Skip Corsini is one of the nicest guys I've never met. Our lives
have intersected entirely electronically. Yet we have shared some of the
most hard-won truths of our separate trajectories. His own story of
affliction appears overleaf.
I wasn't looking for it and if, five minutes before I'd laid eyes
on it, you had asked me the odds that I'd be running an article by an
untested writer about his own legacy of pain, I might not even have
deigned to answer. Not that I'm callous. But it's hard even for an
experienced writer to exercise the kind of emotional restraint needed to
power a deeply personal narrative.
Corsini placed himself in my path quite unobtrusively. On February
25, I received an email that said in its entirety:
Hi, Ms. Marano, I received my first issue of Blues Buster today and
am curious to know if the attached pieces would be of interest to the
publication. Thank you.
Skip Corsini
I had no idea who he was. But impressed by the modesty of his
request, I took the time to look over the material. I sent a message
back:
Thanks very much for reading Blues Buster and sending me the
material. You are quite a good writer.
As for the piece on depression and kids, I'd like to hold on to it
for an issue devoted to depression and kids. Actually, I'd like to speak
to you about it, interview you for it, as you have both the experience as
child and perspective as parent. Not to mention a good sense of
humor.
The other piece, I'm trying to figure a way to use it. I like it.
[It was a humor piece about depression. It's hard to pull off a humorous
article about anything. But about depression? This one had considerable
charm.]
I like your forthright style and the authority of experience that
you have. Let's talk about ways I can use your insight.
We had a phone conversation, in the course of which he alluded to
his own history of depression, and its sources. Gently, I asked him more,
not wanting to probe where there might be fresh pain. What surprised me
was his understanding of the generations that had come before him and
what they gave him besides a vulnerability to depression. I told him that
his family history would make a great story, and asked if he might be
willing to take a crack at writing it.
Late that night at home, I opened the first draft, skeptically. How
could anyone put something meaningful together so quickly? But Skip must
have been in the zone that gave him clear access to himself. He surprised
me. I knew this article was going to work out fine. I also know what it's
like to write your guts out, so I shot Skip a quick note that I was
"reading and liking" but not to mistake the lack of a definitive response
for anything negative. I was just busy.
This was sensitive stuff and we were learning to trust each
other.
I called Skip the next day to go over his first draft. It was nice
and taut. Still, I had questions; there were places I wanted additional
information or explanation. He told me more about his life. I have no
idea how long we talked. I followed up with another email:
I came away from our discussions knowing that we had quite some
meaningful exchanges. I know I had tears in my eyes, so I can only
imagine the experience for you.
I don't get to this place often in my professional conversations.
But it's a precious moment for me to connect on such a meaningful level
with another human being.
So thank you for the conversation and the opportunity to edit. I
have a feeling we have just begun a nice long relationship.
What I think I like best about Skip's story is the bittersweetness
of his insight. We yearn for perfection. Life doesn't come at us that
way. It can't. Bittersweetness has become my favorite flavor.
To read Skip's story,
click here.
Tags:
affliction,
depression,
five minutes,
good sense of humor,
legacy,
modesty,
narrative,
odds,
personal narrative,
phone conversation,
sense of humor,
story,
trajectories
