Book of the Week: Half-Pint, We Hardly Knew Ya!

Prairie Tale by Melissa Gilbert

A sprained wrist and family vacation offered a fine opportunity to catch up on some mindless summer reading in the form of the ever-popular celebrity tell-all biography.

Many hens are well familiar with Melissa Gilbert, having grown up watching her as Laura "Half-Pint" Ingalls on the Little House on the Prairie television series. Of course, we also read all of the Little House books, a staple of girlhood life before moving on to Nancy Drew and Judy Blume. Laura, and thus Melissa, was like one of our friends. Like her, we secretly envied Mary's beauty and perfect behavior, but inwardly preferred "Half-Pint's" spunk and misadventures. Although Gilbert grew up to become queen of cable television movies and president of the Screen Actors Guild, she has never been able to shed her association with Laura Ingalls. To her credit, she's okay with that. Unlike many former child stars (I'm talkin' to you, Tatum!), Melissa has apparantly avoided most of the pitfalls of post-superstar adulthood to build a rather normal life with husband Bruce Boxleitner, and successful career.

Much of the buzz about Prairie Tale has centered on the more scandalous revelations, such as the juicy details about Melissa's longterm relationship with Rob Lowe, including the relevation of an unexpected pregnancy that resulted in miscarriage. To sum up: he was a serial cheater ill-prepared for adulthood, as was her first husband, Bo Brinkman. No big shock there, really. Many readers may be shocked by her candid admission of numerous flings with famous and non-famous men, but still nothing compared to most Hollywood tell-alls. To me, the most surprising revelation was that Melissa is Jewish. Oy! Who knew?

In fact, the most refreshing thing about this celebrity bio is how much it reinforces Melissa Gilbert's "everygirl" appeal. For a former child star whose upbringing was far from normal, she comes across as spectacularly grounded and relatable. Even her challenges, from poor choices in men to recent alcohol addiction and therapy, come across as problems faced by millions of average women. None of her issues have been the result of early fame and fortune.

Credit for her normality rests primarily with Melissa's mother, who loved and protected her child unconditionally. First a little background: unlike many child stars, Melissa was not pressed into the business by some overbearing stage mom seeking fame and fortune. At one day old, she was adopted by Paul Gilbert and Barbara Crane Gilbert, both actors themselves. Her grandfather, Harry Crane, was already a well-known Hollywood powerhouse (he created the Honeymooners, among other projects). For Melissa, becoming an actor wasn't so much a shot at fame and fortune, but merely stepping into the family business at an early age. Hob-knobbing with the likes of Harry's pals Frank Sinatra and Groucho Marx was normal for her and her siblings, Jonathan (Willie Oleson on Little House) and Sara (Darlene onRoseanne).

Melissa' parents divorced around the same time she got her big break on Little House. Her father died early during the show's run. Partly for that reason, Michael Landon stepped in as her surrogate father for many years. The familial chemistry between "Half-Pint" and "Pa" was quite real. That wasn't the only part of Little House that reflected reality. She had a strained relationship with Melissa Sue Anderson, which enhanced the sense of sibling rivalry between Laura and Mary. Despite Laura's on-screen rivalry with Nellie Oleson, Melissa's best friend on the set was Alison Arngrim, as "naughty" in real-life as Nellie was mean on screen. One suggested alternative title for the book: Nellie's Not a Bitch, Mary Is.

Were it not for Alison, "Half-Pint" would probably never have learned about the facts of life. Throughout the years of Little House superstardom, overprotective Barbara kept her daughter very sheltered by Hollywood standards, so much so that Melissa remained innocent for longer than many of her peers. She was a self-professed "dork," terrified of her first on-screen kiss with Dean Butler (who played Laura's love, Almanzo) because she had never even held hands with a boy in real life! The awkwardness showed through. If you are ever reviewing DVDs of the show, see if you can spot the change in Melissa's comfort level between the seventh and eighth seasons. Let's just say that Melissa's summer hiatus "matured" for performance in many ways.

Upon reaching age 18, there were the obligatory years of partying with the Brat Pack, still not that shocking given her age and context. As Melissa rightly explains, she and her Hollywood peers were essentially living the same life as many college students in the (pre-AIDs scare) 1980s. Instead of going to classes all day, then partying all night, they worked on sets all day, then partied all night. Despite dabbling in the wild side, Melissa was grounded enough to avoid the most dangerous excesses of the times and grew out of the phase by her mid-20s. Marriage and parenthood does that to most people.

In recent years the now 44-year-old Gilbert has come to terms with many of her personal issues, including alcoholism and issues with men stemming in large part from confusion over her adoption, parents' divorce, and idolization of her very imperfect father (mirrored in the very imperfect surrogate Michael Landon, whose affair and divorce proved more disillusioning than that of her own parents). Love---from mom, children, friends, and her second husband, has continued to keep Melissa grounded.

In many ways, Prairie Tale read less like a tabloid-style bio and more like a self-help book about one woman's journey to peace during the hen years. Despite living in the Hollywood glitz, "Half-Pint" still comes across as an easily relatable everygirl, just like we thought when we were girls. She struggles with the same issues many of us do.

Somehow, that's comforting to know.

Yours in Sisterhood - VB

Chick Flick DVD Pick of the Week: Australia (2008)

Rating - Three kernels*

Since I always like to hear other women's recommendations of movies I might like, I'll pass on the favor. See bottom of review for explanation of my rating system.

Australia was one of those movies that I had planned to see in the movies theaters. Initial reviews upon its release, even those that mocked its storyline and debated its racial narrative, praised its visual elements. The cinematography and art direction intentionally tried to emulate grand epics of old. This was to be the Australian Gone with the Wind. Having enjoyed Nicole Kidman in most of her roles and relishing the opportunity to see a shirtless Hugh Jackman without having to endure a comic-book-based action flick, I eagerly added Australia to the list of “date night” movies for hubby and myself.

Alas, it was not to be. As usual, life got in the way of the ideal movie night. During the brief period when the film was in theaters, we were too busy to fit in time to see the nearly three hour film in theaters. Since it did not perform as well as expected at the box office (earning less than $50 million), it was gone before we had to chance to even catch it on a cheap date night at the local dollar theater.

But oddly enough, what proved less-than-successful at the box office must have had appeal on DVD, as my attempts to rent it upon initial video release were always thwarted (though such failed attempts did allow me to discover The Changeling, an underrated winner to be discussed another time). Finally, I had the chance to rent the movie and check it out for myself, albeit spread out over three late nights while preparing for my five year-old’s birthday party.

