Limelighting

Sarah Bernhardt

We’ve all heard about so and so or such and such being “in the limelight,” as in “currently famous/celebrated.” Sounds like an exciting place to be, right (never having been there myself)? 

Hate to break it to you, friends, but an examination of the word’s origin tells a different story. It seems that, back in the 1860s and 1870s, actors on theatre stages would be spotlit in a curious way. Thanks to inventor-with-the-coolest name-ever Goldsworthy Gurney, a pipe filled with hydrogen and oxygen would be blown towards a lump of quicklime (calcium oxide). The contact would create a flame that gave off a bright light, “limelight”, and so actors both famous (Sarah Bernhardt) and infamous (John Wilkes Booth) alike were illuminated for their rapt audiences. 

 

Only one little issue, though. The process was extremely dangerous. One can imagine the peril of flames near fabric curtains, wooden stage floors, even the costumes of the day. By the 1890s, limelight had been replaced by electric arc lighting. But the phrase continues to be widely used, perhaps because “Meryl Streep has often been in the electric arc lighting” is a tad clunky. 

 

I was struck by the idea that being in the limelight meant a) being in a dangerous situation AND b) being in something that is extremely fleeting. And there are countless instances of performers whose time in the limelight was fraught with sadness—the child stars whose “stage parents” or agents exploited them, the gifted actors lost to addiction or suicide when the pressures of fame became too great, etc. 

 

We know this, but so many of us seek the limelight anyway. We can handle it, we think. It won’t change who we are deep down. This is true for politicians, as well as singers and dancers. I myself am guilty—I write, not just because I love it, but because I crave even a tiny little bit of renown. Not for me the reclusive scribe life; Emily Dickinson, whose writings were mostly discovered after her death, pops to mind. Poor Em! She could have enjoyed making the late night talk-show rounds! Or how about Keats, Melville, Plath, Orwell, Thoreau? None of them were much recognized in life—were they around today, I’m sure they’d have been just tickled to make the New York Times bestseller list (though it’s unlikely they’d unseat Colleen Hoover). Do I wish I was Colleen Hoover? I think she’s a mediocre writer, and I’m also extremely jealous of her rocket-ship to fortune from her self-published beginnings.

 

So of COURSE I wish I was Colleen Hoover! It’s all about the limelight! Dangers and brevity are OK by me if I can stand in that bright spot. I have several family members possessing talents that far eclipse mine—an actor/director husband, an artist sister, two composers (son and daughter-in-law). I marvel at their modesty, and wish I too was a fraction as humble.

 

But not as much as I wish I was Colleen Hoover. 

Or Meryl Streep. 

Sigh.

The Rocky Road to Nirvana

Photo by Prasanth Inturi on Pexels

Meditation and I have always had a difficult relationship. For one thing, I hate to be alone with (or without) my thoughts. I hear that’s kind of a non-starter with meditation. But I am determined! Finding a mantra (a calming and focusing thought/word/phrase) seems to be key. I’m a writer! Words are my jawn! This should be both easy and peasy! Herewith, a selection of popular mantras and my takes…

Om: Mantra numero uno, “om” is said to be the first sound of the universe. Really? When I think of the noise that shattered the eternal silence, I think more along the lines of “Helloo? Anybody out there?” or maybe “Winner, winner, tofu dinner!” NOT “om”! “Om” is what you mumble when the teacher asks you to recite the preamble to the Constitution.

 

I am healthy: Who are we kidding? Compared to whom? “I am healthy compared to an asthmatic wombat! I am relatively healthy compared to my grandmother, who if she were alive today would be 130 years old!” Perhaps better: "I hope to be healthier someday, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.”

 

Fear does not control me: OK, so getting into some trouble here. Am I supposed to chant an obvious lie, in hopes it might someday be true? I might as well say, “I am prettier and more talented than Taylor Swift.” Because, believe me, fear is ALWAYS in the driver’s seat.

