sometimes Jon Stewart is all that keeps me patriotic

Remember Jon Stewart's first show after 9/11?

I still cry when I watch the clip.  I'm trying to sum up why I am so affected by his speech and I can't.  But that night, Jon Stewart made the pain a little more ok.

And now, via a blurb on www.nymag.com (because I can't figure out how to embed this video), his latest proof that dissent and anger can be patriotic.  That there are people in the media, if not the government, who love this country in a way that makes me love it, too.  

Jon Stewart's response to Republican's fillibustering the Zadroga Bill.

I don't intend this blog to be political.  So if you don't agree with my politics, read this as a post about one writer/artist/comedian/journalist's abilities to touch others with his voice.

Special Topics in Reader Alchemy

I just finished Marisha Pessl’s Special Topics in Calamity Physics this weekend.  It took me two months to read.  This is not common for me.  I read quickly and I read books to their ends.  Setting a novel down for days at a time, closing the covers with a huff after only having read 10 pages, it’s just not me.  And it is not Ms. Pessl either.  Rather, there was a strange alchemy: Special Topics in Calamity Physics + me = disgust.

When I was only a few pages in, I turned to a dear friend and beta, who is quite the literary kindred spirit, and said, “You have to read this book.  I think you will love it.” 

Said Literary Kindred Spirit, “I read it and I can’t put my finger on why but it annoyed the shit out of me.”

As I, too, began to get annoyed, I wondered what it was about this book that had so irked us both.  The characters are great, the plot fun and well laid out, the relationships bore the hallmark of reality, and the writing was clever.  So, why did we both have trouble with this book?

The answer, when it dawned on me, was intriguing.

The protagonist and narrator, Blue Van Meer (we’ll get into her name in a future post), is a precocious young woman.  That should not annoy either Kindred Spirit or me, as we could both relate.  

Blue is incredibly well read and clever, citing sources through the novel.  In the first pages, it is charming but after a while, not so much.  Blue suffered a characteristic that a clutch of Kindred Spirit and my college friends (did I mention we developed our similar literary palates at college together?) shared.  This group all went to a prestigious private high school where they were taught that the height of education was proven by the ability to hold erudite cocktail party conversation about anything.  They were raised to quote Rumi and Janis Joplin and Euclid with equal ease.  But only one quote per source; cocktail party clever is a mile wide and an inch deep.  I am not friends with anyone from this clutch anymore as their friendships, like polite banter, ran shallow.

Hence, my disgust with Blue Van Meer.

I am writing about this, not because of my dislike for the character, and not because I genuinely think Ms. Pessl wrote a great book that you should read (and you should!), but because this reading experience reminded me that writing is a dialogue.  As a writer, I try to think about my reader, try to imagine a pace that will keep them interested and characters that are dimensional and true to themselves while likeable enough to read.  But I forget that readers are each individuals that bring their own thoughts.  No reader is a target demographic, they are people who went to college with hurtful clever people and who cry easily at depictions of father-daughter relationships and dislike Westerns solely because the simple and innocent always gets tortured just to hurt the harder protagonist.

I’m not sure how this reminder will affect my writing but I sincerely hope it will.

i'm baffled by fan fiction

Deep breath.  This might be the most embarrassing admission I’ve ever made on this blog.  Really, no “might” about it.  Deep breath.  Sometimes, I read fan fiction.  You have no idea how much I want to delete that last sentence.

I read fan fiction because I’m an addict.  There are characters and worlds that I love spending time with so much that the authors’ creations simply aren’t enough for me.  It’s no excuse, but it’s my explanation.  Pushing past my utter horror at the fact that I engage in this behavior, I want to talk about fan fiction for a moment, because I find its existence and boundaries strange.

Before I read any myself, I would read interviews with favorite authors that responded to inquiries about fan fiction by saying it was sad that such talented people didn’t go out and write their own stories.  I always brushed this answer off as a way for authors to say, “Paws off my intellectual property!” without alienating card core fans.  But now that I’ve read some, I find myself agreeing with their sentiments.

