I’m not what you’d call a big moviegoer. I’m terrified of crowds. I don’t enjoy the smell of popcorn. I can’t sit still for two or (oh, God) three hours at a time. I’m busy. And for the last year, everything at the theater looked unappealing to me. So, I was a little remorseful when, two nights ago, I finally saw Slumdog Millionaire on cable. Because while it was lovely on TV, it would’ve been brilliant on the big screen.
If you haven’t seen the movie, it deserves all the praise it’s received. The cinematography is beautiful. The acting is superb. The story unfolds like the best kind of novel, flipping between past and present without ever losing its viewer. Drawing her in and widening her eyes with anticipation for what’s to come next. Looping back and connecting all the dots, like a thoughtfully constructed puzzle. The characters are by turns charming, vile, frightening, loving, dejected, resolute, hopeful — everything that people are in real life.
But it was the setting of the movie that really stuck with me, the abject, heartbreaking poverty that compels the main characters to do what they do, to find ingenious ways to survive, to succumb to breath-arresting exploitive cruelty, to ponder — and sometimes become convinced of — the idea that destiny has a hand in everything. That fate or God has preordained one’s existence to the utter preclusion of alternatives, good or bad. That wondering about this for too long only leads to the maddening recognition of existence’s circularity, of the balance of trying one’s damnedest against the idea that destiny necessitated such exertion in the first place.
One could think about this until she went crazy.
Or, if you’re me, you could set the idea of destiny next to its philosophical twin — that life is a total crapshoot. Because we don’t choose to be born in the slums of Mumbai any more than we have the power to be born in the Seventh Arondissement of Paris. We don’t elect to be birthed into a lowly Indian caste or an isolated housing project in North Korea any more than we are entitled to be birthed in the Upper East Side. We don’t get to pick when we make our appearance on Earth, or where, or in what time frame or into which slice of the socio-economic pie. And if we really want to get nitpicky about this, we don’t get to select our skin color or our IQ or our level of hotness. It’s this awareness that makes me cringe when I see people act with an unattractive sense of entitlement. Why snobbery and arrogance and a general I’m-Better-Than-You attitude grates me in the worst possible way. Why racism and sexism and every other kind of –ism makes no kind of sense. Because the truth of the matter is that no one’s inherently better than anyone else. That it’s what’s on the inside of a person that really counts. We learn these extraordinarily basic axioms in elementary school. Somehow, we forget it by the time we’re in middle school. We forget it so violently that we spend the rest of our lives trying to one-up each other, to compare ourselves by how much stuff we have, how many designer labels and exotic cars and vacation homes we can claim. How many people we know, how many important people we know, how much money we have, how much clout. We laud the beautiful and the privileged, spend eternity trying emulating and envying them. And in our ugliest moments, we are thankful that if we cannot be X, then at least we are not Y.
For what?
Are there really any answers?
Of course, I’m not immune to any of this. I mean, I live in the real world. I’m insecure. I’m competitive. I’m petty. I’m vain. Hell, I’m a girl. And I’m not one to pitch a person’s controllable faults into the wastebasket of “life is a crapshoot,” either. But I’ve also been soul-searching a bit recently, which might be one of the best and worst consequences of writing character-driven fiction. And I’ve been thinking about this elusive notion of where my characters — and as an extension, where I — fit into this crazy world. And for all the whys and what fors that I can pitch, I realize that the answer that works best for me brings me back to the central character of the movie — try, try, try, world unending, amen. Be better today than what you were yesterday. Be better tomorrow than what you are today. And be kind. Always. Because you never know who might loop back around in this drama of life. Who might need a hand or be the one to extend one.
There is, of course, the central matter of love in Slumdog Millionaire. Enduring, unflinching, bet-your-life-on-it love. It is, to be punny, lovely. But I’m not a movie critic tasked to relay central themes. I’m a writer who is inordinately distracted by shiny objects in the distance. With a blog in which she gets to describe what she just saw. ☺
Monday, May 25, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Congratulations, You’ve Decided To Become A Published Novelist! Now What?
I’ve been meaning to blog about writing — both the technical mechanics of the craft and the business side of it — for ages. Back up. I’ve been meaning to blog for ages. Unfortunately, my work-in-progress was taking forever, and I’ve been snowed at the office, and family this and life that and blah blah blah…
Anyway, quite a few people have asked how one goes about getting published. And I’ve gotten so many requests for a roadmap that I promised to blog about it. Well! Ask and (four months later) ye shall receive!
To give you an overall analogy, the road to publishing isn’t unlike the road to building a house. There’s the actual writing of a novel (more on that in another post) — the actual building of the house, the blueprints and nails and hammers and load-bearing walls and electric wiring and plumbing and whatnot. And there’s the publishing of a novel — the bureaucratic process of having a house built, the permits and approvals and inspections and so forth. To publish a novel, you need both. Yes, even you, the Next-David-Foster-Wallace of Boise, Idaho who’s got connections. And while I’m by no means an expert in the field, I have been through the looking glass and can give you my two cents on the matter (this is my way of saying, “take this post for what it’s worth”). So, without further, ado, here are the eight easy steps (ha!) to getting your Great American Novel published * **:
1. The Novel. Write your novel. The entire novel. Edit it. Have your literate friends and family read it. Demand that they give you brutally frank critiques. Join a writer’s group if it helps. Have them read and give you brutally frank critiques. Check your spelling and grammar. Use Times New Roman, 12-font. Double-spaced. 1” margins all around. Don’t justify your margins. These are industry standards. Follow them. In other words, present your work as perfectly and professionally as you can.
2. The Agent. If you are writing fiction, then you absolutely must have an agent. Due to the overwhelming volume of submissions (and copyright liability issues), most publishing houses will flat-out refuse to read anything unless it comes from an agent. The vast majority of agents lives in New York, but don’t be afraid to scout those who live elsewhere. Check out The Association of Authors’ Representatives, Inc. (AAR) (www.aaronline.org). The AAR site is chock full of information and includes its Canon of Ethics. Agents should not charge you money up front. Ever. There are just as many scammers as there are legit agents. Beware the agent who guarantees that you’ll be published. He might as well promise you that you’re going to win America’s Next Top Model. Might happen. Might not. A note: don’t preclude agents who are not members of the AAR, either. Some of the best agents are not. But be sure to confirm that he or she follows the AAR’s Canon of Ethics.
Which agents should you target? Check out if the agent you’re researching represents your genre. Some only deal with adult fiction. Some only work with YA writers. Some are exclusively non-fiction agents. And so on and so forth. Kathryn Brogan’s Guide to Literary Agents is a good resource. So is Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents. These books are rather pricey and change very quickly, so visit your local library for current editions. While you’re there, look at books in your genre. Check out the acknowledgements page. Every author thanks her agent. See who rep’ed said author. Check out authors’ websites and look at their contacts page. Stalkerati, much? Indeed. It’s called Due Diligence. Make a list of your favorite dozen (or two or three or hundred) agents. Know what their submissions guidelines are.
