Thank You!

Back in June 2013, I went to my first Philadelphia Writer’s Conference (where I won a prize for a selection from my memoir Rude Awakening) and ran into my writing teacher, Richard D. Bank.  

“Have you signed up to pitch to an agent?” he asked when he saw me standing alone in a crowded room.

“Yes,” I said even though I wasn't sure what pitching an agent meant.

“For what time?”

“Two-fifteen.” 

 “It’s two-thirty,” he said, looking at his watch. “Look! Over there. No one’s sitting there,” he said as he took my hand and pulled me toward a table where a very good looking man was sitting. 

“What do I do?” I asked my teacher over my shoulder as I sat down across from the agent.

“Talk about your book, ” he whispered.

I swallowed hard and started talking to the agent who was looking totally bored until I told him the title of my memoir was Rude Awakening, and about the turbulence at the heart of the story. After I blundered through for several more minutes, he spoke. "What you need to do," he said, "is start a blog and get a following. Get other people interested in your work.".

Having no idea what “start a blog” meant, I nodded and thanked him. Then, I quickly signed up for a seminar on blogging, where I was told to “go as broad as possible. Write about as many experiences as you can.”

Later, in my journal, I began my plan of attack, deciding I wanted to write about my day to day life as both a school bus driver and as a writer, and about how I happened to write a memoir. I wanted, too, to write about ordinary things like: 

Driving to the shore to see the ocean for the first time in a year

Taking a risk and playing it safe 

Turning off the TV and listening to the silence

Exercising and walking,

Meditating and mindfulness practice 

Taking myself out to dinner and a movie

Joining a reading group

Joining a writing group
Being in a church

Walking alone

And about falling in love - with a book, a man, a child - and with everything.

And while I have written extensively on some of these things, on others I have barely begun. So here's to creativity, for you, for me, and for all of us. 

But, most of all, to my readers, who at one point during the past five years helped this blog to garner more than 1500 hits per week, I want to say thank you. If you have liked, shared, commented or simply read my posts know that your support is deeply appreciated.  

My second memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

First Lines

Since finishing my second book I have been stymied, trying to decide what to write about next. Finally, I decided to go back to the basics, relearning some of the things I learned while writing my first book. In that endeavor, I picked up a copy of Bill Roorbach’s Writing Life Stories. In it he encourages me to take a look at first lines, which he says probably didn’t become first lines until after a lot of revision.

This was certainly true for my own first line in Rude Awakening which begins “My mother kept secrets.” That sentence, and the entire paragraph that followed, didn’t come along until I was well into my final draft. But for my second book, Dear Elvis, a book written as a series of letters to Elvis and as a diatribe against death and dying, the first sentence was the first line I wrote.  

In order to start writing again, Roorbach’s book has advised me to go to the library to start collecting first lines and to decide whether or not they work. I’ll do that tomorrow. In the meantime, I don’t need a library to recall my favorite first line from my favorite book, A Tale of Two Cities, which begins: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, …”  

According to my Kindle, that book “has sold more copies than any other individual book in history.” More than two hundred million copies.” And, of course, that first sentence works, echoing the themes in the book like the contrast between London and Paris during the French Revolution and the contrast between the two main characters, Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton; as well as the war going on in Carton’s heart.

Remembering it, I can’t help wondering how long it took Dickens to come up with that first line. How I would love to go back in time to ask him!

  
My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

Write On!

Most of us, when we pick up a book, start at the beginning, proceed through the middle and finally reach the end. Although sometimes, when we are really enjoying a book, the ending comes too soon.

 A beginning, middle and ending. That’s what we expect when we read and, if you are like me, you may assume that is the way a book was written. Not so!

A few years ago, just after the arrival of the new millennium (What do they call those first ten years? Has anyone named them? Are they the Twenty-aught-somethings?), I went to Atlanta to visit the Margaret Mitchell Museum where I felt awed and surrounded by words. Margaret Mitchell’s words. Words from Gone With the Wind! And, as you can imagine, I loved it.

