Wicked Writer
  • Robin Winter's Tales
    • Wiccan Child
    • Cult Following
  • Screenplays
    • Helen Hires a Hitman
    • Chippy and the Pink Balloon
    • Ubiquitous Indignities
    • Modern Persecution
    • Consumed
  • Chippy and the Pink Balloon
  • First Three Chapters Free
  • Review

Lists #1 The Dark Corner of Publishing

12/28/2013

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Publicity and Promotion: I am supposed to publicize my novel -- write a blog, do virtual book tour, network, yada yada yada. I would like to have a successful book that reaches millions of readers and pays for my children's private school and college education (or at least pays off my credit card debt), however if I continue on this path of self-promotion I might as well sell my soul because that is how awful it feels. So I'm not going to do that anymore. I fully accept the consquences. I'll probably continue with the blog, though. Like Naoko in A Tale for the Time Being, I find it fun to imagine the reader on the other side.  Unrelated to personal ambition, it gives me enormous pleasure to imagine a Ruth Ozeki smiling at my hopes and insecurities as she reads along. After all, I really am a sixteen year old schoolgirl at heart.  Update: Check this out!  As I was searching for an image to go with this blog, I found this guy, Sean Beaudoin.  He even uses the hell analogy, but it looks like he's a bit better about doing what he has to do in spite of hating it. I feel a little less alone right now...

Critics: I really am fearful of criticism. I went through extraordinarily, high-pressure criticism when I was in acting school (I know, that was another life -- I'll talk about that later -- or maybe never).  I handled the terrifying presence of a six foot five inch director doing his best to humiliate me -- but that was acting.  My writing is quite another story.  My writing really is like... my soul in code. I made choices with Dark Corner that I knew very well were not the ones I should make -- I think I said this before -- but I just couldn't choose a word that would be in the vocabulary of a typical seventh-grader when I had at my disposal a word that fit perfectly.  I did not write for my intended audience as much as I wrote for the story itself. I simply had to serve the story, and if that means a kid has to highlight a word on his tablet and look it up, then so be it! I made decisions that leave me open to criticism, nevertheless I want to hear good things. That goes back to my perpetual immaturity; I want to live in a world of lollipops and rainbows.

The Adventures of Robin Wingfield (Volume 2): If I keep thinking about marketing, self-publishing, and critics, then when will I write the next novel?  I've been spending precious hours of my life trying to figure out how to get people to read Dark Corner. I could have written several chapters by now. Maybe I won't even publish it, but the story is there (at least the outline) and I think Robin deserves to move on from Dark Corner. Perhaps I'll never have even a hundred readers, but my son and daughter will have the whole story. Priorities?

Why do I feel compelled to publish this series?
I think the answer is the same reason that I wanted to be an actor at some point.  I do want attention.  I crave an audience.  I love to express my thoughts and opinions.  And yet -- and here is the contradiction -- I am about as introverted as a person can be.  I find other people absolutely terrifying, yet want their admiration and attention. I often have a low opinion of myself, yet I think I am smarter than many of the extroverts I know who are mired in social muck. Daniel Radcliffe was quoted as saying that fame is "ghastly" (so British, so cute) and I think he's probably right, but part of me would like to give it a try.

Why do I feel compelled to write this series?
Herein lies a mystery of my life.  I have no idea why I need to write about Robin.  I'm sure years of psychoanalysis could tease it out.

Stay tuned for List #2 Whining and LIst #3 Appreciating


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Damage, Artistry, and Boundaries (or lack of them)

12/28/2013

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So. I wrote a blog between the last one about Christmas Goo and this one, but I don't know that I'll ever publish it because it was the whiniest crap in the history of whiny crap. So, I probably never will publish it.  It will just sit there in my draft file being whiny.  The day after I wrote it, I heard the author Pat Conroy on public radio.

Before I go on let me just say that I think if a person is a bit shaky and depressed, a sure way to sink down deeper is public radio.  The line-up of world news (always chock-full of atrocities against humanity), discussions of religion, culture, and the environment, and interviews with successful artists is the perfect recipe for suicidal ideation. Okay, yes, that's an exaggeration, but I do love to be dramatic.

