Roxie and Me

When the big black dog with the golden eyes came to us she was at death’s door. Literally. The vet had tried to find someone who would adopt her – in our little rural town in Georgia, people who cared about strays took them to Dr Mike instead of the local shelter which put them down after 48 hours – but the medical costs would have been huge, and he couldn’t keep her any longer. She was nearly bald from an advanced case of mange and her right front leg was loaded with buckshot thanks to some dribble chinned idiot with a gun. And while I’m on that subject, can we all agree that anyone who would shoot at a helpless dog just because she’d homeless should be shot themselves? Thank you. Moving on.

A good Samaritan grabbed our girl her and brought her to Dr Mike where she met my husband Roger, AKA, St Francis of Assisi. We were broke and unemployed at the time but Mike and Roger negotiated a payment plan for the expenses Mike did at cost and the girl came home to us. She was named Roxanne by my stepson, and I gather a song by a rock band was involved in the selection. Since my musical knowledge is pretty much limited to old Broadway show tunes and the really popular arias by Puccini I never knew which group it was. Roxanne was a beauty. Roger called her a Disney dog and said she was made up of spare parts – an Irish Setter’s tail, a Lab’s build, a Terrier’s grin. When her coat grew in it was luxurious and thick and black. Her smart, smart eyes were, as I said, golden brown. Her tongue – thanks to a Chow somewhere in her family tree – was partially purple.

“She’s a runner,” Mike had warned when he turned her over to us. “You’ll have to keep her tied up when she’s outside.”

So on her first night home we celebrated her arrival with a cookout and happily attached her to a heavy portable grill by means of a collar and leash guaranteed to restrain a small elephant, if for some reason, you had one in your home. We wanted Roxanne to be outdoors with the rest of the family – we had six other rescue dogs -- so she would feel welcomed and loved. We figured there was no way she could get loose—we had the running thing covered. We were right, actually, she couldn’t get free. But what she could do was drag the collar, the leash, and the grill along with the hot coals, the half-cooked hamburgers and the three zucchini burgers for my stepson the vegan, across three fields and a good portion of the thirteen acres of Kudzu that surrounded our home. In fact, if she hadn’t run afoul of a pole anchoring the electric lines Georgia Power had run across our back forty, we probably would have lost her. The next day we had a fence built. It was the first of many over the years. And FYI, a good, strong link chain fence costs slightly more per foot than laying track for a high speed train.

Now, I’m sure anyone reading this is wondering why I’m bothering to write about Roxanne. I mean, most rescued dogs have a hard luck story in the beginning. And at some point they find a home and are cherished and blah, blah, blah. Hang on, because this one was different – at least for me.

Roxie and I had a special relationship because of a dog Roger and I had also rescued named Jennifer. Jen came from the San Fernando Valley. We lived in California for two years while I tried to become a movie star – don’t ask – before we finally moved to Georgia. Jen had problems—deep psychological problems. And she and Roxie took a hate to each other. It was a parenting issue – differing styles of motherhood to be precise. We had at the time a rescue puppy named Dorothy. Roxie adopted her, and indulged her wildly. There was evidence that Rox had had puppies of her own at some point and while all the professional dog folks swore to me that she’d forgotten about them, I knew better -- okay?

Anyway, at one point little Dorothy decided to steal one of Jen’s toys. Jen growled a reprimand . The puppy squealed, and Roxie ran to the rescue. The fight between Rox and Jen was on. Under the dinner table – it was Christmas Day, did I say that? After we cleaned up the blood, Roger, who had broken up the battle, needed thirteen stitches, Jen was in Dr Mike’s emergency room, and Roxie was off in a corner muttering to herself about how no dumb Valley Girl was going to mess with her baby.

After that there was no making peace. Mike explained that with two male dogs a grudge match would end when one dog was clearly the victor, at which point the other would shrug and say “Whatever, dude.” But when you had two females, someone was going to die. It was, he said, a girl thing. Which is how Roxie wound up living in the studio where I did my writing.

My studio, which was separate from the house, was heated and air conditioned and it had running water and a microwave –everything Roxie could possibly need. Unfortunately it also had me in it. Except for visits with Dorothy, I was Roxie’s main companion. And I was not in good shape. I was in the process of figuring out that I’d been aged out of my old career as an actress, and my new one as a staff writer for daytime drama, as we used to call the soaps, was not working out so well. To be honest, being a staff writer meant being anonymous, and I’d been a leading actor throughout my career, and I’d won an Emmy. My ego was just too big to be a worker bee. I’m not proud of this, I’m just saying.

