What Do You Mean No One Cares About My Problems?

Seriously. I'm awesome. At least I try to be. I work hard, especially doing the things I love. I even work hard doing things I don't love if they're necessary and/or I'm getting something useful from it. I may not work as hard, but my "getting by" with work is most people's excelling. That's not hyperbole, it's fact. If you look at my employment history, it's a clear cut distinction -- I work for you, I excel.
Except I can't seem to parlay that excellence into the fields that actually drive me. I keep excelling at doing stuff to just get by instead of excelling at what I know I'm meant to pursue.
But I forgot. No one cares. I'm one tiny speck of human dust among billions of other specks on this planet. Throwing pity parties for myself doesn't help me any more than it helps anyone else.
The issue is, as little as anyone else cares about my problems, they care the exact same amount about my abilities, talents, experience, knowledge, drive, passion, etc. How do you make your voice louder than others when no one cares what's being said? How do you stand out from the crowd when your number in the queue prevents you from being seen even when squinting into the distance? How do you go from excelling in a career that makes you hate yourself to excelling in a life calling?
Seriously, how?

Detailed Minutiae

Query:
Do you count thirty minutes spent trying to find the answer to an historically relevant, yet minor, detail as editing time?

It came upon me quite unexpectedly. There I sat, casually marking up my manuscript with what has become the Demon Red Pen* with few cares beyond the composition in front of me. Then, at the beginning of my smutfest scene** I read a sentence I've read dozens of times. Yet for the first time, a little detail struck me as possibly historically inaccurate. It's a minor detail, but one that bothered me as I did not know the answer. A thorough scouring of the interwebs proved fruitless, and a query among my co-workers brought a 90% assurance to the correct answer. Yet that 10% nags at me. I have a message in to my historian father who, I am confident, will either know the answer definitively or be able to find it for me with ease.
Still, that one miniscule detail haunts me in some aspects more than the glaring plot gaps and awkward paragraphs scattered throughout the book. While I know editing to be full of these little gaffes, it amazes me how fixated I become on them when I find them and cannot proceed until I have the answer. I have found for myself a new personal 'tick' in my editing style which I previously ignored. We shall have to reconcile ourselves to these little errors when they arise, for if the internet and my merry band of pop culture and history fanatics are nowhere around when the next minute detail flaw arises, we may go mad from sheer want of a solution -- and start taking on bizarre attributes such as talking of ourselves in the third person.



*It's not a demon because it deletes unnecessary content or corrects grammar and spelling errors, it's a demon because it exposes flaws with no ideas on how to fix them. Fixing the flaws requires more writing, which delays the editing, even though they go together. It's damn aggravating.

** It's not really that smutty. It's risque to a point, but I am writing 'young adult' literature so I tried to stay a little vague... at least in book one. Book two, well... we'll get to that one later.

Days of Green and Red

No, I’m not talking about the Christmas holidays. I’m talking about two major dates for an Irish Anglophile: St. Patrick’s Day and Red Nose Day.
Since I had the migraine from hell most of the week (it’s my body’s way of reminding me who’s in charge and why I should take care of it, the fucker), I wasn’t quite in the full Go Green spirit for St. Patrick’s Day. However, it was going to take more than crushing pain with a side of nausea to keep me from having a good time. I spent the evening with some of the most awesome co-worker/friend/theatre peeps in the world. After a little pre-gaming at my place (complete with my iPod playing a goodly amount of my traditional [read: beautiful yet depressing] Irish tunes, we all jammed ourselves into a tiny Toyota and drove a mere six blocks to a local Irish pub. Though they’d added a tent out back to make up for the teensy-ness of the place, the holiday + lack of cover charge = actual line outside the bar. A five minute wait time became fifteen with only two of the five people in front of us being let in, so we skipped our way down another two blocks to a favored watering hole where the $5 cover which previously hindered our desire to go there quickly turned into a blessing as we were able to obtain a table, down some car bombs, get some grub, watch some great Irish dancers and cut a few jigs ourselves. All in all a very good night, with everyone satisfactorily tipsy and on the way home by 10pm.
Red Nose Day is reason #7,862 on the list of Why I Live in the Wrong Country. It’s also very high on the list of programming I wish BBCAmerica would offer in the states. It may be a Brit-run fundraiser, but who says giving money to Africa through England is in any way less needed than giving it through the US? The Brits actually care enough to have a marathon (plus weeks of pre-shows) of original programming built solely around the purpose of raising funds for charity. Remember how the US had Comic Relief? Only available on premium channels and mostly live sketches by comics for one evening? Yeah, the Brits do it so much better (as per usual). There’s dance and song competitions leading to the big day, there’s fundraising via web, TV, twitter, etc. There’s a long telethon hosted by great celebs, and a slew of original skits produced just for the event – including new Doctor Who and a brilliant parody of Downton Abbey (it's hard not to crack up at Simon Callow as Julian Fellows). Sure, you can download some of these gems on iTunes or look them up on YouTube, but it's not the same.
I’m not sure how to go about it, but I really want to put a bug up someone’s butt in the upper management world of BBCA to get them to broadcast Red Nose Day, and Pudsey Day, in the US. I’d be happy to cough up a few quid to aid Africa if it means I get to see wacky Who and Merlin skits and seen Davina McCall, with her enigmatic bottom, macking on gay AND straight blokes…

