What? you say.
You probably don’t know what teff is, and neither did I at first, which is the way it suckered me in. I have a weakness for the secret health food that I’ve never heard of before, with an impossibly weird name.
Like teff.
I first read about teff in an article in the newspaper, which had all the ingredients of the kind of food scam that gets me every time. Not only the incomprehensible name, but the mysterious place of origin, usually far away, if not downright exotic. In the case of teff, it is the traditional grain of Ethiopia.
Right there, I’m listening.
That’s exotic.
I don’t know anything about Ethiopia except that I once went to a restaurant in Philly where you ate with your hands, giving me the undoubtedly erroneous as well as racist impression that people eat with their hands in Ethiopia.
If true, God knows how they eat teff.
Because as a factual matter, at least according to the package, teff is the smallest grain in the world.
You’re interested, right?
It’s intriguing.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. As soon as I read the article, I went online and researched teff. I learned that it has a lot of iron, a superfood for women that was supposed to give you a lot of energy.
Energy is the key word for me, especially on deadline.
I know I’m not alone in this because people buy energy bars and energy drinks, but everybody knows those things aren’t necessarily healthy. I myself usually get my energy in the form of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with extra sugar—or chocolate, which comes with all the extra sugar you need.
In other words, that’s not healthy energy, either.
Plus I read that the iron in teff is especially important for women because we lose so much iron in our menstrual cycle. Of course, that doesn’t apply to menopausal women like me, who lost not only our iron but our menstrual cycle itself, but still.
Teff for all!
Some of you might be thinking that if I was on such a quest for healthy energy, I could start exercising, but let’s not get crazy.
This is America, where we eat in the quest to lose weight.
Anyway, so I went to three different grocery stores, but none of them had teff. In fact, when I asked the clerk in customer service, none of them knew what teff was, and one salesperson thought I was sneezing.
But the harder it was to find, the more I wanted it.
“Supply limited” is another sales pitch that always works with me.
Of course the supply is never limited.
But you never know.
I just can’t take that chance.
I’m gullible, see?
So I finally found a store that had a bag, which I opened eagerly the moment I hit the house. I’d never seen anything like teff, which is a tiny little red grain that looks like a pile of iron itself.
I could feel the energy surging through my body.
The recipes on the bag said that you could put teff in a porridge or pilaf, but I never make porridge or pilaf.
Because I’m not Ethiopian.
So I opted for boiling it for twenty minutes, until it turned into a red glop that looked like bloody mashed potatoes.
I took a forkful and it tasted vaguely nutty, then I ate the rest and waited to feel energetic.
But it didn’t happen.
I’m still my lazy old self.
Maybe if I had eaten it with my hands?
Hi, My Name Is
Francesca
“It’s a good networking opportunity.”
If there’s a more anxiety-inducing sentence than that, I don’t know it.
Networking is the worst. I like people and I’m outgoing, but I like connecting with people on a real level. I have a great, internal radar for genuine, down-to-earth people and I bond with them quickly.
I make friends. I don’t make “contacts.”
Only sociopaths enjoy interacting with others for the purpose of using them to their professional advantage.
I was invited to a bestselling author’s publishing anniversary party. The author being feted is one of the nicest in the business, and I wanted to go to celebrate him. But I knew, by virtue of it being an “industry” party, I wouldn’t be allowed to just eat the cake and enjoy myself.
I’d have to network.
And I’d be flying solo. My mother was also invited, but she wasn’t free. My agents hadn’t been invited, but they were very eager for me to go.
They even emailed me links to the professional bios and photos of several editors who would likely be at the party that I should try and make an impression on.
I felt like I was a spy receiving a dossier of my targets.
Only instead of charming the pants off these women, I was supposed to charm the book contracts out of them.
What’s the first thing a good spy needs? A good disguise.
I scheduled a haircut for right before the party, so that my normally kinky, curly hair would look smooth and professional.
Confidence, from the outside in.
As soon as I arrived, I was greeted by a big table of name tags, and relief washed over me. I love a good name tag.
A name like Francesca Serritella hits a lot of people’s ears like Fettucini-Spaghetti-ella the first time they hear it. Seeing it in writing helps.
I clipped that thing to my right boob with pride.
But once I got into the room, only about 15 percent of people were wearing theirs.
Yo, adults too cool for name tags at a professional event: get over yourself. We are all too old to be cool.
I’m only thirty, and did you hear me just use the word, “Yo?” I rest my case.
Plus, in the book world, people are best known for their words, not their image. I was terrified of embarrassing myself by failing to recognize some superfamous author.
If you pass on the name tag, maybe pin your latest book jacket to your shirt.
Scanning the room, it was like the high-school cafeteria all over again, and I had no one to sit with.
I felt painfully self-conscious when I was standing still.
