Allison Morris

Adam Felber, there is no way to describe my love for you

2012-02-29T11:00:00.001-05:00

It's rather fitting that I finally finished Adam Felber's Schrodinger's Ball today. Leap Day--a day of the strange--or as Brown students and alumni know it, Josiah Carbury Day. (Professor Carbury is the beloved, fictitious professor of psychoceramics... think about it.) And Schrodinger's Ball is nothing if not a celebration of the academic and strange.

The novel is not so much about quantum mechanics as it is a quantum mechanic novel. I know of no other way to explain it. It embodies the principles of the theory in its storytelling and, in a way, it is a story about quantum mechanics, too.

Normally, I'm not a quantum mechanical kind of girl. I'm much more about string theory. Quantum mechanics makes me scrunch up my face with distaste for the paradoxes and holes when string theory makes me want to swim in it. Felber changed my mind, if only for his book.

In parallel story lines that must needs connect by the end, Dr. Schrodinger is an unwanted house guest to a narrator who uses the first person plural, a young man exists in a state of simultaneously being dead and not, a homeless lunatic rewrites history, the President of Montana abdicates his responsibilities, the maybe-dead guys' friend moons over a girl, and a hungry rat searches for a meal. It is worthy of a monumental eye roll except that Felber is brilliant. Brilliant. The plot and the structure pack so much into the brief novel, so much more than the sum of its parts. It is a zipped file of a novel. (Sorry, that metaphor even hurt me but I can't say it any better.)

Read it. Now. There is a computer error in the book. It made me laugh out loud and yet it is poignant and smart. Felber's writing is unlike any other and I can find no other book to compare Ball with.

I'm keeping this post short so you can go read it now. Right now.

(PS. You might be wondering why I haven't posted in a while. You might also wonder why I referenced "finally" finishing a brief and brilliant book. I began reading Schrodinger's Ball on November 13, 2011. Coincidentally, I now how a 3 1/2 month-old son.)

the hilarity of child soldiers and sex slaves

2011-07-12T10:48:00.000-04:00

Read Jane Bussman's The Worst Date Ever. Now. Go read it.

I had particular interest in Bussman's subject--the international aid organization I work for sent me to northern Uganda a few years ago, so the place is dear to my heart. I recognize that this will not be true for most readers. I also realize that I now have a fairly high tolerance for the details of human atrocities. One of the perks of my job. (It took a while before I realized that my friends had not developed this threshold along with me and that there are some things you don't talk about at dinner. When they ask about my work I should say it is "interesting," "busy," or "rewarding" without giving any details about the report I was writing on rape in DRC.)

(Why yes, this is a photo I took in Uganda of a midwife bandaging a child's machete wound in a "health clinic" with no electricity, water, or drugs but plenty of moldy 2x4s.)

Occasionally I bring reports home with me to read or edit and occasionally these documents have photos. I consider the piece a failure if my husband asks me to read in the other room because the images are disturbing him. If your audience looks away, they are not getting your message.

Bussman writes about a horrific war wherein children were kidnapped to become child soldiers or sex slaves. She writes about interviewing victims of mutilation. She writes about governments' complacency because of the cash cow that such a war can be. This book is a hard sell.

But what makes Bussman different from and better than almost any account I have read is that the book is hilarious. Which means my anger and disgust was tempered. I did not put the book down; I kept reading. And while I know I am not the average potential reader for this book, I think The Worst Date Ever is even better for the more squeamish audience than it was for me. Because through her humor, Bussman keeps the reader from getting too upset and looking away. And since you don't need to put the book down, you learn about a truth that more people need to learn about.

Jane Bussman bares witness to the victims of a horrible war. She does it with dignity and anger. But unbelievably, with humor. Go read it. Now.

bravery in Hunger Games

2011-07-11T13:45:00.000-04:00

In the course of about one week, I read Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay. Admittedly, this means I now need to go back and reread Mockingjay so that I feel like I really caught everything. I've also purchased The Girl Who Was on Fire to read at a later date.

Of course I loved them. But I was surprised by just how bravely written they were.

Um. Spoilers below.

After reading enough YA, I was not surprised by the violence or that two of my favorite principle characters (Cinna and Finnick) died. What did surprise me was the way both of those deaths were written. Finnick's death (as well as Prim's) was so barely present within Katniss's more urgent focus that I almost missed it. And this felt real and true to me in a way that more heroic death scenes rarely do. While I think YA is long past the point where I would call killing off beloved characters "brave," the--what's the right word? insignificance? fleeting notice?--of Suzanne Collins killing of Finnick and Prim felt brave in its honesty. The world does not stop for death. People you love die and it takes a moment for you to even see that above the noise of the rest of your life.

The love triangle that wasn't. I applaud you, Ms. Collins. While I often have a preference when reading books that involve love triangles, I rarely think that there is really no contest. The triangle between Katniss, Peeta, and Gale did not strike me as a matter of romantic choice or as a matter of Katniss deciding who she wants to be as most love triangles are. To me, there was never any choice. Instead, I watched Katniss realize who she is. This wasn't a choice, but a developing awareness. It can be difficult to recognize and accept who you truly are, and it is a powerful story to watch unfold. So while I don't think Gale was ever actually in the running, I thought use of a pseudo love triangle as a means of self analysis was fresh.

