tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71276572333979376232024-03-21T17:52:17.098-07:00Robot FuelAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-53049463550359803202016-11-11T19:42:00.001-08:002016-11-12T12:23:03.002-08:00How to Raise Grown-Ass Adults: Election Edition!<div dir="ltr">
In the last few days, I’ve run across the same question repeated by parents: how do I explain this election/Donald Trump to my children? It’s simple and can be done in five easy steps (well, the first one isn’t easy and it’ll probably take a minute…)<br />
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1. In an age-appropriate way, explain racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, misogyny, classism, ageism, ableism, rape culture, and hatred.** </div>
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2. Avoid metaphors, they usually confuse things. Kids are concrete. Be concrete.</div>
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3. Don’t sugar-coat it.** Making things softer and more palatable only wraps your child in a bubble of privilege and makes them unable to recognize oppression and injustice when they witness it. </div>
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4. Listen to them and answer their questions honestly, even when the answer is “I don’t know” or “because they are motivated by hatred and fear” or “some women are complicit in their own oppression.”</div>
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5. Hug them, you will both need it. Step 1 is going to hurt like hell.</div>
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We are not raising boys and girls, we are raising Grown-Ass Men and Women. We are raising the future. If things are ever going to get better, we have to stop obscuring ugly truths and start doing the hard work of raising Grown-Ass Adults. </div>
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We can not afford to shield our children. If you believe in justice, if you believe in what is right and good, tell your kids the truth. They deserve it and they’re stronger than you know. </div>
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And one last step (because with kids there’s always one more thing): </div>
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6. REPEAT steps 1-5 as needed. I recommend every month or so. They were probably only listening to ⅔ of what you said the first time. You’re never going to be as interesting as Minecraft. Ever.</div>
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Good luck. Parenting was never supposed to be easy.</div>
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-DW</div>
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<i>** If you don’t know how to do this, find a parent who is of a different race, sexuality, gender, religion, or cultural background from your own. Ask them how they did this with their own children because I guarantee they already have. </i></div>
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<i>The Muslim woman down the block has already told her precocious seven year old tomboy what to do when someone tries to pull off her hijab. </i></div>
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<i>The Black father of the kindergartner in your daughter’s class has already taught his quiet, kind son exactly what to say and do in order to stay alive when he is harassed by the police for the first, second, and hundredth time. </i></div>
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<i>The parents of a shy twelve year-old (trans)girl have already explained the slurs, the names, the hatred their daughter suffered when she was brave enough to show up to junior high dressed as herself. </i></div>
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<i>The undocumented parents of US-born children have already explained how to handle difficult questions from teachers, doctors, neighbors, friends. </i></div>
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<i>The mother who barely survived her rape has already explained rape culture to her four year old daughter. (You bet your ass I did.)</i></div>
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<i>The dads of those adorable twins in your son’s second grade class have already explained what “faggot” means because they heard it for the first time when they were three - that (almost) perfect day with the butterflies and the ice cream cones.</i></div>
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<i>... you get the gist, right? If you don't, let me know. I can - and </i>will<i> - continue. Because maybe the question you should really be asking is not </i>how do I explain these things to my children <i>but rather, </i>why haven't I explained these things before?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-8895488172956511142016-11-11T15:16:00.000-08:002016-11-11T15:25:15.067-08:00Safety Pins: The latest accessory in White slacktivism<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Well-Meaning White People, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Solidarity Safety Pins seem like a good idea. They really do. You want a way to communicate that you care, that you’re an ally, that you are a safe place for all POC, women, the LGBTQ+ community, undocumented neighbors, immigrants, the disabled, and anyone not White. You want to send a silent message of support and solidarity by pinning a safety pin to your lapel, a visual symbol to let Others (and yes, that’s capitalized for a reason) know you’re here for them.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here’s the problem: when you wear one, the only person who feels safer is YOU.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m a straight white middle-aged college-educated woman. That is my demographic. 52% of my demographic voted for Trump. We elected him, this is a verifiable fact. To strangers, I am nothing more than a representative of the demographic that was pivotal is cementing their (and our own) oppression. It doesn’t matter what my personal politics are, who I voted for, how much work I have or haven’t done for The Cause. The world sees me as a straight, white, middle-class woman. And right now, we are ALL suspect. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wearing a safety pin on my (privileged) lapel communicates a clear message but it isn't the one you think. It goes more like this:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared that White people have finally fucked up so bad that we’ve broken the country. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared of being looked at with suspicion and derision and hatred by strangers. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared of being made uncomfortable whenever I see anyone different than me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared that one of Those People might challenge me, ask me why I didn’t do more, say more, advocate more, fight harder. And I’m scared that Those People have a point. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please don’t confront me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please don’t make me uncomfortable. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please don’t ask any more of me than this “silent message.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m one of the good ones. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not part of the problem. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not responsible for any of this.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, please. Please stop with the safety pins. They are the latest accessory of White slacktivism, they are a sign of guilt and fear and privilege. Stop avoiding the awkward conversations, the sideways looks, the suspicion “that seemed to come out of nowhere” and “is so unfair to me as an individual.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fairness isn’t relevant. We killed ‘fair’ a long time ago.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">White people delivered their “silent message” on Tuesday. If you don’t agree with it, it’s time you got loud. It’s time you did something more than a symbolic gesture. Open your mouth. Open your heart. And open your wallet. That $4.99 you just spent on a 250 pack of safety pins could have been donated to the </span><a href="http://www.naacp.org/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">NAACP</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, the </span><a href="https://www.aclu.org/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ACLU</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, or the </span><a href="https://www.splcenter.org/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">SPLC</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And next time someone looks at you with distrust, wariness, or suspicion, live in that. We have earned it. Learn to be uncomfortable; that’s the only way to grow as individuals and the only way we can hope to change things for the better.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And please... for the love of all that is sacred and good, for the chance of ever making it through this next four years, for our friends and neighbors and family still searching for a tiny scrap of hope, for the pioneers and visionaries who fought and died for our few remaining civil rights, for our children and grandchildren, for the last 200 years of progress, please... </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i>GET LOUD.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">-DW</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-46074319515575242562015-12-16T16:55:00.003-08:002015-12-16T16:55:42.964-08:00No, brah, no tempest. Just tea. [for Stacey]<div>
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When I get home from work, before I take off my coat and hang it on a dining room chair, before I let in the hangry yowling cat, before I announce my arrival with a "hey, I'm not a burglar"... I put the kettle on for tea. </div>
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Every evening I see the same thing: a clunky glass teapot drying on the counter. And my chest gets tight with the swelling feeling that we have agreed to call love. The teapot is there because of my husband. Every morning before he takes our daughter to school, he cleans out last night's tea leaves, washes the pot, and leaves it on the counter to dry. </div>
