Wife, Student, Crazy Person

Sappy Endings

2011-07-13T10:42:00.004-04:00

Once again, I have disappeared from my blog for an extended period of time. Since the last time I wrote, I have completed my MFA program and will walk in graduation at the end of the month. My final residency was at the beginning of June. It was so much fun, but also a little bittersweet. Here's the quick wrap-up of the culmination of two insanely busy and wonderful years.

On the first day of the residency (for the 5th semester students, everyone else had been there for several days already), I gave my reading. I wasn't really nervous about it, but still, it's never easy to follow the super-talented poet, Philip Belcher. Mostly, it was just a fun time, though. I got to share a selection from my thesis and listen to two of my ridiculously talented classmates read from theirs. Steve and Lucy Addison came, though Lucy Addison spent the reading hanging out in the lobby with Rick, the program director/founder.

After the student readings and dinner, I stayed for the faculty reading - Susan Tekulve and Robert Olmstead - both of whom were wonderful. Despite my determination to leave as soon as the reading was over, I ended up staying and chatting until much later than I should. As I drove home, the unsettling feeling that I had been trying to shake all day completely took over. The first student craft lectures (ever) were in the morning, and I was up first. Though I had been working on my craft lecture for ages, I still felt unprepared and unhappy with my lecture. I decided to rewrite/restructure my lecture no matter how long it took. (My lecture was scheduled for 9 in the morning!)

Sometime after 2 am, I declared my craft lecture done, and I felt about fifty pounds lighter. I may not have slept long, but at least it was untroubled sleep. I won't say I was nervous as I got up to give my lecture, but it was a weird feeling being first. Sure, there are fewer expectations if you're first, but still, if you're spectacularly bad and first, people are probably going to remember that.

Overall, I was pleased with how my lecture turned out. Certainly there were things that I wished I had said better or points I wish I had made (as soon as I sat down, they all flooded my brain.) But it could have been worse. I even held my own against a particularly persistent questioner, and at one point, one of my previous faculty mentors came to my rescue. The best part of going first, however, was that I then got to just sit back and enjoy the rest of the residency. I was done. I floated from event to event.

The remaining time was a blur of readings, lectures, and spending time with friends. The final night, we had a dinner to celebrate graduation followed by a party with the band, The Wheresville Project. There was much dancing (though not by me - I spared them that.) It was all fun and sad at the same time. There is something about the low-residency program that fosters relationships that are far closer than would be expected from such a short amount of time together. Maybe it's due to the intensity of the 9-day residencies. Whatever the cause of the closeness, it was sad to think that we won't be seeing each other anymore.

Since the end of the residency, my life has been a crazy blur. I've barely had time to process the end of six consecutive years of school. It all still seems a little unreal. Vacation Bible School began almost immediately after the residency and was followed closely by our annual pilgrimage to visit family in Maryland. Upon returning home, I received a package in the mail - my bound copy of my thesis. I didn't expect to be so excited to see my thesis bound, but there was something powerful about holding that book. I can't explain it, so I won't try.

Now begins the really hard part: keeping up with the writing life after school. It's easier to write regularly when you have deadlines that you have to meet. There are no deadlines anymore. Wait a minute. That's not true. My faculty mentor, Leslie Pietrzyk, has said that she expects me to finish my novel this year. So, I guess that's my deadline. Better get writing.

A Christian Fiction

2011-03-21T00:12:00.004-04:00

As I trudge through pages and pages of fiction for my thesis, I am reminded daily of a huge division among Christian readers/writers - that of content/subject matter. There is no story without conflict, and there is no conflict without putting your protagonist in some kind of peril. There's just no getting around this fact. The division occurs, however, over what exactly that conflict should entail and how "worldly" the content should be.

I was raised in the church. I was also raised by people with very conservative views about literature, film, and television content. During my childhood/teenage years, I read tons of "Christian Fiction" and listened to "Christian Music." This blog entry is not intended as a slam against either of these genres, nor is it a slight against my upbringing. Rather, I write to question the distinction of "Christian" genres altogether. I am still a Christian, but now, at the age of 33, my tastes in books, movies, and music is drastically different (and perhaps more controversial in Christian circles.) This shift is not something I take lightly, however.

Let me preface my comments on Christian fiction with the following: If you enjoy Christian fiction, that's great. There is certainly nothing wrong with reading it. If you find it enjoyable, then by all means, pick up a stack of your favorites and read away.

As I mentioned before, I have read quite a bit of Christian fiction, and I have to say that after years of reading it, followed by years of reading more literary fiction, there really is no comparison, if you are looking for quality writing. It is by the very nature of Christian fiction's structure that it must be highly formulaic and predictable. There are only so many ways to present the story of once-I-was-lost-and-now-I'm-found, and I'm sure there is a place (particularly in the evangelistic arena) for that sort of story.

I am, however, working to write the best, truest fiction that I can, and these limits of storyline and content can be detrimental to realism. If my writing is art, and I am looking to represent "true" stories (not to be confused with things that actually happened), then I must look to the character for my direction, not the predetermined redemptive conclusion. Truly character-driven plots are rare in Christian fiction (in my opinion), and this fact alone, reduces its value to me as literature.

Arbitrary content restrictions are limiting to the artist, and I don't believe that they are something imposed on us by Scripture. Look to the Old Testament for your example. While I'm not in any way suggesting that it is fiction, I do submit to you that there are plenty of people doing and saying horrible things (as well many good ones, too), and not everyone recognizes the error of their ways, or is punished horribly for their sins (in this life, anyway.)

In Flannery O'Connor's essay on the Christian writer, she suggests that there can be a Christian who writes but not a Christian writer because someone who writes to make a point or to send a message is not, in fact, a real fiction writer. Certainly our religious and other perspectives color our writing, but to write a story to further a cause or belief is more like propaganda than thoughtful fiction.

Ultimately, I believe the distinction of "Christian Fition" is arbitrary and ridiculous. We don't have "Christian Plumbing" or "Christian Engineers," though certainly, there are many in those professions who are dedicated Christians. Real, good, well-written fiction is fiction, pure and simple. The fact that my main character is doing or saying despicable things does not devalue my work or make it sinful. I'm not reading a novel to determine how to live my life, and if an adult reader is so easily swayed, then, perhaps, they have bigger problems than their reading material.

I'm sure there are those who will find my stance offensive, or at the very least, vehemently disagree. That's okay. I won't make you read my novel. You might want to change your mind, however. You might show up in a story some day.

Zombie Rules

2011-03-19T00:31:00.006-04:00

I liked monsters before they were cool. I watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer back in the nineties before anybody cared who Sarah Michelle Gellar was (which is actually pretty similar to now.) I love a good horror movie with lots of glistening corn syrup and high-pitched screaming. I laughed myself into a painful stitch in my side when I saw Shaun of the Dead for the first time. I enjoy the Halloween and Freddy movies, and I'll even get behind some Bruce Campbell campiness.

Of course, now, I'm just a nerdy cliche. Actually, I don't even think you can associate monster mania with nerds anymore after the influx of super-hot vampires slinking across every movie and television screen in American, and don't even get me started on all the vampire books. And now, zombies are getting the "cool" treatment, too, with popular films and series like, Zombieland and The Walking Dead. There are even zombie songs, like No More Kings, "Zombie Me" and Jonathan Coulton's brilliant, "Re: Your Brains."

Unfortunately, years of watching zombies shuffle across the screen have done little to address some of my basic questions about zombies and our world post-zombie-ocalypse. As a writer, I understand that the creator of a film, book, or television show creates a world where the action takes place, and that this action must follow the rules of said world. In all my years of zombie viewing, however, I've yet to see any rules that make sense or even stay consistent within their ficitonal realm. I would like to address a couple here.

Lifespan - How long do zombies live? Are they immortal like vampires and werewolves or do they, like the Energizer Bunny, just keep going and going until they run out of juice? In the films I've seen, zombies seem to be in the midst of varying degrees of decay, and with nothing to arrest this process, wouldn't they eventually just rot into impotence? Sure they want to eat your brains, but you don't see too many zombies with a toothbrush. So what happens when their molars fall out? They may be called the undead, but calling something immortal that is made of flesh and blood just doesn't add up. They're not lizards. They're not going to re-grow severed limbs, and nature is a powerful force when it comes to reclaiming its dead.

In, The Walking Dead, the survivors of the zombie-ocalypse sneak into zombie-infested Atlanta weeks or months after the original outbreak. Couldn't they just wait it out? With no food souce, would the zombies just languish and disintegrate? Which brings me to my next question...

Appetite - Do zombies need a minimum quantity of flesh to sustain "life"? Can the undead starve? In films like 28 Days Later, Zombieland, and in the show The Walking Dead, there are dramatic scenes of zombie hoardes mobbing the streets looking for a little human (or in the case of The Walking Dead, horse) meat. If one follows the zombie blight to its "natural" conclusion, wouldn't the stumbling mumblers eventually exhaust their food source? And if that is possible, wouldn't it (once again) be most logical to go somewhere secluded and wait them out? Zombie films seem to underestimate the number of people in the world and how many other people it would take to feed them. Do the math people. We're talking about a lot of hungry zombies in need of a hot meal. If my suggestion is correct, then suddenly waiting it out in a mall (as they tried in Dawn of the Dead) could theoretically work (if they hadn't fallen into the classic zombie trap of keeping an infected person alive. Gosh, it's like they've never seem a zombie movie.)

