether it was produced by a saint, a despicable human being, a robot or a hippo. I don’t need to know anything about the creator of the work to be affected by that work and make my own judgment of its value or worth.

Going down the other path either immerses you in hypocrisy or impoverishes the world you allow yourself to experience. Or does it? To those of you who boycott Woody Allen and Mel Gibson movies, or refuse to listen to Wagner, laugh at Cosby, buy a Ford, or exclude from your life the work of some other person whose views or actions you despise, can you make a compelling argument for judging the talents’ work, whatever their field, through the lens of their character flaw, be it anti-Semitism, racial bigotry, misogyny, homophobia, whatever? 

 

Jim Morris, Tagline Jim, speaks truth to power, burning bridges at will as he delivers his radical message to advertising’s insiders and consumers: it’s time to lay waste to the intellectual laziness, wrongheadedness and addiction to shiny objects that plague the business, and create advertising that’s more credible, more likable and more like humans talking to humans. During his 37 years in advertising, at dozens of ad agencies from DDB and FCB on down, he’s been a Copywriter, Creative Director, Purveyor of The Good, CCO, Screen (and, occasionally, Adweek/Brandweek) columnist and Columbia College instructor. He’s authored dozens of potent taglines, including We are Flintstones Kids, Ten Million Strong and Growing, the cornerstone of one of the longest-running ad campaigns of the last half century. Jim maintains an active blog on his website, speaks at colleges and universities, marketing agencies and MENSA conferences, while shopping his next book, "Agents of Stupidity: Why Advertising is Even Stupider Than You Think, if That’s Even Possible."
 
 
 
 

From ‘60s Civil Rights Activist To Today’s Boardrooms, Sheila Talton Champions Diversity To Power Progress

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This is the third blog post in the series #Re-Radicalized, spotlighting inspiring individuals who are newly recharged by the current political environment to change the world.
memories clear, if photos faded

memories clear, if photos faded

So here’s the famous story. Sheila Talton hired my public relations firm back in the early ’90s to represent her technology company. One day, she took me to lunch at Chicago’s famed University Club. There, in the glow of the glorious two-story, stained-glass windows gracing the sumptuous corporate dining room, a shared history was revealed.

It turns out we’d both been at the same school (Northern Illinois University), at the same time, and in the same massive student protest—she in one faction as a civil rights protestor yelling “Black Power,” and me in the other as a member of the Student Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam, shouting “Bring the Troops Home Now.” I’m sure you recognize the era. 

We cracked up, sitting there in our big-shouldered, power outfits, thinking about what the gray-suited, male Masters of the Universe around us would think if they knew about our past. Undaunted, Sheila proudly claimed our ground: “Former radicals make great entrepreneurs.” And so began a professional, soon personal relationship that has endured to this day.

Given the times, we worked initially to credential Sheila as a business leader who happened to be a woman, and an African-American. Today, it’s apparent that an important reason she’s such an accomplished leader is that she is an African-American woman, and the louder she touts that, the more she empowers change in the world, by reflecting it.

 

Maneuvering the Labyrinth to Success

Sheila was always amazingly strategic about how she built her career—as a minority “two-fer,” she knew she had to be.  She went for the gaps where she felt there would be opportunity, focusing on business in college because that’s where women were underrepresented. With her degree in hand she set her sights on the booming technology industry, knowing that in such a new, uncharted field there would be a shortage of talent and therefore more options for African-Americans.

She parlayed that strategy to watch for where the action moved in the marketplace, from hardware to software to services, and from traditional to emerging markets. As a result, after running her own company for ten years, she jumped to leadership positions at Ernst & Young, EDS and Cisco, where she gained global experience and developed a reputation as an early and generous networker, as interested in helping others as benefitting from their counsel. As she rose, however, she ran into more than a few glass ceilings as well as closed diversity doors that she could see would box her in.

Undeterred and unwilling to tread water until times changed, she returned to the entrepreneurial world where, like so many women and minorities, she could create her own destiny. She is now on her third start-up, Gray Matter Analytics, which has roared to success based both on realizing yet another market advance—that data would be driving the world—and a huge network of connections eager to help her succeed.  