Lastly, I loved how fucked up Katniss and Peeta are by the end. This is not the story of two heroes that motivated a revolution. This is the story of two kids who are the collateral damage of other people's machinations. And I loved it. I can see where some readers might be left dissatisfied with the ending, but I thought this was so brave and so right.

Thank you, Suzanne Collins, for a fun and courageous series.

real live axe ad

2011-06-16T13:52:00.000-04:00

This photo was taken during the Vancouver riots on June 15. There are no words for how much I'm in love.

Photo by Rich Lam/Getty Images

stepping into that same river again, or not

2011-06-15T16:11:00.000-04:00

I first read Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake perhaps five years ago. A stunning experience. As I neared the end of the book, I could not escape the feeling that once I looked up from the last page, I would see a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Snowman's world. My reading would make it so. Fortunately, that did not happen. Instead, Oryx and Crake earned its place in my top all-time reading experiences.

So it took me until a few weeks ago to pick up The Year of the Flood, Atwood's companion book. How could it be anything but a disappointment after my visceral awe at Oryx and Crake? Having completed it I must say it was not as extraordinary. How could it? But it was still brilliant.

The Year of the Flood follows two protagonists who--similar to Snowman/Jimmy--bounce back and forth between their current post-pandemic survival and their lives before the world ended. Seemingly random main characters in the beginning, as the book continues, the reader realizes these two, Ren and Toby, were both part of an environmentalist religious cult before the "waterless flood." As the narrative continues, the reader realizes that they were both on the periphery of Jimmy/Snowman and Crake's lives. I went back to reread Oryx and Crake so that I could appreciate those tiny tossed away sentences that were all that Ren and Toby (not even named in the original book) contributed to Jimmy's life.

Much of the book centers around the cult, God's Gardeners. Despite the pages of ink dedicated to them one cannot in the end know if they are a force behind Crake's plague or lucky survivalists. And again, this mirrors

Oryx and Crake. Are the leaders of God's Gardeners MaddAdam? How much does Oryx know.

And I must say, perhaps my favorite part of the book was when Ren and Toby see Snowman. Despite all of the voices in his head throughout Oryx and Crake, I never thought of him as crazy. It seemed a perfectly natural reaction to being the last human alive, guardian to a new race and pawn of your best friend. It was only after reading Flood that I saw he was insane. And it broke my heart. It made the rereading of Oryx and Crake so much sadder, lushly pathetic.

Lots of parallels, but plenty of divergent plot and themes to make The Year of the Flood a masterpiece in its own right. A true companion to the first.

i feel like less-than for not having loved it

2011-05-31T14:37:00.000-04:00

Maybe all of that that commercial, YA, and paranormal reading has finally gotten to me. I read Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs and didn't love it.

I hang my head in shame.

Maybe I need to give back my elitist card.

Did I find it interesting? Mostly? Engaging? I guess. Beautifully worded? Of course. A striking commentary on post-9/11 America? Yes.

But. But... For the first third of the book I did not realize that the narrative was supposed to be written by Tassie (the MC) as an older woman. So I was incredibly frustrated by how wise and mature and paced the narrative voice was. Beautiful but inappropriate to a 20 year-old. I got over that about 120 pages in, but there should have been some earlier signpost for me.

Also, I hated Tassie. And not in that way where it is fun to hate characters. In that way where I didn't give a crap about her at all. I didn't like her and so having to watch her live her life for a few hundred pages made me hate her.

The vegetation. So much description of vegetation--natural, cultivated, and cooked. You could have cut 30 pages from the book by editing down the vegetation.

So what did I like?

The stories. All three. Mary-Emma's, Reynaldo's and her brother's. They wove together beautifully. The parts of the book that really told their stories made me so happy. I sank into the book at those moments.

And now, I feel like a literary snob failure. Like having read Stephenie Meyer and Charlaine Harris and Carrie Ryan has destroyed my capacity to appreciate "real literature" (though I don't believe that). I was supposed to love this book.

gaslight anthem is inspiring me today

2011-05-26T10:01:00.002-04:00

When it comes to music, I'm a singer-songwriter kind of girl. Matt Nathanson, Tallest Man on Earth, and Dar Williams crowd my playlists. Occasional outliers like the White Stripes and Talking Heads make their appearance. But I am not a rock 'n' roll kind of girl, nor am I into punk. So when I fell in fast love with Gaslight Anthem some two years ago, I was somewhat confused. For those of you who don't know them, Gaslight Anthem is like Bruce Springsteen's punky nephews. And though I'm not one for punk or for Bruce Springsteen, Gaslight Anthem speaks to me like few musicians ever have.