Anyway, back to Pat Conroy.  Now, I did read two of his novels and I saw the film Prince of Tides but all that is beside the point. For those of you who do not know anything about him, I hesitate to describe him in a sentence or two here.  Instead, I would encourage you to look up that public radio interview or simply read some of his books.  All I will say is that he is a damaged person.  We all suffer some wounding (external and internal) as we travel through life, but his case is extreme. Like many artists, his work is influenced by his damage (I think Pat might say that the word "influenced" is an understatement).

Personally, I just found it interesting that on a day when I was driving around feeling ridiculous because I had written that (unpublished) blog entry, I found Pat Conroy somewhat comforting -- as comforting as a person can be who is so deeply damaged and vulnerable that he is (say the blue words slowly) broke open (and yes, I mean to say "broke"). 

I keep my comparatively small damage disguised and unpublished. (I'll probably share most of it eventually, but only via fictional character). Pat is different; he dives into it, experiences it, shares it, creates with it -- and his is big damage.

Following that interview, I feel like I know him. I did know a man who was like him, but he did not have the financial and commercial success of Conroy. His name was Hershel (he died of cancer years ago) and he was brilliant, but he never did find a creative outlet to express his pain. He was wide open to other human beings in a way that I could never be. You would think that great suffering in an individual's formative years would make him closed off to others; maybe that is true for some, but not for my friend Hershel -- not for Pat Conroy.

Pat said something else that struck me. He said something to the effect of "Writer's are mean."  Gee. I do think of myself as a writer -- not successful, of course -- but I've been writing nearly every day since I was a kid so I guess I'm a writer.  Golly. I don't think of myself as mean, but maybe I ought to rethink that? Maybe I am.  Some of my fantasies are mean, that's for sure. Generally, though, I don't think I am meaner than the average Jen.

Maybe I'm not damaged enough to be a great writer.  Maybe I'm not mean enough. I don't think that's it, though.  I just want to write fun stuff -- and for me that's stuff with serious themes -- but stuff with magic and hope.  (Now kids, don't use words like "kid" and "stuff" and don't repeat the same word over and over and over and over again)! I write about young people, and innocent people because I'm immature -- I'm absolutely sure about that.  It's not my years as a teacher; it's because I am a case of arrested development in many ways. That's a fact. I'm not bragging, and I'm not particularly upset about it.  Like my dry, white, skin and terrible eyesight, it's just a fact.

Someday maybe I'll go back to that whiny draft, punch it up, and publish it.  After all, isn't writing a blog my big opportunity to complain and pretend that someone is out there listening to my complaints and agreeing with me?
I like to imagine her (yes, in this fantasy my reader is female -- not that I wouldn't wish for millions of adoring male fans whose daily pleasure is to log in and hope that I have written some new gems to inspire them -- because I really would!) nodding her head, sympathizing, empathizing, appreciating my point of view.

At the moment, I feel inspired to read a Pat Conroy book.  I think I'll fire up the second hand Nook my daughter gave me and read
The Great Santini from 1976.

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Christmas Magic Goo

12/25/2013

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December 24, 2013

So I'm here in my TV room on Christmas Eve with a sick kid. He is sitting in the dark fiddling with a Japanese toy while my daughter is on Roblox (free time on the computer is an early Christmas gift from me). It feels strange here -- so quiet, no kids running around, no cookies being baked, not even any holiday shows.  Just darkness and quiet.

Christmas has never felt quite right to me since I left Minnesota. Here I am in PA with a similar tree, similar looking presents, and the same old songs (Ruldolph) and specials (Rudolph), but it feels wrong.  And that's a lot of years for Christmas to feel wrong.  I think a child's holiday can be imprinted on her in a similar way that imprinting works with baby animals and their mothers.  Well, first, maybe I should explain imprinting for those who might not have heard of it.

Here is a simple explanation from alleydog.com:


Imprinting: Why do chicks (baby birds...jeez) follow the mother bird and do whatever she does? The reason is that they are going through a process of imprinting, in which certain birds and mammals form attachments during a critical period very early in their lives. During this point in development, the birds are so available to form attachments, that even if there is no mother bird, or no bird at all, they may develop attachments to a substitute. For example, if you hatched several baby geese and raised them without having a mother goose around, the chicks may perceive you as the mother and imprint to you. They would follow you around, try to mimic lots of your behaviors, etc., just as if you were the mother. This is the way they learn the behaviors and characteristics of their species.

