Heather asked if I would write a eulogy. I complied, of course, but it wasn’t read at the service. The Baptist minister refused because, in going over it, he came across the word “infidelity.” Heather read it the next day at the military burial, where it was probably more appropriate in tone. But judge for yourself.

FOR JERRY

Excuse me, not Jerry but Gerald. Actually, Gerald T.  He had a kind of formality to him, if you disregarded his informality. He had a way of saying profound things, and then laughing at himself.Well, then, Jerry. He was, certainly, one of the brightest people I ever met. I didn’t, of course, expect to meet bright people in the U.S. Army — it is, in fact, a court-martial offense to be brilliant. But he was brilliant.

We met one day at the battalion headquarters in Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam.  When I asked him what his job was, he said that he was the civil affairs officer. I said, “That’s great. But tell me, what is a civil affairs officer?” He smiled, and said something like, “A civil affairs officer is someone who meets people for coffee in the morning, hangs around in the afternoon, writes long letters home about how difficulty the duty is, and, at night at the officer’s club, orders one rum and Coke for each hand. All in the proud defense of his country.”

Jerry, then, became an instant friend and confidant. We talked of our wives, the children we would one day have, the various idiocies of military life. He also listened to my complaints about the number of papers I had to push, and the press releases I had to write about how beautifully the war was going. Near the end of our tours, we flew to Tokyo on R&R together. We had suits tailored for us. We went to the Ginza, and to bookstores and to nightclubs, where we thought seriously about the act of infidelity — but only thought about it, I am sad to report.

The years after the war was when Jerry really showed how different he was. The rest of us veterans moped about the lack of hospitality soldiers received when we got home. None of this ever bothered Jerry. He had a good time in the war, and a good time when he got back. “And, besides,” he said, “what is the difference between Vietnam and Jefferson County?“

Well, life didn’t quite work out the way we planned. We had kids all right — great kids — but we also endured some of life’s trying if ordinary obstacles: marital crises,  health issues, and living through the Jimmy Carter administration. Jerry, who loved the Wall Street Journal editorial page, and I didn’t agree on Carter but we tolerated our political differences. Because in the end, there were more important matters to discuss. He was the one person I could call whenever I failed at something, either professionally or domestically, because I knew he wouldn’t judge me, he wouldn’t tell me what I knew so well — that I had disappointed myself.

You all need such a friend. A person who calls you, maybe, after three months of no contact but picks up exactly where the conversation left off, as if he’d been in the room that whole time, knowing exactly what’s on your mind and in your heart.

I felt guilty in recent years that I haven’t taken the trouble to get on a plane and come to visit. He, after all, traveled to Connecticut a few times, and I hadn’t been to Barnhart or Imperial or even Festus for years. But we talked to each other, and I learned about what Pat was doing, and what Robert was up to, and about the birth of each grandchild. I knew about Heather’s progress because she and I have been in touch almost all of her life, and I have also gotten to know the miracle called Benjamin. Well, brilliance is in the blood, isn’t it? But so is kindness and caring, respect, laughter, and wisdom — all the things that shape the legacy of a man sometimes called Jerry.

I salute you, my friend, if a little late.

There is a law about not profiting from the sales of books in which a criminal describes her crimes. But then this book isn’t my fault. Over the years people have said to me various words — using nouns (“slut,” “vermin,” “killer,” etc.) and adjectives (“heartless,” “self-serving,” “manipulative,” etc.), and even a few conjunctions and articles (as Mary McCarthy said about Lillian Hellman — “Every word she writes is a lie, even ‘and’ and ‘the.’”) What was I supposed to do with all these words, if not make a book out of them?

The careful reader will understand, too, that the 29 stab wounds that Travis Alexander received — aren’t I clever for not using a more active sentence construction — reflect what anyone in my position would do. No doubt that 25 wouldn’t be enough. Even 26. I quote from the Book of Leviticus when I say, “An eye for an eye, a slit throat for seeing other women.”

I want to take this opportunity to thank all of my fan. (My mother, maybe.) And to the prosecutor, Juan Martinez, whose anger made me a star. I also want to thank my defense “team” of Jennifer Willmott, and Kirk Nurmi, who doesn’t like me nine days out of ten. But what do you expect from a man who can’t see his belt buckle?

There is a real victim here, and you are reading her story now. By the way, proceeds from this book will go to the Jodi Arias Foundation For A New Porsche Once I’m Out Of This Joint.

