Category: blog

So now can we get to the important stuff?

Just so you guys don’t think I’m some googly-eyed myopic Obama fan who can’t see what’s really happening in Washington, I give you John Scalzi’s analysis of Obama’™s First 100 Days.

I think he speaks for all of us, don’t you? Except possibly in the matter of Rosario Dawson… I would have to go with Jodie Foster or Johnny Depp, myself. And I might have to add the fact that I have not yet won the Mega Millions lottery, in spite of repeated requests through my Senators to bring this to the President’s attention.

Enjoy your Sunday.

*Waves thank you to Scalzi through the internets for a good laugh on a beautiful day.*

100 days of photos

Photo by Callie Shell

photo by Callie Shell

Last October, I talked about a photo essay by Callie Shell that I really enjoyed, chronicling the Obama campaign. Well, she’s done it again. TIME magazine has just published Shell’s series of photos of President Obama’s first 100 days in office.

Here’s the thing: these are good photos, but they are not telling a hugely emotional story. They show the President and his people mostly at work, occasionally at rest. And yet, looking through them made me cry. Good cry or bad cry? Nicola asked when I told her. This was good cry, definitely.

I spent eight years believing to my core that there was not a single human being in the White House who was interested in understanding who I am and what I might need (not even as a citizen, never mind as one human being to another). I felt completely invisible to my government, except in all the let-me-monitor-your-email ways. And that was fine: I didn’t want to come to the attention of those folks, because no good ever came of that for most of us.

But I look at these photos, and I don’t feel that way now. I feel like smart people are working long hours to do their best for me. For me. I feel like it would be a pleasure and a privilege to sit with these people at dinner and talk about life, love, art, science, history, the beauty of the world and the people in it. I just like them, you know?

And I think this makes me cry because I had given up hope of ever feeling this way about government of any kind, ever again. The City of Seattle and the State of Washington take pretty good care of me; but suddenly, unexpectedly, I feel closer to these strangers in D.C. than I do to people running things in my own back yard. And it feels good.

(If you’re interested in an overview of the key events of the first 100 days, TIME also offers this very cool interactive guide.)

Jukebox

I’m missing Friday pint — I enjoyed that particular springboard for storytelling and general rambling about in my own attic. Since I don’t have any more archives, I thought I’d share music for a while, along with whatever it happens to bring to mind.

Music is so much part of the fabric of my day, an ongoing conversation with myself. Songs become stories about me, or stories about what I’d like to be, or pathways to certain parts of me. Music charges me up, talks me down, soothes me, keeps me on the boil. I have a fairly eclectic music library, so it’s hard to predict what will come up, which I suppose is my way of saying that if you don’t like what I’ve got today, wait a week… If nothing else, maybe we’ll all get some new music out of it.

If this gets boring, I’ll throw it on the floor1. But now I think I’ll just get the party started with a playlist to Get Things Done By. I have more work to do in the next two days than is actually possible, which just means that I have to get TCM (The Crystal Method) on its ass. “Born Too Slow” is one of my earliest TCM favorites; and to keep it company, I’ve added Cocteau Twins and Juno Reactor.

These are all blood-pumping boots-on songs with just a little bit of the ecstatic overtones that I often enjoy in music. Nicola first introduced me to Cocteau Twins music at Clarion, and much of Solitaire was written to a couple of their albums. “Persephone” is something of an anomaly in their oeuvre, much more direct and in-your-face than the usual dreamy fare. Both kinds of CT are good; but today, this is better.

Juno Reactor also has a Clarion connection: our friend Mark, whom we met at Clarion, introduced me to this music years ago.

And The Crystal Method — well, I found them all by myself (grin). They are still my go-to band for getting down to business. Which is what I’m going to do. Starting with grocery shopping, including adding a few extra cans of this and that to the pantry because, oh joy, swine flu has come to Seattle. Not that I’m panic-stricken (or even panic-prone), but if the WHO raises the pandemic threat level to 6, I guarantee that staples will vanish from store shelves, just like they do when there’s more than an inch of snow in the forecast.

[Edited at 5:14pm to add: Yep. Hand sanitizer = already gone….]

Enjoy the rest of your day, whether you’re revving up or winding down. Stay flu-less.

Edited to add: I’m sorry to say that I don’t have enough server space for all my audio, so most jukebox playlists become inactive after a few months. This is one. Very sorry. But the music is worth seeking out, it’s great!

To use the E-Phonic MP3 Player you will need Adobe Flash Player 9 or better and a Javascript enabled browser.

