What stays with me

I have a hard time avoiding books or movies that I know will stay with me. I knew The Road would be hard to take (my brother told me some of the plot), but I read it anyway. Up until page 50, I was actually thinking it wasn't too bad and then I read something, started to cry, and didn't let up until a soggy hour after I close the book.

It hurt so good.

I do this to myself for catharsis, even if I'm unaware of needing one (now it sounds like an emotional enema). Requiem for a Dream was another movie that stayed with me. The sheer brutality and bleakness of plot events made me reach for the macaroni and cheese and Dawson reruns.

I give myself a pat on the back when I don't walk into these traps. Entertainment Weekly had an article about The Shield and listed highlights of the show. I was in the middle of thinking I should netflix some seasons when I read that one episode had a gangmember force the captain to give him oral sex at gunpoint and then he took pictures of it.

Jesus Christ, it took three days for my mind to stop flashing on that stomach-churning little nugget and I'm grateful I didn't watch the show.

Wanting to keep away from material that sticks to the mind is a trait I share with my sisters and mother. This trait has a subtrait of wanting to know how the story ends. My mother has it hardcore: she reads the end of every book she buys. We were watching The Client together and I told her who dies, who doesn't, and how it ended. She still watched with hands clenched, not being able to handle the suspense.

I netflixed Gone Baby Gone and asked my sister how it ended. She told me it was a bleak movie and told me the ending.
No, she didn't tell me the ending- she told me a ending. She deliberately deceived me so I wouldn't know what happened.
I'm waiting to confront her on this little switcheroo.

However, I'm glad I watched it. It's gritty and depressing and put a knot in my stomach, but it's completely worth it. Casey Affleck is a tough crusader (and I never ever pictured him as tough before, yet when he threatens the bad guys- wholly believable) and I couldn't help but think how much his brother Ben must've trusted him to give him this lead.

And that's touching, seeing as I'm all about the family.
Some scenes have stuck with me and the scene of the moral showdown is one I've been replaying. Sometimes it's good to recognize the world is shitty and people are corrupt and any safety I carve out for myself is precious (and illusory). I know that others recognize these truths and that places me in some pretty fine company.

It's oddly satisfying.

Two types of writers

There are two types of writers in the world. The first have been encouraged from the day they put a writing utensil in their chubby little fists and got to writing. The second have been discouraged in various ways from the first time they admitted they wanted to be writers.

Not to say that the first group don't get negative remarks, the world doesn't operate by absolutes. Yet on the overall, the people in their lives act as cheerleaders. Major Ex was told from a young age that he was a fantastic writer. I've seen this buoy him during times of self-doubt and rejection. A former best friend of mine didn't even write beyond the assignments in high school and everyone in our circle regarded her as a writer. I think it had something to do with her looks and personality.

Play the smallest violin for me because I fall squarely in the latter category. Heaps of scorn and discouragement, and I swear to God, any past success I've had or future successes I will have happen out of the pure D-spiteful need to prove the naysayers wrong. In this tilting at windmills is an acceptance of my lot.
Which brings me to Dearauthor.com and a feature they provide: First Page Saturday. Authors are invited to post the first page of a book. Comments are welcomed.

For a couple of weeks, there was a dust-up on the board about the nature of the comments. Were the critiques too harsh and mean? Were commenters entitled to say whatever they wanted as long as the comments were about the text?

When is constructive criticism just criticism?

I don't know if there are answers for these questions. When I posted my first page, sure I wanted to bask in the glow of positivity. As I scrolled through negative comments, I felt needles in my veins and I realized how naive I had been.

Once the initial reaction was over and I took my thumb out of my mouth, I read for the comments that held valuable advice, disregarded the ones that were wrong (the ones that made errors in grammatical rules or interpretation), and held the positive comments to my heart.

A pervasive attitude is that writing is a tough business and writers have to have rhino hides. I believe that, even if I don't believe that what doesn't destroy, only makes me stronger.
Would I submit again? I don't think so. But I'm glad the Janes give writers an opportunity like this and I cannot deny the value of the exercise. It's not just an action of wishful thinking or masochism. Writers want their work to be read, and the Dearauthor website gives us a shot at a huge audience populated with experienced writers and enthusiastic readers. As much as I smarted from the experience, I treasure it.

