Category Archives: publishing

The Cheese.

 

Lisa worked in advertising.

Big, commercial advertising.

She was a music producer for Ogilvy & Mather WW, in midtown Manhattan.

And, she’d been my college housemate.

I can remember the accounts. Winter Olympics. Huggies Disposable Diapers. And, the piece de resistance: Folger’s Coffee…..the first, serial ad in anybody’s memory, complete with installments which brought a sweet couple together forever ( everybody hoped.) Hardly a word ever spoken. Just that knock on the door;  a lot of deep, eye gazing; and, the music, underscoring the whole story.

Lisa was always quiet around people. Like, silent. Applied music/flute morphing into a degree in sound, she was an aural learner, storing endless loops of tunes and calling them to mind in an instant. Rising to rank after assisting Faith, who retired to open a B&B in Santa Fe, her working girl day began with meetings. The video would either already be complete, or clients sat at table describing what they envisioned. Within minutes, Lisa would have several ideas, heading to the agency library to pull four or five reels for their perusal. One chosen, the edit would begin.

She performed all this grandly important work in the name of international (they had offices in London and LA, as well) product presentation. And I, her loyal housemate all those years prior, wondered with admiration and pride. There would never be a TV ad, from that point until the big layoff after her David was born, that didn’t pique my attention and respect.

Last week, CNN was drumming along in the background as I finished the pre-holiday preparations. These days, what with the new pause and rewind options provided by cable, I was wont to mute and FF when the commercials kicked in.

But, this one caught me.

A certain, familiar insurance company having dispensed with its inane gecko for the holidays, the goofy lizard had been displaced by two humanoids. Seated shoulder to back on a laminate floor, faux [ electrically flickering ] fireplace behind, equally faux brass poke and stoke set alongside, laminate paneling, the gushing couple faced camera holding drinks. The only notable feature of the man being his Persian blue contac lenses, the woman by contrast was bedecked: polyester ski sweater over a starched, button down shirt, outsized faux coral hoop earrings, haircut overgrown just enough to have required large rollers for shape, jeans and, just as the camera pulled back – knee high, faux leather, heeled boots.

Their only dialogue byte to pull me out of my stream of subconscious was a reference to “starring in a real commercial”. Might it have been the angle of her jaw, or the artificial lilt in her voice? I stared, momentarily, at her face. Suddenly, it all came together.

Perhaps I’d taken one too many cheap flight connections from Detroit to parts east. Maybe fussed just a bit too much getting strapped onto my seat in coach. But, somebody was watching. Somebody who’d replaced one of Lisa’s coworkers in video all those years ago. I didn’t have to take any bait, from GEICO or anybody else. Somebody, as I stood in the shoot waiting for my orange ductape labeled Travelocity carry on, saw me and said: “Ope. There she is. There’s our girl.”

Cheese is a favorite of mine. I like them all. Brie; Havarti; Colby Jack; Muenster; Feta; Goat; New York Sharp. If you need cheese, or cheesy, just call me. I’ll be sitting by the phone, branded, waiting for the role of your lifetime.

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c 1/1/19   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, somebody who looks exactly like the person she isn’t, and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published!

 

She did it.

After God knows how many months, years, painstakingly crafting, artfully arranging, she completed her novel.

It had to happen. I wrote a children’s book; she wrote one. I performed on a Steinway; she bought one. I wrote a screenplay; she got a Master’s in Creative Writing.

And, wrote a novel.

We’re supposed to celebrate each other’s triumphs. It sends positive energy into the universe, or something like that. I’d just tired of being her Applause! sign, every time we met for dinner. I mean, really tired.

For one, I am afraid to open the first chapter for fear I see myself or a member of my own family, illustrated in my blog, now characterized in official print. We all do it, as a sort of emotional release, when relationships break our hearts or sour on the vine. But, there is no law requiring me to read that book, just like there’s no law preventing her from lifting, along with a few, choice turns of the old phrase and an essential rhythm, somebody else’s nationality, personality, or family story and calling it fiction.

Power; influence; prestige; status; and, marketing savvy. The best connections an established, multiply credentialed, white collar professional can gather, just by entering the room. It’s been the way of the world, for awhile now.

Jealous? To use her favorite exclamation: “Naah.”  Jealousy is about wishing you were the other person. No desire for that; grateful for everything God gave me, thank you mum and dad. Envy? Perhaps. Being published is enviable. It means that your novel will garner reviews, and sit in a bookstore with all the others. Sometimes people buy books in bookstores. Sometimes they sit, and read them there. Others flip through, looking for the best gift for that relative who doesn’t get out much.

And, a segment of the population actually spends quite a bit of time reading. Prisoners, for example.

Do I attempt to minimize this accomplishment? Nothing likely could, if its inherent value is deemed worthy by the National Association of Writers. Oh, wait. She’s a member. There it is. Nothing I could possibly say or do would depreciate this product of no doubt arduous hours of research, rewrites and edits. It’s hers, after all. Here’s hoping she gets everything she deserves.

I, myself, don’t just love to write. I need to write. Writing may be the very last thing I do before drawing my final breath. Whether anybody reads, well, that’s up to Providence.

Meantime, there are several drafts awaiting completion. Inhale; exhale. Mindful awareness. Plod along. The purpose emerges.

Just keep on.

You can do.

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© 9/14/18   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.  Please respect original material, however unimportant. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Dear Ghost Writer:

 

Hello!  It’s me. One of your favorites.

The Pharisee, in the Scriptures, did [publicly] proclaim, in prayer no less, his indulged gratitude that he was “not as other men  – proud, boastful.” You may know the story. Whereas, the other guy, the Publican, he prayed in secret.

I’m told I should pray for my enemies, those that hate and spitefully use me. Perhaps I should. But, perhaps even that much attention is more than you deserve; after all, I’m writing this – am I not?

Seems there’s a whole culture out there, my friend Nicole calls it one of “desperation” (not unlike that of which Thoreau wrote in the woods), that feeds off of the pearls cast by unknowns who, otherwise, have lives that they have cultivated by sheer effort and hard work. Are you a member of that class?

Who knows? Maybe your books will sell. After all, those sleazy rags that absorb the snot from sneezing children in the grocery line apparently do well enough to reappear every week on the racks next to the artificially sweetened breath mints. It could very well be that your audience can be found among them.

Yeah. Call me bitter. But, I do possess what you likely do not: authenticity. I inherited this from both my parents. They never meant a single thing to you, but no matter; the universe has to be big enough to reward them both, at some point. And, I guess, by posting this, I’m declaring my willingness to wait for the day when goodness and truth get their crowns back from the marauding mercenaries. I guess I’m saying I can wait. Because I don’t need to scramble for my next paycheck so that the powder, waiting for everybody else, can find its way into the lining of my purse. If that’s your story, what I feel for you is pity.

Carry on, little starling. Time waits for no one, and you have a crime to commit.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo Copyright 12/8/15  All rights reserved. p.s. I am, actually, a published writer; more than one of my essays has appeared in our local newspaper, the Erie TIMES-NEWS, and I am copyrighted at the Library of Congress.

littlebarefeetblog.com