Of course, if the zombies eat other living things (like the ill-fated horse in Walking Dead) that would broaden their food chain, but there would still be a limit. Zombies aren't exactly living self-sustainable lives. It seems to me that their future is quite finite.

All of this is not to suggest that the zombie-ocalypse is entirely unplausible/unreadable/unviewable. Instead, I submit to you, that every zombie film/television show I've ever seen would benefit from a clear definition of its own rules and regulations. Can zombies live forever? Fine, then maybe they shouldn' t decay before my eyes. Is their eating only a sympton and not relevant to their survival? Then make that clear....though that would seem to fly in the face of every zombie-related thing I've seen or read.

There are other small things that are specific to certain programs/movies that I also find to be in need of clarifcation, such as zombie dormancy. In The Walking Dead (yes, I know I'm hitting that show hard, but it's freshest in my mind and raises a lot of questions), zombies, who appear to be simply dead people sprawled out on the ground, rise up when prey arrives in the form of a tasty unsuspecting live human and chases them down the street. Do they go into sleep mode like undead laptops, their personal motion detectors kicking them awake when some idiot walks by? Or are these zombies actually lying in wait, trying to look dead, so they can catch a meal? And if they are, then wouldn't that be require thought and reasoning, and therefore, a sign of brain activity - you know, everything a zombie CAN'T do?

And what about the zombie baby in Dawn of the Dead? Wouldn't it have tried to eat its mother/host? Not a pretty thought, but one worth asking if you've seen the film. And don't even get me started on incubation periods and the classic zombie movie blunders (which I wouldn't change for the world.)

All in all, I'm just a nerd in need of some answers that I know I'm probably not going to get, but I'm trying to take some solace in the fact that it will be difficult for Hollywood to find a way to make zombies sexy (like they've attempted with vampires.) Oh, who am I kidding? HBO's probably already got a show in the works about four spunky lady zombies who laugh and cry (which both sound pretty much the same when you're a zombie) while they navigate the world of zombie men and high-calorie humans. The name of this future hit? Bite Me.

Less Tunnel, More Light

2011-03-18T00:21:00.004-04:00

YIKES!!! I'm halfway through March, and I just realized I haven't posted since January. If it was my New Year's resolution to return to my faithful blogging habits (I can't remember if it was), then I totally blew it. I could defend myself a long list of distractions, but they're excuses. I'm sure I waste enough time every day that could be spent doing a little blogging.

I'm fingertip-nearly-touching close to completing my MFA. My FINAL, COMPLETE thesis is due the end of April, and I'm plugging away at revisions. On Facebook, I kept a detailed log of how many pages of revised thesis I'd completed during my most recent revisions. Imagine everyone's disappointment when they realized I would be revising my thesis yet again, and they would have to endure yet another countdown.

Actually, in addition to my completed thesis, I also need to have my craft lecture written and ready to go, my graduation forms filled out and submitted, all my reading completed, and some research done on a separate project that will for now remain nameless. Add to that, a new puppy, a now mobile toddler, and upcoming VBS dramas to plan, and I'm starting to sweat it just a little bit. Unfortunately, I'm going through that I-have-way-too-much-to-do paralysis that occasionally afflicts me. I haven't been using my little bit of downtime very wisely, and that's so unlike me, and it's driving me crazy. Here's hoping the adrenaline and characteristic Sarah-style organization kicks in soon.

Blogging is not the only thing I've been neglecting, however. My DVR is jam-packed with unwatched programs. I'm woefully behind on my New Yorker issues, and I'm just barely keeping my head above water with the housework. Must focus. Must prioritize.

Lest you start feeling too sorry for poor, put-upon Sarah. Please note that I've brought every single one of these things down on myself, and if I'd just get my act together, I would be able to plow through them without too much stress. Also there has been some fun interjected between the craziness.

Last week was the Holland Park Church ladies' retreat at Bonclarken, in Flat Rock, NC. The weekend was too wonderful to try to squeeze into a puny blog description. Suffice it to say that I got a desperately needed injection of fellowship, encouragement, and love. Have I mentioned how much I love, respect, and admire the amazing women at HPC? Plus, I got to eat an unhealthy amount of homemade desserts.

Also, we are now the proud (if somewhat harried) owners of a Komondor puppy. Sam is 14 weeks old and is a 35.5 pound bundle of energy and teeth. I can't wait to take him downtown and to the park this weekend for the very first time. It's going to be crazy, chaotic fun.

Enough with the catching up, I'd better get to bed, so I don't have yet another excuse for not getting things done (not enough sleep.) Maybe my next blog entry will be the zen musings of an MFA graduate.

Catching Up Is Hard To Do

2011-01-28T01:00:00.004-05:00

So it's time for a monster mega catch up blog. This marks the first residency (January 2011) that I didn't dedicate at least one entry to all the great things that happened there. Of course, that is not a reflection on the quality of the residency. There were so many wonderful readings and lectures and so much fun time with friends, but life has just been a little crazy since then, and it just never happened. So, here's my life in summary since my last blog entry from a date too distant to mention.

Third Semester of my MFA? Check! I have completed my critical paper ("The Voice in the Walls: The Femininity of Alternative Narrative Structure in the Work of Lorrie Moore", and no the title's NOT longer than the paper.) I have also cranked out more than 100 pages toward my thesis. Yes, there was much panicking, crying, and more than a few late nights, but I am three quarters of the way through my Masters!

The first Christmas with The Queen of Everything was everything I'd hoped (and a little more.) There was present unwrapping and macaroni and cheese eating and lots of pictures and video. Christmas just got a whole lot more fun with the addition of Lucy Addison, and I can only imagine how big of a blast we'll have next year.

Residency #4? Survived. Yes, I have completed my final full-length residency. I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there. There are so many wonderful things I could say about this residency, but I'll limit myself to these. Workshop gets better every semester as the program adds more and more talented students, and I learn so much from my fellow students. It's always encouraging and humbling to see how talented your classmates are. Also I found out I get to work with the always amazing, Leslie Pietrzyk, for my final semester, and I am so excited. I know I'm good hands as I revise and rethink my thesis.

January Madness and the 1st birthday. Despite my hopes to the contrary, things have not exactly slowed down since the holidays and residency ended. My life has been a series of appointments, visiting relatives, party planning, and a blizzard (well, by Southern terms, anyway.) The Queen's first birthday was a smashing success, with a houseful of 30+ people wedged into our 1700 sq ft house, and I'm still managing to squeeze my writing and reading into my schedule (somewhere.)

Now that you're dizzied by my seriously abbreviated version of the last two months, I'll share some words of wisdom...okay, just words. I've learned a few things about myself over the past few months. They are as follows:

1. One year olds are far more fun and entertaining than little babies. They also serve as greater distractions from things like schoolwork.

2. After months of research for my critical paper, I've discovered that I LOVE reading articles on literary criticism (and feminist criticism, in particular.) I just can't get enough of it .

3. I'm always going to dress like a school librarian, so I need to give up wishing I could look like my friends who've mastered Bohemian chic. I got rid of masses of clothing and purchased quite a few new things. Here's a surprise, they look like my old stuff, just newer.

Okay, so enough with this disjointed mess of a blog entry. You've been officially caught up. Here's keeping our fingers crossed for a more consistent blogging schedule in 2011! Want a sneak peek at future blog topics (tentative)? Well, how about zombie theory, more movie reviews, and a progress update on my thesis? I know right now you're positively panting with excitement, right? Or not.

Nerdish Delight

2010-11-09T12:35:00.011-05:00

Because you weren't convinced of my total descent in the nerdy abyss, I am posting these AWESOME pictures I found online.

So, this is a double nerd delight. All eleven Doctors as Simpsons characters! (If you don't know who the Doctors are, I'm not explaining it to you.)

Here are David Tennant as the Doctor and his faithful assistant, Donna Noble, also as Simpsons characters.

A Simpsons version of the Weeping Angel from "Blink."

And last but not least is this SUPER AWESOME poster that I also found online....

Am I ready for the return of the Doctor in 2011 or what?

Books + Bubbles = Motherhood

2010-10-27T23:10:00.007-04:00

I'm not beginning this entry with an apology. There's a week and a half until my final packet of the semester is due, and I have a nine-month old baby. I post when I post. That being said, I am looking forward to more regular posts during my nearly two-month break before the next semester starts. (And yes, I am aware of the paving material for the road to Hell.)

Despite the irregularity of my posts since the arrival of Superbaby, I have tried to keep one thing consistent: no torrent of baby-related posts. This is not a poke at my friends who have child-centric blogs. That is the purpose of their blogs, and I read them with relish (mostly.) My blog, however, is about my life as a student and writer, and also a place for me to rant about films and books. I'm afraid I'm going to have to break my rule, however, as these two areas of my life (books and baby) have intersected.

I have already written about my obsession with children's literature and my joy at having an excuse now to revist old favorites. Only recently, however, I got do the one thing I have looked forward to since the day I found out I was pregnant (and even before that)....I took Lucy Addison to the library.