 

Perfection is a myth: Again, having some issues. If perfection is a myth, what about Santa? Please don’t tell me Jolly Old St. Nick is a fraud? I spent my NYC childhood justifying the lack of chimneys in my Manhattan apartment building (Santa rode up in the service elevator late at night!) If I have to live in a world without an actual M. Claus, at least reassure me: there IS an Easter Bunny, right?

I surrender to the flow of the universe: Now we’re getting a little lengthy. I thought mantras were supposed to be bite-sized and easily repeatable? This one I could see getting all tangled up: “I surrender to the flow of the universe. I surrender to a universe that flows. It’s a flowing universal--flow. I flow with the universal surrender. I surrender. I surrender.” Now I sound like a cornered criminal. “Ya got me, coppers.”

 

So, since the popular mantras don’t do the job, here are a few suggestions. Feel free to use (with appropriate attribution-©2025 by Elise Seyfried)

 

Yum: perfect for contemplating a jelly donut, or plate of pasta carbonara

I am stealthy: I like to lurk around, especially when there’s a jelly donut involved

Bears do not control me: What I say under my breath in the woods, or even around my trash cans.

Complexion is a myth: When I look in the mirror and see another pimple. At age 68.

I surrender to the woe of the universe: Darn it. It’s rough out there. I surrender. I surrender, coppers.

 

Bring on yoga class!! Mantras ready!! 

Namaste.

Popeye's mantra (I Yam what I Yam)

Dear Diary

  

Photo by Min An on Pexels

Dear Diary,

 

I can’t believe it’s been 56 years since I’ve written in you!!!! Wow!!! I’ve been a little busy, but that’s NO excuse!! Thank you for patiently waiting for me to finally find the tiny gold key that unlocks your pink-lined pages, and the pen with the purple ink I always used for my notes to you.

I confess that I gave you no thought over the decades, but that neglect ends NOW. I can’t wait to tell you all about my secret crush on Bobby Sherman and the white Slicker lipstick I bought with my babysitting money (Dad said I looked like I swallowed Maalox. Hahaha Dad NOT funny) and the time that mean girl Peggy C. made me cry at the big sleepover. Oh, and my wedding and our five kids and my three careers--them too. 

 

But, Diary? I have to mea culpa…I cheated on you, and not just once!

 

You see, after I lost you, I bought and wrote in LOTS of other journals. When I was in high school, I decided to keep a diary just like Samuel Pepys, the famous British diarist of the 1650’s, because I was a literary snob in those days. Every entry would end, “and so to bed!” because that’s what Sam would write.

Later, when Steve (my husband--he’s even cuter than Bobby Sherman!) and I were on the road traveling with children’s theatre (yes! Dear Diary! I can drive a car now!) I wrote an entry every single day for two years. Some of it is interesting, like our weekends in Toronto and Montreal and Vermont and Boston, but a lot of it is super boring because I wrote down every show we performed in every school and town. If you ever want to know the name of the school in Boltons Landing, NY where they gave us coffee that had been made three days earlier (yuck!!!!!) well, it’s in there!

 

Then, when our children were born, I bought a journal for each one of them (or really for me to write to each one of them). I learned a couple of important things about myself Dear D: I hate writing by hand, so it’s all chicken scratch I can’t even read AND I always start strong and peter out (each journal ended for good when the kid was about seven). 

 

For about 20 years I’d fill in those little Hallmark date books, but that routine ended in the mid 1990s.

 

Since then, I only keep a journal when we travel, and that is on the computer. My other life is a great big question mark because all I have to go on is my daily work planner, and that doesn’t tell me much.

 

But it’s all going to change now, my cheap plastic friend! I will pick up where I left off, starting tomorrow! And I’ll tell you all my secrets, and keep you locked up and NOT lose the key this time!

 

TTYL, Diary!

 

Love ya, 

Elise

So...Volume V? Really????

Incomparable

  

 

My dream pub (as in publication, not bar)
photo by cottonbro studios on pexels

 

Comp. 

