...Who made up all the rules/ We follow them like fools/ Believe them to be true/ Don't care to think them through....
A true mother-daughter day should, and did, include lunch, a manicure, and shoe shopping. I narrowly escaped matching mother-daughter shoes. Yes, I made Alaina put the miniature stilettos back on the shelf.
My sister chooses the best of gifts, and this year's present was no exception. Body butter (yum!) and a bestselling book on punctuation. Love it!
Belle de Jour, the (possibly fictional)London call-girl turned blogger turned contracted author, has finished her book, and is now crossing i's and dotting t's. Or the reverse, if you prefer.
Diablo Cody is working on a screenplay, temping a "straight" job, and obviously has more time than she needs, as she critiques majorly mindless entertainment. Everybody needs somebody to trash.
The Political Animal I forgive for trashing Willie Don, whom I adore. Because I also adore The Animal. I forgive the former mayor, in his possible decrepit senility, his absurd remarks. And yet, I must agree with his earlier non-politic sentiment that if you must work in food service before learning English, for gods' sake, stay in the kitchen.
Emily Flake trashes adulthood, which really does suck, actually.
Gadi Dechter, whom I would love for his name even if he couldn't write, reviews Rogue Warriors, a book that trashes the war in Iraq.
Could I be later on the May/June issue of Pen In Hand? I suppose if I fail to get it out in July, I will truly be excruciatingly late, but I'm still feeling guilty. I have no idea why I thought being editor of the Maryland Writers Association's -bi? semi? semi, I think- monthly newsletter, but it's currently a source of stress and misery, mostly.
I shouldn't complain. Other people have problems much greater than mine. Imagine Tim, of The Pain- When Will It End? What a sad little message. There, there, Tim- we'll access your archives. I'm particularly fond of your greeting cards. (Buy the book. Buy the book. Buy the book.)
I am struck motionless suddenly with missing Rufus, gone now four years. I held him, tipped my head to the sky and howled his spirit across as he died in my arms. I was hoarse for two days. This brought on, I think, by last night's news image of a former movie Tarzan in a polo shirt smeared with red-brown stains, in tears over the double loss of his beloved pet tiger.
I need to either grow some skin or take up drinking.
14 July, 2004
13 July, 2004
No Joke
...there's some sad things know to man/ but there aint too much sadder than/ tears of a clown....
A magician, a mime, and a clown walk into a bar.
(Slowly, Ellen reaches under the counter for her shotgun...)
He complains that his nickname is unoriginal. I wonder if "Sporkman" is preferable.
Marcuslorus looks swell, and it's sweet to see him. He's wearing "product."
I ran into a woman who was my bosom friend in elementary school. I haven't seen her since junior high. She wears the same hairstyle she did then.
Today, I officially have no more babies. My youngest is six, and we are going for the first of her body modifications, pierced ears. Yesterday, she asked when she could get a tattoo.
Me first, baby. Me first.
A magician, a mime, and a clown walk into a bar.
(Slowly, Ellen reaches under the counter for her shotgun...)
He complains that his nickname is unoriginal. I wonder if "Sporkman" is preferable.
Marcuslorus looks swell, and it's sweet to see him. He's wearing "product."
I ran into a woman who was my bosom friend in elementary school. I haven't seen her since junior high. She wears the same hairstyle she did then.
Today, I officially have no more babies. My youngest is six, and we are going for the first of her body modifications, pierced ears. Yesterday, she asked when she could get a tattoo.
Me first, baby. Me first.
12 July, 2004
Current Reading
...long hours spent standing in front of the lavatory mirror, practicing the palmings, passes, slips, and sleights that made it possible to seem to hurl a coin into the right ear, through the brainpan, and out the left ear of a chum or relative, or to pop the knave of hearts into the handkerchief of a pretty girl, required a masturbatory intensity of concentration that became almost more pleasurable for him than the trick itself...- Michael Chabon
Based on my understanding of the phenomena, this is an accurate assessment of learning a magic technique. From Michael Chabon's book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which won a Pulitzer,(pronounced Pull it Sir, rather than Pyule-it-ser, as my misinformed cohorts insisted)and raises the question, What is a golem?