Dwike Mitchell and Willie Ruff

William Zinsser

The jazz pianist Dwike Mitchell died this week, and I thought of Willie Ruff, his playing partner for almost 60 years, but mostly of William Zinsser, the teacher of all of us in the matter of writing well. Zinsser, of course, gave us On Writing Well, Writing to Learn, and other classics on craft. But he also produced, in 1984, a book originally titled Willie and Dwike (later changed to Ruff and Mitchell: An American Profile in Jazz). The first piece is the author’s account of the journey the two musicians made to China in 1981 to lead workshops in jazz for young people, the first American performers to do so. Every sentence in the essay is strong and necessary. But I thought I would quote here only the first sentence, to remind us not to try to infuse emotion, or to dazzle for effect, in the opening of a piece. The opening paragraph is always an invitation — one that readers can accept or decline. So let’s look at this one:

“Jazz came to China for the first time on the afternoon of June 2, 1981, when the American bassist and French horn player Willie Ruff introduced himself and his partner, the pianist Dwike Mitchell, to several hundred students and professors who were crowded into a large room at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music.”

What a sweet, clear invitation. No attempt to evoke emotion from readers, only curiosity and the intention to give them a sense of what made this unusual, and to also create a sense of expectation in the clearest language possible. Zinsser, having experienced deeply emotional moments during the workshops, knew not to try to put the reader in that position. It had taken him a lot of time and effort, after all, to reach that point himself. Why wouldn’t the reader need the same amount of investment in order to receive the emotional payoff?

When editors or agents read your work, they look for such clarity, though you may think they’re looking to be dazzled. Emotion — there is plenty to come in the Willie and Dwike piece — is only possible once readers are invested in the characters. So many novice writers make the mistake of trying to show that emotion right off. That’s not the place in novels or in movies that makes readers or audiences cry with delight or sadness. Zinsser knows how to build a piece. Read his books. They are clear. And they will entice you from the first sentences.

The pioneers: The first Praiano Writers forum. That’s Wally Lamb holding his knee.

Several nights ago, a pleasant panic seemed to break out among our writing students. On previous afternoons, they had explored the town of Praiano. They’d had lunch overlooking the Ligurian Sea. But on this day most of them scurried back from the morning workshop to the Hotel Margherita to change everything. It would be the night of the student reading, and what they had learned in the first three days of the Praiano Writers forum was that their previous ideas were just that — previous ideas. Now, they faced the prospect of reading their own work for ten minutes in front of fellow students and faculty. Would Wally Lamb come up to them afterwards and scream “Brava!” or “Bravo!” or would he nod politely?  Would Suzanne Levine find poetry in their work? What might I say?

The results of the panic work was obvious as we gathered at 9 p.m. at the villa Casa L Orto, where our classes were held. Terrence stunned the audience with a small part of 18 pages that he had just written that afternoon. Lauren’s piece demonstrated her flair for humor. Peter wove stories with tunes on his concertina. Murray took us back to the years after World War I and, in his novel, a bold attempt to rescue large populations from oppression. Ben brought us into the world of Nicky, his protagonist, who as a youth suffered in a Dickensian way. Jackie didn’t have to re-write. She read from her previously published memoir; it was a dramatic scene told in such detail that it seemed to sum up the week’s lessons.

Our three-person faculty sat most of the night with our mouths open, so pleased with the excerpts from the novels and memoirs we were listening to, and that the lessons had been taken so seriously and applied within just a few days. We of course complimented our students, but only after giving them breath-defying hugs.

Questions for writers: How can you benefit from Amazon? How do you develop arcs for your characters? How do you create irresistible beginnings for novels or memoirs? And how can you resist Neapolitan paccheri con la zuppa di pesce? Well, then…

Be a part of the first Praiano Writers Conference with novelist Wally Lamb, poet Suzanne Levine and me, from March 17-23 on the Amalfi Coast. We’ve got an eager and talented group of participants already, but have room for a couple of more.  See www.praianowriters.com.

The wine is ordered, the view is spectacular, the food is, well — I suppose we could go on a hunt for a bad Italian meal, but we’d be disappointed. So what are you waiting for?

His answer through the years has always been the same: “No.” This is in stark contrast to people on the street who say, “Nice to meet you,” and then, “You know, Lary, one day I’m going to write a book about my fascinating life.”

