Positive Thinking

There are times when I wonder why I write a blog. Many years ago when I first picked up a pen for profit I was told in no uncertain terms to prepare for criticism. At least then I was being paid, and somehow indecision regarding the validity of my work didn’t seem to get to me quite as much as it does today. There were times when I was working for a newspaper that I wondered if anyone was actually reading what I had to say. It was like I was writing an obituary column for those readers who had already died. No wonder they didn’t make comments.

I can remember early on, about thirty years ago, when I was a guest on a radio talk show, and found myself wondering whether there was anyone listening in to what I was saying. The host smiled and said with a sly wink, “Wait until we open up the phone lines for questions and comments”. It was then I found out the real importance of them having a producer who also functioned as a screener: Some of the callers were really screw loose with what they had to say. One of the kids at the radio station called it pounce time. I found out quickly what he was getting at. There are people out there who devote their energies towards indiscriminate attacks on whomever they can find who isn’t in a position to retaliate. These are the unpaid critics, the "wannabes" that don’t begin to have the talent or the fortitude to make it on their own. (There was a time delay, so luckily most of these nut jobs couldn’t get through.)

Today there exists a new and equally parasitic clutter the creative world must deal with. They are still categorized as critics, and their psychological thrusts are the same as most those other bygone eras produced. But today’s rock-throwers have far greater capabilities than ever before in the history of communications. All a person needs is a computer, a phone, a screen, and an acidic condition in order to render their dissertation to a world in waiting. About one year ago I was cajoled to venture fourth into the wide world of “blogdom”. In doing so I promised myself I would not take to heart any really mean spirited critiques any of my readers might offer. Admittedly, my promise to myself at times is hard to live with.

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One Hundred Blogs Later

Writings, scribbling(s), statements of what have become lived in facts...receiving things from people, often the reality of tainted distortions of the real truth, or the truth as they perceive it. I try not to let another human beings misgivings about life, as they have lived it, get in the way of my attempts at remaining positive.

The majority of people offering their personal sentiments regarding my opinions, as I continue to scribe, have been positive in nature. Many have thanked me for reminding them of what they themselves know to be true. Most are reflections of little tidbits from my own past, which helped me during my own down times.

I doubt if we can uncover very many folks in the entertainment business that have reached a noteworthy degree of success without experiencing first hand a pitfall or two, or three, or four, or more. My own are numerous.

If I were to ask a person what gave them the right to vote for someone other than who I voted for, I believe I would instantly earn the title of one of the world's most boorish men. But what about an obviously bitter old person, who was never at any point of creative acceptance in their life, questioning why I have the nerve to write a blog, and further going on in asking if I’m seeking out a new career. To this person, I felt duty bound to offer my thank you. I will forever feel indebted to you for offering your boorish direction. You have given me the fortitude to go on with an even greater display of positiveness than ever before. Bless you for taking the time to let some of the vindictiveness seep from the core of uselessness that has centupled as you continue your creative condemnation during the remainder of your senior years.

There Will Be Times To Reflect, "As Time Goes By"

In two large corrugated cartons stored in the corner of my office, there are many stories, which will forever remain, not found, and most likely never again to be read by anyone but me. Scripts that began with a dream, and ended in two nondescript boxes in the corner of an office. It took all of five years to fill the two boxes, probably around forty pounds of paper, eighteen hundred and twenty five days of an immeasurable journey. The worth of the trip is only a selfish value. I’ve talked to other writers who cop the plea allowing how they were only writing for themselves anyway. If they happened to get paid for their labors, it would represent icing on the cake. To them I would offer, “What good is icing when you don’t have a cake to put it on?”

The younger writer brings enthusiasm. The older writer finds his or her enthusiasm turning to cynicism, without willful attempt. The younger writer tells a story with his or her passion for the truth being enthusiasm for the life and times being depicted. The older writer may bring forth a truth cloaked in cynicism regardless of the time period they’ve chosen to write about; happening without a willfulness to be downtrodden.

