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I'm a 40-year-old woman who tends to idealize men (and life in general).
In each of my serious relationships, I have attached deeply and quickly,
given a lot, overlooked a lot, felt deliriously happy. Then when he wanted out, I was
stunned, and retreated for a long stretch, years, rehashing the past, before
venturing into a new romance. I've begun to feel like some half-crazed Tennessee
Williams heroine. The crux of the problem, I guess, is that I try to "earn" love instead
of believing I deserve it. How can I overcome this insecurity?
How do I know when I'm being a doormat? Can you help me understand the rationale behind
this? Available Dear Available, The rationale? I don't know. Everyone who falls in love gives a lot and
overlooks a lot and is deliriously happy, and sometimes it happens quickly. And if it ends,
one feels stunned. If this has happened to you more than twice, then take a break from big
romances and look around for a man who makes you laugh and who is considerate and who
you're comfortable being with. Don't idealize him, don't covet the future: Just enjoy his
company whenever he's available. Rediscover the simple pleasures of conversation and ease
and affection, and resist deep attachment. Every time you say goodnight, don't expect to see
him again. Keep it light, and see what happens. No doubt you're wonderful to be with;
perhaps you need to see what a simple thing love is. It's not a concept; it's a procession; it's
a string of days and nights that two people put together. Dear Mr. Blue, I am 23, fresh out of college, close to
finishing the first draft of a novel I've been writing for the past six months. I am growing increasingly nervous about getting it published. The challenge of finding an
agent and publisher seems more daunting than writing the book. I
spend my days on Wall Street and my
nights at a word processor. I hate my high-paying job
and want to get into this low-paying publishing biz. How do I
make it happen? Suit Dear Suit, Don't try to peek around the next three corners. Just finish the first draft, and
then set it aside for a month or two, and start on the rewrite and take out the overripe stuff
("He beckoned to her insidiously and she suddenly felt hot as a toaster") and fill in the gaps
in the narrative (Why did Lisa have the magical hallucinatory vision of Eric after she
finished her latte? Whose Tibetan prayer scarf got left in Chad's BMW?). The rewrite is
where the book takes a long leap from marvellously adequate to something the reader picks
up and doesn't put down. And that's all you need to think about. Talent is unmistakeable on
the page, and no agent or publisher will refuse you, once you get yourself down on paper.
And if you don't get published? At least you had the experience of pushing yourself hard to
reach this goal, and that's good training. And you learn about yourself in the process. And
you'll never be one of those people who goes through life wondering what if he had tried.
Good luck with the book. Something about your letter makes me think you're an author. Dear Mr. Blue, Frank is a dear, dear friend of mine. We have known each other for three
years, rented rooms in the same house as students in France, dated
sporadically and still remain great friends, or so I think. My problem
is he never e-mails me. It's been a year since we left France, and
occasionally I think of him and drop him a short line, or we meet
accidently in real life. He always responds with a long, funny letter
filled with anecdotes and terms of endearment and colorful metaphors
about how much he misses me. So then I send him back a similar letter,
and I don't hear from him again for months, until I initiate contact
again. His letters are such uppers for me. I thrive on them, and save
them like a schoolgirl to read later when I'm feeling down. So why isn't
he writing me? I would think if he wasn't interested he'd write shorter
and more boring letters. How do I get him to write more? Mr. Blue Garrison Keillor's column appears every Tuesday in Salon Books.
Feeling blue about your prose? In the doldrums over your last date? Ask Mr. Blue. E-mail Girl Dear E-mail, Apparently you need to write two letters to get one from Frank. There probably is a reason for this. My best guess is that letter writing demands a focused effort that Frank can manage only on occasion and he has only so many letters in him to write and you're getting what he has to offer. Shakespeare only wrote those plays and no more, everyone has his limits. Frank is busy living his life and having experiences to write about in his letters. Be grateful for as many as he writes; that's all there is, g-g-g-g-g-g-girl. Dear Mr. Blue, For years, I have taken an annual trip to the deserts of Nevada, to take photographs and to revel in the solitude. Each year, I've asked my wife to join me, just once, to share this experience, and she has always declined the invitation, which hasn't bothered me much since, after all, solitude is one reason I love to go. This year, I finally persuaded her to join me; we leave in October. Her attitude is that this is a loathsome chore. She says she hates the desert and that I'm trying to force my taste on her, and that I should love her as she is. It bothers me that she won't take a "what the hell" attitude about this. I wouldn't mind a little good-natured grumpiness, but this genuine hostility to the idea strikes me as unkind. Should I just be glad that she's agreed to come, or am I justified in wanting a better attitude as well? Afraid We're Drifting Apart Dear Afraid, The bad attitude is yours, Sahib: You leaned on this lady too hard and she caved in to pressure and now your desert idyll must bear the burden of her rightful unhappiness. You ought to let her off the hook. Set her up in a fancy hotel room in Reno, let her lounge by the pool and read good books and eat calamari and drink gin and tonics, and you go off to the desert and enjoy the rocks, the lizards, the loss of your canteen and car keys, the disorientation, the hallucinations, the mirage, the large black birds circling in the sky. Evidently, solitude wasn't revel enough for you; you craved a pupil, someone to show off your revelry and solitude to; you impressed your wife into service and she will make you pay dearly for it. Next year, you can gratefully return to the solitude. I agree with your wife. I loathe being forced to enjoy myself doing something I don't want to do. I can affect good-natured grumpiness, but down deep I honestly loathe it. Dear Mr. Blue, I am a designer for a low-budget, non-Equity play. I know most of the people involved and it's a beautiful piece of writing, so I agreed to do it for no pay and have financed some items personally. But now the director has decided to go against me on a design concept, the appearance of one of the actors. I strongly opposed this, and he went ahead and did it without even telling me. Ouch. So I told the producer that I want my name removed from the program. Do you think this is wrongheaded of me? Undermined Dear Undermined, No, not if this one costume is that important to you. (It doesn't seem that
important to me, but I'm not a designer.) Dropping your name won't change the director's
mind, or the producer's, but it's a decent way to make an emphatic point about
professionalism. It's not the director's difference of opinion that's the problem, of course;
it's the going ahead with the change without telling you. That's rude, and professionals avoid
rudeness to colleagues, and if they are rude, they need to be called on it. Your other choices
are too disruptive -- to throw a fit and have a big scene, or to walk out -- and would hurt
innocent persons: Removing your name from the credits is quiet and wastes nobody's time
and makes the point.
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