A lot of fan fic is bad.  There are far fewer good writers out there than people realize.  And even with betas, the lack of a filter (like publishing) makes for an astounding reservoir of crap.  That is to be expected.  It is uninteresting.

What I find more remarkable are writers who write “alternate universe” stories.  Edward is an injured WWII marine and Bella is his nurse.  Sookie meets Eric first and is less of a whiney idiot.  Hermoine and Ron have a crazy threesome with Neville in Minneapolis.  Dream and Death open an all-night diner in Detroit.  Between the alternate settings, the changes in the universe, the leeway with character, these stories have nothing in common with the source material but names.  It makes me groan because I if I wanted to read a beautiful WWII love story, I would read Atonement, not Bella/Edward fan fic with lemons.

I don’t understand this type of fan fiction.  I do, however, understand authors’ comments about how sad fan fic can be.  Some of the writers are genuinely talented.  They write plots that compel me and turn a phrase that makes me laugh aloud or ache.  But what they write isn’t theirs.  The ones who write stories that fit with cannon make me happy and I hope they can write stories of their own.  The ones whose stories in no way resemble the source make me want to say, “change the names and go get published!”  Some of these stories are 130,000 words!

I’ve read all of one fan fic author’s work and then emailed her to say that I enjoyed the stories and I sincerely hoped she was working on something of her own because she is too good to not.  The woman plays with narrative structure and writes stunningly beautiful, powerful sentences.   I was glad to hear that she is working on her first novel.  I would read anything this woman writes.  Even alternate universe stories wherein the characters are fighting in Vietnam.

I understand that most fan fic writers create their stories for the same reason I read them. Because I don’t want to let beloved series end.  I am grateful, saddened by their time and effort, and embarrassed for myself.

just because it made me smile

I liked Nathan Bransford's post today about the fallacies about authors who have made it.  But more than the post in general, I loved the end and feel the need to quote it for you now:

"We keep striving no matter how high we've climbed, even those who have climbed the highest. Pressure can cut into satisfaction, and the spotlight can be uncomfortable.

It all reminds me of the speed of light (or at least my own understanding of the speed of light, which is likely wildly flawed). The way my understanding of the physics of light works is that no matter how fast you personally are traveling, from your perspective a beam of light will still look like it's traveling at the speed of light. You can't travel alongside a beam of light. There's no catching up.

And I think there's actually something great about that. There will always be something to chase, always something to strive for, always another horizon to pursue. Who wants to be perfectly contented? Where's the excitement in that? There will always be something great to chase around the bend."

on beauty

Two nights ago, I saw Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake at City Center.  The first time I saw the piece was eleven years ago, when the production first came to Broadway.  I was entranced and have since watched my DVD a number of times.  But Tuesday night was the first time I watched the show in its entirety in a long time.

I love the music.  I love every aspect of this production.  I can no longer imagine a version with a female dancing the part of the Swan because, really, female swans don’t make sense.  Swans are powerful, majestic, and cruel.  There is something inherently masculine about their physical strength.

I missed Adam Cooper.  His portrayal of the Swan was unimaginably layered.  Tuesday’s performance was good, better than good, even.  But something was missing.  With a flick of the wrist or a curve of his shoulder, Adam Cooper could evoke the movements of a bird, but also cruelty, love, lust, and aloofness.  There are no words to describe how many contrary emotions he could call with his wrist.

And that is what I want to write about.  The best dance I’ve ever seen hits me in the gut.  The emotions are so intense that it almost hurts to feel the loss or joy or anger or love.  Just being witness to the beauty and grace makes me ache.  When watching Swan Lake or my friend’s old brilliant dance company in college, tides of emotion start in the space between my solar plexus and my stomach and just radiate outward.

I don’t understand.

When I returned home Tuesday night, I tried to explain the production to my husband.  But in putting the relationship between the Prince and the Swan into words, I flattened it, deadened it.  The beauty of Swan Lake is that, without words, they dance simultaneous, contradictory, non-narrative relationships.