It’s one of those abbreviations that writers, editors and agents often bandy about. For years I had no clue what it actually meant, and true to form, I was too lazy to look it up. So in my mind “comp” stood for “complete” as in—"send us the complete piece/manuscript, not a pitch”. The other idea I had? “Comp” meant free (complimentary), as in, “this class/magazine/retreat is free” OR “we do not pay for essays. Accepted authors, however, do get one copy of the issue containing their work at no charge. You’re welcome!”

 

Then one day, embarrassingly recently, I finally learned what “comp” meant in the writerly context. Comp is the title of a published work that your own work resembles (“comparable”—get it?) So, if J.K. Rowling was submitting the first Harry Potter book, she might compare it to other books about the adventures of bespectacled young British student wizards named Harry. 

 

Perhaps that’s a bad example. 

 

More like:

 

Gone with the Wind is a sweeping saga of the old South during the Civil War and Reconstruction. Comp title: War and Peace

 

War and Peace is a sweeping saga of Russia during the time of Napoleon. Comp title: Gone with the Wind

 

The Wind in the Willows is a sweeping saga of the English countryside, and a bunch of animals that act just like people. Comp title: Animal Farm

 

Animal Farm is a sweeping saga of animals who overthrow their human masters, only to replicate the greedy and corrupt political system against which they had rebelled. Comp title: Dr. Seuss Discovers the Farm

 

The War in the Willows is a sweeping saga of several willow trees who, try as they might, cannot make one another weep. Comp title: Dr. Seuss Discovers the Riverbank

 

And so on and so forth. 

 

Anyhoo, now that I’m in the know, I’m eager to start dropping “comps” into my own submissions and queries. Check this out:

 

Dear Ed: (short for editor) (it’s fine) (trust me, they love to be called that)

 

I invite you to consider my essay “A Mildly Humorous, But Also Insightful, Look at Getting Old” for your swell magazine, Getting Old. It’s a sweeping saga of my perilous, yet somewhat comical, journey through middle age and beyond, filled with the gentle humor and insight your readers have come to expect (not from me, because I haven’t been published in your fine mag yet, but they have come to expect them—gentle humor/insight—from the other writers you have published in the past.)

 

The essay is currently 800 words, though I am happy to delete every other word if that’s too long for you, or, alternatively, add five or six adjectives/adverbs to every noun/verb, if it’s too short. 

 

I hope to hear from you soon, Ed! Thanks so much for your consideration. I’m a huge fan of Getting Old (your super publication, not the aging process, haha!)

 

Sincerely,

 

Elise Seyfried

 

PS Almost forgot! Comp title: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. 

Tarnished Arches

 

photo by Polina Tankilevich on Pexels

You can’t go home again.

You never step into the same river twice.

To these aphorisms, I add:

When you eat fast food, after a long time not eating it, you soon realize why you stopped eating fast food.

I guess that’s a bit long for an aphorism, but you get my point.

 

Sher, Ya-Jhu and Dimitri have been in California this week—Sher for a recording session, Yaj for the world premiere of her piano trio, and Dimitri for his conducting debut with the San Francisco Symphony (just kidding about that one; our grandbaby is advanced, all right, but not quite THAT advanced.) Anyhoo, we had the older boys Friday night, and I had the genius idea to get Mickey D’s for dinner. Needless to say, those poor lads were ecstatic. What a treat, after their regular, ho-hum diet of linguine with pesto, roasted duck breast, lobster and sushi! 

 

And indeed, they were thrilled opening those little boxes of McNuggets and chomping on those famous fries. I pretended to share their enthusiasm, as I attempted to enjoy my McDouble (which is relatively new to the menu. The difference between it and a double cheeseburger is: one less slice of cheese. Bold choice, Chef! ) My review? Unfortunately: yuck.

