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There's no way around it, for me.
If I'm going to write a scene that contains an argument, I have to literally be both Jeckyll and Hyde. And sometimes, that takes a long time.
And God, is it ever exhausting.
Last night, already feeling somewhat emotionally compromised from the events of my day, I sat down to write. ('Cuz I'm masochistic like that, 'yo.) I've become rather fond of using StoryMill software, which is simply a neat n' tidy file cabinet and thought organizer for scatterbrained wanna be authors. Like me.
I clicked on the little tab that contains all my "to-do" notes for my novel, and there it was, clear and emotionless:
This is a reality scene for us underdogs, everywhere.
Are you the nice person in your office, your school, your family? You know, the doormat? The one that works, slaves, pours out passion, only to be undervalued, misunderstood, or seen as the dutiful, well-oiled cog that you are?
Then buy my novel when it's published. You'll relate to every page.
But that's beside the point.
The point, dear Polly Purebreds, is that the Dali Lama is so right: The most natural state of the human being is happiness.
Argumentativeness is hard. Really hard. It burns like way too many calories. Negativity, like erosion, takes years to develop, but once you've realized what peacefulness is really like, you're amazed at how twangy and tense those shoulder muscles have been all this time.
I was channeling Lydia and Jacqueline last night in a wild do-si-do that wiped my already emotional mind into a sopping gravy of a mess. Maybe that's because I was also thinking of what it might be like to be a participant in a cat-fight, and wow. No thanks. I'll keep my extra y chromasome, thank you, and all that it packs with it.
I would have one antagonist fire a passive-aggressive volley, only to have to readjust my chi to have the other dodge, parry, adjust, and refire, only after carefully posturing herself for maximum impact.
Truly, I'm a lovable little fuzzball. I have been my whole life. My industry doesn't cater to us dust bunnies. Too much time in the political crucible will start to take all those soft edges and rough 'em up somethin' terrible. I know this from decades of experience.
And now, I've decided to write about it, no...I've decided to be that on the page, through various voices.
What am I, nuts?
But the dialogue must go on...
This is Tiger and his wife during happier times. That was before Woods crashed into a fire hydrant and his wife was rumored to have caused the accident by beating on his car with a golf club. How ironic? The very tool that makes him millions is the same tool used to bring his private and possible public downfall. No doubt ratings will probably go up for his golf matches. But will those Billions in endorsement dollars continue? Tiger begs for privacy in during this embarrassing moment in his life. But does he deserve privacy? He makes a multitude of bucks off of his public appeal. But the real question is-Will the idealistic public forgive him for being human? Less than the god that they glorified him to be?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYBF3HKzrmE
New Moon, the second movie based on the Twilight series is one of the worst movies I've ever seen. Trust me this is not Underworld: Vampires vs. Werewolves for teenagers. Instead, this movie is immoral brainwashing for young adults and teenagers. The subtle and/or explicit themes of statutory rape, suicide, murder, vengeance, love and lust are disturbing.
The movie continues at a slow pace, with a couple of fight scenes between vampires and werewolves. Meanwhile, the heroine engages in high-risk activities, such as riding a motorcycle at full speed for her first ride, cliff diving, begging to become a vampire, and switching back and forth between love interests. Not to mention, her complete disrespect for her father's love and truancy laws for high schoolers by disappearing for 3 days without notice.
Wow this is NOT a movie that I want young girls to see. The heroine is this movie makes dumb, inconsiderate and selfish decisions. Yet, this damsel in distress is guarded and protected by a multitude of people and/or supernatural creatures because she's "special". Ridiculous movie and it's a MUST NOT SEE...EVER!!!
Within the past few weeks, Medina has been pressing the class to go deeper with our writing. The first couple assignments were reactions pieces or poems/prose we were to construct based on artwork by an African-American artist we individually choose. There was an "I Am From..." assignment where we have to look within and create a piece illustrating where we are from and then there was the one due today; the soundtrack of your life.
