Archive for March, 2009

Yesterday, the New York Times ran article about marital discord caused by couples disagreeing about the order of their Netflix queue. (Found HERE.) My hubby and I happen to heavy Netflix users, though neither of us actually watch movies. We are tired, and thus tend to fall asleep about 25 minutes into even the most riveting blockbuster.  We do however, both watch DVDs on the treadmill. There are several series that I only allow myself to watch while chugging along at least 4.0 on the speed button. In my case, the promise of seeing Jack Bauer or Sydney Bristow kicking the living daylights out of some bad guy is the single motivating factor in my exercise regime. Hubby prefers reliving the misadventures of Tony Soprano. Ewww. I prefer my gratuitous violence without all the nasty language.

We knew from the get-go that merging out Netflix queues would be fitness suicide. We have always kept separate queues. The Times article calls this Netflix divorce, though I prefer to think of it as Netflix separate vacations. The reader comments posted about this article online were primarily observations about the sorry state of modern marriage (How can you get married if you can’t agree on a flim?). Those commenters must have been newlyweds. Anyone who has more than two or three years worth of wedded compromise bliss under their belts knows that if you’re still talking to each other enough to argue about your movie queue then your union is solid indeed.

Beyond that, the “sorry state” writers were missing the tone of the article. It was fun and lighthearted social commentary. Letters about lighthearted articles need to be lighthearted in tone as well. But you can’t just say, “Hey, I totally related to your article. It made me laugh at me,” because that’s boring. In my mind, the way to get a letter published about a fun human interest story is to up the fun ante — take it to the next level.

Here’s what I sent the Times:

Regarding Michael Wilson’s Sunday Styles article 3/29/09, “Hey, Who Ordered Gigli?”

Not only did my husband Netflix divorce me years ago, my children are now petitioning to become Netflix emancipated minors. Apparently, as a woman who orders The Hours, I need a queue of my own.

The facts of this are not entirely true. My kids have no interest in Netflix because they’re too busy downloading iCarly from iTunes. And while I did read the Virginia Woolf homage, The Hours, in my book group, I never did order it. I’d just fall asleep.

However, I do think it works as a letter. It’s very short — no one wants to read 200 words about someone else’s ideosyncracies in response to a fluff piece. Instead, my letter takes the fluff commentary to the next level. What’s the logical extreme of divorce? Emancipated children? And I give that little play on words there, which should make those intellectual types at the Times smile.

At least I hope so.

Every fall our town library holds a book sale. During the summer, folks in town donate their cast-offs by the bag, box and trunk full. Estimates vary, but a decent guess is that over 50,000 books are dropped off. These range from outgrown Junie B. Jones and last year’s popular book group picks (Eat, Pray, Love anyone?) to antique art books and signed first editions. A team of community volunteers sorts the books into logical-ish categories so that shoppers at the sale more easily find what interests them.

For the past four or five years, I have been one of those sorter volunteers, spending perhaps several dozen hours each summer opening the bags, boxes and trunks of books and walking the biographies over to the biography table, the humor books to the humor table, and so on. The donations are anonymous, but you can make a decent guess about the profile of the donor from the contents of a box of books. A box musty Reader’s Digest condensations means a parent is being moved into a nursing home. A box full of cookbooks mean that empty-nesters are moving to a smaller home. Scholastic book fair titles means the youngest child is now in high school. Self-help books imply a divorce.

There are many perks of being a book fair volunteer including the camaraderie with the other sorters and the good karma earned by participating in a gainful community effort (the money earned at the fair is used to make improvements at the library). But to me, the best part of volunteering is that the sorters get first crack at buying the donated books. $1.50 for trade paperbacks, $3.00 for hardcovers. If you’re unpacking a box and find a book that speaks to you, you get the right of first refusal on the purchase.

