Flicker

Once a week for three weeks
my friends’ babies died within them.

Pulsing energy lost in silence.
Searching on a screen poised over a belly,
one, two, three.
Still.
My friends’ hearts beating faster, faster,
then
slower,
stopping in agony and in empathy
with their little beloveds.
Shared blood, shared stillness.
Ringing ears giving way to
equal silence.

i remember a woman in a small dark room
(she always comes back with urgency,
reminding me that i’ve forgotten)
with a screen poised over me
as she chatters, chatters, and then
silent.
Turning the screen to me-
breaking the rules-
she points,
pantomimes:
her hand presses her chest twice
then away
touches twice
then away-
thump/thump
thump/thump
my/child
bright/spark
alive.
Then: turned away and chattering again.
i stare at the flutter on the screen but
i want to watch her-
this rogue stranger-
risking her security for my peace.
i don’t remember her name.

i hold my boy to me when he cries,
our hearts facing,
rhythms different.
His doesn’t stop, mine often does.

i watch him when he sleeps,
so silent and still that
fear declares
‘He has slipped away. You did not escape.’
i do not breathe,
i press my hand to his chest-
in/out in/out
He is here, yet.

i know he is a rare creature,
millions like him are born all the time,
millions of rare creatures
that kept pulsing
when their equals did not.

Every time a little heart stops inside a woman,
peace is lost for every woman who knows.
There is no security with a child inside.
Wild need of it makes us
break rules,
scrabble,
go rogue-
grip it when we can, give it as often.

i hold my boy to me when i cry
for friends who lost,
friends who were lost,
for peace lost.

Beat/on.

Hold/fast.

Live/full.

Burn, spark.

They are green.
No.
They are grey.
No.
They are taupe.
No.
They are mushroom.
No.
Puddy.
No.
Oregano.
No.
They are shirt.
…Well, sure.
They are sandy kelp.
Something like that.
They are wet driftwood.
If it’s a smaller piece.
They are campfire ash.
On the stick that turned the logs.
They are a wool hat.
But a little damp.
They are fog on a mossy redwood.
Essentially.

Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes. – Jack Handey

(My filmy friend Jesse Rosten and I co-wrote this note, twas his idea (and clipart))

Dear Clients,

Let’s talk about FEEDBACK. No, not the kind you hear in a movie when someone taps a microphone, the kind that you, clients, give when reviewing your Creative’s work. We want to help you give more constructive critiques. Why? Because proper feedback leads to happy Creatives, and happy Creatives do better work, which makes you look good.

Unfortunately the opposite is also true. Over the years we have received some truly terrible feedback from clients- critiques that sucked all passion out of the project and words that sent us into spirals of self-doubt and bitterness. Bad feedback isn’t from clients being malicious or moronic (at least not most of you), it’s just that when it comes to feedback … YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG.

So here are some tips for keeping your Creatives fed and watered and your project on track!

1. STAY POSITIVE
Yes, we Creatives are an odd bunch. We wear funny glasses, drink weird coffee and nano brews, and have heated conversations about music and fonts. But the truth of the matter is that underneath all the tattoos and scarves, we are vulnerable idealists trying to make a living on a BA in art, literature, or film studies. We’re much more fragile than we look.

You see, if your Creative is any good at all, they’re pouring themselves into the work. They see your project as an opportunity for self-expression, a challenge to channel their best into your needs.

You know the little kid that runs to show his parent his crayon drawing? Yep, that’s us. That’s exactly how your Creative feels when they send you a professionally-worded, business-y email titled, “first cut” or “rough draft.” They are actually saying, “Look I drawed you a picture!” So be gentle. You don’t want your Creative to become beat down, because then your project will suffer.

The ol’ compliment sandwich will go a long way in keeping your Creative on track, especially since Creatives love sandwiches. A compliment sandwich is a grass fed, humanely raised critique delivered between two whole grain compliments. (Here’s a better explanation).

You chose your Creative based on work you liked in their portfolio, they will have used similar techniques for this project, and you will no doubt find something you like in this rough cut/crayon drawing of you with only three fingers, standing on a unicorn. Show your Creative that you appreciate the work they’ve done so far. Do this EVERY time you send feedback.

