Old Enough...

...to Offer a Corollary to '...the Power of Name Calling'

2012-01-16T16:22:00.000-05:00

You may want to address someone by name; etiquette may call for you to address someone by name; and you may sense that someone could use the endorphin rush that results from hearing his name; but you don't know the name and the moment does not allow for you to ask. I experience just such an occasion at the beginning of every new semester. I walk into class determined to establish rapport and community in my small classroom, but I don't know any of these twenty four students' names. The Italian Mama is old enough to address individuals as "Sir" or "Ma'am" and not feel like a newly discharged Marine. In fact, I know that the community-building effect on both the speaker and each sir and ma'am at least equals the relationship formed when addressing someone by their name. Modelling this act of courtesy to young college students gives them an opportunity to feel the respect you hope they will pay forward to others, especially their elders.

The Italian Mama is old enough to know that "Sir" and "Ma'am" work at least as well as names.

...to Find Beauty in a Fall from Grace

2012-01-05T22:00:00.004-05:00

Thirty seven years later, the I can still hear the thud punctuate the 3/4 waltz; still see the swirl of bodies around me; still smell the rosined pointe shoes moving rhythmically near my face, and feel the air explode from my lungs as a tingle of adrenaline-laced humiliation surges through my flattened body. It happens every year around this time, when the strains of The Nutcracker Suite bring the Italian Mama back to that performance I thought would disgrace me and haunt my dancing career forever.

I had trained with Marica Dale Weary at the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet for four years and had finally landed a part in the Waltz of the Snowflakes in our annual performance of The Nutcracker. By then I was training in the advanced class and reveled in my place among Marcia’s best dancers. I loved performing this holiday classic knowing that we helped to spread Christmas cheer throughout the community. As kids, we felt the same excitement any child does as Christmas approaches; as dancers we positively vibrated with the anticipation of performing. Although the wind blew bitterly outside, the stage lights spread inviting warmth behind the curtains, like the hot molasses Marcia encouraged us to image dancing through.

The party scene in Act I of The Nutcracker requires little technical work for most of the dancers. This night I played the role of an adult party-goer dressed in a claret-colored gown with shiny patent leather shoes. The theatrics of Act I provide a perfect opportunity to get accustomed to the stage and prepare for the rigors of Act II. I felt relaxed, ready and eager to dance. Once the Waltz of the Snowflakes began, I danced in the zone, the music compelling me through the complex Balanchine choreography. Counting “one… piqué, fouetté, tombé…, and two…, piqué, fouetté, tombé…” The rest of the universe faded away and the corps de ballet moved as one giant swirl of snowflakes blown by a gust of wintry wind. “One, two, three, four; and one”— BOOM! Suddenly, the swirl was moving without me; I was no longer on my feet and gasping for breath. I lay front, center, and flat on the stage.

Thanks to trained agility and a healthy dose of fear, I managed to resume my fouettés missing a mere half beat of music. Luckily, the choreography soon called for a complete halt to the action by the entire corps of snowflakes while the demi-soloists took their turn to twirl and swirl. As if the wind had ceased blowing for us, we stood frozen, counting the music until it was our turn to dance again. This pause gave me a chance to catch my breath and figure out what had just happened. Apparently, a piece of confetti “snow,” sprinkled from above for atmospherics, got caught under my pointe shoe just as I stepped onto it, sending me to the stage floor more like a meteorite than a snowflake. Surprisingly, no one else on stage appeared shaken by the disruption, and I began to wonder if it had really occurred, this mere nanosecond of gracelessness.

Image from SnowCrystals.com

Now in my mind, the fear of falling had less to do with public humiliation and much more to do with disappointing Marcia, or worse, incurring her wrath. When provoked, she could morph into a terrier, all four feet, nine inches and ninety pounds of her. As it turned out, the collective response to my egregious display of non-ballerina-ness bemuses me to this day: No one from the company ever mentioned it, not once. Surely, Marcia would have some comment for me or some lesson for the young dancers on how to respond to a fall during a performance. But, no. Nary a word out of her. I began to think that she hadn’t really watched the performance or had missed seeing my nosedive while she snuck a dip into her box of Hot Tamales candies (preferred because of their low fat content). Once the performance was over and all the backstage chatter died down, still no comment surfaced about the fallen snowflake. Through my mortification, I almost believed that maybe no one noticed the snowflake right in front fall flat on her face. Hmmm, not likely. Well, maybe they thought it was part of the performance; after all, the Waltz of the Snowflakes recreates a snowstorm in Candyland. What do snowflakes do in a storm? Yes, they swirl, and twirl, and flutter, and blow in the wind, but in the end, they fall.