I must say, the first ten minutes almost made me shut off the movie and switch to the Food Network. After an initial opening scene that fascinates with a murder and a mysterious little boy on the run, the movie shifts into a sequence designed to set up a backstory, but which manages instead to include so many western film clichés in such a silly manner that I started to think the film was going to be a parody of epics, rather than an homage to the genre.

Then, the tone shifts again once it catches back up with the very first scene of the film and the mysterious little boy who proves to be the heart of the film. The story spans 1939 to 1942 in the Northern Territory. The boy, Nullah (Brandon Walters), is the son of an Aboriginal woman and a white man at a time when racism runs rampant in the country. As a “half-caste,” Nullah is rejected by both white and Aboriginal society and is expected to be sent to a church-run mission school to “have the black bred out of him,” as one headmaster explains. In reality, many of these schools forced non-white children into a harsh life of indentured servitude.

The little boy lives life constantly on the run from local white officials who would “improve” his life by forcing him into a mission school, but receives some protection from his Aboriginal grandfather, holy man King George (David Gulpilil), and his loving mother and grandmother, both of whom work on a struggling cattle ranch called Faraway Downs. Nullah has inherited some of his grandfather’s mystical gifts and the two share a psychic connection throughout the story.

Trouble comes to Faraway Downs when the owner, Lord Ashley, is murdered and King George is the prime suspect. Nullah, who witnesses key elements of the crime, now has two reasons to run. He is led to seek protection from prim Lady Sarah Ashley (Kidman), who arrives at the ranch from England expecting to tell off her no-good husband, only to find him dead, the land threatened by a set of Snidely Whiplash-type villains, and the boy begging for help. She enlists the aid of a rugged cattle driver simply called Drover (Jackman) to lead the cattle to the capital city of Darwin to secure an important military contract and save the ranch (and possibly Nullah). Thus sets up a series of adventures worthy of classic epics of old. This is, first and foremost, a western, with odes to romances and war dramas of the past. This is just as the director, Australian Baz Luhrmann intended. Luhrmann also directed Moulin Rouge, a rousing tribute to epic musicals. This man clearly loves his grand old movies.

This is a film I could highly recommend to my parents, especially my John-Wayne-loving dad who embraces just about any film that involves cattle drives and tough cowboys. Mom would be drawn in by the good old-fashioned romanticism. I got a kick out of both, but the elements of the film I personally liked the best involve the main character of Nullah. Brandon Walters is a charming, very natural child actor who imbues his character with just the right amount of childish wisdom and impishness, without being precocious. One of the most delightful scenes is when Lady Ashley, who admits to not being very experienced with children, attempts to comfort Nullah by telling him a story. All she can think of is The Wizard of Oz, the current hit film of the time. She awkwardly tries to sing “Over the Rainbow,” a tune that will remain meaningful to both characters. It is a genuinely sweet moment.

That said, much was made at the time of its release about the racial themes of the storyline. While some critics praised Luhrmann for condemning his nation’s past racism, others accused him of overly sentimentalizing the Aboriginal characters and making King George and Nullah almost godlike at times. Indeed, there does seem to be a tendency to make up for past movie-hero racism by having two Aboriginal characters nobly sacrifice themselves to save others and another provide the key “save” that finally does away with the major threat to Faraway Downs. I was less bothered by the mysticism of Nullah and his grandfather, mainly because it was not applied to all the Aboriginal characters (although mysticism is a key element of traditional Aboriginal religion). The film makes it clear that King George is a uniquely powerful holy man from whom Nullah has inherited special gifts. Because of the way Luhrmann shot and edited the film, most of the time it is hard to tell whether King George is really supposed to be appearing in a scene or if Nullah is just connecting with him spiritually. Frankly, I didn’t care. Sometimes it pays not to overthink these things, just go with the flow and enjoy the ride.

Despite accusations of overly praising the Aborigines, Luhrmann does underplay some of his country’s racial policies regarding children. The film seems to imply that whites and Aborigines maintained peacefully segregated, but essentially autonomous, societies and that only “half-caste” children were subject to being forcibly sent to mission schools. In fact, the practice of taking Aboriginal (not just bi-racial) children away from their parents was widespread, peaking in the 1930s but continuing until 1973. The film also implies that Lady Ashley cannot legally adopt Nullah after he is orphaned because he is half-black and she is white, but many Aboriginal children were adopted by white families. In the final analysis, Luhrmann uses the story of Australia as a metaphor for the racial acceptance that he wants to win out in his country. It is a noble idea, if a bit flawed as a historical treatise.

But then again, this is a big old-fashioned epic, not a documentary. I’d still love to see it on the big screen someday, as the cinematography and art direction live up to the hype and would look gorgeous on the big screen. Still, I’m glad I rented it and wish it had performed better at the box office, simply to encourage Luhrmann to keep making his homages to grand old movies of yore. Something tells me he will anyway.

And hey, Hugh Jackman took off his shirt multiple times without whipping out the Wolverine claws. ‘Nuff said. Rent it, gals.

Yours in Sisterhood - VB

*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:

Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.

Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.

Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.

One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.

Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.

Women's Pictures to Chick Flicks: Evolutions in Film

This will be the first in an ongoing series of commentaries, or cluckings, about films appealing primarily to female audiences. They will be accompanied by regular reviews of films either currently in theaters or on DVD that fit within this genre. Why bother? Mainly because I love movies and think the genre of women-oriented films is woefully undervalued by most traditional film critics and misunderstood by modern-day film studios. The most useful and insightful information about such movies tends to come from other women. Hopefully this feature will help spark a dialogue with fans of the genre to help enlighten and improve our awareness of films for us.

Once upon a time, the industry referred to such films as “women’s pictures,” more recently replaced by the term “chick flick.” But even that current phrase may now be too restrictive. Contrary to what many filmmakers and marketers seem to assume, not all films that appeal more to women than men can be classified as “chick flicks.” Just as with literature, there are different categories that appeal to different types of women. In popular reading, “chick lit” refers to stories about hip, single first-career 20-somethings , while “women’s fiction” generally involves female protagonists facing some personal challenge. Candace Bushnell (Sex and the City) writes chick lit; Jodi Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) writes women’s fiction.

The recent surge in “chick lit” has influenced development of the “chick flick,” which seems to be a hip film appealing mainly to young single women (think: the majority of romantic comedies produced by the major studio starring hot television actresses under 35). “Chick flick” seems inadequate to describe films that may appeal more to women over 40 whose life experiences have refined their film palettes. We’ve matured beyond “chicks” into “hens,” thus the title of this column and use of the term “cluckings.” (I personally prefer the word “gal,” but that may be a regional preference).