Instead of “I don’t like it. I don’t get it. This is not at all what I was expecting. It’s creepy.” *ACF (*actual client feedback) Try: “Thanks for the review and thank you for putting so much hard work into this. Here are a few items to address…. It’s looking good so far.” Accentuate the positive and position yourself as a collaborator to be trusted, vs a grump to be feared. Be gracious and positive and your Creative will gladly jump through hoops for you, like the needy, crayon-wielding juveniles that we are.

A note about egos: it may seem that Creatives are holding your project hostage, demanding you hover over us, stroking our hair and saying, “oh wow, everything you’re doing is brilliant.” Not at all. We’re very particular about our hair being touched, but also: the uniquely personal nature of our work is nearly impossible to ignore. We can’t put our hearts into the work without taking the critiques to heart. One of our betters had a term for splitting up the soul like that: she called it ‘making a horcrux’, and it was bad.

2. SPEAK SUBJECTIVELY
Which color is better, green or blue?

Art is something we experience; it’s subjective. What I think is the perfect music for an edit you might find dull. Maybe the photo is working for you, but it’s too ordinary to me. That’s OK! I’m OK and you’re OK! That’s the beauty of art, and that’s why it’s important to keep subjectivity in mind when phrasing feedback. Don’t make unequivocal statements like, “the music is bad”, “that unicorn isn’t believable” or “this effect evokes serial killers”* *ACF. When you speak in absolute, objective terms, you close the door to alternative approaches, and you imply that there is only one, “right” way to accomplish the goals: your way. Your Creative will wonder why you hired her/him at all. This is frustrating to Creatives and a surefire way to get Comic Sans on your next version.

Instead, speak subjectively … say things like, “the music felt a little slow to me”, “I think the unicorn may be a stretch” or “I don’t understand this effect.” That this is your experience is indisputable, and reminding Creatives that you are “experiencing” their work will allow them to try seeing things from your perspective. Remember, preference does not equal correctness; no color is better than the next. Speak subjectively and your Creative won’t feel like you’re steamrolling over their vision. Plus, (some???) Creatives love explaining their processes, so inviting them to dialogue about their hows and whys will build rapport.

3. LET US DO THE WORK
When you say: “Their faces seemed dark. I lightened them in Photoshop and attached an update.”(*ACF) We hear: “Your work is so easy anyone can do it. Must be nice getting paid to sit around and play with software.”

We know you’re excited to show that you have some editing chops, you’re handy with a DSLR, or that you write the company newsletter, but when you start doing work for us it makes us feel cheap. It implies that we’re just pixel pushers, font flippers, or glorified thesuari and that the art we pour into your project is nothing more than a cheap commodity that you could buy anywhere. This is related to the next point…

4. DON’T OFFER SOLUTIONS
Imagine if your Creative told you, “This annual report we’re animating seems too similar to last year’s. I’ve worked up some sales strategies to better source the overseas markets and spice things up for next year’s numbers.” You would laugh, screech, or roll your eyes. When you tell your Creative, “It’s trite, so I’ve written a few lines and you can work those in,” you are being screeched and laughed at- silently if it’s a teleconference or meeting, quite loudly if it’s over email.

Creatives understand that projects are processes, and they are balancing many factors you probably don’t see. Let them filter those factors to find the best solution. After all, creative problem solving is not just our favorite pastime, it’s our job.

5. DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF
Here’s a little secret that Creatives know and [usually] accept: the project will never turn out exactly like we’re picturing it in our heads and hearts. As hard as we strive to realize our visions, there are constraints to moving a vision from the ether of our imaginations onto the page, sound wave, or screen. Things get lost and left along the way. Keep in mind that what your Creative delivers to you is never going to exactly match what you’re picturing in your head. It can’t, because that’s impossible. If you are constantly measuring drafts against an arbitrary memory of a once dreamt vision, it doesn’t matter what the Creative turns in, you’ll never be satisfied.

Your role is to identify a strategy (preferably before any creative work is done) and determine if your project is on strategy or not. We’re really sorry to break it to you but whether you personally like the creative direction ultimately doesn’t matter. Unless you are a wealthy landowner in the 15th century who has commissioned an artist to paint your likeness with oil on canvas, then you’re not the target audience. Stay big-picture with the project, make sure it’s on track, and make sure it’s capturing the brand’s voice. Don’t offer quibbling requests like “make the logo bigger” or “sound smiling but not too happy.” Insisting on minutia like this undermines your credibility as a collaborator and it’s simply not your job. That’s why you hired a Creative: they know this stuff better than you. Trust them!

