Clothing Optional (8 page)

My Daughter Lindsay

I write. This is what I do. I take words and place them in an order that will hopefully hold your interest when set down on a page or when uttered by human voices on a stage or a screen. Why do I do this? I have no choice. I'm a writer. I was born this way. And while I realize that there are far worse genetic conditions that a person can be afflicted with on the journey from one end of life to the other, the fact remains that writing is what I do because a writer is what I am.

I belong to that particular breed whose work is unlike any job where it's necessary to remain detached from private concerns, emotional stirrings, and both painful and happy memories so as not to be distracted from effectively performing whatever task one's work requires. My work suggests that I do just the opposite. My work suggests that I dwell on these events and their associated feelings for the purpose of infusing them into the reality of my characters and the world that my work deposits them in. Tone? Important but secondary. Important because the sensibility of the piece, and the craftsmanship employed in its presentation, will ultimately affect how well a story is received by an audience whose only agenda is to enjoy themselves. Secondary because whether it's comedic or dramatic, romantic or aloof, maudlin or cynical, the attitude of the selected words is but a veneer unless a relatable truth is at the core.

This does present a problem, however. Because to have ready access to the memory of feelings, the writer must shed layers of protective psychological buildup. And in doing so, he must expose himself in such a way that criticism can be extremely hurtful.

Recently I got hurt. No, allow me to revise that. Recently, I got destroyed. Beaten to a pulp. Hammered. Nailed. Kicked in the groin. The stomach. The face. Chewed up. Spit out. And left for dead.

Recently I wrote a movie. It was a simple tale that I felt passionate about. Based on a simple book I'd written, which I also felt passionate about. But when the movie came out, the critics hated it. With a passion. Consequently, the words they chose to describe my words were words like “bad,” “really bad,” and “What the hell was he thinking?”

Hurtful? Quite. But what I had written was, at the very least, well intentioned. Operating on the assumption that a child, at one point or another, may feel unappreciated by his folks, I wrote a fantasy where a young boy named North embarks on a worldwide search for the perfect parents before coming to the conclusion that his parents, despite their shortcomings, are the best for him. I liked the idea. And I still do. It's light and it's fun, but if people, in their professional judgment, do not care for the way the idea was executed, this is their prerogative. If, in their estimation, the words I chose do not effectively deliver the desired message, laughs, or tears, not only is it their job to say so but it's also possible that they are right. I'm only human. I make mistakes. Maybe I should have chosen different words. Or the same words but in a different order. Or the same words but in a different language. Or perhaps I somehow stumbled upon a curious phenomenon of chemistry where perfectly innocuous words, when placed in the order I put them in, suddenly stink to high heaven.

Whatever the case, as the script's author I accepted responsibility for its merit and only wished that I could apologize to anyone who was disappointed by the effort. But as a human being with feelings, I was stunned when some reviewers deployed phrases like “bad writer,” “very bad writer,” and “He calls himself a writer?” in mounting an attack that ventured beyond what I
did
to what I
am.

This confused me, and it hurt. Badly. Weren't these reviews written by writers, brethren, who hailed from my own gene pool? So why were they taking words, the lifeblood of our species, and using them as weapons against one of their own? The security in thinking that my extended family of wordsmiths would, like any family, settle its differences quietly within itself was now shattered as public humiliation became compounded by feelings of betrayal and exclusion.

Shock gave way to paralysis, and I couldn't write. Few noticed. Banks stayed open, children weren't sent home from school, and the flag in front of our post office remained at full mast. But for a guy whose mom still shows old home movies of him as a three-year-old shouting the words “A writer!” while dancing on the lap of an odd-smelling uncle who asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, this was sad. Well, think about it. What other way is there to describe the sight of someone who every morning just sat and stared, in catatonic horror, at yet another page that his words seemed desperate to be removed from, as if they no longer enjoyed being in each other's company?

Unfortunately, many well-meaning people only served to aggravate the situation. Some friends and siblings felt too awkward to call, but their silence said a lot. And some of the ones I did hear from, well…

—Hello.

—Don't read
Time
magazine.

—Dad?

—You get
Time
magazine?

—Yeah….

—You get this week's issue?

—It just came.

—Well, whatever you do, don't read pages 74, 75, and the top of 77.

—Why not?

—Because they really knock your ass around pretty good.

—Oh….

—But on 76 there's a full-page ad for Subaru, so that one's safe.

—Oh….

—Tell me, just so I know, what kind of circulation does a magazine like this have?

—I really don't know, Dad.

—Approximately. A million?

—No, more.

—A billion?

—No, I'd say around seven million.