3. The Query Letter. The dreaded query letter. Your chance to show the agent in very few words why you’re the shiznit. There are many ways to do this, but they should generally be limited to one page, single-spaced. In a few succinct paragraphs, state what you wrote (general idea of the novel in as interesting a way as you can manage) and who you are (background, education if relevant, writing awards if any, why you’re uniquely qualified to write this book). If the submissions guidelines request sample pages, include them. If they specifically ask that you don’t, don’t. You don’t want to come across as being unable to follow directions from the get-go. Use white paper, for God’s sake. Don’t spritz it with perfume. Don’t include a picture of yourself nude on a chaise lounge. Seriously. I’ve been told that way too many people actually do this. Triple proofread it before you send. Make sure you’ve addressed it to the right person. Sounds ridiculous that I should include this advice, but when you’ve got fifteen (or three dozen) query letters in front of you, all of them following varying guidelines, you might be surprised how easy it is to make a mistake.
Because I am hopelessly OCD and Type-A, I made an excel spreadsheet that listed which agents I sent query letters to, when and with what. Why? So that I wouldn’t send repeat letters to the same people. So that I knew how long it had been since my submission (i.e., when I might sent an email to the agent asking if he or she had received my query letter). So that I felt like I had some modicum of control over the process.
4. Wring Hands and Wait. Many agents’ websites will say that they’ll get back to you within 4-6 weeks. Many of them won’t. Not because they’re evil and want to personally torture you. But because they often get a thousand (no joke) query letters a week. A week. And reading query letters isn’t their only function. They’re negotiating deals for their current authors, reading and editing (if they’re of the editing brand) their authors’ work, reading requested drafts of submissions, speaking at conferences, raising children, etc. They’re wicked busy. When can you call them to see if they like you? Pretty much never. Don’t call them. It’ll irritate them. It’ll likely get you dinged before you’ve even had the chance to get your work before them.
This was probably the most difficult part of the process for me. I am a lawyer. I worked for ages in an environment that screamed if a draft wasn’t ready in a day, lost its shit if the brief wasn’t perfect in two. Partners were always at my door, asking when I would be finished, where was the GD pleading, how much longer, why isn’t it ready, are we there yet? I am also incredibly impatient by nature and push myself to exhaustion on a daily basis. My unfortunate personality and my job made me expect that everyone — agents included — were just like me. Where were these agents? I’d ask. Have they read my query yet? Why not? My God, but it’s been thirteen days and six hours! What. Is. Taking. So. Long?? I was fortunate enough to have what I now call my Writing Fairy Godmother basically wring me out and tell me to calm the f*ck down. That publishing doesn’t work like the legal field. That I would quickly make myself persona non grata if I couldn’t learn to Sit Down, Shut Up And Wait. That would be my advice to you (without the neck-wringing and the F-bombs). To be patient when you’re practically bursting at the seams with anxiety and anticipation. To keep in mind that agents are working as quickly as they can. That they are looking for the next Brilliant Work as much as you’re trying to get your Brilliant Work in front of them.
(Now, if the guidelines said 4-6 weeks, and it’s been eight, yeah, it’s okay to send an email or a letter asking if said agent received the query (but don’t call)).
5. Rejections. Horrible. Horrible. But if you get one (or 200), welcome to the club! You’re now officially one of us. Every author has gotten a rejection. Some rejections will bear a stamp with a single word: “No.” Some agents might feel generous and stamp, “No, thanks.” Others will have nothing written on your letter. It’s simply returned and you can assume they’re just not that into you. Some will take the time and explain why your work isn’t what they’re looking for. Don’t sweat it. Don’t take it personally. Don’t think you’re a lesser person or untalented because of it. All you need is one to say “yes.” So much easier said than done, no?
My husband saved all of my rejection letters, by the way. The entire two-foot stack. So that when I was rich and famous, I could look back on it and gleefully shout, “So, who’s the reject now, suckas?” I don’t know if you’re into that. I still haven’t shouted at it. He has. He clearly doesn’t understand what “rich and famous” means.
6. The Agent Likes You! and wants you to send the first chapter. Or the first three. Or the entire novel. This is why you need to have your novel perfected and ready to go. This industry is notoriously wait-wait-wait-wait-I-want-it-all-NOW. You might get a response from your query in a week. And the agent might want the entire work immediately. If it’s not finished, she may pass. She might find someone who’s written something very similar to yours. She might not be willing to wait while you take the next two years to finish your masterpiece. So, git ‘r done before you query.
7. What Now? If the agent likes your work, she may ask to represent you. A contract might be involved. Or she may be old school and request an oral agreement with you. There’s no right or wrong way of going about it. If you’re not an attorney and skittish, it’s not a bad thing to take the contract to a lawyer (caveat: make sure he specializes in these matters. Trust me. Just because someone has an “Esq.” by his name doesn’t mean that he knows jack about publishing. The industry is an animal onto its own, and the lawyer must be versed in it). But if she’s an AAR member (or follows it’s ethical guidelines), you probably don’t need to worry. Do whatever makes you sleep well at night.
8. Submissions to Publishers. The agent will send your work to appropriate publishers. Let the waiting games —and teeth gnashing and nail biting and howling at the moon — begin. No one ever talks about what actually happens once the manuscript goes to, say, Random House or Penguin or Simon & Schuster. The process is often affectionately (read: exasperatedly) called the Black Box. But from my stalkerati research, blog-reading and agent-questioning, I’ve gleaned that the process goes something like this:
- manuscript lands on junior editor’s desk. Junior editor reads, adores it.
- Junior editor sends to senior editor (there may be several senior editors who read them in seriatum or all together). Senior editor(s) love(s) it.
- Senior editor(s) sends to acquisitions editor. Acquisitions editor reads, adores it.
- Acquisitions editor sends to acquisitions board.
- Every member of the acquisitions board reads, loves it.
- Acquisitions board sends to publishing board. Also sends to marketing/accounting group.
- Every member of the publishing board reads. Number crunchers decide whether the book will make money.
- Publishing board loves it. Number crunchers see profit.
- Manuscript goes to publisher. An actual person who has the final yay/nay vote.
- Publisher loves it. Calls agent. Offers advance money.
- Agent calls author. Relays offer. Discuss whether to demand more, take to another house or accept (this, I can’t comment on. This is strictly between you and your agent as to what to do).
- Author accepts. Everyone is happy. Author goes out and gets tanked to celebrate.
Depending on the agent’s clout, several steps at the beginning may be skipped. And depending on the size of the publishing house, there may be one, several or no acquisitions/publishing board. What I do know is that should anyone say “no/pass,” then it’s game over. It’s a wonder that anything ever gets published.
Okay, so that, in a very long nutshell, is what happens up to the point of sale. The aftermath — the editing that occurs in-house, the release date, sales, publicists, marketing, etc., is the icing stress that really, really varies.
Also, I know that as much info as I’ve tried to give, clearly, it’s not enough. There’s never enough answers to an aspiring writer, I’ve found. But, there are resources. I love Absolutewrite.com. I love Backspace (bksp.org). I love pubrants.blogspot.com (from an agent’s point of view). These forums will have topics on anything you could possibly wonder. And if not, you can always pitch the question. Hell, if you really want, feel free to pitch me a question, and I’ll do my best to answer or point you in the right direction. Just give me four months or so. ☺
* Disclaimer: there are, of course, many exceptions to these steps. You might be Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua, for example, or Tila Tequila, and have an automatic in. In fact, publishers likely came running to you to get your awesomeness immortalized in print. But if you were not born a pampered Taco Bell dog or have shot to MySpace/MTV superstardom by being an exhibitionist leprechaun, then you will need to follow these steps.