December 25, 2013

Now that I think about it, imprinting may not be quite the right word, but I would still like to use it... loosely. I have seen film of baby chicks attaching to a dog and therefore following him around and doing their best to behave dog-like.  In my own experience, my son was born, laid next to me, and he opened his eyes and stared at me.  My midwife said, "He's an old soul," because he was gazing at me so fixedly. Later, I often thought of that moment when he refused to have much to do with anyone else holding him, feeding him, or doing anything else for him.  I think he had attached to me right then and there during those first minutes of life.

Well, I am attached to Christmas in Minnesota.  My experiences of Christmas in Minnesota with my parents, aunts, uncles, and especially my cousins made a permanent mark on my psyche.  And no amount of logic can convince me that Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Chicago, or Wyoming (obviously these are states that I have since called home) could ever provide a proper Christmas.

"Home is where the heart is."

Well, no. It's not.  Minnesota is where Christmas is supposed to be.  Trying to convince me otherwise is like trying to tell one of the baby chicks that the dog is not their mother. Logic will not win the battle.

If I were in Minnesota, would it be Christmas?  Or would it feel weird?  My parents and a few other relatives are deceased.  My childhood home was sold long ago. Wouldn't I feel wrong in Minnesota too? Truthfully, I probably would.  But I would like to breathe the cold air and walk around a bit.  Maybe even walk down Nicollet Mall (do they still have the dime zone on the city bus?).

I really am past it -- the death of my parents -- and have fully faced the necessity of moving on. I have been away so, so long. Yet on Christmas, I can still feel homesick.

I do feel a bit guilty about that, because I am making wonderful memories for my own children and that is one of the true joys of parenting for me.  I just love their enthusiasm about everything to do with Christmas. I think that sitting down in our TV room to watch Elf and then A Christmas Story is absolute bliss!  It's the day itself that is a bit bittersweet, because it is no longer my special brand of Minnesota Christmas magic; instead it is John and Maddie's Pennsylvania magic.  They are children through and through (for this, I am grateful) and someday they will be feeling bittersweet because they will be somewhere else, celebrating Christmas in their own grown-up way.

I'm glad I feel this way, because I know then that I was one of the lucky ones who really did make good memories rich with both comfort and excitement, and I know that I am providing the same joy for my own children. Did I mention that I love them?

I'm self-conscious about writing this one.  I don't think it's my best.  It's just me rambling.  Not everything has to be pure inspired wisdom.  I have a right to ramble -- after all this blog is just what it is. There is no particular focus, no particular purpose.  I just find it soothing to write. In the old days, it wouldn't be part of the flotsam floating around the Internet, but lucky you! Here it is. Actually, I think this would be jetsam, because I'm going to purposely press the orange publish button and jettison it out to the Universe (and somehow in my mind that means away from me).  Reminds me of the old (New Age) "releasing it to the Universe" idea -- well here it is Universe! All my stupid, personal Christmas magic goo.

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Sucking Down a Bottle Like a Nicotine Addict with a Cigarette

12/20/2013

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The subject on my mind to write about tonight is probably the most often discussed subject on the Internet (at least from American contributors -- for a whole host of reasons including the fact that many of us are so privileged as to be able to worry about our body fat percentage in a context outside of general survival (don't be wordy kids -- don't be like me).  Oops, I have inadvertently revealed the subject.  The topic of the day (or every second of every day in some tiny area of my brain where a little, brain-damaged hamster on a wheel has never stopped spinning since I was sixteen)... is... fat.

Everyone is an expert on this, aren't they?  I know all kinds of thin people who carefully watch their weight who would love to impart their advice and wisdom.  I actually used to think that I could learn something from people like this.  And I always had these wonderful fantasies about being one of them.  Wouldn't it be so fun to be very careful, weight-conscious, and feel oh-so-incredibly superior to those who could not, or would not control themselves?  Wouldn't it be fun to make fun and feel superior?