Just when I thought I could forget this moment of shame, a woman from the audience stopped me in the auditorium as I made my way home after the final curtain call. She congratulated me on the beautiful performance and told me how much she had enjoyed the show. “So professional!” she effused.

“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I murmured meekly, but smiled broadly hoping to steer the conversation to the bright parts of the performance and away from the meteoric snowflake.

“And when that snowflake fell …”

Oooops! Too late. Here it comes: my public humiliation when I compulsively confess to causing the one flaw in her experience of The Nutcracker. But she finished her sentence before I could apologize for my lack of professionalism.

“And when that snowflake fell and got right up, no one missed a beat! They kept their composure and went right on dancing. Amazing!”

Amazing, indeed! This wise and generous woman had made me feel almost proud of my fall. Instead of ruining an otherwise flawless performance, the cameo appearance of my carefully restrained inner klutz highlighted the maturity and professionalism of my fellow dancers. I walked away smiling and thinking that instead of apologizing to my friends, I should be thanked for shining such a favorable light on them. Maybe Marcia should promote me to principal dancer.

Neither of these happened, but I did come away from the experience thinking that our stumbles may be less important than the ways in which we stumblers and those with more grace react to them. For fallen men and women (and maybe young snowflakes), true grace resides not so much in the flawless performance but in a performance that embraces the occasional fall as an opportunity to demonstrate the strength and skill necessary to get back up and dance on without looking back.

...to Wonder Why My College Students Aren't Trying to Impress Me

2011-12-17T15:47:00.000-05:00

On the first day of my freshman writing class, we all share things we think distinguish us from other people. I start the ball rolling by showing them the pebbles I swiped from Bruce Springsteen’s driveway 25 years ago (sorry, Bruce!), and by the time we get around the room, we have learned that one student was born with an extra thumb on each hand, another can curl his tongue into a four-leaf clover (he demonstrates proudly), and another can touch his elbow with his tongue (he demonstrates as well). When I read their first writing assignment, a memoir, I learn about a student’s first drunken night of debauchery, another’s experience of a car accident caused by her friend’s reckless driving, and yet another sensitive soul’s first night of intimacy with a new lover. I don’t mind. After teaching English for 12 years, I know that my job more closely resembles tending bar at the neighbor tavern than most people would think.

All of this sharing early in the semester helps to establish rapport and relationships among the students. I’d like to think my classroom feels comfortable and welcoming to students. I call on students by name; I draw attention to mistakes I make lest they think I think I’m omniscient (like many professors I have suffered through), which helps me to get a laugh almost every class period; and I never suggest a revision of a student’s writing without publicly praising something about it first.

The mood turns decidedly sullen when I ask them to demonstrate their intellectual abilities. A request to summarize a short reading assignment may elicit one or two reluctant volunteers, as the rest of the class sighs in relief that they will not have to fulfill this apparently daunting task. An opportunity to share their revisions of a sentence based on a newly learned writing technique brings only downcast eyes, shrugs, and maybe a cricket chirp or two. More often than I care to tally, in response to a request to share an assigned writing task, a student will unabashedly say, "I don't have any ideas for that," or simply "No."

No?! I didn't even think that was an option.

Based on their early semester participation in our rapport-building activities, I know these students do not suffer from shyness. Many of their essays indicate that they are neither slow nor dim-witted. On the contrary, they are ambitious and earnest in their belief that if they earn good grades they will land plum jobs in their fields and be secure for the rest of their lives. They proudly admit that they feel lucky to be members of this university’s class of 2015 because they have dreamt of being here since they were small children.

The Italian Mama wonders about this puzzling contradiction: my students feel no compunction about demonstrating odd physical contortions or writing a memoir about the first time they got dangerously drunk on a camping trip, but when I give them the opportunity to demonstrate how smart they are, they punt.

