Tag: Writing

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

Aging’s Best Kept Secret

by Fran Johns

THE ENTIRE THING COMES DOWN TO JUST ONE SINGLE WORD

Photo by Joshua Woroniecki on Unsplash

Enough.

That’s the word — so you needn’t read any farther if you’re in a hurry. But of course hurrying isn’t great for successful aging either. Calm is. Kindness is. Today’s word, however, is the oft-ignored secret.

When one passes 90 — as I did, ahem, several years ago — one starts getting these What’s your secret questions, as if age somehow brought wisdom and the answers to all of the world’s queries. Spoiler alert: it does not. It does, however, bring teeny little insights and this is one — 

Just about the best thing in the world for your blood pressure, heart rate, brain cells and general physiology is the sense of Enough. This day is enough, this latte and peanut butter cookie are enough, this quiet moment in the middle of universal angst is enough.

I didn’t wake up with a light bulb over my head on this; I simply began to recognize the general sufficiency, the enough-ness of things.

For instance. I love traveling and exploring, especially hiking out-of-the-way trails, visiting museums and galleries and the British Library, cities in general. One day I reflected upon the reality that I will never hike the Himalayas, or visit Sidney or Reykjavik — and that is perfectly okay. I’ve had some glorious times at the Musée d’Orsay, wandering around Shanghai and St. Petersburg or awestruck by the beauty of Iguaçu Falls. Enough.

It doesn’t indicate The End! I’m currently looking forward to a return trip to ruggedly beautiful Cornwall soon, including a visit to my favorite museum in the U.K. (apologies to numerous second-favorites) the Tate St Ives. I’ll be taking some of my husband’s ashes back to the land of his ancestors, who worked in the mines for generations — that’s likely to be another essay. Enough, though, simply means it’s good, all is well, breathe. Be grateful.

The arts are a category all their own. One problem with living in San Francisco, at least as a nonagenarian, is that you just can’t do it all. For decades I delighted in the SF Contemporary Music Players, SFJazz, Cal Performances and our multiple marvelous museums and galleries. I do still subscribe to the two San Francisco Symphony seats husband Bud had worked his way into (Second Row, Right Terrace, directly above the bass section) because it would just feel traitorous to let them go. But two friends now split the series with me, divvying up the twelve performances. It’s enough. And whenever I find an hour or two to hang out at MoMA or one of the other great museums I still support it feels like a glorious gift; I do not meditate on the recent show I totally missed.

Nonagenarianism is, IMHO, a good time to forgive oneself for roads not taken and opportunities passed up — meanwhile counting the blessings of remaining activities without dipping into either sorrowful or smug.

The one exception to all of the above, In My further Humble Opinion, is the writing game. If one happens to love writing better than eating (and I’m not even getting started on San Francisco’s dining scene, intimate knowledge of which was de rigueur in years past,) there are never enough hours in the day to finish whatever literary projects are underway. There are always too many essays to work on, books and articles still in progress, letters (despite the computer having largely replaced the cursive) to be written, stamped & mailed, and occasional social media commentaries waiting to be posted. Because, after all, there’s still this astonishing, bewildering, challenging, intriguing, enchanting thing called life going on. Day after day.

Which is enough.

# # #

Because WordPress has become bewildering, I am most often on Substack these days, where you’re welcome to become a free subscriber (or just to visit whenever: https://franmorelandjohns.substack.com)

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

On Being “A Writer for The Atlantic”

by Fran Johns

How to handle seeing my own words on these pages?

The bottom line? I have become officially insufferable.

I mean, I’ve had stories and essays in a lot of fine publications over the years of my long and happy career. But The Atlantic? Nahh, never going to happen. Yet there it is.

Up until now the pinnacle of my literary success was reached a few years ago when my Brooklyn lawyer friend Peter Flemming, with whom I had a running competition for most letters published in the New York Times, was going over fact-checks with a Times editor. He mentioned our competition to the editor who replied, “Oh, Fran — she’s one of our regulars.” Which, I had thought ever since, would be on my tombstone if I were planning to have such a thing (unfortunately, I am not.)

But now here is my byline, right smack on the same e-page with the byline of Anne Applebaum. Eliot Cohen. Hua Hsu and Jason Liebowitz. If that’s not literary validation I don’t know what is. They may not be writing home about being on the same page with Fran Moreland Johns; I get that. But they probably don’t have Big Head issues either.

