Pencil Love

I dearly love a freshly sharpened pencil. The industrious grinding sound. The whiff of shavings and lead. The sharp slice of the first stroke on the first page.

My youngest brother Bruce (Norman Bruce Duffett III) got me an electric pencil sharpener this Christmas. I had put it on my list for two years running, but somehow no one seemed to take the entry seriously. I got lucky, however. The Christmas Eve frenzy set in, and I walked into the kitchen to witness my other brother, Jason, fielding an emergency phone call.

"Becky. Do you have a guide book on France?"

"Ooh! Tell Bruce I really want a pencil sharpener."

Jason stares.

"Please? I don't want any guide books."

"But aren't you going to France?" Blank look.

"I just really want a pencil sharpener! Why does nobody want to get me a pencil sharpener? Tell him they're cheap."

My wish was granted, because, surprise! The next morning I unwrapped a shiny, bullet-shaped gem, which now greets me in the office every morning.

At first, my coworkers were a bit distressed. One of the Julias asked me if I was doing some light drilling at my desk. No, not I! I am sharpening pencils! I introduced her to my new friend. I explained that my younger brother, Norman Bruce Duffett III, was the source. Julia gets this. We once bonded over the joys of lining up new rubber erasers in a straight row.

Now she and various others stop by occasionally for a grind. Designers, I've come to learn, are prodigious users of manual pencils. Honestly, I would expect no less. Designers are tremendously cool people. One of my favorite designers has a Depression-era glass jar on her desk, filled with pretty pencils. Things like this make it clear to me why the rest of us will never be able to keep up with designers.

I suspect that new school supplies are so immensely gratifying because of the sense of possibility. When you sit down with a freshly sharpened pencil in the morning, you can tackle anything (or at least any sentence) the world has to throw at you. Misused comma? I'm on it. Making every word count? You betcha. To quote the Stanford Writing Center: Saving the world, one thesis at a time.

One of my favorite parts of my job is that I actually get to work with paper and pencil. I love it when someone drops a stack of pages on my desk, and I get to spend the remainder of the afternoon not looking at a screen. I think very many people today are deprived this simple pleasure. Of reading. And writing. By hand. Moreover, one of the biggest delights of making books is that you're actually making books. Meaning that after months of thinking about something, and working on something, that something actually shows up on your desk, bound and printed and gorgeous. And you get to hold that something up and say, Hey! I helped make that.

And so, this morning, as I did when I was eight years old, I select my weapon. I sharpen it to within a point of its life. I line up my erasers, and take my seat. I consider the page with a wild surmise, silent above a peak--and then I really get down to scribbling.

The Luddite Purchases an iPhone

So what happens when the girl who took unrestrained pleasure in mentally judging other people for being permanently attached to their personal devices (around their kids/friends/coworkers/at parties/in cafes/in airports/in lines/on the street/on the bus/train/basically anytime when you could be READING--seriously, is that game of Tetris you've been squinting at for 45 minutes soooo much more enthralling than a BOOK?!) finally takes the plunge? Does she eat her own minced and measured words?

The future has come. And I don't like how it edits my text messages.

Domesticity: the Modern Woman's Dilemma

"I think every woman should have a blowtorch."

Julia Child

This week, dear readers, I caved. I told my boyfriend he didn't have to make a Valentine's Day reservation.

I know, I know. I can't believe I'm letting him get away with it, either.

The thing is, despite my own vehement arguments in favor of being wined and dined--I quavered. Does anyone really want to sit down to a five course dinner on a Monday night? And upon perusing the February issue of Bon Appetit, I had a sneaking suspicion of what fun it might be to design and execute my own outrageous Valentine's day menu. I started to wonder if I had the moral fortitude to tackle live lobsters. I dreamt of truffled mashed potatoes and juicy steaks au poivre. I had an internal debate about the merits of molten chocolate cakes versus cardamom-spiced creme brulee.