Deciding when a child is old enough for the library is a tricky thing. If I'd had my way, I would have been wheeling her in there for a load of books on the way home from the hospital, but alas, the library is a quiet place, and squawling infants are met with stern looks over ancient reading glasses. So I waited. At eight months, I decided that I'd been patient long enough. We made our first trip to the library.

As I carried my twenty pound infant on my hip (a mistake I didn't repeat...stroller from here on out), I half-expected bright lights and an angel choir. I was, after all, introducing Lucy Addison to the library. Here she will choose books, find her favorites, go to storytime, win summer reading contests, oh, wait, I digress. Back to reality. Things weren't quite like I remembered from my childhood library visits (and there were many.)

First of all, Greenville libraries have automatic sliding doors now. How unromantic is that? I was prepared for the computerized card catalogs and infrared scanners and book barcodes, but not the sliding doors. It was a little disappointing. Then there's the whole smell thing. When I was little, my favorite thing about the library was the smell. I was the only five year old who got a contact high from the scent of musty books. Since I can no longer smell, something of the whole experience was diminished.

The visit improved greatly, though, when I got to the children's section. As I wandered (as much as one can wander when their right arm is numb from carrying a baby) through the picture books (set in shelves at kid height), I spotted the sign for storytime. Every Tuesday at 10 and 11. It was Wednesday. We'd have to wait a whole week for it to come around again. "Lucy Addison," I said, "we'll be back." She didn't seem particularly excited at the prospect.

We checked out her very first library books and rushed home to begin reading them. That part was as good I'd hoped. I remembered all the books my mother had read to me, all the trips to the library lugging the maximum number of books allowed from library to car to house and back. Checking out favorites again and again. Was Harry still a dirty dog? He was. Was Lyle still the most clever crocodile? Turns out yes.

Then came the day for storytime. I followed the other mothers in with their squirming toddlers and even a few infants. A smiling librarian with a Clifford puppet on her hand met us at the door. "Clifford" spoke to each child as they entered. Lucy Addison inspected the red dog from the safety of her stroller, looking a little skeptical with furrowed brow, and then we rolled into the auditorium with fifteen or twenty other children for the main event.

May I say that I never felt more like a mother than I did for that half hour. It was magical. There was singing, story reading, and even a rhythm/marching band where Lucy Addison got her own instrument (a rice-filled plastic egg.) There was even a bubble break. Part of me didn't want it to end. The best part was that Lucy Addison really seemed to enjoy it. That's it. No clever quips or funny anecdotes. It was perfect. The librarian even read Harry, The Dirty Dog.

Cue the music. This was the moment I had built up in my mind all those years. I am the mother of a little girl, and I just took her to storytime at the library.

And we get to do it again next week.

For anyone who's curious, here are the books we've checked out and read so far:

Thirsty Baby, Catherine Ann Cullen

Olivia and the Missing Toy, Ian Falconer

Olivia Forms a Band

Angelina Ballerina, Katharine Holabird

Angelina Ice Skates

Angelina's Baby Sister

Princess Baby, Karen Katz

Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile, Bernard Waber

Harry, the Dirty Dog, Gene Zion

LMNO Peas, Keith Baker

Too Many Frogs, Sandy Asher

Maisy Goes to the Library, Lucy Cousins

On Your Toes: A Ballet ABC, Rachel Isadora

Bears on Chairs, Shirley Parenteau

Lyle and the Birthday Party

Eloise: a Book for Precocious Grown-Ups, Kay Thompson (we didn't finish this one. Too much for LA)

Wee Little Bunny, Lauren Thompson

Plus these that we checked out this week and are in progress....

A Beautiful Girl, Amy Schwartz

Emily and Albert, Jan Ormerod

Emma and Mommy Talk to God, Marianne Williamson

Martha Walks the Dog, Susan Meddaugh (Martha is after my time, but I'm in love with her!)

Angelina at the Fair

Angelina and Alice

Angelina at the Palace (Noticing a pattern here?)

Say Cheese!, Lauren Child

Katy and the Big Show, Virginia Lee Burton

Dead Dogs Tell No Tales: A Rather Late Review of Australia

2010-09-26T02:02:00.006-04:00

I've decided I'm going to revise Chekhov's famous gun rule this way: If a dog is introduced in the first act, it will die tragically in the third. Filmmakers everywhere apparently have a tacit agreement that dogs can and should be included in a film as a means to manipulate the audience's emotions when said dog is senselessly shot/poisoned/has its neck snapped. Dogs have become the new version of the obligatory unnamed Star Trek cast member who appears and dies in every episode.

Why am I ranting about this particular little movie tidbit? I finally got around to watching Australia. Yes, I know it's not my usual movie fare (not to mention two years too late), but everybody kept telling me how wonderful it was and how I had to see it. So I Netflixed it. And yes, the dog dies.

Every person I talked to raved about the beautiful scenery, the exquisite cinematography. So while I didn't have high expectations for the film itself, I was prepared to be blown away by the breathtaking experience that is panoramic vistas in Blu-ray. So imagine my disappointment when I watched the actual film. Yes, there were certainly a few scenes with the stock Australia-type footage. Everything in between, however, appeared to have been filmed in a studio in sunny LA. Even the big outdoor scenes were split by badly transitioned close-ups that were obviously shot in a studio. One second Nicole Kidman or Hugh Jackman would be kicking up dust astride a horse, and the next second there would a poorly-lit head shot of them with a Sears Portrait Studio background behind them and a oscillating fan to the side. The shift between location and studio shots was so poor that after a while it became physically jarring.

Of course, dead dog and bad filming aside, the biggest problem with the film was that I'd already seen it. Yeah, I saw it back in 1992 when it was called Far and Away. Different time period, you say? Different country and no Tom Cruise, you point out? Well, it doesn't make any difference. The films were so similar in feel and circumstances to be laughable. The boy narrator even refers to Kidman once as the "Far, far away lady." Did the writers intend that as a joke? I hope so because it would be the only clever writing in the entire film.

Now, I must temper my harsh words with the reminder that the sweeping historical romance is not my usual choice when it comes to film, so I went into this whole experience with a bit of bias. Nevertheless, I watched the movie with as much of an open mind as I could muster hoping to be pleasantly surprised. Alas, I wasn't. The expected people died. The predictable misunderstandings and moments of poignancy went off like clockwork. No new ground was trod by this film or its director/writer, Baz Luhrmann.

All that being said, the film was entertaining and full of suspense. Nicole Kidman's costumes were beautiful, and she looked like an ivory goddess (as usual.) Hugh Jackman was appropriately craggy and emotionally unavailable, and love conquers all in the end.

Love wasn't enough, however, to overcome the bad writing and poor cinematography. It also didn't save the dog.

Moore Work (Pardon My Pun)

2010-08-13T22:04:00.006-04:00

The work continues. I have had to give up on the whole writing-during-the day thing for a while. I've always worked better at night, but before the baby got here, I could make myself eek out a little work during the day. Now that Lucy Addison is here and demanding more and more of my daylight hours, I find that whatever daytime concentration I'd been able to muster in the past has now completely disappeared. After two weeks of trying to be the disciplined, dedicated writer who gets up and writes before her child is awake, I've had to resort to writing at night while she is asleep. The downside is that evenings are also the time when Steve is home. Oh well, I suppose we're must suffer for our art, right? And besides, it gives Steve a chance to play Red Dead Redemption, and, after all, we must have priorities. Video game banditos need love, too.

In addition to my creative work (I'm still plugging away on the old novella), I am also trying to finish up the books I'm reading for my critical paper this term. I believe I mentioned this before, but in case you're just tuning in, I am [planning on] writing my critical paper on non-linear narratives in twentieth century lit with female authors, and more specifically, Lorrie Moore. So far I have read, Self-Help, Anagrams, Like Life, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital, and I'm about half-way through Birds of America. After I finish it up, I will only have A Gate at the Stairs left to go.

So far, I am loving her work. Like Life was probably my least favorite thus far (and also the least related to my critical project), but I am IN LOVE with Self-Help and Anagrams. It is almost unfortunate that I am not writing my paper on her use of word play because, quite frankly, her word play is AMAZING! Not only does she do really subtle stuff in the narration, but her characters are very intelligent and witty, and they make hilarious puns and turns of phrase that resonate with so many layers of meaning. Wait a minute. Can layers resonate? So maybe the cold medicine is kicking in a bit...never mind me. Lorrie Moore's words, metaphors, connotations, and references are brilliant. I swear that if I went through her stuff with a flourescent highlighter marking every time she blew me away with her mastery of the English language, the books would glow in the dark.

Besides her word play, an aspect most impressive to me is her use of the second person in Self-Help. She manages to write successful second person stories that are also entertaining and moving - not just exercises in edginess. This is a feat I've rarely seen accomplished so elegantly - though Leslie Pietrzyk's "Ten Things" would also fall in that amazing second person story category.

Of course, all of these aspects, though very intriguing, have little to do with my paper, which is about non-linear narratives. She does do some pretty impressive things with her handling of time in her stories, and I look forward to exploring that in more depth. So thanks to Bob Olmstead for nudging me toward such an amazing writer.