Does the Swan love the Prince?

Does the Swan torture the Prince?

Does the Swan protect the Prince?

Does the Swan feel remorse?

Does he hate the Prince?

Is he a perpetrator or a victim?

Is the Stranger actually the Swan?

Does the Swan want the Queen?

Does the Swan only dance with the women to hurt the Prince?

Is the Swan real or a figment of the Prince’s insanity?

Is the Swan capable of love?

Is the Swan capable of anything but cruelty?

Is this a story of requited or unrequited love?

Is this a story about insanity?

The answer is yes.

Try telling that relationship in narrative.  Try using words.  I dare you.  It doesn’t work.

After spending a number of years studying linguistics, cognitive science, literature, and art—and after spending even more years as a human being—I have come to the conclusion that people do not think in words.  Words come later.  Thoughts, emotions, happen on a pre-linguistic level.  Sure, our language affects how we think in the same way that picture frames affect what we see.  Thank you, Sapir Wharf.  But that’s it; words focus, but do not define, thought.  Haven’t you ever felt an emotion that you couldn’t put into words—not because you couldn’t remember the right one but because none existed for it? 

That’s what makes dance so profound for me.  It can tap into my emotions—into who I am—on a pre-linguistic level. Not sure what the lesson or conclusion I should draw from this is, as a writer.  I’m sure there is one.  Today, I am still just reeling from the raw experience.

community of loners

I've started to query agents and really, the idea of it is just making me queasy.  So instead of focusing desperately on my inbox, I am going to blog about a bit of writing common wisdom that I disagree with.

Writing is a lonely practice.

Writers, industry professionals, commentators all agree.  But I don't.

Sure, when I am writing, I do so alone.  I have all of these characters and visions swirling around my head.  I type at breakneck pace in fear that I will lose a morsel before I have time to commit it to the page.  In these moments, I like my solitude.  It is necessary.  I don't feel lonely, I feel invigorated.  In truth, the aspects of my life that intrude on that solitude--work, family, friends, husband, cats--only make me angry at those times.

But what about when the frenzy is over?  Nearly a year of editing, rewriting, beta's critiques, researching agents, query writing, and (cringe) the synopsis.

During this year, it was the community of writers and industry professionals that kept me sane.  Reading the many agent blogs taught me a great deal about the process of finding an agent, what a good query letter is, the do's and don'ts.  Comments on that blog let me know that my fears and misunderstandings were not my own.  A whole community of writers shared them with me.  Beta readers made me feel better in my blue days and kicked my ass into gear on my tired ones.  Forums helped me refine my work and support others'.

Perhaps this says more about my social life in the real world than anything else.  I am not a partier.  I do not have a large group of friends.  I do not attend a religious group or a book club.  So this community of writers and readers and publishing industry good Samaritans has made me feel... well... a part of something.

So, thank you for sharing your manuscripts, your critiques and your wisdom.  I am humbled to be part of this crowd.

put a fork in it

Huh.  I think I finished FLIGHT.  This is weird.

Thirteen months after I began writing the first scenes--eleven of which have been spent on editing--I think I am ready to begin querying agents.  I've gotten the incredible input of 3.5 beta readers (I'll let you speculate about what that .5 means) and now feel like I've gotten it to a high plateau.

I've written my query letter template and have research agents, even begun personalizing the queries to them.  The synopsis, much as it makes me cringe, is as close to uncringeworthy as it might ever be.

So, what is stopping me from querying?

I'm petrified.  Literally paralyzed with fear.

Is FLIGHT really done?  It's not the grand work that it is in my head.  But according to this elegant article by Michael Cunningham, that is to be expected.  I'm happy with FLIGHT.  I like what I have done with it.  It is imperfect but it is my offering.  (Three points to whoever picks up on that reference.)  But am I querying to early?  Is FLIGHT really finished?  Is the query the best it can be?  The synopsis?  All I can say is that I am happy with what they are.

