I’ve been getting more than a few e-mails from writers asking for a little advice, some guidance.  For me, advice has always been a tricky thing.  What might be helpful or useful to one person could be the very worst suggestion for another.  For that reason, I don’t like the notion of advice giving.   So I’ve decided to blog a bit about a handful of key moments that helped define my approach to writing in hopes that they may be useful as either models of possibility or cautionary tales on how not to proceed.

Years ago and in a most  miraculous way,

I met the great acting teacher Sanford Meisner.  It was a fortuitous encounter in that days earlier I had retired from acting (hardly retired because I’d had no real acting career to speak of — I had gone on only a handful of auditions after graduating from drama school.)  But my chance meeting with Mr. Meisner happened in such an amazing way that it was surely a sign that I must study with him.  (I will write about this once-in-a-lifetime day in a future blog.)  Long story short I ended up going to the island of Bequia with fourteen other young actors and studying with that brilliant man for a month that summer and then in New York City for the next year.

During one of our first classes, , I was doing a simple repetition exercise with my scene partner when Mr. Meisner stopped us.  He was in his eighties, he was nearly blind and wore thick glasses.  The studio was brightly lit to help increase his visibility.  He’d had throat cancer many years earlier so he had no vocal chords.  He wore a mic on his shirt collar and spoke in a raspy, rattle of a voice.  He was a man of few words but when he spoke, it carried such weight, for he was incredibly wise.

Sensing my desire to do good work, he said, “Peter, do you want to be a good actor?”

“Yes,” I said, “But what I really want to be is a good writer.”

“Fine,” he said.  ”Do you want to be a good writer?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want to learn how to love?  Do you want to be an Artist of Life?”

“Yes,” I said.  ”Yes, yes.”

“Twenty years,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Twenty years.  Anything worth doing well will take you twenty years to learn.”

“Really?”

He nodded, smiling slightly.  ”You may become successful, you may become rich, you may become famous, but you won’t be any good for twenty years.”

Before I could respond, he said, ”And, in your case, Peter — maybe twenty-one.”  

All my life … 

I had been in a hurry, eager to get ahead.  Here was the great Sanford Meisner telling me that there were no shortcuts, that it would take time.  Instead of frustrating me, I felt liberated.  Something had lifted.  Suddenly I didn’t have to rush.  Yes, I would need to work hard, but nothing was going to happen overnight.  It would be an up-and-down process.  I could quit or I could try to enjoy the journey.

Twenty years.  Or if you’re like me, maybe 21.

I had grandiose dreams, but for good reason.  In seventh grade, Steve Sweem and I created “Bank Robbers,” a powerful mime about greed and robbery set to the Scott Joplin song used in “The Sting.”

We performed it at the 7th grade mime show to great acclaim.

A few weeks later, I explained to Steve Sweem that I had been contacted by Bill Reilly’s people at the Talent Sprouts.   (Bill Reilly’s Talent Sprouts was the American Idol of Des Moines, Iowa in the 1960′s and 1970′s.  Each week baton twirlers, tap dancers and acrobats performed live on Channel 13.)  The possibility of appearing on the Talent Sprouts had enough appeal to Steve Sweem to get him to agree to re-stage and expand our mime.  We worked on it for many days after school at his house on Crown Flair.  Or it might have been Meadow Lane.

My brother Joel drove Steve Sweem and me to our audition.  We were ushered into the TV studio.  The lights, the TV cameras — this was heady, heady stuff.  My heart was pounding.  But Steve and I were ready.  The producer came out to speak to all those who had come to try-out.  He asked what our talents were going to be.  I said, “Mime.”  He didn’t hesitate.  He said, “We don’t do mime.”

Humiliating.

You see,  the part where I had told Steve Sweem that Bill Reilly’s people were interested in us wasn’t true.   I had lied.  And now Steve Sweem realized I had lied.  Or one could say I suffered from a failure of imagination.  I couldn’t imagine that Bill Reilly wouldn’t want two twelve-year-old mimes on the Talent Sprouts.

But mime didn’t count.  I had lost a friend.  And it was a quiet ride home.

But I did go to the Academy Awards, which is prom for famous people.   And people like me who work with famous people.

My inivitation came in a most surprising way.

On February 11, 2003, I woke up in the middle of the night.  I couldn’t fall back asleep and for good reason. It was the third anniversary of my mother’s death, the first anniversary of my step-mother’s death – and I was feeling blue. I told my wife I was going to my studio (an apartment a few blocks from our house) and went off to an early morning of writing. I was at my desk by 5:30 AM.