Last year, a gem I dug up was Letters to the Editor: Two Hundred Years in the Life of an American Town, edited by Gerard Stropnicky (cool name, by the way). Stropnicky plowed through two hundred years of letters to the editors of small town papers, primarily in the Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania area. The hot button issues of the day are illustrated through letters. Local men go to war. There are letters about it. The town plans to fluoridate the water. There are letters about it. There’s a change made to the comic strip Nancy. You get letters.

Through the letters, you are also introduced to many of the archetypes of small town letter writers: the prude, the school booster, the political extremist, the town crank, the moral arbiter, and so on. Here’s a classic moral arbiter letter printed in Letters to the Editor:

Dear Editor:

Just a few lines to advise the readers of this paper that there are two VERY contagious diseases going around. One is the lack of sympathy and the other is viciousness. It seems that the night air and late hours are very good for both diseases.

A Berwick RD 2 Reader, Berwick Enterprise, January 29, 1955

I’m not sure what nighttime has to do with it, but it seems to me that there are still outbreaks of those diseases from time to time. And what is there to do but write about it?

One of my moderately obscurish newsstand addictions is the magazine Mental Floss.  It’s bit of a mash-up of the Book of Lists, Jeopardy, and the old Spy magazine, full of light and chatty articles about highbrow topics. For example, a recent article discussed the relationship between Chippendale (the Revolutionary Era furniture maker), Chip & Dale (the mischievous chipmunks), and Chippendales (the “nightclub”). After a half hour with Mental Floss, you’d be uber-prepared for cocktail party chatting.

An article in the March/April 2009 issue struck my eye, “The 25 Most Influential Books of the Past 25 Years.” The introductory blurb states, “This list isn’t about story arcs or beautiful prose; it’s about books with spine. Whether they’ve saved lives or gotten people killed, predicted America’s future or uncovered it’s past, these 25 books have all had real-world impact.”

There is obviously no dearth of list-type articles out there in magazine-land. Any end-of-year wrap-up issue worth it’s salt will have at least a few of them. List articles run the gamut from US News and World Report’s Best Colleges list to fluffy items in Entertainment Weekly like “The Top 50: Best Movie Tearjerkers Ever” (December 4, 2008). I love list articles because they’re perfect for making you feel superior to some know-nothing editor. They thought the Way We Were was only the 29th most tear-jerking movie? Well, bring on the hankies, because it’s #1 in my book.

I had my snark-mobile all gassed up before I dug into the Mental Floss book list, but I actually found it quite thought-provoking. The list included both fiction and non-fiction, a nice genre-bending twist that acknowledges that both fantasy and reality have the power to change the world. There were obvious choices: #7 The Satanic Verses, a tome that incited riots and death threats. And less obvious choices: #24 Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, the guide that made grammar important again. All in all, a nutritious and well-balanced meal.

However, not being one to leave well-enough alone, I know that any arbitrary list leaves open the opportunity for the reader to point out a Sin of Omission (see my previous post). Of course there were more than 25 highly influential books in the past 25 years. (At least that’s what I’m hoping.) But pointing out which omission will make a strong enough impact to get a letter published, there’s my challenge.

I came up with three choices:

-    Deep End of the Ocean, Jacquelyn Michard, 1996
-    The Last Lecture, Randy Pausch, 2008
-    What to Expect When You’re Expecting, Heidi Murkoff, 1984

The Deep End of the Ocean was the first Oprah Book Club choice. I am the firmest of believers in the miracle of Oprah. We all know that she and her book club did more to stave off the demise of the book publishing industry than a mega-store’s worth of Tom Clancys and Steven Kings. Well, except that Oprah might be given a run for her money by Mental Floss’s #16 pick: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, J.K. Rowling, 1998 (duh). It seems they already have the book-saves-the-publishing-industry angle covered already.

