It’s a daunting task to put my experience with Retrospect into perspective. To say it’s been meaningful is a huge understatement.

A little background, already familiar to some of you, to others not. Although I never considered myself a writer, some time in 2016 I got it in my head to write a memoir about my nutty life. I felt like I had something to share that might help others who wondered why their lives seemed to have gone off track and blamed themselves for being “less than.” I also wanted to get to the bottom of why I’d had such a hard time finding happiness and security when everyone around me seemed to have nailed it long ago. I got pretty serious about the project, read everything I could about writing a memoir, and in 2017, at 70, even took a weeklong master workshop in Maine, which in hindsight turned out to be one of the highlights of my life.

Here’s a photo from our farewell dinner, a real live classic lobster boil where we fledglings mingled with real live published authors (not boiled) which I’m including here just because I think it’s such a fun, dynamic shot.

But, to get published (by a mainstream house, which is the route I had in mind), you need an agent; to get an agent, you need to (a) already be somebody or (b) already have some publishing credits under your belt. Much like the acting profession, it’s a Catch-22 situation. My experience was that most literary submission sites (or lit mags, as they’re known in the trade) weren’t all that interested in works written by baby boomers of my ilk.

Hungry for feedback, though, in 2019 I happily stumbled upon Retrospect and jumped onboard, at first mostly editing excerpts from my memoir and molding them into suitable fashion to fit the prompts whenever I could, but also writing fresh stories when that wasn’t feasible. Before long I was asked to become an administrator working behind the scenes with my wonderful co-administrators on writing prompts and finding suitable images to complement them and, the most fun of all for me, tweaking them in Photoshop as necessary. I think you’d be surprised at how many hours have gone into that, but I’ve enjoyed every minute!

Here’s one of my favorite projects from our Feathering the Nest prompt . . . what started out as just a photo of a birdhouse. The fun — and, to me, magical — part was then finding a photo of a bird with a feather in its beak, combining the two photos in a way that looked natural, and finally adding tiny bird legs so that it looked like it was indeed perched on the birdhouse.

Thoughts of getting publishing have ebbed and flowed, but have pretty much petered out at this point. Having run out of suitable material to poach from my memoir, I’ve just ducked behind the scenes where I’m most comfortable and have continued to do the work I enjoy the most, both for Retrospect and for myself. An artist at heart, I make some form of art (by my very broad definition) almost every day. Here’s a little video clip I made the other day…my typical morning.

Quirky, right? You’re the only ones to have seen it yet (except for my featured husband), and you may remain the only ones. And anyone who recognizes the soundtrack gets a high five.

In the larger life process, issues have been resolved, lurking demons vanquished, I believe at least in part because I’ve received so much incredibly positive feedback from you guys! I think that’s the true heart of Retrospect . . . all that team spirit! I’ll probably never get my memoir published; honestly, I just don’t have the tenacity to get it published. It’s hard to try to “sell” my story, my self.

Now 75, I no longer feel less than. I just am, and with many, many thanks to you here at Retrospect, I’m definitely okay with that. And thanks for sharing your own stories so openly . . . I have very much enjoyed getting to know you! I’m just so impressed by this community, by all your caring and supportive words for each other.

Special thanks to Suzy, of course, for all her hard work, for bringing me onboard, and for being so gracious when I ran out of steam and stopped writing and commenting. I love you, Suzy!

Cheers to the new year, my friends . . . all best in 2023! [Clink]

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Note: I did want to mention that during the process of submitting to literary agencies, I was advised that no one would take my memoir if pieces of it had been published elsewhere, including online blogs or the like. I’m not at all sure if that’s written in stone, but in a flurry of perhaps misguided optimism, at one point I removed all of those stories from Retrospect. All that remain (90 counting this one) were written specifically for Retrospect.

I’ll never have plastic surgery. I always say it’s because I’m determined to age gracefully, naturally, but mostly it’s because I can’t afford it, and I’m afraid of pain and/or a bad result. But each morning I Photoshop my mouth, turn it up at the corners for a sweet smile instead of the gash I have instead, and when exactly did that happen. And while I’m at it, a little healing brush (removes spots and blemishes) between my eyes so I don’t look like I’m frowning even when I’m not. I skip the smudge tool (softens or smudges colors) for daytime, though it’s great for evenings out. And believe it or not, I leave the wrinkles alone…I’m not a fan of faces with obvious work, especially when compared to the accompanying hands. Please. Jowls is another story for another time…because it’s complicated.

A mugful of heavily leaded coffee later, I’m ready for the day, open the front door and oh my god where are my sunglasses and even those aren’t nearly enough. Back to the computer, open Photoshop, quickly now, Image>Adjustments>Brightness/Contrast…ahhh, that’s better, that should do it. If not I can tweak the day later on my phone.

Jump into the car, onto the freeway, merge, and of course it’s one asshole after another bearing down on me. Easy enough to erase them, don’t even need an app for that…zap, zap, you’re out of here motherfucker. Smooth sailing now, I’ve pretty much got the road to myself, just like the good old days when you knew how long it would take to get to where you were going.

