When Journals Lose Their Magic

Writing, the act of actually putting a writing implement on paper, seems to be becoming more antiquated by the day. Yet there are still those out there who require at least some of our time spent writing to involve this act. For myself, there are times when not only is typing inconvenient (I have an outdated, though reliable, laptop that does not accompany me everywhere, nor any tablet device -- but I ALWAYS have a pen and a notepad), it lacks a certain connection to the material I create.
I've always been a hands-on creator. I draw. I paint (very poorly). I play piano (or could, once upon a time). I make jewelry. I put together shelving units and desks with the 'help' of the horribly illustrated diagrams of do-it-yourself furniture. I cook -- and while I don't always enjoy getting my hands seeped in ground meat, or chicken guts, or sticky doughs, I understand  and accept it's a part of the process of crafting meals.

The difference between crafting in those other mediums and writing, for me, is that when I get a notebook or journal to write in, I'm not only picky about the ingredients (as I am with any creative project), I also reach a point where those ingredients which shaped my need for the journal lose their power. The whole journal loses its power and ability to spur on my writing. In short, the journal loses its magic.
Yet I cannot bring myself to simply toss aside the book as if it were remnants of silver wire, or a broken cerulean pencil, or an extra wing nut that doesn't fit onto any conceivable part of the rolling shelf unit. I know many who use journals and sketchbooks feel the same. The desire to hold on to the physical evidence and memory of what once inspired you is too strong to discard.
However, this time around I've used the same journal for just over three years and while there are still probably 80 usable pages remaining, I noticed a couple months ago that every time I reached for it, opened it, any creative impulse I had disappeared. The book itself lost the power to draw me into it and furiously write down my inspirations in an encapsulated red-covered parcel of paper. It infuriated me not just because I don't like wasting paper, but because I felt that I had betrayed this loyal companion.
This books contains notes from my time on the Artistic Management Committee at my theatre. It's got the first piece of fanfiction I began that doesn't make me feel like fanfic is a derogatory form of writing. It contains tax calculations, shopping lists, career coaching notes and oh yes, dozens upon dozens of pages filled with writings from two of my (currently) four in-progress novels. How does something that contains that much of your life, that has been the keeper of important notes, dreams, creative bursts you never imagine, suddenly transform one day into a dull collection of pages where each time you set your writing utensil to a sheet of paper all your desire to write melts away?
There's likely some psychological time+overuse=meah-related explanation for it that relates to the amount of time and energy you invest into it and one day your brain just no longer relates to that object as the receptacle of such things. I, however, surmise it thus: one day the magic dies -- whatever you wrote in that journal still carries import, and always will, but the days in which your mind pours itself onto those particular pages is over  -- and until you accept that, put the journal to rest, and find a new receptacle, your ideas will become stagnant and uninspired (if the ideas ever deign to come at all).

So yeah, the other day I posted about my brain missing. And it is still, to an extent, but I have had to force myself to come to terms with the idea that part of my lost mind is due to going far too long without physically writing. I need that type of release for my thoughts and ideas, and by clinging to a magic-less book for too long I allowed that part of my mind to run off in search of I know not what.

Here's to my red journal. I found it in a Borders on clearance for $6 in the early spring of 2009,  and it has served me ever so faithfully. Within it are words I might never have written had I chosen another journal at the time. It grieves me to let go of something that once inspired my mind in new and exciting ways. A part of me will feel lost without it. However, a much larger part may lose itself forever if I do not accept this loss and endeavor to rekindle the magic in a new journal.

Omm-ing

Taken from my first experience using the Omm Writer for Mac (it's astonishing what programs actually work when one updates their operating system...):

The epicness of this is not lost on me. The screen is white, save for a few sparse trees, their branches bare. Chimes ring steadily in the background as a little chirp accompanies each click of the keys. This is the typewriter of the internet age. Take out the real distractions and just bloody write.
I cannot click on another tab to distract myself with facebook, twitter, or any of the dozen other go to distraction sites. Everything is wiped from the desktop, leaving me alone with my thoughts... and these chimes.
All right, in all honesty, the chimes could be a little less new-agey. Then again, I'll take a bit of new age chiming over the draw to drift to some other distracting destination.
I don't even really know how to get out of this. I just opened the program and this is what appeared to me. I may very well have to go typing into the night until my eyelids droop and I just let the computer go to sleep. I mean, sure, I could pause in this typing exercise and go looking for something to get me out of here, but that would defeat the initial purpose.

Then again, I can only take so much of these chimes. Those at least I need to figure out how to change...
Oooh. New chimes. These are deeper... still new agey, but more like windchimes plus a singing bowl than something you'd hear in the background of an Enya track.
Third series of sound is... melodic. Ish. If you like music that sounds like it's been filtered through water and the lovechild of Phillip Glass and Danny Elfman. Yeah. Not for me.

I got the font to change to something more akin to my style. The background can shift as well to either all white (far too daunting for me), or a light shade of grey. That will be good when I go into a dark mood, but for testing out the program, I rather enjoy the winter-esque landscape. Must be the Stark in me. (I'd like some Stark in me, IYKWIMAITYD...)

Ahhh.... so I CAN minimize this little bugger (and put it on silent if I want my own theme music while writing). That's good, overall. What I'd really like to be able to do is set a timer and/or word count goal on here so the program won't minimize until the timer runs out/I hit my goal. That, in my procrastinating little mind, would create an ideal program.
Even with the odd new age bells.

All in all, for a program that's designed to keep you focused on writing, the Omm Writer does a pretty good job. Though the minimize and close icons are still there if you wiggle your mouse, they are well off at the top (and on the opposite side one is used to) and therefore the temptation to drift away, while still there, is not so easily accessible. The free version lacks a few features I'd like to have, but for someone starting on the path of distraction-preventing software, Omm Writer and I could become fast friends.

American Horror Story: Needs More Crybation?

Courtesy of Urban Dictionary, for those unaware...
Crybate: Simultaneously crying and masturbating; the most pathetic act a human being can engage in alone.

Like millions of other seemingly ordinary individuals, I engaged in the horror mash-up that was last night's premiere of American Horror Story. The show has balls, coming out of the gate with a slew of disturbing imagery, homages to classic horror, Dylan McDermott crybating while being watched by a creeper standing amongst his family's drying sheets, and the most incoherent, jumbled assembly of timeline and plot ever created for a pilot series.
The show already has numerous reviews addressing the WTF-ery of its existence, as well as some top ten lists associated with the insanity vomited out of Ryan Murphy's GLEE-addled brain. My assessment runs more along the lines of: if this is an "American Horror Story," what makes it such... and does it work?