But while I call this feature “Hen House Theater,” that term still does not seem adequate for the genre of movies that appeal to women over 40. I’ve been struggling to come up with a term that might be less stodgy than “woman’s picture,” but more mature than “chick flick.” Here are a few that have crossed my mind:

Mammary Movies

Cervical Cinema

Feminine Films

Ovarian Art

What do you think? Write-in votes are always welcome. If we have consensus, or I just like your term, we’ll stick with that. Who knows, we might even come up with something that surpasses “chick flick” in the popular lexicon.

Yours in Sisterhood - VB

Check Out the New Book

For those of you who might be interested, the June 15th blog offers a preview of my new novel, Tenure Track, coming soon from iUniverse. I'll keep you posted about our release date.

Yours in Sisterhood - VB

Tenure Track Preview

Tenure Track: A Novel                            Author: Victoria Bradley

Prologue

A Seminal Event

 

    “Caution,” Dr. Donald Pfeiser warned, “Never, ever, use this form if ε ≠ 0!” To emphasize the dangers that could result from such a mistake, the esteemed nuclear engineer flashed the image of a skull and crossbones on his overhead Power Point. The 50 or so students listening to his dry lecture on particle reactor design dutifully noted this important point, so as not to make a fatal error of mass destruction in their future careers.

    Most of the students were so engrossed in their note taking or efforts to stay awake that they failed to notice petite, freckle-faced freshman Jessica Hampton calmly walk down the center aisle at 10:23 a.m. One witness later testified to observing Hampton only because he found it odd for a student entering class so late to seek a seat right in front of the professor.

    Hampton did walk all the way to the front of the classroom, but she never took a seat. Instead, she carefully raised a 9mm Glock handgun and shot Donald Pfeiser strategically in the groin and abdomen, immediately severing his aorta.

Pow! Pow!

    Dr. Pfeiser bled out within minutes, with the ominous skull and crossbones still projected above his dying body. Chaos erupted as students dove under chairs and anywhere they could to avoid getting shot in the windowless room with only one exit door. Perhaps thinking that the skinny young woman was no match for a couple of rugged, tank-sized athletes, two senior varsity wrestlers lunged almost at once to try to take her down. But the gun proved to be a great equalizer as Jessica Hampton dispatched both would-be heroes in quick succession, one with a shot to the heart, the other to the head.

    Pow! Pow! 

    The next gunshot came quickly and only had one target. A few students who were watching from their hiding places testified that Hampton stared at the two fallen athletes with deadened eyes, then quietly placed the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brain matter across three rows of seats and the south wall of the lecture hall.

    Pow! For a split-second afterward, the stunned room was so quiet that every survivor recalled hearing the big hand on the ancient wall clock click into place, marking 10:24 a.m., February 14.

 

 

 

 

Part One:

Present and Past

Chapter One

A Test Case

 

    “I don’t care if he dunks like Jordan, we can’t pass him if he failed his final,” Dr. Jane Roardan said firmly, but calmly. The outcome of this summer course meant the difference between the forward guard being academically eligible to play this semester or sitting out almost half of the regular season, presuming he could make eligibility for spring.

    “Well, perhaps you can at least let him retake the final,” Athletic Director Doss pleaded, to no avail.

    “Now you know with the fall semester beginning today, that would entail a retroactive grade change,” she reminded the sputtering A.D. on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry. I’m not inclined to play that game. I suggest you take advantage of all the fine opportunities we provide your athletes to help him retake the class and pass this time. Just apply a little basketball muscle to memorizing some historical facts and improving his writing skills.”

    After a few more terse words, the conversation ended abruptly. Jane took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. She sat back in her chair, silently fingering the strand of pearls around her neck, a long-ago anniversary gift from Mark. She rarely wore them to school, but they went well with the new pale blue suit she was sporting. The outfit hung nicely on her tall, 60 year-old frame, accentuating her short-cropped silver hair with a look of authority. Dressing the part helped give her an air of confidence as she tackled this new position.

    She needed all the help she could get. Despite her firm, composed stance on the telephone, such unpleasant conversations always rattled her a bit. Dr. Roardan was used to dealing with coaches who wanted her to cut their star players some slack on their grades. This time it was easier than usual to refuse, since she was not the professor in charge of the class in question but rather the new History Department Chair backing up a fellow colleague. After 32 years as a professor of British and Women’s History at this university, it still chapped her how much the school placed sports above academics. The godlike status of athletes had only been exalted by the martyrdom of two mediocre wrestlers who had had the misfortune of meeting their end three and a half years earlier on what was now known as “Bloody Valentine’s Day.”

    The reverence with which many students still spoke of the two young men, hailed by A.D. Doss as the finest examples of student athletes, successfully deflected attention away from less impressive facts, such as the paltry academic performances of most male jocks. For years Jane had listened with annoyance as Doss made the dubious claim of high graduation rates for the school’s scholarship players; a fudging of data she recognized as skewed by the women’s programs — especially the basketball team, which had maintained an astonishing 100 percent graduation rate for more than 20 years under the auspices of the country’s winningest female coach. The athletes with ovaries allowed Doss to create the allusion that sports enhanced education at the university. Jane knew better and she was not inclined to play his game.

    Jane wondered what her undergraduate mentor, Women’s History pioneer Gerda Lerner, would make of this post-Title IX development. Dr. Roardan’s eyes panned across the framed diplomas that aligned the dark-paneled walls of her tiny office — bachelor’s degree from Sarah Lawrence, Ph.D. from Lerner’s alma mater Columbia — before falling on the signed photograph of Dr. Lerner that she often stared at for telekinetic inspiration. Gerda would know what to do with Doss, Jane told herself.

With her mind focused on athletics, another photograph soon drew Jane’s attention. Her hand fell upon the desk-framed image of a thin, bespectacled man, with a graying shock of frizzy hair, his arms around two teenagers — a similar-looking boy in a T-shirt reading “Super Geek” and a muscular girl dressed in a basketball uniform.

    Jane’s children served as a fine metaphor for the split nature of the university. The fraternal twins had shared a womb and an environment, but had grown up to have completely different priorities — Dennis, of the mind; Dana, of the body. Athens and Sparta. History taught that Athens paved the way for the rise of western civilization while Sparta defeated its enemies with physical might, then faded into oblivion like hot shot athletes who peaked then declined at an early age. Jane feared the same future for her athletically inclined daughter, whose greatest wish was to play for the system that her mother so despised. Dr. Roardan grimaced at the irony.

    Her contemplations of athletics and education were interrupted by another telephone call. Isobel, the department’s administrative assistant, announced that Dean of Students Gary Jones was on the line. “He sounds nervous,” she reported.