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Every morning.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOwjdYyIMhfBoeLuHfHU3Lo_WRSPpIW0gMa2yJmve37LgWBweOtI4B-kR2qqL3oxGucil7oC2_v5-G49cc_M_UdFdwhOfydCjwAj294mOkFbUplSMXHJEKD05osydLgpvUqWI9fCkZv8/s1600/2015-12-16+13.35.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOwjdYyIMhfBoeLuHfHU3Lo_WRSPpIW0gMa2yJmve37LgWBweOtI4B-kR2qqL3oxGucil7oC2_v5-G49cc_M_UdFdwhOfydCjwAj294mOkFbUplSMXHJEKD05osydLgpvUqWI9fCkZv8/s400/2015-12-16+13.35.57.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Yeah, I'm short and stout, I look good!"</td></tr>
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It's a small thing: a clean teapot. But it says everything there is to say about our relationship. My knows that this clunky cheap glass teapot is my favorite. He knows I usually prefer glass to ceramic because I monitor steeping time by color and that I like the depth of this particular basket and the way it allows for optimal water circulation to the leaves, he knows that I use this pot for the evening's iced selection because the thin glass walls allow for a faster cooling time. And he knows that for me a cup of tea isn't just a beverage.</div>
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My love for tea is both obsessive and promiscuous. I will drink $200/ounce imported white tea as easily and happily as a paper cup of English Breakfast from the break room. I am a purist (no cream, no sugar, sometimes a few drops of lemon to brighten a matcha or pu-erh or to "set" the antioxidants in blacks and greens) but I'm not a snob. I will try anything loose or bagged, iced or hot. I have my favorites and tend towards a clean, bitter palette but I still use bagged Red Rose as a base for most of my sun teas and drink potfuls piping hot when I'm sick. I cook with tea, use it in henna for a brighter red in my hair, mix it with cosmetic mud for masks, and apply it in compresses for sunburns and skin problems. I truly believe that nothing exists in this world that can not be improved with the addition of a nice cup of tea. </div>
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My husband shares my love of tea, but in a quieter, more measured way. For him, tea is delicious and healthy and has multiple uses but it's not a cure-all for him the way it is for me. Still, he accepts my obsessiveness, my fanaticism, even my occasional public evangelizing about the benefits of tea. He doesn't always buy what I'm selling, but he always listens. He accepts these things about me because he accepts me. Truly and completely, in that way we save for those we call family, he accepts me without condition or exception. With my various quirks and weirdnesses, my idiosyncrasies and difficulties, my obsessions and neuroses and wild tangents... he accepts me.</div>
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There's a moment in tea making when all activity stops and you must wait for the tea to steep. You have done what you can and now the water and the heat must work their magic. It's three to five minutes of stillness and in these moments I usually warm my hands on the thin glass walls. I'm forced to stop moving, stop planning, stop fidgeting with my phone. I'm allowed three to five minutes to simply think. </div>
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I imagine Stacey at the sink. It's still dark out, his hands are in the soapy water. Zola's running around looking for her missing everything. He's hollering locations and telling her to get her shoes on. He's rinsing the soap off, shaking off the excess water. She runs in, looking for her lunch. He nods toward the counter, the teapot warm in his hands, the towel wiping the outside. They're talking about homework and politics and ancient Sumerians and boys and zits and algebraic equations and she gets her backpack and their coats are on and they leave. And the teapot sits on the counter, clean and waiting, and the house is empty.</div>
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When the steeping is over, I come back to now and I pour the first cup of the evening. And I know I'm right: there isn't anything more powerful than this.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-53686582441387865262015-02-12T15:09:00.002-08:002015-02-12T15:09:51.485-08:00The Tooth<div>
<span style="color: white;">"Leveling up" is my family's term for those periods in a child's natural maturation when they seem to make a huge leap from one developmental stage to the next, usually brought on by a catalyst of some kind. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">For example, when our kid went to sleep-away camp for the first time, the six year old who returned was remarkably more self-sufficient. She could get hurt and administer her own first aid (<i>I earned a badge for this, mom, I know what I'm doing, I swear).</i> And when, on the second night home from camp, she got up from dinner, cleared her plate, and took a shower <i>without any prompting</i>, my husband turned to me and said "Holy crap, she leveled up." </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">It's a weird feeling when your kid levels up. You're proud because they're becoming more human, the savagery and weakness of childhood wears away and you start to see a capable, independent person emerging. It's simultaneously evidence of your success as parents and a reminder of the inevitable obsolescence of parenthood. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">Last night I watched our eight year old (<i>almost nine, mom, I'm nine in like three weeks</i>) worry and wiggle and yank at a loose tooth. The tooth wasn't ready to come out but the kid wouldn't hear that. She's at that age where everything's an argument so I decided to let her win this one. At ten minutes before bedtime I found her in the bathroom, blood was smeared across her face and dripping down her neck, her fingers furiously yanking and flicking the tooth. I could tell she was in pain and told her to stop even though both of us knew she wouldn't. She couldn't. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><i>It's bugging me! I can't sleep with it wiggling like this! </i>She says this while leaning forward to spit a mouthful of blood and saliva into the sink. We both look away, reflex-gagging at the sight of blood-streaked saliva, while I blindly rinse the sink out. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">It's not the blood that bothers us, it's the saliva. We both have severe gag reflexes to even the mention of certain things and we are both deeply affected by the sight of saliva with any kind of color in it. We know it's probably OCD tendencies but in our house we don't fight that shit, we embrace our weird. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">The kid's in the process of losing what's left of her baby teeth and this particular tooth is absurdly small and chipped from an old fall. So when she tells me <i>the string thing's not going to work because it's too [mumbling] small, </i>I believe her and pretend to not hear her mumbled swearing. I let it slide because I am useless to her right now. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">I'm in the hallway outside her bathroom, stuck in a horrible cycle. It starts with genuine concern, precedes to offers of help, immediately followed by freaking the fuck out brought on by going into the bathroom and seeing my only child covered in blood and trying to rip off a piece of her body. At that point, I flee for the relative safety of pacing and twitching in the hallway until, of course, my motherly concern returns and the cycle repeats. Unfortunately she's old enough to understand exactly what's happening. I can tell by the way she rolls her eyes every time I say "No, really, sweetheart, I'll help. Let me take a look at OH HOLY SHIT! I CAN'T HANDLE THIS!" So when she swears under her breath and our eyes meet in the mirror, we both know she's earned it. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">It's not just the blood-streaked saliva that's making me useless. It's the piece of her body threatening to escape from the whole. A loose tooth, a split fingernail, a partially severed digit: all are equally repulsive because they are neither of the body nor away from the body. They are neither and both and terrible. The sight causes my nerves to sizzle and fire and I must flee. So she understands to a point but that doesn't help her irritation. One of her parents is present but useless and the other, having experienced both of our absurdly sensitive gag reflexes on many occasions, is (wisely) steering clear of the blast radius. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><i>Mom, I can't even tell you how scared I am right now, </i>spitting more blood. </span></div>
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<i><span style="color: white;">Dude, you cannot be as scared as I am right now. You're my baby!</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: white;">It's in my body! </span></i></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><i>I made you in my body! </i>She rinses and spits, eyeing me in the mirror, skeptical. I ignore this. <i>Boom! Maternal trump card! Wilkie out! </i>I walk into my bedroom. </span></div>
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<i><span style="color: white;">No way! No "Wilkie out!" I need you for moral support. </span></i></div>
