Two posts about fear and worry in the past few weeks? Yeah, you bet. Because I’ve been skiing for the past few weeks, and that always reactivates all the fear cells in my body and makes me think about my safety in ways I don’t normally have to in my everyday life.
I like the ground. I like dirt. I love to run and hike and backpack–all at my own bodily speed.
But when you’re at the mercy of gravity and two slick planks speeding over slippery snow, that’s not normal. Even Olympic downhill racers will tell you so.
The problem is, I love it. Love leaving my southwest desert town where it’s already in the mid-80s (sorry, east-coasters) and going to the mountains where it’s still winter. Love being out in the snowy wilderness with husband and dogs, cross-country skiing for hours at a time while our year-old black Labrador, Moose, rolls in every snowbank he can find and the older Lab, Bear, trots along beside us hoping he won’t have to run too much because really, this is fun and all, but isn’t it time for a nap?
So to reconcile those two things, I’ve had to adopt the Worry About That Tomorrow schedule.
It’s something I read about years ago, and thought was ridiculous–until I tried it.
The idea is to schedule your worry. Decide, “Okay, at 3:00 PM every Thursday, I’m going to sit down for an hour and really cut loose. Remind myself of everything I’ve been afraid of all week–maybe even keep a list of worries for just that reason–and then sit down and go through each of them and really feel the fear. No shame, no holds barred. Steep in it. Go.”
Sure, some weeks by the time Thursday afternoon came around I was already over the anxiety I’d felt about something on Monday. But there were also times when I really looked forward to giving myself permission to flip out if I wanted to. It feels good to be your own best friend and say, “Okay, let’s hear it. Tell me everything.”
Once I got used to putting off fear until a specific day of the week, I learned to extend it for weeks at a time. And eventually to months. Here’s what I’m talking about:
It was the beginning of summer. Sweltering hot (see March temperature above and add 30 degrees to it). I was reading Outside Magazine and came across an article about outdoor summer adventures in Iceland.
Ice-land. YESSSSS.
Luckily, I have the kind of husband who, when I send him an e-mail asking, “Want to go to Iceland in a few weeks?” writes back succinctly, “Sure.”
So I started planning and reserving, and put together an awesome adventure trip. One that included staying on an Icelandic horse farm for a week, then kayaking in the North Atlantic, then backpacking on this very remote, rugged, isolated spot of land.
And to do all that, we’d have to (1) ride on big horses, (2) ride in small boats, and (3) ride in small planes. All of which have a history of activating my fear cells.
But I really wanted to do it. Really wanted the adventure, all those experiences, and especially really wanted to get the heck out of the hell temperatures we were experiencing.
So I just scheduled my fears. Picked a date on the calendar that was a few days after our trip was over, and made myself the solemn promise that I would completely freak out then about all of the dangers I had to face.
And I’m telling you, it worked.
Every time my heart started to beat a little faster during the trip, I’d remind myself, “Not now. Later.” And because I was so used to keeping my promise about fully feeling the fear at scheduled times, I knew that promise was real. So I immediately settled down.
We did crazy things for those two and a half weeks. Scary, dangerous things that I didn’t even know we’d be doing when I planned the trip. And I was completely serene about all of them.
And ever since then, because of that, I know I can flip the switch on and off. That was a really important experiment for me. And it’s a skill I’ve taught friends and family, and a lot of them have had similar successes. It’s doable, people, I promise you. You can put your fears under your own control. I urge you to try the experiment for yourself.
I’ve also learned to apply it to my writing life. I always have dual reactions when a new book of mine comes out. On the one hand, I’m all, “Look! I made this for you! I hope you all read it and love it!” But there’s an equally strong part of me that says, “No! Don’t read that! It’s full of my feelings and opinions! It’s too personal! Look away!”
It reminds me of a friend of mine whose little 3-year-old boy stood with her in the checkout lane at a grocery store, and had his hands down the front of his pants. The customer behind him kept looking at him and smiling, and finally the little boy blurted out, “Stop looking at me!”
Sorry, little dude, but if you’re going to stand in public with your hands down your pants, people are going to look.
That’s right, launching a new book is like standing around with your hands down your pants. You heard it here first.
I definitely had that reaction to my new book THE GOOD LIE coming out last month. I’d been sitting on it for a while, but then when that Woody Allen-Dylan Farrow controversy broke in January of this year, I knew I had some of my own feelings and opinions about the topic that I wanted to share. So I released the book, but definitely felt both “Read it!” and “Don’t read it!” at the same time.
So as with all of my books, I’ve had to pick a date in the future–four months seems about right–when I’m allowed to worry about it. On June 5 I will sit down and have a whole long session about it. But until then, nope, sorry, it’s all just perfectly fine.
Which makes this seem like a good spot to include this button you can push to enter to win a free signed copy of the book later next month. Go ahead. I’m not afraid. How can I be? It’s not even close to June 5 yet.
But I’m telling you, on that day, whew. Look out.
Good luck with your own experiments. Feel free to report back. 
GOING TO THE ENDING TO GET TO THE BEGINNING
Rather than start another play and half-way through come to the realization that: a) there is no ending or the ending doesn't match the rest or b) it's full of crap, I'm still in the thinking stage. Perhaps John Irving wouldn't approve but then again, I kind'a think he would.
Can't speak for others but writing a play, short or otherwise, comes easy when the idea is good and I can relate to the concept personally.
Read somewhere - can't trace down the source - that Woody Allen, director, writer etc. etc. starts his script with one word. This to me is incredible! He actually builds his script from one word. Mind you I've got ideas that worked for my mini-plays while sitting in a hair stylist chair and in my dentist's office. No matter where I am, I study and take notes. Sometimes it works and sometimes it don't but when it does, as I've written many times before, it's magic.