I am sincerely hoping that by this time next week I will have worked past the nausea sufficiently to start putting it out there.

Keep breathing.

emphasizing the real in paranormal

Following hot on the heels of my ode to paranormal, here is Sarah La Polla's take on the realism inherent in successful paranormal and how to harness it.  While I love the entire post, point #1 jumped out at me.  Plus, anyone that can reference Kafka and Buffy in the same post just makes me happy.  Read, ponder, comment.

ode to paranormal

Holding this particularly episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer up as an example of what made the show transcendent is a bit of a cliché, but I’m going to start my blog post here anyway.  “Surprise.”  It is the episode in the second season wherein Buffy and her vampire-with-a-soul boyfriend Angel have sex.  The unanticipated consequence of which is that Angel loses his soul and becomes evil.  More than any afterschool special or high school health class could possibly hope to accomplish, this episode and the rest of the season manifest a terrible truth for many young women: “I thought he loved me, we had sex, and then he became a monster.”

Women don’t ever say, “I thought he loved me, we had sex, and then he started behaving in a way that made me feel as hurt and betrayed and scared as I would if he had become evil.”  No, they say, “he became a monster.” 

Therein lies the weight of Buffy and all of the best in paranormal/sci-fi/fantasy/magic realism.  By shirking the boundaries set by realism, these genres allow artists to get to the emotional truth of a story and put it forward in a concrete, literal way.  

This is how life feels.

There are a myriad of other brilliant scenes and episodes in Buffy that exemplify such emotional truth, as do any great zombie stories, vampire fiction, Hogwarts escapades, what have you.  (Almost all of my favorite YA is paranormal because everything feels so high stakes and raw when we are young.  The time lends itself perfectly to the literalization of emotion.)  Paranormal fiction is metaphor writ large.  It is emotion made literal.

I am a great lover of John Donne’s poetry and one of my all time favorite lines is from “A Fever.”  Donne writes about the woman he loves being fatally ill and says, “The whole world vapours with thy breath.”  A beautiful and profound statement.  Technically a metaphor but you get the sense for this grief-stricken poet, it is quite literal.

When Villanelle loses her heart to her lover in Jeanette Winterson’s The Passion, she does so literally.  It is years later that she is strong enough to break into the woman’s home and reclaim her heart from the glass jar in which it has been kept.  Sethe is literally haunted by the ghost of her daughter in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.  For characters in these hyper-real stories, nothing “feels like,” it only “is.”

My MS, FLIGHT, is the story of a woman who is so unable to accept who she is that she destroys her own happiness and that of the people she loves the most.  It’s a favorite character type for me (Starbuck in Battlestar Galactica, anyone?) and by writing a work of magic realism, I could make the stakes real.  Maria doesn’t just go through a “self destructive phase” after her father dies or a boyfriend breaks her heart, she literally self destructs.

The high stakes makes for great fiction.  But it also, for me at least, feels much more true than any realism I know.

to amuse. or to take very seriously.

Via http://jaimealyse.tumblr.com.

For me, that's a post it note.  I'm fucked.

beta learning

While letting FLIGHT sit with two beta readers, I am taking on a new role... acting as beta for another writer.  I have done this in the past for short pieces written friends, but never a full length MS.  Though the story is fun to read, I am also feeling the responsibility of a beta.  And I am learning a lot as a writer.

It is not often that I get to see works in progress.  It feels a lot like seeing an open body.  I am fortunate enough to have a clearer view of how the muscles and tendons and bones and circulatory system all work.  (A view that allows me to reflect on my own body.)  It is a tremendous learning experience and rather humbling.  It is also incredibly personal.  I've never had to wonder what my bedside manner is like and now I will have to see.

I am currently making my way through a first read.  I want to get a sense of the book as I would if I were a casual reader.  Then, I will go back through and make notes.  Still, even as a casual reader, I have noticed a few aspects of the writing that I really like.  But more difficult to deal with, I see a major problem in the plot.  A huge problem.  As I read, I am chewing over how best to present this criticism to the writer.