And therein lies the rub: 21st century young, educated, working female, versus aspiring domestic goddess. What can you do.

I cook for my boyfriend a lot. Like, a lot. I pack his lunches (I know! I know). Sometimes, he leaves for work with still-warm scones from the oven. I fix Saturday morning cups of tea, I muddle afternoon cocktails. And nearly every single night of the week, I dish up homemade dinners. I plan, I shop, I cook. . . and Stephen? He does the dishes. Most of the time. Okay, sometimes.

It's not exactly a 50/50 division of labor.

So I broached the subject over dinner last night. It went something like this:

"Stephen, I was thinking about our division of labor."

"Mmph. This is really good jambalaya."

"Thanks. I was thinking that, since you're an enlightened modern gentleman and everything, you might like to start cooking dinner one night a week."

"Hmm."

"What do you think?"

"Can it be take away?"

"No."

"Can it be microwaved?"

"No."

"Can I have Fridays?"

"No."

"Can I have Saturdays?"

"No!"

"Okay."

"Okay."

I then promised, that so long as he actually cooked something on the stove or in the oven, I would do my best to withhold all critical comments. At this, Stephen started rolling on the floor laughing. Okay not really, but he did look pretty skeptical.

Tonight's the first night. I'll let you know how it goes.

And don't worry--no boys in the kitchen on the 14th of February.

The Canine Commuter

On Thursday evenings I now take a French class, and so ride the trains home later than usual. More often than not, catching the J-Church at Union Square, I've noticed a blind woman, who boards the train with her service dog: a lovely black labrador. I've shamelessly and delightedly observed the latter every occasion I've had to seen her.

The dog is truly adorable. I can't imagine that she's more than two or three years old, with brown eyes and big, almost puppyish paws for her smaller size. She patiently navigates her owner through the commuters on the platform, and together they seem to know exactly the spot where the front door of the train will open. At which point they assume the same seat, close to the driver and door.

The labrador typically sits quite obediently with the grave expression one might expect of a guide dog, but last night, something clearly was too much for her. She just--desperately!--absolutely--had to!--smell--the floor of the train! Again and again, she sunk her head downwards, and again and again, her owner corrected her, pulling up on her leash, occasionally having a few strict words. Until finally, taking advantage of a momentary slackness, she happily bellied down onto the floor, and gave whatever deliciousness there lie a big, resounding lick.

It made me wonder of the things we ask our dogs in the city. All the time, one sees dogs riding the trains--big dogs, small dogs, dogs in purses, dogs in laps, veteran, well-behaved commuter dogs, serious police dogs, and exuberant puppies alike. And honestly, I think certain dogs like having "jobs" as much as humans do. But consider the agony of walking through a stinky train station every evening without having the liberty to smell anything!

Un Anniversaire for the Grownups

When I was One,

I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six,
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

This past weekend, I reached the breathtaking age of 25 years. There were no birthday cakes, or candles, or party hats. I think it was the most adult birthday I have had thus far.

What there was follows: An Englishman. A Mini Cooper, and a lot of tootling up and down the coastline of Big Sur. Plenty of Eggs Benedict, buttermilk pancakes, bacon, and Earl Grey. A wood fire stove and lots of reading in bed. Cliffside hot springs and massages. And when we finally staggered home, tired and happy, there was large brown package leaning against the front door, which contained a big, beribboned box stamped with the name Kate Spade.

Though I may still feel like an impostor perusing a wine list, it occurs to me that adult birthdays are really not all that shabby.

Ballistics Experts

"There's all this stuff on the floor!" Julie Powell [sprawled on the kitchen floor, crying, next to a turkey carcass], Julie & Julia.

Sometimes, I walk into my boss's office, and she'll clearly have been working on a physical manuscript, before being interrupted by an email. Pages slumped on lap, shoulders hunched, there she frenetically types away, pen or pencil clenched between teeth. The image strikes me because it represents, to my mind, such an utter and unremitting urge to keep writing: she has to write the email, but refuses to stop working on the book. Like she can't decide between the two technologies. Like words just cannot possibly get out of her fast enough.

