Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, February 9, 2012
On Audience and My Navel
Oh my god. I had this excellent post and it all just vanished. Sigh. Damn it.
Anyway, let's try this again.
Jenny Crusie posted this (http://www.arghink.com/2012/02/09/blog-ramble/) today, and it's been making me think. It's been making me think a lot, actually.
You see, I am apparently running this blog all kinds of wrong. Instead of asking "Why would people want to read this?", I'm saying, "I have stuff I want to say." Now granted, I created this blog as a place for me to figure out what I want out of life, to try to achieve some direction and maturity before I turn 30, so it's mostly a lot of navel-gazing and me, me, me, me, me. But I have on occasion addressed other people's concerns about the tone of the blog, and then I addressed concerns that I thought my defense of the tone brought up. But for the most part, I'm just rambling away about something that's all about me and my pretty, pretty navel, and probably has zero affect or interest for anyone else.
Also, I never expected to attract huge numbers here. I knew that this was going to be for me, so I didn't think too many people would be too interested in what I had to say. (I'm actually shocked that I've heard from as many people as I have, and that all of them have been male.) I did try to keep it somewhat apolitical, because since this was a place for self-reflection, I didn't want to get into the kind of debates that political topics can become. I have no problem with them in other spaces, but I didn't feel like it was right for what I was trying to do here. See, not a lot of concern for my audience here. Sorry.
Anyway, I'm thinking about this more seriously than I may have before because I've been considering starting another blog -- one dedicated to reviewing books that I'm reading. And while Journey to Thirty is purely for me and my sorting myself out, I would want this reviewing site to be a little more inclusive to others, because I would like it to eventually do something for me... like show authors that I understand how stories work and that I could be paid to edit their e-books for them... So, for that project I need to think more about audience than I have been, and that's going to be an interesting thought experiment.
Anyway, I'm not starting it anytime soon, so I have plenty of time to try to work out all the kinks and to try to come at it from the right side, like Jenny suggests in her ramble.
Speaking of this blog and its purpose, I feel like it's really been doing some good. I feel like I'm starting to focus a little more clearly on what I want to do. I always knew I loved reading and writing, but I don't think I ever really understood just how much story meant to me. Now I know that I'm eventually going to write my novel, and the others floating in my head, regardless of what happens with them. They can get published or not, but I will write them because I must. I know that I am passionate about stories and I will defend them to the death, and talk about the books I've loved, and the books that fell down. So reviewing is looking really wonderful -- and it's something I've considered doing before, so it's not totally out of the blue. But all of these things are something that's going to happen because they are things I love doing. They can wind up being my career one day, or I can go to library school and become The Cataloging Goddess of All Time, which I would also enjoy, but I will still read and write and discuss books.
And for not even a month into this project, the fact that I found these truths out already is pretty exciting and encouraging. Who knows what else could happen?
Monday, January 30, 2012
Breakthroughs
So, I've had this story idea floating around in my head for awhile. I was planning to really attack writing it for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this last November. However, the Universe had other plans. My back, which has been a touchy little bugger for the last six years, had been getting progressively worse. I would make it through a full day at work and hurt so badly when I got home that the only thing I could manage to do was lay down flat on my back with an ice pack. I debated the wisdom of trying to come home from sitting in a chair all day to sit in a chair all night to try to write. I decided it was probably not the greatest idea in the world. Ten days into November, the month some whackjob (kidding!) decided was a good time to try to write a novel, I coughed and my back completely crumpled and I was flat on my back for a couple of months.
I was incredibly bitter about that for a bit. I had wanted to write my book. I had had it all ready to go. I had prepped the hubby that he was probably going to eat soup or frozen pizza for most of the month, because I was going to be busy writing. I was finally, really going to do it. I was going to write a book. And then I couldn't. Not just I decided that it would be a bad idea to stress my back out that much, I absolutely could not sit in a chair for any decent amount of time, and I hadn't been prescribed painkillers yet.
But, all in all, it was probably a great thing that my back went out when it did. I found a new chiropractor, who suggested that I finally have an MRI to see what was going on with my back, and then I found out that I had two herniated disks, severe spinal stenosis, and some nerve tearing. I finally got some actual painkillers, and I finally got someone to say, "Hey, if sleeping on the couch makes the pain less, then sleep on the damn couch. Who cares what anyone else says." It was nice to know that my pain wasn't all in my head, wasn't made up, wasn't a result of me being tremendously messed up as a person. I wasn't crazy, there was actually a problem.