When the "soundtrack" assignment was given, immediately I thought back to the tag line I created for my blog years ago.
"A Melody In Search of a Lyric."
How convenient this would come to mind? At the first opportunity I got I wrote down: I'm a melody. Everyone that enters my life one way or another is a lyric...creating a neverending bittersweet symphony.
The whole weekend I pondered over it more. Eventually last evening I sat down and began listening to music. Somehow Alicia Keys' latest single "Doesn't Mean Anything," struck a cord that caused my thoughts to flow. I began writing. What I ended up with I presented in class.
In Search Of….
By: Mahoganie Jade Browne
A melody in search of a lyric.
Deaf to the harmony already rumbling in the background.
Blind to the words facing her.
A Bittersweet Symphony she was escaping.
“We got your sex and your violence. Melody and Silence.”
Being a Soulful Moaner, she wailed.
Most times out of a lustful fit that soothe the pain.
Other times out of the need to be.
Always looking to others to write her song; from Donnie crooning on about A Song For… “Her” to taking on the Shapeshifter’s Theme to Lola and rewriting it Blackveleteen’s Theme knocking off Lenny.
It’s just as Springsteen and Manfred Mann’s Band said, she was Blinded By The Light.
A melody in search of a lyric.
Stumbling onto a blank score.
Unknowingly setting the time signature to a never ending composition.
From six-eight to four-four.
From the blue note to the highest praise pitch.
Perhaps rococo
Never a strophic.
Vivid rhythms conjuring faces.
Attracted to the distinct flow.
Co-writing the symphony of her life.
The room fell silent for a minute and then heads nodded in agreement. I could tell everything was thinking, but didn't know what to say. Medina cut the silence by asking me to read it backwards.....
Co-writing the symphony of her life.
Attracted to the distinct flow.
Vivid rhythms conjuring faces.
Never a strophic.
Perhaps rococo
From the blue note to the highest praise pitch.
From six-eight to four-four.
Unknowingly setting the time signature to a never ending composition.
Stumbling onto a blank score.
A melody in search of a lyric.
It’s just as Springsteen and Manfred Mann’s Band said, she was Blinded By The Light.
Always looking to others to write her song; from Donnie crooning on about A Song For… “Her” to taking on the Shapeshifter’s Theme to Lola and rewriting it Blackveleteen’s Theme knocking off Lenny.
Other times out of the need to be.
Most times out of a lustful fit that soothe the pain.
Being a Soulful Moaner, she wailed.
“We got your sex and your violence. Melody and Silence.”
A Bittersweet Symphony she was escaping.
Blind to the words facing her.
Deaf to the harmony already rumbling in the background.
A melody in search of a lyric.
Almost in unison the class let out whispers of excitement and approval. Even I couldn't hide the fact that the words were more like me... a bit abstract, yet a bit transparent. A living metaphor.
It took everything within me not to cry in their presence. My life.. plain as day...
For the first time, I have heavily censored a post. I am strongly pro-1st Amendment, and it doesn't sit right with me to do this. But there is no resolution of this situation that is going to make anyone feel better, so I have decided to respect the wishes of my friend's family and redact the post I wrote about my reaction to my friend's suicide.
It’s taken me long hours to convince myself that this family member’s not-so-veiled threat of litigation over something in which s/he has no rights needs to be translated. This translation should read: “I am in unimaginable pain, and if you do this for me, there’s a chance that the pain might be a little more bearable for today.”
I have been telling myself that compassion for the living is more important than a memorial for the dead. That whatever it is I’m feeling is just a drop in the tsunami of tragic feelings her family is dealing with. Any unkind thing I say to them now will be carried for the rest of their lives, and it can’t be taken back next week after I’ve cooled off. I keep telling myself this, but I still feel raw about it.
