August 2012 | Staci Troilo

The Best Sound I Ever Heard

Soothing sounds are all around us. Nature is full of them. One obvious example is the beach. They make recordings of ocean waves to soothe people. Of course the beach will be on the list. Crickets chirping, birds singing, bees buzzing… There’s a symphony outside if you’re listening for it.

I personally love symphonies, both natural and orchestrated. I love most music. But it’s hardly fair to compare rap, country and rock, because those are a matter of personal taste. Better to look at several renditions of the same song. Take “The Star Spangled Banner,” and orchestral, rock and a cappella versions of it.

When I hear my high school band play the national anthem, I remember the elation I felt upon being chosen color guard captain and the stabbing, searing pain when I blew out my knee. I remember hours of grueling practices on hot asphalt and ten minutes under the bright lights before winning the Best Auxiliary and Best Band trophies in competition. I remember running onto the field for the fight song and watching my husband, then my boyfriend and the captain of the football team, crunching opponents in smashmouth football. There is pride in self, pride in school, pride in country.

When I hear the Jimi Hendrix version, I think of mud-soaked fields and flower children. I see peace signs, smiley faces, flowers and rainbows. I see hemp leaves and bell bottoms, tinted glasses and afros. This song is anti-establishment. These people may love their country, but they aren’t willing to die for it.

When I hear the Roseanne Barr version, I am nothing but revolted. I feel no national pride, no country honor from her, although it strengthens my own feelings toward my country. I feel anger and embarrassment for the incident.

How can three renditions of the same song evoke such different responses in self and in country? I could write a dissertation on it.

Clearly music isn’t the way to go with what sound is the best I ever heard. So what is? What sound tugs at my heart and squeezes my soul so I laugh and cry at the same time?

It’s so obvious. And too fleeting.

My babies.

The sound of their cries as they first entered the world.

The sound of their first coos as they tried expressing themselves.

The sound of their first laugh, which surprised them as much as us.

The sound of their first words, which they said repeatedly, delighting themselves as much as us.

My children are teenagers now, and their voices have changed. They speak when they want. Sometimes they speak when I wish they wouldn’t. Sometimes they don’t answer when I call. I can never get back those precious first sounds. We’ll always have nature unless we royally screw things up. We’ll always have music, and we each have our own tastes there, with different styles evoking different responses and different songs bringing forth different memories. But we only have a limited window in which to experience those first precious sounds with our babies. Video recordings just can’t capture the magic of live sounds. Maybe part of the joy and wonder of baby sounds is the experience of having babies itself.

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Sound of Blogging

Heroes

This past week, the world lost two heroes. One hero lost his standing in society and one hero lost his life. If you believe in a higher power, and I do, you can understand why I believe the former is the greater tragedy.

Lance Armstrong is an American citizen, but he was renowned the world over as a seven-time winner of the Tour de France. Does that make him a hero? Not to me. Sports figures are celebrities, not heroes. His accomplishments were legendary, but not heroic. What made him a hero was his triumph over cancer, combined with his ability to take the adversity he faced, the fame he’d acquired, his innate talent, and his drive and ambition and create an organization that raises money to help cancer patients every day. I don’t know if he’s guilty of the accusations levied against him, nor do I care. What I care about is whether those accusations will ultimately cost his foundation, and therefore, the cancer patients who benefit from it. The loss of the titles isn’t the tragedy; the detriments to the organization is.

Neil Armstrong was also an American citizen, but he didn’t even belong to this planet. He left footprints on the moon. He risked his life for his country when we were engaged in the space race, and he left this earth to help the Unites States win that race. However, when he set foot on our moon and said, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” he wasn’t just talking about our country; he was talking about the world. Decades later, our country collaborates with several other countries in space, working on the International Space Station, an endeavor that probably wouldn’t have been possible without Armstrong’s efforts. His passing is a sad thing for those loved ones he leaves behind, but his legacy is a proud one.

As writers, we will likely never have titles that can be stripped from us. We will probably never have one line that the world stops and listens to us speak. But our words do live on for eternity, so we should choose them carefully. We shouldn’t steal them from others. We shouldn’t carelessly and quickly publish them and move on to the next project without concern for quality or integrity. We may never be heroes, but we do touch people’s lives, and we have a responsibility to do so to the best of our abilities.

What One Online Tool You Might Be Using Incorrectly to Get to Know People

I recently read a post called “eBooks and the Personal Library” (http://scholarlykitchen.sspnet.org/2012/08/20/e-books-and-the-personal-library/ ) by Joseph Esposito in which he posits that the day of the personal library is falling by the wayside. He came to that conclusion during a move in which he parted with many books rather than paying for the shipping cost. I, too, have been there. I’ve moved from Pennsylvania to Ohio, to Michigan, back to Ohio, and to Arkansas, and every time my physical library has taken a hit. I’ve built it up in each new residence only to have it reduced in the subsequent move. It is currently the smallest it has ever been, and it’s being replaced by eBooks. It’s a trend that I’m not completely in love with— there’s something about the feel and smell of paper that will always comfort me— but it is convenient and it’s here to stay.