The Italian Mama labors under no delusions that her students sit in rapt attention, hanging on her every word of sage advice, eager to practice a new writing technique. The fact remains, however, that no matter what they think about me or the class, I will be assigning their grades at the end of the semester. Given their ambitions for those made-to-order jobs, the Italian Mama would think that students would bribe me to call on them during class so they could impress me (and their classmates) with their earnest efforts, their humor, even their boldness in offering an unorthodox approach to an assignment. So often, what impresses me is an unmitigated apathy that is hard to ignore when it comes time to hand out final grades.

I invite readers to offer explanations for this troubling phenomenon, and I will report back in a later post. Why are my students not trying to impress me?

...to List the Top Ten Occasions to Call Someone by Name

2011-12-10T16:17:00.000-05:00

The Italian Mama believes these ten occasions call for the special relationships formed when you address someone by name:

10. "Driver's license and registration please." 'Nuf said.

9. When meeting your girlfriend's parents. There is no quicker way to ingratiate yourself to the parents of your girl. Hey, if you really like her, you'll do it. If you can't extend yourself this far, your relationship is doomed anyway.

8. When interviewing for a job. All other things being equal, the applicant who uses the interviewer's name will land the job. Guaranteed.

7. When thanking someone. Well, do you mean it or not?

6. When preparing a patient for surgery. Doctors and nurses will invade a patient's physical being like no others; they should at least make a personal connection that will help to make the patient fell less alone and vulnerable.

5. When helping a client with a nasty divorce. This person needs to feel connected and cared for by someone in charge.

4. Whenever you talk to your children. Strengthen your bonds with your kids every time you talk to them, not just when you're yelling at them.

Thanks, Emily!

3. When dealing with the guy behind the counter at the DMV. You think you hate those long lines; think how he feels!

2. If you've ever had a mindless, soul-sucking job, you'll understand why addressing the cashier at the grocery store (most wear name tags) is number two on our list.

1. And the number one occasion to address someone by name:
When you tell your mama you love her.

"I love you, Ma!"

...to Believe We Are Better Than Rats

2011-12-09T17:57:00.001-05:00

Turns out, rats are a lot nicer than you might think. On NPR's Morning Edition today, Nell Greenfieldboyce reports on a study done by Peggy Mason at the University of Chicago in which she observed rats coming to the aid of a friend in need. According to the study, which appears in the journal Science, rats appear to experience empathy and act on it to help a fellow rat. In the experiment, rats shared a cage for several days, after which time one of the rats was removed from the shared cage and confined in a clear plastic tube. Unable to move about the cage, the confined rat appears none too pleased at his new living quarters. He squirms and struggles to free himself to no avail. When his former cage mate arrives on the scene, he immediately understands his friend's distress and works diligently to free him, biting the edges of the tube, knocking against the sides of it, even grabbing the confined rat's tail when it happens to emerge from an air hole. Finally, the free rat's efforts pay off when he triggers a release that opens the tube and frees his friend.

image courtesy of Wikimedia

As I listened to this report, I couldn't help but think about the two boys we know about who were seen being sexually abused by Jerry Sandusky. According to the grand jury report, two witnesses described in no uncertain terms what they saw, and yet neither they nor the superiors to whom they reported the incidents did anything effective to stop the horrific acts that they witnessed or any subsequent sexually abusive acts by Sandusky that allegedly followed. The Italian Mama wondered what Peggy Mason's rats would do in a similar situation.

While neither witness knew the boys in question as the rats in the study did, the Italian Mama has to wonder why these men did not come to the rescue of those children or the ones who allegedly came after them. David Brooks, author and columnist for the New York Times, offers a provocative answer to this question in his column "Let's All Feel Superior." In it he describes what psychologists call the "Normalcy Bias," which prevents some people from processing disturbing events they witness or experience. "Motivated Blindness" causes some people to completely overlook things that are not in their interest to see. They simply "shut down and pretend everything is normal." And still others will choose to not look at things that make them uncomfortable.

These survival mechanisms do not excuse the apparent negligence of the many people who knew about what Jerry Sandusky was seen doing in the shower to ten-year-old boys, but they do help to explain how grown men with good reputations and honorable records could ignore the victimization of young boys. Other explanations leap to mind as well - fear of reprisals from superiors; devotion to a football program whose pristine reputation must be protected at all cost; concern for the reputation of an esteemed university whose reputation rests at least in large part on the success of its football program. We may never know what went through the hearts and minds of the people who knew what was going on and yet did nothing to help.

