Brawlin’ in the Mornin’

Have you ever wanted to punch somebody? I know I have - the tourists near my old flat in Galata, the annoying chick on her cell phone in the library bathroom, people who are clueless and think the world revolves around them. Yep, pow! Right in the kisser. No, I haven’t punched anyone in a long, long time (and it’s a funny story because I actually knocked out half his front tooth, but it all ended ok because years later he wanted to date me.)

I have to say I like the pretense of civilization (and civility) adulthood brings. I say pretense because I used to teach first grade and can tell you that loads of adults still haven’t truly become mature. I like actual civility and civilization best, but will settle for the pretense. I really don’t want to punch you, but don’t tempt me.

But there’s something cathartic about a big, old brawl. I was thinking about the fight scene in The Quiet Man and how Barry Fitzgerald announces it’s a private fight at 3:16 (taking his cue from the famous old question, Is this a private fight or can anyone get in?)

A brawl was the last thing I expected when I got an email from my friend Jess (no, we weren’t the ones brawling.) Jess and I were thick as thieves in graduate school. We both had the same concentration (Women’s Studies) and pretty much the same sensibility. Our friendship was solidified in our now-infamous Feminist Theory class, team-taught by our department chair (now nicknamed ‘The Closer’ for her ability to get you to complete your M.A. even though you have only days before the statute of academic limitations runs out) and a feminist geographer (I am not making this up, there is such a thing.) No amount of coffee, muffins or candy bars could make this class any fun. Although I do recall liking the Luce Irigaray readings, I will never get back the 4 hours of my life spent on Gayatari Spivak’s “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Geez, please, no. Although we did not study any Camille Paglia, she was just coming onto the scene with her motor-mouth, New-York-accented philosophizing, she was a celeb, but not one who crossed our syllabus. And that was some time ago.

Then Jess sends me an email, subject line: thought you'd enjoy this as much as I did :)‏ Nothing more but the link. And oh, boy, did I. This is a slug fest (though if you are offended by words termed the f-bomb and the c-bomb, don’t click on this link.) Otherwise what you get is a perfectly orchestrated, blow-for-blow literary brawl. All the better because they’re two broads (not chicks, not gals, not dames) – most definitely, women, but here they go at it like men – and with an eye toward what this might do to help their careers. It’s a satisfying fight that anyone can get in.

(And check out Letters of Note’s entry on the late Helen Gurley Brown’s letter to the editor of Cosmo Turkey - it's a masterful use of tone.)

Page-Turner and I

My friend Claire from college was traveling in Turkey last month and we met up here in İstanbul for drinks in Galata. She had asked me if I wanted anything from N.Y. – yes, I did. I wanted a brick of Café Bustelo (my favorite!) and she brought me that and a whole bunch of other things that she knew I wouldn’t find here – salt-water taffy(!), jelly beans (!!), and cherry-lime gum (!!!), but the biggest surprise was four copies of The New Yorker. She put everything in a plastic shopping bag and when she handed it to me, I could feel the magazines.

“I have some other surprises for you,” she said.

“Ah,” I whispered without opening up the bag, “The New Yorker.”

“How did you know?” Claire asked.

“It’s not the first time I’ve felt up The New Yorker – I know what it feels like,” I said and we both laughed.

The truth is I didn’t know how much I missed good writing – in long- and short-form, until I opened one of the magazines when I got home. I started with a short theater review (for the play, “Cock” – no kidding) and then I read half the magazine, completely forgetting that it was late and I was tired.

Since then I have been reading a lot of The New Yorker – both online and off – especially, Page-Turner, because I love short-form pieces (a history of erasers, why everything is fiction and - oh, just go have a look, you’ll like it, I promise.)

I also like New York magazine. I subscribe to their daily emails for fashion and arts and culture. The writing is just as good as The New Yorker (especially in the long form), but there is a lot less national politics and a lot more pop culture (plus they have tons of pretty photos), so it feels lighter and bubblier than The New Yorker, whose own style brings to mind more of a very beautiful schoolteacher in a classic grey suit. Maybe because I have been reading a lot of articles about Alfred Hitchcock, I keep thinking the parallel is someone who looks like Tippi Hedren in Marnie. But maybe that’s just me.

So I have been reading a lot and thinking about writing. And I do realize that I enjoy thinking about writing a whole lot more than I do writing. I’ve also been pretending to write for The New Yorker. Wouldn’t that be lovely? That would be a dream come true. I’d do a lot of gorgeous short-form pieces about all the little things that turn me on about writing – or thinking about writing. Now, I just need to go out and buy a pencil skirt.