By the way, are you familiar with the history brush, and with layers? A lot of people don’t realize you can actually go back at any time to any stage and edit or even delete anything you’re not happy with, all without harming your original image!

What did we do before digital imaging? It’s hard to remember. Like not having our phone with us…how did we even leave the house? What if what if what if…anything could have happened and we would have been up shit’s creek. But here we are.

There, that’s a little better…whitened my teeth while I was it. Because I hate going to the dentist!

One of my all-time favorite movies, Amelie, has a lot going for it…the enchanting Audrey Tatou, dozens of evocative Paris locations—particularly Montmartre—and the iconic Photomaton…a photo booth, the photo booth I borrowed and tweaked for our featured image. As part of the plot line, Amelie (Tatou) pursues an eccentric and mysterious man who collects discarded “automatic portraits” he finds beneath the booth.

Even when being used for identity purposes, many photo booth photos have an aura or a certain allure about them. A photo strip of my grandmother when she was a young woman shows her wearing a fur collar (okay, a dead animal around her neck) and a decidedly coy smile; another shows my mother, probably in her early 20s, looking trés chic in a black hat with veil, and with a man she very almost married. Who knows, maybe he was my father! They offer stories for my imagination to run with. As did this passport and proof of nationality that I transformed into a three-dimensional collage.

I have several strips—or half strips, having given half away to the other half—chronicling a few of my own early friendships, and early romances. Since we rarely carried cameras back then (especially on a casual date), we couldn’t resist a photo booth at an amusement park or arcade to capture an especially fun date or promising relationship. Because of the tiny round swivel stool provided as a perch, I’d inevitably end up on someone’s lap, which was half the fun, especially once we’d pulled the privacy curtain closed. Oddly enough, the curtain shielded only our upper halves…I guess they didn’t want to give people too much privacy. And posing was always a trip…we’d usually mug for the camera, or where we thought the camera was behind a mirrored sheet of glass where we’d smooth our hair, try out a look or two. Even though spaced at regular intervals, it was almost impossible to figure out when the light was going to flash…it always seemed to happen right after we stopped posing. Then there was what seemed like an interminably long wait for the strip to finish processing and crawl down into the little cage where we couldn’t wait to get our hands on it. And then of course showing the photos to our friends, pasting them into our scrapbooks, or inserting them into plastic holders in our wallets. Which is why so many of these photos endure, and endear.

I have a fascinating book entitled (surprise!) “Photo Booth…The Art of the Automatic Portrait,” that’s a compendium of photo booth history, memorabilia, and creative use of the medium. Some artists— Andy Warhol and Francis Bacon to name just two—used it as a springboard for their  imaginations as did a gallery full of lesser-knowns. In keeping with the spirit of the book, I had some fun of my own combining booth pix with the covers of my grandmother’s old recipe booklets:

Below is my most recent strip. I can’t remember what the occasion was, but masks were involved and very possibly alcohol. Photo booths have been resurrected and redesigned for amusement at parties, graduations, weddings…everything but funerals.

My mother was our Blue Bird leader. As such, she went out of her way not to show favoritism…so much so that when we put on a little production of the Pied Piper of Hamlin, I was cast as one of the rats.

My mother was our Blue Bird leader. As such, she went out of her way not to show favoritism…so much so that when we put on a little production of the Pied Piper of Hamlin, I was cast as one of the rats.

When I turned 10, I “flew up” and became a Camp Fire Girl. We sold extremely delicious chocolate-covered mint candy door to door, and I struck the mother lode when I discovered the then landmark and very sophisticated Park La Brea Towers nearby. Tower after tower of town houses, one hallway after another, rows of identical doors but for the apartment number, it seems like almost everyone answered my knock and bought a box or two of mints. I have no memory of how I carted them from door to door…I do remember that each carton contained about a dozen boxes. But my secret weapon was my grandmother. She worked behind a long, elegant counter in the custom stationery department at Robinson’s Beverly Hills department store and brought several cartons to work, hiding them behind the counter and selling individual boxes to her coworkers and best customers. “I” sold so many cartons that I won a trip to Disneyland! A bus picked me up at my house, I climbed onboard, took a seat, and an hour later arrived at Disneyland. Only problem was, it wasn’t much fun at all because I didn’t know one other girl. As they say, it’s lonely at the top!

My favorite scouting memory was when our troop joined several others at Camp Yallani Laheta in the San Bernardino Mountains. Although I was feeling very homesick the first day, sick enough to end up in the infirmary, by the second day I had recovered and had a great time hiking, making lanyards and other crafts, swimming in the huge pool, and sleeping under the stars for the very first time. I can still see the bonfire and hear the singing…my favorite song was the haunting “White Buffalo.” (I’ll sing it for you if you like.) 