** This post only relates to fiction. I can’t speak on non-fiction or poetry or anything else. The motormouth in me would very much like to, but I’d be making things up.
Anyway, quite a few people have asked how one goes about getting published. And I’ve gotten so many requests for a roadmap that I promised to blog about it. Well! Ask and (four months later) ye shall receive!
To give you an overall analogy, the road to publishing isn’t unlike the road to building a house. There’s the actual writing of a novel (more on that in another post) — the actual building of the house, the blueprints and nails and hammers and load-bearing walls and electric wiring and plumbing and whatnot. And there’s the publishing of a novel — the bureaucratic process of having a house built, the permits and approvals and inspections and so forth. To publish a novel, you need both. Yes, even you, the Next-David-Foster-Wallace of Boise, Idaho who’s got connections. And while I’m by no means an expert in the field, I have been through the looking glass and can give you my two cents on the matter (this is my way of saying, “take this post for what it’s worth”). So, without further, ado, here are the eight easy steps (ha!) to getting your Great American Novel published * **:
1. The Novel. Write your novel. The entire novel. Edit it. Have your literate friends and family read it. Demand that they give you brutally frank critiques. Join a writer’s group if it helps. Have them read and give you brutally frank critiques. Check your spelling and grammar. Use Times New Roman, 12-font. Double-spaced. 1” margins all around. Don’t justify your margins. These are industry standards. Follow them. In other words, present your work as perfectly and professionally as you can.
2. The Agent. If you are writing fiction, then you absolutely must have an agent. Due to the overwhelming volume of submissions (and copyright liability issues), most publishing houses will flat-out refuse to read anything unless it comes from an agent. The vast majority of agents lives in New York, but don’t be afraid to scout those who live elsewhere. Check out The Association of Authors’ Representatives, Inc. (AAR) (www.aaronline.org). The AAR site is chock full of information and includes its Canon of Ethics. Agents should not charge you money up front. Ever. There are just as many scammers as there are legit agents. Beware the agent who guarantees that you’ll be published. He might as well promise you that you’re going to win America’s Next Top Model. Might happen. Might not. A note: don’t preclude agents who are not members of the AAR, either. Some of the best agents are not. But be sure to confirm that he or she follows the AAR’s Canon of Ethics.
Which agents should you target? Check out if the agent you’re researching represents your genre. Some only deal with adult fiction. Some only work with YA writers. Some are exclusively non-fiction agents. And so on and so forth. Kathryn Brogan’s Guide to Literary Agents is a good resource. So is Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents. These books are rather pricey and change very quickly, so visit your local library for current editions. While you’re there, look at books in your genre. Check out the acknowledgements page. Every author thanks her agent. See who rep’ed said author. Check out authors’ websites and look at their contacts page. Stalkerati, much? Indeed. It’s called Due Diligence. Make a list of your favorite dozen (or two or three or hundred) agents. Know what their submissions guidelines are.
3. The Query Letter. The dreaded query letter. Your chance to show the agent in very few words why you’re the shiznit. There are many ways to do this, but they should generally be limited to one page, single-spaced. In a few succinct paragraphs, state what you wrote (general idea of the novel in as interesting a way as you can manage) and who you are (background, education if relevant, writing awards if any, why you’re uniquely qualified to write this book). If the submissions guidelines request sample pages, include them. If they specifically ask that you don’t, don’t. You don’t want to come across as being unable to follow directions from the get-go. Use white paper, for God’s sake. Don’t spritz it with perfume. Don’t include a picture of yourself nude on a chaise lounge. Seriously. I’ve been told that way too many people actually do this. Triple proofread it before you send. Make sure you’ve addressed it to the right person. Sounds ridiculous that I should include this advice, but when you’ve got fifteen (or three dozen) query letters in front of you, all of them following varying guidelines, you might be surprised how easy it is to make a mistake.
Because I am hopelessly OCD and Type-A, I made an excel spreadsheet that listed which agents I sent query letters to, when and with what. Why? So that I wouldn’t send repeat letters to the same people. So that I knew how long it had been since my submission (i.e., when I might sent an email to the agent asking if he or she had received my query letter). So that I felt like I had some modicum of control over the process.
4. Wring Hands and Wait. Many agents’ websites will say that they’ll get back to you within 4-6 weeks. Many of them won’t. Not because they’re evil and want to personally torture you. But because they often get a thousand (no joke) query letters a week. A week. And reading query letters isn’t their only function. They’re negotiating deals for their current authors, reading and editing (if they’re of the editing brand) their authors’ work, reading requested drafts of submissions, speaking at conferences, raising children, etc. They’re wicked busy. When can you call them to see if they like you? Pretty much never. Don’t call them. It’ll irritate them. It’ll likely get you dinged before you’ve even had the chance to get your work before them.
This was probably the most difficult part of the process for me. I am a lawyer. I worked for ages in an environment that screamed if a draft wasn’t ready in a day, lost its shit if the brief wasn’t perfect in two. Partners were always at my door, asking when I would be finished, where was the GD pleading, how much longer, why isn’t it ready, are we there yet? I am also incredibly impatient by nature and push myself to exhaustion on a daily basis. My unfortunate personality and my job made me expect that everyone — agents included — were just like me. Where were these agents? I’d ask. Have they read my query yet? Why not? My God, but it’s been thirteen days and six hours! What. Is. Taking. So. Long?? I was fortunate enough to have what I now call my Writing Fairy Godmother basically wring me out and tell me to calm the f*ck down. That publishing doesn’t work like the legal field. That I would quickly make myself persona non grata if I couldn’t learn to Sit Down, Shut Up And Wait. That would be my advice to you (without the neck-wringing and the F-bombs). To be patient when you’re practically bursting at the seams with anxiety and anticipation. To keep in mind that agents are working as quickly as they can. That they are looking for the next Brilliant Work as much as you’re trying to get your Brilliant Work in front of them.
(Now, if the guidelines said 4-6 weeks, and it’s been eight, yeah, it’s okay to send an email or a letter asking if said agent received the query (but don’t call)).
5. Rejections. Horrible. Horrible. But if you get one (or 200), welcome to the club! You’re now officially one of us. Every author has gotten a rejection. Some rejections will bear a stamp with a single word: “No.” Some agents might feel generous and stamp, “No, thanks.” Others will have nothing written on your letter. It’s simply returned and you can assume they’re just not that into you. Some will take the time and explain why your work isn’t what they’re looking for. Don’t sweat it. Don’t take it personally. Don’t think you’re a lesser person or untalented because of it. All you need is one to say “yes.” So much easier said than done, no?
My husband saved all of my rejection letters, by the way. The entire two-foot stack. So that when I was rich and famous, I could look back on it and gleefully shout, “So, who’s the reject now, suckas?” I don’t know if you’re into that. I still haven’t shouted at it. He has. He clearly doesn’t understand what “rich and famous” means.
6. The Agent Likes You! and wants you to send the first chapter. Or the first three. Or the entire novel. This is why you need to have your novel perfected and ready to go. This industry is notoriously wait-wait-wait-wait-I-want-it-all-NOW. You might get a response from your query in a week. And the agent might want the entire work immediately. If it’s not finished, she may pass. She might find someone who’s written something very similar to yours. She might not be willing to wait while you take the next two years to finish your masterpiece. So, git ‘r done before you query.