 

Part of the problem was picking up the meal, and then ferrying it home to consume. Fast food is at its most edible during the three-to-five minute window after it’s prepared. It took eight minutes to get home, by which time everything was cold. Microwaving it only added “rubbery” to its other qualities (greasy, salty). And I definitely noticed that the food sizes have shrunk, while the prices have not. I feel silly complaining, because larger burgers would NOT have solved the deliciousness issue. But gang, this not-such-a-feast for four was more than $30, with no sodas! 

 

I wasn’t always such a McHater. In college in Atlanta, I was managing on caffeine alone, driving into the city for an early morning class. By the time I headed home around 1 PM, I was starving, and rarely missed stopping at McDonald’s, right on my route. And during our years on the road touring with children’s theater, Steve and I regularly ate at Wendy’s, Pizza Hut--even Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips! The price was right, and often in those tiny towns, Taco Bell beat the only other option (the 7-11).

 

But in the decades since, I’ve cooked dinner for my gang nearly every night. Even using luxe ingredients at times, I have saved tons of money (saved our bodies from tons of additives too). And clearly my taste buds have evolved to the point that I can no longer stomach KFC or Burger King. 

 

Obviously, Aiden and Peter do not share this aversion. So, I imagine we will pass through those golden arches again, and, for my grandsons, it will always be cause for celebration.

 

Do you think they’ll notice if I hide my Beef Wellington in a Big Mac wrapper?

Little Aiden blissfully awaiting his chicken nuggets

Planning Sesh

Image by Clark Tibbs on Unsplash (too much pressure, Clark!!!)

I see that 2025 is off to a not-so-stellar start! Not even thinking of the wildfires in California or the three-ring circus that is the political scene…I’m just noticing that it’s already January 14th, and I still haven’t come up with all my writing goals for the “new” year. The old Elise would have thrown up her hands at this point, said, “Oh, well, too late now!” and returned to her exact same daily yogurt, berries and granola breakfast combo (so much for “diversify breakfast” goal). But new year, new me! I will forge ahead, planning and plotting my latest assault on the freelance writer game. 

 

Here's what I have so far (annotated by the author):

 

72 pitches (Wow, reaching out to editors with ideas for stories 72 times is a lot. Maybe 27? Yeah, that’s more like it.)

 

52% acceptance rate (I actually hit this mark last year, but that might’ve been a fluke. The way I see it, the fewer places I pitch, the higher an acceptance rate would be, no? I mean, if I pitch just one place, and get a “yes”—BINGO. 100%!)

 

Pitch 10 major new outlets (Gotta break out of my rut! But even one new publication would be a victory, so OK. One. And why shoot for The New Yorker? I’ve never written for The Oreland Observer, either! Oh, you say there’s no such newspaper? That is NOT my fault. I’m putting this wonderful, if imaginary, publication on my list. If any of you readers are so inclined, feel free to create The Oreland Observer yourself. I’ll write for you!)

 

My newsletter: Get to 200 subscribers. (I’m at 158 now, need 42 more peeps to sign up. So many peeps! Too noisy. Peep down, I say! Let’s aim for 1-2 more, tops.)

 

This blog: 52 weekly posts (Does that count this one, and the one last week, which are both technically January posts? Or do I start now, and count next week as the first post of ’25? OR do I calculate from this one, but not last week? And what if I do two in one week? Better say just “52 posts." But that’s a weird amount if you aren’t counting weeks, amirite? Maybe 25 posts is a better number, and I can reward myself if I make it to 26.)

 

Apply for writing residency (This is a long-time dream of mine. Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, NY! The MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, NH! There are retreats and residencies everywhere, from the Rocky Mountains to the South of France. All it takes to get into one is talent. And luck. And money, for many of them. But maybe if I start small…I hear there’s a cool, free, talent-optional new residency right here in Oreland! It’s on my street! It’s even in my house! I think I have a shot!) 

 

Looking these over has reminded me: goals are nothing but artificial constructs, with disappointment and failure their regular features. 

 

I've decided to skip ‘em. 

Riverside Cottage, Bibury, UK (where we stayed last Spring. I'd go back there for a writing retreat in a heartbeat. )