For one long terrible summer I went into that studio everyday and tried to write scripts for other actors to say and I cried. And Roxie lay down on my feet and played dutiful dog. Until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Then she’d start nudging and barking and carrying on until I took out the leash and we’d hike through the Kudzu, her theory being if I wasn’t going to write, I might as well work off some of the butt I was acquiring by eating comfort food and spending hours watching old movies on TV.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep I’d get up and stumble across our the breezeway to my studio where Rox would cuddle with me on the sofa even though she hated cuddling. But always at some point her sense of humor – to say nothing of tough love -- would kick in and I’d be nudged with a cold nose and I’d know that she was saying, “You’ve had a lot more luck than many people with as much talent, or more, than yours. Get over this, and get on with it.”
When I finally got up the courage to try to write my first novel we were back in the Northeast where I had an office in the basement level of the house. Rox stayed down there with me while I fought off the fear that I couldn’t write a book and the even bigger fear that no one would want to read it if and when I did write it. And when I needed a break there was the nose nudge, although sometimes we’d just go outside and sniff the sunshine instead of hiking around our cul de sac. By that point she was getting old and more than a little tired. But she stuck it out until I published the Three Miss Margarets.

I don’t remember much about the day when she left. She’d been sick for a while and I do know that Roger and I both had to reassure her that we could manage without her and it was okay for her to go if she had to. I remember doing that. And to be honest, since then it’s been a little hard to think about her. I used her picture on my recipe cards because it was a way to keep her involved – without doing the thinking part.

But this year I found myself writing a novel in which the leading character is a writer who is having problems. And she has this dog. A stray dog with smart, smart eyes. And a thick, luxurious black coat. A dog who doesn’t like to cuddle but does it for her sake. The dog’s name is Annie. And the plot hinges on her. And I don’t know if you’ll believe this or not, but until a good friend pointed it out to me, I didn’t realize that Annie and Roxie had so much in common. So I guess now I’m ready to talk about Roxie. And while I wouldn’t want to get all spooky and say Rox helped me write this book… maybe somewhere out there in the ether… yeah. I think that’s what happened. She did.

Interview with Josh and Charlie

NOTE FROM LOUISE: Since the dog named Annie figures so prominently in Looking for a Love Story , my two canine companions, Josh and Charlie, suggested rather strenuously, that they should be a part of this interview. In fact, they thought they should be the interview. So here they are in their own words, telling everyone what it’s like to live with an author. And, according to Joshua , giving humans a rare opportunity to explore our mutual existence from a canine point of view. I want it known that I take no responsibility for what will be said from this point on. Especially if it’s Charlie saying it.