Jane had to stifle a chuckle. Despite his generally jovial manner when things were going well, Gary was known to dissolve into a nervous wreck whenever something went wrong. It could be as minor as a report of students dropping water balloons on rival frat members, or as serious as a massive cheating scandal. He would react the same way, initially uncertain of what to do, and scared to death of any situation that might incur negative publicity for the school. With his rotund body and habit of constantly wringing his hands when nervous, the image of Piglet from the twins’ childhood books always popped into Jane’s head when she discussed a problem with Gary. Only his colleagues ever observed such nervousness, though. In front of students, he usually emitted an aura of extreme calm and control, save for profuse amounts of sweat dripping off his brow.

    Jane took in a final cleansing breath as she picked up the receiver. “Hello Gary,” she greeted, trying to sound upbeat. “What can I do for you today?”

    “Jane, we have a problem,” he sputtered.

    “Already? It’s only the first day of the semester. What’s up?” she replied, trying to sound positive. Internally, she was quickly running through the list of issues that could possibly be a problem for both the Dean of Students and the Chair of the History Department, unless A.D. Doss had already snagged Gary to plead his case about the poor unfortunate student athlete.

    “I need to see you right away,” Gary said, sounding agitated. “I received a call this morning from the mother of a female student, claiming her daughter has had an inappropriate relationship with one of your History professors.” Jane could envision the sweat popping out of the brow on the other end of the telephone as she tried to remain calm and reasonable.

    Hot damn! Horndog finally got caught! She was torn between feeling gleeful that the most notorious letch on campus was finally getting busted, while dreading having to deal with the crisis, since the letch in question was in her department.

    Rather than make it obvious that she knew exactly who the culprit probably was, she asked innocently, “Who?”

    “I hate to tell you, but it’s Lewis Burns.”

    She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

    “Jane, are you there?” Gary queried.

    “Oh, uh yeah.” She tried to shake off her initial shock. “What are the details? Is this just an overreacting parent or are we talking about something serious?”

    “Oh, it’s serious, and they have proof,” he said. “This could be very bad, Jane. Very bad. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me here on the hour?”

    She agreed, then spent the next 25 minutes trying to convince herself that this would all turn out to be a mistake.

    No way. Not Lewis, of all people.

 

    Jane told Isobel that she would be out for an unspecified amount of time. Walking out the door of the department’s administrative office, she passed beneath a security camera camouflaged by a sign reading: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it—George Santayana, 1904.” It was her favorite pithy response to obnoxious students who dared ask why they were required to take History courses.

    She left Hammond Hall and quickly made her way across campus to the phallic limestone tower that housed most of the main administrative offices. The afternoon was sweltering, typical for the first day of classes under the hot August sun. The smell of freshly cut grass filled her nostrils. In the distance rumbled the faint sounds of weed whackers and leaf blowers used by the Hispanic lawn care men who worked practically nonstop at minimum wage to keep the campus looking immaculate. It had been years since Jane had seen a non-Hispanic maintenance worker on campus. She often thought that students in the Spanish Department would do well to immerse themselves in the language by volunteering to help these men, most of whom were non-English speaking immigrants.

    Just outside the main administrative building, she crossed the Commons — a large, grassy expanse where dozens of young men and women were lounging about, taking advantage of the sunshine to keep up their summer tans.  Aah, youth. Skin cancer be damned. Let’s try to get as brown as those maintenance men we never acknowledge.

    It was amazing to her how, no matter how much changed in the world, some things always remained the same. Throughout her career, she had found that college students from generation to generation shared a propensity for testing their mortality. They had the impulsiveness of teenagers, coupled with the sudden freedom of living beyond the watchful eyes of their parents. The more parental types said that something was bad for them, the more they wanted to try it. As one of her otherwise well-disciplined students once explained about his smoking habit, “Ya gotta die of something, why not lung cancer?” Jane had frequently overheard the same comment about cirrhosis of the liver from obviously heavy drinkers. At their age, death from a slow, painful disease was far away and abstract.

    As a teacher, she had always found this aspect of student behavior to be just an amusing curiosity. As the parent of two high school seniors, it terrified her. Many times she had heard Gary exhort to nervous parents during frosh week: “Mom and Dad, it’s time to let your children pursue their own dreams, even if they differ from your own.” Next year she would be one of those parents. Increasingly these days she thought about the twins whenever she observed students on campus. In just one year her babies would be in the same position as these young bodies roasting themselves on the Commons.

    God help them all.

    Ironically, concerns about the decision-making skills of college students had indirectly resulted in her current trek — concerns born of the darkest day in the university’s 150-year history. Maintenance workers had expertly covered the physical stains left by Bloody Valentine’s Day, but the psychological marks remained. Campus violence experts declared the school lucky, in that the death toll had been limited to four, but the incident had forever shattered the collective sense that this campus was a safe haven in a violent world.

    Revelations in the days following the murders had been even more shocking. From the start, experts had been baffled by Jessica Hampton’s deviation from the typical profile of most campus shooters. For one thing, she was female. The notoriety of having been the country’s first female campus mass murderer led to huge media scrutiny of Hampton’s life. The presence of Donald Pfeiser’s skull and crossbones drawing overlooking the crime scene lent an air of the supernatural to the event, further fueling public fascination. Then the lurid motivation became public, revealed in a videotaped recording Hampton had posted on her Web page about one hour before the shooting. Police investigations verified the troubled student’s claims on the video.

    It seemed that the 52-year-old Donald Pfeiser, married with four children, had been carrying on an affair with Jessica Hampton. It had not been his first, as it turned out. The tall, balding engineering professor had a long history of bedding students, both male and female. In the weeks following the shooting, numerous former and current students came forward with their tales of “Don the Juan,” as he was apparently known. Seventeen year-old, virginal freshman Jessica Hampton had simply been one of his more emotionally fragile conquests. As Jessica recounted in her video, he had approached her during the first week of the semester, as she sat alone at a popular coffeehouse just off campus. Shy and homesick, she had been easily flattered by the attentions of the older man, whose initial fatherly concern helped ease her into seduction. “He was in my pants before mid-terms,” she had testified with shame.

    The affair had lasted throughout much of the girl’s first semester at college, until Pfeiser tired of her increasing clinginess and attempts to contact him over Christmas break. He had finally ended the relationship in late January, coldly advising Jessica to use the sexual knowledge he had conferred upon her to become more popular at frat parties.

    The girl had been devastated, especially when, a few days later, a campus health center nurse informed her that she had contracted gonorrhea. The nurse later recalled how Jessica broke down in the examination room, crying and confessing exactly who had given her the disease. The veteran health care professional indicated a lack of surprise.   Over the years she had seen numerous cases of unwanted pregnancy and disease caused by randy professors, but the center’s privacy rules prevented her from saying anything other than recording Jessica’s case as another campus STD statistic. However, as many critics noted after the shootings, the nurse could have referred the clearly distraught student to one of the campus’s many mental health counselors. Instead, she merely sent Jessica home with a prescription, a handful of condoms, three STD pamphlets, and the advice to learn from her mistakes.