Not a writer's block

I haven't written since the second week of August. I'm waiting for feedback on a resubmit, which should happen any day...week...month now.

I don't know if the two are related because school did intervene and I haven't been able to turn my mushy brain into thinking mush at the end of the day.

I still have ideas popping into my head and the characters from a half-finished work shrieking at me to get to the writing, but I'm lazy.

I've been trying to think of a simile for waiting on a publisher's reply and the best one I can think of (and not nearly original enough) is that it's like waiting for the call from a one night stand. The knowledge I've put myself out there and it's the very best self I possess at this time. The anticipation and fevered imaginings attached: Maybe I'll be published and I'll be a real writer. Maybe people will read my book and like it. Maybe I can feel some sort of validation for this passion and drive.

Right now I'm telling myself I don't care as long as I know one way or the other. Acceptance or rejection, as long as I have an answer.
My teacher friend at school wants to get up a group for NaNoWriMo, and I told him I'd do it. I figure it'll get me back in the habit.
Getting into the habit is the key. Takes a monumental amount of effort to sit my ass down, but once I'm banging out an acceptable tally of words, I wonder how come I wasn't doing this all along?

Laziness.
Stagnation.
Inertia.

The niggling voice inside my head that says I'm wasting my time and should put away my childish things.

And meanwhile, I wait.

A bright spot

A week jam packed with grading, grades, and bullshit. I calculated that I corrected over 300 essays this week- a number I didn't dare to figure out until the last essay was recorded.

A bright spot was that Neil Gaiman posted a video to one of his readings. I don't plan on going to his readings or signings given that they last until the wee sma's and I don't really want to stand five hours in line playing "Who loves Neil more" with the other fangirls and boys.

But I watched the video at school. At first I thought it was a 1:53 minute snippet until I realized it was an hour and 53 minutes. Giddy with excitement, I started watching, but then a student came in for extra help and talk.

She talked for an hour, the entire time of my free period, and I have to say that my attention was divided between enthusiastically listening and pining for Neil.

I couldn't tell her to leave because I always feel if a student is talking to me, he or she must need to talk and can't find anyone to talk to. I'm not one of those teachers who says "Come on by. My door is always open." But if students find their way to me and my ear, I'll give a listen...even if it means postponing Neil.

The video is wonderful. Wonderful to the point that I could carry the warm fuzzy feeling until the end of the week. He reads his stories masterfully, which isn't always the case with writers, and has a dry sense of humor.

In all honesty, I don't understand why his readings and signings don't end up like the ending of Perfume. The man is incredible.

Another bright spot was on Joe Hill's website. Have to admit I was biased because I love his dad so much, but Joe's got his own chops and a very entertaining blog. A story of his is going to be published in an upcoming zombie anthology and the best part is that the book's website has free stories up. Nothing but blissful zombie love.

I wasn't too keen on the shambling dead until I read World War Z, which transcends its genre. It's done in the tradition of Studs Terkel, and the author creates diverse voices for his "interviews." So much so that I forgot I was reading a work of fiction at times- the suspension of disbelief was strong enough to withstand the fiercest of earthquakes.

Now I have that edgy mid-Sunday feeling. The coin of the rest of my weekend has to be spent in a meaningful way. A desperate kind of celebration- I must enjoy the rest of the day- adds some pressure.
Then again, if I have a good supper and some quality TV, my expectations are met.

There are two types of people

My phrase for this week has been "I will never ever get tired of..."

I will never ever get tired of New Orleans. I will never ever get tired of hearing stories about extraordinary authors who were repeatedly rejected until that one person saw their brilliance (Golding's Lord of the Flies was turned down many times, which boggles. You might not like the book, but to deny its genius and its need to be read is just crazy talk). And I will never ever get tired of the sheer delight that comes from being able to divide the world as I know it into two types of people.