Rambling [Wo]Man

2010-08-12T13:34:00.005-04:00

I'm frantically trying to get my writing done for Monday's deadline, so, of course, I'm going to take some time to blog. Actually, I'm a little stuck, and I'm hoping this will shake something loose. Okay, that's kind of a disturbing metaphor, but I digress.

Lately, my days have been one long succession of baby, baby laundry, and feeling guilty/worried about my schoolwork. I can't seem to work for very long periods of times these days (for both practical and unknown reasons), so it's looking like I should have started this one-page-a-day installment plan a little sooner. I just need to get something on the page for this chapter so that I can start editing. The problem is that I keep editing in my head before I put anything down, and then I stall. Plus, I really wasn't planning on writing on one story for the entire semester, but I somehow got convinced that was the thing to do. Apparently, flattery will, in fact, get you everywhere, and telling me that you like my story and want to see more is enough to get me to agree to continue on with little, lost Michelle's adventures. What was I thinking?

So here I sit, knowing that the baby will wake up at any second from her nap and that we both have a cold and I still haven't eaten lunch and the dishes need to be put away and at some point I should probably wash my hair.

Okay, enough with the rant. Every semester I am convinced that this will be the time I don't get everything in by deadline, and every semester it all works out just fine. So I guess that means that this really will be the semester when I'm late and everyone realizes I'm a fraud and the health department really does declare my house unfit and we all run out of clean clothes.....and there she is, awake and ready for a bottle. Break over!

"If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense." - A Review of Alice in Wonderland

2010-08-07T23:33:00.007-04:00

Every time I heard Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland described by a friend or acquaintance, I heard the word "weird." Upon its release in theaters, Facebook lit up with comments about the "bizarre" film adaption of Lewis Carroll's classic. Of course, I had seen many of the previews, so I had already accepted the fact that the film would have little or nothing to do with the actual book, but the weirdness intrigued me. After all, even if the filmmaker combined Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Saw There, there probably wouldn't be enough to create a traditional plot/story arc. My hope, then, was that Tim Burton got the mood right - the feel of this truly twisted story, the beautiful "unlogicalness" of it.

This week I finally got to watch Tim Burton's latest...all by myself. I tried to keep my expectations low, since that attitude toward movie watching has paid off recently. Unfortunately, Mr. Burton let me down, and I'm having a difficult time forgiving him this trespass against one of my favorite childhood books.

The first sin was one that has become quite common in Hollywood. Why do filmmakers feel compelled to turn every female literary character into a put upon feminist? We are introduced to Alice as a free-thinking, imaginative child whose one kindred spirit is her father. So you can guess what happens to him. Next we see Alice as a young woman about to be married off to a creepy, young aristocrat who was a blatant rip-off of Spalding from Caddyshack. But Alice won't be tied down, no matter what her mother and sister say or expect. She's going to be a rule-breaker - she's going to change the matchmaking traditions of her generation (cue kicky Joan Jett song.) Seriously? Is Tim Burton jealous of Lewis Carroll's legacy of creepiness that predates his own, and now he's punishing him by completely eviscerating the childlike wonder of his character, Alice? I'm so disappointed.

Then there's the mish-mash of details from the two stories that are shuffled together into a completely new plot that is one part The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, one part Labyrinth, and about twenty parts special effects. What happened to the chess game aspect of Through the Looking Glass? There is only a brief nod to that detail when the final battle scene is set on a checkerboard. Plus, I always thought that Alice's entrance through the mirror was far more intriguing than her initial entry via rabbit hole. Don't misunderstand me. I realized that the story would be new, but surely there was a way to create a story that felt like Carroll. Look to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy film adaption. It had very little to do with the books, and yet they managed to maintain the gist of the message and the essence and quirkiness of the characters....which leads me to my next (and biggest) complaint.

Everybody kept saying how weird this film is. I would argue, in fact, that it isn't nearly weird enough. Obviously, those people never actually read the book, which is full of delightful conundrums, tongue-twisting rhymes, and jumps in logic and story that boggle the mind in a way that just feels right...especially to a child. At the age of ten (or whenever I read this book), I so got the writing, the kookiness, the meandering acid trip of it all. And, honestly, this is the area in which I thought Burton would excel. Nobody does creepy and bizarre like him, and yet he appears to have sold out to Disney or whomever suggested that he bastardize such a great book into this extremely accessible movie. Because, let's face it, Alice in Wonderland (the book) is anything but accessible or mainstream.

Lest I sound unfair, I will admit that the film on its own is entertaining. It is well-paced, and the acting is decent. Burton relied on his usual cast, and they didn't let him down (even if Johnny Depp's Mad Hatter did feel a bit like a reheated leftover of his Willy Wonka performance.) I am certain that viewers who never read any Lewis Carroll probably enjoyed it immensely, especially if they are addicted to special effects and elaborate wigs and makeup.

The question I am left with is, Is it enough to be entertaining? Doesn't the filmmaker owe something to the author? Carroll created a masterpiece that used childlike logic to explore very adult injustices and to point out the ridiculous in our world, and yet, the ridiculous is what is missing in the film. There is plenty of silliness and slapstick, but it all appears to be there for no other reason than to solicit a laugh from the audience. About the only thing separating this film from other Disney pap is its lack of a power love ballad. Hey, maybe Burton could give Celine Dion a call, and she could hook him up. Maybe Alice could become the next Disney Princess.

Coming Attractions

2010-08-04T23:56:00.003-04:00

Once again I've been slack in the blogging department. I haven't written a new entry in over a month, and I am suitably ashamed. Truth is, I haven't been working on school writing like I should, and I feel guilty if I do "fun" writing for my blog when I should be chipping away at my novella. All kinds of blogging ideas flit through my head and then either wither away or get dismissed as I remind myself of all the schoolwork I should be contemplating instead.

So, I resolve to do better about both. I've been working on my schoolwork fairly faithfully this week, and tomorrow I intend to reward myself with some blogging time. I finally got to watch my most recent Netflix arrival, Alice in Wonderland, and I'm dying to review it. What will I say? Will I give it a thumbs up or say "Off with Tim Burton's head?" I guess you'll have to check back tomorrow to find out!

Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Metaphor

2010-06-26T23:26:00.004-04:00

I had the weirdest dream the last night. Words that send even the most devoted listener running for cover. What could be more boring and irrelevant than hearing someone tell you a story that didn't happen? Not that I'm completely innocent of this conversational sin. I've had bizarre dreams that involved people I know and then felt the need to tell them about it the next day. It's a habit I'm working to break. If I ever do it to you, you have my permission to just walk away.

The only thing worse that telling me about a surreal, disjointed nightmare is writing about it. While I know that as soon as I say this, someone will give me an example of some brilliant writer who uses dream imagery expertly. But I am going to stand by my statement (and ignore the fact that I am about to do exactly what I am speaking against.) Dreams in fiction always feel like a device to me. How often in life do you have a dream that so perfectly reflects your inner thoughts/answers some deep question/reveals deeper truths? And yet, in fiction it happens all the time. A haunting visage or piercing incantation follows the dreamer into their waking hours chasing them into some life-changing realization. This shadowy image somehow becomes the hinge on which the entire story swings, and I, as the reader, can't swallow that the writer just stumbled onto that by accident. It had to be on purpose, and forcing an image just doesn't work.

Allow me to give an example.

The other night I had a dream. (Bear with me.) The dream started off as standard fare. I was being chased. Nothing new. That's when things got different and creepy. I came upon a towering mansion with doors that were a couple stories high. As I opened the doors, I stepped into a foyer area that was completely dark, except for a strip of light underneath two more doors in front of me. As the original doors went shut behind me, I somehow understood that they couldn't be reopened. I could only move forward. I opened the two doors in front of me and walked into yet another black foyer with two more doors with that same strip of light. Let me interject now that I am extremely claustrophobic. I desperately wanted to get out of the cramped, dark foyer, and I knew that the only way to get out was to keep moving forward, even though each new set of doors just led to another. This went on for awhile before I finally reached a marbled room complete with unlit chandelier. Then it was back to being chased.

I awoke shaken and temporarily afraid to move. Once I was awake enough to shake off the post-dream jitters, I couldn't stop thinking about the endless doors. It was one of the freakiest images I've had in a dream (that I can remember, anyway.) And at four o'clock in the morning, it seemed very original, very apt, very ripe for inserting into some story. I even considered writing it down so I wouldn't forget it. Fast forward to several days later. Sure the dream was scary, especially for somebody who won't even ride in the backseat of a two-door car. But original? Not so much. In fact, it seems like pretty standard horror movie schtick. So imagine, if I had decided to use this image in a story? I would either have to build a story around the image (can a dream be derivative?), or I would have to wait for just the right story to come along and then plug it in.

Of course, not every story or novel that uses the dream makes it central to the plot, and if you're going to use dreams, subtle is definitely the way to go. Just ask yourself, if it's really the only way to say what you want to say. If you're writing and completely lost in your story with the character acting seemingly of their own accord and he or she has a disturbing dream, go with it. Maybe. But ultimately, it's important to remember that you're already writing a story that didn't happen. Do you really want to include a fiction within a fiction? Will that create some sort of temporal disturbance causing your created world to spontaneously implode? Something to consider.