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive for a unified vision, but it does mean that, as a client, you should let go of the little details. Measure against the goals and strategy that you [hopefully] set and communicated before you started the project. Is the message of the piece loud and clear? If yes, then, congratulations, you master of unicorns! You and your adorable, weird Creative are on the road to a successful project that will send next year’s sales numbers through the stratosphere, ensuring you a promotion and your Creative more exposure on YouTube!

— Your Creative wants to make money by making art. They can only make money when clients are happy, and they can only make art when they are happy. If you want your project to be a work of art, keep your Creative happy. Everyone wins, everyone gets a unicorn. Here, I drawed you a picture.

Presently F & G [effin’ g, man, effin’ g…]
and the sharp when things are frisky.
I am in The Battery-
consistently dabbling in melody,
and the rhythm
when the highs are alight-

steady,
steady,
omnipresent.

The higher bells are too shrill for me,
chirping and insistent.
They feel thin
and threaten to fly
from my hand, should I ring in force.
They are the divas
who perch high above the staff
and demand you come to them.
I have no skills outside of the lines,
though I feign intolerance.

‘It’s me and a dozen churchladies’,
I say.
‘A hand bell ringer is a percussionist,
so we’re practically a drum circle,
just …more like a horseshoe,
and there are velvet tablecloths
and scripture readings instead of
patchouli and nudity.’

I am (mostly) IceMan,
ifIdosaysomyself,
even when I come
directly from having a beer
for dinner.
I tolerate goofs,
I loathe failure.
God help the churchlady who messes up
Greensleeves
because I cannot abide by error there.

But I stay quiet.
No remonstrance from me-
the whipper, the snapper,
the beer-y wisecracker-
I have other generations to consider.
I must let my bells speak for me,
and I ring them true,
always in time,
steady
steady
3/4
5.

-Appearance is everything. Is it for print? Make it look good. Don’t make the graphic designer fit the word ‘disambiguation’ into a 3-inch magazine ad because the message will be lost. Think visually. I once worked with a winery owner who chose the name ‘Majorette’ for one of his labels partly because the word itself is nice to look at. If you can’t decide between a few words, write them out on paper (you remember what paper is, don’t you?) and see what jumps and what clunks.

-Be a team player. Is it for radio? Don’t make the voice talent hate you. I recently wrote the tagline ‘Get together, gift together’ for a mall’s holiday campaign. Go ahead- say ‘gift together’ out loud. It looked really good on paper: creative, social (per the client’s request) calling to the shopping season without devolving into cheesy ‘giving’ language. But it couldn’t be said clearly… and I learned that the hard way when I was hired to do the voice over. All your cleverness is wasted if the public hears something different altogether.

-Embrace your inner Hemingway. Avoid complicated sentence structure requiring non-basic punctuation; people don’t know how to read it in print, and a VO actor will just take it apart and read it as separate sentences anyway.

-Timing is everything. If the client asked for a 30 second tv or radio ad, give them 28 seconds worth of copy. Read it out loud to yourself in your best tv/radio voice. Muttering your own work happens at a totally different pace that a pro VO will read a stranger’s paragraph.

-Brain, meet Ear. Read it out loud, even if it’s for print. New Directions, anyone?

-It’s not about you. I did a lot of work for an Indian Casino in the middle of nowhere on the interstate. Not really my scene, y’know? So I had to walk a mile in the shoes of the long-haul trucker, the weary traveller, the Keno-fanatic, and feign excitement over things I usually avoid. You’re an anonymous ad writer- no one is going to think you really love X or Y, and the people in the industry will see you have a broad range.

-It’s not about you: the sequel. Sometimes the client’s concept is, well, not your favorite. Deal with it. Sometimes you’ll get paid to craft the concept, sometimes you’re just a word-machine. Rise above it, do the best you can, and tap the wonders of the language for all they’re worth to overcome the world’s most cheesy/offensive/non-sensical/misdirected concept.

-Own it. You’re the guru of words and how they communicate, so gently and professionally let your Botox-providing client know why they should never use the term ‘squirters’. (Ever.) Depending on your relationship with the client, you may be able to shape the concept by explaining the nuances and connotations of a word or phrase. Don’t discount cultural or generational differences, either- share your insight (as it pertains to the writing) and you may engender more loyalty from your client.

