I met a woman the other day who worked for one of my clients as a content writer. We spoke a couple of times over the phone and we quickly fell in like. That happens some times. Things just click.
I'll call her Zelda. We quickly exchanged 21st Century formalities. Like the British in the 19th Century exchanged engraved calling-cards on silver platters. Today we do something similar. We Link In and exchange pleasantries. Maybe a smiley face emoji.
That evening, Zelda sent me a note. It was full of praise for my writing and the clarity of my work on the assignment I was paid to help on. Of course, since Zelda is a writer, she took a turn at disparaging herself.
That's what creatives do.
I wrote something back. I hope it was encouraging. About how hard I worked to learn my trade. How when I worked downtown, I would run to the Strand, the world's largest bookstore--eighteen miles of books--on 12th and Broadway, and scour their spiderwebbed spiderweb of shelves for old advertising annuals.
Once I ran into a headhunter on the street. She carried two large canvas totes of old annuals. I said, "The Strand will give you five dollars an annual. I'll give you $10." She sold them to me. And we both made out well. It was a drug deal of Art Director annuals.
Those days, I was young and poor.
I probably spent forty-percent of my disposable income on old annuals. I had faith that learning would pay off in the long run.
I thought last night of Estuardo Lambresas. According to my manager, Hector Quesadilla, he was the best left-hand pitcher in the Mexican League for about six or eight years in the mid-60s. Unhittable.
As Hector said when he told me about Lambresas about 50 years ago, "He played for the Toros de Tijuana. He was our Koufax, our Marichal, our Gibson.”
Hector was never one for a short story. He had learned that there's too much time when you play ball for a living that needs to be filled. You should never rush an at bat, a warm up, a practice session or a story. So he continued.
An educated man.
The Browning Version (1951) will likely bore you.
And it might also shock you to see how intelligent and human movies once were.
But I made a new friend.
And I'm thankful and wanted to tell the world.