I have Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. to thank for all this. The idea that I would ever thank RFKJr for ANYthing other than his retirement from public view is nothing short of ludicrous. The man is a threat to humankind. Evil doesn’t even begin to cover it, IMHO.

I said as much in a letter to The Atlantic in response to their excellent cover story (that piece was by Michael Scherer, but who’s name-dropping?) on RFKJr. In the same inbox with a message saying they would be running my letter was an email from an Atlanticeditor, my new best friend Adrienne, asking if I’d be interested in writing an expanded essay on the subject. Took me about seven seconds to hit Reply.

And thus began one of the happiest writing experiences of my literary life. I was asked almost apologetically if the fee would be sufficient — please don’t tell them I’d have done it for $25; later when I apologized on my own behalf for ineptitude with the online reimbursement forms I received an immediate response from an actual person telling me everybody had issues with those forms and that he enjoyed my description of them.

Over the several weeks of writing/editing/etc — these folks fact check their fact checkers — whenever I’d get a copy of something checked or edited its subject head would say things like “Your wonderful article.” I’m thinking of collaging and framing these.

I still haven’t seen my article in print, other than the page proofs (above.) Those of us in the dying breed of print magazine readers still don’t really believe anything until we see it on an actual piece of paper. But surely The Atlantic won’t change its mind and pull my article before the print edition goes in the mail?

Now if only Robert F. Kennedy, Jr were smart enough to read The Atlantic.

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

Tips from a Master Storyteller

by Fran Johns

GEORGE SAUNDERS HAS A FEW GOOD WORDS FOR WRITERS (AND READERS)

Photo by Lê Tân on Unsplash

George Saunders’ interviewer led off with a semi-familiar quote: “People forget what you said, and they forget what you did, but they never forget how you made them feel.” Saunders makes you feel better about yourself, and the world in general.

Speaking to an overflow crowd in San Francisco while on tour with his new book, the renowned writer (Congratulations, by the Way; Lincoln in the Bardo and many others) and teacher (in the creative writing program of Syracuse University) stuck largely to discussion of his new novel, Vigil. Vaguely reminiscent of his Booker Prize winning reimagining of Lincoln’s struggle to accept the death of his young son, Saunders’ new novel takes place at the bedside of an oil tycoon en route from this world to the next.

But in almost throw-away comments during his recent talk were several gems worth sharing. The talented writer/teacher, whom you would imagine to be well in control of his thoughts, more than once spoke of “blurting out” something, and whether or not the writer can “trust that blurt.” What a literary comfort: the notion that the blurts we all have — sometimes rapid fire all day long — might be worth trusting.

I may steal another phrase from a passing commentary. Speaking of raising characters (and events) “to the highest level,” Saunders asserted there’s value even with unsavory characters being raised “to the highest level of jerkitude.” Jerkitude is everywhere today.

But it was the kindness factor this writer was listening for, and Saunders did not disappoint. In a recent New York Timesinterview, David Marchese mentioned Saunders’ being thrust into “a public role as something close to a guru of goodness after his convocation speech to Syracuse graduates.” That speech, “extolling the life-altering virtue of practicing kindness” evolved into his wildly popular book Congratulations, by the Way. It was interesting to find, in discussions with a few of the 1,000+ attendees before and after the San Francisco event, how many had come just wanting to be reassured of goodness in the world.

Saunders with interviewer Vendela Vida (Author photo)

I spoke with a half-dozen attendees afterwards, none of them disappointed. “Even if his satire is sharp and sometimes wicked,” said one; “somehow his characters embody basic goodness.”

After his talks, Saunders traditionally stays to personalize signed books and be snap-photographed with fans and readers. With lines snaking around blocks it has to be an exhausting time even if you know you’re selling a lot of books. (I passed on the line, but had bought a ticket that included a signed copy of Vigil. Now a few chapters in, I give it multiple thumbs-up.)

Bottom line: Reading (books!) is essential, especially if you want to write. Writing is a craft that needs constant work; drawing tips from a master, when you get the chance, is a bonus. Also:

Kindness is never wrong.

America Collection
Posted on

AI on the Literary Scene? 👎

by Fran Johns

NOT READY FOR CUTESY AI BLOGGERS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH

Photo by Unseen Studio on Unsplash

I just received a link to a fellow Substack “writer.” It has a name which I will not repeat. It even says it speaks for a human, though the named human cannot be found with extensive searching. An actual human posts the clever “thoughts” of the artificial, unintelligent bot.

You may be picking up my distaste here.

