HOPE as an acronym defined by a psEUdonym streaming from Port Hueneme...where I linger sweaty and hunchbacked over a fracturing Horse's ASUS keyboard-endeavoring to muster a humorous nod to Ian Bernard.
By Eugene Pidgeon
Once, while chewing the patois over lunch at a bistro on Coast Village Road in Montecito and while he was gnawing through a portion of loosely connected paragraphs of mine, Ian Bernard uttered, and as his eyes filled with a resolutely glazed and lustrous indifference, "Pidgeon, there may be HOPE for you yet, but not with this drivel."
My reaction was stark and immediate. "Alas," in my best Dorothy Parker. I swooned with open hand over brow, "HOPE-all the Hell On Planet Earth-Heaped On Poor Eugene." It got Ian's attention.
"Say that again!"
I did.
"Geez, Pidgeon, I always knew you had it in you." Really, an emerging shot of praise, or possibly an affirmation coming from Ian Bernard. "Now, get rid of it. Never say that again."
I learned a great deal from my friend and mentor, Ian Bernard. "Don't be clever, Pidgeon. Be smart."
I asked him what he meant.
He explained to me how in life and in writing, clever is often unsure of itself, which is why it always yearns to have the last word, the punchline. The last word and the punchline are not necessarily the end game or the quarry of smart. Patience, rhythm and confidence are the muscles of smart. Smart is all about endurance, the long run and about responding. Clever is more about the short terms of flash and of immediate reaction. Smart engages to create relationships and to build an audience. Clever just pouts and demands attention.
He was exactly right in my case.
As our repast came to a close, Ian asked me, "So what's it gonna be, Pidgeon? Do you wanna be clever or smart?"
"Why can't I be both, like you, Ian?"
"Now, there's a smart question?" With that, he grabbed the check for lunch from my hand. "You get the next one, Pidgeon!"
Careful not to abuse the last word with a thank you...I kept silent but nodded in gratitude. Whatta clever boy? Not only had Ian Bernard treated me to lunch, but he had also engaged me with his patience, his rhythm and his confidence-all of which became clearer and more precious to me as our relationship grew.
We had our fights, as our tempests flew and our tempers flared. Don't even ask me about the piece I tried to write on him that was eventually published in the Montecito Journal in 2002 or 2003.
It was a total screeching affair. I think his fuse was lit when I misstated and called his prized Saluki Hounds, Afghan Hounds. When he sternly corrected me, just to add a little fluid to the fire...I "responded" in my third draft...Saluki Hounds, they are almost hairless, like Afghan Hounds after chemo.
Needless to say, this prompted an uproar and a fourth and a fifth revision. I had not given him any pre-submission line-item veto privileges, but he commandeered them anyway.
When all was said and done, I stood my ground with him. I was terrified but had survived and somehow kept his respect. I knew the piece would be better, and, despite his liberal interference, when the article finally came out, we were both happy with it. We were still friends.
Ultimately, Ian Bernard was my abiding crucible. He found something in me and in my writing. He gave me his patience-loaned me his rhythm and his confidence until I could find and trust my own. Ian would not tolerate self-pity-of any sort. He was like a shark that can detect a single drop of blood in the water from five miles away. This is how sensitive Ian Bernard was to self-pity. Self-pity actually seemed to nauseate him. I learned my lesson.
Ian rattled me good once. I was complaining about the severity, the cruelty of his cursory edit of a piece I had put all my heart and soul into. "Oh, stop your whining, Pidgeon. Don't you know how anything worth editing is worth publishing?"
I did not know. He hadn't torn it up or pitched it in the trash. Instead, he marked it up, gave it back and admonished me to fix it. I did. He invited me to read the final draft to our group and to a beautiful and lingering reception.
Mister Bernard taught me how to defend my words and how to retreat from them. He taught me how to tell a story and how to write one. The only question he ever held me to-and no matter what else was happening, "Pidgeon, have you finished your goddam book?"
2001-The World Trade Center is destroyed by terrorists. I book a tour with Ozzie Osbourne and Rob Zombie. “Yes but…Have you finished your book?”
2002-I undergo severe spinal surgery. I lapse into respiratory arrest-due to post surgical pain management and almost die. “Yes but, have you FINISHED your book?”
2003-I launch a campaign to change policy at SAG-AFTRA with regards to how dwarf “Short-Statured” actors are recognized. My campaign is championed by the LA Times and the New Yorker Magazine. We are given our own lobby. “Yes but, HAVE you FINISHED your book?”
2004-I become the first and only dwarf on record to have successfully trained to fly solo in ultralight aircraft. “YES BUT, HAVE YOU FINISHED YOUR BOOK?”
2006-I am accepted to the YALE University Summer Writing Program. “PIDGEON, HAVE YOU FINISHED YOUR GODDAM BOOK?”
“No but…” Slam!
This summer, The Santa Barbara Writer's Conference returns from June 21-26 at the Mar Monte Hotel. Ian Bernard took me to my very first conference in 2000. I didn't attend another until 2023.
The 2026 Santa Barbara Writer's Conference will be remembering Ian Bernard, who was evicted from this mortal coil in 2022. I never was able to say goodbye or to thank him for everything he had given me. The only thanks he ever really wanted was for me to finish my book.
Ian Bernard would give his patience, his rhythm and his lifetime to the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference and to the care and preservation of writers--to the care and preservation of me. And sometimes his ire, which I later determined was his love.
I love Ian Bernard. It is with a bittersweet verve and a sadness that comes with his absence, I can now pronounce, "Hey, Ian, after 26 years I have finally finished my goddam book! Thank you. “
Ian Bernard on stage at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference circa 1999
