"TOUGH GUYS DON'T DANCE"

Twenty Years of Correspondence with Norman Mailer
By R. B. STUART
Part Nine

As a young girl in my early 20’s, I learned about Norman Mailer in 1980 from his controversial book, “The Executioner’s Song” chronicling the life and death of convicted Utah murderer Gary Gilmore. Mailer stirred something in me to write. My first attempts I penciled 85 pages about my own troubled childhood----but after dredging up so much emotional muck, I tucked the tablet in a manila envelope and scratched Norman Mailer’s name upon it….hoping one day as a Master writer, he’d guide me to finish the book. Six years later he’d come into my life by way of his novel, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance.”

Mailer’s dabbling in film as screenwriter and director, connected our paths in Provincetown, Massachusetts. He frequently spent the summers vacationing at his home on the tiny hook of seaside land at the end of Cape Cod. In 1986 when the 63 year-old veteran writer was scouting for locations and background talent Labor Day weekend for the film adaptation of, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance” starring Ryan O’Neal, Isabella Rossellini and Lawrence Tierney.

As a Bostonian, during a holiday the Cape was the place to be. My brother, and friends shimmied on the dance floor of a darkly lit local bar, The A House. Where the blaring and pounding rhythmic music replaced your heartbeat. On the cramped dance floor we gyrated in a frantic sweat---the bodyheat created a sauna. The shirtless male bodies thrusting against each other, passed around a miniature dark brown bottle of Popper’s that spilled between our hands. One sniff of the Amyl Nitrate sent heatwaves throughout your body, and your heart into a thumping overdrive. Casting a yellow haze over the Disco ball of lights, the short-lived euphoric laughter gave way to an aching jaw as the heaviness of reality reemerged.

It was then I noticed a man with an 8-millimeter camera on his shoulder shooting me while I danced. I figured they were with the Provincetown News taping the Labor Day festivities. He was standing on the perimeter of the dance floor panning the dancers and then focusing on me. There was another man with him, older, stalky with thick white wavy hair and protruding ears. He approached me to introduce himself. I strained to hear him over the music.

With a forceful voice thick with a Brooklyn accent announced, "Hello, I'm Norman Mailer. We're shooting some footage for a movie I'll be making. You have high energy. Is it alright if I shoot you for a party scene?" I was still trying to assimilate that he was Norman Mailer. In disbelief and wonderment, I thought is it really him? Or is this crackpot playing a hoax, but why? Apprehensively I responded, okay.

He walked away and the cameraman stepped forward and filmed me as I camped it up. The impostor returned with a white cocktail napkin and pen, handing it to me inquired, "What's your name?" I moved off the dance floor and replied. He added, "I like your energy. Would you sign your name on this napkin permitting me to use this footage?" I took the pen and napkin. I noticed there was something already scrawled on it. As I cocked my head tilting the napkin towards the light to read it, his voice barreled over the music informing me, "It states that you release to me what we taped. Your signature makes it a legal and binding document."

I listened, uncertain if he was truly Norman Mailer. I nodded then signed the cocktail napkin and handed it back to him. He thanked me, smiled and as a man on a mission---turned to make his way out of the thickening crowd. I went back to my brother who was still dancing and shouted in his ear, "Is that Norman Mailer?" He bobbed his head to look above the crowd and answered, "I think so. It looks like him. Why?"

I explained what occurred and as we moved off the dance floor he stepped on something. When he fished down for the object, he pulled up a strip of 8-millimeter film that was strewn across the floor. Cackling, "You're already on the cutting room floor!"

When the bar closed we walked up Commercial Street, Mailer was standing off the sidewalk observing the trickling by of partygoer's. I pointed him out to my brother and he affirmed yes indeed it was. Seeming somewhat vulnerable out on the street, I cautiously strutted over unaware if he was approachable.

I asked what the movie was and when he would be filming. He appeared open and replied in a husky tone from deep in his gut, "I'm making a movie from a novel I've written titled, "Tough Guys Don't Dance." Have you ever been in a movie?" he inquired. I replied no then sheepishly added, "I tried writing an autobiography once, but stopped after 85 pages. I didn't want to remember anymore." He listened curiously as I confessed the sins of my past life.

