Introverts Can Change The World
Susan Cain, the author of Quiet: The Power of Introverts, has helped me to understand something I have struggled with my entire life but could never make sense of. I am someone who requires oceans of time alone, who has an inner life that is reliably richer than her outer life, who can go days without talking to anyone, who wants to be invited to the party but doesn't usually want to go. I bristle, though, whenever anyone suggests the term "introvert" to describe me because I am also known to go around hugging strangers, and I pride myself on being able to have an interesting conversation with virtually anyone. Even if that person is a republican.
Cain explains that introverts are not necessarily shy, remote, socially awkward people. Introversion can refer to the way a person processes stimulus, which is to say that an introvert is someone who works better alone, who thrives in solitude, who craves peace and quiet. Someone like me.
She gives examples of famous introverts like Rosa Parks (above), as well as Gandhi and Lincoln (below), all of whom were able to channel their introversion into a revolution.
The Writers That Bind
This is a woman who name-drops poets during press junkets. A woman who often talks about the pieces of literature that helped her prepare for a particular role. A woman who, when asked about her nonexistent romantic life, said, “I’m not lonely, and I think that has a lot to do with what’s on my bedside table rather than what’s in my bed.” A woman who carries clutches made to look like books (Salinger's A Catcher in the Rye and Miller's The Misfits) on the red carpet. She is a writer's actor.
My husband and I went out the evening after the photos were published online, and I kept hoping we would bump into her. Not because I wanted an autograph or a photo, or even to talk to her; I like her too much to accost her in public. I just wanted to slip her a piece of paper with the names of my favorite books on it.
I want her to read the essay "Liv Ullman in Spring" by Andre Dubus, the one I read to J in bed, which caused us both to drip tears onto our pillow. I want her to read The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch, the only book I have ever finished and immediately started reading again from the beginning. I want her to read The Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuscinski, a book so beautiful it can only be read a few pages at a time, because any more would be too much to bear.
I want her to love the same books I love, to hold them under her sweater in the rain. I want her to idolize the same authors I do, to imagine hosting dinner parties for them at her house, as I imagine doing the same at mine. Somehow, this seems as good as knowing her. Maybe better.
How Technology Is Changing The Role Of The Artist
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| Photo by Bill Vaccaro |
I have just finished writing my first book, which took five years, and I find myself in the uneasy position that many emerging artists find themselves in. Now that the hard creative work is done, the far more daunting task of self-promotion looms. At this time in our cultural history, when publicity is so integral to success, it is no longer enough to make good work. It’s not even enough to make good work and to have a website where people can find out more about it. In order to cut through the supersaturated media barrage, artists must take advantage of every networking opportunity possible.
Last week I signed up for an account on Pinterest, the newest darling in the world of social media. The site allows users to collect and share digital images, to become curators of their own online galleries. By putting together collections of images that communicate something about you, the idea is that you will attract like-minded folks, aesthetic kindred spirits who will be more inclined to follow you on Twitter or Facebook, read your blog, visit your Etsy shop, browse your portfolio, or sign up for your newsletter, so that when you have something to sell, they will be there.
It used to be that creative people found an audience by publishing a book, by exhibiting their work in a gallery, on a stage, or in the cinema. Now, it is nearly impossible to do any of those things unless you already have an audience. In the world of publishing, which I am currently trying to penetrate, it’s called a “platform,” a built-in following that is waiting for you to release your next book, thus guaranteeing sales and reducing the publisher’s financial risk. In many cases, an agent won’t agree to represent you without one.
A platform is why the Kardashians can get a book contract, but my friend, who has won national creative writing awards and is immensely talented, cannot. Anne Lamott alluded to the phenomenon in a recent tweet:
Snooki's in labor! It's great to realize that even if you wrote the most profound, lovely book of last 10 years, she'll still be more famous
900 Channels of Nothing
Mostly, I lay in bed with the remote, feeling sad about the things we are being told to care about, like how important it is to be the first in line to get the new iPhone or to have at least two designer dresses for your wedding day or to have a tan all year round.
I miss the Cleavers and the Cosbys and Misters Wizard and Rogers. I miss living at a time when there was an understanding of the profound influence television had on our culture, that it could be used to make us smarter and more thoughtful. I miss living at a time when cooking shows were about making delicious food and not about making the people who are trying to make the delicious food feel like crap about themselves.
I am not of the mind that we should give viewers what they want, because apparently what viewers want are shows about vapid thoughtless people getting in trouble and screaming at each other, or vapid thoughtless people trying to hide how miserable they are by building 40,000 square foot houses.
I wish more people like Oprah would strike out and create meaningful programming, I wish there were more shows like Glee that took on important social issues. I wish, at the very least, that one of the major networks started showing reruns of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood.
Until then, I say kill your television.
Design Fail (Minneapolis Edition)
While I would certainly patronize The Coffee + Swine Bistro, I don't think that's quite what they were going for.
An Update to Fred Rogers' Legacy
I was so little when I started watching Mister Rogers' Neighborhood that for years I called him "Mr. Wahtoo." My mother tells me that when the theme song to his show came on, I would run to the TV from whatever corner of the house I was in and sit in front of the set completely transfixed by him.
It wasn't until I became an adult that I learned about him as a man and an educator, and discovered what a remarkable human being he was. Few people know that in addition to a life-long academic study of child development, he was also a Presbyterian minister who used television as his ministry. "I went into television because I hated it so," he explains, "and I thought there's some way of using this fabulous instrument to nurture those who would watch and listen."
During his life, he searched for someone who could succeed him and take over Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, but was unable to find the right person. As a result, an entire generation of children has grown up without his message. The Fred Rogers Company recently announced that instead of trying to find a replacement for Fred, they have decided to create one instead.
You simply can't animate this feeling:
At the Symphony
The first time I went to the symphony was in college with my best friend. We got student tickets for a pittance and had first row balcony seats for Beethoven's 9th, which for this performance included a full orchestra and a 100-person choir. I remember weeping. I remember sitting there after the performance thinking Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with myself now? There is a scene in the movie Big Night when Tony Shaloub's character, who is a chef, describes a dish that his uncle makes back in Italy. He says, "You eat it, and then you go and kill yourself. You have to kill yourself! It is so good, you cannot live." That is how I feel after the symphony.
I vowed I would try to go at least once a year, but times have been tight and going to the symphony, along with going to the ballet, has moved way down the list, after BUY SOCKS WITHOUT HOLES. Last week, though, I discovered that the Oregon Symphony had tickets left for Beethoven's Violin Concerto at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall for $23. I bought two. The woman who processed my order told me we would be in the very back of the auditorium but that that was where the best acoustics in the house were. I'm not sure if this is what she tells all the nosebleeders to make them feel better, but it worked.
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| The Schnitz is resplendent |
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| Photo taken from below where we were sitting |
Ours were the two seats in the very back row all the way over to the side. We could not have been farther from the stage if we tried. But we were surprised to discover that we loved watching the performance from that distance. Instead of taking notice of the musicians' faces or their outfits or the slightly different way that each one held their bows or moved their hands, we were forced to take in the entire orchestra as a single organism. It moved in sections, waves. We could see how the music took hold of everyone at once, and we were so moved, we wept.