INTERVIEWER: (TWO CANINES SEATED ON THE SUEDE SOFA THAT SHOWS EVERY HAIR THAT IS SHED AND EVERY BIT OF DIRT THAT IS DRAGGED IN BY MUDDY PAWS) So you guys are going to give us an insider’s perspective on Louise Shaffer the author.
CHARLI E: Josh and me, we call her Mommie.
JOSHUA : Actually my correct name is Joshua. And technically speaking, Charlie’s mother is a Loose Coated Wheaten Terrier and mine is an English Springer Spaniel -- of impeccable pedigree.
CHARLIE: I knew he was going to bring up the pedigree thing.
JOSHUA: My breed has been around for centuries. We were the companions of kings. You can find us in portraits painted –
CHARLIE: (BREAKING IN) During the time of Elizabeth the First – whoever she was…
JOSHUA : Only one of the greatest monarchs England has ever known.
CHARLIE : Like anyone cares.
JOSHUA: You are such a peasant.
CHARLIE : Who are you calling a pheasant? Do these feet look like wings to you?
JOSHUA: I said peasant, dummy.
CHARLIE: You want to take this outside, Hotstuff?
JOSHUA: Any time, Carpet Boy.
CHARLIE: You have no right to bring that up. The carpet thing was a mistake.
JOSHUA: Who eats the ornaments off a Christmas tree and then follows it up by chowing down on the carpet?
CHARLIE : I told you, my stomach was upset and the carpet looked like grass. I was just a puppy.
JOSHUA: You were an idiot. Our humans are still paying off your surgeries.
INTERVIEWER: Uh… guys. Could we get back to the subject?
CHARLIE: Right. You want us to talk about Mommie.
JOSHUA: We call her that because it makes her happy.
CHARLIE: Go figure.
INTERVIEWER: What’s it like living with an author?
JOSHUA: Most of the time, she’s thoroughly presentable.
CHARLIE: Except for the week before a deadline.
JOSHUA: Yes, that’s not pretty.
CHARLIE: Humans really should brush their hair every once in a while.
JOSHUA: And they shouldn’t wear the same nightgown all day for a week.
CHARLIE: Also, it’s better if they don’t walk around the house talking to themselves.
JOSHUA: She usually does that when she’s stuck on a plot point.
CHARLIE: Or when she can’t make her characters do what she needs them to do to make the plot work. That can get scary.
JOSHUA: She’ll walk into the middle of a room with this weird look in her eyes…
CHARLIE: Like that duck in the Aflak commercials…
JOSHUA: And she’ll talk to herself for a while, then she’ll start answering herself. Sometimes she uses different voices.
CHARLIE: That’s when you know it’s bad.
JOSHUA: That’s when Roger – he’s her husband, but he doesn’t make us call him Daddy, thank God – hides the car keys.
CHARLIE: Sometimes she even forgets our dinner time.
JOSHUA: And she does things like leave the refrigerator door open so certain people can inhale the smoked salmon she was going to serve at brunch before she cancelled it because she was stuck on a plot point. .
CHARLIE : I’ve always been partial to lox and bagels.
JOSHUA: A whole pound of lox? The vet was afraid they were going to have to pump your stomach.
CHARLIE: So I suppose you’ve never done anything wrong…
JOSHUA: Now that you mention it -- no. I can’t think of a thing.
CHARLIE: Sometimes I really want to bite you.
JOSHUA: You’re welcome to try.
INTERVIEWER: Guys? We were talking about Louise?
CHARLIE: Sometimes she can be really funny. Like when she tried to train us. Remember Josh?
JOSHUA: Oh Lord, yes!
CHARLIE: She bought books.
JOSHUA: Hired a trainer.
CHARLIE: She spent a whole summer walking us around our cul de sac, going “Sit!, Stay! Heel!”
JOSHUA: As if.
( THERE ARE CANINE CHUCKLES AT THE MEMORY)
CHARLIE: (MIMICKING LOUISE) “Sit, boys!” C’mon fellahs, stay…”
(THE CHUCKLES HAVE NOW TURNED INTO BELLY LAUGHTER )
JOSHUA: Stop! Really. Or I’m going to have to go outside for a potty break.
INTERVIEWER: So I’m guessing the attempt at training wasn’t a success.
JOSHUA: That depends on who you’re talking to.
CHARLIE: We were happy with it.
JOSHUA: It was all a part of the learning process.
CHARLIE: For Mommie.
INTERVIEWER: That brings me to an interesting point. The whole dog/mankind relationship. Would you guys care to speak on that a little?
JOSHUA: Okay, here’s the thing people need to know about any dog’s relationship to his humans. These creatures – these humans -- who have no sense of smell…
CHARLIE: … lousy hearing …
JOSHUA : … and absolutely no understanding of how the universe works, come into our lives.
CHARLIE: The poor things don’t know enough to drop whatever they’re doing on a beautiful day, and go outside to sniff the sunshine.
JOSH: They don’t know when it’s time to stop worrying about the bills or their work, and roll in the autumn leaves, or throw a ball for us to catch, or just sit quietly and pet us.
CHARLIE: They’re always worrying about what’s going to happen tomorrow.
JOSHUA: Or what happened yesterday.
CHARLIE: So it’s up to us, their dogs, to make them pay attention to today.
JOSHUA: Particularly if it’s a good day. They don’t seem to notice when things are going well.
CHARLIE: But they sure do complain when they aren’t.
JOSHUA: Teaching them to say “thank you” can be a challenge.
CHARLIE: They’re awfully stubborn.
JOSHUA: We just have to keep reminding ourselves that they aren’t the brightest species on the planet.
CHARLIE: When you think about it, about all they’ve really got going for them is the opposable thumb. Which is great for opening food cans --
JOSHUA: But on a metaphysical level – not so much.
CHARLIE: Whatever that means.
JOSHUA: It means no matter how limited or flawed they are, we still love them.
CHARLIE: Well, duh, that that’s in the Dog’s Credo. (RECITES) ‘Rule Number One: I swear to love my humans unconditionally.”
JOSHUA: Yeah. Somebody’s got to do it. (TURNS TO INTERVIEWER) You need more?
INTERVIEWER: No, I think that does it. I’m going home to pet my dog.
CHARLIE: A suggestion? Give him some steak.
JOSHUA: He’ll really appreciate that.