But because we are thinking beings, having the knowledge that we do about the human psyche and the ways in which the mind works to protect itself and those around it, should make us able to realize when our gut instincts will prevent us from protecting innocents and erode the social fabric. How many times has your fight or flight instinct inspired you to punch someone who posed a threat but you didn't because your more rational side took control, resulting in a heated discussion instead of a fistfight? That's what thinking people do: they recognize when their survival instincts will do more harm than good and use their superior intellects to resist them. Surely we can act with at least as much social responsibility as rats.

...to Wield the Power of Name Calling

2011-12-08T21:48:00.000-05:00

My students called me by name today. Usually they get my attention by simply sidling up to my desk and clearing their throats, or glancing in my direction, or the ever popular, "Um, ...." I always respond because I understand their reticence. They attend a huge university filled with people they will see only once in their four or five years here. Even though I am their English teacher, they see little need to form a relationship with me because after the semester ends, few will ever see me again either in the classroom or on campus.

But today was our last class meeting and there was a different feeling in the classroom, a more intimate, relaxed, and maybe even a little melancholy mood. Unlike most of their introductory level classes, my class roster tops out at twenty four students. Instead of sitting in a lecture hall filled with several hundred students, my students see each others' faces, learn each others' names, and maybe (if we're lucky) interact with each other as we discuss issues of writing. They may not show it every class period, but today they indicated that maybe this class wasn't so bad after all, and they might even miss the small group learning environment. One young lady drew a chuckle as she pretended to weep when class wrapped up. As they filed out, several thanked me by name, and I felt a small spark fire in my brain as if I had been lit up.

Their small act of courtesy reminded the Italian Mama how special it feels to have someone use your name. When I was little, my sisters and I would make fun of my father when we went to a restaurant because he always made a big production of calling the waitress (mostly women back then!) by her name. If they didn't have a name tag, he would ask her and repeat it so he got it right. Then, whenever we needed assistance, he would call her by name, say her name before he ordered - "Henrietta, I think I'll have the ribeye steak..." - , and thank her by name when she had served us our meal.

"Dad, it's weird. You don't even know her!"

"But I know her name. Don't you feel good when someone uses your name?"

"Yeah, but it's always someone I know."

"It's always polite to use a person's name if you can," Daddy concluded.

Now, many years later, the Italian Mama knows that Daddy was a bit of a flirt and could be Machiavellian at times, so maybe his name calling in the restaurant had more to do with serving his own needs than being polite or boosting the spirits of the hard working waitress. But the Italian Mama is old enough to know that he was definitely on to something. Addressing someone by name is more than just a demonstration of good manners, but like all conventions of etiquette, name calling helps to nurture communities.

Many years ago, I attended a workshop called "Thinking and Writing" at Bard College. The prompt for one of the exercises asked participants to write for fifteen minutes about your name. If you had been peering in the window of that classroom, you might have thought the instructor had offered a million dollar prize to the writer with the most pages filled with reflections on her name. Pens blazed across white-lined paper and notebook leaves crackled as they were impatiently flipped over. Writers wrote furiously about something so precious and close to their hearts that the words couldn't get written quickly enough. The results took the form of pure poetry. As writers shared their essays, gasps of delight punctuated the readings as listeners reacted to the descriptions of the profound connections writers' had with their names.

No wonder people feel a spark like a friendly tap on the back when someone calls them by name. The instant intimacy created by touching something people hold close to their hearts may be the reason why many people may avoid name calling unless they have a sustained relationship with the name bearer. They feel awkwardly connected to people they may not even know. But it is this very intimacy that makes name calling such a powerful social tool. You make a deep connection with someone you call by name, reaching the very core of her identity even if you don't know her - a happy paradox that can leave both name caller and the one called a little less lonely, a little more recognized.

The Italian Mama feels powerful when she calls someone by name because she knows that she has lit up that person up, maybe for the only time today.