7. What Now? If the agent likes your work, she may ask to represent you. A contract might be involved. Or she may be old school and request an oral agreement with you. There’s no right or wrong way of going about it. If you’re not an attorney and skittish, it’s not a bad thing to take the contract to a lawyer (caveat: make sure he specializes in these matters. Trust me. Just because someone has an “Esq.” by his name doesn’t mean that he knows jack about publishing. The industry is an animal onto its own, and the lawyer must be versed in it). But if she’s an AAR member (or follows it’s ethical guidelines), you probably don’t need to worry. Do whatever makes you sleep well at night.
8. Submissions to Publishers. The agent will send your work to appropriate publishers. Let the waiting games —and teeth gnashing and nail biting and howling at the moon — begin. No one ever talks about what actually happens once the manuscript goes to, say, Random House or Penguin or Simon & Schuster. The process is often affectionately (read: exasperatedly) called the Black Box. But from my stalkerati research, blog-reading and agent-questioning, I’ve gleaned that the process goes something like this:
- manuscript lands on junior editor’s desk. Junior editor reads, adores it.
- Junior editor sends to senior editor (there may be several senior editors who read them in seriatum or all together). Senior editor(s) love(s) it.
- Senior editor(s) sends to acquisitions editor. Acquisitions editor reads, adores it.
- Acquisitions editor sends to acquisitions board.
- Every member of the acquisitions board reads, loves it.
- Acquisitions board sends to publishing board. Also sends to marketing/accounting group.
- Every member of the publishing board reads. Number crunchers decide whether the book will make money.
- Publishing board loves it. Number crunchers see profit.
- Manuscript goes to publisher. An actual person who has the final yay/nay vote.
- Publisher loves it. Calls agent. Offers advance money.
- Agent calls author. Relays offer. Discuss whether to demand more, take to another house or accept (this, I can’t comment on. This is strictly between you and your agent as to what to do).
- Author accepts. Everyone is happy. Author goes out and gets tanked to celebrate.
Depending on the agent’s clout, several steps at the beginning may be skipped. And depending on the size of the publishing house, there may be one, several or no acquisitions/publishing board. What I do know is that should anyone say “no/pass,” then it’s game over. It’s a wonder that anything ever gets published.
Okay, so that, in a very long nutshell, is what happens up to the point of sale. The aftermath — the editing that occurs in-house, the release date, sales, publicists, marketing, etc., is the icing stress that really, really varies.
Also, I know that as much info as I’ve tried to give, clearly, it’s not enough. There’s never enough answers to an aspiring writer, I’ve found. But, there are resources. I love Absolutewrite.com. I love Backspace (bksp.org). I love pubrants.blogspot.com (from an agent’s point of view). These forums will have topics on anything you could possibly wonder. And if not, you can always pitch the question. Hell, if you really want, feel free to pitch me a question, and I’ll do my best to answer or point you in the right direction. Just give me four months or so. ☺
* Disclaimer: there are, of course, many exceptions to these steps. You might be Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua, for example, or Tila Tequila, and have an automatic in. In fact, publishers likely came running to you to get your awesomeness immortalized in print. But if you were not born a pampered Taco Bell dog or have shot to MySpace/MTV superstardom by being an exhibitionist leprechaun, then you will need to follow these steps.
** This post only relates to fiction. I can’t speak on non-fiction or poetry or anything else. The motormouth in me would very much like to, but I’d be making things up.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tall, Dark and Handsome. Size 0 Supermodel. Hot? Meh. Not So Much.
I’m not what you’d call a fan of Jessica Simpson. I think her music is garbage. I think that the reality show she did with Nick Lachey was an embarrassing pile of excrement. I think she’s a curse on the Cowboys. And her acting — Lord, I’ve seen porn stars take better stage direction. So, I was kind of surprised to find how defensive I was on her behalf recently when everyone from Fox News to Perez Hilton blasted her for having gained a few pounds. For calling her a moo cow and worse. It made me bristle at these sideline spectators for criticizing a woman who, while clearly not a rocket scientist or an Oscar contender, is an objectively beautiful woman. Even with a bit more meat on them bones. Even if she were to add a whole lot more meat on them bones.
Why on earth is Simpson’s size news? Who cares? Does her public identification with beauty entitle society to dog on her for gaining weight? Even when it’s so much more forgiving of an actress like, say, Kate Winslet, whose primary worth is in her thespian skills and not her Good-God-She’s-Gorgeous-ness? Apparently, Simpson’s “lost” a bit of what made her famous in the first place. And unfortunately for her, hotness is a quality that we, as a generally non-hot society, revile publicly and covet secretly. Which is perhaps why her having “lost”* some of it gives us fodder and permission to revel in collective Schadenfreude. And to be disappointed by it. It’s that incongruous duality, plus, perhaps, an extension of self — of projecting our own wants onto an individual— that causes commentators to grab onto nonsense like her increasing, leather pants-clad assage and call it current events. Why they excoriate her so viciously. So gleefully.
I don’t know. It may just be that people are shit.
But all of this made me think of physical beauty. And its more interesting cousin, physical attraction. What makes a person beautiful? What makes a person desirable? Can these qualities be measured? Be plotted on a graph and scientifically determined? Pick up a book, and chances are that the heroine will be pretty at the very least, described as beautiful or striking or some synonym to that effect. Its hero, more often than not, will be tall, dark and handsome. The hot guy that the cute heroine will fall for. Why? Well — because. I mean, let’s be real. Physical beauty is currency. It’s power. It’s a doorway to opportunities otherwise foreclosed. It’s forgiveness amplified. Leniency commodified. It sells. It attracts. This is America. That’s how it works.
But it’s also incredibly boring. To me, at least. And because this is my blog, I get to talk about what I think is attractive. And I’ll tell you, it has nothing to do with how one’s features line up on the face. Or how chiseled one’s abs are. Frankly, I couldn’t care less. What I do care about — what I notice right away — is how a person’s smile will light up a room, how it will change the air instantly. It’s what drew me to my husband in the first place, what made him absolutely arresting even though he’s short and fat and has terrible taste in clothes. I notice the way a person moves, the confidence and purpose and economy of her steps. I notice the merriment in one’s eyes, the friendliness of a wink, the warmth of a look. I gravitate immensely and immediately toward a hearty laugh, one that conveys in all of its magnanimousness how much a person delights in the funny. And if someone can make me laugh, that right there is 95% — the embodiment of intelligence and mental quickness and cleverness and the ability to pinpoint the absurd. It’s the intrinsic nature of a person that I find so appealing, one’s generosity of spirit and heart, his or her empathy and kindness. Her talent and ambition and ability and drive, his easygoingness and affection and desire to be a better human being. It’s all of these things that make the outside completely irrelevant. And completely beautiful. Take some of these qualities away, and I’ll never find that person attractive.
So, to Jessica Simpson, who I still think is a not-so-great singer or actor or shoe designer or comedian, who I will likely mock in the future for the idiot things that you say and do, take heart that you are nonetheless a beautiful woman, not because of what you look like, but because of the kind things you do, the caring words you utter, the empathy you show for others. No matter how much weight you gain.