Around 8:40 AM, my phone rang and it was a friend screaming, “OHMYGODYOUWEREJUSTNOMINATEDFORANACADEMYAWARD!”     I didn’t believe her. Then a call waiting beep came. It was my wife celebrating on the other line, and that’s when I knew it was true. 

I had heard…

That the best part of being nominated  for an Academy Award is the Nominee’s Luncheon. Held a few weeks before the actual ceremony, all the nominees (each of whom can bring one guest) and the Academy’s Board of Governors sit down and eat a meal together.  There’s no pressure, there’s no press, and for a few hours everyone feels like a winner.  

When my wife and I arrived, we were given a table number and we snaked our way to the center of the chandelier-lit room.  We introduced ourselves to the others at our table.  To my left were two empty seats. We were five minutes into the brunch when a booming voice from behind said, “I believe I’m with you.”  I looked back over my shoulder and it was Jack Nicholson.  

Jack came stag.  And he went around the table and introduced himself to each of us.  It was a kind and classy thing to do. He had a choice of chairs, but he took the one next to me, scooted up to the table, and put his napkin in his lap. He asked me about myself.  In an effort to break the ice, I mentioned that we had Mary Steenburgen in common. (He had discovered her, casting her in her first film GOING SOUTH and she had played Mrs. Betty Carver in WHAT’S EATING GILBERT GRAPE.)  We talked about the mid-west, directing films, the Lakers, and here’s where my memory somewhat blurs. We talked and talked and it was dizzying. 

After the meal…

The nominees were asked to assemble for a group photograph, like the kind you do at a high school reunion. When we stood up, Mr. Nicholson said, “Kid, you’re coming with me.”

So I followed Jack Nicholson to a spot  on the upper right bleachers, back row.  During the taking of photographs, he kept talking with me, asking my opinion on the current crop of films, and offering his thoughts. Unbelievable.  Then we were called up one by one to receive our Nomination Certificates and our Nominee Sweatshirts, so we had another 10-15 minutes talking together til they got to ‘H.’

When they called my name, Jack Nicholson patted me on the back and said, “Go get ‘em!”

After he received his Nomination Certificate, Jack Nicholson returned and said goodbye to the table.  He was sorry to go, but he had to get back to work.

Two weeks later, after the awards ceremony …

My wife and I were walking with the glittery crowd through the lobby heading towards the Governor’s Ball, when twenty yards ahead of us, I saw Jack Nicholson making a bee-line for a side exit to his waiting limousine.  He looked in our general direction and said, “Did you have a nice time?” I looked around to see who he was talking to — Sean Connery was on one side and Halle Berry was close by on the other.  My wife elbowed me and whispered, “He’s talking to you.” What?  He remembers me?  ” Oh,” I said, half-shouting, “We had a wonderful time.”

And in that Jack Nicholson voice, he said, “I knew you would.”  Then he was whisked outside to his waiting car and my wife and I went on to the ball.

People are curious, even my dad.   

Soon after the publication of WHAT’S EATING GILBERT GRAPE, my father, an Episcopal priest, was hesitant to ask (but ultimately did) if, like Gilbert Grape, I’d ever had a relationship with an older woman.

I reminded him that I wasn’t Gilbert, that I’d written a novel and there’s a reason we call it fiction.  I could tell these explanations did not satisfy his need to know.

“So you want to know if I had an affair with an older woman?”

He nodded sheepishly.

“First of all, Dad,” I said.  ”It’s none of  your business.”

“I know.  Not my business, I know.”

“Secondly — no, I didn’t.”

He looked relieved.

“But,” I added, “I wish to hell I had.”

And we had a good laugh.

Sometimes …

You write what you wish had happened.  Sometimes you write what you hope will never happen.  Sometimes it has more to do with what you’d love to see other people do, or say, or achieve, or lose.  The freeing part of writing fiction is that you’re not limited by your own experience.  The only limitation is your imagination.  And if you can get past the fear that you might offend or hurt or bore or cause undue worry for your father, then fiction is not only possible, it’s fun.

I didn’t go to prom because I only wanted to go with Brenda Jensen.  She was my dream girl.  She played Emily in OUR TOWN and I wanted to play her George, in large part for the kiss that was scripted at the end of Act II.  (Dan Voecks got the role of George.  I was cast as Mr. Webb, Emily/Brenda’s father.)  In my mind, Brenda and I were perfect for each other.  One day, after choir practice, I asked her if she would go to prom with me.  She laughed. Not cruelly, because Brenda Jensen was incapable of being cruel. Her laugh was more from nervousness.  She didn’t want to hurt me, but I didn’t figure in her prom plans.   You see, Brenda wanted to go to prom with Jay Engel, our handsome class president/champion swimmer.   Who could blame her?