Their upbeat songs (being most of them) have a kind of desperate joy about them. Like they know happiness isn't something you can hold onto in this world but they have it in their grasps for just this moment and the fleetingness does not lessen the joy at all. Makes it more manic perhaps, but also more meaningful.

The slower songs have a gritty beauty made more poignant by Brian Fallon's raspy voice.

I once told a friend that the innermost unchanging part of me has Gaslight Anthem as it's soundtrack. I hope that's true

For a bit of their desperate joy:

And a touch of their gritty beauty:

my desperate, stupid hope

2011-04-21T11:06:00.002-04:00

Please be warned, if you have not already read Markus Zusak's The Book Thief, this post is one giant spoiler. Stop reading now, and go read this book. Then come back and read on. I am not going to bother writing a full review since many people have already done so. Instead, I am going to focus on what I think was the particular genius of the book -- perhaps not intrinsically, but in my experience of it. A particular emotional journey.

Markus Zusak made me feel desperate, irrational hope.

I wasn't a fan of the character of Death. I didn't feel like I gained anything by knowing what colors were in the sky or how tired he was. I didn't need him to have a personality. What Death added, as a narrator, was his omnipotence and pretty great foreshadowing. The dangling, "he would be dead in six months," that made heartache so inevitable. Rather perfect for a book taking place in Nazi Germany.

So, by the time Rudy, Hans, and Rosa are dead, by the time Himmel Street is destroyed and everything in Liesel's life is gone, I was ready for it. It is brutal but feels like the only possible story the little girl could have lived. Except...

Max.

Oh, Max.

It broke my heart that Max left when he didn't have to. And then I hoped against hope for his safety. We heard nothing of him, which drove me mad, but it felt right since Liesel didn't know what was happening to him either.

I maintained a stupid, irrational, desperate hope that Max was going to be ok. I mean, of course he's not going to be ok! He's a Jew on the run in Nazi Germany! But I hoped, like Liesel, I hoped. And I justified this hope by saying, "Death has already told me about everyone else dying, so maybe no news is good news when it comes to Max's fate."

So my heart fell into my stomach when Max came through Molching on the death march. And I cried when he and Liesel had their goodbye.

I stopped reading after the bombing of Himmel Street and had dinner with my husband. I spent half the meal telling him about the story and how depressed I was and how beautifully Zusak told it. (He did not understand how anything that would upset me this much could be counted as "good." Yet the man reads Cormac McCarthy.) After dinner, I told him I wanted to finish the book but that it couldn't possibly upset me further. With everything taken from her, death would be a relief for Liesel Meminger. Or, she'd survive as the lone candle of remembrance. Either way, I was past hurt.

So yes, I was surprised and inappropriately relieved when Max came walking into Liesel's shop after the war. And while the only epilogue they are given was their hug, I choose to believe that their care and kindness slowly morphed into love and they moved off to Australia together to raise three children and die of old age.

Shut up, you can't convince me otherwise.

I tip my hat to you, Markus Zusak. Thank you for your incredible storytelling. And for taking me on such a desperate journey of hope.

naming challenge

2011-04-08T16:20:00.000-04:00

Working on a newish story and I'm stuck on what to name a principal character. He's a doctor, a scientist, but also seen as a romantic rival for our narrator. We never can quite pin down whether he's a good guy or not.

I'm thrown because most of my characters are so concrete to me that I know their names. Even if the names change over the course of drafts, they are the right and only names at the time.

So, what to name him?

Suggestions?

How do you name your characters?

adapting to the right medium

2011-04-04T14:27:00.004-04:00

Last night, I watched John Krasinski’s film adaptation of David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. I should say up front that I have never read the book. My previous experience with the content was from another adaptation, a theatrical production that John Krasinski knew as well.

So this should be an interesting post… comparing two adaptations into different media without knowing the source material. And I must distinguish between the quality of the adaptation and the appropriateness of its medium.

I’ll begin with the theatrical adaptation. Picture yourself, if you will, at Brown University. In addition to the official theatre department productions and the various plays put on by student groups, occasional enterprising students mounted shows independent of any producing body. These often happened in the upstairs space of the student theatre—a rehearsal room come lobby come rec room—dark and poorly maintained. In the early 2000s.

It was in this space that Chris Hayes (now Washington editor of The Nation) directed an adaptation of Brief Interviews. Just a serious of monologues performed with a chair, sparse lighting, and pages in hand if the actors had not memorized their parts. It was a who’s who of the best male acting talent at Brown.

I went to see the production with two girlfriends, fully intending on going to a party afterward. Our experience in the theatre that night was so raw and powerful, disturbing, dare I say it—hideous—that our plans for the rest of the evening were abandoned. We returned to my dorm room to drink rum into oblivion in silence.

Chris Hayes’ production was unapologetic. It put forward a number of men’s stories for the audience to judge and to judge themselves by. I can’t say whether it had the same feel as Wallace’s work, but I can say it is in my top five most affecting nights in the theatre.

John Krasinski performed one of the monologues that night.

So it was with a great deal of anticipation that I watched his film adaptation yesterday (with an associate producer nod to Chris Hayes).