1From the “Uncle Simon” episode of The Twilight Zone, in which the unpleasant Uncle S demands that his poor niece Barbara wait upon him hand and foot, including the immortal line Barbara! Bring me some hot chocolate! And if it isn’t hot enough, I’ll throw it on the floor! This has become the buzzword in our house for if we don’t like it, it’s outta here pronto.

Night Train

I’ve been reading Martin Amis’ Night Train.

Nicola has been telling me about this book for years, and it always ended up in the well, maybe someday shelf in my brain. Until last week, when I picked it at random from its actual shelf in my office and read the first two paragraphs:

I am a police. That may sound like an unusual statement — or an unusual construction. But it’s a parlance we have. Among ourselves, we would never say I am a policeman or I am a policewoman or I am a police officer. We would just say I am a police. I am a police. I am a police and my name is Detective Mike Hoolihan. And I am a woman, also.
 
What I am setting out here is an account of the worst case I have ever handled. The worst case — for me, that is. When you’re a police, “worst” is an elastic concept. You can’t really get a fix on “worst.” The boundaries are pushed out every other day. “Worst?” we’ll ask. “There no such thing as worst.” But for Detective Mike Hoolihan, this was the worst case.
 
— Night Train by Martin Amis

And now I’ve read it and am kicking myself for waiting so long. Kick, kick, kick.

Some people really hated this book and did some kicking (of it, and Amis) in print reviews when it came out in 1997. They said it didn’t capture the American voice. They dismissed it as a faulty police procedural. They called it clumsy noir. They said it was pretentious.

And you know what? I’ll betcha dollars to donuts that most of those folks had never read a speculative fiction book (excepting possibly Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, which they would doubtless have characterized as literary fiction in a bold futuristic setting and besides, Peggy Atwood’s a genius!). Well, I’ve read a ton of speculative fiction, and no, Night Train isn’t spec fic: it’s her fascinating sister, slipstream. It’s a literary psychological study that has paused to shrug into a noir coat and put on a crooked smile just before delivering that first fast punch to your brain.

I get so tired of the precious twee writing that passes for literary fiction most of the time, the kind that essentially points neon fingers at itself: My writer is such a fabulous writer, look how pretty she made me! Pretty and empty. Pretty much all about nothing at all. This is my beef with many of the major players; they are, to use one of Nicola’s favorite Americanisms, all hat and no cattle. But the ones who aren’t, the ones who bring home the goods — well, what difference does it make what kind of package those goods come wrapped in? A sweaty wife-beater stained with gun oil, a bloody startrooper uniform or clothes that look just like yours. What difference does it make?

How much more fun is it to see a really good writer doing the literary equivalent of cross-dressing? Dipping out of whatever genre bucket he wants to get the job done. Breaking the rules in the ways that only the best can do successfully. And oh, the energy and biting-on-tinfoil exuberance of this book, right up to the end, which ending is devastating, by the way. Socked me right between the eyes.

It’s not a book for anyone looking to spend a cheerful hour. But it’s a great book, a compelling story, a fierce distinctive sad human character, and an energy that burns. I really liked it.

Crazy are the search terms

Here are some of the keyword searches that brought people to my site in February and March:
—-
selfpity poems
Yikes, I hope you didn’t find any here.

I understand self-pity. There are times when I feel enormously sorry for myself in that particular I feel baaaad and it’s not fair way, and fall fall fall into the deep well of despond. I hate that place. If I have to go there, the last thing in the world I want to do is write about it, you know? Because it’s depressing. Because self-pity is ultimately passive. And one of the Great Rules of character is that passive characters are boring. So feel it when you must, but don’t ever write what you know in that particular way. Books are about feelings; just not necessarily yours (that’s memoir, and trust me, even there if you write about your own self-pity it’s just as boring as if you write about a fictional character’s).
—-
actors armpits
Shakes head at the heretofore unexpected corners of the human spectrum which the internet reveals.
—-
crazy is the answer
Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s crazy-ecstatic-hang-on-to-your-hat. Sometimes it’s crazy-scary-why-is-the-world-so-hard. Sometimes it’s crazy-put-down-the-knife. It disturbs me to have this phrase come up in the keyword search because crazy is the answer to so much right now. The world is going crazy and taking some of us with it in small ways, in big ways, in bright-eyed crazy ways.
—-
hollywood hung list
OMG, do you think there really is such a thing? An actual list? Do researchers with hidden cameras lurk in Hollywood’s Finest Bathrooms waiting for celebrities to wander in for a pee? Or maybe they have one of those laser measuring devices hidden in a watch, although I’m guessing that most guys would notice a red dot appearing in a sensitive place…. I imagine that if you are a Famous Actor, you get just a leetle tired of the constant sideways comparative glances and would probably draw the line at holding still while someone whips out the ruler. Wow, being famous sure is different.
—-
barbara kicks his ass 3
Doesn’t this sound like the Coolest Sequel You’d Ever Want to See? I’ve been enjoying myself trying to imagine the original Barbara Kicks His Ass. Maybe in the original, Barbara is a teenager learning to defend herself from sexism in school as well as creepy grabby sexual advances. Maybe the English teacher is her arch-nemesis, and his son is the varsity quarterback with a lech for Barbara, and in the stunning climax she kicks both their asses. Then in BKHA2, we follow Barbara to college or perhaps into her first grownup job…. then BKHA3 could be Barbara in her 40’s or 50’s, righting some community wrong. And so on into her 90’s, when she dies on a cliff overlooking the beach at sunset, just having delivered the biggest ass-kicking of her long and illustrious career, surrounded by dozens of people who love her. Now that’s a franchise.
—-
can gender be resisted?
Of course. The trick is to know exactly what concepts or expressions of gender you are resisting, and why.
—-
can you make a living off screenwriting
I love a dreamer.