Of course, I plan on using Nathan Bransford's sandwich style for critiquing -- positive, negative, positive.  But beyond that?

dissecting trash

Now that my latest line edit is complete and the draft is off with a beta reader or two, I am allowing myself to once again read some trash.  In this case, the first four books of Charlaine Harris' Southern Vampire Mystery Series.  When J asked me what I thought of them, I said, "No one can ever call Twilight bad again."  But I said this with a big grin on my face.  I'm loving them.

So J asked me why, if I thought the writing was so bad.  This was difficult to answer.

The prose isn't great.  The plots are only ok, the pacing makes me want to skip pages every now and again.  So why am I engrossed?  Well, because I'm engrossed.  That ability to pull a reader into a world is nothing to discard.  Harris has created a very complex, fun universe that I can lose myself in for literal hours at a time.  

The characters are fun and more nuanced than I would have imagined.  I have a specific sense of who they are and the nature of their relationships even when the main character, Sookie (whose first person perspective we're reading), doesn't.  Harris nails Sookie's voice, as well as other characters in the book.

And Harris has a strong sense of humor.  She winks at the reader frequently, such as when the kind of dumb Sookie claims to be "self taught from genre novels."

That said, I still think of the books as trashy.  Partly thanks to the graphic sex scenes, partly due to the blatant fantasy wish fulfillment for every straight female reader, partly due to the fact that they turned the series into True Blood.  (By the way, very very different after season one.)  And yes, partly because the prose doesn't make me ache.

But that's ok, Eric does.  And we all need that every now and again.

YA, paranormal, love triangles, and my psyche

One of my beta readers had some pretty serious gripes with FLIGHT.  She was mad at how my love triangle ends in the book.  She thinks my MC, Maria, made the wrong choice.  I'm ok with this gripe.

As I sat with beta reader A, we discussed why she didn't like Maria's choice and I realized that her opinions had much less to do with characterization or plot, but about her own sense of that is important in intimate relationships.  And -- now I am not about to say I am a great writer or that FLIGHT is great literature -- that's what great art does.  It holds a mirror up tot he audience/reader and makes them see themselves a little bit differently than they did before.

Carrie Ryan recently blogged about the love triangle in her amazing book The Forrest of Hands and Teeth.  The entry includes spoilers, so go read the book first.  Then read her post.

I'm a grown woman and I am happily married.  So my husband takes some umbrage that I like to read paranormal YA and that FLIGHT has a love triangle with a married woman at its core.  So let me explain why this genre, this plot, and Ryan's post speak to me.

I have a pretty strong sense of who I want to be.  And despite being considered an adult by any cultural measure, I still have no idea of exactly how to get from who I am to who that is.  In fact, I don't even think that I could truly be that who-I-want-to-be given all of the other factor and obligations in my life.  Part of why I like YA paranormal (The Forrest of Hands and Teeth, Twilight, Harry Potter, and others I can't think of off the top of my head) is that at their core, these books are about the main characters trying to work through this very dilemma.  And the paranormal component raises the stakes, states emotional truths through the literalization of metaphors (I'll have to blog on this topic separately, lots to say).

As with paranormal elements, love triangles are a manifestation of this dilemma -- who does the MC want to be?  At least the best ones -- Catherine/Healthcliff/Edgar, Ilsa/Victor/Rick, Buffy/Angel/Spike, Arthur/Guenivere/Lancelot -- are.  Notice these aren't literature's great lovers.  Love triangles aren't about romance.  I have very strong opinions about who is "right" for the torn party and each is a little Rorschach test of who I am.

But enough about me.  Go read Ryan's post, read some good YA paranormal love triangles, and learn a little bit more about who you are.

read an excerpt of FLIGHT on Glass Cases

Many thanks to Sarah La Polla for publishing an excerpt of FLIGHT on her awesome blog, Glass Cases.  You can read it here.