I don't know why I confided in him. It never crossed my mind if he was interested or just being polite. It was significant for me to come forth with my truths to him. Partly because I wanted him to accept me for who I was, but expected to be shunned. An aspect of me was still searching for the father I lost as a child. The unconditional understanding Mailer had for a strange, young creature, was representative of the kindness an older, wiser man possessed. Maybe his maturity and welcoming ear nurtured that wayward child within. And through him, I could glimpse what it would be like talking to my own father. Needing him to say, "It's alright my child."

In a sense he did. After I bared my soul he inquired with a half lit smile, "Would you like to be in my movie?" He stood solidly planted in the earth, his face pondered awaiting my response. Without hesitation I gleefully answered yes. He must have seen the excitement in my eyes---my face glowing with hope….

His letters, notes and doodles, encouragement and advice from over the last 21 years hang above my desk---as I am now the writer I wanted to become. I sit encased by the wall of Mailer---his strength, fearlessness, and words edge me into the abyss of the literary world. His wisdom echoes in my every step, “Don’t level off. The worse thing about leveling off in writing is when it begins to sink after a while. It could end up being tougher than anything you’ve ever done. But also, it could be the most enjoyable thing you’ve ever done.”

My paternal affection for him never waned, even after he asked me not to lipstick kiss the backs of the envelopes when I write, "Since that just causes trouble with my wife," he begged.
Norman filled the void as an elder, male figure with wisdom, authority and unconditional support, that any young fatherless girl would seek. I grew up in those letters. I emptied my longings into those pages to him....and asked for guidance as a young writer. In turn he advised me of my writing career, and reluctantly critiqued works in progress. “As understood I don’t go in for critiquing pieces---I save all that for my own stuff like the greedy bastard I am,” he quipped.

Whilst he was a literary icon.….he was also an approachable, caring, non-judgmental man. For that he will truly be missed. So on Wednesday, April 9th five months after Norman Mailer’s death at 84. Hoards of literary aficionado’s, family, friends, colleagues and readers of the controversial pen man---attended the Carnegie Hall, Random House farewell, “The Time of His Time” A Celebration of the Life of Norman Mailer.

The quiet auditorium laden with gold baroque and burgundy velvet, awaited the trail of mourners that would converge in honor of the literary giants life. Tucked neatly alone in the third row was a mysterious woman donning a wide brimmed black felt hat stuck with a gold pin. Her willowy body dressed in black from the neck, wrist and ankle---cloaked her pale skin. In an attempt to shield her from the masses who would share their condolences, his sixth wife, of 33 years, was the beautiful former model, Norris Church Mailer.

I hadn’t seen her in a decade, the once statuesque freckled-faced, red headed Texan girl, was replaced by an older frail woman. Battling not only her own illness, rumored to be colon cancer, compounded by the loss of her greatest love---seemed to have knocked the wind out of her. She sat like Greta Garbo….just wanting to be left alone.

Her contemplative solitude would be interrupted as a haze of confused reading bees parted the sea of red seats looking for their own. The lovers of Mailer stumbled upon each other as they ignored the backdrop of silent images from Mailer’s life scanning the stage wall.

As the patron dust began to settle, glimpses of the literary elite could be seen through the maze of heads; Joan Didion, Tina Brown, Don DeLillo, William Kennedy and Gina Centrello, president and publisher of Random House who’s published Mailer’s books for the past 23 years, as well as actor/director Sean Penn who said about Mailers acclaimed novel, “The Naked and the Dead,” “It influenced a generation of writers.”

A trombone softly echoed “Requiem for a Boxer” throughout the hall as over 2,000 attendees took their seats, for what would be a three-hour tribute. The Master of Ceremony, Charlie Rose, who had interviewed the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner a dozen times for his PBS show, forcefully took the reigns when he greeted the audience, “We are in Carnegie Hall celebrating a great man---so please make sure your cell phones are OFF. Get rid of them,” he instructed with parental authority.

Over the last six decades---Mailer wrote 40 books and crates of essays. His last two published in 2007, “The Castle in the Forest” was the first of an anticipated trilogy, and “On God: An Uncommon Conversation.” Tina Brown, former editor of Vanity Fair and The New Yorker took stage and recalled when she met Mailer in 1984 when he was working on his 34th book, novel, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance.” Written 36 years after his first novel was published, “The Naked and The Dead.”