Alas.

By giving the interviews a framing device—Julianne Nicholson is a grad student interviewing men while coping with her own ex-boyfriend’s infidelity—the content was diluted. Cheapened. Context robbed the monologues of their ferocity. And this particular frame left me feeling like this was supposed to be a romantic comedy that never got romantic or comedic.

The monologue performed by Dominic Cooper’s character in the movie was the climax of the theatrical production for me. It’s brutality has only ever been rivaled for me by Martin McDonagh’s The Pillowman. But with the context of an angry student trying to fight a bad grade (or is he really reaching out for help?), it became overwrought. John Krasinski’s monologue about the hippie rape victim becomes insipid when it is his excuse for cheating on his girlfriend. Alas, the frame was poorly crafted. The movie, disappointing.

But I wonder whether it would have been possible to create any film adaptation that would do the work justice. A modern American movie version cannot allow a series of disjointed monologues and any plot threading them together softens some of the ragged edges.

And then there is the lack of being present in a movie. Theatre’s power is in its presence. In the audience being in the room and sharing the experience with the performers. Theatre makes the audience complicit in the production. It implicates them while film distances. (I am now thinking of Oskar Eustis making the same argument in a dramaturgy class at Brown.)

I write about Brief Interviews here, not because I felt like ranting about a disappointing movie, but because it has led me to think about medium. Film was the wrong medium for an adaptation of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. On the other hand, I have read plays and thought, “why is this a play and not a novel?”

There are stories and experiences better suited to particular media and that is something, as a writer, to think about.

the just war, love, and writing

2011-03-21T10:09:00.000-04:00

The US media is focusing quite a bit on Libya right now. One of the most interesting questions that I have only heard a single pundit ask on twitter, without any subsequent answer or dialogue in any other medium was: Who are the rebels in Libya? We are so focused on Gadhafi that I think most Americans assume the rebels are good guys--that Egypt arming them and the coalition bombing Gadhafi is a good thing. I don't know. Maybe they are good guys. Maybe they are Islamic fundamentalists bent on bringing jihad to a mall near you. Don't know. Nobody's talking about them. Instead, there is a lot of dialogue about "just war." That protecting the civilians of Libya is the first opportunity for "just war" since Bosnia and what should have been Rwanda.

Since my goal in this blog is not to write about how I feel about the fine line between voluntary human shields and combatants, but to write about writing, I want to focus on the concept of "just war" and why it inspires me.

I loved my grandpa. We had a pretty special relationship. By all accounts from family and friends he was an angry, bitter, violent man. From stories, I know that he was abusive, prejudiced, and reveled in being mean. But that's not the grandpa I saw.

My grandpa let me brain his comb-over down the wrong side of his head to play Indian chief. He took me to the beach on cold days and walked up and down the boardwalk plying me with hot dogs while we talked about the solar system and Greek mythology. He kidnapped me for the day to drive up to Maine so we could have lobster rolls for lunch. He would growl at me--an imitation of his fierce persona to the rest of the world--and I growled back. My grandpa loved me more than anything in the world and I was the exception to just about every rule of how he behaved in the world.

While this was an awesome experience as a little girl, it rather destroyed my capacity to have a realistic, loving romantic relationship for a while. Prior to finding my husband and finally understanding what it means to be an equal member in a relationship, I expected all of my boyfriends to be like my grandpa. Namely, I wanted them to prove their love by being the exceptions to their rules.

Is art the most important thing to you? Nope, I am now.
Are you a good boy who never breaks the rules? You will for me.
A jerk who can't settle down? It's not settling when it's me.

This was unfair to them, unfair to me, and didn't end well for anyone.

While being the exception to the rule is no fair expectation in a real-world romantic relationship, it makes a strong statement in fiction. In fact, it is short-hand in just about every romantic comedy for "he really does love her." Richard Gear climbing the fire escape in Pretty Woman. While it is unfortunate that people have gotten lazy using the trope, it works for a reason, and not just in love.

My stage combat professor (who is coming up in blog posts quite a bit lately) once asked my class, "what is worth fighting for?" Mind you, he asked this to a room full of liberal college kids. Most people said, "Nothing! Fighting is never justified!" I caught quite a bit of shit when I raised my hand and said, "My family. You try to hurt my dad or my sister and you bet I will hurt you."

I am not a violent person, but protecting my family is the exception to my rule.

This brings me back to Libya and the "just war."

I don't know whether the rebels in Libya are fighting a just war, and whether the coalition backing them are either. I don't have enough information to make a call on that. But I find the concept fascinating. No one questions whether the Allies were fighting a just war in WWII. Everyone knows that not interceding in Rwanda was unjust. "Just wars" involve an entire country or culture choosing collectively to find an exception to the general rule that war is bad. This is powerful.