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<span style="color: white;">She's twisting the tooth in the socket now, a pale rivulet of blood arcing down her pale wrist. I am overcome, again, as I am throughout every day, at her loveliness. Even now. Even covered in an old tie-dyed t-shirt and pajamas bottoms, blood streaked, and sweaty with exertion. My child. My beautiful strange creature. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">She leans forwards and spits something with substance into the sink. We look down, hopeful of seeing a small white pearl blooded on one side. Instead it's a blood clot floating in a jellyfish scrim of foamy saliva. In unison, our heads turn and the gagging comes. Her hands shoots out toward the hot tap, mine towards the cold. We splash wildly, our faces buried in the crooks of our elbows. I glance at the sink. <i>All clear. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">She looks in the mirror, wipes her face with a washcloth, takes a deep shaky breath, and with more bravery than I have ever seen in one small person, starts to shove the tooth up and away from her gums. The angle is approximately the same as removing a nail from hard wood with the business end of a hammer, if you don't care how fucked up the nail gets in the process. We both know this will work and I know that no matter how much my nerves fire, or how loudly my brain screams at me to leave, I will stay and witness this. There is no fear in her eyes anymore, just a pure angry stubborn determination. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">As soon as I recognize this and think <i>the teenage years are going to suck so bad, </i>she's leaning forward, spitting again and reaching in to rinse off this impossibly small chunk of herself. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">The tooth, now no longer attached, has lost its power over me. I hand the kid a cold washcloth and tell her to bite down. I take the tooth, rinse it off, brush it gently (<i>You gotta wash it, the tooth fairy won't pay if it's all gross</i>), and hand it back. I clean up while she runs down, washcloth crammed in her mouth, and yell/mumbles something like <i>Dad, I did it and didn't hurl! </i>I hear him laugh and say <i>Good job, kid! You just leveled up again!</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">While she's hugging me goodnight, I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's crazy-brave and my hero. I hold her close and breathe her in, eyes closed. I get the feeling I'm going down on an elevator of scent, floor to floor, seeking something... the sharp copper tang of blood mingles with her lavender lotion... then it's chamomile soap and tea tree shampoo, cappuccino lip balm and sugared vanilla bubble bath... the warm sweet funk of exhausted child and spent adrenaline...and finally, I find it. Her. Just her. The smell that is only one person, my person. My child.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">She smiles up at me, gap-toothed and sleepy, and says <i>I am a total bad-ass. </i>I grin back, voice thick with emotion, and tell her: <i>damn right, you are.</i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-92162621433134732652015-02-11T13:01:00.002-08:002015-02-11T13:10:52.646-08:00To read when I'm making excuses for why I'm not writing.<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Shitty Little Voice In My Head,</span></div>
<span style="color: white;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I’m sick of you. I’m done listening to the disapproving, negative, creative-mojo-killing fuckery you say to me (ME! A miasmatic ball of electric creativity and throbbing life!) anytime I sit down to write. I am banishing you by doing what I do best: shouting down your most common criticisms with brilliant, carefully considered arguments and enough profanity to make my entire host of ancestors spin in their graves. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stupid-Ass Statement #1: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have nothing new to say.</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Bullshit! You’re always talking/thinking/pontificating/blowing smoke up other people’s asses and a lot of it is good and interesting and well-thought out and some of it is total and complete shite and you know it while you’re saying it, but goddamnit, you’ve started down a certain path and you’ll see it through. But the beauty of it, the reason you do it is that no one knows when you’re serious. Ever. Most people think you’re fucking with them all the time. And sometimes you’re not sure if you are or not. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What?!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I know! So write and you’ll figure out how you really feel and then you can decide whether or not you want to fuck with people. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> But you’re right in a sense. There isn’t anything new to say, only new ways to saying. And that’s plenty to aim for.</span></div>
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</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stupid-Ass Statement #2: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I haven’t thought out my idea clearly, I’ll write about nothing.</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> So fucking what? Start with nothing and then figure out what you sat down to say because THAT’S WHAT WRITING IS! It’s an exploration, a journey, an investigation. It’s an essay, in the oldest Frenchest sense of the word (hat tip, Old Masters) and a journal in the oldest, pillowbookiest sense of the word (deep bow, Old Mistress). It’s Nellie Bly, Truman Capote, bell hooks, Les Gutkind, Barbara Ehrenreich. It’s every writer writing. It’s every person speaking. It’s truth and lies and everything in the middle. It’s fight and struggle and blood and it’s The Written Word and it’s all you’ve ever believed in. It’s been your only constant, your best friend, your lover, your life ring, your child, your sustenance and flesh and breath and blood and bone. It is all there is and it is in every cell of you and how can you deny that? Write nothing because at least you have created something tangible and real and true in this vast, horrible world. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Plus Seinfeld was famously “about nothing” and while that’s more of a dismal statement on the mind-numbingly stupid consumer culture we live in, dude still made mad cash writing about NOTHING. And after all, wouldn’t it at least be fun to try to prove the validity of the adage “mo’ money, mo’ problems?” And while you have no desire to own a house in the Hamptons or a private yacht or any of that shit, taking off for a month or so every year to go write and read and eat and drink and smoke and fuck in a cabin somewhere with your brilliant, sexy husband is, in fact, your version of the American dream and it’s absolutely attainable. So get writing; the cabin is waiting. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stupid Ass Statement #3: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I never finish anything so why start yet another new thing? </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Don’t you fucking “never” me. What’s that shit? Fuck “never.” Fuck “always.” You hate that shit. It’s lazy and dismissive and ridiculous and you’re better than that. And why start something new? Because if you don’t, you’ll forget what you were going to say and then you’re fucked. Plus, if you write more, you’re eventually going to just glue your ass to the chair and get it done (hat tip, Nita Sweeney’s Bum Glue) so stop bitching and write. Computer’s not charged up? Your hand’s not broken, fucker. No paper? What do you think your inner arm is for? WRITE.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stupid Ass Statement #4: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I turn off the Little Voice, my writing will get sloppy. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Wrong. The Little Voice is never far away. The Little Voice likes to make our life a living hell and criticize everything we do. We’ve tried to get rid of her before and it’s never worked for long. The best we can hope for is temporary banishment. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And yes, your writing will get sloppy but guess what? Your Writing will exist and Your Writing will get better when you sit your ass down to edit. Why? Because you’re fucking good at it and you know it. DON’T FRONT! Modesty is for liars and people who aren’t good at anything. I am a good writer and a good reader and a good editor. I’m not the best, most brilliant, shining little star but for fuck’s sake, I’m not the dimmest one either. Read some samples on Kindle and tell me your shit doesn’t smell a whole lot better than a lot of the shit out there. You can at least crank out some $2.99 pulp novels. Jesus. Who cares? Sell out if you want. Just sell out doing something you love instead of just to pull in a paycheck. You’re better than that.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stupid Ass Statement #5: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if I fail?</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> First of all, what does that mean? If you’re writing every day, you’re already succeeding. Period. That should be the ONLY measure of success or failure. Are you creating? Are you doing what you were meant to do? If you are, good job. You’ve won. Keep going. If you aren’t creating every day, you have failed.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Second: publishing? Is that what you’re worried about? Didn’t you have a pretty fucking good ratio of submissions to rejections when you were still sending your shit out? And how did it feel to hold something in your hands that has your name on it? To see people reading your shit and responding to it? To get hate mail? Seriously?! HATE MAIL! That’s the best fucking compliment a writer can get! Why wouldn’t you want that again? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I know there are more (you are nothing if not prolific) but you’ve finally gone silent. When you start whispering again, casting doubt and slowing my fingers, I will address each item in turn. You will not win. I will not let you. Go fuck yourself, Little Shitty Voice. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As ever,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: white;">D</span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-85832784330468116432014-07-29T01:10:00.002-07:002014-07-29T01:10:16.840-07:00J. D. Salinger's "New" Work<span id="docs-internal-guid-8e9ae7e0-8118-062a-57e9-f444358246d7"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thought Process After Hearing About J. D. Salinger’s “New” Short Stories (because the </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Imp_of_the_Perverse" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">imp of the perverse</span></a><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is strong within me):</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just spent the last fifteen minutes think/writing (“imagining” if you will) a bitchy op-ed piece in the voice of J. D. Salinger’s college rival, a journalism major at their unnamed but undoubtedly New England private college called either “J.D. Salinger Needs To Get Over Himself Already” or “Nobody’s Going to Care in </span><a href="http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/03/new-jd-salinger-fiction-documentary" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">70 Years</span></a><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, Mr. Most Likely To Be A Hermit.