Tag Archives: Hindi Brooks

The Writer and Technology

My mom, Hindi Brooks, who was an amazing, prolific writer, was the first person I knew who had a personal computer. I’m talking early in the days of home computers. This thing was as big as an old TV (how appropriate that she was writing for television). It was such a dinosaur she had to insert the brain before she could start writing. (I’m serious.) She put the computer’s brain—an eight-inch floppy—into the A drive and locked it in, and then she put whatever she was working on—another eight-inch floppy—into the B drive. When everything was securely in place, she could go get a cup of coffee while the beast took forever to boot up.

Consider yourself lucky that you have such fast, efficient machines working for you. And they’re getting faster and more efficient every day. It probably won’t be long before you can simply have a thought and the machines take care of the rest. Oh, I have to email my agent. And poof! the email is sent—thanks to our trillion GHz natural language, wireless brain port.

Technology helps a busy writer take care of business more quickly and efficiently. Maybe it even helps you write more quickly and efficiently. But does it make you a better writer? According to my mom—who got to make the jump from typewriter to electric typewriter to computer to modern-day computer, and saw other writers do the same—the answer was this:  Computers make good writers better . . . and bad writers worse. Those who have a tendency to send their writing out before it’s cooked now can send it out completely raw. Those who tend to over-edit can now edit the poor text to death, changing things back and forth so many times the magic is simply edited out.

The moral here? If you want to create good writing, really good writing, you can’t skip over the stages of the process that writers have always had to do:

  • write
  • put aside
  • read fresh and rewrite (but don’t over-rewrite)
  • get feedback from a qualified individual (editor/coach/etc.) . . . and rewrite again (as many times as necessary . . . but don’t over-rewrite)
  • don’t forget to spellcheck

Also:

  • know your audience, know your market
  • do research as necessary to know your audience and market

In essence: Don’t be so dazzled by the shiny prize of being able to publish your work online in two seconds that you skip over the necessary stages of creating good work. If you take it slow, you may even get a surprise benefit:  you’ll enjoy the process.

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A Writers’ Poll: How much do you write a day?

When I was growing up, sitting under my mom’s desk to play, comforted by the resounding tap, tap, tap of her manual typewriter, and then later shut out of her writing den so she could concentrate, I thought it was normal for a writer to write for hours and hours on end. My mom woke up and got to work by 5 or 6 in the morning and she didn’t leave her typewriter, and then later her computer, until 1 or 2 in the afternoon.

That’s eight hours of writing!

When I began to write (after years of resisting being a writer, since I figured one was enough for one family), I found that my normal rhythm was about three or four hours a day. And when I tried to write more, I was utterly exhausted after five hours. What’s up with that? Although I didn’t fall far from the tree, I did seem to be a completely different kind of apple.

We were in many ways two very different writers. My mom wrote stage plays and television screenplays; I write fiction and memoir. My mom’s work was plot and dialogue driven. My work is very visual (though I do write good dialogue too; thanks, Mom). My mom wrote from the outside in—getting the concept and perhaps the structure in place first, and often not getting to the emotional content until later drafts. I tend to write from the inside out, spilling my guts onto the page and then muddling my way to finding some sort of plot.

Is our difference in style what made it harder for me to write longer than 3 or 4 hours? Or was it just that my mom was a bit of a powerhouse-superwoman-wordsmith? I mean, the woman only needed to 3 to 5 hours of sleep.

Well, when I recently began writing a book on a deadline, I found that suddenly I was writing five, six, seven hours a day! One day, I even wrote for eight. And I didn’t even feel exhausted . . . well, maybe a little. But I also felt exhilarated.

The mighty deadline has pushed me through the glass ceiling. Perhaps that was the difference all along. My mom wrote on deadline for years. Or . . . maybe my mom’s lovely spirit has been hanging around helping me out.

In any case, with that triumph in my back pocket, I still cherish the lovely writer’s day that goes like this: write in the morning; nap and then exercise in the afternoon; socialize in the evening. Perhaps one day I’ll get to write that way again.

In the end, there is no right number of hours for everyone. Virginia Woolf, I have heard, wrote for one hour a day. Stephen King supposedly writes ten pages each and every day (a lot of writing! Anyone know how long that takes him?). Many, many writers claim the 3–5 hour a day rule.