Wibbly Wobbly Time-y Wimey - MFA Summer Residency 2010

2010-06-17T18:08:00.005-04:00

I logged onto my blog today to do my MFA Summer Residency entry and discovered that I haven't posted since April. While I knew I'd been laying low in blogland while I finished up my second semester work, I had no idea I'd been so negligent. I really must try to do better...especially since I met several people over the past month or two who actually read my blog....people I'd never met. At this residency, I got to have the completely unnerving experience of meeting someone and having them say, "Oh, I know you. I've read your blog." Talk about inequity. This total stranger knows all kinds of stuff about you, and you know absolutely nothing about them. I got over the weirdness, though, and it was pretty cool to know somebody reads this.

Back to the residency. For all those interested (and even if you're not), I am officially halfway through my Master's. Of course, the biggest chunk of work remains, but if I can get through a semester that included a newborn baby, I can survive anything. This term, in addition to my creative work, I will be completing a 25-page critical paper which will serve as the basis for the craft lecture I'll present at the fifth and final residency. After a lot of thinking and some consulting with my faculty mentor (more about him later), I have narrowed the subject matter of my paper (a bit) to an exploration of time and non-linear narratives in the work of fiction writer Lorrie Moore. I'm really excited about my topic since it's something I've been exploring in my smaller critical papers over the last two semesters.

With each semester, I am assigned a new faculty mentor. The first semester it was the amazing Leslie Pietrzyk, and last semester, I had RT Smith (also amazing.) This term I will be working with Robert Olmstead. In addition to meeting with him regarding our semester plans, he also ran the workshop for our half of the fiction group. Allow me to describe the Bob Olmstead fiction workshop experience...no wait, I can't. The man is, for lack of a better word, intense. His insights and advice were spot on, but you'd be hard pressed to find a more deep discussion of the ethics, morals, and philosphies of the characters, stories, etc. Between the laser precision of his story dissection and the hours-long novella (out loud!) readings we did, we all (Bob included) were wiped out every day at the end of our sessions. I feel like I learned so much that I need a little rest before I can really understand how much I learned. And yes, I realize that sentence doesn't make much sense...except maybe to the three other people from my workshop.

Residency isn't all work, however. We had readings every night, both faculty and student. Of particular note were Leslie's next installment of her novel in progress (hurry up and finish it so we can READ IT!), Dan Wakefield's touching reading of a chapter from his book-in-progress, and fellow student Kate's AMAZING reading the last night of residency. The great and powerful LUCY ADDISON also made her Converse College MFA program debut on the final night. Alas, she didn't give a reading.

The best part of residency is getting to see all my writing friends. As a writer, you are often isolated from others of similar interests, and so when we get together we all talk like mad to get all the literary fellowship stored up until next time. The process of workshop is intensely personal, and a special bond forms between fellow students as we dissect each other's creations, trying to be helpful while treading lightly on each other's feelings.

Now, it's the hard part - buckling down and doing the work....and maybe remembering to do a blog entry or two.

The Ten Commandments of Writing

2010-04-15T11:32:00.007-04:00

I just finished reading John Dufresne's The Lie That Tells a Truth, and it has become my new favorite book on craft. It's full of mind-blowingly practical, and yet brilliant, suggestions, rules, and prompts. About a quarter of the way through, I came across his "Ten Commandments of Writing," and I decided I'm going to write them on a card and post them near my writing desk. As an MFA student, I hear these things all the time, but it's helpful to see them gathered together in one place. What are the Ten Commandments of Writing, you ask? They are as follows:

1. Sit Your Ass in the Chair.

2. Thou Shalt Not Bore the Reader.

3. Remember to Keep Holy Your Writing Time.

4. Honor the Lives of Your Characters.

5. Thou Shalt Not Be Obscure.

6. Thou Shalt Show and Not Tell.

7. Thou Shalt Steal. (No, that's not a typo.)

8. Thou Shalt Rewrite and Rewrite again. And again.

9. Thou Shalt Confront the Human Condition.

10.Be Sure That Every Death in a Story Means Something.

The Lie That Tells a Truth, John Dufresne, 2003

Tradition on Toast

2010-04-14T17:45:00.003-04:00

The mad rush of Packet #4 continues. I have less than a week and a half to finish my mountain of assignments, but what a payoff - a month and a half of essentially no schoolwork! Just me and Lucy Addison hanging out and watching way too many movies. Of course, this mad dash to finish has cut into my cooking and housecleaning time (and blogging too.) So the dreaded question every night has become: What's for dinner? (Yes, that was a dreaded question before my schoolwork deadlines, but it's worse now, okay?)

So today as I contemplated (briefly) what to prepare for our dinner, my mind flipped past the usual quickie suspects. Leftover spaghetti? Had that Monday night. Tacos? The ground beef is still frozen, and anyway, tacos? Again? Steak and peppers. How many nights have we done that over the past couple of months? Then it hit me. I knew what we were having for dinner. I swear I could almost hear trumpets playing a fanfare as the revelation came to me.

Tonight will be a turning point in our relationship. Tonight, we will go where we have never gone before. Tonight, I will fix Steve Chipped Beef Gravy. Yes, dear reader, my husband has never tasted of that culinary delight so often enjoyed on toast or waffles, that creamy goodness that belies its oh-so-common name. Despite my family history, (I come from a long line of chipped beef gravy enthusiasts) I have never prepared this delicacy for Steve. I don't know why. I have no excuse. As a matter of fact, every time my cousin or aunt mentions chipped beef gravy in their Facebook status (yes, it's happened more than once. What can I say? We like to talk about food.), my mouth waters, and I vow that soon I will make chipped beef gravy for dinner. Alas, until tonight, I have never followed through.

I will not be documenting this occasion with step-by-step photographs as I did with the sugar cookie experiment. There's not really anything dramatic about the process...just a little fried meat, a little flour, a little milk, you get the idea. I do have high hopes for the evening, however. I may have struck out with the whole Slumgoyan thing, but I am determined to make Steve love chipped beef gravy. He doesn't care for waffles, and we're out of bread, so I'm flexible. I plan to serve it over a football sized baked potato. I can compromise. Too bad I didn't eat it while I was pregnant. Maybe then I could have at least guaranteed one future fan to eat my family favorite with me. If not, well, there's always my fried chicken gravy. I swear Steve would eat that poured over an old shoe. As a matter of fact, so would I.

Monkeys, Maids, and Other Polically Incorrect Things

2010-03-24T12:09:00.015-04:00

I am a reader. This is not a new thing. I have been a reader since I was born. (Okay, someone else was doing the reading then, but I still enjoyed it.) When I was little, my mom read my books to me so many times that I could recite many of them, and it was a family pastime to have me do this for company. I guess it's fun to make people think your three year old can read. I had favorites back then, and some of them have stayed with me over the years. I loved Curious George. (So I'm not super original. Sue me.) I loved Dr. Seuss and Madeline and Corduroy and all the other books that mothers read to their babies. Some children's books I discovered as an adult. I'm obsessed with A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. I adore anything by Beatrix Potter (so much so that I even sat through that mediocre sapfest of a film with Renee Zellweger and Ewan McGregor.)

I am also a book collector. It is not enough for me to love a book. I have to own it. My children's book collection is significant, and I have been lugging it from house to house for my entire adult life. And now, my book hoarding has finally paid off. With the arrival of Lucy Addison, I now have a legitimate excuse to display and read from all my childhood favorites. So every day, I pull out the Boppy, prop up the baby, and read a good book.

This revisiting of my old favorites, however, has brought to my attention the politically incorrect nature of some of the classics. Now, I am not one to be particularly P.C., but I must admit that I did get a little chuckle thinking about how they are selling these less-than-modern tomes to children at your local B&N. In a world where everything has a non-offensive title (I'm not short, just vertically challenged), it's nice to know that we can count on classic children's literature to take us back to a different time.

Amelia Bedelia - The story of an artless, hapless maid with a penchant for taking things much too literally was one of my childhood favorites. Upon re-reading, however, I was shocked to find our friend Amelia working away in what amounts to a modified French Maid outfit, complete with lace apron and cap. Nothing says, You're my inferior, like making your employees dress in what would now be considered a Halloween costume. Then there is the cavalier way with which Mr. and Mrs. Rogers hire, fire, and re-hire poor Amelia Bedelia. I'm certain that she's not getting any health benefits at that job. Perhaps the president could use the frequently unemployed maid as his new poster child for the health care bill. I'm sure it would improve his standings in the polls for the under ten set. Also hearkening back to a time long ago (and maybe never) was the way which Mrs. Rogers lives. Not only does she have a maid, but she has a sewing circle, for crying out loud. Neither Mrs. Rogers nor any of her lady friends have jobs. So why do they all need maids? Oh, that's right, to clean their mansions. Now there's some relatable characters for today's youth. Either you're so rich that you have a staff to wait on your every need, or you're so poor that you must wander the streets looking for work (See Come Back, Amelia Bedelia.) Don't worry, A.B., you're still one of my favorites, and I swear I don't find it offensive that the only reason the Rogers take you back at the end of each book is because you can bake.