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was making tea and cracking myself up (because I live a bleary tea-totaling life) when it dawned on me that this may be horribly disrespectful to a master of the short story and since it in no way reflects my true feelings about Mr. Salinger or his work, perhaps I should not be so unkind or disingenuous in my thoughts. </span><span style="font-size: 15px; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I imagined the ghost of J.D. Salinger standing across the counter from me, shaking his head in disappointment with those doleful eyes and slightly jowly Bogart-esque face, disappointed that, as a writer, I would disrespect both him and the very art I love using a voice lacking in authenticity </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">imagining </span><span style="font-size: 15px; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a bitchy/satirical op-ed piece instead of </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">writing</span><span style="font-size: 15px; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> said piece because unless you're doing it, it's just bullshit, really. And those eyes, such disappointment! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAsqyg7WAL4p4gJCUUinIWEJp9pfWtk7A1myPW1Ow2levV0sxOmcraog3gwLjfcybE-D9iyBZBWLInT0UDN6DIeuS2Q-8haEsZMbWNhXU8QkaAl2JqcyzxrKWcXwFgsq3rsT_Jh6U7xc/s1600/salinger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAsqyg7WAL4p4gJCUUinIWEJp9pfWtk7A1myPW1Ow2levV0sxOmcraog3gwLjfcybE-D9iyBZBWLInT0UDN6DIeuS2Q-8haEsZMbWNhXU8QkaAl2JqcyzxrKWcXwFgsq3rsT_Jh6U7xc/s1600/salinger.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You assholes are the reason I took off."</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then I completely lost my shit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, Ghost of Mr Salinger, I should apologize for having a laugh at your expense (sorta) but that would, indeed, be phony. Instead, thank you for giving me this moment to freak the fuck out and realize that I it’s been two days since I wrote (and I had been on such a good streak for awhile, damnit!) because it forced me to sit down a write this… which could be part of a bigger project...sure, that’s how I’ll justify watching another episode of <a href="http://www.bbcamerica.com/luther/">Luther</a> instead of writing. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-NvpaJUZhJlRf66TvraQHCqbYMi_STP_jZJipTSM3uajE1r7mT7q2YwD8bOQ5ETUm-sta14299kRFCtRxUgOGZwPtBi7kdgvpr8ezcVInXAJ875GyPK3DZvZzt3dsLRzHAStnYiZuWs/s1600/elba2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-NvpaJUZhJlRf66TvraQHCqbYMi_STP_jZJipTSM3uajE1r7mT7q2YwD8bOQ5ETUm-sta14299kRFCtRxUgOGZwPtBi7kdgvpr8ezcVInXAJ875GyPK3DZvZzt3dsLRzHAStnYiZuWs/s1600/elba2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fuck you, Salinger. Idris Elba laughs at all my jokes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Truthfully, I am quite thrilled there is new Salinger in the world! I want to put it in my skull and Cuisinart that shit to a nice juicy pulp so it can flavor my imaginings for weeks. Thank you, O Great (but doleful) One! </div>
</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-54252793385786020252013-07-11T11:36:00.001-07:002013-07-11T12:46:41.179-07:00 Review: Special Topics in Calamity Physics (Marisha Pessl)<p>First, an admission: I am a sucker for fiction that includes parenthetical asides, quasi-scholarly annotations, bibliographic references, et al. I take great pleasure (and great humor) in the snobby intellectualism of the overly educated literati and my participation in that world. So Marisha Pessl’s much-lauded first novel, compared favorably to Donna Tartt at her best (which I would argue was not The Secret History but rather The Little Friend, but that’s a different post entirely), would seem, for me, the perfect book. And while it delivered on the pseudo-intellectualism and quasi-scholarly charm (many of the texts referenced in the novel are fictional, I know, I checked) the novel itself was... slightly problematic. For example, Pessl’s (intentionally?) poorly-drawn Visual Aides are weirdly juvenile and off-putting, making the reader briefly suspect this to be a young adult novel (albeit a well-written one). I would like to think this was intentional, that the author was pointing out the fact that our narrator is, in fact, just a teenager despite her sophistication and intelligence.</p>
<p>Our narrator is the gifted only child of a political science professor. She attends a private school and falls in with an odd but popular group of students (whom she nick-names The Bluebloods) and their charming enigmatic teacher. But here’s the rub. The teacher fell flat. She didn’t seem interesting or charming, she just seemed aloof and depressed which is not enough to compel a group of teenagers to hang out at your house on the weekends. Fortunately the other characters make up for her lack of depth and authenticity.  </p>
<p>Just when you think you know where the book is going, it takes a turn. It gets BIG and weird and there’s a murder or a suicide (it’s intentionally unclear) and the narrator is forced to take responsibility for her behavior and her actions which leads the book to its (mostly) satisfying conclusion.</p>
<p>Pessl’s writing leans towards bombasity but this, in itself, is forgivable because of her obvious talent and vision. Her raw voice is compelling and in the instances when her prose is stripped down to its true core, devoid of all the stylistic trickery, the reader is spellbound. There was also an oddly New Southern Gothic tone to the novel. More Flannery O’Connor than William Faulkner [from me, this is HUGE praise, I adore both]. One is left feeling that, in time, Pessl could be an important voice in fiction</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-59110913116002483292013-06-24T23:59:00.001-07:002013-06-24T23:59:56.549-07:00Review: The Heart Goes Last: Positron Episode Four (Margaret Atwood)<p>A confession: there are few people I adore blindly and turn into a crazed fangirl about. Margaret Atwood is one of those people. </p>
<p>That said... every author must write their share of "stage directions," the necessary dull bits, the "s/he saids," the do-ing. To reference this blog, they must get Raoul into the elevator. It's not fancy but Raoul <i>must </i>get in the elevator.<i> </i>This was Positron's stage directions.</p>
<p>Positron is Margaret Atwood's serialized novel published through <a href="http://byliner.com">byliner</a>. [If you don't subscribe to byliner, you should. It's fantastic.] Atwood creates another dystopian world (think: a highly structured alternative to the world of her MaddAddam trilogy). Episodes 1-3 were tense and titillating(ep. 1), frustrated (2), and hopelessly bleak (3).  Episode 4 was simply necessary. </p>
<p>However, Atwood's prose is, as ever, unique, sharp, and wholly entertaining. Stage directions or no, I will read anything by a writer who describes two characters as “fornicating like weasels on a griddle.”</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-32682791419206266102013-06-24T23:27:00.001-07:002013-07-11T11:33:47.669-07:00Review: Tell The Wolves I'm Home (Carol Rifka Brunt)<p>I was sucked in by the title and the cover. It’s graphic and lovely and weird and yes, I judged a book by its cover. But after I’d read the synopsis, Brunt’s novel already had three strikes against it: </p>
<p>1. The narrator is a teenage girl. I do not like teenage narrators mainly because I do not like teenagers. They are, with a few exceptions, petulant and uninteresting creatures.</p>
<p>2. It is nostalgically set in the 1980s, a time I feel is far too recent for nostalgia. </p>
<p>3. It’s about dying and grief and AIDS and I’m tired of the literature of dying.</p>
<p>True to my expectations, the novel was overall disappointing. </p>
<p>1. Teenage Narrator Problem... Brunt required far too much suspension of disbelief from the reader; no fourteen or sixteen girl is that selfless and magnanimous. Both the narrator and her sister displayed unrealistic levels of insight and compassion to their own and others’ circumstances. They were gawky Buddhas in teenage bodies and it made the text feel forced and unrealistic. If she had written the story from the perspective of a reflective adult narrator recalling a story, this would have worked. </p>
<p>2. Nostalgia for the 1980s... It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. If anything, it felt more distracting than anything else. It was contextually necessary to set the novel in the 1980s but references to 80s music and fashion drew the reader’s attention away from the seriousness of the situation and leant it a kitsch that was inappropriate.</p>
<p>3. Death and Dying... I was pleasantly surprised. This was the one area the narrator seemed to be a fully developed character. The stigma of AIDS in the 1980s was handled with compassion and respect and illustrated beautifully how far we’ve come (which, sadly, isn’t that far) in our understanding of the disease and our treatment of people living with AIDS.</p>
<p>Despite all of this, I liked the novel. Truly. There was something about the narrator and her family that was authentic in that beautifully fucked-up way “healthy” families have. Everyone loves each other but they are all essentially and profoundly alone in struggling with their own problems. Brunt’s construction of the family dynamic was brilliantly subtle and that for me that raised the book from mediocre and disappointing to “surprisingly pretty good.” </p>