    The used, confused, and now diseased teenager quickly spiraled into a deep depression. Her roommate complained to their dorm R.A. that Jessica was acting “creepy,” not going to classes or showering, wearing nothing but sweatsuits, eating only junk food, and listening to “angry chick” music constantly. The R.A. did nothing other than lecture Jessica that she needed to get to her classes or face academic probation. The roommate effectively moved out, sleeping on the floor of a friend’s room down the hall.

     Police found that Jessica did venture outside the dorm at least once, to withdraw the remainder of her summer job savings from an ATM, then walk to a nearby gun shop to purchase the handgun and ammunition. Her father had owned a similar handgun, which he had insisted she learn to use for her own protection against dangerous people like rapists. Her rambling video indicated that, in Jessica’s mind, Don the Juan was equivalent to the rapists her father had warned her about, “destroying innocence and spreading pestilence.” Even though Jessica’s STD was entirely treatable, she might as well have been afflicted with advanced AIDS. In her rapidly unhinging mind, her life was over.

    Never in the video did Jessica say that she was planning to kill Pfeiser. Her purpose in leaving the document seemed more to warn other students to stay away from him and other similar predators. But few who viewed the video would ever forget the eerie words with which she ended. “Well,” Jessica had said blankly into the camera, “at least he won’t be able to give it to anybody else.”     

    Most experts who endlessly analyzed the incident concluded that Jessica was not a true mass murderer in that she had probably only intended to castrate Pfeiser and kill herself in front of him. The shooting of the two wrestlers was likely just a defensive reaction to seeing two large men coming at her. In her mind, the theory went, they had been potential rapists, too. Despite this conclusion, Jessica Hampton would forever be known in the public consciousness as the first female campus mass murderer. And the university would forever be known as the site of “Bloody Valentine’s Day.”

    Hampton’s parents and those of the two wrestlers sued the university, arguing that it had failed to protect a mentally unstable young woman from a known sexual predator, thus indirectly contributing to her violent breakdown and the deaths of two innocent young men. After months of scrutiny, the veteran nurse was pressured into retiring; the R.A. transferred to another school; and the university reached an undisclosed monetary settlement with the families. As part of the agreement, the administration agreed to beef up campus security and take action to discourage sexual relationships between faculty and students. Out of months of debate grew the No Fraternization Policy.

    Despite Internet rumors started by some either ignorant or snarky students, this regulation had nothing to do with abolishing the Greek system.  In an effort to show the world that they were serious about protecting students, the Board of Regents implemented one of the most stringent sexual harassment policies among major colleges. Jane had  served on the committee that initially devised the rule, though the final wording went far beyond the committee’s original intent.

    Noting that Dr. Pfeiser seemed to have had a strong psychological hold over Hampton, the debate had moved from sexual harassment into the realm of whether or not faculty members had implied power over students just by virtue of being faculty. In the aftermath of the shooting, many people, especially several vocal female faculty members, supported this argument.

    By the time the new No Fraternization Policy worked its way through various levels of committees, administrators, and the Board of Regents, it had become a rule that forbid all sexual relationships between students and faculty members, unless it could be proven that a previous relationship existed prior to the two parties becoming student and faculty (such as if a faculty member’s spouse or significant other decided to take some courses). State law already held a similar policy for public high schools.

    The final committee vote on No Fraternization had been very close, falling mainly along gender lines. The Chancellor and the Board of Regents unanimously favored it, largely because several key state lawmakers were threatening to pass similar legislation if the university proved unable to regulate itself. As much as the liberal arts faculty liked to think of the campus as an independent island within the state capital, as a public university it was often at the mercy of politicians who worked across town. Many in the Republican-led legislature despised the perceived liberalism of the flagship U. Some lamented the shooting as an inevitable result of the faculty’s lack of morality. Many voters agreed, as public support for the new policy ran high.

    Jane had been torn over the final wording of the rule. On the one hand, she understood the ethical need to discourage faculty-student relationships. Her department housed its own version of “Don the Juan” in the form of Henry Gould, a.k.a. “Horndog Harry.” Although there had never been a single formal complaint lodged against him in 40 years, Gould’s nickname and reputation were well-known subjects of campus gossip. Married three times, his last two wives had been undergrads, one of whom was pregnant while he was still married to another.

    Jane often wondered if the secret to Horndog’s success in avoiding complaints was his ability to pick weak-minded targets whom he could easily control. His first wife had been very timid; the second committed suicide; and the third had been confined to a mental institution for several years. For Jane, Horndog was exactly the type of professor the new policy was designed to ferret out. If a clear prohibition against sexual relations with students did not change his behavior, perhaps his conquests might at least be more willing to speak out.

    On the other hand, from a practical standpoint, Jane thought the new policy was far too broad, and to be honest, except for the occasional child prodigy, they were talking about consensual activities between legal adults. Yet she agreed there was a big difference between an impressionable 18 year-old frosh and a 40 year-old grad student. She worried about her daughter becoming susceptible to seduction by someone like Horndog or Don the Juan. Catching herself being somewhat sexist, Jane realized that she did not have such concerns about her son, partly because he was male and partly because she just could not envision her nerdy boy as the object of an older woman’s desires.

    Despite objections voiced only in private meetings, Jane publicly stood behind the policy, which had been supported upon legal challenge by the state Supreme Court. Behind closed doors, administrators and leaders of the faculty senate agreed that enforcement would only be initiated by student complaint. They had no intention of closely scrutinizing the sex lives of teachers or students, but hoped the new policy would give them more leverage to purge tenured predators like Don the Juan. It was the school’s version of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” in place for a year but yet to be tested in a real case.

    Now, on the first day of classes, instead of the notorious old goat of the History Department, it was mild-mannered young Lewis Burns being accused of violating the policy. Jane secretly hoped this would turn out to be a false accusation. This was not how she intended to start her tenure as Chair. 

 

    Upon reaching the second floor of Hyde Tower, Jane motioned to Gary’s secretary, who waved her into a spacious, well-lit room carpeted in familiar, trademark school hues, walls covered by framed newspaper clippings quoting renowned psychologist Dr. Gary Jones. Gary’s famous studies on adolescent impulse control had influenced his hiring by the U. following Bloody Valentine’s Day. As Dean, Gary had worked very hard to rebuild a sense of trust on the campus, proving himself that rare academic capable of top-notch administration and research while still connecting well  with students. No one could question his dedication to duty, though Jane often worried that Gary’s career success came at the expense of his own well-being. He had never married, weighed about 300 pounds, and breathed heavily through his nose. Jane fully expected him to keel over from a heart attack one day while sitting behind his desk, just as he was perched when she entered the office.