After Brenda delivered her gentle but definitive ‘no’, she added this suggestion:  ”Peter, you should ask Catherine.  She’d like to go to prom with you.”

Catherine Eitel sang with Brenda and me in the Valley Singers.  I liked Catherine.  She was lovely and kind and lived near me on Pleasant Street.   Once we even drove to Resthaven Cemetery where we fed the swans, Jack and Jill, pieces of Wonder Bread.

But imagining that prom moment when I’d look over at Brenda with Jay Engel was too much for me.    So I didn’t ask Catherine.  I stayed home.

For Our 10th High School Reunion…

I flew to Des Moines and rented a red Mustang convertible.  I had been living and struggling in New York City, having had some success as a playwright.  I’d finished writing Gilbert Grape and was dating the woman who was to become my wife.

With my long hair and rented car, I drove to the Val Air ballroom and made a bee-line for Brenda.  It was nice to see her and our other classmates.  I was chatting  with a group of guys when I looked across the room.  Standing alone near the punch bowl, I saw a striking woman looking in my direction.  From that distance, I wasn’t sure, so I started walking toward her.  ”Catherine?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.  It was Catherine Eitel, looking beautiful.  Radiant.

“How have you been?” I asked.   

She told me about her life, her marriage, her kids.  She was happy.  She asked about me.  I told her I had met someone special and that it felt like love.  And as we talked, I started to tear up.

“What is it?”

“Catherine,” I said, “I don’t have many regrets.  In fact, I try to live my life so that I won’t have any.”  I reminded her that in high school I wanted to go to prom with Brenda.

“I know,” she said.

“After Brenda turned me down, she told me to ask you.”

“I know,” she said.

“But I kept picturing Brenda at prom with Jay, and I couldn’t …”

“I understand,” Catherine said.

“But standing here tonight and talking with you, I feel like such an asshole.  Because I wish more than anything I had asked you to prom.”

Catherine smiled and said, with a touch of sadness, “We would’ve had fun.”

I’d like to make an important point about writing.  And life.

Sometimes it all comes down to one word.

Let me explain.  I was a young man.  In my early twenties.  Simply put, in my circle of friends, I was the only virgin left.   I was holding out for someone special.  One day that someone special sat down next to me. We were in Mill Valley, CA, and it was a hot summer day.  She wore a summer dress and cowboy boots and she smelled of patchouli oil.  The young woman asked me if she could ask me something.

“Sure,” I said.  ”Ask away.”

“Peter, are you a virgin?”

I felt myself blush.  I think I sensed where this was headed. She was about to make me an offer, an offer I would be a fool to refuse. Stay cool, I told myself.  Stay cool.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure, but I think you’re a virgin.”

“And if I am? ”

“Then I’d like to take that from you.”

Take?  Take, as in to steal?

If she’d said share as in “I’d like to share that moment with you.” Or give as in “I’d like to give you the most mind-blowing, life-altering first experience ever” then maybe…

But no, she said take and that was the end of that.

Sometimes it all comes down to one word.

after taking my son and his friends to see a movie, I stopped by BookCourt, our neighborhood bookstore.  BookCourt is one of the finest independent bookstores in America.  Owned and operated by Henry and Mary and their son Zack, it is a cozy place to book shop, and with a recent expansion, it now features a huge back room ideal for readings. (In fact, just last week the great Don DeLillo read from his new novel, POINT OMEGA, in what I understand to be his only public event.)   Future readings are advertised in the window, and for weeks now, the announcement of my reading from THE HEIGHTS on March 4th has been on view. Tonight, though, it hit home.  In six days I will be reading at my home bookstore, for my family, friends, and neighbors.  My first thought was “Wow, what a beautiful place to launch a novel.”  Then I thought, “I hope people come.”  And then I thought how my mother would have loved this whole set-up.

I had been told …

That my novel was on display in the great, back room, even though it’s not yet for sale, not until the 4th.  There are rules about such things, and BookCourt plays by the rules.  But, yep, there it was, THE HEIGHTS, a whole row of copies, all facing front.  It was jarring, and thrilling, and nervous-making.  I thought the cover looked fantastic and with the class-act display lighting of BookCourt, it really popped.  But maybe in the same way that one’s own children stand-out at the Holiday sing.