Per their request, I am removing almost every detail about her in my post, which makes the whole post quite ironic when read in context. Also at the family’s request, I am removing a heart-felt poem written by her which was posted in the comments section by someone who loved her. It is full of despair and beautifully touching. It is my understanding that this poem was published on the Internet. I firmly believe that a writer who publishes her poem would want it read, felt, and appreciated for as long as possible…
…which brings me right back to the mantra of “Compassion for the living is more important than a memorial for the dead, goddammit.”
Susan Ee
www.feraldream.com
I stopped posting to my blog when something shocking and personal happened, and I didn't know whether it was right to post it for the world to read or not. On the one hand, a woman cutting herself off from her friends and committing suicide in a rented attic seemed deeply private. On the other hand, no one knowing about her life and death just seemed wrong. It bothered me that no one would use the word “suicide” and that people suddenly only talked about her in a circular way, as if tacitly suggesting that she never existed.
I ended up not posting about it. But then I couldn't really pretend it didn't happen and post about happy events. Hence the long break from my blog.
She was a beautiful person and a
beautiful writer.
[--EDIT NOTE: There used to be a paragraph here that described what she was like and my fond memories of her. But her family has requested that I delete it. Everything I deleted for them from the original post is indicated by --DELETED--. For ruminations on why I agreed and my feelings about this, see Jane Doe's Suicide Post--]
No one seems to know what happened. [-- DELETED--] had a brief memorial service for her but I heard that it turned into a discussion of people wondering what happened.
I did a search for her on the net. There's a mention of her publication in a respected literary magazine, and her name is listed as a volunteer on [--DELETED--]. And that's it. No obituary or any mention of her existence. It's sad to think that this is the most any of you will know about her. She was one of those special people worth knowing...
Susan Ee
www.feraldream.com
This month is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The challenge is to write 50,000 words during the month of Nov. I dove in immediately after the World Fantasy Convention. The great people I met at the convention must have inspired me because I've been on fire since then. I'm writing at a record-breaking speed for me. Yesterday was my most productive day at 3,700 words. That's a long way from the 1,000 word glass ceiling I used to live under.
I'm off to LA tomorrow for a filmmaking seminar so I needed to meet my 25,000 word goal for Sunday by today. Good thing I'm deadline driven. I'm now at 25,349 words. Yay!
Now if I can just keep myself from being distracted by my lust for a new netbook, I'll have a very rough draft of a novel to work with by mid-Dec. I'm keeping my fingers crosssed.
Seeing Helga at the Museum
(for Andrew Wyeth)
In the valley of flickering lights
dancing – fireflies – tumbleweed of the sky
drift among gas nebula – angel-tossed
Cable cars – like horned beast pass by
in the city of lights and fog –
Lusty Lady – All Clothing 100% off –
neon-glows the sign – my son has found
a numerical pattern in the blinks
We are here to see Wyeth's Lady
clothed and unclothed – Helga in her incarnations
The waiter wears Groucho Marx eyebrows and glasses
Hear the sound of over fifty spoons and forks
the chatter of a crowd – my children's voices
We saw Helga floating on crushed velvet –
a black night sea
Little fish of light swam her body tide-pools
Her knees were raw – red from the winter
We saw her in her Austrian cape coat
standing for hours in the snow
We saw her with her braids – the nape of her neck naked
where spine joins brain in – Halleluja –
a white triangle exposed – holy peephole
We saw her smile lines and knew she smiled often
her blue eyes – like a slip of horizon over wild grass
and her hair – you could feel it – the oils – the texture
the softness – the neatness in those braids
We went home in dark and rain
the autumn trees lit our path
every leaf
a flame
in a lantern
Lucy Simpson, Seattle, 10/15/2009
I have read what I consider the top three Vampire Romance/Mystery book series that are out there. My Vampire interest was recently acquired through the Twilight series by Stephanie Meyer, however I searched for a more adult approach on the subject matter and this is what I recommend.