I have never thought of myself as a particularly relaxed or dignified person, but in moments like these, it gives one pause to stop and consider. Is this what the future looks like?

When my youngest brother Bruce was about 10 years old, he was bemused to learn the meaning of the phrase "going ballistic." (My personal favorite illustration of the subject comes from the John Hughes' classic Ferris Bueller's Day Off: for fans of the film, please recall the scene in which the disaffected younger sister, played by Jennifer Grey, drop kicks Principal Rooney to the face and runs screaming up the stairs.) Bruce learned the term from our next-door neighbor Sina, who was using it in reference to his mother. Mothers, I allow, are experts in the field of "going ballistic." Ballistic, as any good English major can tell you, comes from the root word for the science of guns and explosions. The association, I think, is a great one, and it's a great turn of phrase. And, as Miss Grey and mothers bring into the mix, I think it's a particularly apt descriptor of hysterical women.

Which brings us back to the romcom genre. In every romcom there has to be a reason why a perfectly attractive and successful girl is single, right? Hence the character type: the uptight single girl. She works in writing or editorial, she's hyper organized, she flosses a lot, she hasn't been on a date in a really long time, etc. And her easily-tripped threshold of uptightness provides the writer and director with plenty of options to have her "go ballistic" in any number of sitcom scenarios.

All further proof that I was destined to be a romcom heroine. As a professional editor, I get paid to be anal retentive. Which is why I feel so terrifically lucky to have a job that I really enjoy. I've started recreationally proofing menus at restaurants, and pretty much any advertisement I read, I rewrite the tag line over and over again in my head until I'm happy with it. I make my boyfriend endure all sorts of hysterical fits, such as, say, bursting into tears over a failed chicken pot pie (they were very expensive wild mushrooms, for the record), or accidentally lighting one's own cookbook on fire. And I'm not particularly proud to admit that I've started down the path of compulsive cleaning. Which is just a tad disturbingly similar to my mother, enthusiastic organizer of sock drawers.

Next thing you know, I'll be hunched amid piles and piles of papers and words, pencil clenched in teeth, maniacally typing away. I'm not arguing that this is healthy. I'm just saying, well, first of all, it's inevitable, and second of all, isn't it just a tad... romantic? In the really uptight, but still adorable kind of way?

Thriving on the perfection of the details: it may seem like minutiae to the rest of you, but rest assured, for us lowly assistant editors and aspiring romantic stereotypes, well! I dare say it's a lifelong passion.

Miss Austen

First of all, in follow up to my rather angsty post from rather (ahem) a while ago, yes, in fact, I have now moved to San Francisco and have been living here yea so many months. If you will permit a gush: it is absolutely lovely. In addition to getting to pretend that you are like Jane Eyre walking out into a bracing onslaught of summer fog every day upon leaving the office (not great for the bangs, but one must compromise), I also feel that I have reached the closest degree that I perhaps ever shall in my life of resembling the heroine of a romantic comedy--or romcom, as my brother Jason, who knows such things, calls them. I submit the following evidence: I am a twenty-something educated woman. I work in editorial (I am delighted to conclude that nearly all romcom heroines work in either newspaper, magazine, or book publishing--consider your favorite films, and prepare to be amazed). I am fairly uptight, another key characteristic to many of these women (I'd like to think charmingly uptight, but won't push it). Clearly nothing is left but for me to start dressing in suspiciously unaffordable designer clothing, get put on a ludicrous writing assignment or get my stiletto stuck in a steam grate, and prepare to be swept off my feet by the man of my dreams who I don't actually like that much at first but ends up irresistably stealing me from my current boyfriend anyways meanwhile all of the subplots with my quirky friends wrap up in similarly satisfactory manner. Not that I've been, you know, thinking about this too much.