Looking For A Love Story is in bookstores everywhere April 27th, 2010.

Lane Cakes & Papier Mache

Originally posted on Tuesday, December 23, 2008.

So it's the holiday again. I'm trying to do it right this year. I hope it's charming of me to actually think there is a way to do it right, but I have a sneaking suspicion I'm just being neurotic. Okay nuts. As with most things in life I've never found a happy medium for my Christmas celebrating. When I started in show business I usually had to work on the holiday --sometimes we shot the actual Chirstmas show in advance so we had the big day off, but most years we were doing the soap sturm und drang over a holiday punch bowl on the 24th. In those days my yuletide ritual consisted of tossing a couple of ornaments on my snake plant and joining the crowd of hostile travelers on New Haven line as we all headed toward our loved ones in Connecticut -- in my case my mom's house. A couple of days later I'd be back on the set shooting the buildup to the obligatory Miserable Soap Opera New Year's Eve. Hey, it was a living. Cut to: a few years later I got married. I was what was called, back in the Paleolithic Age, a feminist. Which meant you didn't read romance novels or those glossy magazines that told you how to run a home. Let me confess now to my consciousness raising group that I read everything Georgette Heyer ever wrote, and I was the guilty consumer of Redbook, The Ladies' Home Journal and McCalls. When I married Roger, who loved Christmas, I had years of unbaked cookies and uncrafted decorations pent up in my brain. I made several holiday seasons hideous with my Lane Cake which took two days to bake if you insisted on using the original recipe which called for one to "choppe ye raisins into Perfecte thirds." My handmade icicles for the tree resulted in my husband having to have a premature discussion with his two young sons about the meaning of the phrase "phallic symbol." At some point during the holiday I would find myself screaming at the dog who had played with the papier mache for the Father Christmas and glued herself to a light socket. So this year I'm trying to make it all easy. After all - it's the thought that counts. Right? So this time no fancy food, no handmade decorations, I'm doing my minimal shopping on the internet. If I can figure out how to use the @$%!! thing. Happy Holidays!

Death Wish Dog

Originally posted on Thursday, December 11, 2008.

Okay, I don't know why this happened to me, I'm basically a nice risk-averse, middle-class lady, who tends to hang out with people who floss and watch their cholesterol. I've never considered bungee jumping or hang gliding. But somehow I wound up with a dog with a death wish. I could understand it if Charlie was depressed. But he's one of the most ebullient, fun loving, affectionate creatures you'd ever want to meet. I guess it's that way with a lot of our loved ones who harbor secret sorrows the rest of us never know about. Charlie's suicidal tendencies first manifested themselves last year when he ate the Christmas tree. Actually it was the tulle we had wrapped around the tree for a lovely gauzy effect which we will not be repeating this year. Since the tulle, and there were wads of it, didn't sit well Charlie followed it up with a chaser of carpet. Yeah, he ripped a chunk of our carpet off the stairs and gnawed on it hoping to settle his stomach. I won't go into details about what that did to his intestines because there are some things I just don't want to think about, but two surgeries were required to unclog them. And we replaced our pretty wool carpet with the fancy nap with a plastic commercial floor covering that was pretty much Charlie proof --we hoped. I won't dwell on the expense of the surgeries and the new flooring, I just want to say that there's a reason why I'm so frantic about getting my book advances. But Roger and I thought we were safe. Silly us. We replaced the carpet but we forgot totally about the bath mats. Yes, Charlie did it last weekend. We had a long talk with him about economics and explained that this time he was going to have to... how shall I say this delicately?... eliminate the rug on his own since we couldn't afford to open him up again. I think he heard us because the backyard isn't pretty and he isn't dead. But last night I found him consuming a Christmas candle loaded with glitter. I am going to talk to our vet about naming a memorial wing at his hospital after us Because Charlie will probably live forever but I'm not sure I'm going to survive.