* I put “lost” in quotes because I reject wholesale that a woman larger than a size 00 can’t be beautiful or hot or gorgeous or anything else. And I don’t agree that a woman who is a size 00 is disgusting or necessarily skeletal or worthy of contempt, either. She may just be small. An elf, say.
Why on earth is Simpson’s size news? Who cares? Does her public identification with beauty entitle society to dog on her for gaining weight? Even when it’s so much more forgiving of an actress like, say, Kate Winslet, whose primary worth is in her thespian skills and not her Good-God-She’s-Gorgeous-ness? Apparently, Simpson’s “lost” a bit of what made her famous in the first place. And unfortunately for her, hotness is a quality that we, as a generally non-hot society, revile publicly and covet secretly. Which is perhaps why her having “lost”* some of it gives us fodder and permission to revel in collective Schadenfreude. And to be disappointed by it. It’s that incongruous duality, plus, perhaps, an extension of self — of projecting our own wants onto an individual— that causes commentators to grab onto nonsense like her increasing, leather pants-clad assage and call it current events. Why they excoriate her so viciously. So gleefully.
I don’t know. It may just be that people are shit.
But all of this made me think of physical beauty. And its more interesting cousin, physical attraction. What makes a person beautiful? What makes a person desirable? Can these qualities be measured? Be plotted on a graph and scientifically determined? Pick up a book, and chances are that the heroine will be pretty at the very least, described as beautiful or striking or some synonym to that effect. Its hero, more often than not, will be tall, dark and handsome. The hot guy that the cute heroine will fall for. Why? Well — because. I mean, let’s be real. Physical beauty is currency. It’s power. It’s a doorway to opportunities otherwise foreclosed. It’s forgiveness amplified. Leniency commodified. It sells. It attracts. This is America. That’s how it works.
But it’s also incredibly boring. To me, at least. And because this is my blog, I get to talk about what I think is attractive. And I’ll tell you, it has nothing to do with how one’s features line up on the face. Or how chiseled one’s abs are. Frankly, I couldn’t care less. What I do care about — what I notice right away — is how a person’s smile will light up a room, how it will change the air instantly. It’s what drew me to my husband in the first place, what made him absolutely arresting even though he’s short and fat and has terrible taste in clothes. I notice the way a person moves, the confidence and purpose and economy of her steps. I notice the merriment in one’s eyes, the friendliness of a wink, the warmth of a look. I gravitate immensely and immediately toward a hearty laugh, one that conveys in all of its magnanimousness how much a person delights in the funny. And if someone can make me laugh, that right there is 95% — the embodiment of intelligence and mental quickness and cleverness and the ability to pinpoint the absurd. It’s the intrinsic nature of a person that I find so appealing, one’s generosity of spirit and heart, his or her empathy and kindness. Her talent and ambition and ability and drive, his easygoingness and affection and desire to be a better human being. It’s all of these things that make the outside completely irrelevant. And completely beautiful. Take some of these qualities away, and I’ll never find that person attractive.
So, to Jessica Simpson, who I still think is a not-so-great singer or actor or shoe designer or comedian, who I will likely mock in the future for the idiot things that you say and do, take heart that you are nonetheless a beautiful woman, not because of what you look like, but because of the kind things you do, the caring words you utter, the empathy you show for others. No matter how much weight you gain.
* I put “lost” in quotes because I reject wholesale that a woman larger than a size 00 can’t be beautiful or hot or gorgeous or anything else. And I don’t agree that a woman who is a size 00 is disgusting or necessarily skeletal or worthy of contempt, either. She may just be small. An elf, say.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Insomnia—Oh, Sleep, One Day, I Will Find You and Make You Mine. Or Maybe Not.
I once read a magazine questionnaire where the interviewer asked random celebrities how they sleep. Some answered with what they wear to bed — the fluffy flannels and sexy nothings and bedazzled eye masks and whatnot. Others shared their rituals pre-sleep — yoga, meditation, Bible-reading, drinking a full glass of water (really?) and so on. My favorite answer, though, came from Tom Ford, who said that he lays in his bed, awake for six hours, and then gets up. Now, I love Tom Ford for a number of reasons (as the creative director for Gucci, he made the brand awesome again; he’s got a brilliant line of his own now; he’s ridiculously easy to ogle). But his response made me like him even more because I was so acutely able to identify with his answer. So much so, in fact, that I would’ve become a fan of his had I not already been, based on that one quality alone.
On average, I sleep about three hours a night. Often, I sleep less. A lot less. And when the moon goes blue or when Hell’s temperature dips a degree, I sleep more (I couldn’t tell you the last time I slept a full eight hours). That’s not to say that I’m up and about and putting words to my Work-In-Progress or drafting brilliant legal briefs or even catching up on this blog. No, I’m in bed in the pitch dark, letting my mind spin. Day job, family, the WIP, TV shows, current events, what I’m going to wear tomorrow, what we need for the house, the inexplicable popularity of Rachael Ray and overextension of Ryan Secrest, the Supreme Court Justices, in descending order of judicial conservativeness…
Absurd, isn’t it? My husband often asks why I can’t just shut it down for the night and think about things tomorrow in the shower or at work or on the toilet like a normal human bean. Why I can’t focus on sleep with the same intensity as I have for the thousand goals I tend to during the day. Frankly, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s stress or worry or simply the fact that I come from a family of non-sleepers. Maybe it’s a curse that afflicts some of us the same way that diabetes or hypertension or male pattern baldness smites others.
What I do know is that the effects of lack of sleep aren’t that far off from those of drunkenness. That my reflexes are too slow when they shouldn’t be; that they overcompensate and accelerate when a situation requires a steady hand. I know that my emotional antennae perk into overdrive, causing a moderately humorous situation to feel like hilarity on crank, or a nominally disappointing moment to feel like hopeless despondency. I know that unexpected kindness breaks my heart as violently as an unkind word does, that frustration might as well be the same thing as anger, and anger jealousy.
Or my senses shut down altogether, slow time and space so that I feel lethargic and apathetic. So that I feel like a spectator in this game of life, given a front seat to the happenings around me, even as they involve me. If you’ve ever suffered from insomnia, maybe you know what I’m talking about, this detachment that allows you to see everything, but not permit you to react or respond. This notion that you’ll tuck everything away and ponder them at three a.m. with a bit more clarity, only to find that you can’t make sense of it then. That you’re too busy wondering if you’re starting to go insane.
It’s horrible, this inability to sleep. One for which I’ve not yet found a remedy (believe me, I’ve tried. Tylenol PM. Benadryl. NyQuil. Chamomile. Valerian. Tryptopham. A little bit of bourbon. A lot of bit of bourbon. First Chronicles. Second Chronicles. Combos of all of the above. For reasons I won’t go into, I really don’t want to try prescription drugs).
But here’s the kicker. For all the crap that is insomnia — and it would be a huge disservice to ever discount its nefariousness — I don’t really mind it. I’ve gotten used to it, I suppose. Or maybe I’m eternally optimistic, a perpetual ball of Sonshine as a lot of my friends call me, able to see the positive aspects of it. I appreciate the visceral nature of hypersensitivity. The tools that it provides to feed the emotions of my novels, the words and scenes that paint in detail exactly what my characters are going through. The empathy necessary to give a character depth and substance and a real emotive quality. And in the same vein of that sunny optimism, I find that for every one negative, overly dramatic event I experience, I find at least twenty-five silly things to delight and bask and revel in. Maybe it’s why I’m constantly laughing. And why my writing, which often deals with serious subjects, has a whole hell of a lot of funny in it.
