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I assume you’re familiar with the television juggernaut, American Idol. This is the show where aspiring rock stars sing a snippet of a song for a panel of been-there-done-that rock stars. If the majority of the judges give a thumbs up then the aspirant moves on to the next round. This show has been so successful that it has spawned a variety of other Idols. This past weekend I attended one as part of the Boston Book Festival: Writer Idol.

At Writer Idol, aspiring authors submit the first 250 words of their manuscript, anonymously. Pages are picked at random and read out loud for the judges, three literary agents this year. This was the third annual BBF, and the third time I’ve attended this session and submitted a first page. My fantasy is that my page will be chosen, the judges will all love it, and one of them will sign me to a contract on the spot. Not only has that not happened (yet), but it flies in the face of what the audience is advised to expect. The session description warns that it is “…not for the thin-skinned!”

The agents are not kind. They are not quite Simon Cowell, but neither are they Paula Abdul. They are all straight shooters and unapologetic. Since they would be the first to admonish you to avoid clichés, none of them would say, “Don’t give up your day job,” but it is clear that that is what they are thinking. Their comments can be amusing, particularly if it’s not your piece they are eviscerating. In fact, the draw of this session has parallels with Gladiator games of yore. The audience comes expecting metaphorical blood. At the very least, they embrace the opportunity to wallow in schadenfreude, other people’s misery, or in this case, humiliation.

Some attendees are there to learn how to write a tighter first page, or more accurately, how to write a first page that will compel an editor or agent to read the second page. The most important thing the new writer learns, however, is that they need to write a kick-ass first sentence that will grab the reader’s attention, for to hear the judges tell it, these readers have the patience of a three-year-old waiting for his turn with a new toy.

There are a set of rules that new writers can follow if they want to maximize their chances of having the first page read to completion. Some of the simpler ones are; don’t start with waking up from a dream; don’t mention any bodily fluids; and don’t have the protagonist describe themselves in a mirror. Unless the first sentence is so incredibly good that it doesn’t matter if your character is waking up, or peeing, or looking in the mirror. In which case, all bets are off.

Writer Idol is something every new writer should attend at least once. It could be just the push they need to give up this writing nonsense and get a real job. Or it could convince them that with all the drek agents and editors need to wade through, they are bound to appreciate yours when they finally pull it out of the slush pile. I give that three thumbs up.

I wear a set of silver bracelets on my left wrist. The first was given to me when I was thirteen. Then my mother went through a silver work phase that produced several more. When I was in high school, I worked at a bookstore next to a jewelry store. I became friendly with the husband and wife jewelers and spent my breaks there. That relationship begat a small silver pig ─ and several more bangles. I was sixteen and wearing ten bracelets when I stopped adding to the collection that I still wear every day.

But this piece is not about silver bracelets. It’s about watches, which for years I didn’t wear because my left wrist was otherwise occupied. I used a cheap pocket watch for a time, but after cracking the crystal on my second or third one, I decided to carry a wristwatch in my purse instead. That solution, however, was inconvenient and as a result I became one of those annoying people who asked everyone else what time it was.

In a moment of pure inspiration, my sister gave me a plain silver bangle, whose simple lines are interrupted, oh-so-briefly, by a small watch face. On my wrist it blends in and looks like one of my bracelets. I wear it, too, every day.

Periodically, the watch stops and I take it to Swanson Jewelers. While I wait, they pry off the back and replace the battery. This simple, inexpensive service has made me a loyal customer; I want their business to stay strong. I know watch sales are suffering because young people today use their cell phones to tell the time. I don’t remember where I first heard that, but I found an MSNBC article that says as much. And if that doesn’t do it for you, ask a stray teen what time it is and see what happens.

Recently, I came across a watch that had belonged to my husband’s grandmother. It’s a pretty little thing with a small face, and a thin, gold, flexible band. I thought it might be fun to wear as an accessory on my non-silvered wrist. I set the time, slipped it on and waited for the second hand to start moving. It didn’t. I took it off and made a note to take it to Swanson Jewelers to get the battery replaced.

A few days later, as I left the house with the watch, I had an epiphany: older watches don’t have batteries. I twisted the little button on the side, the same button I set the time with, back and forth, back and forth, in a motion driven by my sensory memory, and the second hand started its rounds.

I was going to rant about cell phones replacing watches and how technology undermines everything we hold dear. Now, I’m too embarrassed. Even I can’t argue that watch batteries are new technology. Instead I will point out that I own a variety of timepieces, and that there is a place, and yes, a time, for all of them.

I heard some disturbing news; my beloved Netflix will be changing its name to Qwikster. Oh, there’ll still be something called Netflix, but it won’t be the service that sends me DVDs in red envelopes. The service I’ve been using and touting for years is being renamed. And it will have its own web site. And it will not be integrated with Netflix.

I was surprised at how upset I was when I heard the news. It felt like Netflix was breaking up with me. There were signs, to be sure. Some time ago, they introduced a Play Now feature that let you choose whether to have a movie shipped to you on DVD or streamed. I was never all that interested in watching the streaming movies. Paging through the Play Now list evoked the same feeling as flipping through TV Guide looking for something I didn’t mind watching.

DVDs, on the other hand, feel more – deliberate. Before I put a DVD into the machine I read the blurb on the sleeve to remind myself what it’s about, who’s in it, and why I wanted to see it. The physical act of taking it out of its sleeve and putting it on the platter makes me feel as if I’m about to have an experience.