I don't know what led me to think of Michael Chabon as a self-important putz who disavows his pedestrian Columbia, Maryland roots, but until recently, it prevented me from reading his book. That, and the fact that The Shipping News, another winner, and both of Wally Lamb's books, which clearly had aspirations, matched the following description of Pulitzer prize winning novels.
"First you come up with a love story. That's right, just like all the gaudy romance novels in the grocery, Pulitzer prize novels are pretty much all love stories, but they're in disguise. Sort of like buried treasure. And like finding buried treasure you have to go through a lot of stuff that isn't treasure to find it. Okay, so the author comes up with a teeny, tiny love story, just something as simple as two people meeting and falling in love. First of all, the main characters can't be beautiful. In fact they need to be homely. No smoldering eyes or raven tresses as those traits would disqualify the book. Not ugly and not grotesque. Maybe they have something like big ears.
The next thing you have to do is start hiding the treasure. Bury it so the reader can't find it easily. This means you can't have the lovers together very often. They can't be like in a romance novel where the hero and heroine are together on nearly every page. In fact, you can't even call them a hero and heroine. You have to call them 'protagonists.' It's just one of those little rules of literary life. People who think they're smart like to use words other people don't use.
You start burying your treasure of a love story underneath lots of quirky characters with funny names. You name them Sunshine or Rosehips or Monkeywrench, whatever, just so they get odd names. The judges probably have names like John and Catherine so they dream of being named Carburetor.
In romances, the protagonists are given beautiful names like Cameo and Briony, and the males are Wolf and Hawk, but those names don't win prizes. So after you get your names for your characters, you make up quirky personalities for them. Like Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham is a celebrated quirky character in literature, and people who award prizes love quirky characters. And they want the treasure- the story- hidden very deep, under lots of people with funny names doing lots of strange things.
In your story you also need to put a shocker, something straight out of a horror novel. The people who write these books need for you to believe that they're far above romance writers and horror writers and mystery writers. That's why they bury all those stories deep inside their books; they can't risk association with a genre writer. In fact, prize-winning authors have to bury the story so deep that the judges can barely see them. Let me give you an example. In a romance novel two gorgeous people meet and immediately start thinking about sex, right? That's how it is in real life, too, but if you want to win a prize, your characters must never think about sex except in a self-deprecating way. The judges love characters who think they're unattractive, and who've failed at most things they've tried.
And, by the way, the judges also love incomplete sentences. In a regular novel- one that's not about to win a prize, that is- the author would write something like 'After she said goodbye, she turned and went up the stairs.' A prizewinner would write 'Said goodbye. Up the stairs. Wished she'd said au revoir.' See? It's different. And adding the French helps, too.
Oh. And it helps to be a woman whose first name is a variation of Ann. No one named Blanche L'Amour will ever win a literary prize."
(Excerpted from Wild Orchids, by Jude Devereaux.)
Considering I, Robot: the movie bills itself as "inspired by" the book (actually a collection of short stories) by Isaac Asimov. Which means that those of us who know his work are likely to find the movie an irritant. Despite Will Smith. I had to re-purchase the book, (re-packaged, with Will on the front cover and movie blurbs on the back) as both Coco and I, who used to own minimum one copy apiece, have failed entirely to locate said tomes in our collections. I suspect a conspiracy.
Travels, by Michael Creighton, is pure enjoyment, delving into surgery, travel, self-doubt, broken relationships, and mysticism. Is that an odd mix?
Isn't everything?
Based on my understanding of the phenomena, this is an accurate assessment of learning a magic technique. From Michael Chabon's book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which won a Pulitzer,(pronounced Pull it Sir, rather than Pyule-it-ser, as my misinformed cohorts insisted)and raises the question, What is a golem?