I told myself, you’re a shark, you’re fine as long as you keep moving.
As I weaved through the tables, I held my head high, peering around as if I might be looking for a friend, all the while trying to catch someone’s eye for an opening.
But it wasn’t working. Everyone had their cliques!
The book industry is comprised of a lot of nice, normal people who work in offices, like the editors, agents, publicists, cover artists, booksellers, etc., who interact with each other often, plus the authors, who are hermit weirdos.
Ninety-nine percent of my professional life is conducted alone, behind a computer screen, usually eating something that drops crumbs on my lap.
I’ve published eight books over as many years, and I can count the number of colleagues I regularly interact with on one hand.
If book parties are high school, authors are Chess Club.
By the hors d’oeuvres, I zeroed in on a group of particularly smiley women, definitely not the mean girls’ table.
They said they worked for one of the big publishing houses, and I told them I was just finishing my first novel, and lo and behold, they asked me about my book.
I launched into my elevator pitch, excitedly thinking, oh my God, I’m doing it, I’m networking, I’m advancing my career this very minute.
The woman seemed into it, I thought we were really clicking, until she asked me, “What are the grades?”
“I’m sorry?” I carried a 4.0 in high school …
“The book, what reading level is it?”
“Oh no, my book is definitely adult. Well, not, adult-adult, not like porn.” I laughed nervously.
“We work in the children’s division.”
“Oh…” my voice raised an octave, “that’s nice.”
Welp, five minutes down, one hour and fifty-five minutes to go.
“Wow, I love your dress. Hi, I’m Francesca.”
It’s like a platonic, woman-to-woman pickup line.
I oohed and ahhed over so many outfits and accessories, my next career move should be on the Home Shopping Network.
I spotted a woman with the most beautiful curly hair, a pile of chestnut ringlets.
“You have to tell me what hair products you use, because your hair looks amazing.”
She lit up and we started talking.
“Okay, I’m buying all this stuff,” I said. “Thanks for the tips, we curly heads gotta stick together.”
She smiled, but her brow furrowed. “But you don’t have curly hair.”
My blowout! The essential part of my please-take-me-seriously disguise. I’d completely forgotten. I explained that I don’t really look like this, I just tried to change everything about myself for this event.
She laughed. I don’t remember what her job was, or if there was any purpose to our conversation, but we were buds for the rest of the party.
Next time I have to go to one of these networky things, I won’t come as a spy, or a shark, or a smooth-talking salesman. I’ll come as myself.
With a name tag.
Netflixxed
Lisa
I have never lived unplugged.
But I’m trying it now.
Let me explain.
I love TV, and I tend to keep it on all day long while I’m writing.
TV is my friend.
And TV is the perfect kind of friend on deadline, because it makes no requests like conversation, lunch, or a movie, but is content to play in the background of my life, an innocuous sound track of truck commercials, Real Housewives dilemmas, and Dr. Phil.
At my house, the doctor is always in.
Though I still miss Oprah.
She was my goddess.
I watch her channel too, but it’s so good that my emotions usually get engaged, which is a no-no during first draft.
Iyanla, fix my book!
And so for a while, the perfect solution was a cable news channel. I thought it would keep me up to date on important things, but as the election got closer, I thought there were a lot of pundits who didn’t know anything, wildly careless statements, rehashed speculation, and coverage better suited for the trotters at a low-rent racetrack than the presidential election of the United States of America.
The same thing happened with social media, like Twitter and Facebook. No matter which candidate you liked, I don’t think any of us liked the media coverage. And it continued even after the election, which was when I finally decided to pull the plug.
Well, not completely.
I’m not insane.
Because when I got my new remotes, I happened to notice that Netflix was offered on my television.
Wow!
What a country!
I had only rarely watched Netflix before, mainly for television shows I had missed in real time, but suddenly there it was, staring me in the face.
A:-) in a pink block, with my name underneath:
lisa
How cute is that?
So I clicked and went through the torturous log-in procedure, where you spell your long Italian-American name into a bewildering seek-and-find of letters and numbers.
It’s not a login, it’s an IQ test.
And once you pass that, the menu isn’t much easier. I had a hard time trying to find movies and TV shows, and more than once I had to resort to another seek-and-find.
Netflix, help a sister out.
But after a while, I got the hang of it, mainly because I started with the comforting SUGGESTED FOR YOU shows.
I must admit, I like this idea.
I usually make all my decisions on my own, and though I know how lucky I am in that, I also understand why a corporate CEO will go to a dominatrix for sex.
Once in a while, it’s nice to let someone else decide.
Especially if they make good decisions.
And they pay attention to your safe word.
Mine is Bradley Cooper.
So I started following the Netflix suggestions and I began to fall in love. Not just with the shows, but with Netflix. It understands me better than any man I’ve ever married or divorced, and not only that, it listens to me. It notices what I like and gives me more of it, as if it really cares.