No depiction of his life would be as poignant then the legacy of his nine children. Barbara Wasserman announced what it was like to be Norman’s sister, “He was loving, supportive and wonderful to be with. But over time I wondered where did he come from? Being someone who believed in reincarnation, I thought “Ancient Evenings” was an autobiographical book,” she mused.

There was a similar thread with each speaker---as they detailed Mailer’s piercing or searing blue eyes….blending with the blue skies. But it was his nine children bore by six wives, who eloquently read speeches as if pages from a novel. Each inheriting their own vibrant, identifiable Mailer trait of an articulate wordsmith---weaving memories of their father into a Bi-Opic novel of his private life. The wildly humorous but tender recollections from his family were captivating vignettes mostly of Provincetown. Their colorful memory reels of laughter---left no time for tears or sadness.

His nephew Peter Alson recounted the last days in the hospital with Mailer, his health failing one month after undergoing lung surgery. His final cocktail would be from his son Michael, who’d called asking his father if he wanted one last drink. His request was rum and orange juice. Michael arrived to the hospital with the spirits and found a glass at the nurse’s station. His father instructed him to mix two ounces of water, two ounces of OJ and four ounces of rum. Because of the breathing tube an inability to swallow, Michael dipped a lollipop sponge into the glass and wet his fathers tongue. After several unsatisfying attempts….Mailer grabbed the glass and began swigging it, then passed it around the bed for each to savor his life.

“Most people think of Dad as a great writer. I like to call him a weaver,” said his daughter Susan Mailer. “Weaving the family like a tapestry.”

Stephen Mailer, the self-anointed “wild card” was the most dramatic of the brood. Spouting, “I’m going to channel my father for your viewing pleasure.” Akin to an evangelist he stretched his grey suited arms up to the ceiling to invoke his fathers spirit. Calling out to his father to possess him. He smacked face flat to the stage floor only to arise in Norman’s stance, clearing his throat Normanesque style, bellowed in his fathers voice and diction, “Carnegie Hall—Carnegie Hall—why the fuck not!”

He went on to criticize his son Stephens song choice, “Candle in the Wind” for his memorial. “I was a forest fire in a hurricane,” he scoffed. Stephen rested his fist upon his chin, just as his father an avid boxer had done when sparring in the ring with his son. And in his fathers voice grumbled, “Goodbye. I love you.” Instantly Stephen hurled back to the floor, his father disappeared…. and the son reemerged.

Author Don DeLillo honored Mailer by accounting his work. “He wrote novels,plays, poems, essays and advertisements for himself. He was not just a voice, but a novelist of sweeping range. A great novelist thinking about the world sentence by sentence.”

Watching the video of Mailer in his earlier years on black and white newsreels, was like watching a gangster film with Edward G. Robinson. As Mailer salted with bravado was larger than life, a distinct voice rich with thunder and strength. The boxer, the tough guy, Marilyn Monroe obsessed, the activist, the non-conformist, a lover of Picasso, the poet, the writer, the author---the beloved father, the adored husband and the dedicated friend---we say goodbye. Congressman Neil Ambercrombie choked back, “Norman beloved outlaw and friend…fly away.”

Prominent criminal defense attorney and friend for over 25 years, Ivan Fisher remembered an afternoon with Norman and Norris. “His blue eyes gleamed as he looked at her and said, ‘Baby, I love you.’ ” It spawned a photo montage of their three decades of marriage. A smoky pre-recorded rendition of a sentimental song Mailer wrote for “Tough Guys Don’t Dance” wafted through the air, “You’ll Come Back (You Always Do),” sung by Norris Church Mailer.

She may have been a red head, but in the end….he found his Marilyn.


Copyright April 2008, R. B. STUART. All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"THE WRITER"

By R. B. STUART
Part Three

While attending The Marymount Manhattan Writers Conference in June 2001, 16 months after resigning from my clients to pursue a long held dream of being a writer. I never thought I was intelligent enough to write, never mind a book. Since I didn’t have the formal training; whether creative writing, English-Lit or journalism, nor read the works of the greats…the classics. Although, I was an avid reader, had written poetry since I was a child, horded pens and paper, wrote letters, journals and collected books. I had a couple of book ideas tumbling around my head, and attempted to write a few chapters and outlines in my 20’s. But when I set out to write a 400-page memoir, I didn’t know how to use a computer.