Ignoring generalizing and/or subjective queries such as: Is it scary? Are the ghosts real? Is anyone real? The biggest question about whether this show lives up to its title is this: What makes a horror story American?
Without getting all near-two-decades of watching, researching and writing about horror on y'all (because that would get far too intellectual for something as ridiculous as this series' pilot), it basically boils down to the following:
American horror wants to shock you. How it goes about achieving this varies depending on the desired shock level, where it hits you psychologically, and the style of its crafter. In this sense, American Horror Story wins in its first episode, if a string of mental WTFs can be considered shocking.
American horror is fascinated with disturbed individuals and their penchant for killing people, often in gruesome ways, with lingering effects. This show has disturbed people all right, and there's already hints and statements that some have already killed.
We like sex in our horror. It's not uncommon for American horror films to contain as much sexual content as violence, or at least the undertones of it. Europeans tend to be more subtle in their portrayal of sexuality as it relates to horror. It's almost non-existent in Japanese horror. Not us, we come out balls-blazing, coupling acts of gore in tandem with college orgies. From McDermott's luscious booty, to the (Ghost?)Gimp sex scene, to the hilarious (if you're me or anyone who works in my office) crybation scene, this series is no exception. In fact, if allowed by the censors, it could take torture-porn to a new level: porn-torture... like elevated crybation.
Many other themes in horror are embraced by the show: isolation, struggling against our desires in a heightened situation, history resurfacing to (possibly literally) bite us in the ass, and a questioning of what reality truly is. These are general constructs of most horror, not necessarily American.

So, the show hits most of the themes set forth in hundreds of years of American horror, along with more than a dash of general horror conventions. Does it work, though?
It could be a bit too soon to tell, but thus far... not entirely. The issue, I think, is that it's combining too many established constructs, coupled with homages, coupled with an incoherent plot and timeline. While it's shocking, disturbing, and full of weirdness (supernatural and otherwise), it fails to provide the audience with an answer to one of the most important questions in successful horror: What makes this horrific, and why tell us this story?
It has a chance to reveal this to us, but as of right now I'm doubtful it can accomplish this given its explicit bombardment of freakshow moments in the very first episode. That type of insanity cannot be maintained and retain the necessary creep-out factor to keep people engaged. yet you need to pull away a bit to provide some actual, coherent storytelling. Backing away from the crazy too soon, though, could expose perhaps the greatest flaw (so far) in this scenario: If all this insanity is happening within weeks(days? hours? who the hell knows right now...) of moving into their new home -- why are these people staying there and why should we care?

Inspire Me

The previous post made a to-do of my summer playlist, or at least a sampling of it. However, it focused on the music I listen to while driving, working, jamming… my writing music tends to central around only a handful of styles.
Sure, I’ll listen to a little stylistic music to get the emotional tone for some writings, but typically my genres for writing ‘seriously’* are limited. And since a not small number of posts here relate to writing and creating, I thought it about time to provide some of my most inspirational writing tunes. And by ‘some’ I mean enough to make a full length album.
It’s pretty soundtrack heavy due to my being a very visual writer and since music, good music, can drive a show or film with expert precision into a certain mood or emotional state it works very well for someone who sees pictures in their head as they write. Sometimes those pictures need coaxing from the right music to transform into words.
I have an extensive mix (actually several) of music to listen to while writing, as a good sprint can go on for hours and the more fuel provided for that sprint, the better. This list represents not necessarily the most outstanding or emotionally driving pieces, but ones I do turn to time and time again to get the creative juices flowing and the fingers working in time with the brain to transfigure mind pictures into fleshed out scenes.

The Kiss – Trevor Jones (The Last of the Mohicans): A great film score overall, yet despite the cheesy dialogue that accompanies this music in the film as a standalone musical work, this selection engages my synapses to fire in rhythm with my pulse every time.

A Game of Cricket - Adrian Johnston (Becoming Jane): Another score which stands out as a captivating work on its own. Anything that requires romance, a period feel, and/or a bit of cheek mixed with splendour is served by listening to this song and the score as a whole. Honourable mentions for: Selbourne Wood and Rose Garden

Marco Polo – Loreena McKennitt (The Book of Secrets): Instrumental with vocals is tricky because if the vocals don’t fit with the tune, or overpower it, it becomes too distracting. However, McKennitt has an extraordinary gift in blending her voice with the music she composes so when a song is instrumentally based and lacks lyrics her voice always compliments what the rest of the song already carries. While the album version is solid, I have a deep, visceral reaction and connection to the live version from Live in Paris & Toronto.

Loneliness of Six – Christophe Beck (Buffy the Vampire Slayer): One of the most overlooked series compositions ever. The music in Buffy (at least during Christophe’s main run in seasons 1-5) is some of the best television composing ever done. I listen to this cut most often because of the sweet melancholia it brings out, especially when the solo guitar comes in 2/3 through. Honourable mentions for: Remembering Jenny (with a haunting vocal by Anthony Head), Close Your Eyes, and Waking Willow

Madame De Pompadour – Murray Gold (Doctor Who, series 2): All right, let me be frank, there will be an entire post at some point dedicated to the incredible music composed for Doctor Who and Torchwood, and how each piece affects my writing. I truly cannot express how deeply invested I am in this music. However, if I have to choose one piece that succinctly captures all the sweetness, majesty, heartbreak, and hope that Gold’s music inspires, it is this one selection. Some days it gives me hope. Some days it inspires romance. Some days it causes me to break down into uncontrollable sobs. Yet I value each of those experiences equally and they always fuel some good writing. Honorable mentions: too many to name. Seriously. I’ll be doing a post just on Whoniverse music.

Sarabande Suite (Aeternae) – Globus (Epicon): One of very few tracks included on my epic writing playlist with actual words. However, at nearly eight minutes the lyrics make up a very small portion of the tune. I have a (no longer) secret goal to one day raise enough funds to make a trailer (to raise more funds) for my #1 pet film project. The trailer will be set to this song. And it will.be.epic.

The Funeral – Greg Edmonson (Firefly): Whedon shows take very specific stances with their music, and I love that about them. This piece came out of the composer after hearing the show had been cancelled. It’s the requiem for the series and never ceases to give me chills.

A Window to the Past – John Williams (Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban): While Williams’ composition for the first film stands as one of his best works, the second offered little in terms of new material to expand that standout effort. Yet when the tone of films changed with PoA and its new director, so did Williams’ music and the transformation took what was great about the first film’s score and amplified it (which is more than any subsequent HP score managed). This track is beautiful, haunting, bittersweet and emotionally complex as anything Williams has written since "Binary Sunset" for the first Star Wars film.

Maestro – Hans Zimmer (The Holiday): I’m a sucker for Zimmer (and his band of acolytes), I’ll just get that out there now. His compositions have a way of smacking me in the chest with powerful emotion and not letting go. If ever a romantic comedy deserved critical recognition for its score, my vote would be for The Holiday (appropriate as well as Jack Black’s character is a film composer). This selection opens the film, and when coupled with Kate Winslet’s incredibly opening VO sets the tone for what is a magical little movie with an amazing score. Honourable mentions for: Cry and Gumption

Jugglers – Javier Navarrete (Inkheart): Never underestimate the score of a ‘kids’ movie. A surprising number have incredible scores to accompany them. Inkheart is a strong example of this. The music overall is well done, but it’s obvious that (as with readers) the composer’s favorite character to write for is Dustfinger. Whenever I need a little boost in magic, I listen to this. Honourable mentions for: Dustfinger Disappointment and Meadows (also Dustfinger tracks)

My Name is Lincoln – Steve Jablonsky (The Island): Crap movie. Not outstanding score overall. This one piece? Incredible. (And it fits into the score of Elizabeth: The Golden Age almost better than that film’s real score)

Letter That Never Came – Thomas Newman (A Series of Unfortunate Events): See above re: scores to kid-oriented films. The music for this hits the tone of the film (and really, the books) directly on target. Newman knows how to pull at the heartstrings while still keeping a touch of hope and magic alive.