—So what we're saying is that approximately seven million strangers now think these things about you.

—Well…

—Because I'll tell you, it's not easy for a parent to read something like this about their child.

—Uh-huh…

—I mean, for me it wasn't as bad. I'm a man so maybe I have tougher skin…

—Uh-huh…

—But as far as your mother is concerned, I think she's gonna have to change butchers.—Why?

—Resnick made a comment.

—Your butcher made a comment about the movie?

—To Lillian Fein.

—What did he say?

—Don't ask.

—Dad…

—Alan, the man is an idiot. He can barely put two words together without stopping for directions. So why aggravate yourself with what that fat meat shlepper thinks. Okay?

—Okay.

—He said that you were “banal, sophomoric, and stunningly devoid of mirth, wit, and social redemption.”

—Resnick, the idiot butcher, said that to Lillian Fein?

—Yeah, and you know the mouth on her.

—Resnick saw the movie?

—I doubt it. That cretin wouldn't leave his house if it was on fire, let alone to go pay to see a movie.

—Well, then how could he say…?

—He was quoting one of the reviews.

—He was?

—Of course.

—Oh…

—I think the
Post.

—Oh, so the
Post
gave a bad review, too?

—Brutal.

—Oh…

—I never read anything so malicious and hateful.

—Oh…

—But
Time
magazine is worse.

I was bombarded by similar accounts, and much to my horror, all strategies to remain inaccessible failed miserably. Even my answering machine, long considered a reliable shield for staving off unwanted information, was guilty of treason. Screening calls merely subjected me to a shyster neighbor's battle cry to “sue that bastard who called you those things in the
News
” at a decibel level that reverberated throughout the room in which I was already cowering. And when I did venture outdoors, I came to despise the insistent flashing of the little red light that taunted my return with condolences like the one from a snide high school nemesis who just wanted to say hi and that he was still going to take his children to see the movie despite the fact that “the paper down here in Charleston called you a…wait a second, let me find it…oh, here it is…‘a talentless perpetrator of meaningless drivel'…because all of us old Hewlett Blue-jackets teammates still should be there to support one another.”

Reeling from this fusillade of critical assaults, I was in no way prepared for the knockout punch, which was conveyed to me during an unscheduled encounter in a local supermarket with someone whom I had no choice but to regard as a credible source.

—Alan?

—Yes?

—Are you okay?

—Huh?

—You look terrible.

—Oh, I'm all right. How are you, Rabbi Freiling?

—Alan, what's wrong? Is anyone sick?

—No, everyone's fine.

—Is it the reviews of your film?

—…Yeah. I guess so.

—Terrible. Just terrible.

—You know, I tried my best…

—Of course you did.

—And if I failed, okay…

—Absolutely.

—But it's still just a movie….

—Right.

—Yet a lot of these people are ranting like I committed some kind of war crime.

—Worse.

—Huh?

—I'm sorry. Pretend I didn't say anything. My love to Robin and the kids.

—No, wait a second.

—Look, I see how upset you already are….

—Please tell me.

—…Look, the day your movie opened I just happened to be speaking to a colleague of mine who's quite active over at the Simon Wiesenthal Center.

—Right…

—And one topic led to another, you know…

—Right.

—And he knows that you're a congregant of mine…

—Right…

—And he had seen the papers…

—Right…

—And then one topic led to another again…

—Right…

—And then somehow, I can't recall the exact flow of our conversation, but somehow he started comparing the reviews that you got for
North…

—Right…

—With the ones that Hitler got for
Mein Kampf.

—He what?

—And, apparently, Hitler did better.

—Give me a break, Rabbi Freiling.

—You know, by and large.

—You mean to tell me that a fairy tale that reaffirms the ideals of a warm, loving, close-knit family didn't do as well as a very real, calculated plan for Germany to achieve its destiny as the master race by virtue of the systematic elimination of millions of innocent human beings in death camps?

—Hey, I'm quoting a colleague.

—But how's that possible?

—Well, obviously none of the American critics were in agreement with Hitler's philosophies.

—Right…

—In fact, until the Third Reich actually came into power, in most circles
Mein Kampf
was dismissed as the megalomaniacal illusions of an incarcerated madman.

—Okay…

—But still, none of them said that Hitler was a bad writer.

Perhaps it was his delivery. Or the setting. Perhaps if my spiritual leader had spoken the same exact words atop his pulpit where his outstretched arms seemed to be appealing to the heavens, instead of surrounded by a sea of Chips Ahoy! in aisle #6 of Safeway, they would've had more of an inspirational impact on me as opposed to putting me in the state that I was in.