Something Esposito said stuck with me, though. He said that we can’t tell what kind of person someone is by seeing what book is on their table because books aren’t there anymore. We need to see what is in their GoodReads or LibraryThing accounts. That statement really gave me pause.

Maybe I’m just a cynic. Maybe it’s the overprotective mom coming out in me. Maybe I need to stop watching the evening news. But I have a difficult time believing in the sincerity of online profiles, even ones as innocuous as “what I like to read” accounts. I think the only way to really get to know a person is to get to know them personally. If you meet them face-to-face and see for a fact that they are reading A Tale of Two Cities, then it’s highly likely that they are reading it. If they just say they’re reading it on their online profiles, it’s hard to take them at their word. They may be reading it now, but they may have read it years earlier and are secretly reading something they’re too embarrassed to admit to, or even nothing at all. How many authors out there are willing to write to the world that they are reading books that are getting bashed by the media or books whose content would get them looked down upon by friends or associates? Yes, there are people who will be honest about what they read and who they are, but there will also be people who won’t; people who list literary novels in their libraries and spend evenings snuggled up with beach reads (or worse). Furthermore, often authors are asked to review books outside their areas of interest for fellow authors. You could see five star reviews of sci-fi books on author pages who really only read and definitely only write historical westerns. That’s akin to false advertising. The booklist profiles really can’t be trusted as viable sources of information about the readers.

I know in this day of advanced technology we all are just a keystroke away from corresponding with almost anyone around the globe. It’s an exciting and fascinating time. But I just don’t think I can safely say I can make judgment calls on strangers based on booklists, or any online profiles. I guess I just miss the days when I could shake someone’s hand and look them in the eye. Barring that ability, I’m not going to use booklists as a screening tool. I’ll turn to social media avenues (see that word social in there?) to try and determine what kind of people they are. Blog comments, Twitter posts, Facebook presence, WANAtribe… these are the tools I use to interact with people online (huh, interact, another keyword there).

I feel the pain of Mr. Esposito’s loss. I miss my books, too, and I miss the days of libraries and big bookstores and snuggling up with an actual words-on-paper book. He has a fantastic blog (http://scholarlykitchen.sspnet.org/) that I urge you all to visit. But I wish him, and everyone, success at screening booklists when getting to know people online. I’ll stick to actual communications instead.

Back to School Blues

So today is the first day of school for the kids— again. Where did the summer go? We had so many plans: picnics, vacations, honey-do list items… So little of it happened. Twelve weeks came and went as quickly as a visit home (which by the way, we also didn’t manage to squeeze in this summer).

This morning, I was up at 4:30, probably because I was dreading the alarm ringing at 6:00. When I woke the kids (who still can’t manage to get up on their own), they both asked for more time. I’m their own personal snooze button. They finally got moving, and I took the obligatory first day photos before we piled in the car and headed off for school. I can’t believe my son is starting high school and my daughter is in her last year of junior high. I remember when I took them to their first day of preschool. They marched in their respective classrooms without so much as a backward glance at me. I sat in the parking lot and cried my eyes out. They might have needed me. I had to be right there, not a phone call and a drive away. Finally the administrator came out to my car and gently but firmly suggested I leave. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. Still today my kids go to school without looking back. Probably because they’re half asleep, but also because they’re ready to start the next phase of their lives. And I know I need to get on with mine.

Writing is very much like that. There is some truth to what people say about written works being like authors’ babies. We grow very attached to our stories and have a hard time letting them go. But there comes a time when we need to realize they are ready to send out into the world, and we need to move on to other ventures.

On the first day every year I send my kids off and have that momentary twinge of panic then I grieve because I miss them like crazy, but I know they’re where they need to be. I also know I’m where I need to be— writing my next story.

It’s Up To You New York, New York

Ah, Old Blue Eyes. I fell in love with Frank Sinatra when I was a young girl and saw Guys and Dolls on television. That’s when I also fell in love with Marlon Brando, but that’s a subject for another post. This post is about New York. Specifically the Big Six publishers. When Sinatra sang “I want to be a part of it, New York, New York” I’m sure he wasn’t singing from a writer’s perspective talking about getting a publishing contract. But I hear that song and it’s like it’s coming from my heart and soul.

I don’t know what route my published works are going to take. I have one finished novel currently with a small publisher, and I don’t know if it will ever see the light of day. I have a finished first draft that I’m currently revising, and I don’t know if I’m going to go the self-publish, small-publish, or New York route with it when I’m done. I see merits to all three.