Which leads me to my final point. And perhaps the most important one. Sleep deprivation imparts a strange freedom, the “I’m so tired, I don’t give a shit” kind of attitude that allows me to write as if no one is watching. As if no one is judging. I can let my story go the way it was meant to, on instinct and intuition and the gut impression I had from the start. For me, there’s something dissatisfying about a novel that is too careful, too formulaic, too afraid to offend, one that an author might have drafted with her editors and publishers and audience in mind. Not that I’m immune to these, of course. And I certainly don’t mean that I’m uninterested in my audience. But there’s an authenticity inherent in abject honesty, and with authenticity comes the natural ability to identify with the writing, with the characters and their situations. It’s that connection, I think, that causes me to remember books years after I've read them, to recall how a particular made-up person felt so real. How a figment of an author’s imagination was able to transform my perspective, and perhaps my life.
Hell, to be able to do that — yeah, I’ll take a sleepless night or two. I'll even take ten thousand.
On average, I sleep about three hours a night. Often, I sleep less. A lot less. And when the moon goes blue or when Hell’s temperature dips a degree, I sleep more (I couldn’t tell you the last time I slept a full eight hours). That’s not to say that I’m up and about and putting words to my Work-In-Progress or drafting brilliant legal briefs or even catching up on this blog. No, I’m in bed in the pitch dark, letting my mind spin. Day job, family, the WIP, TV shows, current events, what I’m going to wear tomorrow, what we need for the house, the inexplicable popularity of Rachael Ray and overextension of Ryan Secrest, the Supreme Court Justices, in descending order of judicial conservativeness…
Absurd, isn’t it? My husband often asks why I can’t just shut it down for the night and think about things tomorrow in the shower or at work or on the toilet like a normal human bean. Why I can’t focus on sleep with the same intensity as I have for the thousand goals I tend to during the day. Frankly, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s stress or worry or simply the fact that I come from a family of non-sleepers. Maybe it’s a curse that afflicts some of us the same way that diabetes or hypertension or male pattern baldness smites others.
What I do know is that the effects of lack of sleep aren’t that far off from those of drunkenness. That my reflexes are too slow when they shouldn’t be; that they overcompensate and accelerate when a situation requires a steady hand. I know that my emotional antennae perk into overdrive, causing a moderately humorous situation to feel like hilarity on crank, or a nominally disappointing moment to feel like hopeless despondency. I know that unexpected kindness breaks my heart as violently as an unkind word does, that frustration might as well be the same thing as anger, and anger jealousy.
Or my senses shut down altogether, slow time and space so that I feel lethargic and apathetic. So that I feel like a spectator in this game of life, given a front seat to the happenings around me, even as they involve me. If you’ve ever suffered from insomnia, maybe you know what I’m talking about, this detachment that allows you to see everything, but not permit you to react or respond. This notion that you’ll tuck everything away and ponder them at three a.m. with a bit more clarity, only to find that you can’t make sense of it then. That you’re too busy wondering if you’re starting to go insane.
It’s horrible, this inability to sleep. One for which I’ve not yet found a remedy (believe me, I’ve tried. Tylenol PM. Benadryl. NyQuil. Chamomile. Valerian. Tryptopham. A little bit of bourbon. A lot of bit of bourbon. First Chronicles. Second Chronicles. Combos of all of the above. For reasons I won’t go into, I really don’t want to try prescription drugs).
But here’s the kicker. For all the crap that is insomnia — and it would be a huge disservice to ever discount its nefariousness — I don’t really mind it. I’ve gotten used to it, I suppose. Or maybe I’m eternally optimistic, a perpetual ball of Sonshine as a lot of my friends call me, able to see the positive aspects of it. I appreciate the visceral nature of hypersensitivity. The tools that it provides to feed the emotions of my novels, the words and scenes that paint in detail exactly what my characters are going through. The empathy necessary to give a character depth and substance and a real emotive quality. And in the same vein of that sunny optimism, I find that for every one negative, overly dramatic event I experience, I find at least twenty-five silly things to delight and bask and revel in. Maybe it’s why I’m constantly laughing. And why my writing, which often deals with serious subjects, has a whole hell of a lot of funny in it.
Which leads me to my final point. And perhaps the most important one. Sleep deprivation imparts a strange freedom, the “I’m so tired, I don’t give a shit” kind of attitude that allows me to write as if no one is watching. As if no one is judging. I can let my story go the way it was meant to, on instinct and intuition and the gut impression I had from the start. For me, there’s something dissatisfying about a novel that is too careful, too formulaic, too afraid to offend, one that an author might have drafted with her editors and publishers and audience in mind. Not that I’m immune to these, of course. And I certainly don’t mean that I’m uninterested in my audience. But there’s an authenticity inherent in abject honesty, and with authenticity comes the natural ability to identify with the writing, with the characters and their situations. It’s that connection, I think, that causes me to remember books years after I've read them, to recall how a particular made-up person felt so real. How a figment of an author’s imagination was able to transform my perspective, and perhaps my life.
Hell, to be able to do that — yeah, I’ll take a sleepless night or two. I'll even take ten thousand.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
What Are You Looking at? Are You Writing About Me?
The other day, a group of my friends and I went to lunch, and at the table next to us, a woman was sitting alone, looking around the restaurant. She dug furiously into her bag, checked her cell phone, clearly agitated, looked around again, checked her phone, looked, checked, looked. My friends may have noticed her, but if they did, they didn’t comment on her behavior. They were too busy talking about the drunken weekends they had all had. But I kept sneaking glances at our neighbor. What was she doing? Was she waiting for someone? If so, who? Her husband? Were they in the middle of a nasty divorce and his tardiness was the reason for their relational demise? Was she about to be interviewed for a new job while taking a lunch break from her current one? Was she the first to show up to a blind date? Why was she so angry? Was she just an unpleasant shrew? Or did she have reason to be upset? To anyone else, she might have just been a harried patron, starved to hypoglycemic irritation. But to me, she was a story, a character with hidden motivations and goals, which were clearly being stymied. And as I turned to my friends and added my own snarky comments about debauched parties and office politics, I realized that I did the same thing with them as I did the woman. I noticed their inflections, their tilts of the head, the way they used their hands to emphasize the funnier parts of their stories. I absorbed the way they laughed or snorted, how their eyes sparkled or reflected prismatic colors in the sunlight. I took in what they were wearing, how one kept adjusting the collar of her shirt and how another scrunched her never-will-be-wavy hair. And I listened to their stories, the content and details of what had transpired on their Saturday nights, but perhaps with less ridiculousness than the version they were then giving.