But this is only part of the story.

 

Building a Career with a Conscience

Sheila has always had a strong sense of personal responsibility. “If you’re fortunate enough to be in a position of power, use it to help others who aren’t.” She learned this early.

We cleaned up well for our corporate careers

We cleaned up well for our corporate careers

Though she’s now regularly cited in lists of business leaders, she knows how easily she could have become a different kind of statistic. And, how important it is as a role model to share her personal story of rising from poverty, getting the opportunity to go to college and then blowing it—flunking out of her freshman year (protests and partying), a not un-familiar path for minorities. She knows she was fortunate that as she languished in a nowhere job in the secretarial pool at Allis-Chalmers, a “white guy” sales representative saw her potential, encouraged her to apply for junior college, take the hardest courses and get back into Northern. That “white guy’s” name, by the way, was Greg Stewart. One of Sheila’s 2018 New Year’s resolutions is to find him…and thank him…for what he did to change her life.

She did not waste this second chance and has since dedicated herself to offering the same helping hand to others, whether through her involvement with The Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind, or her many contributions to help those in the poverty-stricken areas of Chicago’s Lawndale neighborhood. She’s ratcheted up those efforts, as her resources and influence increased, into more social and political involvement, such as serving on the Board of the Chicago Urban League and as a bundler for Barack Obama’s elections.

 

With Achievement Comes the Power for Change

At the time of the last election Sheila’s career was going great, but her conscience and comfort in where the country was heading were not. As progressive policies that fostered openness and acceptance of diversity were overturned or threatened, and the discourse grew in rage and volume as it descended in tolerance, her latent activist stirred.

Her new path has two prongs. First, to use her position to continue to ensure that the strides made in diversity over the past years continue to advance. Her own companies have always reflected how she feels the world needs to look: a United Nations, with men and women of varied races, preferences and ages, with growth opportunities awarded to expertise and elbow grease, period.

She’s also built an extensive parallel career serving on major corporate boards—from Sysco Foods, to John Deere, OGE Energy and Wintrust—benefitting from the heightened interest in gender and racial representation, those very factors that were hurdles early on, to have influence at the highest levels of the business world. Her message is that growth is contingent upon expanding into areas where we aren’t in the majority and we need to become part of, not impose on, other cultures. At the same time, to fuel that growth, the workforce needs to expand to include everyone, and we need to be creative and relentless in bringing in those not yet adequately educated or trained.

It's not all work

It's not all work

The second prong was inspired by her one-and-a-half-year-old grandson, Jayden. One day he picked up his father’s briefcase and declared that he was going to work. This adorable story was a revelation to Sheila. Minority children, particularly boys and young men, need role models of parents who work regularly to provide a vision to their offspring of what that “looks like” and how their lives could be as a result. To make a difference in a Black Lives world, she’s now dedicated herself to taking half of what she earns from her current entrepreneurial endeavor to fund partnerships to provide role models, training and jobs for young African-American and other minority males. It’s a huge undertaking. Details to come.

Sheila is one of the few of my contemporaries who isn’t interested in changing course at this time in her life (she loves what she does), but is interested in using what she’s learned to deepen her impact. She reminds me of what author Walter Mosley says about responsibility. Don’t try to take on everything that’s wrong in the world. Pick something and focus.

Sheila’s made her pick—to doggedly foster diversity in our global world and dig in to help a hugely important demographic take a step up the ladder toward a more equal life.

I’d say Sheila is not Re-Radicalized, because she’s remained radicalized. Her continuing activist spirit even inspired the name of the main character in my upcoming novel. Judy Talton shares some of Sheila’s traits. When I asked Sheila if she minded my borrowing her last name she said, “of course, whatever you need.”

I said she was generous.

 

 
 
 
 

When Writer’s Retreats are Hard: There's More Than One Way to Skin a Muse

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The main Writer's House at Ragdale

The main Writer's House at Ragdale

Process is not for the faint of heart. I’ve emerged from my latest residency without coherent pages in my hand—nothing tangible, nothing new to read on my last day where we shared what we’d been working on. My time there was all about process, and I feel scattered. Does thinking count? Did I waste three precious weeks or take a big step? It’s been making me ponder this question: how do you judge your own “productivity” when it comes to the creative arts? Is it the thickness of the manuscript in your hand, or the heaviness in your heart from the wrestling you’ve done to get it there?