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*Wohelo (pronounced (wo-he-lo) is the Camp Fire watchword and celebrates its core values by combining the first two letters of the words WOrk, HEalth, and LOve

It’s all over the news. You might even be sick of hearing about it by now. Just one word: Wordle. Well, actually up to six words. Five-letter words. But only one word wins. A different word every day, the same word for everyone. In the world. Free. (For now.) And you can only play once a day. If you lose, you can’t try again.

Guilty, because I jumped on the bandwagon…EVERYONE is playing Wordle.

Pleasure, because I love it, and it’s sneakier than it looks.

In fact, since the NYT bought it for an undisclosed amount in the low seven figures from Josh Wardle, a software engineer who had developed it for his partner, Wordlers—that’s what we call ourselves—are complaining that it’s become harder. It’s not harder, it’s just maybe a bit trickier.

The best part about it is that I now play every morning with most of my family. Which is also the worst part about it…I don’t have time for that! But we’re addicted…and it’s a great way to keep in touch. Other topics enter the crazy stream of messages, our personalities come through, we laugh and joke and emoji and gif all over the place. But we never drop hints or risk spoilers before everyone has finished. Which can take forever.

In a word: Adore. Hmmm, that’s actually a good starter word, think I’ll try it tomorrow!

Guilty as charged, your honor!

Devoted to You, an Everly Brothers hit in 1958, was covered by the Beach Boys, by Linda Ronstadt, and by James Taylor and Carly Simon. And by me.

I sang my vows to Garth on our wedding day. More to the point, I warbled…because I’m no singer. And that was the point.

We were both a little shell shocked from all that life had thrown at us and were understandably wary of another marriage. I just wanted to reassure him in the most sincere way possible that he had nothing to worry about, and standing there open, vulnerable, and filled with love, warbling my promise just felt like the way to do it.

I’ll never hurt you,

I’ll never lie,

I’ll never be untrue,

I’ll never give you reason to cry . . .

I don’t remember looking at anyone but Garth while I sang, but I was told there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, including his, and my own. Somehow I made it through the entire song.

In a sense the Everly Brothers have book-ended my life in terms of meaningful songs…before I even knew what true love was (as I wrote about in my other story on this prompt), and when I finally knew for sure.

I walked to my wedding from my apartment with my granddaughters in tow. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and people smiled and waved from their cars as they watched us march by! I love L.A.!

It’s pretty much impossible to pick just one song so I’ve zeroed in on the very first song that moved me: All I Have To Do is Dream by the Everly Brothers. When the song was released in 1958, I was 11 years old. I wouldn’t have the pleasure of my first kiss for another five years, but judging by my obsession with this song, you’d think I knew what they were singing about.

I remember a family road trip down to Rosarita Beach in Mexico that summer. I had a crush on Bobby — or was it Kenny? — and was thinking about him non-stop. Every time this song came on the radio — which was frequently since it was #1 on the charts for weeks — in the back seat of our Ford station wagon, I would groan and go into spasms of preadolescent angst while my brothers rolled their eyes. 

Hearing the song today takes me right back to those tween-age feelings of longing, and a wide, wide world of possibility.

Dream, dream, dream, dream
Dream, dream, dream, dream
When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream, dream, dream

When I feel blue in the night
And I need you to hold me tight
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream

I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine
Anytime night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz
I’m dreamin’ my life away

I need you so that I could die
I love you so and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream, dream, dream
Dream

I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine
Anytime night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz
I’m dreamin’ my life away

I need you so that I could die
I love you so and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream, dream, dream
Dream, dream, dream, dream

Some things never change.

Like many of you, dear readers, I have a hoard of memorabilia. Mine includes early writing and poetry…most of it cringeworthy. That’s why it’s in my shed in a box labeled “TO SHRED OR DESTROY (without reading, please!)” For some reason I couldn’t (can’t!) seem to let it go…maybe I gleaned Retrospect—and this prompt— in my future.

(Hmmm…maybe if I change “soft and brown” to “smooth and brown”? Nah.)

I have just one resolution this year: REWRITE. Not write, but REWRITE. I’m resolved to hone my memoir to the point where I feel it deserves to be read. In other words, to the point where others may read it and feel better about themselves and/or the world for having read it. (Wow, right?!) To that end, I’ve joined a creative writing group composed of the members of the writing workshop I took in Maine a few years back, and that involves a serious commitment to showing up for each other. I also signed up for what looks to be a very intensive program called Story Club with George Saunders, a writer some of you might be familiar with if you read The New Yorker.

I’m sharing this with you because, as you might have already gleaned, I haven’t been and won’t be writing as often for Retrospect. Because it’s a very different kind of writing, and I need to stay on track. I will definitely, however, keep working behind the scenes because what I do there uses a different part of my brain and is a welcome and very pleasureable diversion from the rewriting. And I love working with my co-administrators. And of course I will write a story and/or comment on your stories when I just can’t not do it.

Wishing you all, my Retro friends, the very best in 2022!

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(The featured image was taken on Christmas Day…some of you have already “liked” it on Facebook but just thought I’d share it here because it makes me smile.)