-Turn, turn, turn. If you can turn a phrase like the best warbling cowpoke, you should. Country music songwriters are some of the best at this….and I don’t even like country music. A well-turned phrase is catchy and memorable and writerly, and you need to be all those things. Your client is paying you for your skills, use them, but know when you’re rising to the challenge and when you’re just navel gazing at your own cleverness.

-Be an original classic. Don’t sacrifice the message for creativity, and don’t let yourself off the hook. We writers….we love words like kids love Play-Doh. Know when to dial it back and find a way to be clear while still being creative. Conversely, don’t let the task of fitting 3 minutes’ worth of info into a 30 second ad make you give up on your craft. You can find a way to do it well, even if it isn’t ee-cummings-creative.

Bonus tip!
-One hand tied behind your back. Blindfolded. Remember that what comes easily and obviously to you is exactly what makes you the writer and not the client. Don’t overthink it when you need to get really basic. I wrote some copy for a skin care line- instructions on how to use the products- and the client wanted to add the pump dispenser in. But how?!? After clarifying w/the client, I tacked “Using the pump dispenser,” to the front of the instructional copy. “Brilliant!” cried the client. Sure. If you say so.

I was an 8-year-old girl, not a disease or a natural disaster.

I remember the teachers who ‘survived’ me, who always seemed put out by my energy and restlessness and were disinclined to offer me something I could be proud of. I remember the ones who pretended not to see my raised hand, who seized opportunities to shuttle me off, who were certain I needed to be diagnosed. Fortunately for them and their profession, I also remember the teachers who championed me- who saw someone sharp and insecure and found creative ways of channeling me. They gave me responsibilities, told my peers I was talented, invited me in.

I know I wasn’t easy. I wasn’t pigeonholeable and my discipline never matched up with my potential. I was antsy and lazy, curious and hesitant. I didn’t write in a neat, girlish cursive, and I leapt back and forth between desperately wanting the standard, approved friends and experiences and wanting to just be me when those friends and experiences proved generic and trivial. I had an older sibling who took up a lot of space, but I wasn’t him- I was just similar. Some teachers got all that and some refused to.

Here’s to the ones who got it- who saw a fish and did not ask it fly, who told me I could write, or just showed me I was more than something to be survived. You have a difficult job, you’re important to this world, and I’m thankful for you.

I can remember being fairly young when I first called bullshit on this line of thinking, maybe even in elementary school. My kid-thoughts went something like this: “why wouldn’t you regret your mistakes? THEY’RE MISTAKES.” I realize mistakes have value and that the logic behind this ‘no regrets!’ anthem is to not melt into a life where you wallow in the coulda shoulda stuff of your past. But to claim that your life is regretless because it has led to this moment says that you are ideal at this moment and that you could not have been made better by different choices along the way. It’s one thing to be ‘in a good place’ with yourself, but another to feel like you simply couldn’t be any better or have made wiser choices along the way. So I still agree with kid-me: there are things worth regretting.

I regret letting Racquel cut my hair that one time and not speaking up when she started in on the sides.

I regret that I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want to hurt a semi-stranger’s feelings, so I’ll hurt my own self-image for the 7 billion months it takes to grow out a pixie cut.

I regret that I rudely rebuffed the overweight neighbor kid when he asked to be my friend. His forwardness and his appearance embarrassed me, and I was unkind.

I regret taking 4 years of Spanish in high school. It was a waste of time and energy.

I regret never taking a dance class. I think I could’ve really enjoyed it and maybe gained some self-esteem.

I regret every time I’ve texted while driving.

I regret not telling my grandfather that he was marvelous and delightful.

I regret the perm, even if it was the early 90s.

I regret everything about that directed study on the apostle Paul that the Jeffs and I did senior year. I regret taking a grade I didn’t earn, and sacrificing my integrity.

I regret a lot about the fall of 2001 in general.

I regret my lack of moderation after Matt and Andrea’s wedding. It would’ve been nice to spend time with my friends instead of the hotel toilet bowl.

I regret the way I’ve voted in the past. (I’m sorry, gays.)

I regret not putting in the discipline to stop chewing my nails once and for all.

I regret thinking that I had to finish college in 8 consecutive semesters at the same institution, lest I be cast out of civilized society forever.

I regret spending even 2 seconds reading Wuthering Heights, even if my Literary Criticism grade depended on it.

I regret taking so long to try lipstick.

I regret not re-carpeting my house the day I moved in.

I regret not flossing more.

I regret not telling that one friend that she was arrogant and destructive. We might still be friends if I had.