I've had this feeling before. I swam in high school (junior and senior year) and in college. In high school, I'd experienced a lot of pain in left shoulder, but, and I hate to say this because it sounds petty and bitchy and mean, but my coaches seemed to kind of blow it off. I think I came off as lazy (having never been an athlete, I struggled to keep up with practices), and I think they thought I was trying to get out of practices. College swimming was better. My coach realized that my times weren't improving the way they should have in the sprint events, and so tried me out in the 500 (which is a goddamn distance event as far as I'm concerned), which is a hilarious story for another time. And so we started training me for distance events. And I was starting to maybe get pretty darn good, even though I sometimes downed entire bottles of Advil before practices and meets. My parents were shocked when I came home for Christmas break my freshman year and I talked like a jock. (Everyone in my family is athletic, except for me. I think they were excited.) And then, halfway through training in Florida during the last half of Christmas break, my shoulder just gave up. Just gave right the hell up. It turned out I had lost some cartilage in my shoulder socket and the bones were rubbing together and it was all bad. I went through surgery, because I wanted to be able to swim again. But despite weeks of rehab stretches and physical therapy in front of Navy guys who oogled my boobs, I still can't really swim. And I'm kind of bitter about that. Because if I could've still swam competitively, maybe my sophomore year at Beloit wouldn't have been so disastrous, and maybe I wouldn't have been so depressed, and maybe I wouldn't have to have come home, and so on and so forth. I can play that game all damn day, and I have.
But that game is dumb. It doesn't matter that my shoulder is still a little bit screwed up when I try to swim. What should matter is that I was right. There was something very wrong, and I knew that. I wasn't lazy and trying to get out of practices, I was really hurting. That's important.
It's important to be able to listen to your body and to trust what you feel. It's something I've never thought about, but when I sit and think about this situation with my back, I'm really glad that I have trusted myself. I never listened to those doctors who treated me like I was a junkie, or that I was some hysterical, crazy female making up pains and problems to get attention. I pushed and I pushed until someone listened to me and acknowledged that I was right, and that's pretty darn impressive. I call myself out on my lack of follow through, and that's a valid concern in many areas, but when it's come down to my body, I have trusted myself and I haven't given up.
And so I'm not going to give up on my story, either. I've been thinking about the plot and some of the details and I finally had a brainstorm of brilliance this afternoon about what's motivating the biggest plot point. And I'm going to trust myself to know what's right for my story and to not give up on writing it. It may be awhile before I can actually sit down and start typing it (I see the neurosurgeon next Monday, so we'll see if surgery is in my future), but I can listen to the ideas I have and honor those, like I've honored my knowledge of the workings of my body.
It sounds like a plan.
I was incredibly bitter about that for a bit. I had wanted to write my book. I had had it all ready to go. I had prepped the hubby that he was probably going to eat soup or frozen pizza for most of the month, because I was going to be busy writing. I was finally, really going to do it. I was going to write a book. And then I couldn't. Not just I decided that it would be a bad idea to stress my back out that much, I absolutely could not sit in a chair for any decent amount of time, and I hadn't been prescribed painkillers yet.
But, all in all, it was probably a great thing that my back went out when it did. I found a new chiropractor, who suggested that I finally have an MRI to see what was going on with my back, and then I found out that I had two herniated disks, severe spinal stenosis, and some nerve tearing. I finally got some actual painkillers, and I finally got someone to say, "Hey, if sleeping on the couch makes the pain less, then sleep on the damn couch. Who cares what anyone else says." It was nice to know that my pain wasn't all in my head, wasn't made up, wasn't a result of me being tremendously messed up as a person. I wasn't crazy, there was actually a problem.
I've had this feeling before. I swam in high school (junior and senior year) and in college. In high school, I'd experienced a lot of pain in left shoulder, but, and I hate to say this because it sounds petty and bitchy and mean, but my coaches seemed to kind of blow it off. I think I came off as lazy (having never been an athlete, I struggled to keep up with practices), and I think they thought I was trying to get out of practices. College swimming was better. My coach realized that my times weren't improving the way they should have in the sprint events, and so tried me out in the 500 (which is a goddamn distance event as far as I'm concerned), which is a hilarious story for another time. And so we started training me for distance events. And I was starting to maybe get pretty darn good, even though I sometimes downed entire bottles of Advil before practices and meets. My parents were shocked when I came home for Christmas break my freshman year and I talked like a jock. (Everyone in my family is athletic, except for me. I think they were excited.) And then, halfway through training in Florida during the last half of Christmas break, my shoulder just gave up. Just gave right the hell up. It turned out I had lost some cartilage in my shoulder socket and the bones were rubbing together and it was all bad. I went through surgery, because I wanted to be able to swim again. But despite weeks of rehab stretches and physical therapy in front of Navy guys who oogled my boobs, I still can't really swim. And I'm kind of bitter about that. Because if I could've still swam competitively, maybe my sophomore year at Beloit wouldn't have been so disastrous, and maybe I wouldn't have been so depressed, and maybe I wouldn't have to have come home, and so on and so forth. I can play that game all damn day, and I have.