Netflix, marry me?
I cannot be the first woman who’s felt this way. We’re such easy creatures, we females. Maybe there’s an algorithm in our ovaries.
What do women want?
More of what we like and less of what we don’t.
If Netflix can do it, why can’t men?
So for the past week while I write, I’ve had on the soothing background music of every single crime drama ever produced.
In the world.
The American ones are awesome, like Bloodline, and I also love the ones out of the UK, like Happy Valley and The Fall. Though I admit I had to put in the subtitles to deal with the British, who clearly speak English way better than we do. And also have a completely different vocabulary of curse words.
Bollocks!
It sounds like buttocks, but it’s not.
Though I think it means the same thing.
Then I segued into Narcos, about Pablo Escobar and the drug cartel, which was more challenging because it uses so much Spanish that I had to study the subtitles. I knew I was in trouble when I typed federales into my last manuscript.
And Netflix can scratch whatever itch you have. Like in my case, I’m still in mourning over Downton Abbey, so I discovered The Crown, which features some of the most gorgeous interiors on the entire planet.
Let me just say, Buckingham Palace beats Downton Abbey, hands down.
Watch two minutes of the show, and you will get three hundred decorating ideas, none of which you can afford, including the fresh-cut flowers.
Just go with Edible Arrangements.
I wonder if the Royal Family has one of those in the kitchen and I bet they’re avoiding those weird cherries, like the rest of us. You know, the ones that stain the pineapple a nice carcinogenic red.
And of course, the binge-watching thing is its own reward, and if you work eight or nine hours at a stretch, like I do, you will cover the entirety of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, which is ninety years in ten episodes.
It’s like dog years.
So Netflix is getting me through my final draft and the postelection season.
And at night, I read before bed, instead of watching the TV news or checking out social media.
A real book, instead of Facebook.
And you know what?
I’m happier and healthier.
Isn’t that what life is all about?
The End.
Like a Rolling Book
Lisa
Bob Dylan won the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature.
Yay?
I’m of two minds about this, which is so Dylan of me.
My initial reaction was sheer delight because I’m a huge Dylan fan.
In fact I have a major crush on him.
I have almost all of his albums and I read four books about him, including the one he wrote about himself. When I first heard that he had won, I fired off a tweet that said something like, “I’m so happy that Dylan won, all of the arts are connected!”
I know, right?
I was stating an essential truth of pageant-level depth.
Welcome to Twitter.
I do believe that all of the arts are connected, and his lyrics are poetry, and poetry is certainly literature, and the thighbone is connected to the leg bone.
Ipso facto, Dylan gets the Nobel Prize.
If you follow.
And you know how fans are. Fans get happy when their team wins. Even if it happens because
of a bad call, a fluke, or just sheer good luck.
We call that winning ugly.
But it’s still winning.
And we love to win!
Go, Dylan, go!
But after the initial excitement subsided, I started to wonder if this was a good thing. I saw the reaction online from fellow authors, publishers, booksellers, librarians, and people who love books in general. And I began to think it was a shame not to award the prize for literature to a wonderful author, rumored favorites like Philip Roth or Margaret Atwood.
In college, I took a yearlong course with Philip Roth, and he’s a brilliant author who made me look at literature in a whole new way.
Didn’t he deserve that prize?
Yes.
Because he gave me an A.
Plus many readers, including myself, like to buy prize-winning books, and it’s helpful to guide people to quality books. But now that opportunity is missed.
The Nobel Committee says they gave Dylan the prize for “having created new poetic expressions within the Great American song tradition.”
But maybe it’s too smart by half to award a prize in literature to songs, even a body of remarkable songs.
Songs are wonderful, but they’re not novels.
I know this because I’ve written thirty novels, and they are each about a hundred thousand words long.
And they don’t sound like anything unless you read them out loud.
You can’t hum them like Mamma Mia.
Or stop humming them like Mamma Mia.
Previous winners of the Noble Prize for Literature have been Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, John Steinbeck, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I don’t know if any of those guys can sing.
But honestly, neither can Dylan.
The Nobel was established by the will of Alfred Nobel, and it awards prizes for Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Literature, Economic Sciences, and Peace.
More STEM-heavy than I had realized.
You know what’s conspicuously absent?
Music. Songs.
So what does that say about Nobel’s intent in his will?
What would he, the inventor of dynamite, have wanted?
To explode the literary world?
So I started to wonder if my initial reaction had been because of my crush.
Dylan didn’t say anything for several weeks after the announcement was made that he’d won this incredibly prestigious prize. The Nobel Committee tried to contact him, but was unable to, and when reporters asked him about that at a concert in Oklahoma, he answered, “Well, here I am.”
I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 16
