• Home
  • Biography
  • Blog
  • Books
    • Over My Live Body
    • Student Bodies
  Susan Israel

SUSAN ISRAEL | BLOG

Role Model? What's That?

10/23/2017

0 Comments

 
What does it mean to be a woman? After all these years of being one, I’m not sure.

The basic gist of it, as I understood while growing up, was this: you got married, had kids, cooked, cleaned. Sometimes you worked. This is what all the women in my family did. My mother- and her mother- loved to cook; they were great cooks. Food was love that boiled over and simmered in the kitchen. And tidiness was next to godliness, a religion unto itself in our basically nonreligious household. Anyone who knows me or has tasted any of the few things I’ve ever made or visited me knows full well I did not inherit those particular genes.

I never felt those things would define me or make me happy.

I’m the take-out queen, the purveyor of fast food, microwaveable dinners and cold cuts and salads. I look upon neat piles of clutter as accomplishment. “Well, I’ve been in some houses that make me feel like Little Edie Beale and some that make me feel like I’m Martha Stewart!” I rationalize. I was never seduced by the baby trap. Seeing the downside – dirty diapers, throw-up, tantrums in grocery store aisles and restaurants and of course total loss of flexibility- was a powerful antidote. I never wanted to settle down for some of the same reasons- well, leaving out dirty diapers, maybe.

I did and still do cave to some of the accoutrements of superficial beauty. I don’t leave the house without putting on blusher and mascara, though in my formative years I used to wear a whole lot more makeup. And dresses even. But I was often happier with a book than a date. I had what Oprah calls an “aha” moment when I thought, okay, what do I really want, a guy or a dog? And so I adopted the dog. And we’re very happy most of the time. Except maybe when he throws up.

I tend to create heroines in the same mold as me, albeit younger. My main character in my series, Delilah Price, runs hot and cold when it comes to involvement with the opposite sex, and her on-and-off squeeze doesn’t do much to sway her; he’s married to the police department. She’s coming into her own in the art world, but feels ambiguous about her love life. What I need, she sighs to her best friend in Book Three, “is a Man Clapper. So I could clap my hands three times when I want him to sleep with me and/or fix something and clap them again when I want my space.” (Unfortunately no such device exists. Whoever could develop that would make millions.)

Maybe what Delilah really needs is a dog.

Blog entry first posted on The Story Plant blog
0 Comments

Letter Past Perfect

7/14/2017

0 Comments

 
So yesterday I bought a packet of stationery. Another one to go with the myriad of stationery packets and cards and fold-it notes stashed in a guest room dresser drawer. Some were chosen to please a particular person, some just because I liked them and had no freaking idea who to send them to. Only a person with a particular sense of humor would appreciate a card bearing the image of a farmer walking a really big rooster and the caption ‘This man has a huge cock.’

This stationery was nothing like that. Absolutely G-rated. But I digress.

When’s the last time you got a letter, a real letter, in the mail? Not a Visa bill or a Dear Concerned Voter plea for donations, but an honest to goodness I-actually-sat-my-ass-down-to-write-this-because-I-was-thinking-of-you letter? Damn, I miss those things. I miss getting them. I miss writing them. I still buy all these cards and stationery packets thinking I’ll use it someday, but I use less and less because, well, people don’t write back. They email instead. Or send instant messages. So letter writing becomes masturbatory. Not that there’s anything wrong with that but if I’m going to pour my heart out for my own edification, I’ll write in my journal instead.

A favorite aunt got me hooked on stationery at a very young age and I wrote letters to her on it, also to crushes and people who crushed me, love and hate letters, mail I usually never sent but hey, it got it off my chest. One of the later recipients of letters I did send scoffed at my efforts. “Nobody cares about these things,” he sniffed.

“Well, not nobody, just you,” I pointed out. Needless to say, he never got another letter or saw me again. One likes to feel appreciated.

Fancy paper isn’t really necessary. A heartfelt note on Kraft butcher paper or the back of a napkin can work too. As long as it gets the basic point across: I’m thinking of you. Social media messages can all too easily be scrolled past, emails accidentally deleted. You can’t stash them under your pillow. You know the old saying, “Please put that in writing?” Yes, please do. Even if it’s just once in a while. Even if it’s scribbled, crossed out, stained with miso sauce. You might get a letter back from me then
​.
You might even get the cock card if you play your cards right. Any takers?

0 Comments

F This, F That

5/29/2017

0 Comments

 
So lately I notice I’ve been saying “Fuck!” a lot.
​

It’s not like I didn’t ever not say it. But I always used it sparingly, a master chef sprinkling pepper on a gourmet dish for taste. Too many f words spoil the broth and all that. When it’s used as noun, verb, adjective and adverb in a single sentence. It becomes, well, fucking monotonous and suggests a rather limited vocabulary. Overuse dilutes the power it wields and becomes cartoonish, much like, well, the word ‘like.’