If I were to a letter about The Last Lecture it would be something about the power of an individual to make the world a better place. But I’m not going to write that letter because I must confess that I have not read The Last Lecture. I have purchased it, twice. It sits on my nightstand mocking me. I should read it, I know. It’s inspirational. I’ll be moved. I’ll laugh. I’ll cry. But, frankly, I’m scared that I’ll only cry and won’t laugh and I’m not sure if that’s something I can handle. Last month, there was a plaque installed near the Tea Cup ride at Disney World as a memorial to Pausch. The plaque reads, “Be good at something; it makes you valuable … Have something to bring to the table, because that will make you more welcome.” A memorial at Disney World? See, I’m crying and I’m not going to be able to stop. I just can’t go that route.

So here’s the letter I sent to Mental Floss today:

I loved Rosemary Ahern’s List of The 25 Most Influential Books; many surprising and yet surprisingly insightful choices. If you were going to make it a list of the 26 Most Influential Books, I’d suggest you add “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” This best-selling pregnancy guide has taught an entire generation of women how to take care of their babies, as well as themselves, without the paternalistic overtones of Dr. Spock. It’s not a stretch to say that the groundbreaking big-sister-telling-it-like-it-is vibe of “What to Expect” paved the way for women to be more honest and open in their friendships. It’s only a short hop from “What to Expect” to “Sex in the City”. (Though biologically it should have been the other way around.)

And though I’m not putting this in the letter, I also think it’s only a short hop from What to Expect to the Walt Disney World Moms Panel. It’s all advice from one Mom to another.

About a month ago, I went with my family on a wonderful week-long vacation to Costa Rica. If you’re interested, you can read a complete trip report HERE. (And by the way, thanks again to the fabulous Deb Wills of allears.net for allowing me to be a guest blogger on the creme de la creme of Disney info sites.) The most memorable part of a very memorable trip was our excursion on the Sky Trek zip lines. In fact, the zip lines were about 75% of the reason why we chose Costa Rica as a travel destination. The kiddos’ favorite activity at their summer camp is a small zip line. They happened to see some TV footage of the Costa Rican zip lines and there was no way were going to avoid going there. Flying through the air over the jungle was something they had to do. Please, mommy, please. While zip lining did not end up to be my particular cup of tea (did I mention the flying through the air over the jungle part?), I am glad that I added this to my list of life experiences. Moreover, I have spoken with about a dozen different families who have been to Costa Rica and, bar none, they mentioned zip lining as a key element of their trips.

I woke up this morning to find three full pages of the New York Times travel section devoted to touring Costa Rica. You can read the article HERE. The author, Ethan Todra-Whitehill, does a phenomenal job with his trip report. (Needless to say, a much better job than I did with my trip report.) He talks about the animals and jungle and rafting and the beach with passion and flair. But he does not once mention zip lining as an activity. OK, so the article does take the form a report on his own experiences and he did not happen to go on a zip line. But sheesh, it’s a HUGE eco-tourism draw and one of the most popular activities for that destination. Don’t you think Mr. New York Times could have at least mentioned that this existed?

So my letter to the Times today points out their sin of omission.

Here it is:

Having recently returned from a week in Costa Rica, I was thrilled to relive our trip through Ethan Todras-Whitehill’s extensive travelogue. However, I feel he was remiss in not giving at least a passing mention to one of Costa Rica’s biggest adventure draws: jungle zip lines. While the rafting portion of my trip was fun, the most memorable activity was a Sky Trek excursion over several miles of zip lines strung hundreds of feet over the rain forest. Traveling through the air at automobile-like speeds, with only a small harness for support was the thrill of a lifetime. In my opinion, a must-have experience for any traveler to Costa Rica.

Whether by design or simply lack of space, no article can ever cover a topic in its entirety. Something must always be left out. Given enough readers, those omissions are bound to be uncovered. Thus, the Sin of Omission letter is a staple of the Letter to the Editor art form. There’s even one that ran in today’s Times travel section. I wonder how I’ll do with it?

People Magazine comes to our house every week.