Samwise the Brave – Howard Shore (The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers): Choosing a single track from these scores made my heart ache. The music of these films is intrinsically tied to the emotion and journey of the films. When they use bits of the score during the production diaries for The Hobbit, I get choked up. Yes, really. The epic efforts used in creating these films is felt in every piece of music and no matter what track I listen to, I can feel the fueling emotion of the entire trilogy within it. Honourable mentions for: The Council of Elrond, The Breaking of the Fellowship and The Grey Havens

PMs Love Theme – Craig Armstrong (Love Actually): I love this movie. Suck it. All the major score themes resonate with the tone of the film, making me feel equally hopeful and bittersweet with every track. When I need to press on to some great moment in my writing, this track always pushes me to the light as I picture little Sam tearing his way through Heathrow to have an epic tribute to The Graduate -- except The Graduate didn’t include Bill Nighy stripping on telly in the background.

Injection – Hans Zimmer (Missions Impossible: II): Yes, another Zimmer track. Yes, from the Notorious rip-off that is MI:II. Yet fresh off his epic achievement in scoring for Gladiator (with Zimmerite Lisa Gerrard), this soundtrack soars far above the provided film material.

The Moon Beckons – Nick Glennie-Smith (The Man in the Iron Mask): This score pretty much began my obsession with soundtrack music (well, this and The Lion King). An instance where the music fuels the film when it could have destroyed it, but the quality of the score helps me overlook the UN Committee style accents scattered through the film.

Lancelot Theme – Rohan Stevenson (Merlin: Series 1): Merlin’s score themes are limited, but the ones that are used time and again never grow stale. The music for the show covers playful and epic, romantic and dramatic, with its own stylish flare. It’s more subdued and grounded than a lot of fantasy TV series’ scores. The Lancelot theme is the main romantic theme in the show, and it’s haunting beauty is both inspiring and swoon-worthy. Honourable mentions for: The First Code, Merlin Rides Out and Lancelot Leaves

The Caravan – Jerry Goldsmith(The Mummy): Take the score of The Omen and do a mash-up with the score of The Wind and The Lion, and you have the score for The Mummy. The score perfectly captures the feel and tone of one of my favorite flicks. Equal parts epic adventure-comedy-romance and old-fashioned-horror. This piece always makes me want to go ride camels through the desert – and I hate sand. And heat. Honourable mentions for: Camel Race and Giza Port

Wolsey Commits Suicide / Finale – Trevor Morris (The Tudors: Series 1): Period-style scores in TV dramas are tricky to get right, and Morris not only got it right, he excelled at it. Any montage done in this series set to his music wields as much power as any of the best written scenes in the show. This piece in particular. Honourable Mentions for: Henry Meets Anne Boleyn, More’s Love of a King, and the title theme

Gabriel’s Oboe – Ennio Moricone (The Mission): I may have my own preferences and leanings when it comes to film scores, but that doesn’t mean I shy away from greatness even when it doesn’t fit my usual style. The score for The Mission is one of the most haunting, beautiful, accomplished works of film music ever created. This oboe-driven piece never ceases to inspire depth in my writing. (And how often do you get to use the phrase ‘oboe-driven’ in scores? It’s rare.)

Barbossa is Hungry – Klaus Badelt (Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of The Black Pearl): Again, Zimmerphile here, but the scores to the first and third Pirates films are, like The Mummy score, perfect matches with the film material. While I love all the music, this track holds special significance for me. When I want power and speed, I use this. Also, play this track through your best sound system at about ¾ full volume – you’ll shake walls. Promise.
Honourable mentions for: Will and Elizabeth, One Last Shot, and One Day (by Zimmer, from At World’s End)

So there you have it. Twenty-one tracks (off a playlist of about 650) that inspire me to write more, better, and often.
What music inspires you to create?

*'seriously' equates to writing with intent of creating something that may someday be viewed by others for critical and/or commercial use… or anything I write that I want to pour myself into fully.

Summertime Tunes

It’s once again time to shortlist some songs that currently have me keeping a grasp on sanity, and keep me from pushing people off Mullholland Drive who have no idea how to navigate a winding road and therefore have no business driving on it. These songs also keep my brain from dribbling out my ears due to the mind-numbing day job which takes away pieces of my soul everyday. (It’s like I’m creating horcruxes out of coffee mugs, envelopes, staplers and sticky notes, without the cool street cred of having killed people for them.)


Annabelle Lee & Come On Up to the House – Sarah Jarosz: Incredibly talented, sickeningly young bluegrass doll (yeah, I said bluegrass) creates haunting song with one of Poe’s most famous poems and mellows out a Tom Waits tune with some Appalachian soul.

Make It Out Alive – Hanson: More than a year after the release of Shout It Out, and I’m still finding gems on this album. Right now the horn and piano driven bounces of this song, coupled with Taylor’s always melt-worthy vocals make a song about how we’re all going to die eventually one of the most fun compositions to bop along with in the car.

Smotherin’ Me – Imelda May: One of several cute, pixie-like, Brit chicks I’ve come to adore after appearing on The Graham Norton Show. Rockabilly swings with the voice of a long-time smoking jazz musician who’s done one too many wails.

Summerboy – Lady Gaga: Sorry, Born This Way, but you’re really not up to par with The Fame (or The Fame Monster). I can actually hear GaGa’s real voice in this song, not the auto-tuned, over processed product in, say, “Judas.”

Vigilante – Lucas Grabeel: This is one of those tunes I am so addicted to yet have no idea why. It was stuck in my head for three days this week. Not complaining as I love Lucas’ sweet tenor voice, especially when it dips into the lower register, but this is just one piece of ear candy that inexplicably makes me really happy.

Latest Mistake – Mandy Moore: Much as I like Amanda Leigh, I still stand by Wild Hope as the most accomplished of her albums, and whenever I go back to it, I come away with a new (temporary) favorite tune from the album. The emotional push behind the lyrics adds true depth to this folk-pop-rock gem.

Anchored – Tony Lucca: A bit out of place seasonally with lyrics that begin Smells like Los Angeles, middle of winter, but the emotion which carries this ballad transforms even the hottest day into a cool, romantic, bittersweet evening.

