Real Writers

In the third grade, I spent my whole allowance on a card game called Authors. It was like Go Fish, if I recall correctly, except that the "books" of cards bore pictures of famous writers. Some names I recognized: Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Edgar Allen Poe--but some were real puzzlers: Joel Chandler Harris (have mercy, of "Uncle Remus" fame); Nathaniel Hawthorne (I was 8, ok?); Robert Louis Stevenson (my uncle was named after him--but I'd never read him); and Cornelia Meigs(who apparently wrote a bio of Alcott). There must have been others--13 of them, right? Was Shakespeare's face on a card? Shaw? The Brontes did not make the cut, of that I am certain. I would have remembered them.

I've never liked playing cards, honestly. But I loved my Authors.

Since cardplaying was frowned upon in my family, I took the pious view that the game of Authors was educational, not at all like the secret pinochle my parents played when my grandmothers weren't around, or the waxy naked-lady cards my uncles hid. Authors served a higher purpose. The scary, stern pictures of the old people on them were proof--they may as well have been Abraham and Sarah.

My purchase of Authors happened to coincide with my discovery of the Biography. I had already fallen in love with libraries (a complicated story involving my father's Air Force career, family literacy, and much more)--but long story blogged, when I was eight years old, I fell for biographies, HARD. They came in little blue or orange-covered books with drawings inside, and there were lots to choose from.

People's real lives made stories! Some of them were cautionary, some were inspiring, some bored the crap out of me but I finished them anyway: Amelia Earhart, Girl Flyer; Dolly Madison, First Lady; and the best of all---Mark Twain.

He was from Missouri; he had RED HAIR; he collected cats; he loved theatre; he played with words; he scandalized people by telling the truth; he was funny, he had a happy marriage, and he loved his daughters until he died, even though he wrote about boys, mostly.

I was so in love with him I read his life story 13 times. I was a real good reader. I was such a good reader I imagined I might be a Real Good Writer, too.

Mark Twain became my imaginary boyfriend, my imaginary father, and very quickly, he became Me. Or the me I wanted to be. I wanted to be the Girl Mark Twain. (I can't type that phrase without imagining my third grade school picture face superimposed with Mark Twain's hair and moustache--maybe a cigar and a little white suit.) That year I read TOM SAWYER, HUCKLEBERRY FINN, and most of his collected short stories.

Did I understand them? Probably not. But just holding the books! The library trusted ME with Mark Twain! Reading his words, knowing he was a real person who was born in the same state as my mother, had her red hair, whose language was the idiom much of my family still spoke, whose values, intelligence, and humor I recognized and wanted for myself--

I gave up the card game. I cheated at it, anyway. I'd only collect the authors I liked, and you can't win the game if that's how you play.

I started writing. In grade school I tried to write novels about orphaned girls in English boarding schools. (Never mind that I'd never been to boarding school, much less England.) I wrote a three-page Christmas play with my friend Connie Markel, "Sovereigns of the Sky". During a particularly religious phase, I kept a daily diary of my sins but unfortunately destroyed it--Real Writers didn't embarrass themselves and probably weren't Baptist, anyway. In junior high I wrote a whimsical book, summer reading, really, about my adventures with the Beatles. Then I convinced myself that Real Writers were Poets. I filled spirals with painful verses of unrequited high school love, mostly in lower case, read by all my closest friends, some of whom declared me the next Emily Dickinson. I even became editor of the high school literary magazine. But I still wasn't a real writer, an Author. It was clear that my face would never be on a playing card.

The Girl Mark Twain went underground for years. Unemployed and bored in Los Angeles, she joined a writing group, started a reading group, and took classes. She followed Somerset Maugham's advice and copied Real Writers' work in her own handwriting until she felt entitled to write--and sometimes she took his other advice and simply wrote her name over and over again: The Girl Mark Twain, The Girl Mark Twain, The Girl Mark Twain--until something almost Real took shape.

Desperately Seeking Buddy Galon!

For the past few years, I have had a Google alert on three things--my own name; whatever project I'm currently obsessed with; and Buddy Galon. So whenever any of the above pop up in cyberspace, Google magically sends me an email to let me know that somebody, somewhere, cares about these things, too--at least in the moment.

Buddy Galon was Lady May Lawford's "as-told-to" and published her autobiography, BITCH!, upon which I based my little play.

