friendship

August 23, 1968

This entry reminds me of a line from Annie Hall by Woody Allen – “I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.” The quote has also been attributed to Groucho Marx and it crystalizes some Freudian concepts (according to something I read on the internet). While the quote isn’t mine, the idea it expresses resonates.

Wilcox 1967 Literary Screening Committee (School Magazine)

The moment I got kicked off the Wilcox literary magazine, I wanted to get back in. Once reinstalled, I lost interest. Cathy was right when she questioned my commitment, although she should’ve done it to my face. Wanting what I’ve lost (or can’t have) wreaked havoc with my adolescent love life. Nice guys who genuinely liked me got taken for granted; I obsessed about jerks who couldn’t care less. I identified with sad songs of unrequited love, not joyful tunes about finding my soulmate.

Wilcox Literary Magazine '68 — Wilcox Literary Magazine ’68

Sad lyrics still move me more than happy ones, but today I make better choices. That said, sometimes I still treat the people closest to me worse than I treat virtual strangers, whose approval I crave. Fortunately, the people I love – who love me back – are forgiving and understanding. They deserve my best and one of these days, they’ll get it.

August 16, 1980

Today's bride and groom — Today’s bride and groom

Watching another couple vow to share their lives forever on the fifth anniversary of the day I made that same promise to John caused me to reflect on exactly what that meant, five years down the line. (For the record, today’s groom was the soloist at our wedding.)

“Just the Way You Are” was an excellent choice for where John and I were in our marriage, then.

Here are a few of the lyrics with my commentary. Billy Joel wrote it for his first wife; they are long divorced.

The applicable lyrics are “unspoken passion – although I might not seem to care”. As the diary entry makes clear, “spoken passion” wasn’t the norm for John and me. On this anniversary, John admitted to being happier with me, lately. So, you could say that he “might not seem to care.”

John and I met six months before we wed and we didn’t know each other all that well. I had a baby early in his third year of law school, adding to the overall stress when he had to pass the bar. When we got married after his first year in law school, nobody thought we’d last a year. So, I think that qualifies as times of trouble.

These are the lines that matter and they’re as true today as they were on our fifth anniversary and the day we got married. We’re all looking for someone we can talk to – and I found that when I met John.

As of today, we’ve been married 46 years.

August 10, 1969

My sisters and I with Alana in August '57 — My sisters and I with Alana in August ’57

Alana was my first best friend in Santa Clara. She lived about five houses away from me on Del Monte Street. Her family moved to San Diego in 1960 and we lost touch – for nine years.

Alana in the bg behind a very young Joyce

How on earth did we reconnect without the aid of FB or the internet? Probably the old-fashioned way – in person when her family passed through. As my diary details, she visited me at UCLA. In the mid-seventies, John and I had dinner with her and her husband. After that, we lost touch again. I don’t know when – I rarely realize it’s the last time I’ll see somebody until long after it’s happened.

Alana visiting me at UCLA - outside Sproul Hall — Alana visiting me at UCLA – outside Sproul Hall

I’d love to talk to Alana again. Maybe she’ll read this and reach out. If this post stirs thoughts of someone on the fringes of your own life – someone you haven’t seen or spoken to lately, even though you mean to – try to make time. I wish I had.

August 2, 2004

Friends forever - Chris Varaste and I — Friends forever – Chris Varaste and I

Looking back, I realize Chris was correct – I handed him a sheaf of shapeless unedited diary entries. Not only did they lack a story, they didn’t have a point. The only reason Joyce and I weren’t bored witless was we were in the cast of characters. This was neither the first nor the only time I resisted negative feedback only to recognize its wisdom later.

My friend of at least two decades, Chris Varaste, with my dog Nicky

When readers fail to rhapsodize over my first draft – which has happened exactly never – my first reaction is, at best, defensive. Sometimes, I’m downright hostile. That’s one of the reasons friends like Chris are so valuable. They’re not afraid to tell me the truth because they know that after my ego settles down, we’ll still be speaking.

No writer enjoys criticism, but I’ve come to realize it’s a gift. Some people can’t accept it. If I recognize them, I tell them their first draft is perfect. Taking the time to analyze the strengths and weaknesses in someone else’s work is a sign of respect – even though it doesn’t feel like that when I’m on the receiving end.

July 30, 1994

How I try to look on social occasions like birthday parties.

I don’t need a personality test to tell me I’m a classic introvert. Reserved, reflective, check. Prefer observation to participation, check. Exhausted by too much social stimulation, check.

How I really feel after too much socialization.

However, for a brief spell in my thirties, I passed as an extrovert. John and I threw outrageous parties and paid heavenly bills. Instead of waiting for invitations, I had to send them. I had to place calls (and risk having them not returned!) instead of waiting for people to call me. Hardest of all, I had to feign interest in other people’s lives instead of thinking about me, me, me all the time. It didn’t come naturally, that’s for sure.

David Schnorr (?), Dianne Simon (?), Dale, Michael Elias, J, Debbie Blum, Laraine Mestman (I'm taking the photo) — David Schnorr (?), Dianne Simon (?), Dale, Michael Elias, J, Debbie Blum, Laraine Mestman (I’m taking the photo)

Amazingly, 27 years ago, we made it to a birthday party in South Pasadena and a dinner party in Beverly Hills and had a fine time at both! Today, either one of those events would exhaust my reservoir of sociability for a week. I need my time alone to wonder what you think about me.

David Schnorr & Dianne Simon (?), me, J, Debbie Blum, Dale, Laraine Mestman (Elias behind camera)

I suspect even extroverts socialize less as they age, despite theoretically having more time. A couple of F. Scott Fitzgerald quotes suggest depressing reasons why.