I don't know what led me to think of Michael Chabon as a self-important putz who disavows his pedestrian Columbia, Maryland roots, but until recently, it prevented me from reading his book. That, and the fact that The Shipping News, another winner, and both of Wally Lamb's books, which clearly had aspirations, matched the following description of Pulitzer prize winning novels.
"First you come up with a love story. That's right, just like all the gaudy romance novels in the grocery, Pulitzer prize novels are pretty much all love stories, but they're in disguise. Sort of like buried treasure. And like finding buried treasure you have to go through a lot of stuff that isn't treasure to find it. Okay, so the author comes up with a teeny, tiny love story, just something as simple as two people meeting and falling in love. First of all, the main characters can't be beautiful. In fact they need to be homely. No smoldering eyes or raven tresses as those traits would disqualify the book. Not ugly and not grotesque. Maybe they have something like big ears.
The next thing you have to do is start hiding the treasure. Bury it so the reader can't find it easily. This means you can't have the lovers together very often. They can't be like in a romance novel where the hero and heroine are together on nearly every page. In fact, you can't even call them a hero and heroine. You have to call them 'protagonists.' It's just one of those little rules of literary life. People who think they're smart like to use words other people don't use.
You start burying your treasure of a love story underneath lots of quirky characters with funny names. You name them Sunshine or Rosehips or Monkeywrench, whatever, just so they get odd names. The judges probably have names like John and Catherine so they dream of being named Carburetor.
In romances, the protagonists are given beautiful names like Cameo and Briony, and the males are Wolf and Hawk, but those names don't win prizes. So after you get your names for your characters, you make up quirky personalities for them. Like Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham is a celebrated quirky character in literature, and people who award prizes love quirky characters. And they want the treasure- the story- hidden very deep, under lots of people with funny names doing lots of strange things.
In your story you also need to put a shocker, something straight out of a horror novel. The people who write these books need for you to believe that they're far above romance writers and horror writers and mystery writers. That's why they bury all those stories deep inside their books; they can't risk association with a genre writer. In fact, prize-winning authors have to bury the story so deep that the judges can barely see them. Let me give you an example. In a romance novel two gorgeous people meet and immediately start thinking about sex, right? That's how it is in real life, too, but if you want to win a prize, your characters must never think about sex except in a self-deprecating way. The judges love characters who think they're unattractive, and who've failed at most things they've tried.
And, by the way, the judges also love incomplete sentences. In a regular novel- one that's not about to win a prize, that is- the author would write something like 'After she said goodbye, she turned and went up the stairs.' A prizewinner would write 'Said goodbye. Up the stairs. Wished she'd said au revoir.' See? It's different. And adding the French helps, too.
Oh. And it helps to be a woman whose first name is a variation of Ann. No one named Blanche L'Amour will ever win a literary prize."
(Excerpted from Wild Orchids, by Jude Devereaux.)
Considering I, Robot: the movie bills itself as "inspired by" the book (actually a collection of short stories) by Isaac Asimov. Which means that those of us who know his work are likely to find the movie an irritant. Despite Will Smith. I had to re-purchase the book, (re-packaged, with Will on the front cover and movie blurbs on the back) as both Coco and I, who used to own minimum one copy apiece, have failed entirely to locate said tomes in our collections. I suspect a conspiracy.
Travels, by Michael Creighton, is pure enjoyment, delving into surgery, travel, self-doubt, broken relationships, and mysticism. Is that an odd mix?
Isn't everything?
11 July, 2004
No Caption
...It's a thousand pages, give or take a few/ I'll be writing more in a week or two.....
It is time, it is time... I am at the tail end of work on this project with Steve, and my mind thrashes and gnashes at language and image, stretching and flexing. I am ready to write.
I dream an image, a freeze-framed photograph, with no writing on the back, no name or date. I dream an image, an arm outthrust, palm overflowing with something weighty and wet. Peeled mango? Heart fresh-torn from chest? Brain matter? -something, a lump of something, the urgency of the gesture indicating an importance with which the item might not otherwise be imbued.