Up front I want to acknowledge the fact that AI has immense, far-ranging benefits to humanity, primarily in health, science & technology. If our ethical controls were not light years behind the technology we could all just sit back and celebrate.

But AI in the writing business? Please. Pity the English teachers in high schools and colleges everywhere— not to mention those in just about every other academic field — currently having to spend endless extra hours just trying to separate out what the student wrote from what the bot wrote.

Chalk this up not just to the gaping lag between moral-ethical codes and AI capabilities but to an entire generation born into the digital age. They, and generations to come, are led to assume that anything one can click on one can claim. Think about that for a while.

My rage, however, is with AI takng over the adults in the literary room. Where does it get off, barging in as if it owns the world, a scary but likely scenario? AI is announcing that anything we can write it can write better. Faster, cleaner and thoroughly spell-checked.

Here’s what AI does not have: a brain. It has only a composite of a zillion human brains that pour themselves into an artificial universe where data collection and algorithms now take over in lieu of human thought.

Here’s what else AI does not have: a soul. It cannot feel compassion, act in kindness, respond with love.

Great writers since the stone age have labored to record human truth, to create stories that help us understand ourselves and our world. Their words engage our thoughts and emotions to help us make sense of this life.

AI now presumes to grab, by the billions and trillions, those words put forth by human brains. By human beings who put their human blood, sweat and tears into the work of creation. AI then professes to reorganize the words we humans created into its “perfect,” soulless algorithms .

Sorry, I will not be subscribing to a bot.

+. +. +

This essay also appears on my Substack, The Optimistic Eye, which (despite today’s pessimistic note) seeks optimistic observations on all things political and otherwise. C’mon over any time, it’s free. (https://franmorelandjohns.substack.com/)

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

Bot-Bomber is Coming for You

by Fran Johns

AND GOOD LUCK WITH GETTING IT TO BUTT OUT

Photo by Alex Knight on Unsplash

“Sheesh. What do u recommend? Talk tomorrow!”

I knew exactly what the text meant. It was late at night. A friend and I needed to fix the wording on a business document. I hit the Reply key to say what corrections I was making, when we could meet, where . . .

Bot Bully beat me to it.

“Sure!” he offered. Or, “Sorry, I’m busy.”

Who the heck does he think he is? He knows my mind?

Apparently. In the olden days, we used to think for ourselves. Actually, I still enjoy thinking for myself — but it’s getting tough.

“Awesome!” says Bot Bully before I get a chance to respond to somebody who sent a text containing the word ‘win.’

Someone else mentions ‘sick?’ I might have had a human-intelligent response, but here’s the Bot, butting in with “Get well soon!” or “So sorry!”

I worry that auto-think may eliminate brain cells altogether. If Bot Bully already has the answer, does human messaging have any role in our future? Artificial Intelligence v Human Brain? Bot Bully is winning.

For instance, atop my email list as I open my Inbox, suddenly here are red-emblemed Priority! messages. When they start appearing in all caps I will know our president and his co-chief Elon have taken over Apple Mail.

I miss the days when I could figure out my own priorities.

As I was typing the above, a pop-up bot announced that Genmoji and Image Playground are now available on this machine. There go my creative-illustration brain cells.

So okay, I get that AI is here, and wonderful, and all that.

I just miss thinking.

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

Why I Fear AI

by Fran Johns

AND MAYBE YOU SHOULD TOO. ESPECIALLY IF YOU’RE A CREATIVE TYPE

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

A recent New York Times story tells of two voice actors, Linnea Sage and Paul Skye Lehrman, who were stunned to hear his A.I.-stolen voice coming from a podcast. They’re suing. The case is being reported elsewhere, amid theories of potential satisfaction for the couple — or not.

Nobody wants to clone my voice. Whew. Although I still do public talks and presentations, mainly on end of life issues for a nonprofit I support, my voice is old and raspy and revered primarily by my children, who advise me to think of it as sexy. (Good luck with that, Fran.) 

But my words? Trillions of them are out there in cyberspace. A.I.’s for the taking. And the world population’s for the using.

Granted, probably not many people want to clone my words either. But I have worked extremely hard, over many decades as a reporter, essayist, author, speech-writer, blogger, you name it, to put them together in a fashion that hopefully provides information, entertainment and — most importantly — Truth.

A.I. does not recognize truth. Nor does it recognize empathy, persuasion or compassion, among other valuable emotional traits.