When I Stop Running (Album) – TFDI: The grouping of Jay Nash, Matt Duke and (the incomparable) Tony Lucca is inspired. The album plays off their strengths as artists, yet even when singing their own solo tunes the depth added from backing vocals by the other two outshines individual performance. And the group efforts combine the trio’s folk-rock aspects in harmonious unity.
Best tracks: When I Stop Running, If I Was a Ghost, Sweet Talking Liar, Hurtin’ Kind (And it's only $1.99 for the whole mp3 album on Amazon...)


Honorable Mention:
Anything Darren Criss sings. No, Really. Seriously. Anything.

Boyness

Fear not, this will not be a post about boys in relation to my personal life (nothing to speak of in that area, which is another issue in itself, so we'll just pretend your mind never went there and just get on with our day, shall we? Good.).

This is about re-embracing the non-gender-specific empowerment in all of us. (Inspired, partially, by a post yesterday by Luv & Kiwi)

I'm pretty laid back when it comes to fashion. I like to be comfortable. Jeans and tees kind of gal, kicking it in flip-flops or chucks. I do like cute, girly tops, love corsets, and even a good flowy dress or skirt can make me feel like my feminine powers have increased. Yet I experience a different kind of empowerment when I don a pageboy cap, or a snappy vest. Don't even get me started on what kind of empowered mischief I could get up to if I owned a bow tie...

When I get girlied up, even if it's in slacks and a barely-breathable corset with a snazzy necklace that drops down almost into my cleavage, I feel womanly. I feel as though I could walk up to some good-looking bloke, plant one right on his lips, and he'd be dazzled by my awesomeness (rare is the occasion I do something like this, but I FEEL that I could, without consequence). It's a pretty great feeling, don't get me wrong.

However, when I embrace my dapper don side, pulling on the pinstripes, capping my head with a cap, aligning some cute tee or collared shirt with a vest I feel like... like I could take on members of either sex in a bar fight whilst giving redecorating advice to the owner between blows and singing a jaunty tune the whole time. It's like I grew phantom balls that come equipped with a power of fearlessness, attitude, and not giving a toss. All the female insecurities about opinions, looks, emotions, selfish behaviour, stepping out of a comfortable situation... it all just melts away.

Now, I'm not saying I'm trading in my beloved AE jeans or flip-flops or (heavens forbid) corsets for suspenders, ties, vests and a fedora. I wore a skirt and flip flops with the magical hat yesterday, and was comfy and cute all day. Still, it's an interesting realization that a bit of man-flare makes me feel powerful in ways no frilly skirt, deftly-tied scarf, or stiletto heels ever could.

What about y'all? Do you find a difference in how you think and feel when you add a bit of the 'traditionally opposite' sex's garb to your dress?



(It may be a kiss-o-gram outfit, but Amy Pond is totes bad-ass in her collared shirt, tie, and bowler)

I'm Baaaaa-aaaack

Trying this new concept of typing an entry in Blogger's post field, as opposed to whipping something up in Word or Google Docs, because, well, neither of those have been inspiring to me as of late.

What has been inspiring is writing.

No, not this. This action of pressing keys with my fingers and having electric signals travel through the keyboard to the PC hard drive to this site and onto the screen -- this is not inspiring as of late. It's annoying. It's a blank canvas with the ability to erase whatever is composed too easily. It allows me to be fickle, to procrastinate, to delete thoughts before they truly form.

Which is why what I've written lately has been actually written. Physically. By placing a pen or pencil to a sheet of paper in a book and watching as my own hand creates words as they flow from my mind, directing myself in a physical action to create something that cannot be so easily destroyed as type on a screen.
I'm not about to get all high-horse and say that the physical act of writing is better than typing on a computer (or a typewriter if you're lucky enough to own such a device). Technology has afforded us a grand new method of creating and spreading ideas (and far be it for me to get snobby about writing). Still, sometimes I get nostalgic for the time when this massive universe called The Internet did not exist, nor was it so easy to create a stream of words, thoughts and ideas and then delete them in a flash.

Sometimes I want a physical record of my creations, not just a glorified collection of electric pulses and digital code translated to 'my work.'

Still, I feel the pull to write more and the readiness of this method, along with the ease of sharing, calls on me to return to the technological front...
Doesn't mean I won't occasionally run back to the physical creation.

Oh, my beautiful idiot...

"Then you stole me... and I stole you."
"I borrowed you."
"Borrowing implies the eventual intention to return the thing that was taken... What makes you think I would ever give you back?"







He calls her “Sexy.” He strokes bits of her and sweet talks her while also banging her parts with relentless and seemingly reckless abandon. He stole her, and she allowed herself to be stolen. They traveled for hundreds of years together and never spoke... until she was ripped from her home and crammed into a fragile female form.
Talk about innovation.

“The Doctor’s Wife” may eventually rank among the best ever Doctor Who episodes for sheer inventiveness alone. That and the brilliance that is Neil Gaiman.

While I am insanely jealous of this literal outside the bigger-on-the-inside box thinking, it is also inspiring. It fires some of those dormant, struggling synapses within my own writer’s mind, begging me to re-examine some of my own projects. They call to me, requesting that I Gaiman it up a bit --- to think of the maddest things imaginable, the seemingly impossible twist, and write it.
I’m not what one would call a true worshipper at the altar of Gaiman, but I may have just become a convert. Any writer who can do something entirely new with the Whoniverse after its nearly fifty year history deserves more than respect. He deserves adoration, accolades, and genuine gratitude for his innovative and inspiring ideas.

The brain is aching. The fingers are twitching. The soul is yearning for something new. I’m ready to leave myself unlocked for the mad thief of inspiration to rush inside and take me for a ride.

Culpability

March is over -- and this is my 100th post. WHEW!

Can’t say April is anything to sing about yet, what with the insanity of moving and taxes and all, but having the beast of burden that is March behind me (and the hell that is August well in front) lightens my spirits a bit.
I did not ‘win’ NaNoEdMo, however I hit just over the halfway mark and am damn proud of myself. It’s amazing what 25 hours of editing actually feels like. Feels like climbing a never-ending mountain of perils and doubts with your bare hands is what it feels like. Thus, even reaching the halfway plateau gives you a damn good view (so long as you don’t keep glancing upward at what’s still to come).
In related writing news, I attended another worthy ‘coaching’ session this past weekend which, even with the ‘AHHHHHHHHH!’ of moving hanging over me at the moment gave me another healthy dose of confidence, measurable goals, and a list of to-dos which seem pressingly daunting right now – kind of like the boxes piled up around me in my abode, looming over me as I continue to pack more of them. Yet the list also gives me items to be accountable for and goals to work toward that, while intimidating, never seem out of the realm of possibility (especially when talking with my excellent coach).
Though I’m hanging back on many of these tasks until after some of this moving insanity is wrapped, some of them even incorporate into moving which makes moving seem a little less like a futile exercise in attempting to grow up and carve out new sections in my life, and more like a way of expanding some of the things I love doing and creating a newer, better space in which to do them.