Many of us have given in to following a heart whose choice for joy is far less indiscriminate than should be allowed; our choices are not without limits. Personally, I admit, not necessarily to poor judgment, but too often to no judgment at all. I doubt if many young people enter into a pursuit of a dream, by first really taking heed of their dreams' limitations. If you’re dreaming about your dream not coming true, the result will be just that. The question becomes, why in the name of good common sense did I fill the two boxes in the corner of my office? My writing was a day and night never-ending pursuit. The words hit the paper with reckless abandon. Days, weeks, months, and finally five years of damage had to be accounted for.

While I was never guilty of deliberately conjuring defeatist’s thoughts, my dreams of success at the heights of the literary world had come to a sour end. Sound the trumpets; reality had set in. What does remain in my minds' eye, and perhaps will stay with me forever, is the stack of rejection letters I received during the course of my travails as a struggling scribe. At first I found the letters shocking, mainly because much of what the reviewers had to say about my work didn’t jive. It often came across as if they had sent the rejection notice to the wrong writer. I actually found myself wondering what in the world they were talking about. But the turn-downs that remained with me were the ones that were just outright cruel. One review was particularly nasty. It came in at the end of my professional writing career.

Note: I had already made my mind up about the futility of my continuing pursuit of a career as a writer.

The reviewer attacked me with a vengeance. Line by line, she pointed out my obvious ineptitude. That became it for me. The time had arrived. The cartons were sealed. However, not all was lost. Her review provided me with two pluses. It improved my vocabulary. Nothing in the review was the least bit conversational. It wasn’t a tutorial. It would be a much better descriptive if I referred to her assessment of my work as a verifiable documentation of my inability to communicate at even an average level of intellectuality. And secondly, after rereading her assertions of my literary clumsiness, I laughed uncontrollably for the balance of the afternoon, most likely a form of temporary insanity.

The amazing part about all of this is how many years ago it all took place. Everyday we hear someone remark about how fast time is flying by. “I can’t believe it’s Christmas, or New Years again. What happened to the summer? Your daughter is how old?” Probably one of the most agreed upon terms in all of humanity: Race, creed, color, religious preference, men, women, friends and enemies. The universal cry for all is agreed on: Time flies by, “As Time Goes By”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vThuwa5RZU


So, if we all agree about how short life really is, why do so many of us waste it? Why do we usually do just the opposite of what should be done in order to slow things down?

The other day I gave an actor the note, “Romance it a little.” His look wasn’t one of complete understanding, because the script wasn’t calling for any degree of intimacy. I added,
” Read in the present as if you’re relishing the moment, and recognizing the satisfaction you personally are experiencing.” And the key to all this is not merely asking the actor to slow his reading pace, but rather slow because of a pertinent reason to do so. What better reason could there be than creating the romance of what once was commonplace? It may have been a fleeting moment you’re reflecting on, but in the instant it takes to recreate it, your thought process will bring into play the missing romance aspect required.

The boxes in the corner of my office are not painful keepsakes. They have within them some tears, some laughter, and a great many dreams of what could have been. What they don’t have are buttons, switches, portable screens, and games to be played. Nothing in those cartons was ever “Googled”. The five years cannot be recaptured. The content of those boxes however are mine to recall and savor at my will. The five years may have been nothing more than short flashes of light, but the pages will never again be misunderstood. Those are mine forever to recall, “As Time Goes By.”

• Is the vast number of words in our world ever read?
• If every discarded script in our fair city was solicited for a paper drive, would there be enough space in our city o hold them?
• Is there anyone in Los Angeles (Hollywood) who doesn’t have a script in his or her possession that will be the next blockbuster sensation?

A Writer Writes About

On a day in May...

A writer writes
Where he’s been
Where he is

Where he’s going

All while void of coherence
Forgetting his past
Unsure of his present
Fearful of his future

Then as the success bell tolls

He’s congratulated

He relates stories of his past

Enjoys his present

And sells many books predicting everyone’s future

Still, perhaps not his own

Then on a day, as yet not fully lived

Sanguineness somehow prevails

And only to himself he reveals:

“Never have I been more touched by life than today.

For special reasons which will forever be unclaimed,

Yet so deeply felt.

Understanding, perhaps not a possibility.

Reasons for what transpires don’t find themselves getting in the way of the most unimaginable emotions beyond previously experienced recall.”