But that game is dumb. It doesn't matter that my shoulder is still a little bit screwed up when I try to swim. What should matter is that I was right. There was something very wrong, and I knew that. I wasn't lazy and trying to get out of practices, I was really hurting. That's important.
It's important to be able to listen to your body and to trust what you feel. It's something I've never thought about, but when I sit and think about this situation with my back, I'm really glad that I have trusted myself. I never listened to those doctors who treated me like I was a junkie, or that I was some hysterical, crazy female making up pains and problems to get attention. I pushed and I pushed until someone listened to me and acknowledged that I was right, and that's pretty darn impressive. I call myself out on my lack of follow through, and that's a valid concern in many areas, but when it's come down to my body, I have trusted myself and I haven't given up.
And so I'm not going to give up on my story, either. I've been thinking about the plot and some of the details and I finally had a brainstorm of brilliance this afternoon about what's motivating the biggest plot point. And I'm going to trust myself to know what's right for my story and to not give up on writing it. It may be awhile before I can actually sit down and start typing it (I see the neurosurgeon next Monday, so we'll see if surgery is in my future), but I can listen to the ideas I have and honor those, like I've honored my knowledge of the workings of my body.
It sounds like a plan.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Where I Get Sappy and Lovey-Dovey
So, my mood improved greatly last night.
First, the hubby told me what his secret surprise for me was. Are you guys ready for this? (I'm serious, this is, like, the sweetest thing ever.) The hubby has been in contact with The Goddess's (Jennifer Crusie's) daughter/business manager about sending my favorite book of The Goddess's to be signed. HOW SWEET IS THAT? Want something sweeter? Apparently, he came up with this idea at work. He told me he was working, and suddenly he thought that while we have a good time together and all that, he doesn't ever really surprise me with random presents or anything. And then he was thinking of a good present, and he decided that having Jenny Crusie sign one of my books would be the awesomest thing ever. (Which it totally is.) He was going to keep it secret and have it be my Valentine's Day present, but then decided that he'd let me open it as soon as it got here, and then decided that I would notice the book being missing, and that he really just needed to tell me that it was happening. And when he did, I was totally silly with glee, and after appropriate amounts of squeeing and dancing around in joy, I felt a bit shaken out of my grumpalicious mood.
And then, because The Hubby knew I was feeling pissy and resentful of not being able to go out and party and dance and generally shake my tushy, he decided to play some fabulous old school hip-hop that I love so that I could dance a bit in the apartment. That way, when my back started giving out, I could lay down and rest it immediately, instead of, at the club, having to seat on some super-unsupportive stool. It was awesome and after I danced to a couple of songs, I felt much, much better about the universe and my place in it. :)
Today, we looked at some used cars (the Explorer is getting very close to being dead and it makes life very exciting when I have to take it out of town), tried to get my book sent to The Goddess, ate a completely awesome lunch, and cleaned the apartment.
A quiet weekend, but a damn good one.
And so, instead of being grumpy and pissy about all the things that I can't do, I'm feeling really grateful that I have such a sweetheart for a hubby, and that he understands what I need, what makes me happy. It's something that I don't think we appreciate as much as we should. Romantic movies tend to disregard the devoted best friend as a hero, going instead for the sexy new guy. (Think of Buffy -- Xander was never a viable option for her to date (although, to be honest, that relationship couldn't have happened without hurting Willow), it was always Angel, or that Army guy who didn't last, or Spike.) But someone who knows what makes you laugh, who can make you laugh when you really don't want to (because you have a dramatic streak a mile wide and you're enjoying being a bit of a wench), and goes to get to chocolate and peanut butter ice cream is someone who is definitely to be appreciated.
Okay, are you gagging yet? I got a little sappy. I'm sorry. But Jenny Crusie is going to sign a book for me. It's allowed. ;)
Anyway, speaking of Jenny Crusie, here is an excellent chat transcript between her, Krissie, and Lani about the use of soundtracks for their books (and, if you remember, it was a song for my soundtrack that got me all sappy and grumpy yesterday). It's hilarious, as is anything with the three of them. Enjoy!
http://www.arghink.com/2012/01/28/the-three-goddesses-chat-book-soundtracks/#more-6634
First, the hubby told me what his secret surprise for me was. Are you guys ready for this? (I'm serious, this is, like, the sweetest thing ever.) The hubby has been in contact with The Goddess's (Jennifer Crusie's) daughter/business manager about sending my favorite book of The Goddess's to be signed. HOW SWEET IS THAT? Want something sweeter? Apparently, he came up with this idea at work. He told me he was working, and suddenly he thought that while we have a good time together and all that, he doesn't ever really surprise me with random presents or anything. And then he was thinking of a good present, and he decided that having Jenny Crusie sign one of my books would be the awesomest thing ever. (Which it totally is.) He was going to keep it secret and have it be my Valentine's Day present, but then decided that he'd let me open it as soon as it got here, and then decided that I would notice the book being missing, and that he really just needed to tell me that it was happening. And when he did, I was totally silly with glee, and after appropriate amounts of squeeing and dancing around in joy, I felt a bit shaken out of my grumpalicious mood.