...to Share a Sample Christmas Letter

2011-12-07T19:49:00.000-05:00

Some readers of "Old Enough..." may feel unsure about approaching their holiday newsletters, perhaps because they have never written one before and/or have never read one. For these readers and any others who may be interested, I provide a sample Christmas letter here.

Dear Kelly,

As usual, I have waited until the last moments of the year to begin writing our year-in-review letter, as if I’m waiting to see if anything else remarkable might happen and earn a place in our reflection. (Actually, I’m just procrastinating.) Our year has been so action-packed, I can only share a smattering of the many stories that have filled our lives with joy, wonder, and sheer exhaustion.

Francis has spent the year redefining the phrase “working hard.” Fourteen-hour days have become the norm, and every once in a while, he takes a weekend off. I usually don’t even bother to put away his suitcase since he travels almost every week. If you feel that you’ve been snubbed by Francis in the past year, get in line. There is a section of Obama’s The Audacity of Hope devoted to his early days in the Senate that often saw him travelling or otherwise away from home, leaving Michelle to single-handedly care for their young daughters and run the household. Poor thing! All of that sacrifice and look where it got her! I’m still waiting for the big payoff that will land me in a swell, rent-free mansion, a 24-hour personal security detail, an army of drivers in sweet rides, chef-prepared dinners daily, and a hefty wardrobe allowance. Meanwhile, Francis apparently finds his frenetic schedule exhilarating and the work captivating. Ever the Special Forces operative, he clearly thrives on the challenge to do the impossible, so I have to assume that the chances of this schedule changing are about as great as the likelihood of me becoming First Lady.

Alex is pleased to report several new additions to the Scribner household. He is now the proud owner of five fish, two frogs, and snail named Gary. Despite my ban on non-mammalian creatures in the house, he has periodically campaigned for the privilege of adopting some sort of slimy creature to call his own. His campaign culminated late in the summer when he pulled out all the stops: suddenly the Lego décor was removed and put away. Randomly scattered books were replaced on the bookshelf. School papers strewn around the floor magically found their way to their file folders, and toys were always re-stowed after use. It was wonderful. I rarely had to lift a finger to maintain this unusual state of cleanliness and often had to refuse the offer to help me around the house because there simply was nothing left to do. His valiant efforts to demonstrate responsibility were rewarded when three weeks later I finally relented and allowed him to buy an aquarium with his saved up gift money. As promised, I never lift a finger to clean, feed, or otherwise care for the creatures. He had done such a great job caring for his fish that I allowed him to buy a smaller aquarium for two African frogs who vie with the fish for our attention. When he is not caring for his animals, Alex works hard on his schoolwork, plays soccer in the fall and the spring, and helps me to handle thorny classroom issues by illuminating the student perspective.

I continue to love teaching writing at the University, and the English department continues to pay me to indulge myself. Good thing, too! We have become card-carrying members of Ortho Aid[1] which supports a group of needy orthodontists in State College. See, the way the program works is we arrive at their office completely clueless about the architecture and mechanics of jaws and teeth. In an earnest effort to educate us, these needy orthodontists kindly share their hard-earned wisdom about the mysteries of the mouth and tell us that our sons’ teeth are horribly misaligned and will cause them untold misery when they are forty. Then, over the course of several years, we write out numerous checks for large sums of money in exchange for small implements of torture being semi-permanently installed in our children’s mouths. The orthodontists then drive home in their Lexuses to their well-appointed mansions and sip martinis by their pools. Another fascinating part of the program is that it is fully interactive! This is not an organization to which you just send your money and then forget about it. No, no. I get to participate in the torture twice a day by cranking a miniature medieval rack affixed to Danny’s upper teeth, all the while assuring him that this pain now will prevent untold misery when he is forty. This explanation comforts him not in the least, so I try to assure him that at least the needy orthodontists are well-provided for, and he can offer up his suffering for the souls in purgatory. The last beautiful feature of the program is that our contributions grow with our children! Just when we think we have averted future untold misery, the needy orthodontists create a new implement for preventing the aforementioned suffering, and we continue to fight the good fight with our charitable contributions. In two months, Alex will be fitted with a full set of braces one year after he retired his rack. We feel very blessed.