    Right then, Dean Piglet was too engrossed in his computer screen to keel over or even to wring his hands. Jane noticed that he had strategically placed the monitor at a slight angle, so that she could not see what he was viewing. Gary had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Looking more serious than usual, he took one last squint at the monitor through his brown-rimmed glasses before turning to face her.

    “How are you, Jane?” he asked, somewhat wearily.  Good old Gary. He could always be counted on to start even a difficult conversation off with a friendly gesture. It was one of the many reasons people liked him.

    “I’m good, and you?” she said, trying to hide her concern.

    He shrugged his shoulders slightly and gave her a sad, gentle smile, more reminiscent of Eeyore than Piglet.

“What’s going on, Gary?”

    He clasped his hands together on the desktop. “Well, like I said before, I got a call from the mother of a female undergrad this morning. She was very upset. It seems she just discovered that her daughter’s been romantically involved with Lewis Burns. The girl is starting her junior year. Apparently, she worked as Lewis’s research assistant last year and at some point they began a sexual relationship. I didn’t ask for details. Anyway, the mom’s a lawyer with political connections, so there was a lot of talk about sexual harassment, accusations of Lewis serving the girl alcohol, trouble for the school at the capitol, yadda, yadda. Anyway, it’s a mess. We need to fix it.” By now he was propping one elbow on his desk, rubbing his right temple with a thumb.

    “Does she have any proof of this relationship?” Jane asked.

    “Unfortunately, yes,” Gary replied. “She and the whole wide world. That’s what I was just looking at.”

    Uh-oh. This does not sound good.

    He motioned for Jane to come over to his side of the desk. “This is from the girl’s Web page.”

Jane stood dumbfounded as her eyes beheld a photograph of Dr. Lewis Burns, lying in a well-lit bed, with obviously little or no clothes on, one eye starting to open, as if just waking up. His bare chest was exposed, as well as most of one leg. While a thin sheet covered his private parts, the drapery could not mask evidence that Lewis clearly had an erection that lifted up a triangle of fabric like a small tent. Jane could feel her face flush in a combination of embarrassment and arousal. She had to admit that Lewis had one fine body underneath his scholarly attire.

    Rather than express her admiration, she responded more appropriately, “Hmm. You’re right. That does not look good.”

    “Yeah,” said Gary. “According to my student spies, the kids are already calling him ‘Puptent.’”

    “Oh, definitely not good.” Jane then read the photo caption: “’YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. Guess how this Prof at the capital U spent his summer? Screwing his student, then dumping her by text message! MOFO! Avoid this prick!’”

Jane hated revealing her ignorance, but had to ask, “MOFO?”

    “Shorthand for one having a sexual relationship with a maternal type,” Gary translated diplomatically.

Following was a list of posted responses suggesting various punishments for the offending professor, ranging from “pulling a Hampton” to filing charges, as if some criminal offense had taken place. Jane spent several minutes reading through the very explicit commentaries. “Lovely language there,” she whispered sarcastically. “Does the lawyer mother know about this?”

    “’Not sure,” Gary replied. “I looked it up myself.”

    Jane gave him a puzzled look.

    “It’s really the best way to find out about anybody, Jane. You should check it out regularly. I’m up to 5,000 friends on my page.”

    “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, quickly scanning other information on the page, whose author identified herself as “Yellow Rose.” When she read the pseudonym out loud, Gary explained, “Her full name is Amanda Rose Taylor.”

    Jane read on, learning that Amanda Rose Taylor “likes any music you can dance to, romantic comedies that aren’t lame, vodka martinis, cute older guys and hangin’ with my BFFs.”

    Sitting back down on her side of the desk, Jane gave Gary a skeptical look.  “Have you talked to Lewis about this? It may not even be a real photo, the way students can alter digital images these days. Maybe all this is just a joke or an unhappy student trying to get revenge for a bad grade. We should really get his side of the story.”

    Gary turned away from the computer. “Uh, no, I haven’t. That’s why I called you. You’re his Chair and you know him better than I do. I thought you should approach him first.”

    Jane felt slightly defensive towards her junior colleague. “I have to tell you, this really seems out of character for Lewis. I know he’s had a rough time since his divorce, but I can’t believe he be so stupid as to get involved with an undergrad.”

    “That may be,” Gary responded. “But mom sounds pretty mad and we can’t afford more bad publicity about professors and students, especially a student connected to the legislature. That’s the worst of it.  Her stepfather is none other than Rick Benedict, remember him?”

    Jane knew full-well who Rick Benedict was: majority leader of the state senate; conservative, family-values Republican; one of the university’s most vocal critics and a major backer of No Fraternization. Surely the gods could not be so cruel as to have his stepdaughter serve as the first test case for the policy.

    “Is it possible this is some political trick he’s orchestrated?” she said, hopefully. Stranger things had been known to happen at the capitol. “This wasn’t the type of teacher I thought we’d wind up going after.”

    Dean Jones removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. “At least he doesn’t have tenure, so that makes it a little easier.”

“Well, he’s up for final approval this semester. He passed the preliminary phase last spring,” Jane revealed.

    “Oooh,” Gary whistled. “Bad timing. Look, I think I can pacify the mother into not doing anything publicly until we’ve talked to her. She lives in the Metroplex but wants to come down in a couple of weeks for a face-to-face. I don’t think she’ll do anything until then. In the meantime, I want you to talk to Lewis Burns and get his version of the story. Right now, as far as I know, the two of us are the only people who know about the complaint. After I find out what the mom wants, I’ll consult with the President and legal.”

    They discussed a few more details before she left his office. Stepping back out into the sunlight, she shook her head in disbelief.

    Lewis, how could you be so stupid? 

 

              Copyright 2010             

Scratchings #2: Marlo Thomas and the Male Vortex

I've been thinking a lot about Marlo Thomas this week.

Ever since girlhood, I have loved Marlo. From watching reruns of That Girl, where she was the perky single gal with the great flip-do (even then I knew she was too good for drippy Donald), to wearing out my LP of Free to Be: You and Me, she became one of my first feminist icons even before I knew the meaning of either word. She was beautiful, talented, independent and had the same color hair as me during a time when all the cool women of pop culture seemed to favor lighter hues. In later years, I admired her acting chops in serious made-for-TV films and as a guest star in popular comedies like Friends. Since taking over her father’s work for St. Jude Children's Hospital, she has exhibited compassion and commitment worthy of respect and admiration.