Woo hoo!

to make you smile

I've been a failure of a blogger lately, haven't I?

Thanks to some crazy work travel, a concentrated bout of editing, and an ill-timed illness, I haven't had much time to blog.  Or much of anything worth blogging about.  So instead, I give you this.

do you write what you read?

On his blog, Nathan Bransford wrote yesterday about books as existing at some point along two number scales. The first measured plot--how good the story is, the structure and pace. The other measured the writer's mastery and use of language. Any book could be given two numbers, one for plot and one for language.  So, anything by Virgina Woolf might receive a 1 for plot and a 10 for writing. Dan Brown would get the inverse 10 and 1.  Haruki Murakami would receive a pair of 10s.  Bransford asked what people prefer to read and if that correlates to what the write.

I enjoy books on all points of the scatter chart. Twilight has a place in my bookshelf along with Atonement, Oryx and Crake, and The Graveyard Book.  Bransford's scales match how I choose what book I feel like reading at a given moment more than any other mechanism I know. I ask friends to recommend a book and say, "I'm in the mood for candy," or "I want to swim in something beautiful." But I can't think of a time when I've said, "can you suggest YA paranormal," or "how 'bout dystopic fiction?"

But as a writer, I am careful to time this consumption. High scoring plot books for when I'm outlining or writing a first draft. But only well written literary when I am crafting sentences.

See, I'm one of those people who pick up accents. I don't mean to, but I drawl around my Southern friends and get more nasal around my family. So, when I am focused on word choice and sentence cadence, I want my mind to be influenced by the most beautiful writing I know.

What about you? Does your reading palate vary according to what you're writing?  By these measures or some other?

on beauty

I finished reading Ann Pachett's Bel Canto about a week ago and I have been mulling over what I want to say about it here. 

Two aspects of the book stand out to me.  The first, is the magical texture of it.  On the surface, Bel Canto  is a fairly straight forward story of a group of terrorists in an unnamed South American country that take a group of high profile party goers hostage.  The Amazon review references the narrative's "omniscience of magic realism," but for me, the fabulist nature of the book lies not in the ability to see into each characters' thoughts, but in the thoughts themselves.

For a book that purports to be about terrorism gone awry, the characters are consumed with beauty.  This should be expected given the book's title and even the book jacket's focus on music.  But the transportative nature of opera and beauty, the way every character is overwhelmed by it, defies realism.  I am not digging opera here, it is not a question of musical form.  But the characters' thoughts about the arias and their emotions ebb, flow, and swirl around each other in a way that is as harmonious as the music itself.

By allowing music to hold such power over a group of desperate people--terrorists and hostages alike--and allowing that music to overcome their situation, Pachett writes an ode to beauty.  It is not realistic, it is not intended to be, but it is true.

The next stand out aspect of the writing is how perfectly Pachett sets up the ending.  Early on in the book, she tells the readers how the story will conclude.  It is a casual line, easily enough missed or ignored except that you don't.  And so for the rest of the book, as you grow to love and understand these characters, the conclusion colors each scene.

Like the characters, you find yourself determined that the ending you've been told will come is not inevitable.  Pachett was wrong.  It was just a throw away line, maybe you misread it.  But you, like each character, know the truth of their situation.  I found myself bargaining.  I found myself in denial.  I found myself undergoing the very same emotions as the characters, right through the epilogue.

While Pachett might have set out to write an ode to the power of music, she also created a testament to the beauty of literature.

trying to come up with a pun on Inception

Two movie-related posts in a row, what's up with that?

Sorry, I know this blog is intended to be about writing and writings, but a girl can't help it if other art forms also elicit a strong reaction every now and again.  My husband and I went to see Inception last weekend and the movie has been rattling around my brain for three days now.  

While watching the film, I loved it.  How often does a movie come along that is simultaneously this much fun and this mentally engaging?  I felt the entertainment hemisphere of my brain limber up and do the acrobatics necessary to keep up with Christopher Nolan's matryostka of a movie. Fun. Fun, fun.