Keep Going

I dreamed I was Anne Lamott the other night. When I woke up I began analyzing all the little layers of my dream – my ego said, you have that kind of talent and my brain said, keep writing and you will get to where she is and the student in me said, oh, she is the greatest, you have so much to learn. The thing about Anne Lamott (besides being a truly beautiful writer) is that she tells the truth – whether fiction, memoir, her guides for writers or essays – she shares the truth of her experience. It is her truth to be sure, not the kind of truth whose existence is argued in graduate schools the world over, but her experience – the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I think the net-net of my dream is that I want to tell the truth, my truth. So I have been writing things I want to tell you. One, read Anne Lamott. Two, if you want to be a writer read Bird by Bird. Three, everything you need to know (or have!) will come to you. (Ok, this is the one I keep telling myself as I look for work writing! or editing! or acting?!) Four, keep writing. Five, see Four. Six through Nine, see Four and Five.

Because I have been doing Four through Nine, I recently decided to have a go at number Ten and I started looking around to where I could send certain pieces. Salon seemed an obvious place, so I took their advice on the submission page and started to familiarize myself with their content. Was my piece better suited to Love & Sex or to Life? The day I decided to explore the Life section a perfectly serviceable piece about catching the Bubonic Plague had been posted. It was written in “good writer’s voice” with touch of “wowwee!” because how many of us get the plague nowadays? And because I was not satisfied I decided to keep clicking and that’s when I came upon this. Emily Rapp’s piece is not “good writer’s voice” it’s “great writer’s voice.” It tells the truth, her truth and takes you on the full-circle emotional journey of grief and growth, understanding and our own delicate and aching humanness. I think a few years ago I would have tossed my piece in the trash and said, ‘Well, nice try.’ Now I am focusing on my truth and sharing it with you.

Does my piece fit the Life section? I think yes, it is on a different scale, but it does. Think sweet and breezy – and it also touches on grief and growth, understanding and our own delicate and aching humanness. So, ok, I’ll keep going. I’ll keep doing what I am doing, being and writing. I’ll write to the level of the raised bar as often as I can. I’ll keep finding things and sharing them with you. I have some dreams, they keep telling me things – and I’ll keep telling you.

Writing (with a little sex in it)

I am settling into my new place and my new life in it. As I intended it has opened up a whole new phase of creativity for me. I wrote a short story, I am blogging for Hürriyet Daily News, I am working on two short, funny pieces and I am trying to figure out where to invest my creative energies. I love the feeling of mastery I get when I write a short story – the architecture, the voice, the subtext, the telling of something true economically as possible. I have always loved the short form. But it is also an intense experience – like holding the reins of wild horses as I did when I wrote the last 1,000 words of my latest one. And afterwards I am out of it, usually for a few days, as if I just need to rest from that journey.

My shorter, occasional blog pieces are easier and gentler to write. I enjoy them, but there is no distinct feeling of power and control that comes from within a short, literary piece, which may be a good thing because I certainly don’t have the stamina for that all the time.

I know I am very lucky – and I am grateful to be able to slip in and out of different forms and styles easily. I also think I am more or less at the same level within each of the forms (maybe my poetry needs some more crazy, experimental musicality and life experience, but I have planted that in the back of my subconscious and am just waiting for it to go B(l)oom!)

So, at the moment I am contemplating an easy, breezy longer narrative (no architecture, just one straight road beginning to end), with one easy, breezy voice (best friend kind of funny) with lots of sex, because as we all know, sex sells.

Here is a clip from one of my all-time favorite movies – that almost perfectly meshes social commentary with comedy.  Our hero “Sully” is a Hollywood director who wants to make an earnest movie about America’s social problems – and his studio bosses’ response.

[Sullivan's Travels is arguably writer/director Preston Sturges’ most important film. I highly recommend it along with my other favorite, The Great McGinty.]

Show, Don't Tell

I've been having some disagreements with my web editor over the editing of my pieces. After some back and forth, I have asked them not to edit the pieces that I send them. My web editor who seems to be a decent, conscientious, professional guy sent me this today.

I am sorry to inform you that I am unable to publish any unedited content on the website and you have agreed and signed the HDN blogger agreement giving us permission to edit your pieces. It is not open to discussion and we cannot make any exceptions.

So here is some of the edited content that they can publish.


Thursday evening, pop music diva Madonna was on stage in Istanbul. Some had waited for weeks, some for months or even years and finally she came back to Turkey after 19 years with a crew of 200 people, 3 planes and 45 trucks. I was one of the lucky 55,000 people to see this event. I can easily say that those missed the event, also missed out on some valuable time.