I regret buying so, so many clothing items that were rad but slightly too small.

I regret the stories and poems I crafted in my head but was too lazy to get out of bed and jot down.

I regret a trillion things lost to laziness.

I regret not believing those who believed in me when I was younger.

I regret eating at that Chili’s in Chicago. That was stupid.

I regret not planting trees in my yard 5 years ago.

I regret shouting at my crying baby last week.

I regret a trillion hours of bad television.

I regret not telling that youth pastor that she was hurtful and wrong about why I was sad.

I regret relying too long on gin and tonics as a go-to drink in social situations.

I regret every occasion of green eyeshadow.

I regret feeling guilty about not liking certain people, and thinking I had to enjoy and identify with everyone.

I regret being afraid to like certain people who I could have loved.

I regret taking so long to discover my introversion.

I regret that I stopped taking piano lessons. I coulda been a contender.

The list could go on, but then I’d be wallowing, wouldn’t I? That would be regretful.

If your colleague, friend, or family member has asked you to write them a letter of recommendation or reference, it is because they think they have fooled you out of knowing The Real Them. Or because you are erudite and savvy to the ways of the professional world. If it is the latter, congratulations! Here is your chance to demonstrate your wit and creativity atop your already legendary erudition. (May we operate under the assumption that you desire the best for your colleague, friend, or family member, and hope this letter helps them gain the position or admission to which they’re endeavoring? Oh good. Otherwise: eesh.)

Wanting your companion to succeed, you will try to write a glowing review of their personality, character, and abilities, but you know that every other candidate will likely present a letter of reference that glowingly celebrates their every utterance, blink, and bowel movement. How, oh how, to cut through the noise? Firstly, do not write:
“Glen is punctual, hard working, and easy to get along with.”

I just fell asleep typing that sentence. If I were Glen, I would second guess every decision I ever made that led to me requesting this favor of you, and all that second guessing is hard on a marriage, and you don’t want that on your conscience, do you? But maybe the three qualities you most appreciate about Glen are his punctuality, work ethic, and enjoyable mannerisms! If so, I would wager that you are maybe a bit boring, but that’s okay. Here’s how to communicate such commendations in a way that will make Glen irresistible and make you the greatest friend Glen has ever had. Try this:

“Glen is strange: he believes ‘on time’ is actually something a person should be. He knows his work reflects him, so he makes sure it’s done right every time, and Monday or Friday, over time or holiday party, the guy is just really nice to have around.”

You have successfully expressed Glen’s punctuality, work ethic, and charm, but you not only kept everyone awake, you made sure they all developed tiny crushes on Glen. Well done! Breaking it down, the mild use of misdirection (“Glen is strange”) is especially effective in a reference letter because it is particularly unexpected. These letters are almost always straightforward, except when they are dripping in euphemism and hyperbole. Not only is Glen punctual in this example, he is punctual as a point of principle. (Why yes, that IS a lot of Ps!) Glen is no longer the on-time robot, he is the gentleman of yesteryear, when your “yes” meant “yes” and your 4pm Greenwich Mean Time was 4pm Greenwich Mean Time. Well done, you! Glen is on fire.

Moving on: Glen has a great work ethic because he takes a wider perspective on his work and isn’t just punching the clock. You didn’t claim, as some other applicants’ letters will, that he nails it on every first try; you expressed Glen’s commitment to the process, and to problem solving. This saves you the trouble of later finding a more writerly way of saying “Glen is a good problem solver”, which very nearly had me nodding off again! Finally, you demonstrated Glen’s likability through a broad array of situations. If he’s as enjoyable at 7pm on a Monday as he is when you’re all knocking back spiky egg nog and watching Denise and Lamar realize long-held passions, it means his appeal has an ease to it- there’s no pressure to like Glen, but you do anyway. Yes, you used several more words in this version, but you also communicated significantly more about Glen. Perhaps most importantly, you made yourself more attractive (as if that’s even possible- just look at you!), and everyone trusts the opinions of us Attractives. The more your comrade’s potential boss likes you, the more they’ll like him/her. It’s science.