Meaning no disrespect: I am one too.

Based on my learning and experience so far, screenwriting, like novel writing, is a passion for many and a sustainable source of income for few. The money for beginners isn’t generally that great, but getting a script optioned or getting a shot at a rewrite is like wedging your foot in a heavy door: it’s a great opportunity, but wow, do you have to grit your teeth, hang in there, and smile through the pain. I know at least a couple of writers who wrote seven or eight screenplays before they ever got one optioned, and sometimes even more before they saw anything of theirs on screen.

Can you make a living? Sure. If you are decent on the page, good in the room, professional in all your conduct, have some luck, turn your work around fast and clean, are always ready to listen, always ready to learn, and always ready to see your work changed by other people.

Or at least that’s my theory. We’ll see how it works out.
—-
cultural assumptions in snow white
I do get tired of the do-my-homework questions, but at least this one’s new and interesting. SW is so full of class, gender and culture assumptions I’m amazed there’s room for any kind of story at all. Nobility will out. Innocence will triumph over evil. Women compete with each other for men’s attention. Men rescue women; women depend on men to save them, or to just not kill them (if the Woodsman had been having a grumpy day, SW’s story would have been a lot shorter…). And so on. I’ll stop there, lest I become grumpy too.
—-
don’t work for asshole
Well, you know I agree with that.
—-
good pick for champagne
Krug. Thierry Triolet. And if you want to vamp up a not-that-great champagne, you can turn it into a James Bond (a champagne cocktail with vodka):

  • 1 cube sugar (brown or white, I like brown)
  • Bitters
  • Champagne
  • Vodka

Put 2-3 drops of bitters on the sugar cube. Put the sugar cube in the bottom of the glass. Carefully add champagne until the glass is approx 2/3 full. Add 1/2 shot of vodka. Drink and enjoy.
—-
how to get my wife to like latex clothes
I remember in my late 20’s working with a woman who wondered constantly “how she could get her boyfriend to marry her.” I shook my head then, I’m shaking it now. Dude, if she’s not that into the latex, then ask her to wear it as a present to you for special occasions. But don’t think you’ll ever “get” her to like them. Either she will someday, or she will never. Either way, it’s not up to you.
—-
things we do for those we love
Sometimes we wear the latex.
—-
i see the words in my head
Me too.
—-

And this session’s WTF Award goes to:

gumphies.

I have no idea what it means. But if it’s good, I hope you find it.

Susan the Brave

I am the seven millionth person to blog about Susan Boyle, which makes me a little late to the party, but just in case you haven’t seen this clip — I promise, your time will not be wasted.

Susan Boyle auditioned recently for the reality show “Britain’s Got Talent.” This is what happened.


click here if you can’t see the player

The reason we tell this kind of story over and over in books and movies is because sometimes life has these storybook moments. And because people have dreams that are private and powerful; and sometimes we find our courage and seize the moment when it comes, even when it means walking out on stage to jeers and catcalls. It’s one of the bravest things I’ve seen in a long time. And one of the clearest examples that talent isn’t enough for these stories we love so much: there must also be guts.

Sometimes being brave only gets us through the next week or day or minute. But sometimes it gets us right to the heart of the dream. And sometimes we have to go through years of being brave over and over, protecting the dream, until we get the chance to show our guts. If Susan Boyle can be so brave, then I guess I can too.

