For the record

I posted my new story this morning...and I haven't had one freak-out.

Okay, most of you already know about the story thing, but the no freak-out? - without a doubt a new one for me.

Just wanted to share.

Monday Night TV - some brief thoughts

Chuck
Zachary Levi is totally OM NOM NOM, and they let us know in this episode that the white Nerd Herders shirt does cover more than meets the eye. Which has nothing whatsoever to do with why I loved this episode. Not at all. Neither does the wonderful man-love occurring between Chuck and Casey. Nope. I loved this episode because I can turn off my brain and have a great time and not think I'm watching something mindless because it's smarter than your average brainless show. Did that make any sense? Okay, so the Sarah character still bothers me, but I get her place as the idealized hot spy chick. I don't watch for her. But if you were to mention any other character besides Sarah, I would say, "Yes, I watch it to see...(Chuck, Casey!<3!, Ellie, Awesome, Lester, Jeff, and even Morgan - who sometimes bugs me)." This was the premier I have been waiting for, and I was pleased.

Heroes
This episode bothered me less, or possibly I am being sucked into the hive mind that has kept it on the air for a third season. I don't know. What pisses me off about this show is that it could be so fucking good. It could be brilliant, even, but instead it is an uneven, sometimes boring, mess that tinkers with character arcs too much for us to even continue to care about them. A few thoughts:

Sylar's two minute turn as a conflicted good guy? Made me angry because that was the best Sylar I'd seen so far. This is what they should have done with his character all along. Because for that two minutes? He was totally badass. Badass. He could have been the Batman of the series.

Hiro's storyline bores me to tears. Literally, I almost started crying I was missing so much the Hiro of season 1.

Parkman's story is the only one holding my interest for any length of time because Parkman is the only character I care about anymore.

HRG can just keep on doin' what he's doin' I love his consistency and awesomeness.

Everybody else: STOP WHINING SO MUCH. YOU HAVE SUPERPOWERS, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

The Zen of Punk

NPR finally picks up on something those of us who are already in love with Brad Warner always knew.

Stolen from Heratic

I am one quarter Irish!

Your result for The Ultimate TRUE IRISH Test...

Finn MacCool

You scored 91 Common Sense, 73 Irish Facts, and 84 Irish Soul!

I am honored to be in your presence. You know your stuff. You are Irish in your heart. You probably talk like an Irish person after a few pints. You sing the rebel songs. You drink, and probably bleed Guinness. You may have even been interned in British Prisions. You impress (or annoy) all your friends with your vast Irish knowledge. If you are a female, I am in love. If you are a male, we are brothers. We should have a pint.

Please don't forget to rate my test...

Take The Ultimate TRUE IRISH Test at HelloQuizzy

Oy Vey! Weekend!

I love those weekends that just fly by so quickly the alarm is going off and you can barely open your eyes and you're thinking, it's fucking Monday already?

That's really all I have to say on the matter. I have nothing to say about the debates, which I heard, but did not watch, because I know who I'm voting for and I know why. No debate is going to change my mind. Presidential debates only serve two purposes: 1) to reinforce your decision to vote for one person; and 2) to provide material for why you're not voting for the other. Plus, they're generally boring.

I cannot comment on any television, as I have had little time to view anything except the most recent Eureka, which I am the only person who watches, so whatever.

Oh, but I did, while listening to the debates (okay so my parents wanted to watch it and I was in the office writing and surfing and short of closing the door and turning on the music - which I won't do because I'm not in high school anymore, you know? - I had no choice but to hear it), finish my most recent story. I am very proud of it. It is also the first time in seven years I have started and completed two stories in a row, so Right on, me.

Great Googly-Moogly! Simon Pegg is all over the place right now promoting How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. The Husband has expressed an interest, so we may go see it this weekend, because...Simon Pegg. I have decided I have to see it for the dancing alone. I love the picture in this article because this is how he dresses normally, which is how he probably dressed when he was twenty-five. And as I dress the same way I did when I was twenty-five that means we're soul mates, right? Right? And no, the trailer does not make the movie look funny at all, but I'm not going expecting high cinema.

Oh, and I realized last night - well...found out is more like it - that I am batshit insane and will always, always assume you are angry at me and hate my guts if I don't hear from you on a regular basis. No, it does not matter if you have been terribly busy and haven't been near a computer because you've been searching for rare medicines in the jungle. If you don't answer that email I sent you a week ago, it's because somewhere in our very brief friendship, I did something heinously wrong and you are punishing me for it. There need be no more said about that. Just know I am aware of my own craziness.