If you’re a writer, you probably seek to build a reputation (or not) for writing truth. It doesn’t come easy. It comes by slogging through data and proven facts to create sentences and paragraphs that express truth. While you’re at it you very likely watch facial expressions in interviews, or take notice of things like the scent of flowers and forests, the mysterious elegance of a foggy morning, the mood of a crowd, the brilliance of a summer sky. Then you put it all together in words that ring true.

A.I. just takes words and puts them all together. How do you think ChatGPT writes those fine job applications or school essays? By grabbing the words someone else has sweated blood to put together.

I like to think that occasionally, over the decades, I have put together a sentence or phrase that is singularly expressive. It’s surely not going to hurt my feelings for ChatGPT to grab it for an application essay. But how about you writers just starting out, or mid-career? Once you’re paid (or not) to create effective, even borderline unique (if such a classification exists) phrases, should you not care that you’re sucked into the content provider abyss and ChatGPT gets the glory?

As much as it fails to distinguish between truth and falsehood, A.I.’s inability to know empathy or compassion gives me pause.

Voice actors Sage and Lehrman presumably built their careers on the ability to show traits like these through their vocal expressions. That ability is partly a gift, but largely a learning process. I don’t know Sage or Lehrman, but I’d guess they have invested a great deal of time and effort into perfecting ways of expressing emotions like these. A.I. just grabs and spits out.

I have a book of short stories on Audible, recorded by a professional actress who was aging out of stage work and into book readings. Though it’s still a little jarring to hear my words in accents and inflections I might not have intended, I appreciate the long, hard work that the gifted Katherine Conklin devoted to this project.

Introduced through a mutual friend, Katherine won my own friendship, and admiration, by the time the book was done. Early on, when I explained that the Central Virginia accent of the characters in these stories was not as ‘deep south’ as the accent she was using to read them, she found an interview by a radio personality in Henrico County, VA, next door to the Hanover County of my childhood, and sent it to me for reference. Another time, when struggling to communicate exactly what I’d meant by one phrase, she sent a voice recording repeating it six times with different inflections.

I’ve no idea how hard other readers work to produce the audiobooks I enjoy on daily walks, and I know they’re paid. But their voices are now floating around in the ethersphere and are A.I.’s for the taking; no hard working voice actor gets a penny.

It’s not just about the money. What creators slave over to express are the emotions and values with which they embue their words.  

I don’t want just to tell truth. I want to amuse or lift spirits, to comfort or console, to persuade. These are things words can do, but only when the wordsmith writes, rewrites and rewrites some more until, hopefully, the words fit together to evoke a desired result.

I am quick to admit the limitless potential of A.I. in fields like technology, medicine, ecology and many others. But it is artificial. Human intelligence, one would hope, will always incorporate the basic elements of humanity like those above. Empathy. Compassion. Truth.

And that, my right-brained friends, is why I worry.

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

Giving Thanks for Alice Munro

by Fran Johns

THERE WON’T BE ANOTHER SHORT STORY WRITER HER EQUAL

Photo by rivage on Unsplash

Storytellers come and go, but Alice Munro is forever.

The immensely gifted Canadian writer, whose death at 92 leaves us bereft, could put you into a time and place faster than a speeding sentence. Simultaneously introducing you to characters you might love or hate or question — but you knew them.

By the time I did an MFA in short fiction (USF Class of ‘00,) teachers had begun to favor other great writers with styles all over the place. Munro kept right on creating stories with beginnings, middles and ends and no one ever displaced her in my heart.

She was also gracious to a fault. Once, finishing a book of stories, I sent her a note just saying what an inspiration she was. And got a note in return.

Thanks, Ms. Munro, for the enduring memories.

America Collection/General interest
Posted on

Inspiration for the Writing Life

by Fran Johns

A LOVE LETTER TO ANNE LAMOTT – AND KUDOS TO HER SON SAM

Photo by Ian Schneider on Unsplash

Retreats, workshops, conferences and literary gatherings are everywhere today, blissfully in-person after the dark days of all-online (which doesn’t really cut it.) What’s the reason?

It’s all about inspiration.

Inspiration is to writers what thermals are to seagulls: you perch on the rock forever, or you soar into the unknown.

I learned this after being a writer (newspapers, magazines, & loving every minute) for about four decades.

It happened after my then new husband, Bud the Great Encourager, strolled into the kitchen with a scrap of paper advertising a 6-week workshop with a then little known writer named Anne Lamott.