A message saying one's breath is far more important than its description. This is the moment for the writing to stop. This becomes a new time to capture new meanings, for quiet to resound within.

A writer listens intently though without prescription,

And just maybe an American pioneer was heard to say:

"Begin now!

Start the rest of your life

With this first day,

And each day thereafter

Serving as the canvas for your own

Personal masterpiece.

Each day is your audition for the next!"

hk

I Never Met Ruth Suffield

To the best of my knowledge there is no person I’ve ever met by the name of Ruth Suffield. I have no idea where the name came from. There was and is a person I wrote to who by no stretch of the imagination happens to be an extremely well thought of professional writer. I have chosen the name Ruth Suffield as her nom de plume; actually when she writes she does use her real name, and certainly not the pseudonym I’ve chosen for her. It’s just that Ruth is really a very private person who has a tendency to become annoyed easily when her privacy is invaded. Ruth tolerates me because I’ve known her since before she was able to get away with being an impertinent crab-ass. In other words… I knew her when she was a little crab-ass and couldn’t get away with anything resembling her current attitude. I value Ruth’s assessment of things as much as any other person in this world.

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To: Ruth Suffield
From: da harv
Re: Carmen Belasco request for information regarding her creative writing pursuit.

(Ruth, please excuse the formality of this letter. Nowadays, one never knows who will come in contact with what we might pen.)

Dear Ms. Suffield,

I write to you as one professional to another. Certainly I recognize that the term professional is all in the eyes and ears of the beholder. I find it similar to the subjectivity of an art form of any kind. One person reads a book, or views a painting and can do nothing but gush accolades, while, on the other hand, the very next reader, or viewer of the same work offers that they have never come in contact with a more repressive load of shit. And so you have the tribulations of those of us who have chosen the pursuit of any creative art form as a way of life. I think you would agree, we must all acknowledge the subjectivity of the world we live in.

I have been in receipt of a request submitted to me by one of my many fans, Carmen Belasco, asking if I might take the time to answer some questions regarding her endeavors in the search for an answer to a series of questions first posed to a struggler named William Shakespeare. It appears that our Ms. Belasco finds herself in a similar state of mind that I too experienced many years ago. Her quandary, as you might expect: Who, what, why, when, where, and of course, how, are the total ingredients of her not-yet-all-consuming-conundrum.

I know you must have a few vital inquires of your own, before attempting to answer her five basic questions. Since that would be impossibility, I thought I might offer some of what I have to say to her, or any other individual seeking answers regarding the subjective world in which we exist.

1. When did you begin writing with the intent of becoming a published author?

Answer: I began at age thirty-five.

2. Had you taken writing classes at that time to get focused again, or was writing something you always did throughout your life?

Answer: I was born with an appreciation for everything and anything creative.

I have never taken a writing class.

I have written or expressed my honest emotions for the better part of the last thirty years+.

Spare time has little or nothing to do with my spare time as a writer. (I began making presentations to other students in the second grade. Most of the material that I used in those formal presentments were written by me.)

3. Why did you think your writing was good enough to be published? Did you just start writing about things that interested you and then asked members of your family to give you their feedback?

Answer: Stories that I would relate to friends about my past experiences would often draw laughter and tears, and surprisingly to me, complete attention from those listening to what I had to say.

I began having an idea or two for a TV show. I joined forces with another young guy and between the two of us began knocking out a few treatments for television shows. At the time I was already in the industry as a Stage Manager in a variety of shows around town.

The only relative that had anything to say about my work was my then wife, who also functioned as a rewrite person for me.

I really never gave much thought to how good my writing actually was.

4. How do you know if it’s just the “idea” of writing that makes you think you can write, or if you really can write?

Answer: I write for myself. I don’t expect people to either like or understand where da harv is coming from. In my opinion, the only reason a person may determine if what they write will ever be able to support their lifestyle, is if they are content with their own work.

Each and every day some of my lines are put to paper, and stored away in the deep dark environs of a hard drive, that may some day be either celebrated or serve to corroborate my off-balanced disdain for the average person. I might point out that the average person has served as a welcome target for the spewing of ridicule that so richly enhances my life.