Small joys

The taxes are done, the house is clean, the sun is shining. I’ve been back to the gym after a week of repelling Viral Invaders. I am full of tea and a bit of the Easter chocolate that Nicola’s father sent us. I am pondering a new screenplay idea that fell into my head while I was washing dishes this morning. I have U2 tickets for the US fall tour. I am reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. I have watched three movies this week.

When I was in my teens and early 20’s, I imagined a Big Life for myself. And I’m having it; I just didn’t know that the real payoff of big risk and hard work would be the saturation and joy of these moments that I would have called small back then.

More thoughts on Amazonfail

I’ve posted The lessons of Amazonfail at Humans At Work.

Thanks to everyone who’s been joining the Great Online Conversation, sharing information, and taking action. Although my books haven’t been de-ranked, Nicola’s have, and that hurts me emotionally and economically. I’m looking forward to Amazon honoring their stated intention to restore the de-ranked books. And I hope the attention, the demands for reparation, and the uproar will not stop until those books — all of them — are restored.

In which cat poetry is better than mine

My fifth grade teacher taught us how to write all manner of poetry: sonnet, haiku, cinquain, free verse, ballads…

Ballads! Oh dear, I feel a memory coming on: I am 11. I already have very bad handwriting, which is not allowed in my school and so it takes me ages to copy out My Ballad in acceptable form. And of course it is long (it seems that even then I was already wordy. Already riffing. Well, at least you know it’s not some lit’rary affection I picked up along the way…). And I don’t know if this is funny or sad, but I actually remember the beginning verses…

‘Twas in the gallant days of old
When chivalry did reign
That Gowain did ride to Waterside
His fortune for to gain.

Gowain was an honest lad and bold
The son of Duke LaRoot.
He did aspire to be a squire
To some knight of repute.

So through the forest he did go
A-riding down the lane,
When by and by he heard a cry
As of someone in pain.

And so he rode into a glade
And saw a maiden fair
Who in distress lay motionless
And blood was in her hair….

And that, fortunately for you, Gentle Reader, is all that remains of my very first/very last ballad. I suspect I would not have made my fortune in bardic times, you know? But I’ll always be grateful to Virginia Richardson for being the first to teach me about poetry.

And I’m grateful to Henry Beard for his lovely book Poetry for Cats, which has always delighted me. Today I’m particularly fond of this one — I find it clever and cat-like and utterly delightful. Perhaps you’ll like it too.

Happy Monday.

—–
(from Poetry for Cats by Henry Beard)

The End of the Raven
by Edgar Allen Poe’s Cat

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
     “There is nothing I like more.”

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Toward his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor —
     Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents’ worth — “Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore —
     Only this and not much more.

“Oooo!” my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty” — then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
     Jumped — and smashed it on the floor.

Tell Amazon they are wrong

I had a cheerful poem for you today, until I got the email that described Amazon.com’s new policy on removing the sales ranking feature from books with “adult content” — which apparently is code for anything they decide might offend someone. Please go read this thoughtful post from the always-on-target Kassia Krozser for a concise and pointed overview of the situation.

Yes, books with heterosexual content are getting de-ranked: but there are many straight-sexplicit books that aren’t (Laurell Hamilton’s books, with all kinds of body parts coming together every ten pages or so, are still ranked. Or maybe that’s just because Amazon makes so much money selling her books that they can’t afford to piss her off?)

Let’s see Amazon go after Hamilton. Let’s see them remove sales rankings from every single Harlequin romance writer who’s ever been on the best-seller list. Oh, and let’s not forget The Godfather.

Because they’ve already done it to many, many LGBT books, including Nicola’s. Go on, see for yourself — no more sales ranks. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until they reach me. And it’s hugely damaging to any author. It means that the author’s books don’t show up in searches of what’s popular, no matter how many books she’s actually selling. It means that new buyers who are browsing sales-rank-generated lists will never even see her books mentioned.

Happily, authors, editors, publishers, critics and readers aren’t sitting still for this. We’re all over Twitter and the web (check #amazonfail at Twitter).

I’m not currently assuming that Amazon has become the Great Homophobic Bookseller of the World. I am assuming that someone made a hasty, boneheaded policy decision, implemented it clumsily, and then completely failed to anticipate the response. I very much hope, for Amazon’s sake, that someone with brains and authority has left their Easter goose uneaten and is trying to pull Amazon’s goose out of the fire right now. Because the online firestorm is building.

What can we do? Let’s put on our boots and get out there with the crowd. Thanks to Cheryl Morgan for pointing me to this petition, which I hope you will consider signing. If you’re an Amazon customer, please consider sending them an email of protest. If you’re on Twitter, please tweet tweet tweet.

And let’s hope we can do something about this.