Got a little Lycan in you? Would you like some?

While doing some cleaning and organizing this weekend (both mental and physical), I happened to spend a ridiculous amount of time with the telly on in the background, flipping between Indiana Jones trilogy (There are only three. Just three. Do you hear me? Only three movies exist!), and the Underworld trilogy.
Now, much as people might react with surprise and dismay, I am not really on the Underworld fan-wagon. Why not? Well, a) not a fan of Kate Beckinsale. She just does nothing for me. B) For being movies crammed with cool action sequences filled with almost as much gore-splatter as a Tarantino flick, they move at a snail’s pace. Every time I watch one I feel like six hours of my life have gone by; I don’t know what it is but the pacing on those films is so awkward. C) Vampires vs. werewolves stories need to have something really compelling for me to engage in them (like Taylor Lautner with his shirt off, or Ian Somerhalder being the NewSpike, or Seth Green as a tiny-man-by-day-wolf-badass-every-full-moon kind of guy, or Ian Somerhalder with his shirt off… you know, deeply compelling stuff). Actually Underworld has a rather compelling take on the whole vampires vs. werewolves mythos, it’s just buried under horrid pacing, electric blue contacts, and Kate Beckinsale’s dripping wet latex suit. So why did I spend a not-insignificant portion of my weekend with this train wreck of a series in the background of my life? Simple: Michael Sheen.
Don’t get me wrong, the Brit actors in these movies kick a ton of ass: Tony Curran, Derek Jacobi, and Bill “I’d watch him read the phonebook” Nighy, but they all behave pretty much as one might expect them to behave in this kind of genre. Waltz on, Michael Sheen, and it’s goodbye Tony Blair, hello tortured badass Lucian. The first Underworld features Suave Badass, except for the brief scene where he tells Michael about the start of the war and his forbidden love affair with Viktor’s daughter. I just spoilered you for the whole series -- Whoops :P That one sequence earns him the cred to have his own movie where he gets to Maximus Decimus Meridius his way through the whole movie, except Michael Sheen’s such a badass that he lives through it all, damaged though he may be, to carry on another seven hundred years (just spoiled Gladiator, too. Don’t think I missed that). Also, unlike many of his lycan comrades (and nowadays seemingly EVERY vampire), Lucian never gets whiny about his situation. His life blows massive food-poisoning-from-KFC sized chunks, but he deals with it. He takes one look at his lover’s dumbfuck daddy and says, “All right, old man, you want to have at me for centuries for loving your daughter? Bring it. ‘Cause Im’ma throwdown with a vengeance you think only you possess… and then I’m going to even the score and blend the races like I did with your babygirl, just to piss you off.”
Now, I admit to my affinity for tall, lanky, (generally) pale English blokes, but I don’t typically go in for Michael Sheen. Yet you lather that man up in movie sweat, give him some longer-and-dirtier-than-Strider hair, tan & buff him up a bit and turn him into a badass Lycanthrope and I will watch the slow-moving hours tick by content with my British werewolf hunk keeping me company.