5. (And what follows is Ms. Belasco’s most ardent series of run-on questions, each requiring a degree of supposition, making an answer or even an educated opinion, more arduous a task than my personal sagacity could do justice.) If you get to the point that you want to dedicate time to writing, how do you know if you would be a good freelance writer for a magazine/local newspaper, or a three liner sentimental greeting card writer, an author of a children’s book? (I know I can clearly define things things that I am not interested in writing; like a novel for example, but what are the tools that you use to define yourself, or is that not even something you worry about in the early stages of writing?)

Answer: (At first I prayed for guidance. Then a calm came over me as I realized that I wasn’t God, and that my answers to her questions weren’t required to be God-like. All I could do was honestly recall and forward some of my experiences, in hope that Ms. Belasco might find solace and meaning within da harv’s literary trials.)

Magazines/local newspapers/three line sentimental greeting cards, or the author of a children’s book. How do you know?

You know your work is acceptable (good) after you continuously submit your work to these venues, seeking acceptance.

I could fill drawers with turndowns from all of the above. I would write an unsolicited piece, send it out and continue to write not waiting for any one company to send back anything resembling their appreciation. All I did was write and send; over and over, write and send. I became accustomed to opening the mail being well prepared for the rejection notice that I knew would be there. One day, to my surprise, the full size envelope containing my writing also contained an offer. I had written a celebrity interview with an actor named Mike Connors. They (the editor of the newspaper) required that I rewrite the article with a third party removed format as opposed to first person singular. That same afternoon I completed the rewrite and hand-carried my work to the newspaper office (I really wanted to frame the papers $125 check, but we needed it to eat).

The lines that I wrote for a local greeting card company were as risqué as my mind could create; still a payday.

At this stage of the game my writing has included radio copy as well as a few eulogies. I have written lines for stand-up comics and have registered the lyrics for six songs. I have written letters of complaint, letters of congratulations, and letters of sympathy. And after all this, I have only single certainty to offer Ms. Belasco. This time it isn’t da harv as the scribe. “To thine own self be true,” must be credited to another author of substance. But that phrase all by itself is the most important verbiage I’ve ever become a believer in.

What I have to share with people, succinctly stated is the most important commodity in my possession: It is my truth. Each and every line I write, or say, or give in the way of my direction to people represents da harv’s truth. While some may not appreciate my truth, and may even vehemently disagree with what I’ve brought forward, they nevertheless, in the long run, find something within my attempt at communication.

Place honest words on paper, and then send the paper away from you. Your honest words will ultimately stimulate love in the form of approval. Never put a price on your work as the criteria for determining your skills as a writer. Never, ever, value the input of any person who tells you that you have little or no writing skills. Be a journeyman writer. That is to say… write with your mind and heart simultaneously without thinking which of these two beautiful God-given reservoirs you're drawing your creativity from. If it’s your thought, then at that moment in time you have equaled and achieved the single most important substantive purpose that any of us have in this lifetime. Bequeath that thought, send it out there in whatever form you so desire. This truthfully will be the determining factor as a guide to what you will continue to write.

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And in closing, I’d like to thank you, Ms. Suffield, for taking your time. I look forward to your response. I value the thoughts of any successful person, especially a person who has been a participant in so many of our wonderful life experiences.

Cordially, and with a degree of growing respect, I remain yours truly,

Harvey Kalmenson
AKA: da harv

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Letter from Ruth:

Dear da harv,

Please offer these words to Ms. Belasco:

Stop asking so many questions. What was right for me or for Mr. Misplaced is not necessarily the correct thing or method she should pursue. Tell her to do what I did; take up drinking. Single malt scotch, if she can afford it would be the best advice I might offer. Make sure she doesn’t do something stupid like getting married. No matter how stupid the topic might appear to be, write about it. Save everything you write. Never throw anything away. Just store the shit in a box and every so often come back to it. If and when you come back to the shit you’ve written and you find it to be still a good read; take it from me, you haven’t grown one bit. If you fall in love with your own work, you’re not taking enough chances with the subject matter. When I stopped getting people all riled up, I simultaneously lost favor with the same people who were in love with my work to begin with.

If my words of advice are help, then fine and so be it. If my words don’t mean anything to Belasco, I really don’t care that much anyway.

Stay well,

You know who