But all those limiting thoughts couldn’t stand up against my determination and will to do it now or never. The desire to live my passions and the age of 40 was the catalyst, as the milestone was only months away. So in 2000 my sister Dawn, sent me her 1993 Toshiba laptop, with its black and white screen, parallel port, floppy drive and printer. Ignorant to the depreciated value of electronics, in return I gave her $1,000. And for the next year she would become my telephone technical support advisor…. teaching me long distance, how to manipulate the robot sitting between my legs.

I studied the trades on writing and publishing, and one suggestion resonated with me, that ‘when you write, each time, you must hit a vein.’ As a novice to writing and publishing, I did it all backwards; first I wrote a book, then essays for magazines, then a column for a newspaper. It’s usually done in the reverse order, now the manuscript sits on a shelf cushioned by 100 rejection letters. I went from newspaper columnist to a fluke feature in a national woman’s magazine, back to newspapers, onto E-zine columnist, blogs and magazines. The training has been the work itself, the assignments I blundered my way through, learning what the AP style was, and how word count and clean copy is imperative. The latter an easy task, since I’m bi-anal and OCD…numbers and perfection are counterparts to my breathing.

I had been shopping my manuscript [What Is Your Soul Worth? The Challenges of A Woman Trying to Save Her Spirit and Ultimately Her Soul] around Manhattan when I discovered Marymount was having their annual writers conference, so I asked to volunteer. Marymount’s director of creative writing, Lewis Burke Frumkes said after taking a look at my work, “You can teach writing, but you can’t teach talent…and kid you have talent. You put this manuscript together all on your own…you’re one smart cookie.” It was just the stroking I needed as a young writer, and he allowed me to assist them at the conference.

In the auditorium, before a panel of professional writers, literary agents and authors, a young woman stood after the lecture to ask a question: “I'm 24, work two jobs and don't have the time to write. So how do I go about writing, if I can't find the time?” The panel of authors replied, “If you want to write you have to sit down and make time everyday.”

During the last twenty years when I only dreamed about writing a book. I became desperate to write and be heard, so I wrote complaint letters to CEO”s and Editor’s In Chief. At certain moments in my life, great inspirations would mount bringing forth an outline to several books. Each time they were propelled by unusual and meaningful life experiences. I must say, that as the young girl asking the question about finding the time. I not only didn't have the time and dedication, but most importantly, the time wasn't right. I hadn't ripened yet as a writer. When I did, dedicating myself to the totally consuming and solitary craft of writing was effortless. I found the time after twenty years, because the timing was right.

Miraculously, all the experiences and words I absorbed until that point imploded onto the page. Words that never linger in my mind during conversations---peeled from my fingertips as if flipping through a deck of playing cards. Without thought or knowing the exact meaning of the word, it somehow fit. As if it knew where it was suppose to go in each page and chapter. In the interim, I trusted the flow of consciousness and wrote what was triggered by a memory reel or emotion. Having never been able to communicate emotionally, the words, sentences and paragraphs brought prose to my hidden suffering and antiquated pain, that I'd been unable to articulate. Applying written words to the emotions gave me the courage and verbal intelligence to communicate--- accurately expressing my thoughts, ideas and emotions.

I could feel the words and sentences gathering in my mind, fermenting. Too premature to write, I sensed them being suspended until the opportune time---then unleashing them into my vessel. I searched lifetimes for the vessel to hold my repressed love, sorrow and pain. I always thought it was in the form of a man. Much to my surprise while hovering over the laptop rewriting my past, it was the book I was searching for, the pages of my life, my memoirs.

The paper was my vessel. I poured all the love, sorrow, regrets and heartache into it. It was strong enough to handle the abundance of painful words. In its silence it effortlessly absorbed the overflow of what I could no longer contain. Unconditionally accepting everything I offered. The paper remained unfettered by the stream of consciousness no matter how light or dark. Bending backwards and sideways for me as my body contorted with memories. All the while maintaining an un-bias stance of my prose. Watching my pen tickle across the lines of the page. Never changing its form or color. The vessel is the holder of my passions. And what I poured out, in its own way pours back into the Self in the form of self-expression, self-awareness, acceptance, understanding, accomplishment and unconditional love for who I am, the writer; a vessel for my Soul.