I don't need to slam those arrogant thin people, though.  I have gone through my own arrogant phases. I think for me, the gift of parenthood has taught me humility. So many beliefs that had formed in my psyche (and seemed set in stone) before I became "Mommy" changed radically.

Let me start by explaining the basics of my personal (here I am going to mention two common terms that make me feel resentful and raw, though they are the accepted phrases) "weight problem" and "eating disorder." First of all, I can most definitely trace my troubles with food back to a mistake that my parents made with me. All those Dr. Phils out there can tell me that I am not taking responsibility, but I respectfully disagree.  Just because a person traces a problem back to parental influences does not mean she isn't taking responsibility for solving the problem. I do own an infinite number of irrational choices I have made since my first "diet."  That doesn't change the fact that misguided beliefs and inappropriate parental guidance set me up for the problem. Having said that, my feelings about societal and family pressures to be thin, the diet and fashion industry, and the unnatural developments of a multitude of food scientists have conspired together to create a raw-undeveloped-angry-teenaged-Id-thing in my psyche (Now kids, don't use the word "thing" in your writing).

I do not blame my parents for the shape of my body.  Most of us have read that a complex combination of the sciences (including psychology) create our body shapes.  For those of us who are weight conscious, studies of twins that have been reared apart show that our weights are little affected by environmental influences in childhood.  Here is a link that is worth reading: The Body-Mass Index of Twins Who Have Been Reared Apart. I do believe in scientific studies when they include very large numbers of subjects over a long period of time (longitudinal).  My professor at New School was instrumental in teaching me how to pull apart a poorly designed scientific study -- you know, "lies, damned lies, and statistics" (quote attributed to the 19th-century British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1804–1881). He also told me the Minnesota Twin Study was the real deal.

My issue with my parents was that they dieted, and they encouraged me to diet.  And that truly screwed up my natural relationship with food.  Because kids, (I know I started this sentence with "because" but in this case, it is more important that you listen to the message rather than criticizing my rule breaking and poor writing skills) -- are you listening kids?  Dieting will absolutely cause you to have a disordered relationship with food. You will not eat enough food which will make you think about food a lot (let's call this "perseveration") and eventually some illogical survival mechanism will kick in and you will probably binge on calorie-dense food and you will be caught in a hellish cycle of dieting and pigging out.  Now here I am giving advice just like those arrogant thin people who think they've got it all figured out when they haven't even spent a second living with my brain chemistry.  So, kids, go ahead and diet if you really want to, but hopefully you will remember this if you find yourself getting nowhere and suddenly having no clue how or what to eat.

I knew about the Minnesota Twin Study when I was in my twenties.  Though I knew about it, I didn't want to believe it and I kept thinking that I could find some magical key that would make me into one of those self-satisfied, health-nutty thin people.  No need to go too far into my previous decades of various attempts to fool mother nature (diets, endurance exercise, weight lifting, medication, hypnosis, etc. etc. etc.).  What I want to express here is that it was only when I had children that I truly understood that those of us who feel compelled to eat more than others are born with this quality.  By the time my children were two and three I it was obvious that there was no "off switch" in their brains when it came to simple carbohydrates. I would see a classroom of toddlers all leaving the majority of food on their plates while mine powered through every morsel.  It was obvious that my children had both inherited "it" (whatever that is, whatever I have, whatever my dad had) and that "it" made them approach a plate of food differently than the majority of other children. For me, I noticed my children's over-the-top appetites early, but not as early as another of my relatives who noticed her second born baby sucking down bottles like a nicotine addict sucks down a cigarette. That baby has the "it" gene and it has stubbornly stuck around into adulthood.

My limited knowledge of human nature makes me imagine that you're curious what I weigh, aren't you?  Do you want to know what size I am? I know you want some real numbers, but you will just have to decide for yourself.  Take a look at my headshot. Do a google search and you will find out what size I am.  Or use your imagination and put me where you want me to be. I can tell you this for sure -- I weigh less than 300 and more than 100 pounds.

Another one of my enormously, bitter resentments against my own human race is that I am always reminded of size. 
Commercials for weight loss products always show these magnificent before and after pictures with the accomplished speaking about their entire previous fat life as miserable and barely worth living. Women talk about fat, exercise, and diets constantly -- always reminding me that I should be thinking about this too and that I am delinquent because I have not yet conquered this terrible "weight problem". (In this case, it is okay to have the period after the quotation marks because I am setting off a special term).