The more I'm writing this, the more ideas are flowing through/into my brain so I better take advantage of my muse. It could be a quick visit.
Dear Film industry: Your metadata is not granular enough. The MPIAA ratings G, PG, PG-13, and R do not fulfill my needs.
I need information relevant to my particular disinterests. I need to know ahead of time if a movie contains elements that I consider unacceptable. I’m not talking about sex, drugs, or violence. I need to know if a movie contains cannibalism, synthesizers, or Jim Carrey.
Here is the film rating system we really need:
Rated A for An Animal is Harmed
As far as I’m concerned, decapitated human heads can roll across the screen but if a Golden Retriever gets a hurty paw you had better warn me up front.
Rated B for British Accent Faked by American
I’m looking at you, Andie MacDowell.
Rated C for Creepy Child Singing
You know things are going to get bad when a little girl starts pushing flowers around and singing quietly to herself.
Rated D for Dialog by Committee
“Oh aspiring teen heart-throb, I am attracted to your emergent yet non-threatening sexuality!”
Rated E for Escape in front of Fireball
You know that scene in every action movie ever where the actors run very fast from some sort of physics phenomenon which approaches at exactly running speed? Rated E.
Rated F for Fun Filled Frolic
If a review or worse the movie poster itself describes a “fun filled frolic for the whole family”, Flee.
Rated G for Grab My Hand
Oh no, that character is falling off a building! Grab my hand! DON’T LET GO!
Rated H for Hearts Pulled Out
A little warning before the monkey brains is all I ask.
Rated I for Italian Stallion
Does this film contain excessive amounts of Sylvester Stallone or Jim Carrey? Librarian Avengers have determined that it will be Rated I or J.
Rated J for Jim Carrey
I need advanced notice so I can start running.
Rated K for Keyboard Hacks Network in 2 Clicks
Did you know space aliens use Mac peripheral drivers? 
Rated L for Lead Actors in Real-Life Romance
Real-life chemistry rarely translates well to the big screen.
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The Librarian Avengers Film Rating System as of 1/1/1900
Below is another reflection on the life of a publicist from Michelle Rafferty. Rafferty has been a Publicity Assistant at Oxford University Press since September 2008. Prior to Oxford she interned at Norton Publishing for a summer and taught 9th & 10th grade Literature. She is chronicling her adventures in publishing every Friday so be sure to visit again next week.
While growing up in the Midwest my understanding of New York City was formed by shots of Rockefeller Plaza on the “Today Show,” and Monica Geller’s apartment in Friends. At the same time a different, more romantic notion existed in my head, similar to what Woody Allen envisioned when marrying an old and new New York in the film Manhattan: a city that “existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.” Since moving here 10 months ago, I’ve dispelled my preconceived, romantic notions of New York, learned that Manhattan has more to offer than Rockefeller Plaza, and am now just another commuter with a vacant stare and headphones, unmoved by the subway screeches and jolts I used to find alarming. But in many ways I’m still in awe and I and wonder if I always will be.
In E.B. White’s famous essay, “Here is New York,” he recalls “what it felt likes as a young man to live in the same town with giants”—his giants being those columnists, critics, and poets he idolized as an aspiring writer himself. White writes that being on the same island as them made him burn “with a low steady fever,” and when he walked by the house of F.P.A., “the block seemed to tremble…the way Park Avenue trembles when a train leaves Grand Central.” I myself am constantly in awe at the “big giants” I find myself in proximity with everyday. I have conversations with authors renowned in their respective fields; I’m always one or two degrees separated from the producers, editors and reporters of the publications, radio, and television programs I revere, which makes it difficult at times not to blurt out “I love your work!” And our enormous contact database, well it would be a lie if I said I was never tempted to abuse it.
In my short time here, I’ve learned that on the outside, becoming a New Yorker doesn’t take long: wear all black, don’t advert your eyes, and only carry a map if it can fit into your wallet—better yet, get a Blackberry with access to Google Maps. But what is a New Yorker on the inside? Does amazement have to stop? If it did, why else would everyone continue to cram themselves in such a tiny space? This seems to be what E.B. White is getting at when he wrote, “the city makes up for its hazards and deficiencies by supplying its citizens with massive doses of a supplementary vitamin—the sense of belonging to something unique, cosmopolitan, mighty and unparalleled.” I think that only when this supplementary dose stops taking affect, when amazement has manifested itself in every way possible, a person can leave. And then maybe, nostalgia leads them back to where they came from originally.
In Manhattan, Diane Keaton’s character, Mary, tends to disavow her New Yorker prowess in moments where her intellect and sexuality leave her feeling vulnerable. She says things like, “I’m just from Philadelphia: I mean, we believe in God,” or “I’m from Philadelphia. My family’s never had affairs.” Although Mary’s words are superficial, they are poignant because they show how New York can suddenly make us encapsulate the “virtue” of the places we left behind—whether we believe in that virtue or not. For example, I’m from Indiana where we “watch the fireplace for hours in the winter and take long country road drives in the summer.” Those New Yorkers who truly miss virtues like these return to them. Those who are content with keeping them a romantic notion until the day they die will stay on the island. Or they will continue their search for something else, and maybe even tell their tale of New York to a stranger in a pub along the way. And that stranger will decide they want to take a shot at it. So they come to the city and live their New York story, which is passed along, maybe even in the form of a novel, poem, portrait, or script. That is how I imagine the “greatest city in the world” stays alive. And maybe it is youth tinged optimism, but I hope my own New York story goes on for a long time.
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