There are rats in my neighborhood. Not only the usual metaphoric bipedal sort, but also real rattus norvegicus actual rodential creatures. I do not know why this disturbs me. I suppose there are rats in every neighborhood. Should not being presented with proof of their existence provide me with more reassurance rather than less? Some things we'd rather not face, perhaps.
Rats. Dreams. Death. Reality.
It is time, it is time... I am at the tail end of work on this project with Steve, and my mind thrashes and gnashes at language and image, stretching and flexing. I am ready to write.
I dream an image, a freeze-framed photograph, with no writing on the back, no name or date. I dream an image, an arm outthrust, palm overflowing with something weighty and wet. Peeled mango? Heart fresh-torn from chest? Brain matter? -something, a lump of something, the urgency of the gesture indicating an importance with which the item might not otherwise be imbued.
There are rats in my neighborhood. Not only the usual metaphoric bipedal sort, but also real rattus norvegicus actual rodential creatures. I do not know why this disturbs me. I suppose there are rats in every neighborhood. Should not being presented with proof of their existence provide me with more reassurance rather than less? Some things we'd rather not face, perhaps.
Rats. Dreams. Death. Reality.
10 July, 2004
Annie-Gate
...there's no people like show people/ they smile when they are low....
An expedition has been organized by the Prince. Attending are BuddahPat, Legs, Mo, Neicey, Birthday Boy, and me.
Or, if you will, Nixon, Tony, Heidi, Maureen, Barmaid, Drummer, and Playwright. The actress who played Rose Mary Woods is also in the audience, though not with us. The main attraction, who has a "featured chorus" role, played the Concierge. Watergate! attends Annie Get Your Gun.
Community theater makes me cringe on principle. Annie Get Your Gun makes me cringe, not just because of Native American slurs. I am increasingly glad I left the romantic love ballads out of Watergate! the Musical. I toyed with the idea of a romance between members of the hotel staff, discarded it as superfluous, even trivial.
The show runs three hours.
My irritation at critics who labeled my show "too long" rises.
I lean my head against BuddahPat's shoulder. Turn, catch a whiff of Neicey's sweet shampoo, shift the other way and Mo's fragrance embraces me.
Sigh relief, it's over; on to the important bit: pizza and beer. Lovely, both.
He lifts hem of shirt to clean glasses. A swirl of light hair around his navel uncurls into furry path that dives behind the waistband of boxer briefs. Unfocus eyes, move chin; won't do to be caught staring.
An expedition has been organized by the Prince. Attending are BuddahPat, Legs, Mo, Neicey, Birthday Boy, and me.
Or, if you will, Nixon, Tony, Heidi, Maureen, Barmaid, Drummer, and Playwright. The actress who played Rose Mary Woods is also in the audience, though not with us. The main attraction, who has a "featured chorus" role, played the Concierge. Watergate! attends Annie Get Your Gun.
Community theater makes me cringe on principle. Annie Get Your Gun makes me cringe, not just because of Native American slurs. I am increasingly glad I left the romantic love ballads out of Watergate! the Musical. I toyed with the idea of a romance between members of the hotel staff, discarded it as superfluous, even trivial.
The show runs three hours.
My irritation at critics who labeled my show "too long" rises.
I lean my head against BuddahPat's shoulder. Turn, catch a whiff of Neicey's sweet shampoo, shift the other way and Mo's fragrance embraces me.
Sigh relief, it's over; on to the important bit: pizza and beer. Lovely, both.
He lifts hem of shirt to clean glasses. A swirl of light hair around his navel uncurls into furry path that dives behind the waistband of boxer briefs. Unfocus eyes, move chin; won't do to be caught staring.
09 July, 2004
Post Shower
...he rocks in the treetop all day long/hoppin' and a boppin' and singin' his song....