Why Are All My Relatives Such... Twats?

Having recently finished Jane Goes Batty (which I may rant/rave about soon), and with the timely-yet-unexpected random inspirational quote from one of my dear friends, I find myself compelled to follow in the footsteps of scholars and fans far more deserved than I to explore the realm of what many consider the anti-Brontë: Jane Austen.
One might surmise that my overall disdain for two-thirds of the Brontë sisters would create an automatic enjoyment of all works Austen. Sorry to disappoint, dear quick-to-judge readers, but I find Miss Jane flawed as well, though admittedly not with the kind of vehement passion I aim at her Byronic successors. Still, on the whole (and though I have not read all their works), I do gain more personal enjoyment and find more intriguing and worthwhile in Jane's writing than in Charlotte's or (*hurk*) Emily's.
The quote which helped spur on this Austen topic quite took me as both accurate and bitingly amusing:
Apparently to have an Austen-esque romance, your family must be filled with twats.
(Texts from my friends are not, I think, like most people's texts... also, at least in my circle, 'twat' seems to be making a much needed comeback.)

While at first glance the assessment holds true to the 'it's funny because it's true' adage, both for works of Austen and those who hunger to emulate her, on reflection it caused pondering of classic feminine literature in general and how applicable this statement may be.
First, with Austen, it rather amuses me that by all accounts her own family was quite stable and satisfactory, if a little wanting for financial stability. Yet the heroines in most of her novels must deal with family (or those who may become family) who exemplify twattiness while on their individual journey to personal (and matrimonial) bliss.
Obviously Lizzie has to put up with not only her own but Darcy's atrocious relations (I'm looking at you, Aunt Lady Catherine de Twatourge). Twatilicous Lydia even ends up marrying a complete asshat, and I still wonder who got the worst end of that deal: her or Wickham. Even the almost nauseatingly perfect Jane and Bingley must contend with Charles' complete twat of a sister. No wonder Caroline so longs to be in Darcy's family -- she and Aunt Twatty would be the Twats of the Town. And in an informal facebook poll, my friends unanimously crowned Mr. Collins as the King Twat of Pride & Prejudice.
Then we have poor Fanny whose own immediate family pawns her off on her rich relatives at an age where her female cousins can be expected to shat on her like their pet puppies do on the front lawn. Then of course we have the Twat Twins who seduce various members of the Bertram family and end up exposing the fact that Edmund and Fanny are about the only respectable people in that circle -- and even they almost get duped and seduced by the Cunty Crawfords (yeah, I said it).
Similar patterns of familial twattery appear in Emma, Sense & Sensibility and (at least the parts I've read) of Northanger Abbey. The only Austen work which I am almost completely unfamiliar with is Persuasion but I would wager the twat theme queefs mightily in that novel as well.

Still, on my brief contemplation of female literature in general, Jane is not exempt from familial twatishness as a plot device. Miss Charlotte created an epic family of twats with the Reeds, and even the boorish Emily ensured her characters would never see happiness due to their über-twat relatives (of which Heathcliff and Catherine both suffer from and then become themselves). Yes, even my Brontë goddess Anne enlisted the family twat device in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (though Gilbert's family of twats pales in comparison to Helen's husband and Lord Twat, Arthur Twatingdon).
While not 'feminine' literature, She Who Has More Money Than Everyone Else In The World Combined (aka Jo Rowling) excels at using FamTwat. Though young adult literature is steeped in twat tea, few families twat it up as well or as much as the Dursleys or the Malfoys (when your parents' names are Lucius and Narcissa, you're pretty much guaranteed a twatty childhood and thus becoming a top class twat yourself).

Obviously this is not a plot epidemic limited to female authors (Shakespeare was king of family twats), but from one little text I find yet another way to examine feminine literature and authors. I know Familial Twats: Exploring Twatticism in Post-Colonial British Female Authors probably won't garner me any academic accolades or grant money, but it is very interesting as a topic and damn fun to write about... or maybe I just like finding new ways to use 'twat.'

Coming Soon:
Coping with Twats Leads to Bliss? -- how the twatty behaviour of literary families correlates to the ultimate happiness of their protagonist relatives.