31Ways2GetItStarted™!: January 17, 2013

Day 17: Happy Birthday, Anton Chekhov!

“…and then go on to tell the story of how this young man drop by drop wrings the slave out of himself until, one fine morning, he awakes to feel that flowing in his veins is no longer the blood of a slave, but that of a complete human being….’- Chekhov, January 7, 1889

I know: what does the greatest Russian writer/playwright, who died in 1904, have to do with 31Ways2GetItStarted!™? A great deal, when one considers to what extent Chekhov re-created himself, and the life he wanted to lead. Given Chekhov’s childhood, he shouldn’t have become…Chekhov. But he created himself, he re-created himself, ending up with humor and humanity, where one would expect to find only resentment.

I've been reading/obsessed with Chekhov since I was about 14[1]probably because, not only was Dr. Chekhov incredibly talented, and thus transformed, if not essentially created the short-story genre, and made the theater relevant…not only was he exceptional, but he came out of nowhere. His childhood was, famously, unhappy. “In my childhood,” he said, “I had no childhood.” His father, a tyrannical small businessman, beat Chekhov and his brothers, forcing them to work in the (failing) family store. Eventually, his father and the rest of the family fled Chekhov’s home-town, leaving the teenager alone to pay off debts, and forage a life for himself. Eventually, he would be the one person supporting his entire and extended family on money earned through his writing, even as he put himself through medical school.

He himself assumed that within a few years of his death, people would cease to read his work. Of course, the opposite is true: people around the world continue to read his work to understand themselves and their lives. What an exceptional man.

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[1] …and some men say I can’t commit. Well, if they’d just become the greatest writer of all-time, I could easily commit. Otherwise…meh.

"I always have had the illusion it was more important, or as important, to be a good man as to be a great writer. May turn out to be neither. But would like to be both." -Ernest Hemingway

I just finished Paul Hendrickson's masterful, and sympathetic new study of Papa entitled, Hemingway's Boat: Everything He Loved in Life, And Lost, 1934-1961. (http://amzn.com/1400075351) While a huge fan, of course, of Hemingway's perfect short stories, the unrelenting anti-Semitism of certain of his novels usually makes me a little grumpy. And I'm a girl who loves her some Fedya Dostoevsky! In fact, I have a huge and perpeptual hard-on for Russian history and literature as a whole. Russian history in a nutshell: "Hey, Vanya, how many Jews can we blame for how f**ked up sh*t is?" "As many as necessary, Slava." But there's something about the way this sentiment appears in Hemingway, that always makes me want to go back in time and get Ernie in a good headlock and smack some sense into him. Like, calling one of your sons, 'Jew,' because he was good in math makes me and my alcoholic beverage cranky.  

But reading Hendrickson's wonderful book revealed to me another side of Ernie...the side riddled with demons. Riddled with demons, yet determined to overcome them and write what he must. The irony of course being that for a generation or two of men, Hemingway was the living epitome of masculinity: a manly man who wrote quickly, lived hard, fought cleanly, drank, fished, hunted...fill in the extra cliches as necessary. One of those men who would make robust love to you in a bed he made with his own hands, built from trees he chopped down himself. Bare chested.  (Any of those men reading this: Hey...how you doin'?)

How much more interesting and human to understand that Hemingway...was one of us. He had good years and bad years, and then towards the end, many more bad years before the unfortunate end. Both his father and younger brother committed suicide. He was insecure and emotionally distraught and he could be equally heartless and equally generous. (Remind you of anyone you know...?) And let's not pick on Papa--any man who loved cats as much as he did gets a big ole pass in my book--there are countless other writers, actors, business-people, politicians, nurses, presidents, ex-boyfriends, etc. who overcame tremendous demons to create works that changed our lives...even as the creators themselves may have been destroyed in the end. 

My point being that so many people, unfortunately, see only the end result. They assume that if Hemingway, for example, won the Nobel Prize for Literature, well, he must have had an easier time of it than they do, and you know, whatever, why bother, it's probably not going to work out anyway. I don't have to tell you how much that (horseshit) attitude drives me crazy. No me f**king gusta. The Russian writer Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938) died in a labor camp because of a poem he wrote. His astonishing widow, Nadezhda Mandelstam, had to memorize his works for 40 years, subsisting in dire poverty, since she didn't dare to put anything down on paper, for fear of her life. Osip, meanwhile, spent his last weeks in the camp, starving, reciting poems for his fellow prisoners, knowing he was doomed. For a poem he wrote. A poem.

But you're afraid to actually write that book, musical, start that business, become the (melodramatic) actor you dream of, or whatever the f**k, because some hipster editor in Brooklyn, wearing skinny jeans, with a degree in gender studies from Vassar might reject you and then what? Yes, your life of suffering and misery. #STFU

I'm kind of joking, and kind of insanely serious. Can't even tell you how many people I speak to, who talk of their favorite authors/athletes/whatever and then say..."Oh, but I could never do that." Well, apparently you've already convinced yourself of that so no worries. Guess I'll just start drinking at 9am today. Because I'm sure that Chekhov was just born so amazingly talented and perfect. I'm sure he didn't spend years writing dreck. I'm sure he never got rejected. I'm sure he didn't write his last works, alone, dying of consumption, spitting up blood. For Chrissake, Kurt Vonnegut got 800 rejection letters and he still ended up in a Rodney Dangerfield movie! (Hmmm....) But hey: it's nice when you do the world a favor and reject yourself first, right? Makes it easier for everyone else.