Not every topic cleaves the population in two and to force the division is fallacy. You can't say there's those who love romance novels and those who don't. Not many romance readers love every subgenre- I'm a sucker for suspense and paranormal, but historical or contemporary ('cepting for a few authors)? Not so much.

There are two types of people in the world: those who have to talk about poop and those who don't. My family is evenly divided, and within ten minutes of a round table the subject will fall to excretion. My friend Tattoo Queen loves to talk about it and she prefaces or interrupts every tale of bowel with "I know you hate this subject," but she never stops talking about it. Drives me crazy and makes me have to remind myself that she's a good friend.
Sometimes the division is so wildly uneven it makes me feel like I'm on the outside, pressing my nose against the window like poor Sara Crewe at the bakery.

As people were lauding Dark Knight, I was hating it. It was too long, too preposterous (and this is from a woman who can suspend disbelief with the best of them), and I liked Heath better in A Knight's Tale.

Heresy, I know.

Other categories: those who think chocolate icing on chocolate cake is fine and dandy, and those who think it's too much; those who want to travel and those who don't...I can't think of anymore right now, but I'll probably think of a couple before I go to sleep.
Such simplicity doesn't come very often. Those ever loving shades of gray leech the color of life all the time. Which is why I can crow in absolute joy when I hit on one of those categories.

The Necessary Evil of Friendship

My sister Emma has two close friends, and I envy her the relationships in a non-bitter way. Sometimes I wish I had a circle of friends filled with people of similar and dissimilar interests, who loved going to the movies or out for a beer, and who didn't piss me off.

As a matter of fact, I'd settle for friends who didn't piss me off.
In my history, I haven't had banner friendships. The first best friend I remember never hesitated to tell me that I wasn't her best friend: I was only a very good friend.

The friend sitch didn't get better in high school. One friendship was that catastrophic perfection of two people who shouldn't be friends and another was with a girl who used me as a best friend when her other two best friends shut her out.

College made me smarter academically, but sadly I was still ignorant in the interpersonal. A best friend whose favorite pastime was making me feel stupid (yeah, yeah, no one can make me) and another- who later became Major Ex- whose favorite pastime was...making me feel stupid.

Now I'm forty and I can't say the friendship front has much improved aside from the fact that I don't tolerate friends who think I'm stupid.

Tattoo Queen's a great friend most times, but on too many occasions, I want to scream in frustration. Right now we have a trip planned and the one day I didn't want to leave on is the day we're leaving.

It works for her. Never mind I have two freaking months of vacation in the summer. No. We have to go during the busiest time of the year.
I could stand up and tell her no, but I'm passive in a way that makes me want to spit water at the mirror and then break it with my fist.

My closest friend at school drives me up the wall on a regular basis, and I don't tell him so (although I relieve stress by milking my venom sacs on him in small doses). But there's a good reason that I never see him in the summer even though he lives five minutes away.

Maybe it's me. My passivity attracts the wrong people and somewhere out there is the perfect friend looking for a friend who'll listen, keeps the advice giving to a minimum, stays loyal, and loves being generous.

And that person's probably dealing with shitty friends right this very moment.

Why sisters are the best invention

I'm glad the competition among my sisters and I is pretty much nonexistent. My sister Beth is my mother's favorite, but I don't mind that. My sister Ella is Anne Elliot personified: need a recipe for frittata or a surefire way to annihilate a wasp's nest without getting stung? She's the person to call.

My sister Emma is the one I feel closest to (not to say I don't love the others) because we share common interests of pop culture, cheesy TV shows, and the various other threads that bind us. She's the one person who understands when I give her the answer for what Colin Ferrell smells like.

Musky cologne and cigarettes.

I do wonder what stars smell like. I wish the entertainment mags would go into detail about that. Never mind the "he wore a simple black tailored shirt and a tattered pair of blue jeans." Would it be so hard to add on an aroma?

The only time I can remember hearing about the subject was in the Warhol Diaries and Andy mentioned some star having B.O.

I would love to know who reeked in Hollywood. Or who should lay off the sandalwood or CK. I want to know who smells like an angel. I love people who smell like that- the punch in the gut of attraction based on delectable scent.