And then November 8 happened and I began to say “Fuck!” a lot more. And so did my friends. When asked to weigh in, their responses were, “Fuck, yeah,” “Fuckin-A!!!!” “Fuck, I’m so guilty of this!” “I’ve been saying it a lot more since a certain election.” “Fuck, yes!"


In other words, we’re not just overseasoning; we’ve unscrewed the container and poured all the pepper contents out. Burn.

All I have to do is see a certain orange buffoon and it spews out, the verbal complement to the knee jerk response elicited by a reflex hammer. Even if I don’t watch the news, it’s there, blustering in social media, bloviating in videos, and yes, I refer to the buffoon as “it” because to assign a pronoun like ‘him’ would suggest human qualities to some degree, which all evidence indicates it lacks. I largely refer to those who voted for it as “it” too because that vote said all I need to know about their lacking qualities of decency and open mindedness and kindness. They blew it. And we, as individuals, as a nation, are suffering mightily daily. Hourly even.
​

Fuck it!
0 Comments

Getting by on $1.34

5/16/2017

5 Comments

 
Truth is, you can’t. Not for a day. Not for an hour.
​

This is what I was left with in my bank account after some scum sucking lowlife skimmed my debit card and went on a crazy night shopping spree. He (or she?) didn’t spend my money in one place but two. And nobody at Merchant #2 thought to question why anyone would want to buy over $300 worth of candles, much less someone who had never bought a single candle from them before, much less someone who is allergic to candles. (But they wouldn’t know that it wasn’t me without a better fail safe than they have in place and hey, look, a big sale!)

I discovered the breach when I went to pay my phone bill. Sorry, insufficient funds. WTF? I checked my balance and statement and sure enough there were charges I never made there. I raced to my bank branch, running a couple of stop signs on the way, I think (don’t tell the good folks who taught at cop school!) and told the bank employees and called the merchants and was reassured I would get my money back. But I don’t know when. And I have $1.34. And some cash. But not much.

When I was held up at gunpoint and when I was mugged- separate incidents no less!- I didn’t feel as victimized. I was face to face with the perps then, I knew who did it and I knew that the gun robber was arrested. I was so mad at the mugger that I started chasing him when I got up off the sidewalk but he was on a bike and gone before I gained five steps on him. All for $2.00 and change. More than I was left with in my account. In both incidents, I lost a lot less money and I felt less violated. I never got any of that money back but I was physically mostly unscathed. I became even more street smart than I already was.

But this was different. I don’t know where my card info was stolen or by whom. Sometimes card hackers make a small insignificant purchase to test, to see if it’ll get by, before they buy out the store, but I found nothing like that in my statement. I made a list of places I had used the card in the past week and wondered “Did it happen here? There?” Was it before that week even? A restaurant? A kiosk in the grocery store? A parking meter? J’accuse!

Waiting on the money lost to be credited back to my account and hoping it’s imminent, I reflect that yeah, there are worse things, but suspicion and paranoia suck. As does getting by on $1.34.



5 Comments

Cop School 101

3/28/2017

 
Before I say anything further, there is no Cop School 102 or Advanced Cop School, not unless you actually intend to become a cop. Citizens Police Academy is a course offered by many departments to reach out and establish good community relations and help the public understand what the police do and the dangers they face every day. And it helps writers who specialize in crime fiction get the details, the procedures right. And make it clear, at least, when for the sake of dramatic license, things don’t go exactly as planned.

Dramatic license isn’t kept in your glove compartment with your registration and insurance card. You have to use it judiciously. There is plenty of real life drama to witness. You may get to enact a traffic stop, wearing a real bulletproof vest and a real utility belt with fake gun in your holster and ask the driver and his passenger, detectives posing as miscreants, for their papers, knowing back-up is twenty minutes away. You realize how things can go bad in a split second. (If those were real miscreants with real guns, I’d be dead now) You learn about gangs and that if you see someone flashing hand signals out on the street, you don’t want to respond with any hand motions of your own, better not even wave. You learn about the physical signs of drug overdose and what to do and who to call. You learn about what evidence is collected and analyzed by the Special Crimes Unit the Major Crimes Unit, the Crime Suppression Unit, and what each does and the role technology plays.