Let’s look at an example from reality. My dear friend Jenna asked me to write something for the ‘about me’ section of her online portfolio. Jenna is a commercial interior designer, so she dances the tightrope between flexible, artistic expression and the confines of the modern business dealing. My experiences with Jenna were social and collaborative: we were both members of a philanthropic organization that promoted culture in our town. I haven’t met many people like Jenna, so I wanted to communicate her verve and magnetism. (Verve and magnetism are excellent adjectives to apply to someone who deserves them.) I didn’t need to speak to her abilities, because her portfolio would do that, so I just described the general Jennaness of her:

“Jenna is an enviable blend of charisma, optimism, and wide perspective. She is a pilgrim and a sponge. She would leap tall buildings but she’d much rather meet the people inside. She divides her time between enjoying the marvelous and making marvels herself, and she only stops for feedings.”

Balancing a sentence that lists several somewhat-nebulous attributes with a succinct declaration is a good way of showing just how well you know your subject. A list says, “she is these things at different times” and then a statement, well, states. Your reader will appreciate your definitives; they wouldn’t be reading if they didn’t need to know what you know.

It’s also effective to tell the stranger what your compatriot is not or will not do, and not in the sense of, “Jenna is averse to setting kittens on fire. She also does not steal post-it notes from her employers.” Your letter will include many things the subject is and is capable of; including a positive attribute or habit that may be outside of his/her wheelhouse will engender the reader’s trust, because you are being honest. I indicated that Jenna was disinclined to leap tall buildings, because, while Jenna is a go-getter, she is moreso a member of the planet-wide community. I decided that her portfolio and job searching efforts would sufficiently speak to her ambition, and that my reiteration would be superfluous.

Similarly, if you are writing your missive for someone who is shy or simply introverted, please do not treat these qualities as shameful secrets. You are well within your boundaries to say, “Carlo is not likely to be the office Homecoming King because, while he is witty and kind, he does not desire a great deal of attention. In time, you will appreciate him as a friend as much as I have.” If your letter reaches the reader before Carlo does, this will prepare them for a modest interviewee and will spare your subject considerable pressure. As an introvert, I can assure you that this may be the greatest gift you give to someone, short of a high-quality espresso machine for Christmas or Hanukkah.

(Incidentally, Jenna landed a wonderful job shortly after moving to Denver. Was it all because of my description of her? Yes. Yes it was.)

But what if you are petitioned to write a review of someone for whom you have little to praise? Awwwwkwaaaaard. You’re an honest person, you don’t want to defraud the future employer or educator of your acquaintance, but perhaps you don’t have the social flexibility to tell your supplicant that, no, you will not assist them in this effort. I don’t envy your position. I might even feel a bit of schadenfreude from it all. Nevertheless, I have suggestions for you.

It is unlikely that your associate has no merit whatsoever. We all have merit (especially you and I, if we’re being honest). Few people are unself-aware enough to not have any idea of where they stand with another person, so if this seeker has requested your acclaim, it’s because at some point, by farce or unconsciously, you implied that you had some to give. Dig deep, dear. Find the lie or the flicker in your unconscious that briefly shone upon this poor, near-worthless wretch, and discover it. You may want to write,

“Alas, dear sir or madam, Oswald is inept. Basic instructions seem beyond his comprehension. Personal hygiene is not something to which he endeavors. Social mores escape him entirely. Indeed, he succeeds only at flummoxing everyone at all times.”

But I believe you can find the pearl buried deep within the slimey, bottom dwelling reality that is Oswald. (Incidentally, I adore the name Oswald and intend no judgment of any actual Oswalds, most of whom I am sure are darling, daring, or at least adequate.) Is your Oswald always late? Well at least he comes to work or class at all. Try: “Oswald seems immune to the apathy that plagues his generation. Where most of his peers seem wholly disconnected, there is a point in Oswald at which hope remains.” Is Oswald distinctly unintelligent? (It’s okay to say yes, this is a safe place.) Consider something poetic and compact, like, “Oswald is a human spoon”, wherein you are saying that he is not sharp, but probably useful for soft things. Is your Oswald rude? (For shame, Oswald!) First, confirm that what you perceive as rudeness is not ignorance of social expectations borne from an alternative upbringing, or that it is not the expressions of something like Asperger’s Syndrome. If Oswald is truly rude, as several people are, I cannot, in good faith, argue for shielding the reader. But! Maintain your tact and eloquence, even in the face of uncouth Oswald. Write, “Oswald lacks grace and manners, though I am certain this condition is reversible.” We are, indeed, all capable of goodness.