Falling on Swords While Falling for Wizards

One of the ‘joys’ of moving is potentially losing one’s DVR forever and thus all the awesome hours of television contained within (though if DirecTV can mount a dish on the side of our complex, we probably won’t lose it… still, one can never be too careful when it comes to precious television – teacher, mother, secret lover). While packing this weekend I watched a slew of movies* along with a couple hours of mindless television and five episodes of Merlin.
Out of all this stimulation, I found myself surprised (though I shouldn’t be) that what affected and stuck with me most was Merlin, particularly one of the scenes toward the end of "The Changeling." Seeing Merlin finally starting to take the reigns as more than Arthur’s servant, beginning to become his adviser, really exposes some of the depth and complexity added to the series throughout season three. It only gets deeper from this episode forward, but even this singular moment in an otherwise ‘creature of the week silliness’ episode points toward better and more in-depth stories as the series continues to progress.
It’s also pretty damned adorable to hear Colin Morgan’s tone of voice shift when Merlin’s allowed to be adviserly.

From a personal standpoint, the destiny-laden, ceremonial sword stabbing doesn’t feel so far removed from situations I’ve experienced (and some I am currently experiencing), which makes the ancient ‘rules’ of chivalry, duty, and honor seem less removed from daily modern life than they typically feel. While we’re not all destined to rule kingdoms, or advise on how to do so, or charged with the protection of VIPs and/or entire nations, we all have aspects of our life for which we are (or feel) utterly culpable as individuals and sometimes it seems easier to throw ourselves on the ceremonial sword rather than face up to what we know is right, rather than give into something out of a sense of duty or tradition.

As a writer and English major I’ve often felt that one of the great benefits my degree has over my writing is that it taught me all the rules so I would know how and why I break them, when I do. Granted, I learned tons of nifty tidbits about life, society, history, industry, creativity, war, love, pain, beauty, theatre, poetry, music, politics and what makes the world worth living in for different folks at different points in our shared history. Still, much like Arthur following his instinct (and Merlin’s advice) to do what feels right and not just what is expected of him, I feel that with both writing and life we all need a reminder once in a while that traditions can and should be broken when there is reason compelling enough to alter them.


Love, in an unselfish and giving state, complicated as it can be, is a damn good reason to buck against tradition in favor of creating something better.


*Slew = Eight. Miranda, Pygmalion, Only Angels Have Wings, Alex Rider: Operation Stormbreaker, Bride & Prejudice, Pride & Prejudice, and Sneakers


Merlin: I've brought you your ceremonial sword.
Arthur: Is that for me to fall on?
Merlin: Hopefully not. What's wrong?
Arthur: You wouldn't understand, Merlin. You have no idea what it's like to have a destiny you can't escape.
Merlin: Destinies are troublesome things. You feel trapped. Like your whole life has been planned out for you and you've got no control over anything and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny has decided is really the best thing at all.
Arthur: How come you're so knowledgeable?
Merlin: I read a book.
Arthur: And what would this book tell you? Should I marry her?
Merlin: It's not really my place to say, sire.
Arthur: I'm asking you, it's your job to answer.
Merlin: If you really want to know what I think? I think you're mad. I think you're all mad. People should marry for love, not convenience. And if Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he's wrong because you may be destined to rule Camelot but you have a choice... as to how you do it.

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.

Spring Into Eclecticism

Mid-march always seems a bizarre period to me. Ignoring the “March is Hell” mantra which I’ve carried for over a decade, when I lived back in the frozen tundra of Michigan, March represented a time when you knew spring approached, but winter still gripped you in its icy clutches. It just taunted you by releasing its grasp a little from time to time, only to yank you back into the below-freezing, ice-laden hell you’d lived in since November-ish. Now I live in a much more temperate climate with basically three seasons: cool(ish), rainy, and HOT… and rainy and cool don’t last long. Yesterday morning the classical station DJ commented that we’re now in the period where we likely won’t see below seventy degrees during the day until November or December. Yet I find that emotionally this time of year still holds some residual effects of near-Springs past, especially in regards to my musical leanings. I find it difficult to give into peppy pop tunes without balancing them with the more morose, slow dirge-like tunes of the winter. Just as the flowers, even here, aren’t all ready to bloom, I’m not ready to emerge from my emotional cocoon and embrace the warmer weather with happier music… and yet I can’t quite resist the siren call of approaching spring.
Thus I give you a sampling of the tunes which have thus far occupied my March:

Jason Walker – Down
Sara Bareilles – Breathe Again
Tony Lucca – Always
Loreena McKennitt – Brian Boru’s March
Michael Bublé – Hollywood
Tony Lucca – Like Love
Darren Criss & Lea Michele – Don’t You Want Me (yes, Darren… yes I do…)
Eliza Doolittle – Missing (kitschy name aside, any spunky little Brit who samples “Come Softly to Me” gets major bonus points)
Plumb – Cut
Imelda May – Love Tattoo
Sky Ferreira – Obsession
Hanson - Give a Little
Digital Daggers – Head Over Heels
Ernie Halter – Black Coffee in Bed

Fiction Battle

Or: Why snobbery in any form only makes you look like a douche...

The Death Flu cramped my writing for over a week, no doubt about it. While my brain functioned on occasion and I wrote more than before I caught the Death Flu, little of it felt substantive to me. With the exception of the migraine rant, I wrote because I felt I needed to but the passion behind the writing, the drive that keeps me going, was simply lost in the sea of a mind clouded with phlegm.
I’d like to thank Joe Hill for breaking me of my malaise. After a series of tweets which delivered the right amount of snark and disdain for an article on literary versus genre fiction (in which he advised readers not to seek out the originating article), I caved and followed the desire to seek out this supposed atrocity.
To say that it bothered me would be a bit of an understatement. It’s not entirely the content of the article but the tone that drives me to imaginings of strangling this writer with his own pompous ascot, which I envision he wears just to keep his inflated head from floating off his body. Yes, I resorted to cheap jibes. I suppose I’m just not ‘literary’ enough to appreciate his pompous, condescending, insulting tone as it relates to the general reading populous.
However, in reading this article I found my way to this one which, while it doesn’t entirely refute Mr. Pompousity does point out that readership and acceptance is a two-way street. Just as an article slamming all fiction that isn’t literary makes one seem like a giant douche, a retort which only serves to praise the mass consumption of Grisham and Steel books and casts aspersions on meriting works of literary fiction for being too high-brow makes that critic seem like the giant douche’s hillbilly cousin – who’s still descends from the family of Lord and Lady Douchebag.
The writer of the second article sees merit in both types of literature, and the problems inherent in either side dismissing the other for either pandering to the common folk or targeting only the upper echelon that sneers at the fiction of the plebes.
“I understand that everyone has different tastes, but there is no pride in ignorance of literary fiction. Genre writers can learn from literary fiction, just as literary writers can learn from genre fiction. There's a middle ground.”
Now that is an anti-snobbery statement I can stand behind.

