Take Me Out To The Ballgame!

Sometimes I just don't know what to write about.

No really. It's not like I've lost my fierce opinions or way with words, but occasionally, a topic sentence would be helpful. You know, like the ones you'd get in sixth grade.

Apparently, I'd prepared for days like these by purchasing "Idea Catcher: An Inspiring Journal for Writers." Only I had forgotten it was on my book shelf. Full disclosure: I am a Virgo. So while I'm not prepared to go all crazy filling up the blank pages with my slanted chicken scratch,  I have decided to occasionally choose a random prompt as a blog post.

Creative types. You should write along.  There will be no grading.

So here goes.

The prompt:  

While sitting at his desk unable to write, E.L. Doctorow began looking around the room and wondering about the original owners of his large Victorian home. His imaginings took him back to the turn of the century and led him to begin his best selling novel "Ragtime," which is set in that era.

My take:

Yeah. I know my house is some sort of special. It was built on the former site of the Messer Street Grounds, the home field of the minor league Providence Grays baseball team.

Take that new construction.

The park, which opened to incredible fanfare on May 1, 1878, was torn down only eleven years later, due to poor attendance. Once demoed, the vacant land was sold in subdivided plots, on which our home was erected, in 1890, literally where the grandstand once stood.

No, I have not heard any cheering.

Yet.

I'd like to think the people who initially built our awesome stone foundation and simple clapboard house were independent thinkers. That they were excited by the possibilities of settling in a neighborhood that was only just beginning to flourish around them. That they were energized by taking a risk in calling this untested area home. That they knew, deep in their souls, that their outside-the-box thinking would be rewarded. In big ways and small. Every single day.

Fast forward a hundred and twenty-two years and really, not much has changed.

ID'ing the Path to Success

Sometimes you get to connect the dots in life.  

And, sometimes, you gotta stand back and let, say, Stedman Graham, do it for you.

Dot Number One: Mr. Van Hunt

Last Saturday, Andre and I indulged in an outstanding show by one of our favs, Van Hunt. Who? Mmm-hmm. All part of the story. The short recap goes back to 2004, when he busted into the R&B mainstream, classified as a neo-soul artist. Sure, the brilliant songwriter was more than capable of being a comfortable crooner, but this was someone else's vision, not his. So he moved away from this established 'safe' sound, and the guaranteed fan base that came with it, to a more punky funky groove, which less people know about, but is hands down his best work yet.

Dot Number Two: Ty Taylor, lead singer for Vintage Trouble

The opening band, Vintage Trouble, didn't feel much like an opener. The guys were older. More polished. The lead singer? Complete showman. Dude was swiveling his hips. Dancing on the bar. And in an only in Rhode Island moment--during a urinal-side chat--much more interesting than a fireside--Andre found out Ty was from LA, via Jersey. But it wasn't for another two days before I figured out why he looked so familiar.

Back in 2005, Ty, then sportin' a mohawk, competed in an INXS reality show, on CBS, for the spot as the band's new lead singer. He didn't win and at the time, I remember feeling crushed for him because I thought he should have. Fast forward eight years and he's transformed himself in a mutton chops wearing, crazy cool James Brown song and dance machine. It all looked so comfortable, that I initially thought, mistakenly, this tight band was his life long passion.

Dot Number Three: Well, me

This occasionally frustrated freelance writer wonders and worries, where this professional ride is going. Sometimes, I just wants to catch a glimpse of the future to make sure the engine-that-could is indeed on the right track--and not about to get smoked at the top of the hill by an Acela.

The Connector

Well, who else would it be other than, Oprah's boyfriend, Stedman Graham, and his new book, Identity: Your Passport to Success. The gist? In order to find success, you've got to figure out who you really are. The process involves digging deep, tossing labels aside and not accepting any boxes that don't fit, even the ones you were born into. It's only after you peg down your true, authentic identity, that your limits will be lifted and true success will be achieved.

What I hadn't realized, until I saw Stedman hawking his book on CBS This Morning, was this was exactly the lesson of my weekend o' live music. Sure, I could see, and applaud, how both musicians had actively chosen to engage in this process of self-discovery, toss aside the safety nets of what brought them acclaim in the past and bask in the rewards of evolution. But what I hadn't realized, was just like on my journey, their muscling over to the other side, probably wasn't all that simple, pretty or without blood, sweat and tears. (The emotions, not the band.)

Simply put, I was privy to the end result, but not the journey. "It's all a process," said Stedman, from a studio in NYC. Argh. Someone's told me that once or twice, right,  Andre M. Brown?

And if you're true to yourself, the rest can't help but fall into place.

The Magic of Journals. Or Why I've Never Needed Counseling

Friday, December 26, 1980

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was fun! I got Merlin. Santa Claus bought him. I've been sick all today. I need flash bars.

Got to go.

-----------

For Christmas, when I was nine, someone gave me a Diary. Literally. That's what it said on the cotton candy pink vinyl cover, right beneath the illustration of a knock-off Holly Hobbie lying on her stomach in a pinafold dress, clutching a quill pen, while her cat napped beside her.

It should have read: Life Changer.