The class heightens awareness of the nasty world around you from a police perspective. I’ve been made all too aware of it as a civilian. But I’m not a cop. As a writer. I want to write juicy page-turning fiction but I also want to be fair. These officers who taught the class I was enrolled in are decent guys who just want to do a good job and get home to their families. I’ve written about many fictional good cops and a couple of fictional very bad ones. The main character in my book series is not in law enforcement herself, but she has offered her artistic abilities to help identify suspects and has been involved romantically with a detective in what could best be described as a rocky relationship. She takes what she has learned from that and often gets in over her head. Remember what I said about dramatic license! After having taken this class, I didn’t get a badge, I can’t make a citizen’s arrest (though okay, I’m tempted to on a daily basis) and if I see a crime in progress or someone I recognize from the Most Wanted pages, I’ll call 911 or the special tips hotline, like anybody else should do.

And then I’ll head straight to my computer.

December 01st, 2016

12/1/2016

0 Comments

 
Picture
0 Comments

You Decide

7/28/2016

 

We have a choice between compassion and progressiveness and the bowels of hate and fear and darkness. Not a hard choice to make at all.


Let Me Tell You A Story

6/5/2016

 
Picture


Once upon a time there was a group of students at a prestigious college in the Northeast who set aside a designated time to read children’s books aloud to each other. They met in dorm rooms and off-campus apartments (especially during the summer) They sent out cute invitations and served milk and cookies and read the likes of The Phantom Tollbooth and Where The Wild Things Are, sometimes reading longer works over the course of several gatherings. It was a welcome cleansing of the palate after swallowing difficult subjects like organic chemistry and Russian irregular verbs and international policy for hours. I looked forward to it. I enjoyed it.

And then I was assigned to write an article about it for the campus newspaper.

In the spirit of openness, I tipped off the leader, cutely referred to as the autarch, and since he didn’t say not to come, I assumed I was as welcome as I ever was.

Never assume.

I was greeted with the announcement that story reading “was, as usual, off the record” and due to “special circumstances” ten regulars deigned to miss that night’s story reading altogether (of course, midterms might have had something to do with that?) and these “special circumstances” were not in the spirit of story reading, making me feel like I had mistakenly entered the tomb of the secret society not a block away by mistake. The fear was that if the story broke, suddenly everyone on campus would want to come. “It’s not like I’m going to write when or where the meetings are!” I said.

“We just don’t want everyone to know about us. This is ours. It belongs to us!” one attendee moaned

“You were what? Booted out of story reading?” my editor said after laughing when I came back to the newsroom much earlier than expected.

“Without milk and cookies even,” I sighed.

I never did get another invitation.


(Artist of cartoon unknown)


In memoriam of victims of gun violence everywhere.

6/3/2016

 
Picture

Eyes and Ears

5/27/2016

 
When I was in college, I habitually did my homework at the counter of a local bookstore café, guzzling enough coffee to stay awake and alert. The evening crowd was sparse, so the atmosphere was usually quiet enough to concentrate until theater-goers streamed in after a performance down the street. There were other regulars there, including one guy who sat at the counter just about every night I was there, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and staring piercingly at everybody.

What’s he looking at, I’d think, sometimes slightly unnerved. Who is he?

I didn’t know until about a year later when I saw his picture in the program of one of the plays being performed down the street, a play he wrote. I didn’t see him in the café much after that; he was too recognized to blend in with the others hovering over their cappuccinos, he started to frequent other places where he could swallow the atmosphere without being swallowed up, where he could see and hear life without his celebrity being an intrusive part of it. I’m not sure what if anything he gleaned from his observations during those early evenings he transposed into his work, but it made me start to study people more acutely, it made me start to stare and soak everything in. I wanted to see him again, if only to ask him if this was the key to getting this writing thing right. But I didn’t see him again until graduation when he was crossing the quad wearing the cap and gown of an honorary recipient and all I could think of to say was, “Hi.”

Pathetic.

Theater is not only eyes but ears too, and I imagine he eavesdropped as much as he stared. What came out was genius. A playwriting student I met a few years later went so far as to secretly tape-record conversations around him. I haven’t seen his name or picture in any programs. There’s a lot more to be said for using initial observations as a launching pad for exploring imaginative space. As the great philosopher Lawrence T. (Yogi) Berra once said, “you can observe a lot by watching.”
​

Just leave the mini-cam and tape recorder home.
<<Previous

    Susan Israel

    Susan Israel has published fiction in Other Voices, Hawaii Review, and Vignette and she has written for magazines, websites, and newspapers, including Glamour, Girls Life, Ladies Home Journal and The Washington Post.  Susan Israel is a graduate of Yale University.

    Archives

    March 2017
    December 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Susan israel

Author / Freelance Writer
© COPYRIGHT 2015. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • Biography
  • Blog
  • Books
    • Over My Live Body
    • Student Bodies