So I left BookCourt and came home and decided to write this blog.  I have no funny story to add, or pithy point-of-view, only this: It’s astonishing what we can do on the internet.  We can order pretty much anything without leaving our house or even talking to a person. Sometimes that’s the only option.   But if possible, whenever possible, support your local bookstore.  In the weeks ahead, I’ll be reading at some of the great bookstores in America.   I can’t believe my own sweet luck.  Mostly, though, I’m grateful it all starts close to home at BookCourt.

In 1998, at a book signing in my hometown of West Des Moines, I looked up into the long line and saw yet another familiar face. I had known this person well in high school and had many fond memories. I began to blurt them out — “I remember ushering at the Des Moines Community Playhouse together, I remember the Guthrie Trip. I remember our tireless search for a Johnny West doll in second-hand stores all throughout Des Moines.” I listed a series of memories so specific and in such detail that even I was impressed not only by what we had shared, but that I remembered having shared it. Regrettably, in that moment, I couldn’t remember her name. I could tell she was hurt. The good news is I will never forget her name again. The bad news? She will probably never return for a book signing.

But it gets better, or worse, depending on your point of view.

A few years ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with an out-of-the-blue regret.

At the same book signing in West Des Moines, the mother of a girl I dated in high school stood before me. Her daughter’s locker had been thirteen lockers down from mine my senior year. It took me many weeks to muster up the courage to ask her out. We went on one date, my only actual date in high school. Cable TV had come to Iowa and I drove her to my house where we watched A LITTLE ROMANCE on HBO. I told my date that she reminded me of the then young Diane Lane. Needless to say, the girl never went out with me again, and I can’t say that I blame her. It was a lame date. I was too timid. She was too pretty. And members of my family kept coming in and out of the room.

So I was in West Des Moines at that book signing and her mother, who had worked part-time in the high school library when I was a student, was standing before me. She told me proudly that her daughter had recently gotten married.

In my haste, and feeling a wee bit punchy, I dashed off an inscription…

To [Her Name], who married the wrong man.

Many years later, in the middle of the night, I woke up bothered by what I had written. I was bugged. Something about ‘wrong man’ seemed harsh and inappropriate.

Surprisingly, within that year, I came into contact with her older sister and was able to express my concern over the inscription. I learned that my signed novel had been given to her sister as a Christmas gift, and that when she read the inscription… well, my memory is that she cried… or was upset… or maybe just disturbed. Bottom line, she gave the book away. For this, too, I can hardly blame her. I actually would have recommended a ceremonial burning.

In an effort to make amends, I signed another book and sent it her way. I can’t remember what I wrote, but hopefully that book she kept.

the Silverstein twins and I were hanging out at their house when they decided it was Time.  In their living room, with the door closed, they explained the ‘The Bases.’

It was one of those everything-slows-down, breathing-is-difficult, feel-your-heart-pound moments.  I left their house, changed.

Overwhelmed with this new, mind-blowing information, I did the only thing I could think to do:  I wrote a book — my first.  I composed it in secret, using colored pencils, crayons, and small squares of colored paper held together by a lone staple.  It was my version of what I believed sex to be.  I don’t remember my book’s title or if it even had a plot.  Written quickly, in a white heat, my book was also illustrated.  On one page, I drew a primitive baseball diamond and wrote down my nine-year-old version of how to get to first base, steal second, hit a triple, and, ultimately, score a home run.

I kept my book hidden in my pants pocket and carried it with me everywhere.  I knew I’d written something dangerous.  I kept it close because what if it fell into the wrong hands?

But the moment came when I needed to share my work.  So I brought my book back to Lee Silverstein.  I don’t remember his reaction, but he must have liked it because he gave it to his sister, Leslie, who was in high school.

I will never forget…

Her gasp.  That stunned look.  She was shocked that little Peter Hedges could write such a thing, even though I didn’t understand what I’d written.  I was sorry to have upset her, I knew I was in trouble, but another part of me felt something different – for the first time, I felt the thrill of being read.

Mrs. Mendenhall

Miss Blink

Lisa Lilly

Kelly Cox

Dayna Fox

Mr. Herr

Kyle Kirtley

Harley Head

Isabella Fine

Jodi Elder

Tina Outlaw

Deborah Dawn

Burt Perlow

Chad Simms

and finally, for me, the Holy Grail of names…

Joni Jerome.