When people decide that one person or cause is more important to them than the general paradigm of how they interact with the world, that makes for some intense stakes, some real drama. It makes for good story-telling, whether in the headlines or fiction.

words and violence

2011-03-10T14:57:00.000-05:00

My professor in a stage combat class told us often that no matter the type of combat scene--sweeping, emotional, comedic, whatever--the creators of the scene have a moral responsibility to depict pain. Violence hurts. And to suggest anything contrary to this fact is dangerous.

I think about what my professor said more often than one might expect. I no longer choreograph or act in combative scenes. I do not write violence. But that question of the moral responsibility of artists has stayed with me.

There is a line one can cross between "you cannot depict violence without pain" and "you cannot depict sex outside of marriage." I am fervently anti-censorship, and yet the question of a writer's responsibility lingers with me.

Back around the same time that I took the stage combat class, I wrote a sex advice column for a fairly large and famous men's magazine. I wrote under a pseudonym, which was a good thing, because I received death threats in open letters in our school newspaper. I was accused of being a part of a culture that plays into men's fantasies and causes women to be raped. I did not take any of this lightly.

When I wrote the advice column, I had a rule with myself: while I might tailor my voice to the publication, I would never lie. I would never write something because it was what I thought men wanted to hear. It was always what I felt was true and all of the anecdotes shared were my own or those of close friends. I have never questioned the morality of my participation in a men's magazine. But there are those who might suggest that I am an enabler of "rape culture."

Today's post was inspired by Roxane Gay's "The Careless Language of Sexual Violence." Read it. It is important.

And now I ask you: do we, as writers, have a moral obligation in the language we use? The circumstances we depict? The violence we portray as painless? I think we do and, though I can't pinpoint exactly where this sits on the censorship scale, I think that it is dangerous and childish for artists to believe that we have no responsibility for the words we use.

return of the prodigal blogger

2011-03-07T11:43:00.000-05:00

She enters tentatively, ducking her face away and trying to hide a grimace.

It's been a while.

Sorry.

I'd like to be able to say that I've been squirreled away writing or so engrossed in reading gorgeous literary prose that I have not come up for air. Or to blog. Alas. No.

I have not blogged because I have not been writing and I have been reading crap that isn't worth blogging about. Intentional crap. Therapeutic crap. I got a bit overwhelmed with my attempts to become a writer and I forgot how much I loved words. And stories. And reading. So I hid for a little while to rediscover it all.

And what brought me back? A word.

Snick.

While reading one of those crap stories that I am only willing to read on the subway thanks to the literary trench coat of an e-reader (won't even read it on the couch at home, where my husband might ask, "what are you reading?") I came across the word, "snick." Used as a verb, to click. And it had a great onomatopoetic quality. The word was so satisfying I think I sighed. Even amidst the schlock I found so perfectly used a word that it reminded me of my love for words.
Hello.
I am writing again.
I am blogging.
And I am currently reading a book of essays about Jane Austen that I am perfectly happy to be seen with on the subway.

Mid-read review of Run

2011-01-04T09:19:00.001-05:00

When reading Ann Pachett's Bel Canto, I was so engrossed that I found myself reading the book while at the gym. I couldn't put it down. While this made for some awkward weight lifting sets and seasick moments on the elliptical, I couldn't let go. The story:

Somewhere in South America, at the home of the country's vice president, a lavish birthday party is being held in honor of the powerful businessman Mr. Hosokawa. Roxane Coss, opera's most revered soprano, has mesmerized the international guests with her singing. It is a perfect evening—until a band of gun-wielding terrorists takes the entire party hostage. But what begins as a panicked, life-threatening scenario slowly evolves into something quite different, a moment of great beauty, as terrorists and hostages forge unexpected bonds, and people from different continents become compatriots. Friendship, compassion, and the chance for great love lead the characters to forget the real danger that has been set in motion . . . and cannot be stopped.

I had no interest. Nothing about the back cover called to me. But finally enough friends had the "You haven't read Bel Canto?" moment and a writer on a forum I frequent suggested it to help me with some POV trouble in FLIGHT. I gave in and read.

So I picked up Run.

Again, no interest in the plot. Zilch. But the writing is keeping me going. And I think I have finally pinned down what has me so engrossed in Pachett's work: She writes the way I think. The cadence of her voice is akin to the way thoughts break across my own brain.

Run is not textured the way Bel Canto was, it is nothing like sinking into warm bath water or running your hand over a new quilt. I do not love any of the characters the way I grew to love many of the principles in Bel Canto, but I feel them, I know them.

More than halfway through the book, I still feel like the plot hasn't really kicked in; it's all still set up. I don't think this is actually true, but something in the way Pachett has set up the book makes everything feel like background, waiting for something to begin, a shoe to drop. I'll be disappointed if the book meanders in its beautiful way without ever arcing or climaxing. But I lose myself in Pachett's words and would follow her anywhere. I look forward to seeing where she leads.

sometimes Jon Stewart is all that keeps me patriotic

2010-12-21T11:02:00.001-05:00

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

2010-12-06T10:14:00.002-05:00

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

2010-11-05T13:44:00.001-04:00

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

2010-10-21T15:57:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-21T09:33:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-12T09:57:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-06T10:07:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-21T09:20:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-16T11:37:00.002-04:00

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.