And then, because The Hubby knew I was feeling pissy and resentful of not being able to go out and party and dance and generally shake my tushy, he decided to play some fabulous old school hip-hop that I love so that I could dance a bit in the apartment. That way, when my back started giving out, I could lay down and rest it immediately, instead of, at the club, having to seat on some super-unsupportive stool. It was awesome and after I danced to a couple of songs, I felt much, much better about the universe and my place in it. :)
Today, we looked at some used cars (the Explorer is getting very close to being dead and it makes life very exciting when I have to take it out of town), tried to get my book sent to The Goddess, ate a completely awesome lunch, and cleaned the apartment.
A quiet weekend, but a damn good one.
And so, instead of being grumpy and pissy about all the things that I can't do, I'm feeling really grateful that I have such a sweetheart for a hubby, and that he understands what I need, what makes me happy. It's something that I don't think we appreciate as much as we should. Romantic movies tend to disregard the devoted best friend as a hero, going instead for the sexy new guy. (Think of Buffy -- Xander was never a viable option for her to date (although, to be honest, that relationship couldn't have happened without hurting Willow), it was always Angel, or that Army guy who didn't last, or Spike.) But someone who knows what makes you laugh, who can make you laugh when you really don't want to (because you have a dramatic streak a mile wide and you're enjoying being a bit of a wench), and goes to get to chocolate and peanut butter ice cream is someone who is definitely to be appreciated.
Okay, are you gagging yet? I got a little sappy. I'm sorry. But Jenny Crusie is going to sign a book for me. It's allowed. ;)
Anyway, speaking of Jenny Crusie, here is an excellent chat transcript between her, Krissie, and Lani about the use of soundtracks for their books (and, if you remember, it was a song for my soundtrack that got me all sappy and grumpy yesterday). It's hilarious, as is anything with the three of them. Enjoy!
http://www.arghink.com/2012/01/28/the-three-goddesses-chat-book-soundtracks/#more-6634
Friday, January 27, 2012
Blegh
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I am in a seriously weird mood. I'm just the slighest bit sad, a bit grumpy, a bit annoyed with life in general. For some reason, I really feel like getting absolutely stupid drunk. I feel like wearing some small, little cute party top and go out and shake my butt. However, I cannot do any of those things, because of my freaking back (and the pills I'm that enable me to move without screaming).
So, blegh.
Another reason why I may be feeling so weird is because I've been thinking about my story a lot the last couple of days. I really like the premise and all, but I need to work out a couple of major plot points and a couple of little detail-y things. But I've been looking at a lot of "house" magazines (my heroine is a designer/contractor). And today I listened to some songs that are going to be on the book's soundtrack, and one of them is kind of depressing. But it's a totally kickass song, so I like it, so I tend to listen to it on repeat, and then I get all bummed out. That's super-dumb of me, but what are you going to do?
In other news, the hubby's being all not-secretive about this massive secret he's got. Haha. He told me that he may be getting me "the greatest present that [he has] ever bought [me] ever." (I asked if Jenny Crusie was going to ship herself to Oklahoma and he said, "Well... It's not that great.") So then I come home from work today, all grumpy and sad, and he said that he would tell me what the present was if I really, really, really wanted to know. And then he said, "But, I just want you to know, that it will mean much more if you wait. But I'll tell you if you say you want to know." Well, of course I can't say I want to know now! Butthead cheater. ;) (Hahaha, he just told me what the present is. Best Hubby Ever!)
And that's it. That's all I have today. Well, that and this (http://reinventingfabulous.com/?p=794#more-794), Lani's experiment on not using shampoo. I have insanely oily hair, so this experiment would probably be great for my poor overworked scalp, but I am way too concerned about my appearance to risk the crazy oily time.
Anyway, time to curl up with Maybe This Time (Crusie's adaptation of Henry James) and to eat some ice cream (and not seethe with resentment) while Hubby drinks some beer.
And here's the song that made me a little sniffly today, if you're interested :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv01LslEXbo
So, blegh.