My husband and I agreed on this enjoyment and gave it two thumbs up.  Then we spent the subway ride home contemplating separately before we discussed it.  And here's where Inception gets interesting: while we both thought we figured out the plot, we had very different interpretations of what happened.

This, I have to say, is not a flaw in my book.  It's great.  Like modern art and classical music.  How often do movies open themselves up to that kind of interpretation and personal resonance?

My next point of awe: it is an incredibly well structured movie.  As a writer, structure scares the hell out of me.  Yes, I know, it is pretty much the muck in which Christopher Nolan frolics.  But it is also impressive to create this intricate, this layered a movie and have the audience still keep up.

That all said, the disappointments (and here we have spoilers, too):

Ariadne: If you are going to create this much of a mind fuck, you need an exposition fairy.  I get that and appreciate that Nolan did not pretend this character was anything else.  But here is where I am willing to suspend my disbelief of the impossible but not the improbable: Why does this character magically understand the depth of Cobb's psychological problems and their implications before even his closest friends?  All of her other questions and hypotheses make sense to me.  An intelligent person in her situation could make the mental leaps.  But this, no.

The lowest dream: Is this limbo or another level of dream state?  Because if it is limbo, why isn't Cobb as old as the old Asian dude by the time he finds him?  And if it is not limbo, how did the old Asian dude end up in Cobb's dream world?  (Yes, I know that this incongruity is in direct opposition to my praise of Nolan's structure, but what the hell.  I was still impressed.)

I have discussed the movie with friends who disliked Mal and disliked the ambiguity of the ending.  I have to say that I shared neither view.  I loved Mal. (Marion Cotillard is kind of delicious in everything, no?)  I loved the movie's explanation of her thoughts and motives as well as Cobb's interactions with her.  She is so pure in her purpose and yet quite multidimensional for a figment.  And, while I have a strong opinion about what "really" happens in the ending, I like the ambiguity.

So, what do you think?  Stellar structure and thought provoking fun?  Crap dialogue and plot holes the size of falling vans?  In the end, I think that any art that leaves the audience having such heated conversations and contemplation days later has done its job well.

the devil is sending young women the wrong message

I first saw The Devil Wears Prada in a pre-screening event in NYC some years ago.  I adore Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci.  While I didn't love her at the time, somewhere around Brokeback Mountain I finally admitted to myself that I like Anne Hathaway.  And Emily Blunt was, come on, perfect for this role.  It seemed like a fun, innocuous way to spend an evening.

I left the theater furious.  Then some years passed and I pretty much forgot about the movie.  Until I found it while flipping through TV channels.  I thought, "it was pretty cute. I'll give it a second chance."

No, no.  Just as angry after the second watching.

Here's my beef:

Anne Hathaway's character, Andy, moves to NYC in the hopes of becoming a journalist and scores a pay-your-dues craptastic job as an assistant to the "devilish" editor in chief of a fashion mag.  Since little Andy hates fashion, she thinks she is above it all until she gets sucked into the seductive world of clothes, parties, and being--um--really good at her job.  Along the way, she supposedly loses sight of herself and what is important to her.  

After being forced to work late on her boyfriend's birthday to attend a gala, Andy rushes home to apologize to him instead of staying the extra half hour when a mentor journalist offers to introduce her to editors of the kinds of magazines that she dreams of writing for.  She says no!  She goes home to mopey boyfriend instead!  

This is where the movie first veers off course for me.  Isn't the whole point of craptastic dues-paying jobs and missing loved ones' birthdays precisely for that moment?  What is the point of her work if she doesn't go meet the editor?  Boyfriend is going to be unhappy no matter what.

Then... Emily Blunt's character (did I mention she is my favorite in the movie) fucks up and Andy picks up the slack.  She is rewarded for this by Meryl Streep's character.  Hooray!  All that crap work is paying off, right?  Well no, at least not according to the moral of this story.  Instead, when Andy realizes that she has stabbed Emily Blunt in the back by succeeding, she walks off into the Paris sunset, unwilling to be a terrible person just to succeed at her job.  Meryl Streep watches her leave with a mix of regret and pride.