Then Netflix started to charge separately for the streaming service and they raised the rate on DVD rentals. My husband and I argued about what to do. Being the geekier of the two of us, and the one whose credit card is hit every month, he was immediately interested in giving up the DVDs and converting to a life of streaming. I pointed out that Netflix was not streaming the most recent releases. If we wanted to see them in a timely fashion, we’d need to keep the physical DVDs coming. We compromised; we’d pay for streaming, and we’d drop the number of DVDs from three at a time to one. Naively, I thought that was going to be the end of that.

And now I find out that I’m about to be a customer of Qwikster. Qwikster. I hate that name; it bears no relation to Netflix. It sounds like they wanted to get as far away from the existing brand as they could. If not, why didn’t they name it Qwikflix? I checked the US Patent and Trademark Office; it’s available.

Reed Hastings, the co-founder and CEO of Netflix sent us an email with the subject, An Explanation and Some Reflections. He said, “I messed up. I owe everyone an explanation. It is clear from the feedback over the past two months that many members felt we lacked respect and humility in the way we announced the separation of DVD and streaming, and the price changes. That was certainly not our intent, and I offer my sincere apology.” I don’t care about the price, or the separation of the business units. I care that I am now a customer of a company with a stupid name, and the hip cool brand is attached to a process I’m having trouble embracing. I can’t hear myself saying, “Did the mail come? Is there a new Qwikster disc?”

Oh forget it. There are plenty of good books to read.

When was the last time you stopped to look at the things you have stuck to your refrigerator? If you’re like most people, it’s covered with all kinds of miscellaneous stuff; photos of friends and family, the town recycling schedule, postcards, report cards ─ all manner of things that can be attached by magnets. Magnets themselves can be the medium; the season schedule for the Red Sox, a calendar in six point type courtesy of a local realtor, a faux business card with the dentist’s information.

Some magnets are for entertainment; phrases for creating poetry, flat figures you can stick clothes on, plastic letters to help your child learn the alphabet. (The latter usually relegated to the bottom so the intended audience can reach them.)

It doesn’t take long before all these bits and pieces that you thought were worth saving become the visual equivalent of white noise.

Why do we do decorate refrigerators? They’re not sold with a set of magnets. The specifications list doesn’t say Freezer Capacity: 7.1 cubic feet, Refrigerator Capacity: 17.6 cubic feet, Display Area: 3 square feet. And yet, we clutter them up as soon as they’re plugged in, before the first ice cubes are frozen.

I think it’s because we delude ourselves into believing that the refrigerator is a transitional posting place. We stick the hand print painting our three year old did on the fridge not because we think it’s beautiful, but because we want the child to think we think it’s beautiful. We intend that artwork to be in its place of pride for a week or two, not the many years (going on forever) that it actually hangs there.

We have a photo of one of our cats on our fridge. It has been slowly fading for years. I expect one day, when the last vestige of the image disappears, I’ll hear a poof and that cat will be gone, victim of a twisted, refrigerator version of the Picture of Dorian Gray.

Once in a great while I come across a refrigerator that is not decorated in memorabilia. I have a friend with a high end kitchen whose refrigerator is disguised as a cabinet (which makes it hard to find the wine). But then, she also has a mirrored wall that effectively hides the door to the bathroom (which makes it hard to find the bathroom).

While residents of the house may no longer see what’s posted on their refrigerator, it still provides entertainment for visitors. And it helps them find the wine.

The ATM I use most regularly is in the vestibule of the closest branch of my bank, Citizens Bank. I didn’t choose to be a customer of theirs. My original bank was sold years ago, and then that bank was swallowed by Citizens, and here I am. I know that using another bank’s ATM or an anonymous machine inside a convenience store or at a gas station can cost money, but since I’ve never done that I haven’t given it much thought, until now.

The other day, I stopped at my ATM to deposit a check and get some cash. I was leaning on a counter, filling out the deposit envelope when someone came in and went up to the machine. It was hard not to notice him, he was wearing a day-glo yellow vest, and impossible to ignore him when he began grumbling at the machine. When he turned to go he said, loud enough to invite comment, “I’ll never use that damn machine again.” I clucked sympathetically having no idea what the problem was, while he continued, “It has a three fifty charge! I just paid three fifty to get twenty bucks.” I replied with something like, “Ouch, that does hurt,” as he pushed open the door and left. And really, why should he have to pay three dollars and fifty cents to get money out of a machine whose expense had most likely long since been amortized to nothing and whose upkeep is pennies compared to what it would cost to pay a live person inside the bank?

When I left the bank I saw a garbage truck double-parked and unattended down the block and concluded that its driver was probably the guy from the ATM. I figured he must have gotten money so he could pop into Panera’s for coffee. I was tempted to try to find him and offer to buy him coffee to make up for the three fifty, but I was afraid that would seem condescending. After a moment of waffling, I went home.

Then I got my monthly paper statement from the bank. It includes images of checks I’ve written which they now charge three dollars for. Still feeling indignant on behalf of the garbage man, I decided to call the bank to cancel the check images. That’s when I discovered that the images only cost one dollar a month; the paper statement itself costs two dollars. I was furious. The woman on the phone pointed out that it wasn’t her fault, and I couldn’t disagree so instead I yelled, “I’m too angry to finish this conversation,” and hung up without making the change.

I like getting the statement in the mail. I may decide that it’s worth two dollars a month to keep getting it, but what about people with low incomes and no computers? This is like the twisted logic that people with high enough balances in their checking accounts are exempt from the maintenance fees that less fortunate people pay. I understand that that is the bank’s way to thank consumers for using their money, but it’s also an example of how the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

My most recent statement, the one that cost me two dollars, indicated that I’d earned a dollar sixty five in interest, not even enough for a cup of coffee, no matter who’s drinking it.