While a good portion of the year and the annual income was spent trying to save our children’s teeth, part of our time was devoted to saving Danny’s soul. This year he made his First Reconciliation (a.k.a. First Confession) and his First Communion, which required countless hours of retreats, rehearsals, and explanations of the mystical that left him totally unmoved. In the Danny Universe, if you can’t grab it or make it explode, it doesn’t exist. Additionally, if it doesn’t have an impact on Dan, it must be a fairy tale. Needless to say, I have not found the religious education texts to be particularly helpful in this Universe, so I began to rewrite the book. For example, Dan is learning that sins are sins not because they offend God but because they are bad for Dan. I suppose this explanation undermines the whole selflessness thing, but at least I don’t get a blank stare when we talk about the mysteries of the Divinity. After his First Reconciliation, our church’s Director of Religious Education whispered to me, “He’s back from the Dark Side.” I smiled and nodded as I muttered to myself, “Don’t count on it.” The big attraction of First Communion was getting to eat the “cookie,” which, surprisingly, Mr. Fussiest-Eater-on-the-Planet thinks tastes “really good”!

This blessed event occurred on the holiest of holy weekends when State College witnessed the second coming. Nooooooo, not THAT Second Coming! State College was blessed with the second coming of Bruce Springsteen to Penn State. On the same weekend that we celebrated Danny’s First Communion, Olivia, Grace, and I celebrated communion with Bruce and 15,000 of the faithful in a concert that moved me to religious revelation. In contrast to our last Springsteen concert experience from arena seats anchored directly in the flight paths of several small aircraft, this year we stood, mouths agape, within thirty feet of the man we’ve admired since he was a scrawny, snaggle-toothed, shabbily-clothed wharf rat from the Jersey Shore. Through a once–a-millennium alignment of the planets, we were able to secure four of the 700 places in the “pit” in front of the stage, close enough to count the grey hairs on his head and watch the beads of sweat drip down his face. Among other observations from this blessed event was the realization that whoever thought to call an energy drink “Rock Star” is a genius and that somehow my pool workouts are not benefitting me quite as much as Bruce’s regimen is benefitting him. I concluded from this AARP coverboy’s electrifying performance that 60 truly is the new 40, a conclusion to which I cling desperately.

Extrapolating from this observation that 50 is the new 30, I decided to reinvent my exercise routine so that in ten years I can look as good as Bruce does now. With this goal in mind, I have doubled the length, duration, and rigor of my swim workouts and have taught myself how to do the butterfly stroke, a skill that has eluded me for the past twenty-five years. I should clarify that by “butterfly stroke” I mean my torso undulates in an odd, syncopated rhythm while my arms flail haphazardly at my sides, and lots of water splashes around me. I’m sure it is a wondrous sight to behold. Michael Phelps, move over!

When I am not trying to age gracefully, I am grading student essays, trying to teach Dan the new “new math” (you wouldn’t believe it if I tried to explain it to you), and folding laundry. Occasionally, I read a book (my newest discovery is David Foster Wallace, God rest his troubled soul); often, I think about essays I’d like to write; and daily, I dream about seeing my name in print. Frank McCourt, God rest his soul, too, wrote Angela’s Ashes when he was 63, so I figure I still have some time.

We hope the many blessings of this year carry you into the next decade with a renewed sense of hope and accomplishment.

With warmest wishes for you and yours this holiday season,

[1] Ortho Aid is a semi pain-free organization that tries to inflict only medium pain on your child while preventing dangerous ailments like slightlycrookedtoothitis and yellowtoothfluenza. (Alex’s footnote)

Now you try! Have fun and happy holidays!

...to Know a Thing (or Ten) about Holiday Newsletters

2011-12-06T21:34:00.000-05:00

Each year around this time, I produce a Christmas newsletter that attempts to capture the highlights of the year for the Italian Mama and her family. Recently, friends asked me to share some advice about writing annual newsletters. I am happy to oblige. Allow me to begin with a short history lesson.

Christmas greetings have come a long way since the first Christmas card was sent to the friends of Sir Henry Cole 168 years ago in England.

The first Christmas Card, 1843

Cole, a wealthy businessman and prominent innovator in nineteenth century England, commissioned London artist John Calcott Horsley to create an attractive Christmas card wishing Cole’s associates a merry Christmas while reminding them to help the poor during the holiday season of 1843. The tradition of sending out pre-printed holiday greetings caught on in England, and, thirty years later, commercial Christmas cards were produced in the United States.