I did this fun book meme on my livejournal. Feel free to steal.

Oh, Paul!!!

Paul Newman dies at 83.

Sad now.

Rambling, personal, possibly unwanted

Note:
This is part of a series of letters I wrote almost two years ago, when my life was so very different than it is now. I just found them, and find something in them that touches me: how, even though I was desperately unhappy at the time, I still had hope there was a solution and that it would help me.

Second Note:
For the record, I am much better. And yes, I do believe in God, if you haven't figured that out by now from previous posts.

Dear God,

Why can't I be happy?

Buddhists would say I need to let go of the expectations and idealizations I have concerning my own life. that my suffering comes from my attachment to these expectations which my life can never live up to and will never actually fulfill me.

Evangelical Christians say I am unhappy because my relationship with you is broken, probably because of Eve, and my entire life is one long journey back into your good graces.

Other Christians will point out that I am a sinner by nature - that my whole life is tainted by sin and that sin eats away at my soul. That I am constantly tempted by Satan and it is this struggle with temptation which causes my unhappiness.

I say I know very few happy atheists and that all of life is one long-ass journey to find you or someone like you. Perhaps even to touch your hand or feel we could.

I think the Jews also believe I need to make things right with you. That you are loving but displeased with me, that is why my unhappiness is caused by punishment.

I don't know if that's right or not, but it doesn't feel it. I think you are possibly up there wondering what the hell we're doing down here scurrying around trying to please you, as if we know what it is you want.

I think the Buddhists have it right in part - that I want too much.

There are brief periods in which I realize this is my life and I have no other and I just have to figure out how to be happy on my own - here and now. But sometimes that is at odds with my christian self, who feels the yearning is normal, a part of all human experience. I wish I knew.

If you have any thoughts on the matter, feel free to get in touch.

Love, D.

So...Heroes...

Can I say I hated it? No, I shouldn't. I didn't hate it. I was unimpressed. I was kind of bored. I think the character arcs are (deliberately?) predictable. Gee, is Nathan going to be tested...AGAIN? Oh looky...

Okay, you know what? I'm not gonna do it. Because right now, mine is one of millions of blogs spouting their opinions, defenses, eviscerations, and the like, of last night's episodes. And I hate being sheep. But last night, the Husband's BFF brought over Deuce the Wonder Puppy (no longer a puppy), and instead of being annoyed by all the attention she wanted, I was grateful to have a distraction from the blandness occurring onscreen.

I made a promise to the Husband that I would commit to this season (totally walked away last season before everyone else started complaining - I watch too much TV, something has to be completely fascinating to me to keep me watching), and commit I will. Most likely with several bitchy comments.

I actually had problems with Heroes from the beginning, but I liked the concept. And that's where the problems start. The idea of "concept shows" leave me a little cold. The "we're trapped on a island and weird things are happening and we can't get off and OMG and Holy Shit! is the island moving?!?" Yes, I am unafraid to be the lone geek on the planet who hates Lost.

Here's the thing with me and TV: I love it, but I don't need to be challenged by it. We live in a big complicated messy world populated by citizens who are contradictory in their equal parts frustrating and lovable ways. I live in a world that acknowledges the gray aspects of humanity daily. So I don't celebrate it on TV as some do. I know there are those who love that. Who love the open-endedness of complicated story arcs, and the way good guys aren't always heroes or heroes aren't always good guys. And I can see the appeal. These are intelligent shows that cater to adults and reflect life in subtle ways even if they take place on an imaginary island that travels through or exists outside of time.

Me? I like completeness. I like turning on a television show and knowing the main story to which I am introduced will be resolved. I like having heroes on my TV that are unrealistically good, because I don't think it's too unrealistic. For example, Eureka is about as fantasy as TV gets, but Jack Carter's Everyman is a lone True Good Guy in a sea of geniuses (genii? genium?) who have relied too much on their intellect to swim through life. Jack, who cannot think his way out of every situation, has to therefore be the one unafraid to take action. And he does so, even with reservation, because it is the right thing to do. I love Jack Carter because he represents to me why I watch TV: not to see characters acting hyper-realistic in a fantastic setting, but people acting heroically, no matter the setting.