Beneath his party-boy facade, he must’ve been an introvert.

July 18, 1974

Inga and I share a melancholy moment in San Diego.

Moving back in with my parents at age 23 was not part of my master plan, but there I was – stuck in my old bedroom in San Diego. I’d blown my first shot at the dream – being a professional screenwriter. I didn’t have a plan B.

Inga and I catch some zzzzs on the family room sofa.

I needed a new launching pad. Academia had been kind to me. I applied to USC’s grad school. In those days, UCLA ran roughly $250 a quarter. I don’t have figures for USC, but it’s safe to surmise you can add a couple zeros to that even in ’74 dollars. The only way I could swing it was if I moved in with my parents and saved my pennies.

Inga and I lounge on the floor (I have no idea about the white fluff).

San Diego is a beautiful city. Everyone says so. Unfortunately, my parents relocated there during my first year at UCLA. My life-long friends lived in Santa Clara. What’s an introvert like me to do? Make new friends? I don’t think so.

I refinish an old desk in our San Diego backyard. Something I would never, ever do. But I did.

I clung to an old friend, the one who never (willingly) left my side – Inga, the dog I brought home from the LA pound. Even when I didn’t deserve it, she gave me limitless love and devotion. If you need a friend who won’t let you down, someone steadfast and loyal who quivers with bliss at the gentle touch of your hand………..

Check out your local animal shelter. I’ve never been sorry I did.

Please do check out your local animal shelter, as I did and continue to do. I’ve never been sorry. Let me know your story.

July 1, 1993

I could not have a more generous, supportive friend than Roberta Gundersen. What kind of petty, insecure person could possibly begrudge the success of a friend who wants nothing but the best for me? This is where I raise my hand. I didn’t begrudge her success, exactly – I just envied it to an unseemly degree. I wish I could say I’ve matured in the 28 years since then, but I haven’t. Every time I read about another writer’s success, I can’t help thinking, “Why isn’t it me?”

In the last few days, I’ve devoured a novel – The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz – which deals with some of these issues, and more. I loved it – and, of course, I’m jealous, and I wish that I had written it. I’m familiar with most of her settings and situations (writing workshops, etc.) In fact, the experience I describe in today’s diary entry (circa 93) took place at an Iowa Summer Writer’s Workshop I attended with Roberta and my sister, Joyce. (Our teacher, GM, liked Joyce’s work, too.)

Roberta and me on our way to writing conference

I can’t help wondering if the book spoke to me so strongly because it’s about familiar territory. If you’re NOT a writer, aspiring or otherwise, and you read this book, I’d be very interested in your thoughts.

Not sure whats going on here but it looks like its fun — Not sure what’s going on here but it looks like it’s fun

April 29, 1982

Our group is the tiny figure in the far right distance.

That was a lie, of course, at least as far as I was concerned. I couldn’t possibly co-exist with four other people (three of whom I didn’t live with) and not have one of them get on my nerves – but it’s entirely possible the problem is mine (too prickly, petty, over-sensitive to personal slights, etc.)

"I am a rock, I am an island" — “I am a rock, I am an island”

I opted to spend several days alone in the condo while the other four explored the island – partly because I had a writing assignment due, partly because I craved solitude. Some people can’t stand to be alone; I can’t stand to be with people for extended periods. Unless I get a requisite amount of solitude, I turn testy and obnoxious – given that I get on my own nerves, it’s safe to assume I get on everyone else’s nerves too.

That said, this was one of our last “young, unencumbered” vacations. J had just turned thirty and we had one child, not three; the three of them were single but wouldn’t stay that way for long. If they did, indeed, get on my nerves, I don’t remember why; only that we had a great time.

April 10, 1970

As the photos suggest, Mary and Luke were fast friends. Both of them graduated from neighboring Catholic high schools and attended Catholic colleges in northern California before transferring to UCLA. In those days, I didn’t like to drink, but they did, so periodically they partied without me, which worked for all of us.

On more than one occasion, Mary told Luke that even if he and I broke up, she wanted to stay friends with him forever. He felt the same way but like so many well-intentioned promises, that didn’t happen.

Some friendships, love affairs and rock bands – like the Beatles – seem so solid, it’s easy to believe they’re destined to stay together. Mary and Luke never had a falling out. There was no acrimony, no broken promises. They simply drifted apart, like I’ve done in friendships that deserved better. Always, the dissolution was due to lack of nourishment, never lack of affection. By the time I notice how long it’s been since I talked to someone, they’ve moved or changed their number and I don’t know how to get back in contact.

At least, that’s how it used to be. Facebook has solved much of that problem, although a few people remain MIA. Vania Brown, where are you?

February 18, 1967

This entry’s self-conscious attempt at being “lyrical” suggests I wrote it for others to read, not to bare my soul. One of my failings as a writer (or strengths, depending on your point of view) is my conspicuous lack of place description. It bores me in other people’s fiction, so why torture my readers?

Elmore Leonard’s ninth and tenth rules of writing are:

Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

The parts I tend to skip are description – of place in particular, but pretty much everything else too. Some people love elaborate descriptions of food. I hate them. Unless it affects the plot – for example, if there’s arsenic in the quiche – it just doesn’t matter if the hero selects steak or salmon as his entrée.

One can argue what people eat defines aspects of their character. The guy who loves Popeye’s is rarely mistaken for the dude who dines at Nobu. That said, there’s no excuse for describing more than one meal per person per book. The reader doesn’t need to know and I don’t want to.

friendship

August 23, 1968

August 16, 1980

August 10, 1969

August 2, 2004

July 30, 1994

July 18, 1974

July 1, 1993

April 29, 1982

April 10, 1970

February 18, 1967

Search

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

Archive

Categories

Administrative