So after the conference, I ran into eight time author, Malachy McCourt [A Monk Swimming & Singing My Him Song], he was teaching a workshop. When I saddled up to him in the corridor I told him my inferior thoughts on writing. I was elated when he affirmed, “All writers have those fears. I too felt I wasn’t intelligent enough to write a book. Since I didn’t have the proper education.” He then invited me to sit in on his memoir writing class.

Norman Mailer, whom I met Labor Day weekend of 1986 in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and became pen pals. Corresponding for 14 years, I looked at him in an endearingly paternal way, since my own father had died when I was six. I longed for a wise, strong, male elder to comfort and guide me through my reckless life. I grabbed the crumbs I could from him, by sifting through his brief letters of encouragement.

When I turned onto another fork of the road at 40 to become a writer, I solicited Norman as a mentor for advice, he wrote back, “If you’re starting to write don’t think of agents or editors for the first five years. Think about learning how to write, read good writers, take classes in writing. Darling, learning to write well is as difficult as learning to play the piano well. But it can be done.”

I ignored his words of wisdom for I couldn’t abate the storm of memories, words, and chapters rushing into my mind. And wrote the 120,000 word manuscript, “What Is Your Soul Worth?” The Challenges Of A Woman Trying to Save Her Spirit and Ultimately Her Soul, in 15 months.

In 2005 at my five-year mark, I realized in an unconventional way, I had spent that time studying and learning how to write. After the book I began writing essay’s and pitching them to NY editors. My first, “Rescuing My Mother---Myself,” I used here as my first post. Was sent to Harper’s Magazine legendary EIC, Lewis Lapham, and was returned to me with a personal rejection letter from him, “As much as I enjoyed reading “Rescuing My Mother---Myself,” I can’t find a place for the text in Harper’s Magazine. I wish I could send more welcome news…and I send this with reluctance, admiration and regret.” His words welled my eyes….as I sensed I had hit the vein.

Now seven years later, I have over 200 clips in my portfolio; cover features, columns, articles, the NYT, GLAMOUR Magazine….and no longer need to call my sister for tech advice. Last year Norman wrote, “RB, Now that you’re a published author---that’s what I’m going to call you, I think it’s terrific. I know how hard you’ve worked and the disadvantages at which you started and you never gave up, which is the mark of somebody who’s going to become a writer and a good one.”

He continued, “If I have one bit of advice for you it’s not to level off. Now that you’ve moved on and gotten into print, enjoy it for a while. Do a few more stories, but don’t level off. The worse thing about leveling off in writing is when it begins to sink after a while. It could end up being tougher than anything you’ve done, even with your life, it could be tougher. But also, it could be the most enjoyable thing you’ve ever done. My best to you, and I mean it.”

In 2005 I relocated to the Hampton’s area to freelance full-time. The toughest aspect thus far is with the newspapers and some start-up magazines in local markets with circulations under 20,000. As ten – twenty cents a word doesn’t pay the rent. Some offer you columns for no pay. Or offer pay at five cents a word. Others will pay a flat fee as a weekly contributing writer, which is equivalent to ten cents a word, but then dance around the check book when it’s time to pay for the work. The publisher, editor, comptroller, bookkeeper play hot potato with the invoice when it’s time to ante up.

As I see it freelance writers aren’t much respected unless it’s a National publication and over 150,000 circulation. Magazines pay more than newspapers, from one – four dollars per word and pay you on time…but you have to sign your rights away with a Work for Hire contract. Publishing appears to be a flaky business, as many editors make promises with doubletalk. Without writers they’d have no pages for adverstisers to run ads on. And the Mast Heads at the top need to remember that. I think the only way to help them treat freelance writers fairly is to form a union…with nominal dues, that will institute our own guidelines that include fair treatment and fair pay.

So my fermentation has froth at the top, I’ve boiled out all the words and have come up with Passion has a price, I’m now $30,000 in credit card debt. And as I’ve lost money, I’ve gained 40 pounds. I may be healthier psychologically, more attuned communicatively…but suffer physically. And still, I haven’t found a vehicle which my “voice” searches for.

So you want to be a writer…..


Originally written July 2001, updated June 10, 2007

Copyright 2001, R. B. STUART, All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.