I started watching Heroes because I wanted to see a group of people struggle and come to terms with their gifts. And I knew some of those people would be "bad guys." So for every Sylar, shouldn't there be someone- Anyone?- who is willing to be the hero? Evil characters are more interesting if they actually have a foil. Oh sure, we have Hiro ("Hiro from Heroes is the only true hero."), but he isn't Sylar's equal, and right now he's annoying the piss out of me for not realizing that events we witness in a hypothetical future aren't certain to occur because simply becoming aware of those hypothetical future events automatically changes them. Someone who teleports through time and space should know that by now. So Sylar? boring and whiny to me. Peter? So needs to pull that stick out of his ass (did the season one finale never happen?). Nathan? Okay, you can keep doing what you're doing (because you do it so well), but DO SOMETHING, for fuck's sake. Actually that last bit? Goes for all of you.

ETA 3 things: 1. Parkman thinking the turtle was talking to him? Priceless. 2. Why always the city blowing up (or whatever)? 3. Sorry I did the thing I said I wasn't going to do in para 2.

To make up for the whining, I include my pic of the day:

Deuce the Wonder Puppy (no longer a puppy)

Does it matter that I amuse myself so much?

I'm reading Bookshelves of Doom, because it makes me laugh, and think, and stuff (and she's got that cool new Alice header). And Leila is all excited because the father of 90210's Kelly Taylor's son is revealed to be *BLEEP* and I'm all, "No way she just censored that!" I do not, do not want to watch the show to find out. So what do I do? Go to Google and type out "Kelly baby daddy" while feeling a little sick, honestly. And wouldn't you know: that is exactly the phrase that is used.

Stuff and stuff

HAHAHAHA!:

You may have seen this picture already, but I came across it at YA for Obama, and cannot get it out of my head. As a commenter over there put it: I love how blase she looks. "Ho hum. Another day with my crab-paperweight and bear-sofa. Nothing to do; nothing to do."

Neil Gaiman continues his reign of awesome.
I love the guy because he answers his fan mail, even the poorly typed ones. I love that he shares pictures of his cats. I love the worlds he builds, the characters he creates, the stories he comes up with. I just. Don't. Love. His. Writing. Sorry, folks, but it throws me out of a book of his faster than furry sex. There. I said it.

ETA: The proposed Downey/Law Sherlock Holmes is something to look forward to, I think.

Recent pics of Baby Sofia arrived just this moment! As if she new I needed to share them with you. I hope this makes up for opening with Sarah Palin.

Pretty much sums up how I feel about Frank Miller

From the incomparable Maria, Goddess of Awesome.

Note to self: drinking beer while posting causes one to have to reinsert the same image over and over and over and over...

Huzzah!

Bitch magazine is saved (for now).
I think it's all due to my side banner and Random Thinkables' $5.

Friday Frivolity

Funny. I always thought this song was about masturbation. I don't think I want to imagine Gonzo masturbating...
Side note: Recently saw Dennis Quaid at a local Mongolian Bar-B-Que restaurant. He was so tiny! And skinny. It's true, I guess, what they say about the camera.

This is not about politics...and yet it is.

I am finally going to join my fellow bloggers and say something. But instead of re-examining issues that are currently being talked about (the most recent, but check out all of Music Wench's political posts for insight to my current state of mind), I am going to bring up something else about this campaign that bugs the living crap out of me.

I watched enough of the Republican Convention to be blinded by the glaring whiteness of it all. The majority of the speakers were old, white, and male. This perplexed me because I had been led to believe the GOP was trying to prove its diversity. Didn't the 2000 and 2004 conventions make it a point of displaying their 4% minority delegates and speakers to prove they're down with the people? Oh, wait...they're running against a black candidate now. I get it. So basically their posters should read:

VOTE MCCAIN
NO BLACK AGENDA HERE!

Thinking about how well this is working is making me, well, angry.

Over at alternet, Tim Wise breaks down quite easily what white privilege means in this campaign. These are points we all have seen, but to view them through this lens makes everything sickeningly clearer for me. We still live in a racist society. I have always known that. Now, apparently, the Republicans aren't afraid to exploit it for whatever means necessary.

An example:

White privilege is when you can call yourself a "fuckin' redneck," like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll "kick their fuckin' ass," and talk about how you like to "shoot shit" for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

And:

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

Read. Enjoy. Be sick with me.

Disaster Fatigue?

I know there is too much going on in the world.

I work for an organization that would not survive without the support of generous donors. Regular people, who believe in the work being done, pay my salary.

In the wake of so much damage due to Gustav and Ike, it saddens me to learn the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Services is practically broke. This is an organization whose entire purpose is to provide aid to those stuck in impossible situations. After Katrina, The Red Cross provided hot meals, financial aid, water, and comfort to those who had little left. They were the first on scene in flood-ravaged St. Bernard Parish.