<p>Plus, the cover and the title. Really. Take a look, it’s lovely. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-87867823631390034392013-06-24T14:41:00.001-07:002013-06-24T23:16:46.660-07:00Review: The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope (Rhonda Riley)<p>Before I started this book, I did something I normally never do: I read the reviews. It’s not only that I want to form my own opinion of a book, it’s that I don’t care if “the masses” didn’t like it. “The masses” have terrible taste in literature (see <i>Twilight</i>, see <i>50 Shades of Grey</i>, see the entire career of Danielle Steele). If the review is from someone whose tastes and discernments parallel my own, I pay attention. But otherwise... no. But I read the reviews for one specific purpose: I wanted to figure out to what gene <i>The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope</i> belongs.  Science fiction? Romance? Christian literature? A brief plot synopsis as explanation of my confusion: a genderless creature (A.) is pulled from the earth, turns into a woman (Addie), falls in love with the woman (Eve) who found her, turns into a man (Adam), and lives happily ever after (sort of). However, the reviews gave me no meaningful clue; it was called a sweeping romance, it was called paranormal, it was called “somewhat biblical.” It was all those things and none of them. What it was, was brilliant.</p>
<p>First, the basics. Rhonda Riley can write a damn good scene. Her prose is clear and clean, never feels forced, and her pacing are impeccable. Her characters are entirely believable and when one dies, the loss is felt in appropriate proportion to their importance in the story (a reader pet peeve of mine). Arguably the novel was overpopulated but it covered forty plus years. Overpopulation is to be expected. Riley has been criticized for never answering the novel's Big Question (namely, who/what is Adam?). I say: EXACTLY. That is why the book is  genius and transcends all genre labels. This book is about Truth. Not answers. Riley never explains who/what Adam is because it is not important. Riley’s novel is a reflection on the things we don’t and can’t know about the inner lives and true selves of anyone, despite our relationship with them. Hers is a novel of truth-telling and truth-knowing and the inability to know anyone (including oneself)  fully. It is about the necessary and unnecessary lies we tell ourselves and others. The book is about trust and loving someone. It is about creating a life and learning to accept an essential otherness about one's  partner. It is about the known and the unknown in families, histories, and communities and how we navigate around these truths.</p>
<p><i>The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope</i> unfolds slowly, revealing a family’s truth, revealing a life that has been purposefully and intentionally created. It is deceptively brilliant, subtle, and dazzling and hums with necessary and startling honesty.<br>
In the space between pleasantly surprised and completely blindsided, I found my reaction to Rhonda Riley’s first novel. But as for my original question: what genre is this? It is truth. Just truth. Nothing else. I anxiously await Ms. Riley’s next work.</p>
<p>A side note for anyone who (like me) makes it a point to avoid romance or Christian fiction: fear not. It’s not that kind of romance and it certainly isn’t Christian fiction.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-17147970587169542892013-05-28T17:52:00.001-07:002013-05-28T17:55:26.455-07:00(mini)Reviews: A Baker's Dozen<p dir="ltr"><br>
Three months. It's a new personal best for procrastination, it is also how long it’s been since I’ve posted here and/or written about books. I have, of course, been reading but I haven't been <i>writing</i> about reading. And really, what’s the point of reading if you don’t think about what you’re reading? And I can’t truly think about the text unless I’m writing about it. So thus, mini-reviews of all full-length books I've read in the last three months. I promised myself I would do this and by gum! I shall!</p>
<p dir="ltr">1. The Real Cool Killers, Chester Himes<br>
This was the second book in the Harlem Cycle (A Rage in Harlem being the first). This was a fun read. Sexy, dirty, angry, fun. It was not challenging. It didn’t blow my mind or titilate me the way A Rage in Harlem did. Disappointing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">2. The Crazy Kill, Chester Himes<br>
Implausible, silly, and irritating. It’s like a bad riddle you don’t even care about solving. There’s a reason this was the last book of the series that I bothered to read. </p>
<p dir="ltr">3. My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: 40 New Fairy Tales, Kate Bernheimer, ed.<br>
It’s a book dedicated to the late, great Angela Carter. Let me say that again: it's dedicated to ANGELA MOTHERFUCKING CARTER. What’s not to love? The woman has been my literary fairy godmother since I stumbled onto The Bloody Chamber. <b>Any</b> book dedicated to her is alright by me. But unfortunately, that’s what this one was... just alright. Some of the stories were exceptional, others were duds, causing the collection to average out to, well, average. Although, I believe Ms. Carter would have approved of even the mediocre attempts at creating/recreating fairy tales. It’s a genre that, sadly, seems to be gasping its last breath. The world is poorer for that; we need more magic. </p>
<p dir="ltr">4. Emotional Intensity in Gifted Children, Christine Fonesca<br>
Why? Because Zola. My seven year old daughter is a 10 all the time. Whatever the emotion is (happiness, sadness, boredom, anger, excitement)  it’s always a 10. Zola, do you want to go skydiving? OF COURSE! Zola, do you want to eat octopus and eel? ABSOLUTELY! Zola, how do you feel about beets? I HATE THEM, THEY’RE RUINING MY LIFE! It’s fun and fabulous and exhausting and horrific.<br>
This book provided some help, mainly in the form of “yeah, unfortunately for you, your kid is totally normal. You didn’t honestly think ‘genius’ wouldn’t come with a hefty price tag, did you?” Every parent of a gifted child is probably going through the same thing I’m going through and there is a small measure of comfort in that. If nothing else, it forced me to stop trying to pathologize my daughter’s normal (for her) behavior. It also gave me ideas and resources to advocate for her education. But that's a whole other post...<br>
Bottom line: I’m glad I read this. If anyone has a gifted child, I will recommend it to them. It wasn’t exactly life-changing but it was definitely helpful. </p>
<p dir="ltr">5. Stupid Children, Lenore Zion<br>
Side note: by some fabulous coincidence I found myself reading Stupid Children and the previous book on gifted children at the same time. <br>
Zion's memoir-ish novel is about a girl growing up in a cult foster home after her father tries to kill himself. Very well written, compelling, great characters, sharp prose. Definitely one of the better books I’ve read lately. And I read it old-school: paper pages, spine, cover, the whole thing. I bow to the gods of technology most of the time but it felt good to read something tangible. The tablet is so... sterile. <br>
I finished Stupid Children and immediately ordered her collection of short stories (My Dead Pets Are Interesting). </p>
<p dir="ltr">6. Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief, Lawrence Wright <br>
This was recommended to me by my boss who knows I’m obsessed with cults. It’s a tell-some (as opposed to a tell-all) nonfiction book about Scientology. But it morphs about half-way through into a weird biography of Tom Cruise’s time in the church. There seemed to be far more “story” there than what was printed, like the author left out things because he didn’t want to get sued by the infamously litigation-happy church. <br>
However, it gave a bit of historical context for the rise of Scientology and L. Ron Hubbard. I learned quite a bit about the founding of the church and their cosmology. <br>
But the best part of the book was by far the most absurd line I’ve read in a very long time. It was said as a threat to misbehaving Scientology members and attests to the absurdity of the intersection of celebrity and religion.  “Don’t make me get Tom Cruise to come in here and punch you in the face.” It puts a smile on my face every damn time.</p>
<p dir="ltr">7. Helter Skelter, Vincent Bugliosi <br>
Ugh. This took forever to finish. Yes, it’s a classic. Yes, it’s "one of the greatest true-crime tomes every written." But, as I’ve stated before in my complaint of the true crime genre, the middle of the book gets bogged down in the minutiae of court proceedings and police procedures. It was mind-numbing. I wanted Capote. I wanted In Cold Blood. I wanted prose and I got legalese! I wanted... something better than what I got.<br>
That said: yes, it’s a great example of the true crime genre and much better written than almost every true crime book ever written. Sadly. <br>
There needs to be a movement to get true crime back into the respected nonfiction world. Like a nonfiction version of what's happening with sci-fi in capital-L Literature right now. But I digress.</p>
<p dir="ltr">8. Revenge, Yoko Ogawa<br>
A gem! A little Japanese creep-fest gem of a book. I loved it! It weirded me out and made me squidgy. Yes, squidgy. It made me have a feeling that has no translation in any language because it’s completely visceral. Read it. It’s uniquely entertaining. Get squidgy with me.</p>
<p dir="ltr">9. Outlining Your Novel, K.M. Weiland<br>
Like most books about writing, this was 80% pep-talk, 10% literary masturbation, and 10% instruction manual. When you're looking for instruction manual, this can be frustrating. However, Wieland did present a great idea to help explore where you want your story to go: The What If List. You sit down and list literally every question that pops into your head about your plot. Everything. Even the most absurd ridiculous things. When I tried it with a few story ideas it gave new directions for all of them.<br>
It also made me realize that I don’t think I’ll ever be the compulsively organized writer that gets everything done on a tight timeline and cranks out a finished book every 18 months. I also don’t think I’ll ever be a chaotic mess who never finishes anything. And I’m okay with that.</p>
<p dir="ltr">10. 1Q84, Haruki Murakami<br>
Really big. Really good.<br>