This is your life. You only get this one shot. You're not perfect, thank Jebus, but you're good enough as you are. You think you're crazy? As my grandmother in the Old Country (Brooklyn) would have said,"...nu?"

Or as the old broad in my parents' apartment building told me years ago, when I complained about their crazy mutt: "Oh, she's crazy? Good. That makes her interesting. Sane is bland."

Focus on what matters to you now. Focus on making your choices come to fruition. Don't worry about being "normal," whatever that f**king means: normal is boring. Normal is mediocre. Be wonderful you. 

"Mankind is like dogs, not gods-as long as you don't get mad they'll bite you--but stay mad and you'll never be bitten. Dogs don't respect humility and sorrow." -Jack Kerouac

Want some more advice/nagging/love on how to make the most out of you? Email me @ carlotazee@gmail.com!

Happy birthday, Dr. Chekhov

I am a complicated girl, (whatever that means), and my thing for complicated boys is well known, but on today's date in 1860, a man was born with whom I've always had the most straightforward relationship of adoration: happy birthday, Anton Chekhov! I don't want this post to descend to the level of second grade show-and-tell ("This is Mr. Chekhov. Mr. Chekhov is a writer. I like Mr. Chekhov very much. He is good."), nor should you have to sit through me gushing about him...no, you should go read him and let him change your life the way reading him for the first time at age 14 changed mine. The way continuing to read him continues to change mine.
Because Chekhov is a riddle: how did a man with a childhood of such cringing brutality, "squeeze the slave out of" himself to become a vibrant, sensitive, revolutionary author? And if you read "sensitive" to mean "weak"...ha. In Tsarist Russia, he had the courage to empathize and see people as something more than simply "categories" or lessons to be told. He never preached, he experienced. By the time of his death, at age 44(!), he had written the plays and hundreds of short stories which changed, and continue to change, the world. Not interested in Russia, or Russian culture? You don't have to be because Chekhov writes about people, people like you and me, who just happen to be Russian.
In the late 1990s, I went to his grave in Moscow...and was of course very depressed. My favorite author...dead. (And the people who "wrote" that "book" He's Just Not Into You alive...oy!) But then I realized that he was actually far more alive than many people and authors who are quote unquote alive: every time someone reads one of Chekhov's stories, or letters or sees a play...Chekhov lives.
Guess what? Its never too late to change your life...thank god, right? Go to the library, get a good translation of his short stories, curl up and...see why more than 100 years later, we give thanks for having been lucky enough to have had someone like Chekhov. Happy birthday, my love...

Here, in Queens, I'm hoping I can get through the day without the cats bursting into flames--especially since, god bless them, they're not the brightest felines in their own seats, and despite the apartment being air-conditioned, they're sleeping...under the sink, in the closets...yes, in all the hottest places, bless their furry faces.--and I'm also trying to stay on message re: work, when all I want to do is spend the day in a public playground, sitting under the sprinklers in a bikini. Maybe drinking something fruit & (heavily) alcoholic, garnished with small umbrellas. (Drinks with umbrellas in them always remind me of one of my fave "Kids In The Hall" sketches so enjoy: http://youtu.be/8C4TGGtPzBU)

But anyway! (Yes, it's way too hot for me to be focused...maybe after another cold shower.) Reading the "NY Times," I found this photo section regarding a Russian supermarket in Brighton Beach.http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/07/24/nyregion/20110724JOINTss.html
 The caption for the fifth slide, discussing the "somber mood" of the employees made me snort out loud. I lived in Russia for about 3 years in the late 1990s, and anyone who has dealt with "customer service" in Russia, knows that "somber" is a very diplomatic term. ( Just typing the words "customer service" in conjunction with Russia also made me cackle.) Oh my. I love Mother Russia, and I met many incredible people, and I'm still obsessed with Russian history, the arts, etc... but "somber" is not exactly the term I'd use.

True story: when I was first living in Moscow, and was not exactly fluent, shall we say--people on the street would ask me the time, and I'd have to mentally diagram the sentence, so I could figure out what the hell they wanted...hot!--I was trying, one day, to buy some tea in a Moscow department store, and I, by accident, cut in line. (Did I mention that I wasn't 100% fluent in Russian at the time? Right.) The salesgirl snarled at me, using a term that I had never heard before. I could tell by her tone that I had done something wrong, so I decided just to cut my losses, go home and maybe I'd have better luck another day. That evening, I told one of my Russian friends what had happened, and asked what the term meant...and my friend was deeply mortified, since it was a term frequently used for cattle. Ahh, that story still makes me laugh, ten plus years later, but yes at the time, I was a little um...surprised? (Of course now, after years in TV news, and law school, and starting a business and living in Queens...I'd probably just laugh.)

For the record, yer honor, let me just stress: I LOVE RUSSIA! I met incredible, brilliant, fun, cultured, fascinating people there! The love of my life, Anton Chekhov, is Russian. Two of the cats are from Russia.
Russia, to me, is the birthplace of much, if not most, of the culture that matters to me (i.e.: not "Mamma Mia!"). So simma down; you'll have a heart-attack in this weather.