I'm not asking for much. But if you are considering making any sort of donation for disaster relief (and do consider even a small amount, for even if it's not good karma, it will make you feel a little better about yourself), please consider this worthy organization. This link takes you straight there!

Have a good day.

I found my soulmates, but they are taken...

People, I love paper. I love paper. I can write that one sentence over again ad infinitum and you would not have an idea of the depth of my love for paper.

With this depraved love (which involves much fondling in public, as well as some stroking, accompanied by vaguely sexual sounds) comes my obsession with writing journals.

I have a journal for every mood. There is the one I use as a commonplace book. The writing improv journal. The book title jotter. The random bits of life, including some very amusing sketches (amusing due to my inability to draw) of current scenery. The whining about life stuff. The one I paste a poem I love for each entry. The one in which I write about God.

With the exception of the journal I kept throughout my adolescence (when I was so vastly inexperienced as to only keep one), I still have every embarrassing random bit of crap that floated through my mind that can be bound between two covers. Even the shit from my twenties, y'all. When I was single. And inappropriately in love. Reading through them is not something I do often. As the Husband will attest, I am not a nostalgia junkie. I like moving forward. My past is filled with crap I do not ever have to relive. But sometimes, it is interesting to note where I once was and how far I've come.

Through the years, I have probably spent as much on journals as I have on music (though never as much as I have on books). I have tried every kind, from plain $1 kiddie notebooks (touted by writing advocates everywhere as the cheapest way to keep the pen moving - I like any with fairies or dragons on them, go figure!) to moleskines (slightly overrated, but I love my reporter's notebook for jotting down book titles). My current favorite is the Apica Spiral - I love the paper quality, spiral binding makes it easy for my lefty self to get down, relatively inexpensive, easily modded. Oh yes, I mod my journals - stickers, postcards, what have you - mod podge it all together and call it art. Another favorite is the Clairfontaine, especially the square smaller notebooks - the paper quality is exceptional, though it does smear a bit with my new special pen (don't get me started on pens, please).

So imagine my delight to stumble across this site. They review notebooks and journals. As in, seriously! They look not only at paper quality, but binding, flatability (the ability of a notebook to lay flat - v. imp.), cover sturdiness. They understand me in ways even the Husband never can.

Ah, love.

Take this one, then!

Your result for The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test...

The Prioress

You scored 5% Cardinal, 69% Monk, 56% Lady, and 38% Knight!

You are a moral person and are also highly intellectual. You like your solitude but are also kind and helpful to those around you. Guided by a belief in the goodness of mankind you will likely be christened a saint after your life is over.

You scored high as both the Lady and the Monk. You can try again to get a more precise description of either the Monk or the lady, or you can be happy that you're an individual.

Take The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test at HelloQuizzy

ETA: Hey...where's my cool picture?!?

Holy Crap!

I now feel strangely bad about all the times I mocked his writing. Except his essays. I liked his essays a lot.

It's all Music Wench's fault!

Note: I am about as goth as I am alternative country. Though I do think everyday should be Halloween.

You Are 56% Goth

You definitely have some gothicness going on, but you're far from being a stereotypical goth. You enjoy certain elements of goth culture, but you're not going to be into something simply because it's goth. It's likely that you're the type of person who totally defies labels. Good for you! If you are into something, it's because you sincerely love it. Not because it projects a certain image.

Are You Goth?

PS, I love when I have to fix blogthings html, it makes me feel all smartypants!

Lord, I am wordy this weekend

Partly because I feel I have broken through this dam of a block that has plagued me for years. Finishing a creative endeavor can do that. Also, I am killing time before I go volunteer tonight. I promise to catch up on my blog reading tomorrow, friends, because I've been watching the weather channel all day and can't do it anymore.

Most of you know where I'm from, and while I may not have stated it explicitly, why I moved away. I was one of those lucky bastards who got out because I had the means to leave, a place to go, and no desire to hang around and chance it. And like the rest of America, I watched the terrible damage that weather and governmental incompetance combined can wreak on the soul of a place and its population. I, like you, was horrified by what I saw. But that horror had its own flavor because I was watching my home. And the whole time I stared, crying or in mute deadened pathos, I was still aware that I was lucky. That, even if my own house had been destroyed, I was alive, my family was safe, we were together, and still found reason to laugh at times - that's just how we are.

'That did not happen to me', is what I think whenever someone attempts to wax poetic about my being from New Orleans. I was lucky. I was blessed. And yet. It did. Because of my blasted sense of connection to all humanity, whether through my Zen studies, or my inherent Christian sensibilities, or through my own special empathetic superpowers (Sponge Girl!), it did happen to me and I still feel it every day.

Today I watched cameras pan around in special Disaster!Pornish ways, focusing on blown windows and destroyed highrises and knocked over street signs and I thought, 'That did not happen to me.' And I am grateful.

Here's the secret no one will tell you. Those images you are seeing of damage and destruction? Not the least of it. The true heartache sets in when people go home and see if anything is still standing. When the homeless population doubles due to subsidized housing being demolished and rents tripling. When businesses have to close because their insurance won't cover all the lost property, or because they depend on a tourist trade that just isn't there, or because they can't staff it because so many cannot come home. The true heartbreak will occur when families cannot find their loved ones, or realize they lost someone to the storm.

Trauma is loosely defined as a sudden unexpected event which causes a negative emotional reaction, such as fear. Its effects can be felt for years after said event. The emotional reaction one feels can be triggered at any time, by anything. I know people in the New Orleans area who are still reeling, even if their homes have been rebuilt, and their favorite stores have reopened, and they manage to exist in their protective bubble of everything's all right now. They are still waiting for that trigger. They are changed. We are changed. I am changed.

That did not happen to me. And yet it did.

Oh, Hai Thar, Weird Dream!

I am so obvious sometimes I crack myself up. Consider my state of mind for most of yesterday, my current obsession with Simon Pegg, and the pilot episode of Fringe, which I watched Tuesday night (for a great review of Fringe, check out Keyser Soze's blog). Put all these elements in a blender and put me to bed after three days of insomnia. Here is your cocktail for the evening:

I am in a hospital, and it is dark and creepy (as dream hospitals always are). For some reason I am in an area with lots of computer terminals and looking online at a list of "The Highest Rated Fanfiction Stories Ever!" And of course I am on the list, but not with my current offering, but a series I wrote about seven years ago in the Buffy fandom. So I'm all excited and thinking I need to get home and tell someone, when...cow. Damn it! The cow's escaped. Now what do I do? And in the manner of all dreams (and lost dream memory) I now have the cow on a leashy type thing and we wander around - outside - for what seems like hours. There are people around, but no one seems to take notice of the cow. There's lots of sitting around in the hot humid night talking to cow, mostly asking cow what I should do with cow. Then it occurs to me that I should call the other people that work in the lab! So I leave a desperate message on one guy's voicemail, and talk to some chick, who sounds all sleepy and says she's about to go out. So I sit some more, only now I'm forlorn and miserable and, for some reason, by a river. Me and cow are just lounging there, when the guy I left the vox for walks out some door that just appears and it's Tim Bisley! Only not Tim really, but basically some guy who looks like Simon Pegg did when he played Tim. But that doesn't matter because I'm not even certain who I am in this dream and he's come to help me with cow! So I hug him (wouldn't you?) and we head back to the lab, which is reached through this alley, and everyone is there! The whole lab came to help me with cow! I feel so gratified and pleased that the cow simply disappears at that point, and I'm really really hoping they'll ask me to go out with them, and Not-Tim is looking very cute in this long red coat with brass buttons, and then I have to pee and I wake up laughing.

Ah, dreams.

Considering my last post...

This is what I know some of you are saying. It's okay. I say it to myself all the time.
From someecards.com.

In which Diana describes how beyond pathetic she is

You have no idea.

I have long accepted that external validation is more important to me than I would ever admit out loud. Partially because I see it as a completely understandable human condition, though also a regrettably personal albatross of my own. But, since I apparently have decided I'm some sort of ragged role model for humanity, and so therefore have learned to fake a certain laissez-faire attitude about other people's attitudes, I am very good at pretending I have no need for it. While all along, I'm hoping to put into play that fake it until you make it axiom. I fall short. So so many times. And while I know that it's OKAY that I need for people to tell me they like me, I'm beautiful, clever, funny, smart, I'm their fav-o-rite person on the goddamned universe, it still makes me feel full of FAIL. Not to mention the neediness that accompanies the wondering.

And no, I'm not posting this so all five you you (wonderful wonderful yous) will leave me comments repeating "But I LOVE you, D!!!" That's not what this is about. I know who loves me. I know I'm mildly entertaining at times. I know I'm intelligent and curious and passionate and thoughtful, and that - on a good day - I am able to project all those wonderful qualities outward into the world. What shakes me to the core is this rock-hard belief I have that I have to impress everyone all the time.

Take my current situation: I post a story. It is well received. I am pleased about that. Very, ridiculously, inordinately pleased about that. I love every single person who took the time to comment and tell me they enjoyed my story. I believe they enjoyed my story. I therefore calm down a bit from my previous post and accept that my initial observation of my story (that it's indeed pretty good) was correct. Done.

Except. There is this one person on lj. There is always one person. It doesn't matter where I am. Do you have that person? That one person who you do not even know and yet who somehow holds your self-esteem in the palms of invisible hands? That one person who writes beautiful stories, or funny blogs, or insightful book reviews, or whatever. Somehow you have, without even realizing it, put this person on a pedestal. I have been on someone's pedestal, and I hated it there. The view sucks, the seat is uncomfortable, and the fall is hard. So I don't make it a point to let this person know about my personal pedestal. This person has no need of my pedestal. This person has a life, and flaws, and foibles, and stuff, and doesn't even know me. But I look up and there this person is, waving down and I wave back, wagging my tail that I'm even noticed.

So how do I react when this person lets me know my story has been printed for reading (because it is a long story to read off a computer screen)? I'm sorry, I have my hand by my ear, but I can't quite hear all of you laughing at how I'm pissing myself with excitement. Yes, maybe that's how each and every one of you would react as well. Perhaps you won't want to admit it, but I like admitting my failings, not because I want everyone to look down at me, but because I believe I'm just expressing something we all feel sometimes. And by publicly admitting it, I am making it okay for all of you to admit it as well, even if it's just to yourselves. See? Fucking role model, me. Besides, that reaction, the wagging, pissing, squealy-noised joy? Nothing compared to the misery that is crashing down on me as we speak. Because it's been three days. And this person - my pedestal? Not one peep about my story. Which, of course, leads me to assume it was not well received.

There are so so many things I could say right now. Some of them would be placating. Some disturbing. Some full of invective. But none would fully describe the complexity that is my brain processing how it feels about not hearing what I so desperately wanted to hear, even though so many have already said the same thing. And I am ashamed. I do feel gratitude for what I have already been given: real friends - some of whom actually know me - reminding me I am supported, strangers taking the time to appreciate how much work I put into something I care about, family teaching me what unconditional love means. But right now that gratitude is a distant thing.

I will remember it in time. But first I will retreat, pretend it doesn't matter what other people think, hope one day I will believe that, and lick my self-indulgent wounds. Be back soon.

Speaking of gay...

Just a little linkspam to start off your morning (except, of course, those of you who are in another time zone):

Will Sarah Palin stop reading Where the Wild Things Are to her kids? I mean, the man who wrote it chose to be gay for his entire life. In speaking of his life, homosexuality included, Maurice Sendak states the sad truth of never publicly coming out:

“I just didn’t think it was anybody’s business,” Mr. Sendak added. He lived with Eugene Glynn, a psychoanalyst, for 50 years before Dr. Glynn’s death in May 2007. He never told his parents: “All I wanted was to be straight so my parents could be happy. They never, never, never knew.”

I've mentioned before that my favorite part of the week is the Guardian Digested Reads. No book is too sacred. This week, John Crace gives mini-digests of the prestigious Booker Prize shortlist. From Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh:

Deeti chewed on a mouthful of roti as she ground the poppies. "I must be in the book that ticks the historical, multi-layered, multicultural shortlist box," she said. "In which case," her husband replied, "I had better hurry up and die so that you can show off your research about the Opium Wars and sail away from Calcutta on board the Ibis with a cast of colourful characters who will use wilfully obscure and caricatured language that the judges will fall over themselves to call a tour de force of comic invention." "You're right," Deeti agreed. "And the best thing is I don't even need an ending as it's only the first in a trilogy."

So in case you've been living in a box for the past three weeks, Stephenie Meyer had a snafu regarding her next manuscript. And while I have been critical of the series, I do understand how she must feel violated by the incident (Unless, the very suspicious person in me whispers, unless she was the source of the leak because of the sad little nervous breakdown she had due to the laughing criticism of her book. Shush, little brat, I tell myself, let's just take people as they are, okay?). Meyer then officially released the first 12 chapters of Midnight Sun on her webpage with this slightly contradictory explanation:

I'd rather my fans not read this version of Midnight Sun. It was only an incomplete draft; the writing is messy and flawed and full of mistakes. But how do I comment on this violation without driving more people to look for the illegal posting? It has taken me a while to decide how and if I could respond. But to end the confusion, I've decided to make the draft available here (at the end of this post). This way, my readers don't have to feel they have to make a sacrifice to stay honest. I hope this fragment gives you further insight into Edward's head and adds a new dimension to the Twilight story. That's what inspired me to write it in the first place.

Be that as it may, if I were Meyer, I would take what good I can from the entire episode. What good is there in having someone you trust take a work in progress, scan it, and leak it on the internet, you ask? Well, of course, it opened the window for Cleolinda of Occupation: Girl to work her read and commentary magic:

Okay. The first thing I want to discuss is the fact that I cannot stop reading these books even though they fill me with feminist rage and horror. I can't stop, y'all. The imprinting! The forced kissing! The STALKING, OH MY LORD, THE STALKING. More to the point, perhaps: if Bella Swan hadn't met Edward, what was she planning to do with her life? I mean, what was she planning to do for a job? We're not even told enough about her interests to have any idea what career path she could have taken. Novels of the nineteenth century: that is pretty much it. And guess what? They're not hiring for those anymore.

Oh, Edward. Shine on you prissy diamond.

For your picture of the day:

The Bacon Flowchart (via BoingBoing):

There is so much awesome in this, I can't even begin

From artist Sam Gilby, an illustrated homage to the greatness that is Hot Fuzz. You can see close-ups of the different characters here.

Can I battle my own ego?

After three weeks, countless cups of coffee, and so much Laffy Taffy my teeth were starting to ache, I finished, edited, and uploaded my story on my livejournal page. And that's when the anxious neediness set in.

Five years ago, I was a happy little fanfic writer. I had a small following for a Buffy series I was writing, and was in the middle of writing an epic piece for the dueSouth fandom. Then I just stopped. I'd love to say I stopped because I realized my talents were being wasted, but I would be lying. Number one: I think fanfiction is a healthy and fun way to explore character development. Number two: that just wasn't the case with me. Because when I'm writing it, I'm having a blast. It's after I post it that I become a miserable wreck.

Part of the problem lies in my inability to contribute to fan communities. To me, forums and communities are the internet version of soul incubii. So I am an unknown entity in fannish communities, which automatically relegates my story to the yeah, we'll see pile. Added to that, the current offering is freaking long, which requires a commitment to read in a fandom that seems to appreciate shorter to-the-point pieces.

I said - in what was apparently an eloquent email, but which felt to me like whiny whinybuttness - that I would rather hateful comments than no comments at all, because that would mean at least people were reading it. Later, I told another friend I was debating that point of view and could not decide if I would rather hateful comments or no comments. I mean, would you rather someone hated what you wrote, or think no one bothered to read it at all?

There are many terrible fanfiction writers out there who post stories with impunity and receive feedback (though I suspect the authenticity of said feedback) that would make anyone envious. I don't think I'm a terrible fanfiction writer, but I post with trepidation and nervous stomach-twisting anxiety, and then I get so fucking pissed at myself.

I become convinced that a story, which not twelve hours beforehand I was pretty proud of, is utter crap. I start second-guessing decisions I made concerning character interactions, word choices, plot development, and even subject matter. I begin to believe I'd been deluding myself, passages of which I had been proud were stupid, humor I had enjoyed writing was instead trite and shallow. I'm such a terrible writer, I can't even think of a word other than stupid to describe how stupid my writing is.

So of course I stop writing. Because how could all that negativity be worth it?

But then another story idea pops into my head and I think, oooh fun! And I start writing and I forget the upcoming stomach-churning crap I'm going to put myself through; I forget the wondering if anyone will even bother reading it; I forget everything because I am immersed in something I love, mindless of the world around me except that one of my own creation. And the cycle begins again.

I don't know if it's worth it for something I don't even get a paycheck for, but for some reason, I feel compelled to keep doing it. For right now, I suppose it's enough. Of couse, it helps when your friends pimp your story so graciously on their journal. Don't know if it made people read it, but it did make me smile.

ETA: So I'm a big whiny dork from whiny dorktown. I've had three lovely comments on my story from actual strangers! Yes, people who do not know me let me know they liked my story. No, apparently I cannot battle my own ego.

My only comment about the RNC

If I were Republican, I think I'd be insulted at being stereotyped as loving really bad Country music...

So I was going to write this thing about hypocrisy...

Then Music Wench beat me to it.

I mean, come on, people. If this were a Democratic candidate, the right wing would be all over it like a 3 year-old on paste. And did anyone else want to remind her last night that Obama is running against McCain, not her? Whatev.

Also, Keyser (Rosebud) Soze posted a little gem I hadn't come across yet. Can I tell y'all how much I love Michelle Obama? She is the fabulous queen of fierceness. In fact, my one complaint about that piece is she should be the one next to Barry in the front.

Conversations in a living room

Snippets between the Husband and I while watching Road House:

Me: Oh my god, it's that guy!
tH: What guy?
Me: I don't know his name, but I can never look at him the same since that episode of Criminal Intent he was in.
tH: Why?
Me: He was just...look, the next time Maria and I are together, just look at one of us and say, "How about some oral?" and watch us lose our shit.

Me: See? Watch him.
tH: Who? How About Some Oral?
Me: Yeah. He's thinking that everytime he looks at Swayze.

Me: I don't think that philosophy degree is working out for him.
tH: Wait 'til he rips out sombody's throat out.
Me: Did he learn nothing from killing that guy in Memphis?
tH: He goes all hardcore when they kill Sam Elliott.
Me: ...THEY KILL SAM ELLIOTT?!?!?
tH: You didn't know?
Me: You don't kill Sam Elliott. Kill bad actress girlfriend. Kill How About Some Oral. But never, ever kill Sam Elliott!

Me: You know if this were an episode of the A Team all he'd have to do is throw him in the lake to incapacitate him.
tH: *mimes being unable to swim after Mr. T tosses him in water*
Me: Did he just say, "I fucked guys like you in prison?"
tH: I believe so.
Me: 'Cause I have trouble finding the hotness in that. OMG HE REALLY DID JUST RIP OUT HIS THROAT!!!

Me: Is this going to be like the end of Karate Kid II...oh, yep he's pulling back, I guess all those other guys slaked his thirst for blood enough.

Me: It would be just like How About Some Oral to get in the last shot.

Best. Movie. Ever.
Except for Sam Elliott being all dead at the end.

Monkey Brain Cheerios

It has now occurred to me, after sitting in front of my computer for about six hours straight each day for the past four days, that when I put my mind to something, I do not stop. And I wonder what is the line between being single-minded and obsessive.

It's not that I don't obsess about stuff, people, situations. But in conversation with my livejournal friend Fia, I reconsidered my use of that word. Because Fia loves Adam Baldwin and Zac Levi (title character) from the TV show Chuck so much that she watches every crappy movie they are ever in. Even Big Momma's House 2. And I love a couple of actors to an extreme degree, but nothing, other than the promise of large bags of cash, would get me to watch the VDO version of Big Momma's House 2. I will, however, watch Hot Fuzz so many times I can recreate it scene and line in my head.

And I will, in the face of a hurricane bearing down on my home state, unable to communicate with anyone of my loved ones due to cell phone dysfunction, ignore the news and sit in front of my computer for hours on end, not talking to the guest in our house, not even noticing there's a natural disaster happening, to finish a story.

It has been so long since I've written anything longer than a prose-poem that I had forgotten the intensity of being so in the zone of what I'm writing that I can't even hold a conversation without another one taking place in my head between my characters. I am useless in these situations. I do not eat well, I live off candy and caffeine, the Husband (proud though he is, and happy for me as well) has to put up with my mind constantly being elsewhere. Once I reach that point of no return I am without remorse, ignoring the niceties of everyday life (don't even ask me when my last shower was) in order to finish.

And then, once I do, after the happy dance, the crowing, and once my heartbeat slows to a normal pace, and I lift my head to look around and see if the Husband has moved from the couch, and if the world is still standing, the doubt sets in. And the obsession takes a new turn as now I constantly think about the story, but from a different perspective, a darker, more critical voice takes up residence in my head and I am grumpy, almost inconsolable, so certain what I've written sucks big donkey dick. No more accomplishment, no more crowing.

I only have to examine this a little to understand why I will never be a professional writer.

For the record, my great accomplishment is an epic piece of fanfiction (23,000 words), which, when I manage to gag the mean and nasty Editor who lives in my head, I am actually quite proud of, even if it is fanfiction. Because for that few weeks I was so immersed in my story, I was happy. I felt creative. I loved what I was doing. I suppose if I were a more well-balanced person (though I don't know many writers who are), I would focus on that, that great feeling I experienced while creating my world, constructing dialogue, setting scenarios, pushing through blocks to the finish when I hadn't finished anything in over five years.

I finished my story, y'all.

My family is safe. My city survived and didn't drown.

And I finished my story.