Curious George - So this little primate was definitely before the days of the Crocodile Hunter and Animal Planet. We are introduced to our long-limbed friend as he swings happily about his jungle binging on bananas and just being, well, curious. Then along comes the Man in the Yellow Hat, or as I will henceforth refer to him, The Man. The Man tells George that he knows somewhere where he'll be very happy...the zoo. Are you kidding me? Our monkey friend seemed just fine swinging on vines in his (probably doomed, let's be honest here) rainforest. The Man honestly thinks he'll be happier in the ZOO? Never mind the fact that he tricks George into a bag to trap him. Now there's some light reading for children. Just when you thought it couldn't get any more politically incorrect, poor, little George gets thrown in jail for playing with the phone and calling the fire department! (And while we're on that subject, what fire department has the number 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9? And shouldn't a monkey that can work a rotary phone be congratulated not imprisoned? I have trouble dialing the numbers on my cell phone's touch screen.) Of course, this is a children's book, and it simply must have a happy ending. So what becomes of our mixed-up monkey? Does he hop a jet back to the jungle and live happily ever after? No. He gets dumped in a zoo where The Man buys him and all the other trapped animals balloons. That's right. Balloons. And let us not forget that there is actually a book entitled, Curious George Gets a Job. I wonder if his employer pays for insurance.

Beatrix Potter's stories - Forget the outrage over violent television and video games. Miss Potter had it all covered way back in the day with her fantasy-meets-horrific-realism stories or as I would like to rename Peter Rabbit's story, When Farmers Attack. That's right children. This is not just a morality tale of do good things or bad things will happen. This story is VERY specific. Do what your mother says or you will get eaten and die. Kudos to Mr. MacGregor, though, for his clever mocking of the naughty Peter by hanging his jacket on a stick in the garden. That's not disturbing at all.

These are only three small examples of the politically incorrect nature of the books I treasure, and it is these very details that, in part, make them so dear to me. I'm not naive enough to say they hearken back to a simpler time, so we'll just say a different time. And yes, Lucy Addison will be hear about Madeline and her life in a Catholic girls' boarding school where the parents never visit their children. At some point, she'll probably even read some Mother Goose in all its Gothic horror.

She will not, however, be sung "Rock-a-bye-Baby" as a lullaby. A song about a child falling out of a tree? A girl's got to draw the line somewhere.

Deadlines - with the operative word being...well, you know

2010-03-02T17:54:00.005-05:00

I'm sitting at my desk in my upstairs study, and I feel the panic. Just over a week until I must get my next packet in the mail, and I have two pages of one story written, one book read, another half-read, and no exercies or papers written. So why am I writing this blog entry instead of pounding away on my laptop?

I'm stuck.

It seems that I have been rescued from the clutches of pregnancy brain, only to be delivered into the hands of some sort of postpartum mind mush that has no name. I have my story in my head. I know what I want to do. So why the heck can't I just sit down and do it? Even doing my reading has become a challenge. Of course, it probably doesn't help that the book I'm trying to wade my way through is Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Seriously, I want to lay down and die (or at least sleep) every time I pick it up. The crazy POV shifts, wildy varying voices, and intermittent sections of stream-of-conciousness are making me crazy...that is, when I can stay awake long enough to read it.

I can't blame this on the baby.

She's a good girl. Most days, she sleeps like a little lamb between her feedings. So what is my problem? Why do I suddenly feel far more drawn to reading Dr. Seuss and Curious George? Why is every word I type on my story dredged up with great pain and deliberation? Why do people watch Lost? (Okay, that question isn't related. Just something I wonder about.)

I've tried the If-I-Get-Myself-Made-Up-In-The-Morning-I'll-Feel-More-Productive method. Didn't work. Today, I didn't even make the effort. I'm wearing a sweatshirt and black yoga pants that are covered in Abby Tabby hair. My hair is pulled back, and makeup is the farthest thing from my mind. I thought that maybe the I'm-Too-Wrapped-Up-In-My-Work-To-Wear-Makeup method might get me inspired. Instead, I'm just the grungy looking chick with only 2 crummy pages to her story, baby clothes that need to be put in the dryer, and raw chicken breasts lying in the sink and serving as a partially frozen reminder of the dinner I need to start.

Delicious Dishing

2010-02-16T17:54:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow's the drop-dead mail date for my first 2nd semester packet. I still have so much to do between this afternoon and tomorrow that it's not even funny, but I wanted to take a minute to thank all the amazing people who have made it possible for me to get any schoolwork done while adjusting to life with a baby.

First there was the grandmothers. Sure they had ulterior motives, wanting to get their time in with the new grandbaby, but they were still a trememdous help once Lucy Addison came home. Not only did they do things like laundry and housework, but they were also real grown-ups to talk to during the day!

Then there have been all the lovely people who've called, written, and otherwise sent their best wishes. This can be a challenge for someone who's not particularly good on the phone (I break out in the same sweat as if I were standing there talking to the person), but it was still much appreciated.

The last group has been the most amazing help, however. As I've mentioned in previous blogs, we are consistenly overwhelmed by the kindness of generosity of our church family at Holland Park. So many amazing ladies have been providing us with meals, and let me tell you, we have eaten well. In addition to the generous culinary offerings, these food deliveries give me a welcome adult visitor with whom to converse, and despite my very tongue-in-cheek blog on friends' and visitors' dire warnings, I love these visits!

So now, it's back to work. I've still got papers to write on novels and short stories and a short story to edit. And baby laundry to wash. Maybe this time I'll remember to put the detergent in when I wash it (don't ask.)

Baby and Books Blog Break

2010-02-01T14:57:00.003-05:00

As anyone who has been on my Facebook page is acutely aware, Lucy Addison has arrived...six weeks early. After a weeklong stay in the NICU, she is home and ruling from her throne...I mean, crib. Actually, she's a very good baby, and we're so grateful that she's healthy and easy going. Of course, her early arrival has played havoc with all my schoolwork plans (I had 2 deadlines scheduled before her predicted delivery date.) So, after a quick shuffle (thanks to my understanding professor), I have a new schedule and a new looming deadline. It's back to work now, baby or not. This means that my blogging will suffer for a while as it takes a backseat to my mounting pile of writing, reading, and laundry. Never fear, however, I will return...possibly a little sleep deprived and incoherent, but won't that be entertaining?

You Might Be A Writer If...

2010-01-14T13:03:00.010-05:00

I've written before on the human need for identification with a specific group. Nerds love to be associated with their own kind, Jeff Foxworthy has made millions uniting rednecks, and we've all watched VH1's I Love the [insert decade] while nodding our heads and saying, "Yes, I remember the Monchhichi!" Well, writers have their own funny little ways, too, and after a week and a half of hanging out with my own kind, I have compiled a short list of "You know you're talking to a bunch of writers when..." (Jeff Foxworthy, eat your heart out.)

1. You correct someone's grammar, spelling, punctuation, etc., and they don't get mad.

If a writer is reading this blog entry, right now they are probably saying to themselves, "She really should have used angry since mad technically means crazy, and you know what? I'm okay with that. Nothing like a bunch of writers to keep you honest, at least from a language perspective.

2. You sit around discussing the finer points of your personal language/writing pet peeves.

Mine include people who say, "I could care less" instead of "I couldn't care less" and people who misuse the word "nauseous" (which includes almost everyone these days.) Nauseous means causing nausea, as in "these gas fumes are nauseous." It does not mean "to feel nausea." So when someone says, "I feel nauseous," I can only agree. Their abuse of the King's English is making me queasy.

On the final night of residency, several members of the fiction group (including some faculty) sat around a lovely dinner at Spartanburg's Inn on Main discussing their own language obsessions. One woman was on a personal vendetta against the use of "alright" in writing since technically it should be written as two words, all right. Another woman crawls out of her skin whenever someone says the non-word, irregardless. (I have to say, I'm right there with her on that one.) The best part of the evening? No one thought we were being nit-picky language snobs. Everyone at the table "got it." No judgements were made...except of those violating our grammatical code of conduct.

3. You make stupid writing puns, and everyone thinks they're hilarious.

There's always the classic, "Avoid cliches like the plague." (Yes, Martha, it's funny every time you say it.) Then there's the one I made up the other day, "She abuses adverbs horribly." (The best part? Steve, my non-writer husband, thought that one was amusing.) Basically, any play on words gets us chuckling. What can I say? We love the language.

4. You begin every shared anecdote with the phrase, "Okay, I'm going to tell you something, but you can't use this."

Writers are fiercely protective of their ideas for future work, and rightfully so. Writing is hard work, and you just can't make some things up. Cow-milking Dalmatians and possessed bedside lamps are like gold in the writing world, and a writer must store up these little gems like a squirrel storing nuts for winter. You never know when an idea draught is coming. And no, you can't steal either the lamp or the Dalmatian. They're all mine.

This list is, of course, not exhaustive. There are as many writerly tics as there are writers, and it is wonderful to be with a group of people who understand the shorthand that all us writing nerds speak. So if you're ever at a cocktail party and you walk into a small group scoffing at some author's multiple point of view shifts or debating the use of the frame story, you'll know you're in the company of writers. (And that you better watch what you say since they'll certainly be judging you by it.) You probably don't have much to worry about, though. We don't get invited to too many parties.