Today, many people send mass emailings of holiday greetings or post annual newsletters to all of their friends on Facebook. Others, like me, prefer sending holiday wishes in a more traditional way, which recipients can savor with their sense of touch as well as their sense of sight. I remember watching my mother hand write little notes on each Christmas card she sent to her many friends and family members. When she was done, she had several large stacks of sealed, neatly- addressed envelopes, each a testament to her relationship with the recipient. When I became an adult, I vowed to carry on this quaint tradition, but as my life became full of graduate school, career building, and family raising, I realized this was one tradition that was in serious need of a makeover.

If you’re like me, you want to keep friends and family up-to-date on the goings-on in your house, but you have neither the time nor the inclination to write the same story fifty times over. I discovered this dilemma the year my first son was born, long before Facebook was even conceived. I was bubbling over with news about the new baby — how much he ate, how much/little he slept, the look on his face when he had gas, all the essentials. I decided then and there that the ever-frowned-upon newsletter approach to holiday greetings would solve my problem. Then I faced a new challenge: how to write a year-in-review that people would want to read.

Here’s what people hate about holiday newsletters no matter what form they take. Writers often try to paint as rosy a picture as possible of their past year, perhaps in a moment of self-indulgence or simply in an effort to seem cheery, in keeping with the holiday spirit. Trust me: people are suspicious of the Norman Rockwell holiday letter. Whose life looks like that?! Their lives are full of the typical and maybe not so typical ups-and-downs we all experience. We had to take a second mortgage. The family cat took her last gasp. Connie didn’t get into the college of her choice. Happy as your friends may be for your apparent unbridled mirth, they will only feel worse about their own lives, which, more than likely, have spottier records, and that defeats your purpose in writing.

Equally uninspiring is the “debriefing letter,” a mere laundry list of happenings from the past year: Rachel made Dean’s List this fall and has declared her major to be biology. Michael earned his green belt in karate and is working hard towards the next level. You might think that no one wants to hear the gut-wrenching that took place while deciding on Rachel’s major or how many times Michael had to try for his green belt. Actually, it is in these details where the story lies and where your readers will connect to your experience. Not only will your letter be more enjoyable to read, but your friends and family will have a much fuller picture of your year if you include the background details surrounding each event.

And, finally, some people may tend to feel just a little bit insulted that you didn’t take the time to write a personalized letter to them. If you keep them interested, informed, and smiling while reading your “form letter,” they’ll get over it.

No matter how you send your holiday wishes, these ten steps will help you to create a greeting that friends and family will look forward to reading each year.

1. Jot down notes through the year. Here’s a no-brainer. It is much easier to pick and choose which parts of your year to discuss if you have a handy list of events and your reflections on them when you sit down in December to write (often December 26 in my case!). Writing your reflections on events as they happen ensures a fresh look at the occasion that may be hard to replicate after many months. Having this cheat sheet makes the daunting task of capturing a whole year in one brief letter seem much more feasible.

2. Be honest. Your friends and family will sense that something is amiss if you report that your year was filled with unmitigated glee — your new vacation home is all you ever dreamed of, your children are outstanding in all of their endeavors, and the dog took Best in Show at Westminster. All of these statements may be true, but if they comprise your entire year-in-review, you just haven’t been paying attention. Share with your readers the good, the bad, and the ugly. They’ll thank you for it. Example: Bowzer took Best in Show at Westminster, but not before he had a rather messy gastrointestinal disturbance backstage. Much as he likes to perform, he does tend to get a bit of stage fright, which has threatened his championship more than once.

3. Write as you speak. If you don’t customarily use the words “apoplectic” and “deportment,” don’t write them. Just because you’re writing it down doesn’t mean it shouldn’t sound like you. You are the writer! Let your readers hear your voice, not some imaginary one you think sounds better than you. It doesn’t. Your friends know you, and they will detect the deception immediately. Example: I was positively apoplectic when I witnessed Carol’s unprofessional deportment during her holiday concert. Rewrite as: I was raging mad when I saw Carol chewing gum, chatting, and giggling with her friends during her holiday concert.