When our guide said that Mitchell wrote the entire manuscript of Gone with the Wind backwards – that is she wrote the last chapter first, and then the one before that, and the one before that etc., I was stunned into disbelief. However, since I wrote my own book, Rude Awakening, I have found that statement to be much more credulous.

When I started Rude Awakening, all I knew was the ending. (Or, at least, I thought I knew the ending until, like an addendum, I needed an epilogue.) And although I knew the ending, most of the middle of the book took a lot of work, more work than I could ever have imagined when I began.

So stories don’t just move from point to point in an orderly, readable fashion. They have to be structured and sometimes, as in life, the ending we were expecting just doesn’t emerge. And, like bread, the middle has to be kneaded, and the beginning comes only after the rest of the story is in place.

Oh, wait. Lest I discourage anyone who wants to write, when I used the word “work” in this piece, it was a misstatement. Writing doesn’t take “work.” It takes passion and discipline and dedication. But what it gives back is pleasure. Pure and absolute! So to all you writers and would-be writers – or should I say will-be writers, I say write on! And to all you readers, I say thank you. Thank you very much.

Walk a Mile In My Shoes

I was forty the first time I tried to walk a mile.  As a child, I was hospitalized with rheumatic fever (an event covered in my memoir Rude Awakening). When I left the hospital a year later, the doctors told me I would never be able to participate in sports. But when I was forty-something and fiercely out of shape, my youngest daughter challenged and goaded me until I agreed to walk a mile with her.  I wasn’t too sure what I was in for, but as we drove to a nearby park with a mile long track, I reasoned that it couldn’t be all that bad.

 

We were two or three minutes into it when I started complaining. My daughter tried to distract me, but I wasn’t falling for it. “Are you sure this is only a mile?” I asked after the first two minutes. She assured me it was just one mile around the track. But I didn’t believe her. “This can’t be just one mile,” I said a minute later. “No, Mom it is,” she told me again. Five minutes into it, I felt as though I’d been walking for an hour.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” I told her two minutes later while searching for the end of the track.  “Really I can’t make it.  I can’t go one step further.” “That’s okay,” she said cheerfully, “we’ll just turn around and go back.”

I turned around then and happily if unwittingly, walked the other half mile back to where we started.

Twenty years later, for some reason I can’t quite remember - oh wait, I remember now – I fell in love (which is another event covered in my memoir) - I started walking again. Slowly at first. A mile here and a mile there.  And then more consistently. A mile a day and then two miles. Before I knew it, I was walking two, three or four miles a day. Then it was five, six or seven. One day I decided to try for ten. And I made it. Ten miles around the same track I had hated twenty years earlier. I was amazed. Ten miles took me three hours and twenty minutes. But I loved it, every step of it. It felt so good being athletic! 

Sometimes I’d break it up into two five-mile walks, one in the morning and another in the evening.  I fell in love with the weather and taught myself to tune in to the nuances of the day, those subtle but inevitable changes that came with each hour.  When it rained, I had the park all to myself, alone with my umbrella. 

In the months before Christmas, I lost twenty pounds. Sometimes on weekends, I would walk as many as twenty miles.  I loved the way it made me feel - about my own abilities and about everything around me. I loved the way long walks cleared my head and made me feel relaxed.

Those miles did more for my self-esteem and me than anything else did, before or since. And now at seventy-one, I’m ready to start doing it again! Good God, if only I could fall in love again!

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

Art in the Park

Last Saturday was a perfect day, a beautiful day for a book signing in the park. When I mentioned the signing to a friend of mine she gasped and asked, “Were you all alone in the park?” I laughed. “No, it was an art in the park event,” I told her, “and I was surrounded by people displaying their homemade and ingenious crafts.”

“My craft is writing,” I called out to anyone walking by my table where my book and a couple of toys from my childhood – like jacks and a kaleidoscope - were displayed.