The Agony & the Ex-Soap Star

Originally posted on Wednesday, September 26, 2007 .

Okay, so since I'm doing a tour and talking about Family Acts right now, I've been thinking a lot about show business. Because I really did channel so much of my show biz life when I wrote it. Not directly, I didn't actually experience most of the stuff -- well, okay, the Emmy sequence is pretty accurate – but I think my love for that world fueled the book. I'm still stage struck after all this time— actually, I'm probably more stage struck now than I was when I was actually working in the industry. I mean, these days no one is refusing to hire me because my ankles aren't right and I remind them of their mother, so I can afford to be a little misty eyed about it all.

That said, there are stories I always planned on telling when I became a huge star and was writing my autobiography. Since the huge star boat seems to have sailed without me—here goes. This first one is sort of about appendicitis, but it's really about actor ego. I have one. Well, of course I do, I wouldn't have done what I've done for a living if I didn't have one. I mean, the whole point of the profession is, people are supposed to watch you. Even if you're shy, somewhere deep down in your soul there's got to be a part of you that doesn't mind being looked at. And if there isn't and you still insist on acting, get yourself to a shrink today because you are a substance abuse problem waiting to happen.

And this brings me to something that puzzles me-- stars who moan about the pain… the brutal agony … of being hounded by the media. This would be the same media they courted so hard on their way up that they made Paris Hilton look like an Amish spinster –right? I'm not sure you get to turn off the attention after you've made it . I mean, doesn't it kind of come with the dinner? But I digress.

I will admit I have a healthy… okay, an unhealthy actor's ego. I try to keep it under control because the cliché of the plumy voiced actor who thinks it's All About Me is a little too funny. I mean, even I don't want to get laughs that way. But it's rough, because the self absorption just sneaks up on you and before you know it, you've been monologue-- ing for twenty minutes and the people around you look the way my husband looks when I insist on listening to Wagner while we're driving to Alabama. So I probably manage to keep the monster under wraps about fifty per cent of the time.

Cut to: The early eighties when I was appearing on Ryan's Hope. I had a full day of scenes and I knew I was feeling badly, but I figured I'd just ride out the pain in my stomach until it went away. By ten that night it finally dawned on me that it wasn't going away and in fact it was getting worse. I knew I should do something. But I didn't have a doctor in New York – after all, I'd only lived in the city for twelve years. My friend Nancy said I should go to the emergency room, and since I really wanted whatever was bothering me to stop because I had to work three days that week, I finally went.

Okay, now here is Louise Shaffer's Rule 1 in case you ever find yourself in an emergency room in New York City after eleven o'clock at night. DO NOT CRACK JOKES. Are we clear on that? Because what you want more than anything else is for the overworked, exhausted staff to take you seriously. Look at it from their point of view, they have six gunshot wounds, two drug overdoses, a knife wound, and you, all sitting in the waiting room. Not only are you the only one who isn't vomiting or bleeding on the floor, you've obviously had the means to bathe in the past three weeks. They do not want to think there is anything wrong with you—they do not want think anything is wrong with anyone because they do not want to do the paperwork – but with you it's touch and go. And then you start doing your standup for them. Wrong. But I didn't know that. When I'm scared I try to be funny. And unfortunately for me, the triage nurse was an easy laugher. So she became An Audience. And to make matters worse, I chose to riff on my tendency toward hypochondria.

Here is Louise Shaffer's Rule 2 for New York City Emergency Rooms. When speaking to health care professionals do not use the words "I am a hypochondriac." They will not understand that you are indulging in charming, self-deprecating humor. They will assume that you are yet another whack job and they will not want to do the paperwork. The nurse sent me home with a giggle and told me I probably had a touch of Korean Flu -- since that was the nation that was exporting germs to us that year. She did not check my white cell count or my temperature.

At about one in the morning, I stopped trying to walk to the bathroom and decided to crawl. At five in the morning, I was carrying on a conversation with a man in a brown robe who seemed to have taken up residence in my ceiling. When my friend Nancy called me at eight to see how I was, I told her about the guy in brown and she called her doctor who said it sounded like I was hallucinating and that I should come right over to see him. When she arrived at my apartment to execute this plan, I refused to go because I couldn't afford to be sick. I said I had to work the next day. Nancy finally threatened to call the cops to break down my door before I agreed.