Imagine my surprise when Google alerted me on August 21, 2009, with the following (from a Craigslist posting):

"Desperately Seeking Buddy Galon - w4m (Palm Beach, Florida)
Trying to locate Buddy Galon. . . An unscrupulous woman in New York is making a play about his book and giving no credit to him as author. . ."

Of course I answered immediately to say that I am the "unscrupulous woman"(actually, that part of the post kind of thrilled me),that I legally hold the stage rights, that I do fully credit him, and that if this Craigslister finds Mr. Galon, to please get in touch with me, because I really want to talk to him. No response.

Yesterday, Google and Craigslist presented me with:
"Has anyone seen Buddy Galon, the author, who once lived in Palm Beach? He has disappeared without a trace. . ."

And today:
" . . .we are also seeking author Buddy Galon. . . He has left many friends, colleagues, acquaintances and admirers with no forwarding address or contact information. . .We miss him."

What makes this run on Buddy?!

I personally know someone else who is looking for him, found an old phone number, and called it. The result was--well, ask me in person and I'll tell you, because it's an interesting story, not for this forum. Buddy didn't answer the phone, but the person who did is also looking for him, and apparently has been for some time.

The mystery of Lady Lawford, and now the mystery of Buddy Galon?! The conspiracy theorist in me is wild with imaginings, and the part of me that so often wants to disappear into thin air is wild with envy.

If you know where Buddy Galon is--I think his given name is Beauregard--please let me know. He grows more interesting every day.

The Post-Bitch! Post

"Never give up - and even with no talent you'll still make it, because so many people DO give up." --Ruth Gordon, yet again!

Out of the blue another Ruth Gordon fan sent me the above quote, just when I was convincing myself that I shouldn't write any more plays. "Bitch!" was a b*tch.

My father recently reminded me of a dinner table conversation, from years ago. (We'll call it a conversation; mostly we argued, circa 1965-1984). He had been trying to convince me to go to law school, join Civil Service, ANYTHING to fall back on, in case Plan A (to be a working actor and the Girl Mark Twain) didn't work out. Finally, frustrated, he asked me what I'd do if I never "made it"--and I don't remember saying this, but apparently I growled,"I'll outlive everyone until I'm the only actress left. Then they'll have to hire me!"

Ruth Gordon's father, the sea captain, wanted her to be a phys ed teacher. She wrote a play about it.

I'm off to Houston on Monday to play Mrs. Webb in OUR TOWN, the American masterpiece written by (yes, it always comes back to her) Ruth Gordon's dearest friend, Thornton Wilder. I played Mrs. Soames at Hartford Stage about two years ago, with Hal Holbrook (the Boy Mark Twain) as the Stage Manager--a wonderful production,a lesson in Zen, directed by Gregory Boyd. Greg's directing it in Houston, too, and I'm getting a promotion this time because my friend, the estimable Annalee Jeffreys, is rehearsing Horton Foote's Orphans Home cycle, bound for Hartford and NYC. That's how it works.

As a kid, I found OUR TOWN corny--I guess I didn't understand irony then. And my loving, hard-working young mother was still vital and healthy. I hated Emily Webb because I WAS Emily--easy to ridicule, idealistic, bright, and clueless. Now I'll be playing her mother.

When I turned the Big 4-0, to stave off despair, I started collecting autographed photos of women who kept creating beyond the unimaginable age of forty. My first was Ruth Gordon, a framed lobby card of her in DOLL'S HOUSE. Then Shirley Booth, Geraldine Page (of course), Rosemary Clooney, Hedy Lamarr, Doris Day, Uta Hagen, Marian Seldes, Maureen Stapleton, Angela Lansbury, and lots more--my alma maters--doesn't that mean soul mothers? I have to remember to find Shelley Winters! When I studied with her I was too shy--well,afraid of her-- to ask. And I was too young to realize that the opportunity might pass. Now to ask my Aunt Frances and my Great Aunts Mary and Ruth for their autographs, too. They're not actresses, but they're survivors, and they'd look good hanging next to those other ladies.

Another of my heroes, Vanessa Redgrave, once said that her lifetime goal was to be not the world's greatest, but the world's oldest working actress. Now, that's what I call "making it"!

I've got a lot of re-writing to do in Houston.