The benefits of not being an expert

In the book Made to Stick, they call it "the curse of knowledge." What do they mean by curse?

Once we know something, it's hard to remember what it was like not to know it. That means we have a hard time explaining what we know to other people in ways that they can understand.

On many writing assignments, I feel one of the strengths I bring is what I'm dubbing "the blessing of ignorance." The subject is new to me. I ask some very specific questions. Some might even call them dumb questions. And in the process, I get my expert sources to re-imagine the topic they know so well.

I was never more aware of my "blessing" than while I was writing a PBS series, Man and Moment, about World War II heroes. My experts were military history experts and veterans. They talked about weapons and company names and battles in the same casual way I might talk about the flavors of Dunkin' Donuts. For those of us who aren't military history mavens, it was incomprehensible.

So I started asking what. And why. And how. How heavy was that machine gun? Why did they attempt the crossing in broad daylight? What did it feel like to stagger out of a plane with 100 pounds of gear and a parachute strapped to your back?

By the time I'd finished the scripts, I had a new kind of appreciation for these heroes. They weren't superhuman. Nor were they old men reminiscing about something far away. They were people I could relate to. Afraid. Not entirely sure what they were doing. Trying to do the right thing despite that. Hoping for the best.

My blessing of ignorance enabled me to write about World War II in a way that was interesting for me, and as it turns out, was interesting for other viewers, too. My goal had been to make programs that would appeal to people with no particular curiosity about military history. I knew I'd succeeded when, at the premiere screening, a woman came up to me and said: "I've never cared one bit about wars. I just came to this with a friend. But you had me on the edge of my seat. I was crying at the end."

On the outside, I smiled and said thank you.  But on the inside, I was jumping up and down and screaming "yes!"  

Sometimes, I think my experts wish I wouldn't ask so many questions, whether they're 90 year old WWII vets, engineers I'm helping with a pitch to land a contract, or companies I'm working with to write their websites.  But then, I see it flicker across their faces as the curse of knowledge is broken: Yes, right--that IS what it looks like. That is, simply said, exactly what we do. And that IS why I've been interested in my work for so very long.

Remembering Bill Cunningham...and Lord Maxwell

Reading the many sweet tributes to New York Times On The Street columnist Bill Cunningham these last few days has made me think about Lord Maxwell and yes, made me miss him.

It’s easy to remember how we came up with the name of our alter ego. Caroline Lord and I put our last names together, her idea: Lord Maxwell. The way he evolved took a little more time

We started writing our blog, Lord Maxwell, not totally sure what we would do with it. We thought of it as a love letter to the place we live and a gentle, affectionate spoof of street style blogs of the time, most especially The Sartorialist and all those impossibly cool people he managed to photograph so beautifully. Our town, Columbia, S.C., is not exactly famed as a fashion hub. We wanted to have some fun with that, but we most definitely didn’t want to be mean-spirited or make anyone feel bad. The internet has plenty of meanness without anyone else jumping on.

So we decided that Lord Maxwell would write as a newcomer to these parts, a fashion anthropologist who had inherited a house here. He would only write about people he appreciated. And he would look for—and celebrate—the many wonderful little things that people do with their style every day.

As his personae developed, I grew to love him—and think of him as real. Though he knew a tremendous amount, he sometimes mixed things up. His hearing couldn’t be trusted, so he was terribly sorry if he got your name wrong. The smallest flourish could make his heart beat faster. He didn’t care about fancy and famous (though he did capture this young woman before she became a superstar). He cared about inspired and real. He loved the people he encountered in Columbia—and anywhere else he ventured.

Before we started writing as Lord Maxwell, I really didn’t know much about Mr. Cunningham. But as I continued to learn more from writing our blog, I started paying attention to his work. In many ways, Mr. Cunningham was like our Lord Maxwell—or I should say, Lord Maxwell was just a little like the great Bill Cunningham. When I read this remembrance of Mr. Cunningham, in particular, I longed to begin writing as Lord Maxwell again.

Why did we ever stop? Because blogging is time-consuming. Because our following, unlike Mr. Cunningham's, was small. Because both Caroline and I have other writing that takes priority. Because sometimes it was nice to go to the local farmers’ market or museum opening and not approach people to ask if you could photograph them and explain why.

So, true, I don’t miss that especially. But I do miss the way I paid attention to other people’s style. Regular people around you really are very stylish. Even more, I miss the fellow we invented, his warmth and his quirks. And I miss hearing the occasional person say, “Lord Maxwell was here yesterday. I think I might even know who he is.” Of course, they didn’t. And of course, that was also part of the fun.

Now, blogs feel old-fashioned, even for a 70-year-old British fashion anthropologist living in the American South. Perhaps it’s time for LM to join Instagram.

A Project for 2016

When the end of 2015 rolled around, I realized it had been more than a year since I'd been selected to attend the Rutgers One-on-One conference, more than a year since I'd been told that I had a middle grade novel worth publishing.

And had I completed the suggested changes and submitted that novel? Had I walked through that open door?

No, I had not. It was easy to blame my busy work schedule, the many assignments I'd been juggling, family demands. Those things might have been part of it. But blaming them didn't solve the problem.

I have a lot of writing that hasn't quite made it across the finish line, despite good reviews, despite encouragement from professionals who know what they're talking about.

So at the end of 2015, I persuaded my fellow writer and dear friend Caroline Lord to join me in an experiment we're calling The Year of Submission.

Since January 1 of this year, we've been meeting regularly to plan ways to get our work finished and submitted. It still hasn't been a snap. But we're making progress. We nudge each other along. We hold each other accountable. And by posting about our year on a blog, that somehow is making us feel accountable, too. Stay tuned.

