Tag Archives: The Mensa Bulletin

Jane and I are working on two writing projects, a new book of essays that go back as far as 30 years ago and a book of short stories on the Holocaust that I have been working on for the past year. I have categorized parts of the essay book which consists of published essays and blogs, the blogs revealing a writing style which has morphed greatly since years ago, much freer, more loose, chatty and conversational, perhaps the end result of blogging in which I just blather. As Jane read through the old stuff and then moved to blogs that are about three years old, which I printed out, she and I agreed, after some discussion, that she should cut out the deadwood with an ax rather than a scapel, to assist me to get to the essence of the blogs which often go on for paragraphs before I hit the vein I am looking for. Consequently she has “savaged” the blogs, cutting out paragraphs if not pages. All to the good.

I am sharing this for those of you who are writers, regardless of your experience, to get at what goes on, often haphazardly, often by luck in the writing process. In fact, David Herrle, editor of Subtle.com, has published a few of my blogs in the past year or so (See “Glut and Loathing in Las Vegas” at Subtletea.com); he suggested that I consider writing a book consisting only of my blogs. That stayed in mind, considering that Jane had mentioned the idea of a book of essays; and all that began with her reading of Eric Hoffer’s essays which he said somewhere were inspired by the writings of Montaigne. It came together in mind. In the past two weeks Jane has slugged through my old essays and  new blogs, observing that I am often a kvetch, that the same themes repeat themselves over and over (Melville took to the sea; I take to dyspepsia). She determined, my closet intellectual, that she’d take the best of the lot — in each category –as a representative sample.

I relented and bit my lip as I heard the silence of the lambs. Being 70 allows me to relent, to let go, to pass on control and so I believe the book will be that much better. The categories are reflective of who I am and they will change, but here is a sample: on movies; on childhood; on teaching, teachers and the taught; on sons and daughters; on marriage; on being a therapist; on the Holocaust; on being a Jew; and a potpourri of essays on the fabric of my life, musings, etc.

On purpose, I have left the book of short stories, tentatively titled, “Working Through the Holocaust” to “rest,” like a newly baked cake. The last revision was rigorous and again listening to my spouse I cut out more and more. You see, reader, Jane has a great nose for literary crap, being more interested in the delivery of the pitch than the pitcher’s wind-up. Sometimes I get absorbed with the style of the wind-up and forget there is a pitch to deliver; we must advance the man to first. As Jane and I know and as professional writers accept as a cliche, often the writer doesn’t say anything for at least 3 to 4 paragraphs, much like blowing into one’s cupped hands on a cold day, a useful meaninglessness. And Jane is an excellent content editor.

She advised me some time back to send out a few stories, to sample the marketplace. I did well: one story, “Soap,” was accepted by a new online journal edited by Duff Brenna, novelist; “Archipelago” was accepted by David Herrle, poet and polymath; and The Mensa Bulletin accepted “The Tea Table.” So three stories out of about 26 were accepted within weeks of one another. Realize that I have as yet to have Jane edit this collection and I have agreed to the putting to death of some lambs if it does not advance the men on base. Within the past two days I posted about 10 short stories in addition to others I have out; I sent out “Away,” which deals with a mentally slow child abandoned to his own devices after the Nazis round up his mother. It is three pages and minimalist in style. I was very gratified to be emailed by the editor that it was accepted within a day that it was sent — now, that is something! The idea, of course, is to test out my works and when I go to publish I can acknowledge that many of the stories were in print online or in print magazines.

Jane will begin the pruning in a week or so while she works on her degree in library science, works on her own stories as well; recently she posted a fine literary memoir. So the Freese household has twenty fingers working in writing, about writing and a very collegial feeling wafts through our home. Only a few hours ago I edited a short piece that Jane will send out tonight; it deals with her ongoing relationsip with her mother, She who must be adored, the Medusa of Madera Canyon, Arizona. If a marriage between writers can sustain mutual editing of one another’s works, “What larks, Pip, what larks!”