***Due to time constraints, there are probably typos in this blog. Feel free to alert the author to any mistakes you find, but beware: she is a writer, so be sure you know what you're talking about!

"When I Get A Little Money I Buy Books" Erasmus - Winter Residency Part II

2010-01-13T12:55:00.006-05:00

Perhaps I should begin this the second installment on my winter residency with an explanation of the low-residency program. I had no idea when I entered this program how many times I would have to explain it to people. Sometimes the listener looks at me like I'm making it up. So allow me to assure you that these low-residency programs exist across the country and that we actually have several nearby (Queens College and Warren Wilson, both in NC.) The purpose of the low-residency program is to offer an MFA degree to the student who is unable to relocate to a city whose university or college offers a residential MFA program. It also allows the student to continue to hold down a real job. This is accomplished through two 10-day residencies that are held on campus, followed by a semester-long study and writing plan coordinated with a faculty mentor. Packets of the student's work are sent in to the faculty mentor throughout the semester. The workload is fairly extensive, but the student is free to schedule their semester work around their lives. Acceptance into these programs is based on the quality of the manuscript submitted. Because many potential MFAers are grown-ups with jobs and families, the low-residency program is increasing in popularity.

With that bit of housekeeping out of the way, I feel more free to share the rest of my week with you, the well-informed reader. As you can imagine, winter residency (and summer, too, for that matter) is an intense week of workshops, lectures, and writing with little time for sleeping or resting. As I mentioned in my previous blog entry, however, our benevolent leader did schedule a bit of a break for us on Wednesday that was much appreciated (especially by the 8 months pregnant lady with puffy feet!) Wednesday night I did return to school for a screening of the film, New York in the 50's, a documentary based on Dan Wakefield's book by the same name. Though the film did have the misfortune of being shown in the scorchingly overheated Hartness Auditorium, it managed to rise above the steamy circumstances to entertain and charm. The only downside was that Mr. Wakefield was ill and unable to be at the screening. So we're all saving our questions for the summer residency when we hope to see him again.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday went by in a haze of workshops, lectures, and vain attempts to find a comfortable chair and a place to prop up my feet. There were a few standouts, however. R.T. Smith's (yes, he's my mentor!) lecture on place in short fiction was amazing. Who else could read their lecture and still be so interesting and enlightening? Plus, he brought his Edgar Allen Poe action figure! Albert Goldbarth also made a last minute appearance in both a reading and lecture. On Thursday night he read with the always brilliant (and funny) Susan Tekulve, who read an essay on Scottish food and beverage. I also picked up a copy of her new book, Savage Pilgrims, which I can't wait to read. Albert Goldbarth's reading and lecture were both mind-blowing (and as always, entertaining.) My only regret was that the reading had to be held in Cleveland Hall, which managed to be both cold and uncomfortable. At least I got to sit next to the charming Peter Meinke and his wife during the reading. I can't remember the last time I met two kinder or more friendly people. (He's an amazing poet, too.) I can't wait to go to his reading at Converse at the end of the month (January 26.)

So, now it's all over. It's just me and my computer and a UPS guy loaded down with a massive book order. I have two deadlines before the baby gets here (let's hope she's not an early bird, which doesn't seem too likely considering her parents), not to mention the deadlines and work I'll have to do after she gets here. Here's hoping the muse does not forsake me. I've certainly been given more than enough practical advice and inspiring speeches to carry me through. I guess, now, it's up to me.

For those interested, here is a list of the books I purchased during Winter Residency and also my Reading List for the semester. Feel free to read along with any of these and let me know what you think!

Books I purchased:
Savage Pilgrims, Susan Tekulve (fiction)
Uke Rivers Delivers and The Calaboose Epistles, RT Smith (fiction)
To Be Read in 500 Years, Albert Goldbarth (poetry)

Winter 2010 Reading List:
Fiction 100 (anthology)
Lie That Tells The Truth, John Dufresne (craft book)
On Writing, Eudora Welty (craft book) *
Naming The World, Bret Anthony Johnston (craft book/exercises)
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner (fiction)
The Member of the Wedding, Carson McCullers (fiction)
The Optimist's Daughter, Eudora Welty (fiction) *
I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, William Gay (short fiction)
The Art of Fiction, John Gardner (craft book)

* It's like Rod read my mind! I was so wanting to reading some Eudora Welty this term. I mean, I did go Flannery O'Connor mad last term, so it's only fair.

Tight Schedules and Tighter Shoes: MFA Winter Residency Part One

2010-01-06T10:03:00.004-05:00

I realized this morning that I have been missing from blogland for nearly a month, and what a month it has been. I went to Maryland for a week to visit family and just missed their record-breaking Christmas blizzard. I celebrated Christmas with Steve in a very quiet, laid-back way, and that was followed by a less than stellar new year as we lost our precious cat, Hobson to cancer and congestive heart failure. So while champagne was already off the menu for the New Year celebrations this year, it wasn't exactly with sparkling grape juice and noisemakers that we welcomed in 2010.

On a happier note, January 2nd meant the return to school as the Winter Residency began. Since Saturday (Jan 2), I haven't stopped. My life has been a whirlwind of lectures, readings, workshops, and traipsing across campus in the coldest weather Spartanburg has seen in a decade. A fine time to have ridiculously cold weather - when I'm too big to button my coat! The good news is that the program director has worked in a nice little break into the middle of all this craziness, so today I can (quite literally) put my feet up for a few hours, do some writing assignments, and just enjoy my home furnace and humidifier. I even have a nice, warm cat (Abby Tabby) cuddled beside me to keep me warm. Of course, I'll be back at school tonight for a showing of the film adaptation of Dan Wakefield's New York in the Fifties, but I'll be refreshed and ready to go by then. Besides, I'm really looking forward to the film, and Steve has promised to go with me.

Being pregnant during the residency has certainly made it more challenging, but I don't mean to imply that it's been 5 days of torture. The lectures have been great, and the faculty and fellow students are amazing. There have been plenty of highlights (or hi-lites, as I saw on a beauty shop sign near my house yesterday) to celebrate.

RT Smith, editor of Shenandoah (and my mentor this semester!) gave a reading of his new fiction on Saturday night, including a Southern re-telling of Rumplestiltskin.

Sarah Kennedy's lecture on the prosy poem. I will now think of her at every poetry reading I attend, wondering if the next poem will "outstrip" me or simply take me along for the ride. Here's hoping for the former rather than the latter.

Leslie Pietrzyk's (my fantastic former mentor) lecture on finding the story in your novel or short story. I love the practical way in which Leslie approaches writing. She always has such amazing tips and tricks to suggest, and it's so comforting to know that a writer of her caliber has to work hard and use tips and tricks, too.

Having a 3 hour gab session with my favorite fellow student at Jason's Deli. I think we solved the problems of the world and completely dissembled each other's workshop pieces. Good times!

Peter Meinke's reading of his poem about the undercover poetry reader.

Tim McKee's (editor of Sun Magazine) lecture on "Surfacing Pearls" where he actually gave us lists of what he looks for as an editor and what not to do in your stories. Way to be the first editor/speaker we've had that was willing to be that specific!

C. Michael Curtis' reading of some of the crazy cover letters he's received as editor of the Atlantic Monthly.

Looking at really, really old issues of Concept while taking a workshop break in the Coker Room.

Today, I enjoyed a bit of a lie-in and a little blogging time, and this afternoon I have lots of writing to do after my weekly doctor's appointment. Here's hoping I'm able to write my re-imagining of "Hills Like White Elephants" and my point-of-view switch exercises before heading to the movie. Tomorrow it's back to the insanity, and Friday I get workshopped. I better start psyching myself up now.

Visions of Sugar Cookies

2009-12-08T10:17:00.007-05:00

If you went to school with me or go to church with me or work with my husband, you know that I like to bake. Actually, I think I like the baking even more than the eating (which is why most of my product goes to work with Steve.) However, my baking prowess is nothing compared to that of my Nanny, professional maker of all things sweet and yummy. When I think of childhood trips to Maryland, I think of Cool Whip containers packed full of fudge for the long ride home and bags of sugar cookies that I would ration out for days just to make them last. Dinner at her house is always punctuated by fudgy Texas sheet cake or "Green Stuff" (I actually have no idea what it's called, just that it involves massive amounts of pistachio pudding and Cool Whip.) So, back in April when we went to Maryland, Nanny and I set aside a day just for making sugar cookies. I had never attempted my favorite of her cookie confections, and I was determined to master the art of Nanny's soft, doughy sugar cookies.

Fast forward to December. Months have gone by, and still no sugar cookies have been made in my kitchen. First I had to acquire the right cookie sheets that were just like Nanny's. (I did that months ago.) Then there was the small problem of not owning a rolling pin. (What can I say? I'm not a pie person, and therefore had never bought one.) I acquired a rolling pin just before Thanksgiving, and my excuses were dwindling. Last week almost saw me attempting the cookies only to realize that I couldn't find any of my old cookie cutters. (They must not have survived one of my many moves.) Finally last night, two days before leaving on another trip to Maryland, I made my very first solo attempt at Nanny's sugar cookies. I mentally prepared myself for disappointment while still hoping for the best, and with camera in hand, I dove fearlessly into the world's stickiest cookie dough.

