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.