And so we are collectively deprived of Sheldon Ocker’s experience of covering the Cleveland Indians for the Akron Beacon Journal since the 1970s. Every February he has traveled to spring training to collect quotes about the sunny season ahead. Every October he has offered his lamentations, and counted the years since 1948, the last time the Indians were at the top of the baseball world.

Even so, he manages to entertain daily, walking the line between fandom and appropriate derision, referring to team members as “lodge brothers” and to the management as “the Tribe’s deep thinkers.”

Read him on ohio.com as the season wanes, and, if your are so inclined, send me your encouragements. I will pass them along. Though I should say, after a lifetime of rooting for Cleveland Indians, I have no expectation of winning.

Unlike most authors engaged to read their work, Bryson is good at it. And, though you won’t find much new in it about the playwright — it relies heavily on words such as “if” and “maybe” and “perhaps” –  it is tickling to listen to, particularly so for anyone who writes.

Shakespeare has been the subject of thousands of books, of course, so it is something of presumption for Bryson to add one more.  He admits as much in chapter one. And yet he has a strong voice, his digging into the Elizabethan Era is fruitful, and his storytelling is strong; he deftly weaves the little uncovered about Shakespeare’s life into a portrait of juxtaposition.

For example, Shakespeare’s works appeared at a time when it was a crime to be an atheist, and yet his plays have no specific Biblical references.  And though Aristotle’s Poetics — a ruling document in the theater at the time — argued that plays were required to track action of just a single day, Shakespeare’s comedies and tragedies were clearly in violation. He was also a man, who as Shaw said,  “was a great storyteller — if someone else had written the story first.” He borrowed his plots from any place he could find them.

What sticks out to me, though, in Bryson’s work are the little gems. He tells the story, for instance, of an early play for which opening night drew a large crowd, and yielded more than three pounds, a large sum at the time, for the theater. The money was put into a little box and taken to an office: the box office.

McKay, the most eloquent sports anchor of his day (or any day), writes of being given the job — by default — of reporting on a crime so heinous it destroyed an international ideal. As he points out in the book, the 1972 Munich Olympics were seen as the games of reconciliation: of the Israeli team being cheered during the opening ceremonies in a city that had been the birthplace of the Nazi movement; and of Olga Korbut, the 17-year-old, 83-pound Soviet gymnast who melted cold-war hearts. For a moment, international tensions dissolved, and humanity triumphed. How naïve a notion. For suddenly, as McKay recalls it in such detail, his focus turned to the assault by the Black September Movement, and attempts throughout the long day and night to free their hostages at the Olympic Village and then at a Munich air base.

McKay describes the hooded kidnapers. And at the same time he can see on other studio monitors sports events taking place. “These now seemed insanely irrelevant — a volleyball game, the genteel dressage horsemanship event at Nymphemburg Palace, American heavyweight Duane Bobick being mauled by the Cuban, Teofilo Stevenson. What had been important and exciting yesterday seemed almost like blasphemy today. Why were the games still going on?”

I stayed up all night watching, as McKay tried to account for what was happening. I remember the final minutes exactly as he does — how at first it was reported by authorities that the athletes may have escaped at the air base, where German sharpshooters tried to rescue them. But then, after being handed new information, the anchor told the television audience, “That report may have been too optimistic.” And then finally, a weary and heartbroken McKay provided the end of the story in three words. “They’re all gone.”

The next morning, as I drove my Volkswagen bug, I paid no attention to the road, and hit an oncoming car. Nobody was injured, but Munich’s madness had hit home.

Yesterday, the IOC and the British prime minister gathered to pay tribute to the dead Israeli athletes. But it wasn’t enough for many who remember, and I know that McKay would say the tepid response is in character. Because in 1972, the Games went on. In his memoir, McKay pounds away at that move.  But he also records the dignified aftermath of that violent night, at the stadium the next day, when Beethoven was performed by the city’s orchestra and when Israeli authorities were invited to speak:

“The lesson,” McKay writes, “was like a Medieval morality play. Two men in yarmulkas spoke without bitterness, thanking their hosts for trying to save the hostages even though, in the end, it could not have turned out worse.

“When the last Olympics were held in this country, men in yarmulkas were being beaten and thrown into concentration camps. Now, they stood like mankind’s conscience, reminders of the past even as they were symbols of a terrible present.”

Jack Dollard

I call your attention to a memorial service last week in Hartford for Jack Dollard, the devoutly irreverent artist, architect and urban planner who somehow convinced the staid and conservative Aetna insurance company to erect playful infrastructure and who dedicated many years to Hartford’s revitalization. The service was held at one of the city’s signature sites — the carousel he moved from Canton, Ohio, to Bushnell Park in 1977.