Another reason why I may be feeling so weird is because I've been thinking about my story a lot the last couple of days. I really like the premise and all, but I need to work out a couple of major plot points and a couple of little detail-y things. But I've been looking at a lot of "house" magazines (my heroine is a designer/contractor). And today I listened to some songs that are going to be on the book's soundtrack, and one of them is kind of depressing. But it's a totally kickass song, so I like it, so I tend to listen to it on repeat, and then I get all bummed out. That's super-dumb of me, but what are you going to do?
In other news, the hubby's being all not-secretive about this massive secret he's got. Haha. He told me that he may be getting me "the greatest present that [he has] ever bought [me] ever." (I asked if Jenny Crusie was going to ship herself to Oklahoma and he said, "Well... It's not that great.") So then I come home from work today, all grumpy and sad, and he said that he would tell me what the present was if I really, really, really wanted to know. And then he said, "But, I just want you to know, that it will mean much more if you wait. But I'll tell you if you say you want to know." Well, of course I can't say I want to know now! Butthead cheater. ;) (Hahaha, he just told me what the present is. Best Hubby Ever!)
And that's it. That's all I have today. Well, that and this (http://reinventingfabulous.com/?p=794#more-794), Lani's experiment on not using shampoo. I have insanely oily hair, so this experiment would probably be great for my poor overworked scalp, but I am way too concerned about my appearance to risk the crazy oily time.
Anyway, time to curl up with Maybe This Time (Crusie's adaptation of Henry James) and to eat some ice cream (and not seethe with resentment) while Hubby drinks some beer.
And here's the song that made me a little sniffly today, if you're interested :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv01LslEXbo
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
A Literate Rant
I have admitted I was a pretty big snob about literature. I either read literary fiction, some kind of nonfiction (usually histories or historical biographies), or YA, where I would indulge my passion for fantasy and love stories. I mocked my mom and grandma for reading romances. Romances were dumb, I sniffed, pointing my little elitist nose up in the air.
And then something changed.
I left my first college because I was suicidal and I realized that if I stayed there, one of my attempts would probably wind up being successful. So I moved home for awhile. When I'm deep in Depression Mode, I tend to stay up all night and sleep all day. One night, I had nothing to read and I was bored, so I went down to our basement where a lot of my mom's books were kept. I dug around for awhile, looking for something that wasn't a "romance." I found Fast Women by Jennifer Crusie, with an innocuous cover with a white teacup and a red lipstick stain. It didn't look like a romance, so I read the back cover and the book sounded pretty interesting. So, I took it upstairs to read.
I devoured it. It was smart, funny, and interesting. I kept going back down to my mom's books in the basement, finding more titles by Jenny Crusie -- all of them without the cheesy bodice-ripper-looking covers that made me cringe. But every one of the stories were smart and funny, I frequently would laugh out loud reading, and they were sexy without being embarassing or corny. There were no throbbing rods, no heaving bosoms. I was hooked, so I started hunting bookstores for more of her books. At some point I realized that her books were considered romances, but I argued that they weren't "real" romances, they were romances for smart women.
One night my depression kind of exploded and I tried to kill myself. My dad took me to the hospital and I was admitted in the psych ward for the night. When I got out, my parents took me to my mom's apartment to stay, and I promptly showered and curled up with one of my favorite Crusie's, Welcome to Temptation. I started to laugh reading some of the funny dialogue, and it was so amazingly comforting to be able to go to this lovely world Crusie had created.
So eventually, I started losing my snobbery. I started reading other romances. Mostly they were paranormals and I went through a phase where I read every romantic suspense Mariah Stewart had written. I have finally dove into the historical pool and I have found some seriously awesome stuff. I started to lose my embarassment of being seen in the romance aisle of the bookstore, I have started to stop stressing if a great book has some completely ridiculous cover.
This process has been hastened by my realization that "literary fiction" is not always better written, or smarter, than romances.
Michael Ondaatje used to be one of my favorite authors. I still love The English Patient and Anil's Ghost, they are excellent stories, written in a fantastic, interesting style. However, I'm kind of over worshipping Ondaatje as a writer. A couple of years ago, I saw that he had a new book out -- Divisadero. It was about these two sisters who lived on a farm or a ranch. One of the sisters had a limp, the other sister had a sexual relationship with the young man who worked for them -- until one night, the father busts in and finds the lovers and all hell breaks loose.
That's the first section of the book. It was great stuff.
The second section started with the young man from the farm/ranch, older now, and he's doing something sketchy involving a poker game. I never really understood if he was cheating cheating or if he was counting cards or what, but he won a game and then he and his group all had to scatter for awhile. Then the sister with the limp runs into him. Then somebody wants him to play poker for them, and he refuses, and they drug him and beat the shit out of him, and the sister with the limp is trying to nurse him back to health. Then the third section starts. It starts off with the story of the other sister, who's living in France, in some guy's house, who she is studying and writing about. This sister is also sleeping with some Gypsy guy. And then the story veers off into the Gypsy guy's past, and then it may go into the story of the guy the sister is writing about. And then it ends.