As a person, I’m naturally perceptive, I think. I’m quick to pick up on someone’s mood, on the fleeting looks she might give another to relay her dismay or bewilderment. I’m also fairly introspective, and will keep events and conversations in mind for a long time, often rolling them through my head repeatedly like movie scenes so that I can layer them with my observations. I linger over these things because relationships—human interactions in all their levity and curiosities—arrest me. What goes on inside a person’s head fascinates me. It’s because of these interests that I write character-driven fiction instead of mysteries or horror (and also because I spook too easily to write those genres). And when I’m in the middle of a draft, I find that these qualities kick into high gear, sometimes rendering me hypersensitive. Or at least I feel as though I’m overanalyzing everything, not just in my writing, but in life in general. I don’t know if other writers experience the same heightening of his or her senses, if a horror novelist starts to see evil lurking in the mundane. At some point, I have to stop myself from thinking that every comment or email or silence is indicative of anything more than the face value of it. That sometimes, a statement is merely the product of impulse, that unresponsiveness is the result of distraction. Why do I do attribute meaning to everything when clearly not everything carries it? It may be because in a book, there are no wasted scenes. Or insignificant dialogue. Or haphazard action. Novels are the grand distillations of life, the collection of conversations and events placed specifically to move the story forward. And through these lenses, everything in the world garners import, deserved or not. Some people call that insight. Others may call it obsessive-compulsive disorder. But it’s where I draw my inspiration, the myriad possibilities why a person acts the way she does, why she says certain things, why she looks the way she does. And so I watch. And listen. And try not to look like a freakish stalker as I absorb the kernels of the everyday that may ultimately drive an entire book.
So there you have it. Yes, I may very well be looking at you, and yes, I may be writing about you, too. But it’s because you are endlessly fascinating, a relentless source of inspiration and potential that feeds my imagination. And at the end of the day, there’s nothing more a writer can ask for.
As a person, I’m naturally perceptive, I think. I’m quick to pick up on someone’s mood, on the fleeting looks she might give another to relay her dismay or bewilderment. I’m also fairly introspective, and will keep events and conversations in mind for a long time, often rolling them through my head repeatedly like movie scenes so that I can layer them with my observations. I linger over these things because relationships—human interactions in all their levity and curiosities—arrest me. What goes on inside a person’s head fascinates me. It’s because of these interests that I write character-driven fiction instead of mysteries or horror (and also because I spook too easily to write those genres). And when I’m in the middle of a draft, I find that these qualities kick into high gear, sometimes rendering me hypersensitive. Or at least I feel as though I’m overanalyzing everything, not just in my writing, but in life in general. I don’t know if other writers experience the same heightening of his or her senses, if a horror novelist starts to see evil lurking in the mundane. At some point, I have to stop myself from thinking that every comment or email or silence is indicative of anything more than the face value of it. That sometimes, a statement is merely the product of impulse, that unresponsiveness is the result of distraction. Why do I do attribute meaning to everything when clearly not everything carries it? It may be because in a book, there are no wasted scenes. Or insignificant dialogue. Or haphazard action. Novels are the grand distillations of life, the collection of conversations and events placed specifically to move the story forward. And through these lenses, everything in the world garners import, deserved or not. Some people call that insight. Others may call it obsessive-compulsive disorder. But it’s where I draw my inspiration, the myriad possibilities why a person acts the way she does, why she says certain things, why she looks the way she does. And so I watch. And listen. And try not to look like a freakish stalker as I absorb the kernels of the everyday that may ultimately drive an entire book.
So there you have it. Yes, I may very well be looking at you, and yes, I may be writing about you, too. But it’s because you are endlessly fascinating, a relentless source of inspiration and potential that feeds my imagination. And at the end of the day, there’s nothing more a writer can ask for.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Come On—Let Me Give You a Hug and Tell You that You’re the Shiznit
I’m something of an affectionate person. Smile at me, and I’ll smile back. Wave, and I’ll return the gesture. Give me a hug, and I’ll just about smother you with my exuberance. I tend to touch people on the arm when talking to them, and I have no problems squeezing into a crowded couch (or onto a friend’s lap for that matter) at parties. More often than not, my personal emails are filled with emoticons and exclamation marks, and depending on the recipient, my work emails are, too. I’m quick to tell someone that I think she’s the shiznit, am quicker to tell her that I love her, and for every snarky comment I make, I’ll rattle off three sincere compliments (I’m pretty sure that’s the ratio). I like to give little gifts to my friends just because, and I’ll leave smiley face-ridden notes in my husband’s car because it’s Tuesday. In other words, I’m terribly—perhaps irritatingly—expressive. Pretty much all the time.
I didn’t use to be, though. Or at least not as effusively so. For sure, I grew up in a rather non-stereotypical Asian family, and my parents have always been generous with their “I love you”s, hugs and pet names. But they also have their culturally archetypical attitudes, and they prize discretion as a virtue. So much so that by the time I left home for college, I couldn’t imagine telling someone that I adored him or her unless I knew exactly how said person felt about me. And was sure that the sentiment would be reciprocal. Likewise, I wasn’t about to tell someone that he or she was awesome just because the thought occurred to me at that moment. Part of the reason for my hesitation—and perhaps for my parents, too—stemmed from pride and the balance of power that emotional vulnerability can tilt against my favor. Another reason was the assumption that I’d have future opportunities to express how I felt, that some things were best saved for special occasions so that they were rendered more precious by their rarity. After all, how much do we treasure a grumbled “good job” from a jerk boss who never exalts his minions? And how much do we value the “you complete me” from a significant other who’s maddeningly stingy with his thoughts?
My attitude changed a few years ago. Doctors discovered a golf ball-sized tumor in my cousin’s brain. Surgery was risky, they said, but inaction was deadly. So they excised the bugger, leaving behind remnants so that they wouldn’t nick his gray matter. He was in his twenties. He survived, but he’s going to have to spend the rest of his life monitoring the tumor and have it removed again when it grows dangerously large. Which, if I am to believe the neurosurgeons, it will. And each operation will bring bated breaths and clenched fists for both him and his family members who won’t know if he’s being whisked into the OR for the last time. Three months later, one of my husband’s close friends found out that she had a tumor on the base of her brain stem. She went to the hospital. And died two days later. She was thirty-six. A month later, my husband’s grandmother passed away. So did my father-in-law’s best friend. For the next year, we started to believe that brain tumors were going to grip us all, that death was hungry and lurking for the unexpecting at every corner. With each announcement of yet another horrible disease and another passing, I heard so many regrets from family and friends, so many statements like, “I should have told him more often how much I loved him. I should have told him what a wonderful person he was.” The more I heard comments like these, the more I felt like I was watching an awful after school special with its sickeningly axiomatic message. And the angrier I became. What kind of bullshit was this, everyone having held back their feelings for who knows what reason? As for my own reticence, was the fear of appearing uncouth really preventing me from expressing how I felt about others? Was I so afraid that my expression might not be reciprocated? What occasion was “special” enough to warrant what we should be telling each other every day? And the answer I kept coming to was, “Who cares if you appear unladylike? Or if the person doesn’t reciprocate? If it means something to you, for God’s sake, just say it.” So I do. Almost as often as I think it.
I think about Clueless every now and then. It’s one of my all-time favorite movies (and a surprising source of life lessons). In it is a scene where Christian asks Cher whether he should keep the leather jacket he just bought. Her response, in all of its teenaged, California glory: “Carpe diem. You looked hot it!” I like that for so many reasons. More than anything, though, I love her attitude toward the seemingly trivial. Why worry if you’re going to end up looking like James Dean or Jason Priestly? Do it anyway. Say it. Express it. Carpe Diem, indeed.
Now, let me give you that hug. Because you, my friend—and if you’re reading this and made it all the way to the bottom, then you are my friend—are the shiznit.