I’m not saying more because you should just read it. Seriously. Go buy it and read it. It's a substantial time commitment but it’s worth it. All the reviews that say it’s crap or over-rated or not Murakami’s best? All those people are fucking morons. True, it’s not his best, but his worst is still better than 90% of what’s out there so ignore the critics and go read some fucking Murakami already. Do it. </p>
<p dir="ltr">11. Reconstructing Amelia, Kimberly McCreight<br>
I’m fascinated with mean girls. I have been the victim of mean girls and I was a mean girl. Fuck, I’m still kind of mean. But my meanness has been honed into a sharpened spear that is only aimed at deserving victims. I believe there is no crueler creature on earth than the 14 year old girl. Hitler, Lenin, Stalin, Pol Pot... put any of them up against a couple of junior high girls and they'd crumble.<br>
However, McCreight's offering in the Mean Girl genre was okay. It was nonlinear (yay!) and had lots of fun epistilary sections (yay!) but the ending fell flat (no pun intended... Amelia falls off a building at the beginning of the book) and made the whole book not really about mean girls at all but about lying. Although one could argue that lying is a quintessential part of the mean girl experience. It just didn't seem true.<br>
This was one of those “I must finish this tonight” kind of novels that you seem to really love while you’re reading it but as soon as you step away from it, you realize “yeah, it was okay, but I probably wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else.”  <br>
Side note: the best of the mean girl genre so far is Megan Abbot's Dare Me. It's a delightfully wicked book! </p>
<p dir="ltr">12. The Interestings, Meg Wolitzer<br>
Alternative Titles Include:<br>
The Irritatings,<br>
The Snarky Little Bastards Behaving Badly,<br>
The Pretentious-es...es,<br>
The Overly Self-Aware Overly Ironic Characters That The Reader Will End Up Hating,<br>
The Spoiled Pseudo-Intellectual Rich Kids of New York City Written By A Spoiled Pseudo-Intellectual Rich Kid of New York City,<br>
The Every Theme Ever In a Book In Forever With The Hope That Every Modern Lit Prof Everywhere Will Make Their Students Buy It Just To Write Crappy Theme Papers,<br>
The Why Do I Keep Reading These Overly Hyped Mainstream Bullshit Fests They’re Always Woefully Disappointing! Even The Fucking Synopsis Irritated Me!</p>
<p dir="ltr">13. Faces of Fear, John Saul<br>
A confession: John Saul is my literary rinse-and-spit. He’s my palate cleanser, my dry crappy cracker between wine tastings, my reset button, the Ctrl-Alt-Delete of my reader brain. It’s shameful and ugly but it’s the truth. I make no excuses. I read John Saul.<br>
I’m Dawnelle and I’m a Saul-aholic. Hi Dawnelle.<br>
Here’s everything you need to know about this book: Beverly Hills, plastic surgery, Frankenstein, creepy step-dad, gay dads, clueless mom, mean girls (yay!), butchering serial killer, lots of misleading details and plot holes. Also it follows the EXACT formula for every single one of his previous 35 novels... most of which I’ve read.<br>
Until next time, Mr. Saul, thank you. My brain has been scrubbed clean and refreshed. On to better texts!</p>
<p dir="ltr">And...</p>
<p dir="ltr">14. Endless Love, Scott Spencer<br>
[This book was so unbelievably bad that I'm saving a full review for a different post which I have titled, in my head, "In Defense of Bad Writing."] It makes John Saul look like Dostoyevsky.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-6440545591769532152013-02-26T21:09:00.001-08:002013-02-27T16:34:03.119-08:00Genius<p>We found out this week that The Bean's IQ tested in the top 99.5%. Yay! Right? Not so much. I am worried (because that's my go-to emotion with anything Bean-related). I won't start into the particulars because this will turn into a neurotic manifesto and I don't have time for that right now... I want to watch New Girl and read my book.</p>
<p>But then she cut off all her bangs because she couldn't figure out how else to get tree sap out of it. Later she repeatedly hit herself in the head with a pillow until she got dizzy and fell down. Why? Because she's six and that's what six year olds do. </p>
<p>Tonight she started planning her science fair project on electromagnetism while singing a song about the scientific method and asking me questions I had to look up the answers to. Five minutes later she was laughing so hard she almost peed herself because I was singing Chic's "Everybody Dance" chorus: "everybody dance, da-da-doo-doo, crap your pants, crap your pants" instead of "clap your hands, clap your hands." </p>
<p>I've always known she was smart. She started talking at nine months old and reading before she was two. But because she's silly and goofy and clutzy and <i>fun</i>, I assumed she was bright or moderately gifted. But <i>genius</i>? That looks different, right? That's serious and studious and maladjusted and unpleasantly weird, yes? Apparently not. Genius is a six year old with stupid bangs, a wicked sense of humor, and a collection of weird things she finds on the ground. </p>
<p>Bean is a genius. Her IQ places her in "genius range." </p>
<p>And she likes poop jokes and blowing bubbles and having dance parties.</p>
<p>I can do this. She's Bean. I've got this. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-85427433574101724472013-02-26T20:42:00.001-08:002013-02-26T20:42:17.260-08:00Review: We Disappear (Scott Heim)<p dir="ltr">This novel could have been so much better than it was. It was one of those cases where you finish the book and think "where the fuck was the editor? why didn't somebody cut out about 30% of this and have him rewrite some of the stronger parts?" It was unnecessarily frustrating.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Scott Heim's protagonist is the meth-addicted gay son of a woman dying of cancer. He's a tweaker, truly and fully, and Heim pulls absolutely no punches showing <i>exactly</i> what this means. It's unapologetically real and raw. But the reader truly cares about him. He's flawed but you want to know him, you wouldn't leave him alone in your apartment but you'd meet him for coffee any day. Heim also doesn't write a stereotype. His sexuality is only brought into focus in the most relevant ways and there is never any dramatic "coming out" moment. He doesn't use the character's sexuality as a theme, as so many authors still do (thus creating a sense of "otherness" that is disrespectful and exploitative at its core). His homosexuality is simply is part of who he is, like his brown hair or the fact that he has a sister. I found that profoundly respectful and was quite moved by it. </p>
<p dir="ltr">However the story is slightly far-fetched, there are far too many unnecessarily confusing plot twists, many of the characters read like extras from central casting, and the conclusion is a unsatisfying pathetic little sigh. But again: I think this could have been fixed in editing. Perhaps this kind of editorial sloppiness is a side effect of e-publishing and print-on-demand, perhaps not. But it has to end! Too many good books are being lost in their own "should have been cut" detritus. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-66236318588702310902013-02-26T20:05:00.001-08:002013-02-26T20:22:27.395-08:00Review: Dora: A Headcase (Lidia Yuknavitch)<p dir="ltr">I wasn't sure I even wanted to read this book. A retelling of Freud's quintessential case study but from the perspective of the case study herself? Freud in present day? Really? No one even offers Freudian psychotherapy anymore (and for good reason!). But after reading the first few pages, I was hooked.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Yuknavitch's Dora is a sharp-edged hilariously profane Seattle punk being raised by distant dysfunctional wealthy parents. She may be a bit more savvy than most seventeen year olds and far wittier than <i>any</i> seventeen year old. But you like her. She's fucked up and fabulous. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Freud is... well, Freud. Except the reader gets to experience more of Freud (truly!) than we've been privy to before. Jung's in there too in all his ethically questionable rave-attending drug-fueled goodness. Jung fits modern day so much better than Freud ever could. The relationship between Freud and Jung was the only disappointment in the novel. It's never fully explored. Yuknavitch's inclusion of it seemed perfunctory and obligatory rather than truly part of the plot.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Yuknavitch's writing is fast, funny, and good. Solidly, profoundly good. Her plots are slightly unbelievable and there a few too many coincidences, but the novel is readable and highly enjoyable. Also, Yuknavitch's construction of Dora's home life is gloriously rich for Freudian analysis and was truly a nod to Freudian theory. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-37737341084328329622013-02-26T19:59:00.001-08:002013-02-26T19:59:11.463-08:00Review: Where'd You Go, Bernadette? (Maria Semple)<p dir="ltr">Suspend disbelief. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Put aside your hatred for the wealthy worried-well.</p>
<p dir="ltr">If you're from Seattle, set aside your cold Nordic humorlessness.</p>
<p dir="ltr">This book is fun. It's not brilliant, it's not life-changing, it's not The Next Great American Novel. But it works for what it is: a light, funny, epistolary novel chronicling the minorly disastrous consequences of one woman's snobbery, social phobia, and artistic discontent. It is also about her fifteen year-old daughter who is trying desperately to find her now-missing mother and save her parents from their stupid selfish decisions. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The mother-daughter relationship is what holds this book together and makes it something more than the dreadful "breezy beach read" it seemed destined to be (seriously... the cover? Why not just put lipstick and a shopping bag on the front. Jesus H. Christ...) However, the husband/wife relationship is not as well developed. It feels hollow and flat and we never truly understand why Bernadette is with her uptight computer-programming husband.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Semple skewers Seattle-ites, Microsofties, gifted teens, and grasping middle-class soccer moms. Many of Semple's jabs are predictable and clichéd but her region-specific pokes are spot-on and appreciated by this region-specific reader.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-20613787422382398462013-02-26T19:30:00.001-08:002013-02-26T19:30:57.860-08:00Review: A Rage in Harlem (Chester Himes)<p dir="ltr">Why I haven't read Chester Himes before now is beyond me. </p>