And I threw the book at the wall.
I mean, seriously, what the hell?! How you end a book and not finish the freaking story? What happened to the ranch-hand guy? Did the sister with the limp ever tell her other sister about seeing the guy again? Did the sister finish her book? What. The. Hell?
Now, not all romances are perfect. Far from it. But I have never read a romance that just ditched the major characters halfway through the book. But, yet, romances get zero respect, and anything considered "literary fiction" is immediately deemed to be better than anything genre fiction -- and romances are considered the bottom of the barrel of genre fiction.
It's such a goddamned crock of shit.
There are a lot of theories about why this has happened to romance: Because romances are made by and for women, they are "less than." Because romances focus on emotions, relationships, and sex that is positive and not degrading to anyone. Because romances focus on the happiness -- the happily ever after of the couple -- when, basically, happiness is not cool, not valued.
I think it is because of these things that romances should be valued and appreciated. In a world that devalues women and in a society that sees women as varying degrees of whore, it's important to see women in healthy relationships, where female sexuality is healthy, important, and natural. It's empowering to hear women's voices. I love that.
For more on how important romances are, check out Beyond Heaving Bosoms : The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan) and Everything I Know About Love I Learned from Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell), and the Smart Bitches, Trashy Books website: http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/.
And then something changed.
I left my first college because I was suicidal and I realized that if I stayed there, one of my attempts would probably wind up being successful. So I moved home for awhile. When I'm deep in Depression Mode, I tend to stay up all night and sleep all day. One night, I had nothing to read and I was bored, so I went down to our basement where a lot of my mom's books were kept. I dug around for awhile, looking for something that wasn't a "romance." I found Fast Women by Jennifer Crusie, with an innocuous cover with a white teacup and a red lipstick stain. It didn't look like a romance, so I read the back cover and the book sounded pretty interesting. So, I took it upstairs to read.
I devoured it. It was smart, funny, and interesting. I kept going back down to my mom's books in the basement, finding more titles by Jenny Crusie -- all of them without the cheesy bodice-ripper-looking covers that made me cringe. But every one of the stories were smart and funny, I frequently would laugh out loud reading, and they were sexy without being embarassing or corny. There were no throbbing rods, no heaving bosoms. I was hooked, so I started hunting bookstores for more of her books. At some point I realized that her books were considered romances, but I argued that they weren't "real" romances, they were romances for smart women.
One night my depression kind of exploded and I tried to kill myself. My dad took me to the hospital and I was admitted in the psych ward for the night. When I got out, my parents took me to my mom's apartment to stay, and I promptly showered and curled up with one of my favorite Crusie's, Welcome to Temptation. I started to laugh reading some of the funny dialogue, and it was so amazingly comforting to be able to go to this lovely world Crusie had created.
So eventually, I started losing my snobbery. I started reading other romances. Mostly they were paranormals and I went through a phase where I read every romantic suspense Mariah Stewart had written. I have finally dove into the historical pool and I have found some seriously awesome stuff. I started to lose my embarassment of being seen in the romance aisle of the bookstore, I have started to stop stressing if a great book has some completely ridiculous cover.
This process has been hastened by my realization that "literary fiction" is not always better written, or smarter, than romances.
Michael Ondaatje used to be one of my favorite authors. I still love The English Patient and Anil's Ghost, they are excellent stories, written in a fantastic, interesting style. However, I'm kind of over worshipping Ondaatje as a writer. A couple of years ago, I saw that he had a new book out -- Divisadero. It was about these two sisters who lived on a farm or a ranch. One of the sisters had a limp, the other sister had a sexual relationship with the young man who worked for them -- until one night, the father busts in and finds the lovers and all hell breaks loose.
That's the first section of the book. It was great stuff.
The second section started with the young man from the farm/ranch, older now, and he's doing something sketchy involving a poker game. I never really understood if he was cheating cheating or if he was counting cards or what, but he won a game and then he and his group all had to scatter for awhile. Then the sister with the limp runs into him. Then somebody wants him to play poker for them, and he refuses, and they drug him and beat the shit out of him, and the sister with the limp is trying to nurse him back to health. Then the third section starts. It starts off with the story of the other sister, who's living in France, in some guy's house, who she is studying and writing about. This sister is also sleeping with some Gypsy guy. And then the story veers off into the Gypsy guy's past, and then it may go into the story of the guy the sister is writing about. And then it ends.
And I threw the book at the wall.