Full disclosure time: My husband happens to work for Time Inc., the parent company of People, Entertainment Weekly, Time, Sports Illustrated and a rapidly-shrinking list of other publications (Oh please, bad economy, hang in there just a little longer. Must fund those college savings accounts.)  He works on the business end of things and has no influence whatsoever on if/when/how anything gets published. If he did have any influence, I would have surely taken advantage of it years ago. Nonetheless, because hubby works for Time, we happen to get many of its publications sent to our house for free. Shhh, don’t tell, that’s a not-insignificant chunk of the reason I married him.

Free or not, I have to say that People is not my favorite rag. Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as much of a celebrity gossip junkie as the next gal. I’ll be the polite one letting you cut ahead of me the in grocery line because I secretly want to finish that tabloid article about Jennifer Aniston’s break-up. I think it’s that I find People to be too, well, nice. Too polite. Too airbrushed. I want my voyuerism to be of the peeping-tom variety. Let’s see those mug shots, cellulite, and bad nose jobs. Celebrities are just like us. Except for the mug shots and nose jobs part.

Since People is primarily a venue for news about the world of celebs, many of the Letters to the Editor printed in People are about those celebs. Often they praise an article about a star as inspirational. As in, “Thank you for running that photo of Jessica Simpson. I think she’s a wonderful role model for curvy girls. Bless her for having the courage to wear those mom jeans.” Or they give a wayward star some fan-based encouragement, “Poor Rihanna, hang in there girl. We love you!”

I understand why someone would write a letter to the New York Times about their coverage of healthcare reform or the AIG bailout. You do this because you want to correct the record or uncover bias or further the dialogue. But why write to People? I’m perfectly happy to waste my time reading about Jennifer’s latest break-up (I still think Brad done her wrong), but taking that extra step to add my two cents about it, in a public forum, seems odd and more than borderline creepy.

The subset of Letters that comment about a celebrity death are particularly icky. “Bless you John Travolta. Your sweet son is in heaven now.” Yes, I hope that he is, but why as completely unrelated party would I want to interject myself into that? Sympathy by association? Pathological inability to separate real friends from the people that periodically show up on that shiny box in the living room? And beyond that, why does a celebrity-focused magazine run letters like this? It seems like a nesting-doll of empathy: I read the article about the celebrity death and I feel badly, I read the letter written by someone who read the article just like me, and I feel my pain and their pain. At the end you need a magnifying glass to find the real emotion.

Whatever the rationale on either side, the comment-on-the-obituary genre is a staple of the Letters to the Editor section of People, Us, OK and many other celebrity mags. I decided to try my hand at it.

People ran the obligatory obit cover story about Natasha Richardson yesterday.

THIS online clip is not the exact article that ran in print, but is quite close to it.

Here is the Letter to the Editor I’ve sent to People:

To the Editor:

Thank you for your heartfelt tribute to Natasha Richardson. I had the good fortune of seeing her playing with her sons in Central Park several times. In addition to being an extraordinary actress, I can attest to her grace and gentleness as a mother. Those boys were clearly the center of her life. My prayers goes out to them and her entire family.

The letter is true. Many years ago when I lived in Manhattan, our apartment was about three blocks away from the Neeson-Richardson’s. Twice I actually did see them at a playground in Central Park with their kids. And once I pushed my daughter in a swing right next to Richardson pushing her son in a swing for maybe a full three minutes. I didn’t talk to her because A) bothering celebrities who are going about their regular lives is considered poor form in New York, and B) I was too intimidated. While I didn’t talk to her, I did, of course, watch her like a hawk. She was indeed very sweet with her son, kind and patient, and she had the best mom-voice ever.

Yet truly, I feel dirty after having written this. What business is it of mine? The family asked for privacy. Who am I to stick my nose into this honestly tragic event? But yet, as inappropriate Letters about celebrity obits go, I think it’s pretty good. Short and sweet. It has that little personal twist. And I invoked a higher power, which is always important in the obit letter; take a look at People the next time a famous person dies and you’ll see.

Let’s see if my letter ends up getting published.