I lean against the sill of my bathroom window, gazing through the crosshatched grid of summer screen to watch tiny sparrows bathe in puddles left by rain on my flat porch roof. Wings flipping into blur, they stop, sip delicately from shining patches of silver.
A tuft-busted robin, who looks as though he's been on the wrong end of an argument with a cat, flies down to bully the smaller birds. Most of them ignore him, which seems to inspire further chest-swelling and intimidatory space-invading. A couple of sparrows flit away. One refuses. The robin flies at him, pecking, chasing. The sparrow darts and dodges, returning to the roof after confusing the robin with quick feints and redoubling moves. The ones that were driven off follow, resuming their activities.
Restful as it is to watch this peaceful moment, after the previous, if tiny, drama, it is less than compelling. The quiet swoosh of the window frame sliding shut sends the sparrows scattering like brown seeds blown about the yard.
If all my naked moments were like this, I'd probably never get dressed.
I lean against the sill of my bathroom window, gazing through the crosshatched grid of summer screen to watch tiny sparrows bathe in puddles left by rain on my flat porch roof. Wings flipping into blur, they stop, sip delicately from shining patches of silver.
A tuft-busted robin, who looks as though he's been on the wrong end of an argument with a cat, flies down to bully the smaller birds. Most of them ignore him, which seems to inspire further chest-swelling and intimidatory space-invading. A couple of sparrows flit away. One refuses. The robin flies at him, pecking, chasing. The sparrow darts and dodges, returning to the roof after confusing the robin with quick feints and redoubling moves. The ones that were driven off follow, resuming their activities.
Restful as it is to watch this peaceful moment, after the previous, if tiny, drama, it is less than compelling. The quiet swoosh of the window frame sliding shut sends the sparrows scattering like brown seeds blown about the yard.
If all my naked moments were like this, I'd probably never get dressed.
08 July, 2004
Write On
...the Martians are landing on a statue in the Bay/ but I didn't get a chance to watch the news today/ oh yes, we're being invaded....
"Would it make you feel better to know I gave up writing for ten years?"
Ten years. Now I wonder why I didn't just hack off my writing hand.
(Not that it would have stopped me picking it up again when I was ready. Taught myself to write left handed a couple months ago.)
"Yes, it would, actually."
She thinks that she is not a "real" writer because she doesn't feel "compelled" to do it every day.
I have a restless, itchy, gnawing feeling that I hope means I'm ready to start working on Posthumous Cafe. I set it aside when I began Watergate! the Musical. Two years ago.
It started as a novel. I cut myself off, because I want to finish. I know it takes about nine months to write a play, but have no idea when I might finish a novel. I can (probably will) novelize it later.
I put into his hands my traditional birthday gift to him, ( I wish you wouldn't, says he ), a new script. I felt badly that it was "only" a revision of Watergate!
When I expressed again my plan to present him once a year with a fresh script, he said, "No, Cyb, that's not ambitious, it's just crazy."
I've been called worse.
"Would it make you feel better to know I gave up writing for ten years?"
Ten years. Now I wonder why I didn't just hack off my writing hand.
(Not that it would have stopped me picking it up again when I was ready. Taught myself to write left handed a couple months ago.)
"Yes, it would, actually."
She thinks that she is not a "real" writer because she doesn't feel "compelled" to do it every day.
I have a restless, itchy, gnawing feeling that I hope means I'm ready to start working on Posthumous Cafe. I set it aside when I began Watergate! the Musical. Two years ago.
It started as a novel. I cut myself off, because I want to finish. I know it takes about nine months to write a play, but have no idea when I might finish a novel. I can (probably will) novelize it later.
I put into his hands my traditional birthday gift to him, ( I wish you wouldn't, says he ), a new script. I felt badly that it was "only" a revision of Watergate!
When I expressed again my plan to present him once a year with a fresh script, he said, "No, Cyb, that's not ambitious, it's just crazy."
I've been called worse.