But all those great qualities are not why I have been thinking about her. No, I've been thinking more about the greatest challenge this versatile woman undertook---entering the male vortex when she married Phil Donahue in 1980. For those who may not recall, Marlo was nearly 43 years old, still the ultimate single gal, when she wed this divorced man with five (count 'em, FIVE) children. Although Phil had one daughter, he has often described the household that Marlo walked into as a virtual locker room of testosterone-laden behavior ("jockstraps hanging from the ceiling," etc.), as his boys were in the throes of their teenage years. Despite some tabloid attempts to portray Marlo as an evil stepmother, the family appears to have survived rather well, as she and Phil are still together after near 30 years and none of her stepkids have come out with a "Marlo Dearest"-type slam of our icon. In fact, the experience helped encourage Marlo to create Free to Be . . . a Family, which deals with a variety of issues such as blended families.

She has said publicly that she learned a lot from her experiences stepmothering a brood of boys. Yet I still cannot imagine what kind of fortitude it must have taken to have tackled that job. I don't care how much she loved Phil, most women in her position would have taken one long look at the situation and run screaming for the hills. Instead, she tackled it head-on and, apparently, rather well. THAT's a strong woman for ya!

The reason Marlo has been on my mind is because I just spent a week immersed in another type of male vortex called Cub Scout camp. This is what you do when you have only boys and a job that's flexible enough to allow you to get suckered into volunteering all week in an outdoor setting that requires constant hiking under a heat index of 105 degrees with a group of tweener males. Whew! I'm still tired!

This wasn't how I envisioned my summers. They were supposed to be with the girls. I grew up a Girl Scout, with a Girl Scout mom, eagerly anticipating the day when I could share the experience with my own little girl. Instead, God blessed me with boys. . . . only boys. . . . with only boy dogs. . . . and a boy hamster. . . and a male (sometimes boyish) husband. Thank goodness for our two parakeets, so I can refer to something in the household as "the girls" (though in all honesty, the girls' tweetings are so annoying I don't plan to replace them once they go to the great nest in the sky).

Don't get me wrong, I love my boys with all my heart. I waited a long time to become a mom and went through much effort to obtain the ones we have, but being the only female in an all-male household can be lonely at times. And despite what some people try to tell you, there ARE differences between boys and girls. While we try not to push gender stereotypes in our household (thus the recent Dora the Explorer-themed birthday party my five year-old insisted upon despite teasing from his preschool pals) differences do come through. As I tell folks, we have a lot of ENERGY in our household. The spiral staircase is not seen as an instrument for reaching the second floor, but as an indoor money bars for hanging upside down. I know everything there is to know about Star Wars and Ben-10 and virtually nothing about Disney's High School Musical. You get the picture.

Sometimes I still wish for a mini-me, especially when the girls in green come around selling cookies. Just yesterday a dad with two boys and a daughter adopted from China jokingly advised, "Just do what we did---buy one!" Even knowing adoption's an option, there's another part of me that believes there is a reason I was blessed with only boys. A few years ago we lost one without ever finding out if it was male or female. Sometimes I imagine that was my girl. Perhaps she was called away for a reason. Certainly that experience made me appreciate my youngest much more. After enduring uterine surgery, fertility treatments, and a very unromantic conception in a doctor's office, I would not have cared if he was a boy, girl, or squid!

I think, like Marlo, I'm supposed to learn something from this all-boy experience, if only to open my eyes to the wonderful uniqueness of these little men. I used to think that it would be awful to have only boys, but now I wouldn't trade the ones I have for anything. They are funny and silly and have opened up a whole world of fantasy/science fiction knowledge I probably would never have had. Some families seem to segregate by gender---mom does stuff with the girls, dad with the boys. I don't have that excuse. Not having girls makes me a better mom to my boys because I have to be involved in their stuff. Some friends have suggested I volunteer to work with Girl Scouts, yet if I did that, I wouldn't have as much time to devote to my boys' activities. So the girls in green will have to wait until my brood has left the nest and freed me from the male vortex.

It's not such a bad place to be. I still haven't quite reached the age Marlo was when she willingly stepped into the vortex. Perhaps that's why she did it. Maybe, having achieved career success that most midlife moms would have envied, she was ready for a little reinvention herself. What bigger challenge can you think of than to step into the male vortex at age 43? In doing so, Marlo proved herself tougher than anyone, male or female.

For that reason, she is still my greatest feminist icon. As my boys would say: Marlo, you rock, Dude!

Scratching #1: How I Lost My Job, but Found Myself

For the inaugural launch of what I hope will become an ongoing conversation ("scratchings," as I call them), we’ll begin with the timely topic of what to do when you lose your job—a topic that will also serve as an introduction to your humble host and explain how this Web site came to be.

For many of us, the topic of job loss isn’t really that timely. If you work long enough, more than likely it will happen. I experienced my first layoff more than six years ago, from a company for which I had faithfully labored for ten years. Like any long-term relationship break-up, it was gut wrenching at the time, but ultimately, the best thing that ever happened. Also, like looking back on a romantic break-up, my only regret was that I had not initiated the parting much sooner. Not that I hadn’t tried at least three times, but at each moment some smooth-talking manager convinced me not to leave the relationship, offering some minor incentive and appealing to my sense of loyalty and fear of facing an unknown future. Then, when the company decided that I and many of my coworkers had outlived our usefulness, it dropped us like a hot rock with a typical corporate kiss-off: “’Been nice knowing ya! Here’s your severance check, and by the way, your security card no longer works. See ya!”

Yeah, getting dumped sucks, whether by a man or by a company.

If you’ve experienced this type of career divorce, you have my sympathies, as well as the hope that it will turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you. For me, it led out of cubicle hell back into remembering the person I once was, and tapping into unrealized internal resources to recreate someone totally new.

First, a little background:

From the time I was a young girl, I knew I wanted to be two things—a mom and a writer. I have fulfilled both dreams, though not without doubts that either might ever come to pass.

I was about nine years old when I first articulated the desire to become a professional scribe. It was during one of those class assignments in which you are asked to discuss your future career. I put down “journalist.” Deep in my heart, however, I doubted this dream would become reality. I was from a family of modest means, growing up in a small southern town where girls were considered successful if they finished high school without a baby in tow.

Around the time I filled out “journalist” on that class assignment, my mother gave me a used typewriter, one of the best second-hand gifts ever received. Over the years I spent hours typing away, writing various unfinished novels, plays, and even a hokey screenplay that went through numerous versions. Looking back, my family must have thought it a strange way for a girl to pass the time, but at least I wasn’t getting into trouble. Along the way I read numerous books about the writing process, always striving to learn more about the craft.