<p dir="ltr">As the title suggests Himes writes Harlem,  not about Harlem, not stories set in Harlem. He <i>writes</i> Harlem. Harlem becomes more than a setting, it becomes bigger than the story, bigger than the characters, bigger than Himes. Harlem is a presence, a power, a force that can not/ will not/ should not be stopped. It's filthy and violent and gorgeous and alive. Harlem breathes in this book. It exists in a way that the human characters don't. His writing takes you there and you're horrified and thrilled and left feeling like the safety net of "just reading about it" isn't enough, you feel vulnerable. It's wonderful. Truly wonderful.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But... there has to be a "but"... you may not like Himes's Harlem. The book is a blood-soaked hard-boiled crime-ridden romp. Yeah, I said romp, you dirty mother-rapers... forgive me that Himes-ism; my brain is Himes-drunk and happy. But I digress...</p>
<p dir="ltr">There is no good or bad in this novel. You cannot point to anyone and say "s/he is the hero/villian." The main characters are either seasoned criminals and con-men or "squares." And even though you probably wouldn't want to know them in real life, you find yourself rooting for Jackson (the square), his dope-fiend twin brother who makes his living dressing as a nun and selling tickets to Heaven,  and Jackson's anything-but-faithful girlfriend Imabelle. The detectives are brutal, crooked, and intentionally create an environment of terror in order to hold onto the little power their badges give them. Despite this, you actually like the detectives. They are the very definition of bad ass.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some books I finish and wish I could have written. I finished A Rage in Harlem and wondered why this hadn't been made into a movie. Turns out, it has. There's a <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102749/">1991 film version</a> that I must now track down. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I am praying that it won't suck. PLEASE PLEASE don't fuck this one up, Hollywood! Himes, and his writing, deserve so much more than that. <br>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-82605963246057037212013-02-09T18:57:00.001-08:002013-02-09T18:58:17.471-08:00Review: After Life (Rhian Ellis)<p dir="ltr">Rhian Ellis's "After Life" is the first novel I've read from Nancy Pearl's "Rediscoveries" series, a collection of previously out-of-print books Librarian of the Gods and NPR Morning Edition regular Pearl identified as unread and/or under praised gems of the 20th century.  Hand-picked by Pearl, these novels have been republished and given a second chance (helped along with a heavy dose of publicity and buzz by Pearl herself).</p>
<p dir="ltr">I trust Nancy Pearl. She has an infectious passion for books and while I don't always agree with her opinions on certain books and authors (don't get me started on John Irving or Ann Patchett) I trust anyone who dedicates their life to books. Not just writing, but books, and getting people excited about reading.</p>
<p dir="ltr">"After Life" is full of mediums, spiritualists, and New Age tarot-reading psychics. Not usually something I'd go in for, but Ellis's novel is surprisingly down-to-earth and relatable. She presents spiritualism in a solid, respectful, meticulously well-researched way that gives the reader a better understanding of its history and evolution. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Ellis's novel is also a novel of a dysfunctional mother/daughter relationship novel. Except where other novelists paint their characters as grotesquely unhealthy and abusive, Ellis's women are realistic and live in the real world, specifically the world in which mothers and daughters destroy and rebuild each other with everyday slights and gestures. It's subtle, something sadly lacking in most books that exploit the modern domestic relationship trope. <br>
And then there's murder. It's not a whodunit, you know the who from the first page. But it asks the much more interesting and relevant question: why. This question ("why") kept me reading and I was not disappointed. </p>
<p dir="ltr">My only complaint is pacing, something I've become all but obsessed with lately. It drags in parts and moves far too quickly in others. However, this is mainly an issue of editing and I would have liked to see what could have been done with this novel under the hand of an expert editor. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-18686475034724283612013-02-03T14:12:00.001-08:002013-02-03T14:36:02.044-08:00An exceptionally brief mid-life crisis<p dir="ltr">It's a horrible cliche: middle-age woman in her second marriage and third career decides to pursue a particular path - an adult path, an "appropriate" path, certainly not the path she wanted but one she can "live with" - and she commits to said path. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And then everything breaks down. She overreacts to normal office politics and administrative ass-fuckery, she becomes withdrawn and uncommunicative, and in an impressive example of psychosomatic resistance she comes down with a stomach flu and ends up in bed for four days. She's not unhappy; she's miserable. She's trapped and depressed and starts to isolate and she thinks her life is a giant out-of-control lie.  </p>
<p dir="ltr">Now here's where it starts to get... if not <i>good</i>, then at least <i>better</i>, more specific. Husband #2, being frighteningly adept at reading her sometimes mercurial moods, though she tries her best to hide these things, says to her "something feels off, I think we need to get the hell outta Dodge for a while." They plan a weekend trip. Several destinations are discussed but they decide on- correction: <i>she</i> decides on the town in which she felt most like herself, the last place she felt completely whole and (though she cringes at the term) "fully realized." </p>
<p dir="ltr">When they get there she is reminded of all of this, of how she felt the first time she spent any significant length of time in a community of like-minded people. Back then she felt, if not <i>happy</i>, then the absence of an overwhelming sadness that she had not noticed until it was missing. In the absence of this sadness she realized that she could never go back to it. She scrapped her old life and started a new one, a better one, a happier and more complete one. It was hard but it was good. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And now, in the present, she walks with Husband #2 to all the places she remembers herself. She goes to the locations of (unironic) Major Life-Changing Decisions. She sees signs of her past self, her real self, everywhere. Literal signs. It's awful and heavy-handed and part of her rolls her eyes at how <i>obvious</i> it all is. She is sad and desperate and wants to change her name and run from The Wrong Path. She falls apart. Husband #2, who calls her on her shit better than anyone she has ever known, who is not afraid of her anger or her tendency to withdraw, who tells her to knock that shit off because he's on to her and knows what's she's trying to do and she's not fooling him... tells her to start being honest with herself and him. So she is. And the world starts to feel right again.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She's not good at being honest with herself but she's much worse at trying to live a life that doesn't feel right. She is, quite frankly, awful at being an appropriate adult and doing appropriate adult things and would much rather spend her days thinking and writing about books and writing. She has always been this way; she prefers books to people. She prefers books to sleep, food, sex, drugs, children, husbands, breathing. She prefers books.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And now she feels like Bartleby and will call The Arbiters of The Wrong Path and tell them she'd rather not continue on that path but rather to pursue The Right Path. The Only Path. And she realizes, at last, that there was never really any question, the choice had already been made years ago. This is her One True Thing and she has grown tired of trying to make it be something else. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And while she feels foolish that she again tried to deny what is obvious to herself and to everyone else, she does take some small pleasure in the fact that hers was, perhaps, the most succinct and efficient midlife crisis in history. This small pleasure is of course diluted by the sudden bitter realization that she likely could have successfully angled for some kind of murdered-out souped-up V12 Hemi-powered muscle car in the process. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Fuck. Maybe I should try that again.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-17866559150367594082013-01-31T21:36:00.001-08:002013-02-03T16:44:59.082-08:00Review: A Friend of the Family (Lauren Grodstein)<p dir="ltr">I will try my best not to lapse into hyperbole. To say I liked this book, that this book is good, is not sufficient. </p>
<p dir="ltr">This books tricks you. You think it's about a young woman who seduces the son of a middle-aged Jewish doctor living in New Jersey. She's troubled, Dad disapproves, conflict ensues. And on the surface it is but Grodstein gives us so much more than that. She gives us a novel of obsessive parental love, in particular the love of Peter Dizinoff (the aforementioned doctor) for his son Alec. The primary problem is Peter's refusal to see his son as an adult. He orchestrates every major decision in his son's life and the twenty-one year old Alec is, understandably, resistant to this.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's a slow build from reasonably concerned father to completely control freak. Peter is sympathetic and his evolution (devolution) is believable. The story is tense and subtle, Grodstein's prose is carefully crafted and precise. It was, in almost every way, one of the most satisfying and enjoyable novels I've read in years.</p>