Speaker after speaker — many with humor (for humor is also a common gift at such lifecycle events) — praised Dollard. But I include here an excerpt from one eulogy because the speaker used an unusual level of detail to define the person being memorialized. Here, Michael Stefura describes (in the present tense — rare for a memorial service) a visit to the apartment that Dollard shared with his wife, Enid Lynn. And in this detail some of the character and legacy of the man becomes apparent:

“I look around. I see the complete writings of Le Corbusier. More toys. An old wooden drafting table covered with construction drawings for a large office building. A Racing Form from Saratoga. A colored-in zoning map of downtown Hartford. There are plants everywhere…five feet tall out-of-control geraniums, ficus, a palette of wet oil paints, brushes soaking in pots, stacks of canvases leaning against the wall…The TV is on too loud and tuned in to a Giants game. The rustic dining room table is filled with financial statements and unopened mail, a week’s worth of the New York Times and the New York Post, tons of books and magazines all being read simultaneously. The walls are covered in beautiful watercolors of far-off places, food recipes, a black and white photo of a ferocious linebacker (could this really be Jack?), photos of Block Island, some names and phone numbers penciled on the drywall. Rolled-up drawings everywhere.”

If you are asked to speak at a funeral or memorial service, take a tip from brother-in-law Michael. Let the detail, not the cliches, pay tribute to the life. And if you need more inspiration, read Phyllis Theroux’s excellent collection and commentary, The Book of Eulogies. As Theroux notes in her introduction, ”Some of the people are famous. Others are obscure. But all of them have one thing in common. When they died, someone wrote about them uncommonly well.”

Note: For readers of my Connecticut magazine column on the literary triumph of David Fitzpatrick (http://www.connecticutmag.com/Connecticut-Magazine/August-2012/Finding-David-F/, please check the writer’s website for a complete list of his upcoming readings: http://davidfitzpatrickbooks.com.

When Carlos Eire spent a day recently with students at Fairfield U’s MFA Creative Writing program, he traced his transformation from writer of academic works (he teaches European history at Yale) into a memoirist whose books, Waiting for Snow in Havana, and Learning to Die in Miami, have attracted large audiences.

The source of the change: He had tried, in 2000, to offer a sense of perspective to the media when the Elian Gonzalez case brought Eire’s native Cuba back into the daily news. Elian, 6 years old at the time, had been one of 14 passengers on a boat from Cuba to Florida. Eleven of the escapees drowned, including his mother. The boy was rescued and brought to live with relatives in Miami while his father, still in Cuba, insisted he return home. The Cuban government, arguing the importance of keeping family together, joined in the custody battle.

Meanwhile, Eire fumed. The media, he felt, was being played, lacking perspective on Castro’s real stance toward families. Eire knew firsthand — at 11, having to say goodbye to his parents and to fly to Miami, toward an adolescence that would be spent in foster homes. His story stood for those of thousands of other families separated, many permanently (Eire never saw his father again), by inhumane restrictions.

So Eire wrote letters to the The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and other prestigious publications making the point that Castro’s stance was fraudulent. When nobody printed his letters, he became angry. And, in his view, “insane.” For 90 straight days he sat down to write his own story. It was fueled by a sense of a writer’s duty: to illuminate, to persuade, to make a case for justice.

He sold what would eventually be titled Waiting for Snow in Havana as a novel. But when the publisher asked how much of it was true, he responded, “All of it.” The only things he had changed were names, including his own. Hearing this,  Simon & Schuster informed Eire that it had to be released as a memoir, not a novel, and the correct names would have to be restored. Eire objected — he had written the story without fear of causing any specific insult or harm. But then good writing requires truth, without regard to a sense of consequence.

During his talk to Fairfield writing students, Eire also pointed to the need for good luck. Waiting for Snow in Havana was originally scheduled to be published in 2002. But the aftermath of 9/11 delayed such books. And when it finally emerged in 2003, a friend carried it directly to a woman who that year was a member of the committee that selected the National Book Award winners. “It was like 12 Angry Men,” Eire recalled. “She wouldn’t let the people out of the room until they agreed that my book should win.”

Eire’s great sense of purpose is reflected in the Preambulo. In part:

“Memory is the most potent truth. Show me history untouched by memories and you show me lies. Show me lies not based on memories and you show me the worst lies of all.”