Ah, the delights and delusions of romance! Which brings me back to perhaps my favorite, dare I say, pioneers of the genre: Miss Jane Austen.

My dear friend Killeen, fellow English major now staggering through the world at large, invited me, roughly a year ago, to join a Jane Austen book club. Who could refuse such an offer? Someone made of stronger stuff than I. It was readily accepted, and six novels and six meetings later, I now delight in telling people that I have read the complete works of Jane Austen. In fact, I slip it into conversation whenever I can. I dare say it feels so good that I may start reading the complete works of other authors, so I can start saying that, too.

Despite feeling a bit like my mother (member of two book clubs), the experience on the whole was pretty top notch. Suffering from some withdrawal from the classroom, it was a delight to whip out the critical editions, start perusing introductions and footnotes, and underline and annotate away. Moreover, the novels themselves are such a pleasure--there is no other word for it--that left me, for one, audibly gasping, giggling, and in general severely annoying my boyfriend, who always wanted to know what had happened and was inevitably disappointed with the results.

"Mr. Elton is 'violently making love to her' in the carriage! Oh my god oh my god oh my god!!"
"Wait--what? I thought they couldn't do that in these books."
"No, no! Don't be an idiot. He picked up Emma's hand and told her that he is madly in love with her!"
"He just picked up her hand?"

And so on.

We chose to take the roughly chronological approach, meaning we began with Northanger Abbey, and proceeded with Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, and finally Persuasion. Northanger reads a bit young, although still charming. By S & S, I was sure it had to be my favorite. By P & P, I knew that I had been a complete dunce and clearly this was my favorite. I was a bit shocked to find that my club members preferred Persuasion to Emma (seriously, no contest in my mind), but we were all in accord when it came to Elizabeth Bennet clearly being the most easily imagined as one's best friend, and the outrageously arrogant Darcy reigned among our hearts. Personally, I place the wise Mr. Knightley second.

Reading (and becoming completely entranced with) Austen, I find myself wishing for the same delicacies today, where crossing a room can be a statement, visiting or not visiting a certain person at a certain time a huge affront or unanswerable kindness, and a short note containing but a few words can mean the absolute world. Austen's characters are so measured in what they do and what they speak; every word and phrase and gesture is important. It is a drama of the details, and when I sometimes think about what little care people seem to put into the emails that they write, and in general our comportment towards others, nowadays, it makes me wonder if Austen would share my occasional frustrations. What would Austen think of my friends who don't return phone calls, or make themselves presumptuously difficult over invitations, hm? Her relentless harping on faults of character gives us license to indulge in a critical eye ourselves, although, to be fair, her fascination with improvements of character probably ought to keep us a bit in check, as well. I favor the former over the latter.

Ah, but the pleasures of novel reading! All of these details culminate in such sighs and moans and ecstasy, that if you are one to subscribe to the drama of blushes and loaded glances across drawing rooms, it is a potent combination indeed. There is an unapologetic commitment to pleasure, that I adore in Sense and Sensibility in particular--in the way that Marianne Dashwood cannot be persuaded to stop going on long, moody walks in bad weather, or in my favorite speech performed by the scandalous Mr. Willoughby: "I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon: he has threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine, he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare." [Sense and Sensibility, p. 53, Penguin Classics 1995]

It is gripping, swoon-worthy stuff, and I hang on every word of Miss Elizabeth Bennet's, as she really lets Darcy have it following his outrageously offensive (first) proposal of marriage:

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry." [Pride and Prejudice, p. 188, Peguin Classics 1996]

How wrong she is! How right she is! And then Darcy continues to be awful but you love it and he leaves and she's torn and I crumple into a fit of agony and delight upon the floor.

My dear Miss Austen--forgive us our vulgarities, our indelicacies, our live-in boyfriends. Because we are, ever faithfully,

Yours,
Becky Duffett
Terminal Romantic and Fool in Love