2010-09-09T09:50:00.002-04:00

Via http://jaimealyse.tumblr.com.

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

beta learning

2010-09-09T09:46:00.000-04:00

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

2010-08-30T15:45:00.000-04:00

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

2010-08-26T09:54:00.000-04:00

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

2010-08-25T12:54:00.000-04:00

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

2010-08-24T18:21:00.001-04:00

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?

2010-08-13T12:07:00.000-04:00

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

2010-08-10T16:30:00.001-04:00

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

2010-08-09T16:31:00.001-04:00

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

2010-08-06T11:36:00.000-04:00

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

2010-08-03T15:37:00.003-04:00

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

2010-07-29T15:41:00.004-04:00

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

2010-07-27T13:15:00.005-04:00

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.

ethics questions raised by Gayle Forman's If I Stay

2010-07-26T15:07:00.004-04:00

I recently read If I Stay, Gayle Forman's YA novel about a teenage girl waiver between life and death after a car accident and whether her survival is a matter of choice. Ok enough book. A quick read, vivid characters, moments of surprising authenticity (like when the main character and her boyfriend "play" each other).

After finishing the book, I read the Q&A with the author and skidded to a halt. The book was inspired by the tragic deaths of a family with whom Forman was friends and their surviving daughter. (Sorry for the spoiler, but it isn't much of one. The way the book was set up, if Mia had died, the author would have been stuck basically advocating for suicide.) I was shocked that the book was premised on such a tragic situation that Forman's friends had experienced. When I mentioned this to a friend she asked me why it upset me; writers draw from real life all of the time.

My horror had felt so obvious that it took me some time to put my answer together. I know that writers often draw from their own experience, that they often draw from tragedies that happen to others, and that they often draw from people in their lives. But it was this particular combination that struck me as in poor taste: the tragedy happened to people she knew and loved. She did not have the distance of someone inspired by a headline nor the ownership of the event that would come if it had happened to her. She did not claim to write for closure or to have asked the surviving member of this family if the novel would be ok. I was left feeling like she had somehow used her relationship with the family that passed away and cheapened the experiences of the surviving girl.

What do you think? Am I being too hard on Ms. Forman? Is everything fair game? Where do you draw inspiration and where do you draw the line?

help from my two readers

2010-07-21T09:05:00.003-04:00

Getting over my hangups about being a crazy lady because I blog with the full knowledge that I have pretty much 0 readers. I'm going to put this out there in case I am wrong or in case you, who have stumbled somehow over my site (watch your step!), have the answer.

Can you think of an example of a story with a very fluid POV? Beyond just having multiple characters hold the camera in a very formal broken-up-by-chapter way? I'm writing my ms from a few perspectives and I've been trying to move between them more smoothly than that. The trouble is, I'm not sure if it can work. So I am just looking for proof that it is possible.

Suggestions?

outing myself as a Twilight fan

2010-07-13T17:00:00.002-04:00

This made me laugh too much not to share.

after four days in the woods...

2010-07-08T15:47:00.004-04:00

Muchos muchos minor word level edits.
Two new scenes written.
One character edited out. (Goodbye Emily!)
Three new scenes outlined.
One gaping plot hole filled with what I hope is stronger than chewed gum.

And might I say that this is pretty darn impressive for four days without AC or running water during a crazy evil heat wave.

Feeling productive.

homework from the beta reader

2010-07-03T19:29:00.001-04:00

I met with my trusted beta reader, J, today. We had yummy summery salads and even yummier hibiscus mint iced teas. But more imortantly, we talked FLIGHT. It's come quite a way since last she rad it, becoming something I am proud of. But there is more work to do.

And I suppose it says something good that work to do has me all excited. Itching to roll up my sleeves.

There's editing to be done, for sure. Bless J and her ability to sniff out a misused homonym or awkward turn of phrase. But there is more exciting work to be done.

Reading: she gave me a reading assignment. I play with POV in the ms and she recommended an author who does so similarly. I didn't intentionally set out to write with a fluid POV; it just served the story. Now I have to be very careful to sharpen my transitions between characters' perspectives so I don't lose readers. I'm excited to read this assigned book (though the plot sounds like nothing I'd want to read) to see how he does it.

But more exciting than reading and editing by far... writing. We talked through the scenes that are missing, that will let me show and not tell. That will deepen characters' relationships or make the structure more even. I'm thrilled. I can't wait to spend more time with these character and to see how they behave in new situations.

Back to work and couldn't be happier.

word cloud of FLIGHT

2010-06-30T21:09:00.000-04:00

created at TagCrowd.com

on racoons and hallways

2010-06-28T11:20:00.003-04:00

In a guest post on Nathan Bransford's priceless blog, Bryan Rusell wrote today about revisions through the metaphor of building and then renovating a house. It's a pretty post, more interested in its own metaphor than in saying anything terribly real about the revising and editing process. But I had to post this quote, which I think is the apex of his metaphor:

"Hallways seem to go in the wrong direction. One of them ends inside a broom closet without a light, an albino raccoon hissing at you feverishly in the dimness. Where did that come from? It seemed so inspirational at the time."

working on a new story

2010-06-27T20:20:00.004-04:00

I finished Outer Dark, left honestly underwhelmed. Maybe that was bound to happen after The Road. But it took me only two days to devour Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants. I just got sucked so completely into the world she created. Great book. I recommend.