I marveled at the number of people who showed up that day in Mondauk Park Commons, where parts of my book had been written.  And I marveled at the number who stopped and listened as I told them about Rude Awakening.

As I sat talking to one elderly man, who was about my age, he suddenly told me his wife had passed away in April and, remembering my own loss, I felt my heart move toward him, although I had to laugh when he told me he was a mathematician and “not at all a reader.”   

As the hours passed I marveled again and again at the things people freely shared with me about themselves until midway through the day when I realized that just like me, everyone is looking, not for a new art or craft, but for someone to see them, someone to hear them because where one connection is broken, another must be forged.

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

Rude Awakening Defined

Hi. My name is Toni McCloe and I am.

Wait! What?

There seems to be something missing here. Did I not complete that sentence? Let me try this again:

Hi. My name is Toni McCloe and I am a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother, an author, a democrat (who sometimes votes republican).... It seems there is an array of endless possibilities, an infinite way to end that sentence. And yet...

If there is one thing I have learned in my not quite seventy-three years on this earth, it is not to complete that sentence, not to define myself in terms of externals because externals can be ripped away in an instant. Can be blown away with a word, a wind or a whatever.

And even when I first learned to define myself as, I am, my mind still wanted to fill in the blank and what I came up with is: I am alive. And then one day not so long ago I learned that even that can be stripped away in an instant.

So now I am back to I am because when who we thought we were is no longer relevant, when who we thought we were no longer exists, what we are left with is a rude awakening.

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

My First Book Signing – for Real This Time

I did my first book signing yesterday. It was kind of impromptu and was mentioned only on Twitter at practically the very last minute. This signing occurred at my son-in-law’s shop, Kurt’s Magic World, in Lansdale, Pennsylvania and because it was a holiday, I didn't know what to expect. The only way people who are not on Twitter knew I was there, was from a small sign posted in the shop’s front window. 

My first sale was to Kurt’s friend Marlon, who from my daughter, knew the book was about my Italian upbringing.  He said he was buying it for his mother who was also Italian and could probably relate to it. I thought that was sweet, but it was only the beginning.

About an hour later, a young man rushed into the shop and up to the table where the book, Rude Awakening, were displayed.  “Oh, is this the book?” he asked, touching it as though he thought it was the Holy Grail.  Of course, I loved it. 

“I don’t have any money,” he said.  “I just wanted to see it.”  I smiled and asked his name.  He told me and said he was a student.  After we spoke for a moment, he smiled and left and I found myself wondering if he felt as good after this brief encounter as I did.

Later, a woman and her daughter came in looking exultant after finding me sitting behind the table.  “Wow, we just love the title and had to come in,” one of them said while the other said, “We love the picture on the cover, too.  After buying the book, the woman said her name was Anita and that she lived in Harleysville.  She also said it was her birthday – she was born on the Fourth of July. 

All in all, it was a delightful night for me and a sweet, sweet start to my book signing career.  And to celebrate, I would like to give away a copy of the book to the first person to comment below. 

My second memoir, Dear Elvis, is also available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

Are You Ready for a Rude Awakening?

Okay everybody, pull up a chair and let me sit down. I am that excited!  

   My book, Rude Awakening, is finally available for purchase online.  For those of you in the area, I will be doing several book

 signings this summer where you can get an

 autographed copy.  More details about my appearances will be posted on this blog in the near future. 

For those of you not in the area, or for those of you who simply can't wait, Rude Awakening can be found on Amazon If you like, you can bring a copy purchased on Amazon to a signing and I will autograph it for you.   

Thanks so much to everyone for all the interest and support for this project.  I hope you enjoy the book.

My second memoir, Dear Elvis, is also available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

Pardon the Interruption

Hush!  Be quiet. Don't bother me while I'm reading. All right! All right! Just let me finish this paragraph.

Now. You have my full attention. But wait. Before you start, let me tell you about the book I'm reading.

