My Tale of Two Cities

“There’s no place like home.” – Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz

“I can’t wait to be there!”

Naperville, our home since 1978, is a pretty nice place to live. Don’t believe me? Others see it the same way.  Pick any of those lists – Best Place to Live, Best Places to Raise a Family, Best Public Schools, Safest Cities – and Naperville is always near the top.

Nice, of course, but I have my own reasons for loving Naperville.

Family first. Our two children liked growing up here so well that this is where they’ve raised their own kids.  Within minutes, we can be with them. 

Long friendships are here, too. Right across the street are two couples we’ve known since we cheered on our own tee ball players. Every month, I get together with some first-house neighbors, still calling ourselves Craft Club although we haven’t done a craft in decades. Our histories are intertwined, going back to carpool mom days, on to mother-of-the-bride dresses, now seeing our grandkids head off to college. It’s easy to get together with my teacher friends, too, and reminisce about our classroom days.

While Naperville is big – population around 160,000– It’s typical to run into a familiar face while popping into the Jewel for groceries, or in the dentist’s waiting room, or out for a walk. It keeps its small-town feel, with Municipal Band concerts in Central Park, cover band performances at the historic Naper Settlement, a farmer’s market, a couple of art shows, a Memorial Day parade that kicks off summer and the Last Fling parade brings summer to a close.

Naperville has always been kid-friendly, and it makes me smile to see kids on bikes, beach towels draped around their necks, heading to Centennial Beach, an old quarry that was transformed into a popular “swimming hole” in 1931.  On a Saturday morning the familiar beep from a neighborhood pool– there are over 20 of them all over town–  lets me know that a swim meet is under way, and I can still conjure up images of my own two little Stingrays, now the parents of teenagers, throwing themselves off the diving blocks in their first races.

And then there’s our Riverwalk, a local treasure. A walk to its west end winds past a playground through a tranquil woodsy stretch along our DuPage River. Today, the air is perfumed with lilacs blooming along the brick path. The walk near Main Street, lined with an ever-changing palette of flowers, bustles with people. Along with good old Midwestern English, I’ll hear a blend of languages – Spanish, Polish, Indian, Chinese. Not everyone was born here! Young parents point out the ducks and geese in the water as they push strollers. Little ones reach into our dandelion fountain to get their fingers wet. Clumps of teenagers slurp their macchiatos and do what kids do – hang out.

Like so many other walkers, I never tire of our brick paths or the covered bridges that span the river. Away from downtown, pretty parks, pretty neighborhoods, pretty houses, including some bearing historical markers from the 1800’s, keep away that cookie-cutter predictability of some suburbs.

And restaurants? Everywhere! What’s your pleasure? Italian, barbecue, steaks, burgers, Asian, seafood, ice cream? It’s here.  And shops! A world-class indie bookstore plus some big-name spots – J.Jill, Chicos. All just a mile walk from our front door.

What’s not to love?

Still…. When the air turns chilly in October, and I have to hunch my shoulders to stave off the cold, I begin to think…

“I can’t wait to be there!”

Sarasota beckons.

A fantastic place to live.  Atop the lists of Best Place to Live, Safest Cities, Best Place to Retire.

So, like the Clampetts, we load the car with way too much stuff, much of it packed into black plastic garbage bags, and off we go! Two days on the road, and we’re in a different world.

In Sarasota, we’ve gained a bunch of new friends from all over – Buffalo, Long Island, New Hampshire, Indiana, Germany. We snowbirds are a sociable, fun-loving bunch.

No boots needed – ever.  70 degrees in February? I prefer slipping into the pool for water aerobics instead of slipping on icy sidewalks.

Away from gloomy skies and wraith-like trees, we are treated to the sight of palm trees, lush bougainvillea and magnolias. Like the Swiss Family Robinson, we delight in our tropical neighbors – sandhill cranes strutting along our roadways, herons and roseate spoonbills flying overhead, and alligators basking in the sunshine on the banks of our neighborhood ponds.

Viewing the sparkling Gulf of Mexico never gets old, whether from the white sands of Siesta Beach or from the walkway on the Ringling Bridge.

What else? My writing group. An array of theater performances. Boom-boom shrimp tacos. Grouper sandwiches.

So. as I said about Naperville, what’s not to love?

Neither pace is without its flaws, its minor aggravations. But why talk about those?

While Naperville is HOME, Sarasota is home too.

Lucky, lucky, lucky us.

Whining About Writing

“Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium in his skull.” — Rod Serling, 1957

Oh, the woes of a writer … or someone who aspires to be one. After months of pecking away at the keyboard, I find myself over one hundred pages into a new story, and I’m mired in writerly quicksand.

Where to go? What to do?

Well, I know what to do. Park myself in front of that keyboard and get cracking.

Sure.

But, instead of plowing ahead with something, anything, just words on the page, I find distractions.

The other day a doozie popped up in my inbox, titled something like “Authors List Their Rules for Writing” — a compilation of links to scads of writers’ “rules.”

Great, I told myself. Let’s see what the pros have to say. Then I’ll simply do that!

Yup. That’ll work.

Just like how-to articles in Golf Digest have turned my husband into a scratch golfer. It’s funny —  reading that he should hit the ball straight down the fairway and avoid bunkers has not lowered his handicap one stroke.

Anyway, I clicked on links and I found some “rules” that sound promising. Although – “rules”? Isn’t that kinda bossy? I suggest “suggestions.”

Some “rules” zero in on the nitty-gritty of writing.

Elmore Leonard advises: “Never use the words ‘suddenly’ or ‘all hell broke loose.’” Also: “Never open a book with weather.”

So, I guess It was a dark and stormy night is out.

R.L. Stine tells us: “Never use WAS as a verb. Too boring. Never use PUT or GOT. Too ugly.”

Mark Twain advises: “Use the right word, not its second cousin.”

All solid ideas.

As for strategies to craft a good story?

Again, Elmore Leonard offers up these pearls: “Leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.” and “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”

Neil Gaiman says: “Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.”

Geez, Elmore and Neil. What parts are you talking about? Which word is the right one? Your vagueness doesn’t help anyone.

Colm Toibin shares this tidbit: “Stay in your mental pajamas all day.”

Huh? Not sure I have mental pajamas. Wonder if Amazon carries them.

Then, this I gem from Richard Ford: “Don’t drink and write at the same time.”

Kind of a killjoy, aren’t you, Mr. Ford?

From their lofty perches along the shelves of Barnes and Noble, some writers deign to offer some solace to those struggling.

Roddy Doyle admonishes: “Do not place a photograph of your favorite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide.”

Anne Enright says: “Only bad writers think their work is really good.”

That nugget made me laugh out loud. I remember a “David-Baldacci-in-his-own-mind” guy in a long-ago writing group — well, enough said.

Now loaded with so many profound pieces of advice, I should be good to go, right?

So, here I am, slapping together a blog piece instead of that meandering novel.

Notice that I avoided beginning this piece with any mention of the weather, even though it is a warm and sunny day.  I have not cluttered my sentences with WAS, PUT, or GOT.

And because I don’t want to be thought of as a bad writer, I profess that this work of mine is not any good. Really.

As for drinking while writing… hmmmm. Could a teensy glass of chardonnay be such a terrible transgression?