 

I could always write at Ragdale

We often talk about “writer’s block” (I believe that comes just before The Crack-Up), and I’ve certainly had it in spades, but never at a residency. On the contrary, I’ve been to a variety of writer’s retreats over the past twelve years, primarily at the wonderful Ragdale in Lake Forest, Illinois. And it’s always been a great experience, miraculous actually. Ragdale is where I’ve written about 90% of my novel, The Fourteenth of September, most of the time in a delightful nook with a sloped ceiling and French doors named after one of the historic building’s original inhabitants, my “lucky” Sarah’s Room.

My "Lucky" Sarah's Room

My "Lucky" Sarah's Room

I learned a lot about process at Ragdale. I came to my first residency having just made the decision to turn a series of linked stories into a novel. I’d been focused on a modest but formidable goal—write the first chapter. I knew I wrote best early—could ONLY write early. I got up the first day at 5:30 am, pounded out a rough draft by noon and then wondered what to do. For the rest of my two-week sojourn, I “taught” myself about how to write when you’re not in the mood, when you have no idea where to go next, when you’re just filling up the hour before dinner, even when you’re frustrated waiting for the ancient toaster oven to do its job on your breakfast before the ideas you woke up with have left your head. It’s a story I tell a lot.

The well-worn rug

The well-worn rug

Over the years, however, I’d become increasingly hard on myself while working on the novel. I started the book and a business simultaneously and felt the little time I had for writing had to be so highly focused I wouldn’t let myself work on anything else until the novel was effectively out of my hands. At a residency, I usually hit the computer like a bat out of hell churning out page after page—the objective being the latest draft. It’s often been tough, with circles worn threadbare into the rug of Sarah’s Room as I paced when I was stuck, circles other writers before and after me no doubt walked as well. There were many anxious calls to brainstorm with my editor. But I’d reliably return home each time with a great fat stack of paper, covered in type. It was a satisfying ritual and I became addicted to the pileup of pages, and perhaps more than a bit superstitious.

 

I could only write at Ragdale

This time, with that novel finished and a publisher interested, I looked forward to a new experience. I had a list of projects and a lot of advice.  I brought folders of research for a new novel about expats in Mexico and background for another set during WWII. I had two essays in development, blog posts to stockpile.

The Chaos of Week Two

The Chaos of Week Two

As writers, we idealize process. We use words like “flow.” My favorite is to get to the point where a draft “sings.” As I packed, I did romanticize it all, imagining how it would be to just let my mood and creative juices take me wherever they wanted. If I got stuck, I figured I’d bounce from project to project, rather than obsess. I was confident I’d enter that delicious “zone” where it seems people talk in dialogue, book titles spring from everywhere and you get incredible ideas walking from the desk to the shower, not to mention lounging on the porch, or strolling in the beautiful prairie. I wanted to let my relentless bat out of its cage, and for the first time just enjoy it in flight.

At the very least I was confident that, like every other residency, I’d rise with the birds before 6 am, make strong coffee and run to the computer, inspiration rising with the sun. I’d “create” until 3 pm, then dash off to use my short-term pass at the health club or take a long walk before getting ready for dinner. There, in the only daily gathering with other residents, I’d talk about my journey of the day and learn about what other fascinating people were doing, sharing ideas and motivation, making lifelong friends with other artists.

I’d also just closed my business, so I approached this latest residency with massive expectations. Not only would I get three months of work done in three weeks as usual, but I would break through and become, as author Christine Sneed wrote, “a writer, not someone who occasionally writes.”

I was so psyched.

Until I wasn’t.

 

Oh dear, I can’t write at Ragdale

The first day I read three books, enjoying my cozy room. That was okay, a warm up, I told myself. Don’t worry that you’re not actually writing. You’re reading like a writer. This what we do. Just chill.