4. Don’t brag. Yes, Sarah is the best soccer player on her team, and Jared won first prize at the science fair for the second time, but surely they have their shortcomings. Admitting these while recognizing your kids’ accomplishments will go a long way toward creating a realistic picture of your family and daily life at your home. Furthermore, you express your love for your family better if you give members an honest portrayal instead of the sanitized version. Example: Sarah played another fine soccer season with her team coming in first place for the regional tournament. She was thrilled to have been named MVP for the final game in which she scored two goals and assisted on one. Now, if I could just get her to assist me in cleaning her room, life around here would be much more peaceful, not to mention less cluttered.

5. Don’t vent. Remember, it’s a holiday greeting, not a therapy session. Sometimes it can be challenging to give friends and family a complete update without totally depressing them. We’ve all had those years when nothing seemed to go right. Try to find some source of solace to share with your loved ones as you fill them in on all of the slings and arrows outrageous Fortune has hurled at you this year. Example: John was laid off this year, which, of course, sent major shockwaves through the house. He spent two months moping around the house, and I tried not to panic and remain optimistic. Eventually, we were able to view the lay-off as a blessing because he was forced to review his resume and really examine his skills and what he wants to do. Now he is considering leaving accounting altogether and starting his own personal financial consulting business out of our home (I guess he kind of liked being home all this time!). I’m thrilled for him and for me because if this idea pans out, I’ll have a little extra help with childcare and chores. Win-win, baby!

6. Tell how you felt. Nothing bores a reader more than a list of events and accomplishments. Tell your readers how the year’s events affected you or the people involved. Example: Rachel made Dean’s List this fall and has declared her major to be biology. We are very proud of her academic achievement, especially since her high school record was not, shall we say, unblemished. Deciding on a major was no mean feat either, requiring countless phone calls home, charts, and diagrams of course curricula emailed to friends and family, and the near exhaustion of her faculty advisor. I can’t wait ‘til medical school!

7. Edit and Revise. Consider your readers…all of them. Did you insult Aunt Bessie by writing about the hilarious incident when she split her pants at the family reunion? Funny story no doubt, but Aunt Bessie probably won’t appreciate seeing it in print and knowing it has been sent hither and yon. In addition, try to keep your letter to one page if possible but certainly no more than two pages long.

8. Proofread, proofread, and proofread again. You’ll be amazed at how many errors you will find, even the second time through. You can’t expect your readers to care about your letter if you didn’t care enough to make it error free. Read it several times in hard copy form. I don’t know why this works, but writing just looks different on a real piece of paper than it does on a computer screen. Do not rely on your word processor’s spelling check and grammar check. Spell check will not distinguish, for example, between homophones, words that sound alike but are spelled differently and mean different things. Example: This year was truly a boar. While your word processor is quite content at your description of your year as a giant, wild pig, you were probably referring to the lack of excitement during the past year, spelled b-o-r-e.

9. Choose special stationery whether you send electronic or paper letters. Most stationery departments carry printer-friendly stationery and envelopes. Often packages include matching mailing labels and add-ons to make your letter look extra special. Also, check the Internet for a wide variety of sites that offer free, printer-friendly stationery or electronic stationery. Here are just a few:

DLTK (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/): Includes free printable cards, stationery, envelopes and gift labels.
Cloudeight (http://www.thundercloud.net/seasonal/christmas/): Save postage by sending your letter electronically using stationery with scrolling designs and seasonal music.
Mint Printables (http://www.mintprintables.com/stationery/christmas/): Allows you to choose from lined or unlined printable stationery.

10. Have fun writing it. If you enjoy writing your holiday letter, your readers will enjoy reading it. It’s a little like smiling when you answer the phone. If you are smiling, even if only on the inside, while you are writing, your words will reflect your happy mood and your readers will share the happy vibe. Examples: (written while frowning) This year was the pits! (written while smiling) This year proved to me that having a good sense of humor can mean the difference between depression and personal growth.

Following these steps as you write joyfully about your year’s ups and downs will put you well on your way to creating an annual tradition that you and your friends will enjoy. Having the opportunity to reflect on the year as it comes to a close is one of the great joys of the holiday season. Sharing these reflections with your loved ones is a gift that you can not buy at the mall, doesn’t have to cost a lot of money, and does not need to be returned because it is too small. How many Christmas gifts can you say that about?