So I have put quite a bit of effort into giving you my understanding of why people come in different shapes and sizes, and I have also whined quite a bit about society and its judgements.  What could possibly motivate me to share all this personal stuff? Well, because it is my goal to help my daughter  navigate the same treacherous world of fashion, food, and prejudice. And if anyone ever reads my blog and cares to learn from my mistakes, successes and struggles -- well I just have to share what I have learned. 



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A Facebook Share that I Just Love -- That's All

12/14/2013

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Toot! Toot! Compulsion Reads has endorsed Dark Corner

12/12/2013

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Well, I am always skeptical about anything and everything online, but I think Compulsion Reads may be the real thing.  They have just reviewed my novel, and unlike the cut rate publicity outfit I hired to do my press release, they obviously read the book.  The review was positive but not complete treacle, and along with the compliments, they shared some of the same misgivings I have.  Namely, I have written a novel for young people that has some sophisticated vocabulary (a.k.a. "big words").  My only excuse it that I waded through Harper Lee and John Steinbeck with eighth graders; in comparison my little page-turner is a walk in the park. I just couldn't trade in some of those juicy words for sixth-grade-reading-list words.  Most kids have e readers, right? It's not like they have to trudge over to an unwieldy, big, red dictionary these days.

Click here for the endorsement criteria for Compulsion Reads.

"Sort of makes you want to treat me with more respect, doesn't it?"  -- Pig Pen

And here is their review of Dark Corner along with an abbreviated response from me.

COMPULSION READS BOOK REVIEW

Until her eleventh birthday, Robin Wingfield seemed like just a normal girl. The pink Ouija board she receives at her birthday party changes everything. The board acts like a catalyst, allowing Robin to remember suppressed memories and then to channel a mysterious force known as Odin.

Robin is both scared and enthralled by the power within herself. Even as she struggles with normal middle school troubles, like how to survive a tough math class and whether to stand up for a bullied classmate, she is also learns about a new and secret psychic world.

Dark Corner is an interesting book that sets Robin up against issues that force her to mature quickly. Friends react differently to her growing powers. Some are curious, others fearful and jealous. Robin develops a profound relationship with a mentor, but she also discovers that not everyone in her Minnesota town is so open-minded about the Wiccan beliefs.

Robin is a sweet and mature protagonist, and I enjoyed watching her grown and learn to accept her special gifts. I was confused, however, about the book’s intended audience. The novel contains deep themes about religion, conservative culture, mental health and Wiccan beliefs that I think would be appropriate for young adult readers. Robin’s age, however, suggests that this book is geared toward middle grade readers. Some younger readers may struggle with the vocabulary of this book, and parents might not feel comfortable with all of the themes.

The narrative also occasionally wandered from the main action. This is most evident in the beginning of the book when I had to learn that Deer Lake doesn’t have muck before meeting Robin and watching her birthday party unfold.

Even with these issues, Dark Corner is an enjoyable and well-paced adventure. Robin and her friends are sweet companions. Young readers will be challenged to consider some important themes in the book; primarily how conservative religious ideology treats the concepts of magic and nature worship. This book may be a good conduit for conversations on this topic.



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So, here is my mature, well-thought out response. Every positive statement is of course -- right on, hit-the-nail-on-the-head, absolutely true.  Every negative statement is... well I wish I could say they were off-the-mark, but as I mentioned before, I do share some similar misgivings about Dark Corner. The confusion about the novel's intended audience is valid, because I'm thinking that though Robin is only eleven, the novel is better suited for those thirteen and over. For obvious reasons, I am reluctant to mention Harry Potter, because I believe that J.K. Rowling is a genius to be worshiped and someday we will probably find out that she is not actually from this planet.  In other words, I do not want to be compared to J.K. Rowling. I will mention Harry Potter, though, because in the first book Harry is turning eleven just like Robin, and J.K. Rowling doesn't hesitate to bring deep themes and sophisticated vocabulary into her first volume. The only part of the review that I truly take issue with is the thought that the little introduction to Deer Lake is wandering "from the main action."  Like every other author worth her salt, I borrow (and I don't mean plagiarism, kids!) from authors I admire. In the case of my little Deer Lake/baby duck opening, see the first page or two of Of Mice and Men. Finally, if some of the subject matter in my novel is controversial, then... SWEET!