My sister understands this completely.

Some movies are like macaroni and cheese

Do Edward and Vivian stay together? Those two crazy kids have so much going against them- her prostitute past and his bad relationship history. One of my major exes had an irrational fondness for the movie Pretty Woman, and he'd watch it every year on his birthday.

I don't know if I like the movie, but I do watch it whenever I happen upon it. Lord knows, TBS shows it often enough. The movie whips out its hooks and sinks them in and I find myself planted, watching Vivian discover the wonder of opera (yeah right) and a kiss on the lips.

That's only one movie (of many)guaranteed to pull me into it and have me in a comfortably numbed daze, unless I summon the strength to change the channel.

The Ya Ya Sisterhood does it too. Along with Miss Congeniality and While You Were Sleeping. Wait a sec...Am I in love with Sandra Bullock?

Again, I don't even know if I like these movies, but this uncertainty doesn't save me from their enchantment. A few seconds of viewing and I'm settled into the predictable story, wrapping it around me and feeling no harm from or toward the world.

When the movie ends, or if I did have the desperate Samsonian might to wrench myself free, I often feel as if awakened from a pleasant nap- a little refreshed and slightly guilty.

Half-grown notions

I am so deep my thoughts have echoes.
Kidding and laughing at myself.
But I gotta say, I spent this week feeling detached from my life. Or feeling that my life is something that happens to me instead of life actually being me. I have my self, a distinct separateness from the events around me.

Which begs the question of how other people feel. Are there people who have no separation between themselves and their lives? Who don't feel as if life is an assault?

Talking today to my faraway friend Tattoo Queen, I didn't take this detachment for despair until she started saying I shouldn't lose hope. I didn't feel the loss of hope; I thought it was acceptance.

More the fool me.
She reminded me that I was hopeful for the future and that my mantra this year was my forties were going to be great, a decade to beat all the other decades.

I'm holding onto the conversation as much as possible. The worst part of my head has gotten sneaky in the last couple of years and I'll be in the middle of mindfucking myself without realizing it.
I still wonder how other people live their lives. I can't help but think that a true integration of self and life, no distinction between events and person, is the key. But I haven't the faintest how to go about doing that.

Beware of Cool Teachers

I watched Half Nelson earlier this week. Although a wimp when it comes to sad movies, I somehow forgot that fact and thought I'd be able to handle the story of a crackhead teacher in an inner city school.

Buckets, I cried them. Ryan Gosling was brilliant- charismatic and broken. I didn't recognize him from Remember the Titans.
The movie broke my heart because of his being a teacher. I know teachers like him (minus the crack addiction)and can't help feeling a certain resentment toward them.

They cultivate a following; I see them during their free periods surrounded by the adoring little throng. The administration looks upon them with warmth and fond disbelief. When they speak at department or faculty meetings, it's with an incredible passion, even if they're only lobbying for a new coffee maker in the department office.

Am I jealous? Maybe. Somehow I stepped into the role of a teacher who students don't appreciate until they go to college. If they ever do.

I tell myself I don't care. My only goal is for the students to leave my class better readers and writers than when they came in.
The cool teachers at my school don't have that goal. Sure, they'll talk a good game, but when it comes down to the grunt work of actually teaching, they'd rather have the kids do art projects and write journals filled with the moans and sighs of adolescence.
The cool teachers bask in adoration (and a student's love and worship can be as addictive as crack) while the uncool teachers make sure the kids can make it in college.

A teacher friend of mine (who is cool)used to tell me numerous times that he believed it didn't matter what you taught the kids as long as they felt cherished in your classroom.

He stopped the day I called bullshit on him.

Mayor of Blogtown

Ever get the feeling you were late to the party?
As I write this, I'm haunted by reading about some guy who gathered all the blogs that had only one sad entry to their names.
I think I can do better than one entry. I know I can. My plan is to write the second blog pretty damn quick after this one.
And I'm thinking about the blogs I love reading, the ones that are updated three times a day by people far more skilled at time management than I am.

I hope to have copious entries about teaching, writing, watching movies, and reading.