I had a temperature of 104. My white cell count was astronomical. My appendix had burst and they were going to send me to the hospital. I said no I didn't have time for that because I had to work the next day. Nancy made some more cop threats and I hurt too much to fight. I went to the hospital. I was chatting a lot with the guy in brown by then. They stuck me on a gurney, they were going to take me to surgery. Through the mists, it registered. "I can't go to work tomorrow?" I croaked. Everyone but Nancy thought I was being funny. "I need to make a phone call, " I said. (This was before we all had cell phones)

"She probably wants her family to know what's happened," a sympathetic nurse said and got a dial tone for me, "Now who do you want us to call, dear?"

"My agent," I said.

I informed my agent that I was going to be AWOL for the next two weeks. He tried to reassure me, he told me he would alert the show and they would find a replacement for me. I told him that was what I was calling about. Then -- and I am so not proud of this next part -- I gave him a list of all the actresses who had beaten me out for jobs for the last ten years. And believe me, even with heavy duty peritonitis, I remembered every name. Before I consented to go into surgery I made my agent swear that he would see to it that none of those actresses would play my part.

That's what I mean by an actor's ego. You be the judge of the healthy part.

Opening Night

Originally posted on Thursday, September 06, 2007.

Okay, so Family Acts is officially on sale. But August 28th, which I'd been sort of thinking of as the opening night, has come and gone. And that started me thinking about the difference between a theatrical opening night and a publication date. Here's what the day goes like when your book hits the shelves. Your editor will call you to congratulate you and thank you again for all your hard work—at least, mine does, but then I am incredibly lucky. Your publicist will call to congratulate you and reiterate how much she loved the book and tell you that she's booked all of your flights for your book tour out of your local airport so you won't have the hassle of getting to JFK. She doesn't want you to be stressed. After that, the launch is pretty much over. In the next few weeks you'll hear from your near and dear ones who will tell you how much liked your book—after all, only a total jerk would make a special call to tell you they didn't like it –and that's about it. Contrast this with being an actor facing an opening night – at least if the actor is me. You jolt awake at four in the morning convinced that you're going to die. You don't know why you feel that way—you're still three quarters asleep—you just know you're doomed. After a few minutes you remember that, God help you, you're opening in a show tonight. At eight o'clock this evening, you and your life's work will undergo two hours of the kind of judgment most people associate with the end of the world. Then you will sit in a restaurant somewhere at the opening night party – an exercise in torture if there ever was one-- and you will try not to throw up while you and the rest of your equally terrified colleagues wait for the make-or-break reviews which will determine if you will be employed and able to pay for your apartment, or if you're going to be bunking in with relatives while you beg your old boss to take you back at that gig in food services. But it's not just about the money and the job—if you're an actor you're used to being broke and desperate -- this is about the animal fear that can be best described as Tonight I Am Going to Stink In Front Of People Who Are So Successful They Rate An Opening Night Ticket. This is when your basic actor paranoia sets in. Now you are convinced that the play in which you are appearing-- the one you thought was so witty and charming -- is actually the theatrical equivalent of toxic waste. It also hits you that the director into whose hands you have so foolishly put your trust and your career, is actually a sadist who has sabotaged you by encouraging you to give a performance so rotten it will make Kelsey Grammar's turn as MacBeth look like something produced by the Old Vic. At this point you're probably awake enough to brush your teeth but you can't because they are chattering too hard. Your day will go downhill from here. At some point during the afternoon the paranoia will vanish and be replaced by guilt and self-loathing. It's not the fault of your director or the playwright, you realize, it is you and your lack of anything resembling talent that has gotten you into this mess. You start making plans to revamp your life's goals. Maybe you'll work with the deserving poor. Or nurse the terminally ill. If God will just please let you get through this night, you will become a better person, you promise. By the time you're sitting in your dressing room in front of your makeup mirror you have dumped all bargains with God. You stare blankly at the tiny stuffed animals and snow globes theater people insist on giving each other as opening night presents and you swear if you survive this night you are going to hunt down your last therapist and sue for malpractice. Meanwhile, you try frantically to remember your opening line. Or the title of the play. Or your name. That's the day of an opening night. I'm not saying this writing career of mine is a walk in the park. It's a lot of hard work and there can be disappointments and rejections and all the usual stuff –good and bad-- that happens to everyone. But you don't have to go through an opening night!