Finally, here is a recent reference I wrote for two friends who plan to travel. They wish to use Airbnb to facilitate their journeys, and it requires references to your character. Having known my friends for many years, it was an easy reference to write. I include it here because it showcases how not all of these projects must remain within the confines of formal correspondence. It also says a fair bit about me, explicit and implicitly, which I’ve already mentioned is significant for the reader. Oh, and their dog is included because she intends to travel with them.

“Ohhh, the Rostens. The boy half I’ve known since I was 16 and the girl half I met when the boy half married her 10 or so years ago. I might like the girl half better? but the boy half pretty much made my career, so… it’s complicated. These two like stories and things that are lovely only because they are true. They travel to fill their quota of loveliness and stories and lovely stories.

Lyn is the brains and Jesse is the sponge, but they swap hats a lot. Except the brains hat- that usually stays on Lyn. I have travelled with them several times, and I am a very neurotic traveller: they are gracious people. They love science and art, and people who love science and art are not destructive. Team Rosten seeks and explores, but not aimlessly, and they’re inclined to be fans rather than critics. They maintain perspective pretty well: I don’t think I’ve ever seen them spend money on something that wouldn’t better them more than the money saved would have.

I lived around the corner from them for 5 years. Their dog is my dog’s only friend because my dog is an emotional porcupine; Stella was optimistic enough to give her a chance. Stella is fastidious and loyal and keenly aware of the power of opposable thumbs. I cannot say much about the motorcycles, except that they match and are not Harley Davidsons. Team Rosten is ambitious, creative, and kind, and I would have them raise my two children if we did not disagree so passionately about avocado.”

And there you have it, my attentive visitor. You may never know if your letter opened the door to someone’s dream, but oh, to try! And if it succeeds, the karma you will reap could be immeasurable. The parking you’ll enjoy is just the beginning.

All fall and winter we drink and soak,
outrunning the parch of cold wind
the suction of fake heat
that sly thief Alcohol who always lubricates before she swindles
the scratch of sweaters
the sap of squinting in so much false light.

We drink soup and scotch and tea, tea, tea,
drink for warmth, for the wetness,
for the light of a person across the table
on a dark afternoon,
for safe passage through this family gathering,
for something to hold in hand
because the weather won’t allow us to farm whatever it is we farm.
We grow restless in the dry dim
so we drink wet light.

We soak up the air as it tumbles on us,
running to the car and absorbing,
running from the car and dampening,
dragging the trash into the alley
trailing the dog around the block
we’re infused with the sea loosed from the sky

and after two months we’re full

we drink more (freely) and we soak more (unwillingly)
soon overfull
soon squishy
soon heavy
soon dark and sour

Gradually, there is less to receive, progressively,
less to need.
More light perforates, complementing with warmth
and we go outside without dashing or groans.
We take up our tools and put down our bottles, cans, cups.

The sun rewards our stirring and begins jabbing
stabbing
puncturing the spongey grey
like it has something to prove.

Our dampness heats up
and we threaten putrescence -
trapped on the knife edge of
becoming swamp things, all festering swelter
with nowhere to release.

We are helpless to dispose of all we have drunk and soaked.

Our sun saves us annually, our self-luminous messiah.
It builds a kiln and we sludge forth toward it
dragging trails of slime,
weighed down with months of cold darkness
and that blackgreen fur materializing
in our folds.

The sun calls silently.
It unfolds its huge self, noiseless,
and we feel the beckoning even
in our musty, shadowed corners.
We turn like flowers, glide like mindless insects,
open our arms
and begin to bake.

It’s dry,
and warm at first- just a glow that takes hold
then a heat turned up fast and steady,
running parallel to our need.

We are lizards on rocks,
dogs, sprawled on concrete, half comatose and
blissed out, panting to the beat.
Our reservoirs begin to evaporate,
the damp turns stiff
and the sour fuzz shrivels.
We begin to burnish: less greenish
and more like clay,
the sallow, underbelly white of too
long in the dark
suddenly incandesces pink
and then eases into an ochre for some
fawn for others
all of us burning away the heaviness,
refining what remains;
holding the flavors we collected all
fall and winter
and shedding what cannot tolerate this new mercury.

We glow and crackle
blasted yes scorched,
but lighter, lighter,
nimble of frame and mind to outeverything
the competition,
our selves baked in to ourselves.

By the end we are too dry,
limp from it all
lame from standing too long in the glare
lost from our charge
and desperate for a drink and a soak,

but we have left prints behind us:
we pressed our work into the drying earth
and it hardened thusly.
Another summer: we have done it.
Let the record show.