It's called Still Life with Bread Crumbs and I love it. I love the sheer act of reading it. It delights me, even though I haven't gotten very far into it - only about twenty percent according to my Kindle, which was a present (and the best present I ever received) from the love of my life who recently died.

The book was written by Anna Quindlen. It's a story about a woman who's famous - or was once, but now she's strapped for cash. She wants to get away, to write a book, so she rents a cottage - well, it's more like a cabin - a rundown cabin in the woods somewhere. She meets a man and falls in love. I think she falls in love. I'm not that far enough into the book yet to know - but I love it.

In one scene she sees him with a gun, getting ready to shoot a bald eagle so she makes a lot of noise to scare the eagle away. Only it 's not a gun and he's not a hunter. He explains that it's a tracking device and that he works on weekends keeping track of the eagle's habits for the scientists he works for. She gets embarrassed and he tells her not to worry. The eagle, he says, will come back soon because it has a mate in a nest nearby. "He'll be back. He always is," he says.

"The same bird in the same location?" she asks.

And then he answers with a line I love: "They mate for life... Unlike people."

All right now. What was it you wanted? Oh, right. Now it's my turn to be embarrassed, I think as I glance at the clock on my dashboard.  It's time for me to put this school bus into gear and start my morning run. All right. Thanks, Nick. I'm off.

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

My First Book Signing - or Not

First, let me set the scene.  It is 1960.  Dwight Eisenhower is the president. Arlen Specter is still a Democrat and an assistant district attorney in Philadelphia. John F. Kennedy is the Democratic party’s nominee and he is about to appear at the Cheltenham shopping center, just outside of Philadelphia and two blocks from my home. 

 

I grab my youngest sister’s hand and drag her with me to see the next President. I am nineteen. My little sister is seven. We arrive at the back of the mall behind the Gimbel’s store as a helicopter flies overhead. Moments later we watch as Kennedy climbs the steps to the podium and begins his speech. Among the remarks he makes are these words: “I believe the Sixties will be difficult for the United States.” (How did he know?) 

    

Kennedy completes his remarks and the crowd disperses. My sister and I walk back home from an event neither of us will ever forget.  Coincidentally, it will be Arlen Specter who, years later, originates the “single bullet theory.” 

Now, flash forward with me to last week. Because I will have to promote my book, Rude Awakening, in the near future, I went to a local Barnes and Noble to watch another author, Lisa Scottoline, do a presentation for her latest book, Keep Quiet. Lisa is a pro! From the moment she walked out to introduce herself, she commanded the stage and never lost her audience’s attention. 

At one point, while talking about people in the crowd – and there was a crowd – she said she saw some new people she had never seen before at one of her readings?  Actually, she asked how many people here were virgins and then laughed when at least a half-dozen people, including me, raised their hands.  But it was my first signing and I was thoroughly entertained, enthralled and intimidated.  Later, as she signed my copy of Keep Quiet, I mentioned my upcoming book and beamed when she said, “Great title.” 

  

It wasn’t until I was leaving the store that I remembered I wasn’t a virgin after all. Suddenly I was back in 1960.   When I heard that the author of Steps in Time would be appearing at Wanamaker’s in center city Philadelphia, I made a beeline for the store to see the man I had had a crush on since I was a pre-teen. Now, it isn’t every girl who can say she lost her virginity to Fred Astaire. 

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

A Quick Decision

Now that my manuscript, Rude Awakening, has gone from editing to cover design, I am getting excited about seeing the final product.  Of course, I knew this day would arrive and wondered how I was going to feel - I feel as though I can breathe again.  “Are you going to write another book?” someone asked me after the book made its way to production.  “No,” I replied. Then thought about it. “Hell no,” I said with emphasis.