I mean, seriously, what the hell?! How you end a book and not finish the freaking story? What happened to the ranch-hand guy? Did the sister with the limp ever tell her other sister about seeing the guy again? Did the sister finish her book? What. The. Hell?
Now, not all romances are perfect. Far from it. But I have never read a romance that just ditched the major characters halfway through the book. But, yet, romances get zero respect, and anything considered "literary fiction" is immediately deemed to be better than anything genre fiction -- and romances are considered the bottom of the barrel of genre fiction.
It's such a goddamned crock of shit.
There are a lot of theories about why this has happened to romance: Because romances are made by and for women, they are "less than." Because romances focus on emotions, relationships, and sex that is positive and not degrading to anyone. Because romances focus on the happiness -- the happily ever after of the couple -- when, basically, happiness is not cool, not valued.
I think it is because of these things that romances should be valued and appreciated. In a world that devalues women and in a society that sees women as varying degrees of whore, it's important to see women in healthy relationships, where female sexuality is healthy, important, and natural. It's empowering to hear women's voices. I love that.
For more on how important romances are, check out Beyond Heaving Bosoms : The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan) and Everything I Know About Love I Learned from Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell), and the Smart Bitches, Trashy Books website: http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Paperback Writer
I have always wanted to be a writer. Always. I wanted to be Jo March or Anne Shirley when I was a kid. I don't remember a time when I wasn't reading. I mean, I know developmentally I had to learn to do it, so there was an obviously a time when I couldn't, but yeah, I've always been a reader.
I think to want to be a writer, you need to be a reader. You need to love words, and to love how words can deliver a story that takes you completely to a different time and place. You need to be able to become so engrossed in a story that you'll totally forget that you need more than three hours of sleep to be able to function properly at work.
And that, folks, is me.
There are books, that are not "classics" like Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, that I keep from my childhood because they are my oldest friends. I was a military brat growing up, and there was a period of time during my middle school years, where I was switching schools every year, making and discarding friends as the districts continually changed, and as kids who'd been dorks like me became "cool." So, a lot of the time, I focused on my books as the constants in my life.
There is a book that I picked up from the library in League City, Texas, when I was in third grade. It was probably a bit over my head at the time, but I remembered a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals. A few years later, I may have been in eighth grade, I went into the brand new Barnes and Noble in Brandon, Florida and found a book called The Heart of Valor about a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals and her siblings. I snatched it up, remembering that I had read it before and that I loved Claudia. At some point, between moves or purging sessions once I went to college, I lost my copy of that book. And I was really sad, I felt like I had lost one of my friends.
I woman who wrote The Heart of Valor, L.J. Smith, also wrote The Vampire Diaries and The Secret Circle (also a favorite of mine, I finally gave away my copy of that trilogy when I moved last Memorial Day. Yes, I am serious), both of which are apparently popular TV shows on the CW. Therefore, there's been a renewed interest in her work, and... Guess what was republished? The Heart of Valor, baby! Guess what I have on my bookshelf? Oh yeah. :) And every now and then, when I'm feeling snuffly and sad and homesick, I'll pull that book out and visit my good friends Claudia and the other Hodges-Bradley kids.
So, anyway, that's what I've always wanted to be able to do: to write something that would touch someone, that someone would look at and think of as an old, dear friend. I remember after 9/11, when we all walked around shell-shocked, when we sat and discussed what life was supposed to be, when I was personally starting to crumble, I told someone that all I wanted out of my life, was to write something that made some girl somewhere feel like someone understood what she was going through, that comforted her what she was going through, that comforted her when she was feeling sad and alone.
Now, I've never had any delusions of wealth or anything to be gained from writing, so, growing up, I always said that I wanted to write and [fill in the blank] with whatever else my flavor-of-the-month career was at that moment. But writing was the constant. I wrote poems on Post-Its while working at a record store. I wrote a million different first chapters. I would always write. But, for some reason, I totally shelved my ambition to write.
Well, not for "some reason." A very specific reason: disillusionment.
It's not what you're thinking. Despite all of my emotional issues and my occasional basket-case-ness, I have a pretty thick skin when it comes to critiques. I took a couple of poetry workshops in college. The first go-round was good. I learned a lot and wrote some stuff that I loved. The second go-round pissed me off. The problem with "literary" types? Apparently, some random bullshit words on a page is brilliant. For example, we workshopped some guy's poem, and no one knew what it was about. We were all guessing, maybe it described a kiss? The writer said, "No. It was an elevator." And everyone fell down all over themselves talking about how amazing and postmodern and whatever it all was. I was going through a random happy period in my life, and my poetry reflected that. It wasn't Hallmark, by any means, but everything that was positive was called lame. And I was like, so what, you can't write a poem about a happy relationship? You have to be miserable, or so freaking obscure as to border on ridiculous, to be considered talented? And even though I was starting to get over my snobbery regarding romance novels, I wasn't over it enough to try to write one. Somehow I thought I was better than Jennifer Crusie, who had an MFA.