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The Optimistic Introvert is Sad

12/8/2013

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It is 6:03 am and I have been up most of the night. Thanks to Mucinex D, I have been up trying to figure out introverted, online ways to publicize my book.  I have set up a giveaway via Goodreads and Paranormal Book Club. I am sitting in my family room in the dark.  My children are both sleeping down here, sick and breathing heavily.

It is at times like this -- little sleep -- sick children -- that my usually optimistic outlook takes a dive and I indulge in self-pity and "cruel, cruel world" thoughts.  Even though I have it so good.

Now it's 3:13pm the next day.  Those sick children woke up and we had a Sponge Bob viewing early morning slumber party.  The Mucinex wore off by 9:00am and fortunately it is Sunday so I rested.  Even so, I am  haunted by a melancholy about just about everything these days.  Let's blame part of it on public radio.  Every time I listen (which is often, and yes, I'll become a contributing member just as soon as I'm out of credit card debt) it's about man's inhumanity to man, or some sort of terrible, tragic, personal struggle story.  Thank God for Saturday with Click and Clack and those boring garden and cooking shows (boring to me because I don't garden (well) or cook (well).

Also to blame is the reality that my best friend from high school (and post high school roommate) is in prison for the rest of her life with no chance of parole.  And she is innocent (of murder -- that's what she's convicted of). That's a kind of special little tidbit to share, isn't it? I would rather not have such a special and unique story, though I do write about it.  As cheap therapy, of course. Now, I've been living with this for quite some time, but as time itself stretches on it is harder to bear.  What a whiner I am!  I'm not the one in prison! Her situation does haunt me, though.  How could someone like my best friend, which such sensitivity, intelligence, wit, and talent -- from my own pure, golden, Golden Valley be in prison for murder? It haunts me, because every time I go to a restaurant or an amusement park -- or anywhere -- I see a flash of her and I know where she is.  No ordering Chinese food for her. No sitting by a cozy fire on a snowy day. Nearly every moment of her day is structured; what a horror for an artist like Liz.

I carry guilt because I don't write her often enough. I'm never sure what to say.  What do I say?  I feel ridiculous catching her up on the latest family news on the outside because she will never be on the outside (barring some miracle -- please God or spirits or angels or whoever is out there wanting to do good -- make a miracle and get her out!). It is depressing to discuss the events that led up to her incarceration, and nothing can be done.  We also had not lived in the same city for years before the events that led to her arrest, so we had been out of touch, and I did not witness or confide with her regarding any of the events leading up to her downfall. I know she did not plan a murder, but when I am honest with myself, I know that she was obviously being led down a dark path by her little brother. I will never truly know how dark she became during that time. Well, the whole situation is just... depressing... so when I'm looking for a reason to be sad, there it is.

Then I start thinking about Anne Frank -- Anne herself, and Anne as a symbol of every dynamic, innocent being who has been tortured and murdered by the monsters of the world.

And domestic violence. And school shootings. And other shootings. And world history -- Currently, I'm reading Story of the World (Vol 2) by Susan Wise Bauer as part of a Fireside Academy class with my children. In a nutshell, the story of our world is violence. Some would attribute this to original sin and say that we are stuck with it -- no chance of peace.  We have always been a violent species and always will be, but I just can't think like that.  There is evolution, after all.  If an animal can evolve gills or something, can't we evolve to be peaceful and sane?

A little later down the road, maybe, huh?  Then we can all be like Hawkeye from Mash and see, really see the insanity of violence.

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"About the Author" Can't I Just Leave it Blank?

12/6/2013

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Every time I have to fill in one of those "Author Bio" sections when listing my novel on the various book sites, I feel utterly foolish. Isn't there a chance that readers might like my book better if they didn't know too much about my writing experience?  Specifically, wouldn't a fan of YA books rather not know that I was an English teacher?  Wouldn't they be better off not knowing that my previous work was writing content (sample essays, revisions, and writing advice) for a software company? Will they be impressed by my stellar teacher-test scores?  I know I am, but will they care?  I doubt it. My author bio is not cool. I put all the cool stuff in the novel, so can't I just leave it blank?