I've also started a new story. The earlier (something borrowed) story idea is on hold. While I still like the idea and hope to go back to me, it just wasn't getting me jazzed. I wasn't sneaking time to write whenever possible.

Earlier this week, a new idea came to me. It came as a response to me pondering a conflict facing two characters in one of the books I recently read. (And since you know all of the books I've recently read, I'll let you figure it out.) The conflict really spoke to me and I imagined a different story in which a single person might be faced with the same struggle, instead of two with differing priorities. The story outline formed immediately in my head and I've been writing all week.

Part of me is nervous that I have pulled an idea from another book, but I suppose this happens often enough. Where do authors get their ideas? Where does inspiration come from? Not new questions. In any case, I am glad to be writing again.

I know, I know, I need to get with the writing

2010-06-22T16:22:00.005-04:00

Ok, I'll admit... I have not been so much with the writing lately. It's been an incredibly busy and mentally draining month. But I have been with the reading:

Bite Me by Christopher Moore
The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner by Stephenie Meyer
The Sandman Papers edited by Joe Sanders
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept by Paulo Coelho

Paulo Coelho is one of the strangest authors that I read. I can't get my head around him and constantly vacillate between loving his work and finding it to cloying. I've previously read Brida, The Alchemist, The Witch of Portobello, and Veronika Decides to Die. Each is a small gem, combining beautiful language and spiritual sensibilities that, while I do not share, I can appreciate. Yet when I look at all of these works together, I want to groan a little. It becomes almost pedantic.

I just started reading Cormac McCarthy's Outer Dark this morning. Man, but his voice is the most distinct of any author I've read. You can pick any sentence out of context and say, "Yup, that's McCarthy."

The only other of his books that I have read is The Road. Brilliant, of course, but also problematic for me. And here is my problem: I read the road well over a year and a half ago and while it blew me away, I haven't picked up another McCarthy book since. Why? Because it fucked me up. Big time. And while it takes an incredible author to get into a reader's psyche so completely, it also does the author and reader a disservice. I've been scared to go through such a dark, intense experience again.

An unintended thread running through all of the books I have recently read is they influence of one book upon another: within the same series (as with Moore and Meyer), those which it comments on (Sanders), and other books by the same author (McCarthy and Coelho). We do not read any individual book in a vacuum and they are each in dialogue with that which we have already read or will read. (My college mise en scene professor will be proud of that I've written that.)

Not sure what implications this thought will have on my own writing, but it is an observation that I will try not to forget.

something old, something new, something borrowed

2010-05-29T11:50:00.005-04:00

Taking a break from FLIGHT for a while so my beta reader, J, can read and critique. I think my query letter is done. And I have no idea how to make my synopsis any better even though I know it is not yet good enough. (Trying to keep that one good eye!)

What to do?
Start working on my new project!

I've been tossing this idea around in my head for a few months but have been too focused to do anything with it. A retelling of a classic story with the emphasis on a different character and what happens once the original tale ended. (My god, that sounds trite!) As with FLIGHT, it will be a bit of magic realism. Unlike FLIGHT, it is going to need a lot of structure to provide the foundation for a very fluid narrative. So, outlining ahoy.

And there we are... my something old, something new, and something borrowed. Just in time for a good friend's wedding next week.

for those moments of self doubt

2010-05-22T15:30:00.001-04:00

now what am I supposed to do all day?

2010-05-22T10:38:00.003-04:00

Latest draft of FLIGHT with my beta reader: check
Query posted in online forum for feedback: check
Synopsis posted in online forum for feedback: check

Um. Now what am I supposed to do all day?

she walks in beauty

2010-05-20T16:28:00.002-04:00

Reading Neil Gaiman's Sandman and there are some sections that are so beautiful it makes me ache. Just about all of Andre Aciman's Call Me By Your Name has that effect on me, too. Iron and Wine's "Flightless Bird, American Mouth"... Glen Hansard's "When Your Mind's Made Up"... My favorite songs are often the ones that make my chest hurt when I listen.

Can anyone tell me why it is that beauty makes us ache? Give me a poetic answer, a biochemical answer.

This ache has been so much a part of my response to the world that I have never before thought to pose the question.

my brain is full of words

2010-05-17T16:32:00.005-04:00

Some updates in the world of what I am reading and how my manuscript is going:

Sirens of Titan ended up not blowing my mind the way I was hoping it would. It got about as brilliant as it was going to get by two-thirds of the way through. After that it was just about getting to the ending. Still a really good but, but I was left feeling like it became obvious as it unfolded.

