“These are words I’ve lived and written by; they have allowed me to find meaning and purpose in every age, stage, experience adventure and misadventure in life. Here, I do it again, focusing on our lives, mine and yours, as writers. I give some advice; I tell some stories.
"Thanks for the title, Maurice.”
“That’s not the name of the song!” my father, Maurice, would say, mock-irritated. “It’s ‘Theme from the Sandpiper’, ‘Theme from the Sandpiper’!” But Charlotte, my mother, would merely give her half-smile, inscrutable. Like almost everyone else, she called the song “The Shadow of Your Smile.” That’s a line from the lyrics. The most memorable line, the one which everyone who’s ever… Read More
He would have been 60 yesterday, my late husband. But he didn’t even live to 50. In 2000, he went on his usual 3 times a week bicycle ride out towards Beaver Lake, turned at the Conoco station (which, because they used to rent canoes out there, he always referred to as the “Canoe-Co”) and headed home. Instead, he bicycled… Read More
This is one of four posts on poundcakes; which is to say, on life. And death. And stories. In June 2012, I went to a memorial for Maurice Sendak, the legendary children’s book writer-illustrator. He’d died the month before, at 84. Among his countless accomplishments, Maurice illustrated one of the books my mother, Charlotte Zolotow, wrote. His pictures for her Mr. Rabbit and the… Read More
Small Satisfactions, Relentless Incrementalism: night-time walk in a town where I was young Last Saturday, for the first time in five days (I’d had company), I reached my daily goal of 10,000 steps, counted on my Fitbit. I reached it with a cool 10 minutes to spare before midnight. This happened because, as I was working away that evening, I… Read More
Quick, think of your favorite musician. Bonnie Raitt? Yo-Yo Ma? Doesn’t matter. John Coltrane? Lady Gaga? Eric Clapton? Youssou N’Dour? Doesn’t matter. Dolly Parton, Mirian McPartland, Howlin’ Wolf, Luciano Pavarotti? Still doesn’t matter. Because whoever he or she is, he or she did (and, if alive, still does) three things that anyone, who is good at anything, does. Those three things:… Read More
So I’m driving home last night from yoga, in a dreamy state, and I pass the farm stand at high Meadows and can see from the road that it looks like they still have two boxes of what are doubtlessly the very very very last of the season fresh raspberries. I go past, really not inclined to stop, but those… Read More
Oh oh… Surpassingly strange, strong, moving, out-of-the-blue moment tonight. The words I will try to find for it can only inadequately express the experience. I was at a yoga class which I take once a week, on Tuesday night, called restorative yoga. This is the one fitness class of any kind, anywhere, that I’ve ever taken, where at some level… Read More
I was innocently standing at the foot of my hill by the mailbox, flipping through the envelopes, about eight years ago. And there, smack in the middle of the mail, was one from Bank of America, with the word ‘statement.’ I glared at it. And heard myself say aloud, snarlingly, “Goddammit! I thought I was done with you!” I took… Read More
At the memorial service for the poet Miller Williams, a service held a month ago at the Fayetteville, Arkansas public library, I met his daughter, singer/songwriter/musician Lucinda Williams. It turned out she knew of one of my more obscure and long ago cookbooks, and she began telling me the dishes she made from it… “And those vegetable fritters? I must’ve… Read More
This is the way it works. You return to a town where you used to live. You go on a short walk, on a street you have walked many times. You are only stretching your back and legs and getting a few more steps in so your Fitbit will be happy at the end of the day. You are only… Read More
After the Los Angeles funeral of my late father, Maurice Zolotow, a well-dressed, chic, trim woman came up to me and extended her hand. She had excellent posture, and her hair — a jet-black that looked neither harsh nor unnatural — was well-styled in a short, flattering, expensive cut. Her age was hard to guess (I figured out later that… Read More
It's been snowing all day. The house at 29 Elm Place, where I grew up, will be sold in a month or two. It's the house in which my mother, the writer Charlotte Zolotow, quietly died 24 days ago. I am here going through her papers. This is a job which could, and in some ways will, take me the… Read More
“My late father, Maurice Zolotow, was a Hollywood biographer, a professional freelance writer and passionate reader. Whenever I went through hard times, personally or professionally, Maurice could be counted on to tell me two things. The first was advice: ‘Write your way out of it!’ he’d bark, directively. But then, more thoughtfully, he’d say, ‘It’s all material, Cres. Nothing is wasted on the writer.’