I won’t pretend that I do not place labels on certain types of fiction based on my own personal tastes. However, I will say that for me great fiction, regardless of status, is about a compelling story, engaging characters, and a mark of creativity. A lack in any one of these areas does not discount the book for me as an example of poor writing or storytelling because each of those qualifiers contains no small amount of subjectivity. Still, if my interest is not captured you’re probably going to lose my investment in your writing – and even high-brow writers of the highest caliber get props from me even if your writing (and subsequent acceptance into the bourgee canon) frustrates this little pixie because all I got from your story was an intense need to throw your book across the room. Unless you’re Emily Brontë, even a violent reaction still merits note because it provoked thought. I’m not a huge fan of LitFic, but I’d rather be incensed at your pompous popularity than bored to tears by your drivel.

Still, if you want my respect, be a good writer, a good critic and an anti-snob. In simple words: Don’t be a douche.

Write, Damnit!

As it’s the start of a new year (January's not over; the year is still very young!), articles like this one pop up all over the interwebs, in addition to the explosion of articles in print which appear like spring daffodils that seem to sprout from nothing, shooting out their yellow-belled cheer overnight. Except cheer and writing don’t always mix. Sure, there’s cheer when you get a new idea, start plugging along with inspiring projects, or finish any work you feel even approaches half-decent, but the process of forming a plan to write consistently, committing yourself to knowing hours stretch before you when you may stare, aggravated, at a blank page or screen... it’s enough to stress you out to the point that even having an idea is a daunting notion.
However, a writer who’s not writing isn’t a writer. As difficult as inspiration is, and as impossible as it is to force inspiring thoughts to manifest themselves, the craft portion of writing only gets stronger with use. Thus, like many others who dabble and drown in the world of writing, I’m attempting to use a new year as a fresh start. So far my concepts and ideas have failed, however in blaming myself (and some pesky germs which knocked me down and rendered me incapable of focusing on anything except breathing and remaining conscious during work hours for two weeks) I also choose to blame technology.
First there’s the distracting nature of the worldwide beast that is the internet. I mean, this place has (nearly) everything and can feed it to you whether you want it or not. That need to feed yourself (usually) useless information becomes highly addictive and counter-productive to doing what you want to and/or should be doing. It can also make you painfully aware of your failings, seeing what others are accomplishing while you’re merely reading about how awesome they are and thinking about how awesome you’re not (yeah, I do this). Lest we forget, technology also gives eleventy-billion more ways to record our ideas and present them to the world. The stream of endless options coupled with global pressure to put out something useful and/or worthwhile can further our own insecurities, and let’s face it, writers are (generally speaking) a pretty insecure lot.
Thus, in addition to that nebulous yearlong goal of ‘writing more,’ which will hopefully soon lend itself to more measurable items within that goal, I’m going to try and stick to a goal of ‘useless internet less.’ This means instead of spending countless times refreshing facebook or twitter to see if anything spontaneously cool, funny, inspiring or random has occurred in the past few minutes (you do this too sometimes, admit it) I hope to use those F5 moments to continue writing when I get stuck, or read a few pages of a book, or (if I must stay plugged into the interwebs) search for something useful and potentially educational or inspiring.

Which prompts me to ask: what are your own writing/creative goals for this year, and what tips, if any, do you have for keeping distractions and that nagging, nay-saying self-doubt at bay?

Anti-Words

Spurred on by this article, and in an attempt to fire some writing synapses in my sinus-addled mind, I thought to give a go to one of the oldest of writing advice columns: what not to write, or rather what words not to use while writing.
Here's the rub, though. Everyone has their own personal pet peeves which turn their editor and reader minds against certain words, phrases, and idioms. Some people swoon when reading about characters becoming besotted with another, while others cringe at the word and feel as if some has run over their reading mind with an old mop when seeing that particular word. Still, writers love to critique, and so we continue to pluck away at others' writing with abandon, usually because by picking apart what someone else writes we can (hopefully) also be guided to flaws in our own writing. I write in a style similar to a Victorian novelist who crashed landed in the 2000s to pick up some colourful metaphors before jaunting to the 1920s for a healthy dose of cynicism and returning again to the 1890s just in time to see all the hopefulness of the industrial age crumble into decadence and decay.
This means I can be very wordy, or very succinct. Vulgar (at times) yet creative. Punctuate with nonplussed indifference to rules. Create my own grammar when it suits me, and yet still cling to a few basic rules of writing etiquette as I see fit. Very often hopeful and sarcastic within centimeters of each emotion... and damn do I love me some ellipses. Where does that leave me with words?
I enjoy juicy, crunchy, snappy words with depth and intrigue, but not when they come across as condescending or perambulating manner that drags on without purpose. Yet I love the Victorians, go figure -- except that when the Victorians wrote what we now consider to be high falutin' sentences they were a) not infrequently being paid by the word and b) using language which was generally common to the public. For people who love Hemingway, there's much to be said for short phrases with clear meaning yet unclear symbolism -- and lots of synonyms for water.


So yeah, maybe one of these days I'll get around to doing one of these oh-so-popular, just-look-how-knowledgeable-I-am posts about words that annoy me with over-usage, 'cause yeah, they're out there. However, I'm still too much of a general Word Geek and Writing Geek to deny people the joy of using words which come naturally to them by calling them out as 'weak' or 'overused' or 'pedestrian' or... whatever.
Write with the words you know, the words that strengthen your writing in a way that fits your style. And read. Read. Read. Read. If you continue to do both these things your writing will strengthen with time and experience. Then one day you, too, can engage in a battle of word wits over what the most boring and unnecessary words are... and sit back and watch as today's 'walk' becomes tomorrow's 'meander.'

NaNoWTFMo

Now that it's November, and the interwebs make communication amongst the (typically) hermitic world of writers, an explosion of thoughts, articles, pep-talks and put-downs flit about the nets regarding National Novel Writing Month.
I've already expressed how valuable I've found NaNo and why I think it can benefit anyone even remotely interested in the idea of it. So this little rant comes about due to several of the nay-saying articles which, so far, have one glaring issue in common: people dissing on the NaNo have not participated in the project -- or at least haven't admitted to it. And really, this is NOT one of those instances where you'd say, "Well, I've never leaped from a tall building to the ground without any safety measures in place, but I know it's a bad idea on principle." Everyone has their own unique method of writing, and a lot of writers nowadays are more flexible in their method because we have to be. It's pretty much a requirement of the digital age to have a basic grasp of most major social media platforms, typing and design programs, and online resources (including marketing tools). With that in mind, I find it in poor taste to degrade a program that not only exposes people to all these tools in one place, but does so much more. Yes, the word count goal can result in a lot of crap writing. Yes, people who start out on this crash diet form of writing frenzy can't all be expected to succeed. Yes, the likelihood that anyone's first draft from a NaNoWriMo project will ever be published is next to zero. However, here's a few items NaNoWriMo provides, in a central place, that NO OTHER WRITING PROGRAM DOES:

A central site where those undertaking this endeavor can not only find resources, advice and fin distractions, they can find SUPPORT.
Those of us nuts enough to participate, especially more than once, understand we're crazy, and so is anyone who attempts this -- but we're crazy and stressed and freaked out and crazy TOGETHER. NaNoWriMo participants are incredibly understanding and supportive, which can go a long way to inspiring you to keep going when you're ready to give up.

