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Why I Write ________________________________________________________ Reflections from a Former Soap Star Okay, the topic is “Why I Write.” Or, to put in my own terms, I have chosen to make my living doing something financially dicey that regularly sucks all the oxygen out of my life; not to mention the fact that when I’m working on a plot point, I become a menace behind the wheel of a car. (Actually, I’ve always been a menace behind the wheel—when I lived in Manhattan, I gave up my driver’s license as a public service). So the question is: why do I want to do this writing thing? After much pondering I’ve come up with four reasons: 1) I love to read. 2) I think I have something to say. 3) There’s nothing else I can do (that would be the Desperation Reason ). 4) When I was five I liked my imaginary playmates more than any of the living kids I’d met. Let me address these in order. 1) I love to read. I think every book I pick up is a mini-vacation, or at least has the potential to be one. Books get you through the rough times, they can uplift you, inform you, inspire you, and every once in a while they can change your life. And it’s been that way since the first author decided to put his story down on a piece of parchment—or animal skin, or cave wall. To be a part of that tradition in any way is a gift. I still can’t believe I’m allowed to call myself a writer, and I’m gushingly grateful to each and every person who has ever read one of my novels. I’ve been told there are times when my book signings are kind of embarrassing because of that. 2) I think I have something to say. I’m with the late Louis B Mayer who said if he wanted to give his audience a message he’d send them a telegram. I believe my main job is to entertain—give my readers a good laugh and sometimes a good cry—not climb up on my soapbox. But oh, do I have opinions! And yeah, I sneak them in—my beliefs about what it means to be human, what I think we’re all here for, and, of course, the importance of cake and dogs in everyday life. 3) The Desperation Reason. Let me tell you a story. I spent years supporting myself—more or less—as an actress. But then one day—shortly after I’d won an Emmy for my work in daytime television—I got too old. At least, that was what I was told by several agents and a couple of producers. I was over forty, and I’d never had any “knee surgery.” (Knee surgery is what your publicist says you’re having when you’re an actress of a certain age and you suddenly take off from your show for six weeks. You come back from the hiatus with your eyebrows hiked up to your forehead and all the pesky lines on the side of your nose gone. Sometimes your knee works better too). I was fired by my soap opera and I never had another long-term role. After I accepted the idea that I was unemployable as an actress, I thought I wanted to get a nice legit gig. Something with security that required creativity, no computer skills, and no previous experience. (I know, I know. But I’d never had a nine to five job before). I went to headhunters. I took hundreds of those tests that are designed to tell you if you’re an introvert/analytical/right brain with leadership potential, or a left brain/fruit loop/follower—or whatever. In two years of searching no one in the real world was nuts enough to offer me a job. Thank God, because I would have been a walking disaster. I’m just not hard wired for reality—no matter how hard I try to be. Which brings me to Reason #4. 4) I still prefer hanging out with my imaginary friends. Let me continue my story. After my real world job search tanked, it dawned on me that after so many years of saying other people’s lines, I could probably write dialogue. After all, when I was acting I always rewrote my lines. You can get away with that in daytime television because everyone is working so fast that they don’t have time to fight with you as long as you sound like you’re making sense. If I had to write for an actress like me, I’d kill her. I called everyone I knew in the soap opera industry. I begged, and pleaded, and wrote dozens of sample scripts until I was hired as a staff writer on a show. Sounds like it should be a happy ending to the story, doesn’t it? Not so much. On a soap opera, the script writers—and that’s what I was—write for the characters that the head writer has created. You write the head writer’s story—with input from a committee of millions at the studio, but that’s another article. I found out I couldn’t do dialogue for other people’s imaginary playmates. I wanted my own. So I wrote a book. It took me seven years, because I was afraid I couldn’t do it, but when it was finished the characters and the story were mine. The novel was called the Three Miss Margarets and it found a home at Random House. Two years later it was joined by the Ladies Of Garrison Gardens, and on August 28th my third book, FAMILY ACTS, will be published. And this really is the happy ending of the story for me. Because the most important reason for writing as far as I’m concerned is the characters. My imaginary friends. I get to play with them everyday in my own make believe world. I still can’t believe how lucky I am.
Family Acts, Chapter One
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