And then it rained, and rained. Usually that’s great writing weather, but it made my head throb with migraine and the prairie too muddy for walking. I found myself waking at 3 am--a sound from a forest animal, a need for more Advil, or the deep sigh of the century-old house as it settled another quarter-inch into its bones. I was up so early… but in no condition to write, or work out, or socialize at dinner.

The second week it let up a bit, some sun, but my internal clock had reset to its annoying new rhythm. Up again at 3…always 3…was this some type of crazy writing menopause? I’d toss and turn, as characters and phrases gnawed at me and I’d finally have to get up and dash off a paragraph or a few lines. And then, each time I’d get back under the covers I’d have to jump back up to capture another phrase. I finally gave in. This was what I was here for after all, right? But why does it have to be in the middle of the night? I wondered, so irritated. I’m an early-rise windup, not a late-night wind down girl.

Grrr... I’d grumble to myself, playing around at my keyboard until the birds began to sing around 5 am, and then try to get an hour or so of shut-eye before the doors start banging on their old frames or someone talked in the kitchen just below my room and I was up again, exhausted. I just wanted a good night’s sleep and a non-throbbing head. If so, I was sure I’d welcome all this. I was wasting valuable time.

 

Should I Embrace Chaos as Part of Creativity? Or Am I Just Talking to Myself?

Week Three with its piles of paper

Week Three with its piles of paper

I worked in fragments: messy notes spread out over spiral-bound notebooks and yellow legal pads. While trying to focus on one project, others crept in, demanding attention. Is this what I asked for? I could neither shut it off, nor turn it on in any predictable way. My story about Germany during WWII was infecting my expats in Mexico, even my own backstory I was trying to plumb in my essays. With my first novel it had been logical, scene by scene. I’d had more control. This was an avalanche of scattered ideas—from character descriptions, to plot points, to dialogue (lots of it—they were talking like crazy!). One day, wardrobe even appeared--one character would arrive in a linen suit, another a cornflower blue tunic. Wait, this was too soon for these details. I was mixing everything up in the same notebook. How would I ever sort it out? The circles I was following were no longer just on the rug. They were on the back of my eyelids, rotating to the rhythm of the monkey noise in my head. This wasn’t “flow” it was chaos.

But then, late one afternoon, something happened. I’d just ripped another page out of a notebook and cut it into pieces, putting each into its appropriate subject pile on the floor. This was ridiculous, I told myself out loud. Just let it go, it was winning anyway. After that, I wrote stream of consciousness, sketching possible characters and plot ideas for the Mexico novel. I started and gave up on an outline, it was just coming here and there anyway. I wanted to stay with it, but after a hot shower to soothe my still aching head, up popped an idea for the WWII novel --a different setting, unity of time, place, and action. Yes, a better way to tell the story. I mentioned my dilemma briefly at dinner (I didn’t want to share too much of my bad juju) and someone suggested the shower might be my muse—if only. But I did try it again that night and after that I doubled down. Write any which way, hot water on the head, repeat. It was flow, after all.

 

The Upshot

So, after three weeks the Mexico novel has a voice, the draft of a promising opening scene, key settings, a really great plot twist late in the book and characters that make me cry. I know this because I remember writing it all down—somewhere. I also sent my researcher off to check out a potential new setting  for the WWII novel. I'm certain that in all this paper, there are insanely rough three-quarter drafts of two essays, a completed blog post and notes on two others. I think I got my money’s worth out of this time off the grid, just nothing I can carry home to show for it. As I packed, I filled my suitcase with random pages along with the dirty laundry.

The suitcase "unpacked"

The suitcase "unpacked"

Before I left, I took a last look at Sarah’s Room and wondered if I should buy Ragdale a new carpet…and maybe a toaster. Better karma for the next time?

Back in my home office the folders and notes from what I felt was a "rough" residency remain stacked on the table where I unpacked. The piles are fat and thick. Now, a few months later, as I've begun to organize them, I've also reassessed my interpretation of the residency. It was only “rough,” if my definition remains rigid. It wasn’t a block, or a crack-up. It was simply an alternate experience, perhaps just a blip, or maybe a new creative process going forward. Will I be more open if it happens again?  All I'm sure about is that I now know, there’s more than one way to skin a muse.

Process is a heavy thing—it can fill up so much more than a suitcase.