Giving up your life for a month to write is not as bad as giving it up to watch TV or movies or torture small animals. You may not be writing the Best Novel Ever, and you may leave things like dishes and laundry and your social life by the wayside for a few weeks, but for people who constantly do those (and so many more) activities to the extent they never have time to write, NaNo gives them the time, and the freedom, to turn on their writing brains. And at the end, win or lose, whatever you've written is more than you had at the start of the month and THAT is something worthwhile.

The idea of NaNo is not to have a COMPLETE novel, but a workable draft.
And you know what? Some people take decades to finish their first workable draft. That's great for those people, but not all of us have that kind of time. NaNoWriMo give you permission to go to town with all your wacky ideas, to vomit all over the page (or keyboard), to create and destroy as many characters as you choose -- and then fix it all LATER. Yes, a lot of crap gets written, but anyone serious about writing knows every draft of any important writing gets revised multiple times. In turning off that little editing voice in your head, you are free to think up the wildest scenarios possible, get them down, and then go back at a different time to make the wildness sensible.

If not now - when?
The most common argument I get from people about not participating in NaNo is, "I don't have the time." (Close second: I'm afraid. See advice next.) Last year I was stage managing a show through all of November. Tech week was the first week of NaNo. I worked 16 hour days for that week, and generally working seven days a week all month. I caught a plague cold which I probably should have gone to the ER for, and even now I don't really remember any of opening weekend for the show. My brain was full of crap about the show and my theatre company and my sucky job. I didn't think I'd ever be able to complete NaNo. Guess what? I did. I almost did not, but I made a push in the 27th hour and made it through. Even had I not 'won' last year, I would still be proud that I took the time and effort to dedicate myself to writing during such an insane time -- because if I hadn't have done it then, I may not ever have done it. The time excuse never flies with me; you have it in you to put as much or as little time as you're able into this project and giving yourself permission to write now will only help you do the same later.

I'm afraid!
Of what? Of not being able to hit 50,000 words in 30 days? So what? Write. Just write. And write. As much as you can, even if you think it sucks, even when you know your plot is not connecting and your characters are running away from you. Keep going. That fear and panic you're experiencing is normal and natural. Embrace it. Work with it. The only person who will ever really suffer if you give into your fear and don't write is you. The words you write today may not be there next month or next year, so stop worrying about if they're the best words and just write them down. You can always change them later. December later. Or much later. Point is, there is nothing to be afraid of except not writing.

Otherwise, you might as well just stop writing all together -- because brilliant writers, editors and publishers know, "There are already more than enough novels out there -- more than those of us who still read novels could ever get around to poking our noses into, even when it's our job to do so."
Thus, as the astute LA Times columnist Carolyn Kelloggpoints out:Well let's just call it quits on culture then, if there's enough. Also, people. There are more than enough people on the planet. Everyone, please stop making them.

Yeah... I'm going to go back to my 'useless' writing now, as I've spent too many words on this Very Important Blog which advises people to be productive rather than tears them down for trying to be so.

Blogger's Block

In the past several days I've made multiple attempts at blog entries which have yet to grace anyone's screen but my own. Most revolve around horror movies/shows, one about writing, one about utterly random crap. Each one contains about two sentences I like and the rest, to me, look like Stephenie Meyer's high school paper reject articles. I'm making an assumption here, but anyone who's read more than two pages of a Twilight book without eyes clouded by sparkly descriptions of Edward's luscious lips and golden-melted-topaz-butterscotch eyes should understand how someone with an English degree feels about their writing with that comparison. I get all these seemingly great ideas in my head and then the minute I sit in front of the screen to type them out they seem pointless and lame. With the blogverse being vast and saturated with utter crap, I don't want to be another person adding to it. Anxiety begets uncertainty which begets a mental block which begets self doubt, and before you know it there are 600 words before you, less than 100 feel usable and now the whole concept of this entry feels like a massive waste of your time -- so how could anyone else want to read it?
This, dear readers, is what keeps many writers silent. The fear and powerlessness we feel when releasing our formed ideas into the world for anyone to judge. Though often our own worst critics, the internet excels at bringing out people who find new ways to terrify everyone including reclusive, schizo, miserable writers who just want someone to be (positively) affected by their writing. Writers are huge cowards. It's what keeps us trapped in the land of first drafts that never become final drafts. It's why we hold on to submissions which never leave the 'to be sent' drawer.
So here's where I make a request of both writer and reader. To readers I say this: next time you feel the urge to leave a negative comment on someone's blog about their opinion, think about how you'd feel if someone responded to you the way you're responding -- if someone has opinions you disagree with or a writing style you abhor, that's fine, but it's no reason to assault them with words from the safety of your computer screen. For writer's I say this: don't be afraid to post your thoughts, even when you think they are stupid or redundant, because in order to find your own voice you have to keep exercising it. Now, this isn't to give license to either side to be douchey and spiteful or to attack without educated and/or experiential reason. All I'm saying is writers are as insecure as any creative type, and yes criticism can be helpful, but writers shouldn't be afraid to write for fear of having their ideas shot down, and readers should acquaint themselves with models of respectful argument when criticising another's work.
Basically...
Writers: Have courage and say what you feel, even if you think it's stupid at the time.
Readers: Feedback and contrasting opinions are great, just try to be constructive.
Everyone: DON'T BE A DICK.

UPDATED:
I feel very comforted when one of my favorite bloggers experiences similar issues with blogger's block and/or feelings of fear and inadequacy over their writing. We all want to have the most awesome, wonderful, thought-provoking or at the very least, entertaining, blogs ever. all. the. time. Yet sometimes you just have to get drunk and say, "Fuck it, I'm blogging while drunk because the interwebs tell me it's awesome." And so you do. And then this happens.
And while there are (often Anonymous) jackasses who will never adhere to the 'don't be a dick' Rule of Life, there are also people out there who appreciate the candor, and amusement, the occasional insecure DrunkBlog can provide.