Yeah, I was an ass. I admit it.
So, anyway, I shelved the whole writing thing for a really long time. Every now and then I'd start playing with an idea, but nothing has ever come of it at any time. I lack follow through.
I had started to look into becoming a librarian because I liked books. I decided maybe I didn't want to write so much as I liked to read. I liked research, it seemed to make sense. I still like my job as a copy cataloger (I call it a librarian apprenticeship), but I'm starting to have those ambitions again. So, I'm thinking about dusting them off and seeing what happens. I just need to start following through.
I think to want to be a writer, you need to be a reader. You need to love words, and to love how words can deliver a story that takes you completely to a different time and place. You need to be able to become so engrossed in a story that you'll totally forget that you need more than three hours of sleep to be able to function properly at work.
And that, folks, is me.
There are books, that are not "classics" like Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, that I keep from my childhood because they are my oldest friends. I was a military brat growing up, and there was a period of time during my middle school years, where I was switching schools every year, making and discarding friends as the districts continually changed, and as kids who'd been dorks like me became "cool." So, a lot of the time, I focused on my books as the constants in my life.
There is a book that I picked up from the library in League City, Texas, when I was in third grade. It was probably a bit over my head at the time, but I remembered a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals. A few years later, I may have been in eighth grade, I went into the brand new Barnes and Noble in Brandon, Florida and found a book called The Heart of Valor about a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals and her siblings. I snatched it up, remembering that I had read it before and that I loved Claudia. At some point, between moves or purging sessions once I went to college, I lost my copy of that book. And I was really sad, I felt like I had lost one of my friends.
I woman who wrote The Heart of Valor, L.J. Smith, also wrote The Vampire Diaries and The Secret Circle (also a favorite of mine, I finally gave away my copy of that trilogy when I moved last Memorial Day. Yes, I am serious), both of which are apparently popular TV shows on the CW. Therefore, there's been a renewed interest in her work, and... Guess what was republished? The Heart of Valor, baby! Guess what I have on my bookshelf? Oh yeah. :) And every now and then, when I'm feeling snuffly and sad and homesick, I'll pull that book out and visit my good friends Claudia and the other Hodges-Bradley kids.
So, anyway, that's what I've always wanted to be able to do: to write something that would touch someone, that someone would look at and think of as an old, dear friend. I remember after 9/11, when we all walked around shell-shocked, when we sat and discussed what life was supposed to be, when I was personally starting to crumble, I told someone that all I wanted out of my life, was to write something that made some girl somewhere feel like someone understood what she was going through, that comforted her what she was going through, that comforted her when she was feeling sad and alone.
Now, I've never had any delusions of wealth or anything to be gained from writing, so, growing up, I always said that I wanted to write and [fill in the blank] with whatever else my flavor-of-the-month career was at that moment. But writing was the constant. I wrote poems on Post-Its while working at a record store. I wrote a million different first chapters. I would always write. But, for some reason, I totally shelved my ambition to write.
Well, not for "some reason." A very specific reason: disillusionment.
It's not what you're thinking. Despite all of my emotional issues and my occasional basket-case-ness, I have a pretty thick skin when it comes to critiques. I took a couple of poetry workshops in college. The first go-round was good. I learned a lot and wrote some stuff that I loved. The second go-round pissed me off. The problem with "literary" types? Apparently, some random bullshit words on a page is brilliant. For example, we workshopped some guy's poem, and no one knew what it was about. We were all guessing, maybe it described a kiss? The writer said, "No. It was an elevator." And everyone fell down all over themselves talking about how amazing and postmodern and whatever it all was. I was going through a random happy period in my life, and my poetry reflected that. It wasn't Hallmark, by any means, but everything that was positive was called lame. And I was like, so what, you can't write a poem about a happy relationship? You have to be miserable, or so freaking obscure as to border on ridiculous, to be considered talented? And even though I was starting to get over my snobbery regarding romance novels, I wasn't over it enough to try to write one. Somehow I thought I was better than Jennifer Crusie, who had an MFA.
Yeah, I was an ass. I admit it.
So, anyway, I shelved the whole writing thing for a really long time. Every now and then I'd start playing with an idea, but nothing has ever come of it at any time. I lack follow through.
I had started to look into becoming a librarian because I liked books. I decided maybe I didn't want to write so much as I liked to read. I liked research, it seemed to make sense. I still like my job as a copy cataloger (I call it a librarian apprenticeship), but I'm starting to have those ambitions again. So, I'm thinking about dusting them off and seeing what happens. I just need to start following through.
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