Despite this love for the writing process, life provided detours towards the dream. First, our family business went bankrupt, lessening that possibility that we could afford college. I had always been a good student with a strong work ethic, both of which became absolute necessities in order to earn a scholarship. Somewhere along the way I became convinced that if I made it to college, I needed to try to go to law school. This was the path to great success for most of the female role-models I had observed at home. Still, writing remained a part of me, honed as editor of the school paper and covering the school beat for the local newspaper.

Lo and behold, the overachieving paid off with a scholarship to an Ivy League university. Inwardly I was thinking: “There must be some mistake!” (I thought this right up until the moment four years later when some school official handed me my diploma. After making many donations to the alumni fund, I have finally accepted that the sheepskin is not going to be rescinded). I continued to follow the expected path for a would-be lawyer, majoring in government and taking the LSATs. But then a funny thing happened—the summer between my junior and senior year, I worked for a female lawyer back home, the kind of woman whose success had inspired me to choose a legal career. But working for her opened my eyes to a hard truth: being a lawyer is really boring!

What was more interesting to me was still reading and writing. I was developing questions about history, racism, ethics, etc. that still were not answered by the time I reached senior year. So instead of going to law school, I went to graduate school back down south, still not sure how to answer the question of “What are you gonna do with that degree?” What I did was accept a job with a textbook publishing company. The title was “developmental editor,” but in reality that meant “ghostwriter.” Eventually I moved up to various middle management editorial jobs, all of which I hated, dreaming of a day when I would quit and become a freelance writer.

Yet I kept stopping short, right up until the moment, six months after being promoted to senior editor, when the layoff occurred. Lesson learned: there’s no point in being loyal to any company. Workers are just consumable widgets, to be used until they are no longer useful, then discarded. I was luckier than many, like those over age 50 who had actually hoped to retire with a company pension. Second lesson learned: don’t count on pensions (or now, 401Ks) to take care of you during old age. Plan on working until you die and/or save a bundle. Of course, the thought of working until you die really stinks if you hate the job. Being laid off forced me to finally take the step into freelancing, specializing in educational materials for children. The workflow had its ups and downs, but kept up much better than expected until last year, when the economic downturn began to affect school budgets and my business.

Probably in this situation one might panic or start applying for coffee-making jobs at Starbucks, but with wee ones at home who still needed me and a spouse with a stable enough job that I knew we wouldn’t be thrown into the streets, I tried a different approach. I decided to use the downturn as an opportunity to try something new—writing a full-blown novel.

All of my professional work had been in the area of nonfiction. Mentally, however, I had had several ideas for fictional works that never got beyond the sketch stage due to lack of time or interest. Now, I determined I would literally force myself to finish one complete novel, just as an experiment. So I took one of my sketchy ideas and just started writing. Whenever a paying job came along, I would set aside the novel to make some money, but I always forced myself to come back to it.

Since all of the works published under my legal name have been for schoolkids, I needed a pen name to distinguish this decidedly adult novel from those works. Thus "Victoria Bradley" was born. It is amazing how liberating creating an alter ego can be. Choosing a pen name freed me to write what needed to be written. My real self would be too self-conscious to write dialogue that contained cursing or intimate sex scenes, but “Victoria” has no such inhibitions. She can put onto paper what my real self can only imagine, thus unlocking recesses of creativity I never realized I had.

Traditionally, getting a novel published requires having an agent to pitch it to publishing houses for you. Since educational publishing generally doesn’t require an agent, I have never used one. I also know enough about the business to understand that most trade books get rejected by dozens of agents before finding one, then there is no guarantee the agent will sell it to a publisher. Even then, it will be months more before the book is published (if the project is not cancelled) and even then the author has to do most of his or her own marketing work. In this nervous economic climate, publishers are more reluctant than ever to take a chance on a new author. Entering a new genre would be like starting from scratch.

Knowing myself, I figured I would probably get discouraged by agent rejection and just toss the novel in a drawer. So, I decided to forego the traditional route and publish through a respected print-on-demand company, marketing the book largely through the Internet. The manuscript is currently in the hands of the proofreader and will be in the printing process very soon. Yeah!!

Since I knew little about trade book marketing, I began to study all I could about it. Then, in planning for an author Web site, the idea for Hen House emerged. My novel falls within the genre of women's fiction, targeted mainly at female readers who like to read and are beyond the single, first job life of "chicks." I prefer to call us "gals," but the Hen House seemed an appropriate gathering place for such potential readers. So, rather than just create a site talking about myself and hawking my book, I hope to seek an online community of women who might be interested in starting a conversation about topics of mutual interest. Maybe in the process, you'll buy my book or tell friends your friends about it. Or, we might just have a pleasant conversation about common interests. Think of it as a gals' coffee, except we get to be in separate rooms, towns, cities, etc., hoisting our beverages of choice.

Will Hen House be successful? Depends on your definition of "success." If I make one new acquaintance with whom I have a pleasant conversation, then it will be a success. Will it help sell the novel and attract an agent who'll pitch a second novel to a major publisher? Hopefully, but who knows? What I do know is that in the past year, I have completed a novel, which will be published, treated myself to a Macy’s makeover for a photo shoot, taught myself about book marketing and Web design, and launched this site. I am even beginning the process of enlisting some local college students to create an audiobook version of the novel, which we might offer as a free podcast on this site at a later date, and to make some "trailer"-type videos for posting on You Tube. I don’t expect any of these efforts to make me rich or famous, but I know I’m having a lot of fun along the journey. The ride so far has been a blast!

And that is the point. Over the past year of putting in late nights, blood, sweat, and tears into something that may never reap any financial returns (much like my other job of motherhood), I have rediscovered myself; the self who dreamed bigger than my hometown limits, who decided to forego law school for grad school, who moved to Austin, Texas, with no guaranteed job just because it felt right. Even as I face new wrinkles and sags that come with impending middle-age, I can still look in the mirror and see that same young woman, the adventurer eager to try new things. Somewhere along the way, in the busyness of life and the desire for a steady paycheck, I had lost her. But now I know she’s still there.

So what about you, fellow hens? Think back to when you were young. What did you want to do, to become? Is your true self still present, or has she been buried by the drudgery of daily life? She’s still there, you just have to find her. If you are among the many who have experienced unwanted job changes recently, use the break-up as an opportunity to rediscover yourself. That may entail a major overhaul like starting a new business or career, or it might mean using the time to take some classes and learn something you’ve always wanted to know. Whatever you do, don’t remain idle. Challenge yourself. Get going and get something done. Remember, it’s never too late to reinvent yourself.

Yours in sisterhood, VB