<p dir="ltr">My only issue with Grodstein's novel is the weirdly hands-off presence of Elaine Dizinoff, Alec's mother and Peter's wife. She is, at times, a strong influence in her family but when her husband and son start to rip each other apart she stands back and observes. It doesn't feel natural. Writing Elaine this way may have been convenient for the narrative but it rings false. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Clearly the Elaine Issue was small enough to overlook because the first thing I did after finishing the book... I downloaded her first novel ("Reproduction is the Flaw of Love"). Review soon to come.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-32354739868893480162013-01-31T21:21:00.003-08:002013-01-31T21:23:13.651-08:00Review: Sin (Josephine Hart)<p dir="ltr">Josephine Hart's "Sin" was the most inconsistent and frustrating book I've read in a long time. Brilliantly spare and concise, Hart's prose was (at times) surprisingly good. She drops these perfect little phrases throughout the text but she won't let them lie! For lack of a better term, she doesn't "leave the power with the punch." I found myself wanting to smack her and yell "WHY?! Why did you keep going? Leave it alone. If was perfect the way it was." The text becomes an aggravating pattern of tiny explosive phrases intermixed with these purple prose-y unnecessary expository crap. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But while the writer-me was gritting my teeth through page after frustrating page, the therapist-me was wiggling with excitement at the best literary depiction of antisocial personality disorder I have <b>ever</b> read. In Ruth, Hart has created character that is both relatable and completely alien. The reader identifies with her jealousy, her rage, her desire to destroy the epitome of what she is not and can not have. But her nearly complete lack of empathy and feeling towards her "family" is disturbing and, to most people, hopelessly depressing. </p>
<p dir="ltr">From a clinical point of view Hart's novel is nearly perfect. From a literary point of view (and one must necessarily judge all fiction from this point of view) Hart's novel fails. Not miserably but it still fails. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It's not successful. </p>
<p dir="ltr">At all. </p>
<p dir="ltr">[Yeah, I did that on purpose.]</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-35043307484465562822013-01-23T18:56:00.001-08:002013-01-25T17:11:07.608-08:00Review: In the Land of the Long White Cloud (Sarah Lark, trans. DW Lovett) <p dir="ltr">I did not expect to like this book. It's a 700 page "sweeping epic" [said with the requisite eye roll] promising small-r romance and more than you'd ever want to know about sheep farming in late 1800s New Zealand. In other words, over 700 reasons for me not to read this book. But I have a fascination with New Zealand (the impact of colonialism on native cultures, in particular) and I'm a sucker for any kind of Big Adventure. Strong female characters + Adventure = why not?!</p>
<p dir="ltr">The good: the novel starts strong, the characters are interesting and (for the most part) realistic, and the plot is compelling. While the writing is, at times, clunky and a bit overblown but this may be the fault of the translator. I was more than willing to overlook a few linguistic inconsistencies and head-scratchers because the meat of the story was strong. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The bad: they're in rural New Zealand in the 1880s on a sheep farm but never a single mention of the bug bites, the mud, the shit? For the sake of small-r romance (no one wants to get it on in a barn that is swarming with flies and smells like dung... not sexy), Lark unintentionally traipsed into the land of capital-R Romantic literature and this is where she lost me. Like bad Romantic literature, everything in this novel was too clean. The farms, the houses, the children, the story. Even the "war" between Maori and the colonists is a bloodless short-lived thing. Lark wraps everything up too neatly and it's all a bit too coincidental: the deaths, the marriages, the births, all of it. </p>
<p dir="ltr">All that said, I don't know if I'd be thrilled to spend another 700 pages in Lark's New Zealand but I could see myself trying out other of her work should translations become available.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-44016777170665119592013-01-11T22:31:00.001-08:002013-01-11T22:32:54.660-08:00Review: Fatal Vision (Joe McGinniss)<p>Maybe I'm setting myself for disappointment but ever since reading Truman Capote's In Cold Blood I've been looking for its modern-day equal. Midnight in  The Garden of Good and Evil came close but slightly missed the mark. I was cautiously optimistic when I read a description of Fatal Vision describing it as "a true-crime classic." It became clear very quickly that I was in for another disappointment. </p>
<p>The journalistic ideal of remaining objective and keeping the writer out of the story is necessary in short form and hard news reporting but in longer works it creates an unnatural distance between the reader and the story and a linguistic frigidity that leaves the prose feeling awkward and clunky. In Fatal Vision the absence of the writer-voice is noticeable to the point of being unsettling. </p>
<p>Furthermore McGinniss, like many true-crime writers, relies far too heavily on investigative and court transcripts leaving large sections of the text unedited, dull, and stylistically incongruent. The reader never connects with the killer, the victims, or the investigators. The story feels like it's being told by a dispassionate omnipotent narrator, the proverbial god who doesn't care. And if the writer can't be bothered to care, why should the reader? </p>
<p>Before In Cold Blood I had written off true-crime as drugstore counter trash. Surely no good prose could be wrapped in glossy salacious packaging with raised bubbles promising "26 Pages of Crimes Scene Photos!" And unfortunately Joe McGinniss does nothing to change this perception. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-62097510347278842122013-01-06T10:49:00.000-08:002013-01-06T10:49:35.037-08:00Review: The Voice of Our Shadow ( Jonathan Carroll)<div>
This didn't work for me. In fact, it just doesn't work at all. Ghost story, love story, bildungsroman... it is unclear what Carroll was trying to accomplish but he was not successful on any of those levels. It worked on only one level and I will get to that briefly. </div>
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My main complaint is the clunky, wooden, ridiculous dialogue. No one talks like this, no one has <b>ever </b>talked like this. No one has ever called their illicit lover "Sporty" or "Champ." At times the dialogue actually harms the story due to its wild inappropriateness in context. An example: our protagonist interrupts a violent sexually motivated assault and manages to extract a (previously unknown) female character from the situation. Her response? "Gee, what part of heaven did you say you came from?" She then insists he spend the night in her apartment... because it is a well-known fact that women who have just been sexually assaulted feel safer with strange men sleeping in their homes. Yeah...</div>
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The novel changes tone about two-thirds of the way through which makes the ending feel forced and completely implausible (even more so than the aforementioned scene). The author's intent for the ending is clear albeit somewhat obvious, but he executes so poorly the reader is left rolling their eyes and muttering "that's it?!" </div>
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However, I said this novel works on one level and it does: as an extended love letter to Vienna. The city becomes the most intriguing and well-developed aspect of the story and feels more like an authentic character than any sentient (or non-sentient) being. Carroll's descriptions of the city are thoughtful and original and one is left with a better understanding of Vienna, and Austria in general. </div>
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If Carroll could put that amount of care and attention into his dialogue and storytelling, he'd be onto something. </div>
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[<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/490053783">Review </a>on Goodreads]</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127657233397937623.post-74313283730446685812012-12-31T13:12:00.001-08:002012-12-31T13:12:52.916-08:00Who's Raoul?The best two pieces of advice I have ever received have both come from writers I am lucky enough to have studied under. They were specifically about writing, but my brain has smooshed them into a shape that allows them to be about life in general.<div>
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1. When a fellow student asked about page length for an assignment, Phil Heldrich answered "start at the beginning, write what needs to be said and when you get to the end... stop." Later I found out that like all great writers, he stole this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XD3dcGUUPAU">tidbit of genius</a> and made it his own. Smart man. </div>
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2. I was in my Masters program at Goddard College, over-thinking a section of a short story I was working on it. My advisor, Michael Klein, finally got fed up with me and said "fiction's not that fucking complicated, if you need to get Raoul into the elevator, just get Raoul into the goddamned elevator!" </div>
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The latter has become, for me, a mantra of sorts. When I over-think things, when problems seem far too tangled, when I start to question everything, I remind myself that life is not that fucking complicated and that I need to just get the metaphorical Raoul into the proverbial elevator. In writing, at work, in parenting, in relationships, in life... it just needs to get done. Stop thinking; do shit.</div>
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I need a place to think out loud. This is it. Meet Raoul. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15924157567071929042noreply@blogger.com1