Maybe I should discuss my other creative works
-- Modern Persecution (the play; the screenplay) that are in my office gathering dust -- unpublished and untested -- or the novel I wrote as a teenager following the death of my parents (that work is reasonably well written but it was more about personal catharsis and development than page turning).  I can take my cue from J.K. Rowling and discuss my childhood writing efforts (she wrote about a bunny; I wrote about a thunderstorm).

I know I'm contradicting myself, of course, because here I am writing a blog revealing "...all the stupid things I've done during the day. And all the hours in between when I do all those stupid things..."
(You're A Good Man Charlie Brown by Clark Gesner, from the comic strip by Charles Schultz). (Charles went to high school with my dad, by the way). Part of me would like to be more like Sean Penn. About a million years ago, he did a film (which I love) called Racing with the Moon. He wanted his character to be... pure, so he refused to do publicity for the film.  He didn't want the actor, Sean, to get in the way of the character, Hopper. The result was not great for the fate of the film; his character remained pure, but no one saw the film.  I only saw it on VHS when a high school friend of mine (a guy who was pretty much the real life embodiment of Hopper) insisted I see it. Elizabeth McGovern was in the film.  I think she learned a lot (Kids, good writers don't use "a lot") about the value of publicity and perhaps the better lesson -- never take advice (or get romantically involved with) Sean Penn. 

Sean is pretty cool, though, isn't he?  Even now that he's old (fragment!). Maybe in my next life I could be cool like that.  Not this one. And that's part of the problem with those author bios. I'm not Sean Penn.

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To All People I Know: You are Forbidden to Read My Blog

12/2/2013

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I must admit that my writing is currently deeply influenced by A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki (and a little bit by Jim Gaffigan). If you, whoever you are, (just let it flow, kids; don't worry about the who/whom problem) haven't read it, a good chunk of it is a fictional diary about a suicidal teenager living in Japan.  She writes to one imaginary "you" and wonders what sort of person is reading her diary.  She wonders who would have any interest in the self-absorbed musings of a teenager. 

Well, I for one was very interested. I imagine that she feels guilty about her true desire -- that someone thoughtful and kind might read her diary and care about her.

I guess I'm like her. I have this immature fantasy that someone special will find my blog and realize that I am a unique, amazing, and special person.  That person will have great clout or magical powers, and their interest in my diary will not only validate all the self-absorbed stuff I plan to write about, it will also make me truckloads of money.  Now is my moment to feel guilty for my truly immature and weakly formed character.

Isn't that what the series Twilight is all about?  I admit that I only read the first book but there was one theme in it that I'm certain was the key to its success.  Sexy, other-worldly, unique, amazing man-creature sees the extraordinary, special, beautiful, and unique nature in an ordinary high school girl.  Don't we all feel like that girl? Unless we are celebrities or narcissists, don't we all believe we are undiscovered gems -- and if only a supernatural vampire would come along,
he would see past our glasses, or our plain faces, or our fat, or our flat chests (if we are female), or our average IQs to the deep, unique, spiritual beauties that we really are?

What I personally do not want is for people I actually know to read this blog.  Which of course is beyond my control because I have consciously decided to be transparent and give up nearly all rights to privacy.  I don't want people I know to read my blog, because l
am -- like most people -- an intense, glowing, bubbling volcano of contradictions.  Friends and family should not know about all the opposing forces wandering around in my Id, so unfortunately I will have to censor myself to some extent.  Show some self control.

Here is
comes another fantasy.  My millions of adoring fans and readers have a special password that they can only get by proving that they don't know me or anyone associated with me.  Then, I could write with true abandon.

Either way, I plan to come close.
(Don't you know that commas are out of style)?

I once dated this guy from Northwestern University (not my husband).  His ex-girlfriend
was a dancer from Minneapolis.  He mentioned that he had seen her in a modern dance production and that the performance was "nothing more than masturbation."  Harsh.  I hope he doesn't read my blog.