WTF?  WTF?

Since when is getting ahead in your job because you are better at it than others "stabbing people in the back?"  Isn't that meritocracy?  Isn't that good?  Effectiveness should outweigh seniority in the workplace.  

Since when is it the right choice to leave your career-making job because your friends miss you?  You're supposed to leave your amazing job and work for shit pay at a no name outfit because you'll have more integrity that way?

Oh, and while all this is happening, Andy's boyfriend is moving ahead in his notoriously cutthroat dues-paying field: as a chef.  But no complaining about that.  No.

The message of the movie is this:  Women who want to respect themselves and be showered with love by friends should not succeed in their careers.  And that is one devil of a moral.

an important story

I just added a button on the side of the blog to support Doctors Without Borders' (MSF's) Starved for Attention campaign to "rewrite the story" of childhood malnutrition.

Go to the site, watch the videos, SIGN THE PETITION.

My intention is for the blog to focus on writing, reading, an art. But this is an important issue and a great campaign. Besides, with a tag line about rewriting stories and such incredible photographers as Marcus Bleasdale, Ron Haviv, Jessica Dimmock, and others involved, the campaign certainly has artistic merit.

My favorites are Jessica Dimmock's "A Mother's Devotion" and Franco Pagetti's "The Malnutrition That Shouldn't Be." Jessica's for the breathtaking beautify of her images. Franco's for the heartbreaking story. Watch them. Then take action.

I can admit when I'm wrong

About 20 pages after I wrote my last blog entry, A Spot of Bother got much better. First a scene so graphic I nearly vomited on the subway. (Not enjoyable to read but a lot more stimulating than the book had been previously.) Then, I started to care about at least two of the four characters. And as their individual plots began to overlap more and the pace of the book quickened, I began to care more about the story as well.

I still would get rid of one character completely. Sure, he's the lynch pin. But I still don't care about him.

And I still feel like I am gaining momentum as much by the prospect of almost being done as by the decreased apathy.

This book has plot. It is well written. It's characters are relatable. It still doesn't click for me but I am really beginning to feel that that's just me.

In any case, just pages away from my next read: Ann Patchett's Bel Canto.

A Spot of Bother

I'm currently reading Mark Haddon's A Spot of Bother, a book recommended to me by beta reader J because of Haddon's strongly written POVs. Each of the four principle characters get to hold the camera and the perspective switches between them chapter by chapter. They all have unique voices and Haddon is always careful to include a sentence right away that clues readers is as to who is the main character of the moment. It is truly well written. The kind of writing that pares everything unnecessary out (not like Cormac McCarthy, more like orange juice sans preservatives).

But here is my problem: I don't care.

There's a plot. This is not one of those books that is so deep into its own linguistic merit or character portraits that nothing happens. I just don't care about the plot. I don't care about the people.

So, when I'm reading A Spot of Bother, I really enjoy reading it. But I'm not excited about reading it. I don't take the local train home just so I have more time with it. Heck, over the course of a lounging weekend, it didn't even occur to me to pick it up. Instead I focused on the productive (working on my MS), the ridiculous (compulsively checking Twitter updates) and the sad (watching the Mets lose).

I just want to finish the book already, so I can move onto all the ones I am excited about. (And no, I do not give up on books. Except one. I've tried and failed to read Jitterbug Perfume a half dozen times over the years.)

There are books I read for plot (Twilight and Kafka on the Shore, anyone?) and those that I read for the language (anything by Byatt, Winterson, or McEwan). A lot of them even fit both categories. But if I am not reading it for plot, I find it much easier to forget what book it was that I was reading and much harder to go a few hours without sneaking a few minutes to read.

How important is plot to you? I didn't used to think I ranked it terribly high on my list of "why I read." I love language, I thought that was why I read. Turns out I like a story as much as the next guy.