My supreme emotional health, mental resiliency and balance? No accident. No counseling. No prescriptive drugs. I give all the credit directly to where it belongs.

My journals.

After thirty plus years, eleven completed volumes, with a twelfth in progress, I've recorded a whole lot of amazing stuff. But I'm most proud of the intense self-reflection that's come from writing about the challenges of life, both big and small.

The act of taking a pen to paper provides an opportunity to slow time. It allows you to analyze each situation objectively, from every angle, not just your own. It provides a forum to dig deep to really figure out how you're feeling. It legitimizes your emotions. Journaling gives you a chance to return to the scene of the crime, take back your power and even rework the ending.

And once, you pour it all out on paper? That's when the real magic begins. Those emotions you've worked hard to explore? Turn the page and leave them in the past. Reflect, then move on. Say see-ya-later conflicts. Buh-bye to difficult personalities. Adios to anger, disappointment and sadness. In a few glorious strokes, they've all been, literally, written right out of your life.

Writing is a healer.

Write on.

The Soundtrack of My Life: The Van Hunt Edition

Van. Hunt.

Not Van Halen.  And, please, for the love of god, not Van Who?

If you haven't had the pleasure yet, Van's the Man. Yeah, there may be rumors that he grew up in Ohio, but the real story? Clearly, Van Hunt is the funky musical love child of Sly Stone, Lenny Kravitz and Jimi Hendrix. Don't even try to deny it. My ears don't lie.

My love affair goes way back to the Summer of 2004. Van and his band, all suited up, yup, even with ties, performed to a packed house at the Black Rep in Providence. My husband Andre and I managed to snag a booth right in front of the stage, where we got down with our pal Rhodes, before he decided to move on out for the bright lights of the Big Apple.

Sure, VH had it going on with his stylized neo-soul sound, layered brass and smooth vocals, on tracks like 'Dust', 'Her December' and my all time favorite, 'What Can I Say'. (Go on, play it live if you must. I'll accept the dedication.) But what really got me hooked was Van's depth of character. Saddled up to the bar after the PVD show, Van Hunt thanked me for buying his album.

Sincere. Modest. Grateful. And you call yourself a rock star? Consider me hooked.

July 2006 brought the celebration to the Middle East in Cambridge. This time, the guest of honor was album number two, On The Jungle Floor. And while we came for Van, we left with two major discoveries: The Brand New Heavies, or more specifically, for Andre, lead singer N'Dea, as well as the eventual crazy realization, that my-not-yet-pal Vickie, was the one grooving stageside in that red hat.

My first visit to Western, MA, in July, 2008? Courtesy of Van. For reasons I still don't quite understand, and he probably doesn't either, he touched down in the R&B bastion of the Northeast--Northampton--because nothing says funk like a historic coffeehouse, serving up hummus platters in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he was looking for a little anonymity, to regroup after two labels foolishly dropped him. And oh, he got that. We passed Van in the scary basement on our way to the rest room--without a bit of recognition. Upstairs, he turned it out. Solo. On a piano. And not for one instance did we feel like he was doing us a favor.

Humility at its finest.

The next chapter? Saturday. March 31, 2012. Fete. Providence. An outstanding new club. A brilliant new album: 'What Were You Hoping For?' A complex psychedelic new sound that's a bit more raw, but features the same brilliant songwriting. Tickets are a crazy $15 in advance.

And, best of all, Van Hunt has given Boston the bypass for us.

So, please, whatever you do, don't leave him hangin'.  

The Rewards of Rejection

The Great File Cabinet Purge of 2012 had all the elements of an archeological dig. Uncovered? Menus from out-of-business restaurants. Bank statements. And, of course, rejection letters from round one of the literary agent search.

That's right. I wrote a book.

Turns out penning 300 plus pages was the easy part. A whole lot harder? Finding an agent to bridge that exclusive world between author and publisher. Hence, my rejection e-mail, which read in part:

"I apologize for taking so long to get back to you about your work. Several other agents and I read your manuscript, and while we found many merits in your work, including the lively and humorous tone of the text, we unfortunately cannot represent your work at this time. Despite its clear potential, we found the manuscript to be a bit heavy on dialogue and lighter in regard of development of the plot. Undoubtedly these comments are subjective, and should by no means take away from the merits of your piece.

We believe that you are an extraordinarily promising writer and, being that we are a multimedia agency and you have a gift for humor, we would be happy to see any scripts that you may be inspired to write…"

Epic fail? Hardly. Granted, there was no golden ticket of representation, yet, but truth is, there shouldn't have been. The criticism of my book was spot on. Truthfully, all of this could have a bit of something to do with the fact that this was my first attempt at writing fiction. Um, ever.

No, really. Ever.

There were no afterschool fiction workshops. No journals filled with short stories. No college electives. So, all things considered, I think I'm doing a-okay. The humor in my writing? Recognized as a gift, with an invite for a round two submission.

Not too shabby.

So, thank you rejection. I don't see you as a personal attack on my talents or an excuse to give up. Rejection is my reward. It's an opportunity to grow. And to learn. Rejection is a chance to regroup, to figure out how to make it better and how much you want it.

Watch out rejection. I want it bad.