With a Little Help from MySpace Friends

Originally posted on Monday, August 27, 2007.

Okay, there are some other people I want to thank — and this brings me to an area about which I'm a bit dicey—cyberspace. And blogging. I've been given such a boost from both and I don't understand them. Not really. The thing is, I'm technologically challenged. This is not something that started when I purchased my first computer – I have always had trouble with machines. I gave up my driver's license as a public service when I first came to live in Manhattan. When I was in drama school we all had to do crew work – building sets and costumes-- before we could graduate. After my first week in the set shop, there was a note next to my name that said I was not to be allowed near power tools. I was assigned to the wardrobe department, and after a really scary incident with the ruffles attachment, I wasn't allowed near the sewing machines. I spent three years washing dance tights and sewing on buttons by hand. But I digress. I'm not sure I believe what I've been told about my computer. I've heard all about chips and hard drives, but I suspect that what's really in that thing is-- gremlins. And if you piss them off by pushing the wrong button they will crash the computer and make you loose three months worth of work because, okay, you forgot to back up your files, and damn it, I can't be expected to remember everything. I have a relationship with my computer that is tentative at best and don't even get me started about the laptop, which I totally don't understand. But my stepson Colin said I should blog. And he said I should do it on MySpace which I thought was pretty much the home of teenagers who were into body piercing and tattoos -- which I also don't understand because, I'm sorry, there is no way you can convince me that it didn't hurt. I'm not making an aesthetic judgment here. Anyone who's seen my Kitty Litter Cleaning Ensemble knows I have no business commenting on anyone else's fashion sense. But are you guys absolutely sure this stuff is safe? Have there been any studies done? What's the long term impact on your immune system? What's going to happen when you get older and your eyebrows start to sag—and trust me, they will. Just be careful, that's all I'm saying. There are days when it's hard enough to cross the street safely – you know? But back to blogging. Actually I had been tinkering with the concept before Colin gave me his edict. When I was working Family Acts I wrote a character who was a computer whiz. Given my limitations that seems just plain wrong—doesn't it? And I'll admit I did try to make Susie – that's the character's name—into an eleven year eccentric who wrote in longhand only. But – and, okay, this part is really embarrassing – sometimes my characters talk to me. I don't mean they appear in visions and tell me to save France. But while I'm working, if I make a certain decision that they know is wrong, they argue. And Susie was arguing that I was going to have to suck it up and deal with her computer skills—even if it felt like I was translating those sections from the original Chinese. She also pointed out that she would know how to blog. And I would have to do research. Enter my friend Charlie. And when I say My Friend Charlie, it goes in caps because he defines the title. No matter what I need or want Charlie is there. And we won't even go into the numbers of times he has reassured me that I will not wind up on the streets with our dogs, Josh and Charlie, doing tricks for handouts. I asked Charlie who could give me a quick lesson in blogging. So enter Charlie's friend Richard Simms. My Blogging Guru. What you have to understand about both of these guys is, they are gifted writers themselves. And let's be honest—talented people don't always rush to help other people who are struggling in similar fields. But both of them have helped me endlessly and tirelessly, which not only makes them gifted but amazing human beings. And you can't beat that. Anyway, Richard spent a couple of hours on the phone—he has to be one of the most patient men on the planet—and he finally managed to explain enough of the basics to me that I was able to write Susie, the blogger. Then, after I started the blogging thing myself, Richard directed my blogs to his own personal list of friends. That's called "pimping" in case there's anyone in the civilized world besides me who didn't know the technical term— and it was such an incredibly kind and generous thing to do, but then that's who Richard is. So thank you, Richard, for being in my life. Now, enter Richard's friend, who I only know by his MySpace handle, Cat Zen Space. He's been pimping my blogs to his friends. Just because he liked my work as an actress and he wants to encourage me. Now, if that isn't beyond wonderful, I don't know what is. So thank you! Thank you for your help and support and most of all for your friendship, Cat Zen Space. Because I think I'm finally catching on to what this MySpace thing is all about – underneath all the technology and the stuff that scares me—it really is about friendship. And we all need friends. I know I do.