How much do you write a day? Do you shoot for hours or word count? Please tell us how you write n’ roll.

Weathering Rejection

 

The first time I had a piece of writing rejected (which was the first time I sent a piece of writing out), I called the first writer I had ever met (my mom, Hindi Brooks) to deliver the bad news.

“I got my first rejection,” I said. “They’re not going to publish my story.”

“Congratulations,” my mom said to me. “Now you’re a real writer!”

A ray of sun broke through the dark cloud hanging over my head, and I stood a little taller.

I tucked that one into my belt and sent out another story.

Thanks, Mom. You helped me weather the storm of rejection that every writer must walk through on their way to getting published.

Union Maid: The Spirit of Hindi Brooks

 

When I was a child my mother, Hindi Brooks Kleinmuntz, used to get up and sing “Union Maid” at parties. Her lifelong friend Esther (“Essie”) Broner sometimes accompanied her, and the two would belt out this pro-labor folk song luminous-faced and full of spunk. . . . I was only a little embarrassed.

Years later, my mom wrote a musical about a woman union organizer set in the early 1900s. The finale of the show was, of course, “Union Maid.”

In early December 2011, as my mother lay in a hospital bed, robbed of speech by a massive stroke, I realized I should be singing to her. (The doctors had told us she probably understood only 30 – 40% of what we said to her. Yet the part of the brain responsible for music was on the opposite, unaffected side.) But what to sing? I’d spent much of my life phobic about singing in public, and although I’ve now largely shed this phobia, it had hindered my learning of lyrics. (If you don’t sing songs, you don’t learn the words!)

It didn’t take long for the answer to come. Union Maid, of course! I would sing Union Maid. But I only knew the first line: “There once was a union maid, she never was afraid.” It was a good start. I knew my mom was terrified; I could see it in her face. This song was perfect; it was about a fearless woman. I sang this line to her a couple of times, and with her good hand she kept time to the music. Halleluiah! The song touched just the spot in her spirit that needed touching.

About an hour later, my mother pointed to my mouth. “What?” I said. Not a good question to ask someone who’s just been robbed of speech. But she found my hand and tapped rhythmically into my palm. “The song?” I said. “You want me to sing again?” She nodded.

This was the time for action and the internet. But I had no access at the hospital. One call to my resourceful friend Craig, and we were on our way. (Craig found and faxed the full lyrics to the nurses’ station, identified the writer as Woody Guthrie, and played an internet recording into my voice mail so I’d have the melody right.) Now each time my mom indicated that she wanted to hear the song, I was able to sing the full song to her . . . twice. She always wanted to hear it twice.

Nine days later, my beautiful Union Maid mom passed away (to join the great Union). But I wasn’t done singing. I knew I needed to sing the song one more time . . . at her funeral. “Union Maid” had helped my mom because it embodies the essence of who she is (I’m claiming my right to present tense for a while longer). She recognized the fearless union maid as a reflection of who she, Hindi, is in her core. That was the place it touched in her spirit.

Perhaps some of you will see yourself (your core self) reflected in this song. (Oh, and by the way, everyone at the memorial service sang along with me!)

Union Maid
Words and Music by Woody Guthrie

There once was a union maid, she never was afraid
Of goons and ginks and company finks and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid.
She went to the union hall when a meeting it was called,
And when the Legion boys come ’round
She always stood her ground.

Oh, you can’t scare me, I’m sticking to the union,
I’m sticking to the union, I’m sticking to the union.
Oh, you can’t scare me, I’m sticking to the union,
I’m sticking to the union ’til the day I die.

(To read full song lyrics click here.)

Hindi Brooks, a Great Writer, Passes from Our Midst

It is with great sadness that I deliver this news. My mother passed away on Friday afternoon, December 16, nine days after a massive stroke. My dad and I were with her throughout those final days. My brother got to visit her from New York while she was still conscious and he is back with us now.

Hindi Brooks (Kleinmuntz) was the most prolific writer I have ever personally known. (She currently has two plays running in Europe.) She was an early feminist, breaking ground for many women who followed, especially women television writers. She was an incredible role model for me. We grew closer and closer through the years, relating not only as mother and daughter, but as as dear friends and as writers who had tremendous respect for each other.

She and my dad were married 60 years, in love the entire time, true soul mates.

Services were held December 19, at Mount Sinai Memorial Park, Hollywood Hills.