Now rereading Neil Gaiman's The Sandman series. I first read them freshman or sophomore year of high school and they changed my world a little. But I haven't read them in well over a decade. And two things jump out at me as I read from a more writerly perspective:

1. The sparsity of language is awe inspiring. Yes, I know that pictures tell a thousand words and this is a graphic novel. But no, that is not enough. It is a rare cell that captures a facial expression or scene in such a way as to maximize those thousand words. Neil Gaiman can simply flip a story on its head or renegotiate the rules of a world in a few words. It is breathtaking. The reader is never left confused or feeling lost or disbelieving.

2. And this is tied dramatically to #1... the underlying structure to the story is a work of art in itself. The books are like a two-dimensional glimpse of the sculpture beneath.

Now, I wish I could write like Neil Gaiman. Of course I wish I could write like Neil Gaiman. But I am not him. And that is ok. But any decent writer could learn much from studying the structure in Sandman.

So good. Oh, and you should follow him on Twitter.

Onto the writing front: 30 pages left of word-level nitpicking before I hand the manuscript back over to J and plummet back into the evil land of synopses, queries, and pitches. Ugh.

Sirens of Titan

2010-05-12T11:04:00.006-04:00

My husband got me to finally read Sirens of Titan. I think my eleventh grade English teacher convinced me that I hated Vonnegut when we read Slaughterhouse Five. (She also managed to ruin The Great Gatsby by telling us all to pay close attention to colors and who is riding in what car at any given time. Turned a great American novel into paint-by-numbers.) So it took my husband a while to make me see that Sirens is exactly my kind of book: literary, fantastical, with amazing characters. I'm about 100 pages in and swimming.

I also came to the Harry Potter series rather late in the game. Back in college, I was too pretentious to read what everyone else was reading. Let alone a children's book. Thankfully I've grown up enough to realize that some of my favorite authors write YA and sometimes everyone is reading "it" for a reason.

So, tell me a bit about a beloved book that you discovered late. What held you back? How did you finally give in?

I am not this melodramatic

2010-05-07T11:57:00.003-04:00

On Tuesday night, I went to bed with a lead weight twisting in my stomach. When I woke Wednesday, it was still there -- heavy and churning before I was even awake enough to remember why.

Oh right, that's why.

I posted something I'd written on a forum. Random member #47 tore it to shreds. Shreds. Not just my writing. The story. Told me I was a mid-American housewife with pathetically typical fantasies. Cue all cliches about being punched in the gut.

By Wednesday night, I regained some composure and perspective. Maybe #47 is right and I can't write for shit. Or maybe she's just not into what I write. Or maybe the synopsis I posted is not representative of the novel. I don't know which is true. But the only way I can move forward is to assume that the first "maybe" is false.

Where to from here?

Going back through the novel. I'm doing a word-choice edit. Looking to pair down the number and make sure I don't get repetitive. It's soothing. The process also reminded me of something important: I like my story. The only reason I'm doing this is because I like my story.

After I get through this current round of edits, I will give it to beta reader J. While she has it, I will start that synopsis from scratch. After all, I still have that one good eye.

the business of turning story into book

2010-05-04T10:52:00.006-04:00

The latest -- so nearly done -- draft of Flight awaits comments from my friend and book guru, J. To keep from going stir crazy, I've started writing my synopsis (which is like poking myself in the eye), researching agents, and putting together a framework for my queries.

Scary.

In truth, I've been researching agents ever since I realized that maybe this story I was writing down would end up becoming a book. That's when I started reading blogs and forums. There are agents I feel like I already know because I've been reading them for months. I imagine these are also the agents who are deluged with queries from people just like me. So I wonder... what do I do when I run out of agents? There are only a precious handful that I feel I would be querying for a solid reason -- their blog, the authors they rep. Otherwise, I would just have to say, "I'm querying you because I really want an agent real real bad." Umm...

Advice?

And synopsis writing. I don't even want to blog about synopsis writing because I still have one good eye left.

just finished reading Carrie Ryan's The Dead Tossed Waves

2010-05-03T16:41:00.004-04:00

I know, I know. What is a pretentious, literary chick like me doing starting her blog by writing about a paranormal YA novel, right?

I'll tell you. Carrie Ryan is brilliant. She creates worlds and crafts story as well as anyone I've read. I find myself telling people, "It's a zombie book but it's not a zombie book. Because that's not what it's about." I find myself reaching more and more towards fantasy, sci fi, and fabulism in the fiction I read because when a writer isn't limited by the physics of the natural world, I find -- at their best -- they can say something more true.

Jeanette Winterson. Joss Whedon. Haruki Murakami. Neil Gaiman. Bless you all for giving me great entertainment while also touching a part of me that reaches out, points a finger, and says, "Yes! That's more real than reality! That's my truth!"

The Dead Tossed Waves and Ryan's early book in the series, The Forest of Hands and Teeth find that truth. Thank you, Carrie.

And the fact that the plot is so rich and engrossing that it made me miss my subway stop? Icing on her cake of brilliant.