- Madonna In İstanbul


http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/madonna-in-istanbul.aspx?pageID=500&eid=89


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Fish are of course more than a paragraph of encyclopedia information. But you cannot deny the help of an encyclopedia when you are looking for accurate and simple information. You will need to think deeply though if you want to learn and use the image of “fish.” Thanks to the art of metaphor, in cinema and literature fish have often been used as a symbol of captivitiy, despair, and “no escape.” If you are portraying freedom, you are lucky, you have “birds” in the catalogue, but the ones who are not that optimistic will need to look at the fish.


- Fish in the bowl


http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/fish-in-the-bowl.aspx?pageID=500&eid=86


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I can’t remember exactly what age I was when I had full sex. I don’t remember the date but I remember the settings. It was at a friend’s home, at a couch bed. I must have been 20 or 21 or 22. I had to go to work the next day and I thought whoever saw me next morning would immediately understand that I’d had sex the night before. Well, it didn’t happen that way. Nobody understood anything or would have cared even if they did. That looked like a big deal for me at that time but it wasn’t. Life went on as usual. Everything looked OK. I assume it must have been the correct age.



- What is the correct age to start sex?


http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/what-is-the-correct-age-to-start-sex-.aspx?pageID=500&eid=5


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Initially, let me begin with the usual difference, which is labor. In the south of Italy people work differently from northerners. It is obvious that southern Italians do not work as much as the notherners. Southerners have a break between 1:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. in a work day. They call this break “siesta.” They see the "siesta" time as the only time to stop their frenetic life. But on the contrary, northern Italians work very hard. They work for long hours and we can say that the north is the propellent power of Italy in a way.

- Italy - divided country

http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/italy---divided-country.aspx?pageID=500&eid=91
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And here is a pull quote from this page:

http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/Default.aspx?pageID=499&p=2

This is another traditional Turkish food which is not so easy to make. You need really talented hands to make these balls.

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I invite you to read each piece because I haven't even gotten into the other issues I have with the writers. All I can say is, don't you have other things to do than to edit my work?

You can read my pieces here:

http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/alba-brunetti.aspx?pageID=499&wid=15

Get A Move On, Girl

I'll be moving from my beautiful, rambling place in Galata to a cozy one bedroom (or 1 + 1 as we say here in İstanbul.) I am so excited to be moving into my own space. I am feeling all the energy of renewal. I'll eat right, I'll exercise, I'll work on all the projects that I want to work on.

This morning as I walked to the library, two of my characters came to talk to me. They are impatient, they want to live their love story, they want to live their lives, they want you to know them and why they are important. They want to be. Just yesterday I discovered my female character's name. I could see everything about her as a young woman and as an old woman, but her name eluded me. I couldn't even ask her as she wandered around her dark house, opened the door and let the narrator into her shop because I hadn't settled into the quiet of hearing her, of being with her. And I need quiet and alone time to be with them. My characters are not impatient with me - they are just exploding in front of me, their pasts, their present, their future. I know everything about them, I just need to settle down into writing about them. They've been waiting a long time - more than a year - just waiting for me to open the door and say, welcome.

They began as a short story called "Write It In Your Own Hand," but for the first time in my writing life my characters said, "We're bigger than this." "There's more." "There's a lot." "We're a book." "All of us." The whole family came and they were all talking at once. This was strange to me because my short stories are usually short, my characters self contained and all of the action is in the interior landscape. And Kemal said, "I married her out of duty." And the little boy said, "I want to be a writer." And Ayşe said, "It is all the same love." And I said, "What do I know about any of you?" And they kept coming back, the wife and the husband, the kids playing on the street, the woman who closes herself in a dark house for 20 years, the parents of the little boy - and they keep telling me everything.

Ok, I get it. Time to move - and move into a new routine. Time to write and not just about my characters. Time to be in a new place, in a new way and settle down into the things I love. Time to get a move on, right?

And She Lived Happily Ever After.

Let's begin here. There's a lot of my story that leads up to the title - and not all of it is what you would expect, and maybe none of it too. Some of the story I will share here on this blog, some of it will make its way into my other artistic projects and some of it I will tell you over tea overlooking the Bosphorus on sunny afternoons.

Oh, I may not tell you everything about me and what I think - a gal's gotta have some mystery, right? A little something to surprise you, to keep you a bit off balance, to make you laugh. Let's just say I'll share a part of me with you. Today's just the beginning - and there's a lot more to come.

I just want you to know that I am living happily ever after. And my soundtrack for today is: