It's Monday! - More thoughts on Heroes

So for the past two weeks, Monday has not held the same excitement for me because my local NBC affiliate got into a bidding war with our cable company. Now we have Starz Kids & Family instead of The Office, Chuck and Heroes.

[Note: I've been having major issues with the carpal tunnel these days and am attempting to type with one of those cushiony thingies in front of the keyboard. I feel like I'm learning to type all over again. If more typos slip past than usual, please forgive.]

So now I watch Chuck and The Office on the computer and Heroes on G4--all a day later. And it sucks. So if my usual TV wrap-up is late, please understand. And for some reason, in honor of the show that will not let me hate it, I give you my Heroes sunshine and clouds:

Actually I have to give props to my livejournal friend of awesomeness Fiareynne, for telling me I was taking it all way too seriously and needed to see the humor in what was happening. So last week I tried to do just that, and...and...I think I liked it!

Don't get me wrong, Peter is still a whiny little bitch. He seems to do things without thinking twice about the consequences, such as taking on Sylar's power and then getting pissed at Sylar for having his murderous impulses. Really, Peter, that fact that future-Sylar told you it was a bad idea just wasn't enough? No, you're Peter, you must save the world, which is in constant threat of being blown up.

I can't wait to see the episode wherein we find out the world is actually going to blow up because some mutant squirrels have been chewing through wires at a nuclear power plant.

The future-Heroes is still unimpressive to me. Goth!Clarie is as annoying as Cheerleader!Claire. She just has more of an excuse to be all pissed off now, what with the false eyelashes making her eyes itch all the time. And they're trying to set up all this complexity as in: who's bad? who's really good? OMG, maybe Peter is the bad guy! And I get wrapped up in wondering and then I remember Tim Kring created Crossing Jordan, so what was I expecting, really? Just keep giving me more Parkman and I'll be happy.

Another reason the future storyline bugs me is this idea that the future is fixed. It doesn't seem to matter who does what or how they do it or who gets hurt in the process, the end result is the same: squirrels chew through the wires at a nuclear power plant and blow up the planet. Someone oughtta be out hunting squirrel.

But...but, all that aside, I loved future Sylar. I was curious who the mother of his son is. Okay, I will admit to a moment of , wouldn't it be cool of the mother is Claire, that kid would be unstoppable! Oh! the angst! and then I remembered Claire is Sylar's niece and ewwed all over the place.

Then came the crowning moment I loved. The part that, no matter how formulaic and predictable, makes me get all giddy inside: Nathan flying. I don't know why I turn into such a girly-girl whenever Nathan flies out to save someone. Maybe it's touching on my childhood mad crush I had on Christopher Reeve and I believed I too could win the heart of Superman. Though unlike Lois, I would never let him give up his powers for me. In fact, now that I'm examining it, I think Reeve/Superman was my first actor-as-character obsession. In my head, I was writing fanfic all over the place.

I don't even care for Adrian Pasdar that much. His voice is a little too nasal and I get the impression he's a wee little thing (I could be wrong, but the higher pitched voice gives me that impression). And I'm getting sick of the repeating political storyline the same way I'm tired of Peter's whining and Hiro's Ando abuse. But in an HRG-free episode, I'll take all the heroic saving the damsel in distress (can I say fucking ugh already!) I can get.

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.

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.

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.

Something about movies (and life, and people, and stuff)

If you'll notice, one of the personal blogs I regularly read is devoted to pop culture in all its forms. I don't know who keyser soze is (except when played by Kevin Spacey), but I truly enjoy reading her thoughts about everything from Battlestar Galactica to Project Runway. She belongs to the Cult of Kubrick, which is all right - my only beef with him is how he turned the scariest novel ever written into a comedy. Whether I agree with her or not, I always respect what she says because I can tell it comes from a place of deep appreciation, intelligence, and thoughtfulness. Plus, she's a total fangirl, not afraid to squeal a little.

Me? I'm just a fangirl. I don't pretend to have deep thoughts or anything more than a smattering of intelligence when it comes to pop culture criticism. I like what I like. Sometimes I examine more closely why I like or dislike something. But usually, I just go with my initial instinctual reaction, especially when it comes to movies.

For the most part, I watch movies to be entertained. I have mentioned before I do not like being lectured to about The Human Condition(tm) and have little desire to have Life Lessons shoved in my face. There are many who love this, or even need it to understand why people are the way they are. I prefer to form my own conclusions based on my interactions with real people (which may explain why I haven't jumped on the Judd Apatow love train - I know too many men who can't quite bring themselves to grow up in real life - that shit is frustrating, not entertaining) (Exception to the previous - The 40 Year Old Virgin) (Also the reason I'm the only human on the planet who didn't like Sideways).

That's not to say I don't like to be a little flummoxed by my movies, as long as I'm being entertained at the same time.

I saw Wall-E last weekend and I can't get it out of my head. I am going to go out on a limb and say I think this was easily one of the best movies I've seen in ages (and I thought that of The Dark Knight just one week previous). The funny thing is, I loved both of these movies for ultimately the same reason: they both showed me what I believe to be true about people - when pushed most human beings will choose to do the right thing. In The Dark Knight, humanity had to learn this about themselves while at the hands of an evil madman. In Wall-E, a robot desperate for connection shows everyone around him that we can only save ourselves if we too reach out and connect with others.

So I just made a liar of myself. I do love movies about The Human Condition(tm). But what I'm looking for are those that show me that condition isn't a lost cause. We are, at heart, thoughtful beings yearning for someone to show us our greater purpose, not understanding only we can tap into that purpose within ourselves to bring it to light.

So this is way more philosophical than I intended it to be. And I'm not quite certain it makes much sense. But it's true (to me) all the same.

Possible Squick Factor

It truly depends on how one feels about reading of someone else's personal matters. Consider yourself forewarned.

After posting my not-so-kick ass review of last night's LOCI, it occurred to me I have been out of sorts lately. Not writing as much as I used to; and when I do it usually struggles to come out and makes little sense, or lacks the spark my writing tends toward. I don't like the feeling that comes with struggling to write. Communicating with others is one of my all-time favorite things to do. And while I had never before thought of myself as a blogger, my separation from those I usually communicate with has found me comfortably using this medium to get my thoughts across to the point of loving it.

Around the fourth of July, though, it all seemed to leave in a rush that has me sort of emotionally gasping and unable to find purchase. I don't even feel the need to email people I used to (Music Wench, I have several choice thoughts on Barbie vs. Bratz. Perhaps one day I'll share them. By then, of course, it'll be a non-issue for you), as evidenced by my very kind friends who send me emails that sound more like personal APBs ("you still alive?") than the chatty missives I'm used to receiving.

Of course this gets into one of the things about electronic communication that drives me nuts: the absolute give and take nature of it. If I don't send out emails regularly, how long will my friends go before ceasing all attempts? Does that sound pathetic? I don't know that I care. Mostly because most of you would still send me email even if you hadn't heard from me in 2 weeks (as I've recently found out - and thank you!).

But I have been blue lately and I feel I need to figure out why before I can move on. I have this strange disconnect happening between myself and the rest of the world and I can't seem to shake out of it. I know it will pass, but part of the beautiful complexity that is me insists on believing that if I'm not entertaining people constantly, then they will seek others for friendship. So panic sets in because you are all so very important to me. I get that from my father, by the way, the need to entertain, which is why I'm not as annoyed at him as my mother becomes when he does it.

I'm also someone who feels and inordinate amount of responsibility for everything. If something goes wrong - no matter who is actually at fault - if I can find one thing I should have done that may have prevented it, then I will blame myself. There's a certain amount of arrogance to that assumption as well, don't get me wrong, but the weight of the world is exhausting and I would like to just put it down for a bit.

So around the fourth several things happened: my training class - which I loved - ended, my dearest cousin - who had been visiting for 2 weeks - left, my visit home went exceptionally well, and my work situation reached the pinnacle of suck. Cue in music for downward spiral. If I could grow a beard, it would rival Bobby's. And now I feel I have no entertainment for anyone, my thoughts are as mundane as can be, and who gives a fuck anyway?

And I really really want to write that piece about how The Dark Knight was such a strangely hopeful film I couldn't get it out of my head the whole day. But that is a movie that deserves all my mental faculties to talk about, and right now I ain't got it.

Sorry, folks. The show will reopen when the scripts are tightened.

Now on to the pointlessness

I completely and totally forgot about Get Smart.

I remember my birthday, filled with hot, stifling air and surprise presents, and the greatest surprise of having had fun at the end of it all.

I remember standing in line at the movie theater, annoyed the movie was starting in 20 minutes and they hadn't let us in yet. I remember the chocolate peanut butter milkshake that tasted of unicorns and rainbows (though not literally, as we all know unicorns taste like chicken).

I remember leaving the movie theater and going to the store to pick up stuff for the bar-b-que at Stevie's house, watching GhostBusters while eating ribs, playing with Deuce, the wonder puppy, going home, sweating and grumpy because I didn't feel like watching the LOCI that had aired that night, and instead watched the end of GhostBusters, happy I had switched it on just as Venkman was saying, "So...She's a dog."

I remember every moment I have experienced since then, even the weird-ass dream I had last night wherein I was an immigrant and no one could understand me except this old black man.

But try as I might today, I couldn't remember the name of the movie I had seen that Sunday afternoon. I couldn't even remember who was in it, a scene from it, or the music. Any of those would have been clue enough. It wasn't until I went to the Alamo Drafthouse's website that I was able to remember what I had seen.

Which is, to me, a strong indicator of whether or not a movie impacted me at all.

Which has nothing whatsoever to do with whether or not a movie is good. Just memorable. I enjoyed Get Smart well enough for what it was while I was watching it, but it wasn't a memorable sort of enjoyment. There was no...resonance. The last time our air conditioning broke we saw Pirates III and I still remember how much I enjoyed myself.

Other movies I forgot I saw (until someone reminded me):

• Zodiac (forgot within minutes of walking out of the theater)
• Be Kind Rewind (remembered for about 2 days then forgot until the other day when I saw it out on DVD)
• Sweeney Todd (made myself forget)
• The Prestige (talked about it for about 2 hours, then forgot I saw it until someone brings it up)

And probably there are others that I've - you guessed it - forgotten.

I spend an unnatural amout of time watching godawful crap on the Sci-Fi channel and love every minute of it. I also enjoy summer blockbuster season. I love Very Serious Movies that are supposed to make us think, or see the world in a different light (though I'm getting quite tired of the earnest exploitative depravity of the latter, but that's a subject for another post). I love being entertained, and as long as I don't feel I've actually lost brain cells in the process of watching something (such as Old School), I consider any movie time well spent. But if I forget a movie existed, even after I've lost the hours I've invested in seeing it, well, it kind of pisses me off. Of course, I only get pissed off once I remember I'd forgotten, but still.

I think it's a very personal subject - movie tastes. No one really feels the need to criticize my book loves, or what TV shows I watch. But everyone seems to have an opinion on my opinions of movies. I too am quite opinionated about movies and am unafraid of express them, but I don't care whether or not others agree with me.

For example: The Departed? Most Overrated Movie of 2006. Not afraid to say it. Will not change my mind no matter how many people exclaim, "You crazy?!?" Don't care how brilliant you thought it was.

I also think the cult of Chuck Palaniuk needs to die (he's not that cutting edge talented), that The Da Vinci Code (the book) is moronic no matter how many people I respect tell me how enjoyable it is (if I want to not think, I will watch the Sci-Fi channel, thank you), and that Michael Crichton needs to. just. stop. I hate issues novels for teens and The Berenstain Bears because they're preachy as shit.

But most people don't care about all that. Well, some people would. But. Booklovers are generally more interested in sharing opinions - even differing ones - than convincing others how wrong they are for having opinions that don't match the consensus.

Movie lovers? Totally different breed. Kind of scary, actually. When I tell someone I hated The Unforgiven, I'm not saying I thought it was a bad movie. What I'm saying is, "This movie depressed the shit out of me, taught me nothing about the human condition I didn't already know, took itself way too seriously, and left me wanting to slit my wrists - the right way - at the end." Why would I love a movie like that? Why would someone else care so much that I hated it? Does my opinion invalidate yours? Are people really that insecure? Do I love asking stupid questions?

Yes I do. Gotta problem with that?

Personally, I think...

...people do over-philosophize at times.

I think too much. I know I do. But what I'm usually over-thinking are real life situations involving real people. Or my own place in this endless universe, my role or purpose, or whether I'm meant to have a purpose at all.

It is times like these I wonder if I am a freak of nature. If I'm just one of those weird people who sees the world too differently than everyone else. Then I remember I am not that unique at all. Or, rather, my uniqueness is no more special than anyone else's.

I don't know why I can have the patience of Mother Theresa in most situations, but then stick me in a fan forum and I want to go Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver all over the place. I've worked with children; I've worked in the service industry; I've worked retail, for fuck's sake, and held my cool.

And I'm really sorry if the one of you (who I like bunches) who will know exactly what I'm talking about here gets insulted by what I'm venting about, but this is my forum and I apparently need to vent.

I just don't think I belong. I don't like how judgmental I become. I don't like that I sit there and think, "What a load of pretentious, nonsensical garbage. You can't intellectualize character action on a TV show, no matter how many mythos you tie it to. And something else, obscurity is not a virtue. Just because you sound intelligent doesn't mean you're right. And just because people ooh and aah over what you write doesn't mean they understood one freaking word. And another thing? You make no fucking sense, and I am saying that with full confidence in my intellectual ability."

I say all that in my head, I do.

What do I do in the forum? Most times, I ignore what I read and go about my business. Sometimes the discussion veers somewhere I feel like jumping in. And sometimes it's fun. But then someone else will jump in (or the original poster) and steer it off into the never-never land of fanciful meandering, Jungian archetypes, and the like. And I say...

It doesn't fucking matter what I say (so sayeth The Rock). Obviously I also take this way too seriously. Even I know that. If one person or another wants to post Marina Warner-like theses about a TV show, what do I care? And if I'm going to get annoyed every time it happens, then maybe it's time for another break.

Of course it would help if the goddamn show would come back on the air. And then maybe a couple of us could actually get together and discuss what I want to discuss. Things like, why do you think he did that? I don't remember that being mentioned before, can someone point me to the episode where that happened? how does all this tie into that other thing that happened?...you know...actually discussing the show?

I know I'm overly fond of my deep thoughts, but anyone who has discussed Buffy the Vampire Slayer with me ad infinitum knows I love to talk about my shows and their characters, and that I love hearing different opinions. When they make sense, that is.

Oh hell. I'm going to go bury my nose in a book for another couple of weeks.

Destiny and the Reluctant Heroine

I just finished reading Wicked Lovely, by Melissa Marr, and now I'm one of those freakish book ladies who want to run around to everyone and thrust it into their hands and say, "You simply must read this book!" Unfortunately, I no longer work for mega bookstore chain and therefore don't have the opportunity to do so. This makes me sad. Because, really, unless you are someone dead set against reading smart urban fantasy with excellent writing, you will enjoy this book.

I notice an ongoing theme in the urban fantasy genre that I appreciate wholly: that of the smart female protagonist. In a world dominated by male heroes in both our fantasy (Harry Potter, LoTR, Heroes, most comic books written by men) and "reality" (anything else, most specifically crime shows which may contain strong female characters, but always have a male in the lead - CSI, Without a Trace, Law & Order, I'm lookin' at you!), I have long been one of those pop culture fans waiting for producers to get it - that women can lead the way and viewers will follow. There is a reason The Closer is the #1 cable drama on TV, people. And while I appreciate things are much much better than they used to be, I do get tired of watching the female lead play second fiddle to her charismatic, brilliant male lead co-star (even when that charismatic co-star is someone I admire greatly!).

The same trend has been weaving its way through the young adult publishing industry. In the past few years, an uproar has been raised about the sad state of boys and their reading habits. Apparently, boys don't read. Actually, they do read, just not what the book industry wants them to. So to pull these "reluctant readers" away from their video game guides, the Internet, comics books, and manga, the publishing industry is greenlighting books hoping to pull them to novels. And of course, these novels must feature a male protagonist. The guiding philosophy here is that girls will read books about boys wherein boys won't read books about girls. So instead of addressing why we've created a society in which boys won't read books with female lead characters, publishers are churning out mass produced formulaic crap. And any girl who wishes to read new fantasy or adventure will finish her Kiki Strike and dutifully pick up the newest Artemis Fowl for lack of anything else. And the world can retain its balance of power with a new generation of young women expecting young men to always be the charismatic brilliant hero of the tale.

Enter into this arena a cache of amazing and dedicated writers who think this is a load of crap. From Charles de Lint to Holly Black, to Emma Bull and many others (most listed under the original Urban Fantasy entry), contemporary young adult fantasy writers have figured out what most of us have known all along, male and female readers want and need to see women in the lead. And while, sadly, the entertainment industry has only Joss Whedon doing the same for movies and TV, at least he is doing so while flying his feminist freak flag proudly.

I have noticed a beautiful and realistic trend in these offerings that you don't normally see in your male-dominated counterparts, reluctance. Not so much out of fear (though that may play a part), but because these young women have plans for their lives and truly don't want some destiny laid upon them by The Powers That Be to interfere. One of my favorite aspects of most of these novels is the creative ways in which our heroines fight to keep their lives as normal as possible - high school, friends, boyfriends, college. These young women have goals for themselves that don't always involve drinking fairy wine at an endless faire and dancing their newly immortal lives away. And in the case of Aislinn, our protagonist from Wicked Lovely, these future plans are so important as to be the crux upon which helping is even considered. And that, I believe is as important as having a female lead at all. If your heroine is going to give up her mortal life to save fairy-verse and not even bother to secure her own growth and future, she may as well marry the proverbial prince and live happily ever after in Disney-esque security.

If you haven't delved into the world of which I speak, I heartily recommend the Holly Black Trilogy (Tithe, Valiant, Ironside), Emma Bull's War for the Oaks (a tad dated, but still a new classic), de Lint's Jack of Kinrowan, and the book that started this whole blog.

PS, Also watched the King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters this weekend. Please please please do yourself a favor and see this movie. In the wake of a movie-going year in which we've had to endure countless hours of how cruel, empty, and hopeless the world truly is, seeing the absolute decency of (real human being and not movie character) Steve Wiebe in his quest to become the best at something- in spite of the oddly menacing strong arm tactics of his cult of personality obsessed adversaries- will fill you with joy and hope. I kid you not.

Just Some Random Thoughts

I feel blue lately. I don't know why. I should be excited. It's almost Friday. I'm leaving Sunday to visit with friends and family in New Orleans (of whom I don't see nearly enough for my taste - which is something along the lines of every other day...). My bestest friend is getting married in a little over a week and she seems pretty blissed about that - which in turn pleases me because I love to see my loved ones happy. And I get to wear a pretty dress as her best woman (do NOT ever call me the matron of honor, please - I may be married, but there's nothing matronly about me but my bosoms). I even just finished reading a pretty fucking heartwarming book that didn't make me squirm once. Usually I'm the sort of person that always looks for the moments of joy that secret themselves in our lives. But lately it seems I'm the Queen of Doom. And no one wants to hang with the queen of doom. Queen of Dom, maybe, but no.

I keep waiting for this other shoe to drop: the one that tells me I did seriously fuck up at work, I shouldn't have let my irreverent sense of humor go that far, everyone I love is gone and there's no getting them back. WTF?

I haven't even been able to cheer myself with pictures of my not-so-secret obsession, and that's something I can usually count on.

I am a seeker by nature. I am always looking for answers, reasons, angles, new perspectives. Sometimes I think I overload my brain with too much information and instead of helping, all that info makes me want to crawl into a dark space and curl up into a trembling ball. This world confuses me with its constant onslaught of agenda, rationale, violence, and heartbreak. Even when I know in my bones that isn't all it is. I know because of the people I work with who give so much of themselves. I know because of the people I love who embody so much more than greed and blind acceptance. Yet even in knowing this, I still carry the weight of every negative aspect of the world on my shoulders as if I alone am responsible for saving it. Yeah, yeah, I know. Get over myself. Right? Please allow me the indulgence I would allow you in these same circumstances.

How can I feel so down when I see God in the face of every person I pass?

Thoughts? Comments? Random insults or indulgence? Feel free to share in the comments.

And my point is...?

I've had this account forever and a day. (Not really. You will learn I tend to exaggerate for effect)

This is my first real post. (Again, a slight untruth. My first real post was a tester that was and should be ignored by many)

I have a MySpace page. I loved my page. It was the perfect place to post all my weirdness in one place, picture spam my friends's comment spaces, and write lovingly cultured pieces of navel-gazing mental masturbation. Then I got over it. Not the mental masturbatory essence of it all, that I still love. It's not like I think I'm freaking Emerson or Montaigne. I mean, no one is Montaigne. That man is proof positive (to me, at least) that God exists.

My List of reasons why I know there is a divine element in the universe:

1. Butterflies
2. Tulips
3. the perfect interrelationship of all beings in an undisturbed ecosystem
4. the essays of Montaigne
5. Virginia Woolf's essay about Montaigne's essays

To me, there need be no other explanation. Though I'm sure I'll find some reason to get into that one of these days.