Self-publishing is great because you have complete control and reap the most rewards. However, all the work and responsibility is yours. Sure, the writing and revising is a given. But cover design, marketing, extra editing, conversion to e-format… all on you. No help. And, while it’s getting better, there has been a stigma in the past with self-publishing because anyone can self-publish (hence the name), so there is no quality control. There are some really bad books out there. Some people assume if you self-publish it’s because you weren’t good enough for a publisher to take a chance on you. Writers know that isn’t the case, but not all readers are on board with that premise yet. It’s getting better. Cream does rise to the top. I’m just not sure yet when the readers will find the cream. I want them to know I’m the cream and I want them to know where to find me.

Small publishers are becoming a popular choice for writers. It’s the route I chose for my first manuscript (knock on wood). They seem to be a nice middle ground between self-publishing and getting that elusive New York contract. Some accept electronic submissions, which is a big plus. Also, they will handle the cover design, the copy editing, the e-format conversion, and even some marketing for you (check your contracts!) but that doesn’t let you off the hook. Distribution will be severely limited to regional stores, if they print books at all, and you’ll still be expected to do a lot of marketing on your own. Plus, you’ll have to share more of the profits than if you self-publish. At this level, an agent is a good idea, as a contract is involved. At the very least, get a lawyer to review the paperwork.

Agents are a definite if you choose to go the New York route. You aren’t going to get your manuscript on an editor’s desk unless an agent puts it there, and it will definitely be a bulky paper copy. Another bonus is the big publishing houses will do all of the heavy lifting for you — above and beyond the efforts of the small publishing houses — but be aware. You have the least control when you go through the Big Six and you share a bigger percentage of the profits than in self-publishing or with small publishers. They’re also the slowest to pay the royalties out, although you do often get an advance. (New authors will get much smaller advances than established authors. Of course, new authors have trouble getting in with the Big Six to begin with.) What is the biggest benefit you get from going the New York route? The backing of one of the Big Six. If you can say that New York is willing to take a chance on you, then cautious readers are more likely to take a chance on you.

So with the trend going to eBooks and the Big Six hesitant to sell eBooks to libraries and having a tenuous relationship with Amazon… it’s hard to know which way to go. Small publishers look like a bargain, but they look like a lot of work, too, when you consider that for just a little more work you get complete autonomy. Still, I hear Sinatra crooning, “If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere, New York, New York.”

At the end of the day, I probably should finish my revisions before I make any decisions. What have you decided, and how is it working for you?

A Legacy is More than Boxes of Photos

My grandfather was a photography nut. I won’t go so far as to say he was a photography buff or an amateur photographer, but he was into taking pictures. Of his family, mostly, and friends. I never saw a picture of interesting buildings or pretty foliage. My grandfather took pictures of people. Often twice, because he’d forget to take the lens cap off.

He was so excited when my sister went to the prom that she and her date had to repose for all the pictures. Because he left the lens cap on. (I secretly think he was just stunned she got a date — just kidding, sis!) I’m not sure how you and your family pose for prom pictures, but in our family, it’s just short of a wedding shoot. Pictures of the girl alone, pictures of the guy alone, pictures of them together. Pictures of her getting the flowers, pictures of him getting the flowers. Pictures with the parents, pictures with the siblings, pictures with the whole family. Pictures with the grandparents… you get the idea. Is it an Italian thing, or was it just my grandfather setting a tradition in my family?

It wasn’t just the proms, though. In the summers, he’d have me and my cousin stand in the flower beds to take photos of us by whatever was blooming. They usually planted geraniums and impatiens. When my grandma wasn’t looking, my cousin and I would bend down and pop the impatiens’ seed pods, and my grandfather would laugh. If Grandma would see, she’d yell and we’d run away, and he’d just laugh louder. And then usually he’d realize he had the lens cap on and we’d have to come back and do it again. Afterward, we’d get Gram’s lemonade and cookies, so who could complain?

There were always photos at holiday mealtimes. We have some wonderful snapshots of tables laden with food and everyone is gathered around them, forks or glasses raised in salute of a toast having been made. But someone is always missing from the photo, because someone was behind the camera. Usually it was my grandfather. I have one nice picture where my grandfather is actually at the head of the table… my uncle took the shot; he’s absent from the photo. When I grew up and started hosting meals, I took a photo at my home. I wasn’t in the shot. It was kind of depressing, because it reminded me that my grandfather wasn’t, either. He’d been gone from us for many years at that point. I never took another photo at the dinner table. Really, at some point one of us should have learned to use the timer function on the camera.

My grandfather’s gone, and all we have now are boxes of his photos. Half of them are black, thanks to the lens cap. He’s in so few of the photos, because he was always behind the camera. But still, he gave us so many memories to remember him by. Not the big trips or the gorgeous monuments. It was the little things.

The grandkids in the flower beds.

His daughters in the kitchen with their mom.

His sons-in-law in the alley washing a car.

The family at the table.

We don’t have to worry about lens caps anymore when we’re taking the photos. But we should all learn to use the timer.