When you're looking for a sign....

I've always had a strange fondness for the silly State Farm sign a few blocks from my house. Maybe, I thought, it's because the awful jokes remind me of a Bennet Cerf  book I checked out of the library when I was in elementary school.

I loved to read aloud from bad joke books when I was in elementary school, which surely made me like most kids.

Then I read this story about Gamecock women's basketball star A'ja Wilson, written by Willie Smith for The Greenville News. He reports about how Wilson made her decision to go to the University of South Carolina when every college in the country seemed to want her:

Her most vivid memory was the day she stopped for gas near Dreher High School. Leaving the station, she noticed a sign in front of a local State Farm Insurance agency office.

The sign read, she said, " 'There is no place like home, A'ja Wilson.'

"That was crazy," she said. "That was a real eye-opener. ... Just to see that, I was like 'OK, this state really wants me to stay here.' It was a great feeling, and I'm here."

Wait a minute...that's my neighborhood State Farm sign she's talking about. If you look at the top photo, you'll see the gas station across from Dreher in the background.  Could our silly neighborhood sign be a key to my favorite team holding the number one spot in the nation? Does that nutty sign play a role in Dawn Staley's quest to win a national championship?

If so, then it's like the sign says....or like the sign says the pickle says...."you mean a great dill to me."

A view of the sign, looking away from Dreher HS and toward Gervais Street

May It Please the Court

I showed up yesterday to begin my week as juror number 87 at magistrate court--and was surprised to learn that they try criminal domestic violence cases there, mixed in with traffic and small claims cases.

That's right.  People who are beaten up by domestic partners are on the docket right alongside people protesting tickets for seat belt violations or haggling with a plumber over a $200 charge.

I've thought a lot about domestic violence over the last 10 years. I've written and tested domestic violence training for social workers. I've produced videos about it. I've experienced how it works on a personal level, because one of my sisters has been a victim. More recently, last month, I attended the HBO premiere of Cynthia Hill's documentary Private Violence, where I also heard a panel of speakers talk about where we are and where we need to be.

After watching that film, I asked a friend: Do you think the very term "domestic violence" contributes to the problem?  We qualify the violence, trying to acknowledge that these relationships are complicated. But don't we also minimize the violence by terming it "domestic"?  After all, violence is violence.  If you're killed by it, you're dead.

This week, I'm wondering if where we try the case is also part of our very big problem in South Carolina.  Do we, by trying cases of assault at "Judge Judy" court, minimize the violence?  Sure seems that way to me.

I haven't done much research into this yet, but I plan to. Even so, just a half hour on Google and I found an article from earlier this year about how courts in South Carolina's Upstate are looking into the very issue that my time on jury duty has raised for me.

Greenville County moved to a countywide criminal domestic violence court in February. Everyone arrested for first-time criminal domestic violence went before a judge, in a court solely for those cases.

According to the solicitor, Walt Wilkins, the court can handle cases in a matter of weeks rather than months.  He had observed of the old system what I'm seeing in Richland County:  "They were mixed in with traffic tickets, and DUI arrests, or larcenies, or property damage cases and they wouldn't initially have their appearance for four to six months."  The court also connects victims with services they need, all in one place.

I still wonder why violence against a domestic partner doesn't go through the same court that addresses violence against total strangers.

But I'm glad to know that Greenville County is attempting this, because we need to do more than make people aware of the stories of women being beaten and killed. We need to look at how we respond, how we talk about violence, both before and and after it happens.

That need was brought home to me during jury duty, too. Most of us in S.C. know that our state is one of the worst in the U.S. for domestic violence. What does that look like, though?  How do you imagine it?  One way is to sit in a room with 50 jurors and listen as we respond to the judge's question:

Have you or any of your close blood relations been involved in a domestic violence situation? 

Fifteen people stood up today, as the judge seated a jury for a criminal domestic violence trial. I was one of the people standing. Some of them were victims themselves. Others like me were related to a victim. And of that group, three had had a sister or brother who'd died because of a "domestic violence situation."

One of the three, a woman whose sister had been murdered, had to sit on that jury. When the opposing attorneys agreed to seat her, she sank down on the bench and cried.

All the Single Ladies

I don't believe Martha Washington slept here, since the hotel didn't open until 1903, but staying at the Martha Washington Hotel in Manhattan means checking into a little bit of women's history.  I'm visiting New York, solo, for a writing conference and couldn't pass up the chance to do just that.

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This hotel was, when it opened, the first hotel exclusively for women....or so say Wikipedia and the hotel's website.  I don't know if that's the first in the world, the first of all time, or just the first in New York in the 20th century.  Poet Sara Teasdale stayed here. So did actress Louise Brooks. It was headquarters for a women's suffrage group.

Men were allowed to come to breakfast, at least. These days, everyone's crowding into Marta in the lobby.

Apparently, the hotel back then was a no-nonsense place for serious women.  Brooks allegedly said, "I was asked to leave the Martha Washington, because people in a building overlooking the hotel had been shocked to see me on the roof, exercising in 'flimsy pajamas.'"

At the moment, I'm typing in my flimsy pajamas, tucked away in a room that seems the perfect sort of no-nonsense place for a single lady, train compartment-like with a single bed, a small desk and chair, and compact bathroom.

Earlier, I was having dinner at the lobby restaurant, Marta, and feeling lucky to snag an open seat at the pizza bar without much of a wait (an advantage of being a solo traveler staying at the Martha Washington). That space was designed by a female architect--Annabelle Seldorf. In this article, she answers one of the questions I had: Where does the smoke from the two wood-fired pizza ovens go?