I didn’t use to be, though. Or at least not as effusively so. For sure, I grew up in a rather non-stereotypical Asian family, and my parents have always been generous with their “I love you”s, hugs and pet names. But they also have their culturally archetypical attitudes, and they prize discretion as a virtue. So much so that by the time I left home for college, I couldn’t imagine telling someone that I adored him or her unless I knew exactly how said person felt about me. And was sure that the sentiment would be reciprocal. Likewise, I wasn’t about to tell someone that he or she was awesome just because the thought occurred to me at that moment. Part of the reason for my hesitation—and perhaps for my parents, too—stemmed from pride and the balance of power that emotional vulnerability can tilt against my favor. Another reason was the assumption that I’d have future opportunities to express how I felt, that some things were best saved for special occasions so that they were rendered more precious by their rarity. After all, how much do we treasure a grumbled “good job” from a jerk boss who never exalts his minions? And how much do we value the “you complete me” from a significant other who’s maddeningly stingy with his thoughts?
My attitude changed a few years ago. Doctors discovered a golf ball-sized tumor in my cousin’s brain. Surgery was risky, they said, but inaction was deadly. So they excised the bugger, leaving behind remnants so that they wouldn’t nick his gray matter. He was in his twenties. He survived, but he’s going to have to spend the rest of his life monitoring the tumor and have it removed again when it grows dangerously large. Which, if I am to believe the neurosurgeons, it will. And each operation will bring bated breaths and clenched fists for both him and his family members who won’t know if he’s being whisked into the OR for the last time. Three months later, one of my husband’s close friends found out that she had a tumor on the base of her brain stem. She went to the hospital. And died two days later. She was thirty-six. A month later, my husband’s grandmother passed away. So did my father-in-law’s best friend. For the next year, we started to believe that brain tumors were going to grip us all, that death was hungry and lurking for the unexpecting at every corner. With each announcement of yet another horrible disease and another passing, I heard so many regrets from family and friends, so many statements like, “I should have told him more often how much I loved him. I should have told him what a wonderful person he was.” The more I heard comments like these, the more I felt like I was watching an awful after school special with its sickeningly axiomatic message. And the angrier I became. What kind of bullshit was this, everyone having held back their feelings for who knows what reason? As for my own reticence, was the fear of appearing uncouth really preventing me from expressing how I felt about others? Was I so afraid that my expression might not be reciprocated? What occasion was “special” enough to warrant what we should be telling each other every day? And the answer I kept coming to was, “Who cares if you appear unladylike? Or if the person doesn’t reciprocate? If it means something to you, for God’s sake, just say it.” So I do. Almost as often as I think it.
I think about Clueless every now and then. It’s one of my all-time favorite movies (and a surprising source of life lessons). In it is a scene where Christian asks Cher whether he should keep the leather jacket he just bought. Her response, in all of its teenaged, California glory: “Carpe diem. You looked hot it!” I like that for so many reasons. More than anything, though, I love her attitude toward the seemingly trivial. Why worry if you’re going to end up looking like James Dean or Jason Priestly? Do it anyway. Say it. Express it. Carpe Diem, indeed.
Now, let me give you that hug. Because you, my friend—and if you’re reading this and made it all the way to the bottom, then you are my friend—are the shiznit.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Writing? Life? How Hard Can It Be?
Some years ago, my husband and I were lounging around in the family room of our first home, which was wood-paneled in a hideous shade of Eighties dirty dirt brown. We’d been living there for over three years and had complained every day about how dated the house was, and that Saturday morning, I suggested that we strip the walls and restain them with a more genteel mahogany (because nothing says warm and inviting like dark, cave-like walls). “How hard can it be?” I asked. “I bet we can knock this baby out in a weekend.” Cheered by my optimism, my husband and I ran to Home Depot, were advised that varnish was the best solution to remove wood stain, bought two gallons of the poison and then went home, excited to renovate the three hundred square foot room. Two hours later, we both had massive headaches and were completely disoriented from the fumes, and this was after we’d opened every window in the house. The varnish didn’t work, and to our dismay, we now had a gaping section of lighter dirty dirt brown wall. We couldn’t restain the wall to the original color because we had no idea what it was, and we couldn’t add another stain over the original hue. So, we decided to paint the entire room a Pottery Barn pale yellow, which was perfect, considering that our family room was page 59 of the catalog (interior design is neither of our fortes). We returned to Home Depot, selected the color, bought five gallons of paint, and then went for Round Two, to which I said, “How hard can this be? I bet we can knock this baby out by the end of the weekend.”
Three weeks later, we were almost finished.
Six weeks later, the room was beautiful.
It took forever to paint because the room was twelve feet high with an obscene amount of wainscoting, picture framing and crown molding. It also took forever because both of us were working thirteen hours a day and were painting whenever we weren’t at the office. One would think that I’d learned my lesson in timing. But several months later, a friend of ours asked us to help him move. And as I am now notoriously known to do, I asked, “How hard can it be? I bet we can knock this out in three hours.” Of course, we didn’t.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had a cheerfully confident—and borderline delusional—outlook on projects and goals. And I’d always harbored a desire to write, even when I majored in Biology and French, when I pursued a medical career, when I went to law school, and then when I worked at a law firm. The one passion that nagged at me constantly, I put aside in favor of “real life.” Then one morning, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Barnes & Noble, reading a book, and I thought, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. What am I waiting for? I mean, how hard can it be?”
So I did it. Got a laptop and started writing. And discovered that it was damned hard to write a novel. And that it was even harder to become published. But I kept at it until I finished my first book. And I kept at it when it didn’t sell. I kept at it when my days had become so long that I couldn’t tell when one ended and the next started. But like the family room, I couldn’t stop writing. For every “I don’t think I can do this anymore” thought I had, I had two of, “but I still love it.” I took a step back and listened to my environment, to the complaints my friends had about their own career trajectories. I discovered that we were all in the same boat, wondering how our lives had turned out the way they had when our passions were elsewhere. We talked about it so much that it became the backbone of OFF THE MENU, that conflict of living up to everyone’s expectations while hiding the love of our existences. And because it was so close to my heart, the subject grew organically into an entire novel.
After several iterations, the book sold to NAL/Penguin. I was nearly manic with joy. I don’t have children, but I imagine that the exuberance I felt is not unlike childbirth, when one forgets the pain and hardship and difficulties and long nights and debilitating self-doubt the very instant her agent says those magic words—“they love it. They want to buy it.”
So that’s the lesson we can all take away from my experience. It wasn’t because I’m so awesome (oh, how I wish I were) that I was able to make it in an insanely difficult industry. It was that I continued writing, even when it seemed like everyone in the world was saying “no.” And I kept at it, even when I knew just how slim my chances of publication were. I love the movie Galaxy Quest, and as a rather unfunny joke, I often wander around the house, saying, “Never give up. Never surrender” (in full Mathesar nasally inflection). But it’s become my motto of sorts. That, and my litigator’s philosophy of, “I will take your ‘no’ to mean that you are open to further negotiations.” But it got me to where I am. And now, I feel like I’m living my dream. I’m working on my second novel on nights and weekends and holidays (I still have a day job that takes up a good bit of my time). And as I muddle my way through the manuscript, often wondering if it’s any good, if it even makes any sense, I find myself saying what I’ve always said: “Come on Christine, you can do it. I mean, how hard can it be?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