Mullholloween

Anyone in the LA area who must commute daily from the east valley to anywhere on the west side knows what a clustermess it is right now. Every avenue of getting over the hill and to any area within a three-mile radius of the 405 is completely backed up. I've left my home at 7:40, 7:30, 7:20, 7:15... no matter when in that window I leave, no matter what route I take, my morning commute lasts 75-90 minutes. Every day. The same commute home rarely takes more than 45.
This morning I attempted one of my remaining two avenues of 'escape' from these horrors. Reduced driving time to about 55 minutes, which is comparable to life prior to bridges being demolished and school being back in session. The elation at a possible alternative (that doesn't leave me wanting to take a high-caliber automatic weapon to 98% of the drivers in LA) actually underscored something in the drive which reached deep within me to a much darker, yet pleasanter, place.
While driving along Mullholland, my car became enveloped in the more-than-regular-marine-layer fog which has draped itself across the area on recent mornings. Though part of me trembled inside at the absolute dissolution of all homes and hills contained in the view that stretch of road ordinarily provides, outwardly I found myself cackling maniacally at the incredible power a simple concoction of air and water vapor held -- making the world round me shrink to just the road in front of me, hills or an occasional house on one side of me, and cliffs to nowhere on the other. Several times I found myself contemplating what might happen if the road and fog just kept going and I never reached my work because it no longer existed. Nothing on that drive existed except me in my little sedan, the road, and the fog.
Were I a 'normal' individual terms such as 'eerie' 'creepy' 'macabre' 'desolate' might frighten me as they jumped into my brain during this drive. Was I freaked out? A little bit, deep down inside. Did I like that feeling? You bet your fog spewing sky I did. I reveled in it. When I finally began descending the hill and houses and trees returned to view, it saddened me. Granted, had this occurred in the dark, my reaction might not have been so elated -- and when civilization started sprouting around me again and I noticed deer crossing signs I reflected on how devastating a deer jumping out of that fog would have been. Still, I think nature served me well this morning in reminding me of my Child of the Gothic status.

All-American Ghost Story

While I have been remiss in watching some Halloween-inspired horror the past few days (life and theatre, what can I say?), I decided I needed to flex my atrophying reader muscles. Even though a selection of (potentially) great books I have not read yet sit on my shelves -- including the most recent Stephen King and Joe Hill novels and several Dracula-inspired fictions -- since it feels eons have passed since I last picked up a book much less read one, I decided to start out 'easy' with one of my favorite horror novels: Hell House.
I say 'favorite horror novels' yet honestly Hell House ranks among my favorite books ever. Though I haven't read all of Matheson's fiction, I have read a very sizable amount and, for me, this novel is his most thought-out, has the best characterization, possesses a brilliant blend of horror and black humour, and is perhaps the best American ghost story yet written. Yes, stories like 'The Fall of the House of Usher' are incredible and terrifying (and anyone who hasn't experienced the brilliance of early-American Gothic masterpieces like The Turn of the Screw and Wieland needs to read them immediately), but what causes Hell House to shine (other than spectacular writing, plot and pace) is the connection it creates between classic supernatural stories and modern (for the '70s) science. It sets out with a main character coming to scientifically explain paranormal phenomena and an extension of the human subconscious which, in some people, is capable of causing every form of residual haunting, poltergeist activity, possession, etc. It makes a damn good case for it, too... that is until the house and its 'residents' decide to come out and play, and play they do.
While the novel relies on some traditional horror and ghost story conventions, and is easily paralleled to The Haunting of Hill House, it stands on its own as a mastery of the genre. Matheson crafts a disturbing, horrifying atmosphere very early in the story to establish that it's not going to be a fun trip. What works so well is he weaves the horror through the tale in a way that only explicitly describes gore a handful of times. This lends itself to allowing the reader's imagination and early description of the House's history and recorded phenomena to fuel the real horror without over-saturating descriptions of violence, sex and psychological fuckery.
With the characters, each one is well-rounded and slightly unhinged in their own way, but not to the extent that they become unbelievable -- they are intelligent, progressive individuals who, although they have very differing views on what paranormal activities are and their causes, have sound reasoning and experience related to their own opinions and actions. Until the house starts screwing with all those opinions, of course.
My final assessment of the triumph in the novel's construction lies in the character of Fischer. He enters the house as the sole survivor of a previous examination of the house and shuts himself down in an attempt to keep the House from affecting him -- of course in doing that he allows the House access to the others with disastrous consequences. Yet you cannot hate him for protecting himself due to his ultimate redemption and his sardonic, cautious attitude toward a place which historically destroys anyone who enters it.
I have a deep, burning desire for this novel to become a film as a true American ghost story (unfortunately in the original movie adaptation in moving the story to England it sucked out that aspect). However, time has shown that unless Matheson writes the screenplay himself, his stories always gets completely screwed...

Quincey, Save Me...

Dracula-related materials have once again stirred a voracious appetite in me, and of all my obsessions it is the one I will least deny. I purchased Dracula, My Love and suspect I shall complete it within a week. Then, on Twitter, I discovered this: Dracula In Love. It sounds basically like the novel I just bought, only smuttier and with a more overt uber-feminist attitude. Either that or it'll turn into another Vampire Lesbian Spank Inferno interpretation, possibly minus the spanking. If the brief excerpt is any indication, smut or not, this will be another book that causes as much indignation in me as amusement.
Here's my issue with the ultra-feminist take on Dracula (I'll get around to the po-mo sexuality issues at a later date): it fails to regard the fact that for a man, writing about female characters of which -- even as a theatre guy -- he likely had little comprehension of, Stoker managed well. He certainly managed better than most men (and women) of his time in creating a female character whose intelligence, good nature, selflessness and humility stand markedly above other female characters in that age. Mina experiences more freedom as a Victorian woman than most did and yet sees herself as being quite traditional. The journal excerpts written from Mina's perspective in no way demean her own value, nor do they hint at some deep, burning desire for sexual release, equality (which she is given to an extent in the novel, again far above many female Victorian characters), or Dracula. She pities the dark creature more than the men, and as a female that is understandable -- this does not mean she harbours secret desires to go to the movies with him and make him her cuddle bear.
THAT aspect more than any other annoys me; the concept that in order for Mina to assert herself as more of an equal to the men in the book, to truly ascend as a feminist, she must embrace her sexual desires and fall in love with a Byronic vampire hottie whom she hopes will worship her forever. This is the best feminist writers can come up with to empower Mina? Have her fall in love with an arrogant, self-serving, demonic being who only goes after her as revenge on the team thwarting his progress to make London his undead playground?... genius. Is the best expression of female empowerment we can come up with to have Mina become Bella Swan, swooning over the gorgeous stalker who thirsts for her life? Already in Dracula, My Love she dreams of Dracula coming to break up her wedding with Jonathan claiming her as his own. In what way does that allow her freedom? That only transfers what some see as oppression in Mina's treatment from the hunters to Dracula -- it still makes her a victim of his and devalues (or ignores) the selflessness she naturally possesses in the original novel. Especially considering that no matter how the story is told, the simple fact remains that Dracula kills people. Plural. He's a serial killer. These authors are causing a supposedly intelligent, compassionate woman to fall in love with a murderer -- because that's so much less twisted and easier to comprehend than the same woman being in love with a book-smart, rational, caring, albeit a little vanilla guy who does actually develop and grow into a real man when his beloved (and humanity) is threatened.
It's not that there should be a rational explanation for all fiction, especially when you get into the murky waters of the supernatural, because life and love are not rational. However, when a human falls in love with an other-being there's a fair amount of 'splainin' that should accompany the human's journey to love, besides the other-being possessing the awesome powers of major hotness and having a master's in stalking. Otherwise at the end of the day all these re-imaginings do is create a fiction epidemic of Bella Swan clones. Sooner or later that will (I hope) make people wish for vampires that do nothing but kill whiny, self-involved little masochists who yearn for their dark lover's touch.