“You should try writing stories for the grandchildren,” Bud said. “This would be a great place to start — and you’ll love the teacher.”

He did not lie.

By the end of those six weeks I had become convinced I could write anything in the world I chose, something readers of Lamott’s subsequent, wildly popular books will understand.

In those weeks I had been edited for craft, scene, dialog, you name it. I had met fellow writers who remain my friends and literary partners to this day.

And who doesn’t love Anne Lamott?

At the time (early 1990s) Lamott had published several novels and the nonfiction Operating Instructions (which I gave to every new mother I encountered for the next decade) and was at work on the widely acclaimed Bird by Bird.

Operating Instructions had to do with the birth of Lamott’s son Sam (in 1987.) After Bird by Birdcame Tender Mercies, and the books that have inspired generations of writers since.

The workshop itself inspired yours truly.

Photo by hannah grace on Unsplash

Soon after that workshop came a two-week Napa Valley Writers’ Conference directed by the late great Jack Leggett in the mid-1990s. Leggett had retired to Napa after founding and directing the famed Iowa Writers Workshop that nurtured many of the best writers of the 20th century. I had met him briefly, soon after marrying his old friend Bud. (The two were equal encouragers.)

“You need to come to the Napa Valley Conference,” Leggett said, within moments of our being introduced. “Bud says you’re a really fine writer.”

Having never written anything much beyond newspaper and magazine articles and a few really bad books on commission when I needed the money, I said something clever like, “Uhhhh.” I had also never heard of the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference. But wisely I withheld that information and said, instead, “It sounds wonderful.”

It was. That literary gathering was all about craft: character development, dialog, scene, structure, language . . . Write, edit, critique, repeat.

By the end of that great adventure I had finished drafts of several short stories (Thanks, Annie workshop!) and begun work on what would be my first not-bad book, Dying Unafraid.

It was inspiration on steroids.

Well, it was also excellent teaching, a lot of advice and support from fellow conference attendees and hard work — all on the wings of inspiration.

Photo by Alexis Brown on Unsplash

Thirty years later I sneaked off, one recent weekend, to A Writing Room retreat to absorb a little inspiration and miscellaneous good stuff — and okay, it was an excuse to visit some old friends in Albuquerque & Santa Fe.

Writers’ gatherings have changed little over the years, if the few I’ve attended are any indication: good opportunities to meet and mingle with potential writing partners and kindred souls, limited opportunities to hobnob with the big name speakers, plenty of mutual support and food for thought.

And all for what? Some of us want to get published, or make money (good luck with that) or be on TV; most of us just want to be better writers. Workshops and retreats (in person and ubiquitously online) inspire us to try.

The Writing Room event presented all of the above, created anew for the 21st century. Inspiration with a distinctly 21st-century flair.

Full disclosure: I paid the fee but mostly audited the course; this is only a butterfly’s-eye view.

Writerly inspiration today is low on craft, high on introspection and self-discovery. Early sessions invited attendees — there were some 350 from across the U.S. and elsewhere, plus uncounted others participating online — to dig within for what’s most important and what it will cost to achieve.

We still want to be better writers, but today’s gatherings focus on mindfulness and the creative core, vulnerability and persistence — as tools for the journey.

My arms-length participation in the recent event had a lot to do with personal push-back against the weekend rules: No outside news, no politics, no communication with problematic friends and family members, and quit with the social media. Excellent advice for a few days of serious writing; problematic for my scattershot self.

Photo by carolyn christine on Unsplash

After the event, though, I spoke with a number of attendees who had paid attention to the rules (except for the social media thing) and been far more serious about attendance and participation. They were, by and large, excited, uplifted, enthusiastic — and inspired.

Said one: “I was apprehensive about coming, but I’m going home feeling like I can achieve my goals. Yes, it’s been a memorable weekend.”

Several spoke of having gained confidence — in themselves and their future as writers. More than a few attendees were struggling with adversity, emotional distress or recent illness. (The stuff of great stories.) They’d been met with ovations.

One told me, “I have several hundred pages of a memoir, but had all but given up on ever finishing. When I shared about it this weekend, though, the response was really encouraging. It gave me the confidence I need.” She was “excited about sitting down and really getting to work on it.”

Co-hosted with author/creative guide Jacob Nordby, A Writing Room Retreat was led by artist/podcaster Sam Lamott.

For this writer, the inspiring words of the keynote speaker — Sam’s indomitable mom Anne Lamott — still rang true.

1 2