Once the book left my hands I was able to do what I have been dreaming of doing for years – sit quietly in a corner reading someone else’s work. So that’s what I did until I realized I was in a rut. Or that’s what my best friend from childhood would say if she knew I had just read three books in a row by the same author.  But I can’t help it.  I’m addicted and oh, what a delightful addiction it has been.  I don’t doubt you would feel exactly the same way if you too, were reading the books of Matthew Quick.

First I watched the movie, Silver Linings Playbook, then I read the book.  I loved it so much I went looking for more.  What I found was Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock and even though it was listed as a book for teens, it turned out to be a delightful read. As soon as I finished, I went out to buy the ingredients for banana chocolate chip pancakes.  (If you read the book, you understand and if you haven’t read it, you have a treat or two waiting for you.)

Finally, I sat down to read his latest book, The Good Luck of Right Now. When I finished that book with its delightful references to Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama, I felt an overwhelming urge to hug the next person I saw, even if that person turned out to be a stranger – especially if that person turned out to be a stranger.  And now that I’ve read three of Quick’s books, I am looking for one more.  But since the Good Luck book came out only a few weeks ago, I doubt that he has had time to write another.  So that settles it.   If I want to read another book as delightful and full of life as Quick’s books are, I’ll just have to start writing one myself. If I begin right now, I should be done in about three years!!!

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

The Outer Banks

      We made it. My daughter, her husband, their children and I have reached the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Right now, I am sitting inside a screened-in porch, just inches from the Atlantic Ocean, listening to the surf and sipping hot coffee from a mug. 

     As you know, I have been writing a memoir, Rude Awakening, and have reached the point where I met Nathan - Nathan being the fictitious name I have given him. I have been trying for weeks now to remember the way he was when we met, back in 1964.  

     It is ironic I think that I have been trying so hard to remember Nathan because for years I have been trying to forget him. And for years I have almost succeeded. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he will appear at some event or family function the way he did not long ago.         

     It doesn't seem to matter how old he’s gotten or how old I’ve gotten because the sight of him always propels me back to the way he was, to the way we both were during the early days, the days right after we met, right after we married. And although I’ve been propelled back with feelings, the memories themselves evade me.

     Yesterday was the perfect beginning here as I awoke to a day breaking into spectacular colors.  The sun rose up out of the ocean like a gigantic, glowing peach, reflecting itself onto the waters below. Then it slipped behind the clouds only to re-emerge as a shimmering, golden ball of light illuminating an icy blue expanse of water. In the afternoon, I watched from the beach as dolphins jumped playfully in and out of the water.

     Today there is a mist over the ocean. Sky and sea seem indivisible until I look slightly to my right where the waves crest and tumble forward, erupting and transforming themselves into tiny bubbles of joy. I look at the ocean and close my eyes to drink in the moment, acutely aware that all of this will end soon. But before it does, I want to breathe it all in deeply – into the depths of my soul where one solitary light still burns. If nothing else, I want these pages to bear witness to that light as it grows back into the fires that once lit the entire length and breadth and depth of my being.

      Last night I was awakened suddenly at two in the morning by a storm with sudden streaks of lightning that spilt the sky in two and by loud bursts of thunder that continued, unabated, for more than an hour.

      Now as I sit here staring into space, a breeze brings my attention back to the ocean where the wind gently whips the water’s surface making the waves rush in concert passed the point where my vision was lost. I notice the glistening surface of the water where it is illuminated and made vibrant by the rays of the sun. I notice the breadth of the ocean and catch my own breath knowing its depth.  

     A few feet to my right and a few feet to my left, the ocean seems to blend into the sky. But directly in front of me, there is a thin vibrant strip of light at the exact spot where they meet. I reach for the binoculars I brought along to watch the dolphins, to make sure this strip of light, which is as bright as quicksilver, is real and not just a figment of my imagination, and as I search the points where it begins and ends, it slowly disappears.    

     

And as I write, I become acutely aware that the sun and the sea and the sky have become metaphors for the things I no longer remember and for a past that exists no longer except, perhaps, along the outer banks of my mind.

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE

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