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An Introvert Takes a Staycation (also known as "Home Alone")

12/1/2013

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Does eating pasta make a person's brain sluggish?  I just ate vodka penne (from Feasta Pizza -- WOW is that stuff great!) and I feel very comfortable, but slower than usual.  My brain moves too fast often, so it feels kind of nice.  It's difficult to explain -- it's not that my brain moves fast in the way that I can do high level math -- it is more of a sense that I'm always rushing.

Anyway, that is not the topic of the moment.  Here is the big news!  I am home alone -- well, just me and Bunny the Dog.
Those of you familiar with the reality of homeschooling will understand what a rare event this is for me.  I am with my children almost all the time.  And though they are attractive and charming and I love them with all my heart -- everybody needs a break now and then.  Homeschooling parents' breaks are few and far between.  Of course, it's not just one-sided.  I'm sure my children need a break from me as well.  After all, I'm an authority figure times two.

So, here I am eating my pasta with no one bothering me for a bite (not even Bunny at the moment) and watching a scary movie (my husband does not watch horror moves, so this is quite a rare event) so you can imagine that it's fun! After the movie (House at the End of the Street*), I'll read
my book in peace and maybe a starch-induced nap!

With the success of the book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain, I have been thinking often of my introverted nature.  I haven't read the book yet, but I have several thoughts about the subject.  I'm an expert.  I've been living my whole life as one. 

Of course, with self-publishing my novel, many of the pressures I have felt to be more social are back again.  Who am I to expect that my book with all its little letters all spelling out all its little words and all its little sentences and all its little paragraphs to stand alone without me there to knock on people's hands and shake their doors and be a proper salesman?!?!?!


I don't like knocking on hands and shaking doors.  I want to stay home and write on my computer. If I do have to go out and see people, it's going to take mental energy.  So, I've been thinking that this blog (right here!) is my way of being an extrovert (they spelled it extravert in my graduate psych classes at the New School).   I am reaching out to people.  I am voicing my opinions..  I am revealing my personality assets and defects. I am OPENING UP.

My introversion has it's own special flavor.  I have always been comfortable speaking in front of groups in a formal way.  That has never been a problem for me.  It is those informal gatherings with little groups of people (like parties, holidays, etc) that I find abhorrent.  Who will I talk to?  What will I say? What horrible, offensive, twisted, nasty, judgmental proclamation will some social moron manage to spout? What horrible, offensive, twisted, nasty, judgemental response might make it's way out of my penne-vodka-hole?

So, I have never like parties. People drink alcohol to loosen up socially, and that just doesn't work for me.  This is because I have some weird intolerance to alcohol. I can't get more than half a glass of anything down, so I don't think that's enough to
do the trick.  Don't get me wrong.  Sometimes I go to parties and have fun.  I plan to leave early and I end up staying a long time.  It all depends upon the personality mix, and that is unpredictable.  That is why I would prefer not to take the risk.

I really have a lot (Kids, don't use "a lot" in your writing) to say about being an introvert.  Maybe I can make this into a little series.  Here would be some of the topics: Why I don't have a close girlfriend to share secrets with; Why I don't share secrets with my husband; Whom (is that right?  is that when I'm supposed to use whom? would some better grammar expert let me know?)  I do share secrets with and why; Why I am not a "joiner" and will never, ever, ever-ever-ever (for the never-ever-ever-ever - thanks to Mr. Rupert at Prince Martial Arts Academy in Bridgewater, NJ)
be a member of any specific religion -- not Christian, Pagan, Wiccan, Buddhism -- none of it; why I am extremely reluctant to get to know people (this one will be full of shock, betrayal, and surprise); and why I just love, love, love people from a safe distance like a screen or a classroom.

In one of them, maybe I'll reveal the inspiration for the character of Celia in Dark Corner.  The psychologists (amateur and professional) will relish making connections between my "Celia" and my intimacy issues.  Stay tuned.

*
I should have looked at the Rotten Tomatoes reviews for House at the End of the Street. Eight percent fresh. And I do agree that it was rotten.  Oh well. I didn't invest any money.  It is on Netflix Instant Streaming.  I was thinking it might be like a Jodie Foster movie that fascinated me when I was a kid.  It was called The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane. Now that was fun viewing (in a sick, scary kind of way).

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