Overall, I would have to say that things went smoothly. There were a few hiccups. Due to circumstances at least partially out of my control, I wasn't able to start until late, which meant that I couldn't leave the dough in the fridge for a few hours to stiffen up. The problem? You have to use more flour to keep the dough from sticking to everything, and the cookies lose some of their famous softness. I was a little worried about this, but I decided to forge ahead. Another problem? Target didn't have any plain, round cookie cutters, so I had to use these little snowflake/poinsettia Christmas numbers. Very cute in cookie cutter form, not so much in a sugar cookie. I now have two bags of what look like red and green Christmas starfish. I guess we're having a little Yuletide Under the Sea at the Gray house.

Apart from the flour issue and the apparent Little Mermaid theme, however, the cookies turned out pretty well. They were puffy and doughy and soft like Nanny's. Okay, maybe they weren't quite as soft as Nanny's, but to the inexperienced eater, I'm sure they're quite perfect. If you never tasted the pillowy goodness that is Nanny's sugar cookies, I'm certain that mine taste quite superior to their local peers. Tomorrow, though, it's on to Maryland. I'm taking a bag of my underwater beauties with me for two reasons. 1. To prove that I did, in fact, attempt Nanny's cookies. She did, after all, take the time to show me how. 2. To have them taste tested by the experts. No holding back, people. I need you Nanny connoisseurs to lay it on the line and make the hard criticisms. I can take it.

What's next in my quest to become the Frances Lantz of the Greer set? Nanny's Fudge - my first time with a candy thermometer...should make an entertaining blog even if the fudge is inedible.

Movies + Mail = Magic

2009-11-29T23:21:00.005-05:00

I've mentioned before that I'm married to a major technophile and that we share a mania for movies. Well, those two obsessions have found the perfect marriage in Netflix and its PS3 Watch Instantly feature. Though we have discussed a Netflix subscription before, we've never joined. Steve (in true Steve form) wanted to wait until Netflix opened up their Watch Instantly site to the PS3 Network, and (as usual) he was right to wait. It's amazing! While we receive Blu-Rays in the mail as fast as we can watch them, there is, of course, a two-day lag as we wait for the next flick. With the Watch Instantly feature there are tons of movies that we can watch right on our tv without paying any more money! Do I sound like a commercial? Yes. Do I care? Not so much. As Steve likes to say, "It's a good time to be alive." No more trips to the video store. What's next - flying cars?

So here's the rundown on some of our Netflix viewing (both Blu-Rays and Instants). I won't do extensive reviews, but I'll tell what was a winner and why.

Bottle Rocket - Yay for finally getting to see Wes Anderson's first film! I must admit I'm a little obsessed with Wes Anderson and his movies (I've probably seen Royal Tenenbaums a couple hundred times.) So my opinion of this film may be a bit biased. Suffice it to say that if you didn't enjoy any of his other films, you probably won't like this one either. I, on the other hand, thought Owen Wilson was his usual brilliant self in the movie that he helped Anderson write. The set and costumes had the same not-quite-real look and feel of Anderson's other films, and the plot meandered deliciously from one offbeat scene to another. And last but certainly not least, the soundtrack was pitch perfect. While this isn't my favorite Anderson film, I didn't feel a bit cheated by my first Netflix rental, and I will be adding this Criterion Collection Blu-Ray to my Christmas Wish List.

Away We Go - This film stars Maya Rudolph and John Krazinski (The Office) and follows two lost souls as they tour the country looking for the perfect place to raise their unborn child. The movie was directed by Sam Mendes (American Beauty) and, as I found out in the Blu-Ray featurettes, was a "green" film where environmental impact was considered throughout every aspect of the filmmaking process. This movie featured some of my favorite comic actors, such as Catherine O'Hara and Allison Janney, and they didn't disappoint with fresh performances that kept me laughing and cringing (in a good way.) Rudolph and Krazinksi were both charming as the world's most unprepared parents, and I was left feeling entertained despite a few brief forays into sappiness. Overall, there was a indie feel without the depressing indie ending.

Star Trek - Yes, I caved. I wasn't sure I wanted to see this movie since I simply didn't trust J.J. Abrams (of Lost fame) to reimagine my precious Star Trek characters, so needless to say, I went into this rental with very low expectations. Perhaps I should make this my new policy when watching movies since I was so pleasantly surprised by this film. Yes, it was more of an action flick than anything Gene Roddenberry ever created, and yes, changes were made. Any inconsistencies in plot, however, were explained away with a clever twist that allowed Abrams far more latitude than I would have imagined. The relative unknowns who played the iconic Kirk, Spock, Uhura, Checkov, Scotty, and Bones all did admirable jobs of following in their predecessors' footsteps. The "new" Kirk did drop the William Shatner halting over-the-top delivery, but he stayed true to the spirit of Kirk, which was more important to me. Nobody can be Shatner, and it would have been pointless to try. Like Lucas' Star Wars prequels, the film did suffer from the whole better-technology-when-the-prequels-get-made malady making it hard to believe that the Enterprise was actually less advanced than in the tv show, but the rest of the movie was good enough that I forgave Abrams this small sin.

Funny People - This movie was hyped so much on The Tonight Show (I swear Conan interviewed every single cast member at some point during the film's theater run) that I had fairly high expectations for it, and it didn't disappoint. That is not to say, however, that this movie was what I expected. I went into to it expecting the usual Apatow fare (that's not a bad thing, by the way), but what I got was a much darker film with a bit of an indie feel. Adam Sandler and Seth Rogen were hilarious together - especially the scenes where they are writing stand-up material. I was also happy to see one of my favorites, Jason Swartzman, and he was funny (and weird) as ever. Jonah Hill was entertaining, though nothing about his performance was particularly new or different. I hate to declare the man to be a one-trick pony, but alas, I think I may hear the glue factory calling.

As for Instants, we've been watching everything from Mystery Science Theater 3000 to the first and second seasons of Dexter. Steve's also been loading up on all his guilty favorites, cult classics from his childhood, some of which I have watched and some I skipped. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen? Not bad. I mean, how bad could a film be that features cast members from Monty Python and Robin Williams playing a disembodied head? I managed to skip Krull (saved by a Sunday afternoon nap.) I've added a few Instants of my own to the queue, and I'm hoping to watch some of them this week while Steve's at work and I'm taking a break from schoolwork. After all, I don't think I can convince Steve to watch Monsoon Wedding or Smart People. The poor guy is already having to put up with a crazy pregnant lady, and every man has his limit.

We Were Hollywood - A Veteran's Day Tribute

2009-11-11T12:45:00.006-05:00

In honor of Veteran's Day, I am posting a couple of poems I wrote based on the Library of Congress Veteran's History Project interview of my grandmother's late husband, Scheller Garlock. Scheller served our country in both WWII and the Korean War and retired from the Army as Major. He was a wonderful and amazing man, and I am grateful for the years my family had with him.

The two poems I am including are from different parts of a poetic sequence that follows Scheller's military career. "We Were Hollywood" is about his time in the Army War Show, a traveling show that demonstrated the great warm machine and sold bonds to support the war effort. "Sons of Bitche" is in reference to a German practice of impersonating dead American soldiers in order to get behind enemy lines. Bitche is a town in France. After the Americans took it back, the men involved in the mission started calling themselves the Sons of Bitche. Scheller was proud to be among them.

We Were Hollywood

Picked for our looks, we played war
to earn money and recruit men - with out tanks
and guns loaded on trains, we occupied cities from
Baltimore to Milwaukee.

Stadiums shook with explosions
and applause while the Master of Ceremonies -
some famous guy I can't remember - announced
each act to the audience.

Dressed in starched uniforms, we fought
off the girls who thought
us famous - movie stars.

Plying our Uncle's trade,
in front of thousands, each night
we rehearsed the part we would soon play
and told them this was war.

Sons of Bitche

Stuffed in G.I. uniforms like a hand in a puppet,
they wore the dog tags of the dead
from further up the line. Pilfered identities
could not hide their butchered English,
and discovery always meant death.
An unforgivable blasphemy,
to wear the clothes of the dead,
they were punished for their heresy.
Stripping them of their American skin,
so we could kill the German heart.

A Room of One's Own

2009-11-09T16:55:00.004-05:00

The final deadline for the final packet of semester is quickly approaching (I need to get it mailed by Wednesday...in 2 days.) I'm slowly plugging away at the work - slowly being the operative word. The new room/desk is helping. I may have waited 7 years to have my own desk again, but it was worth the wait (nevermind that I had to get pregnant in order to get it.) What's not helping? The large, purring cat dancing around in my lap, the doctor's appointments, the dinner that needs to be fixed, and that ongoing struggle to keep what's left of my brain from leaking out my ear. I think I know what I want to do with my story now (which helps), and I've gotten some more reading done while waiting at the doctor's office (so that's something.) Looks like a couple of days' cramming is now in order.

I am reading Best American Short Stories 2009 for part of my packet. I have to write 2 to 4 pages about current trends in short stories. So far I'm struggling to find a common thread/element between the stories I've read, but I still have one and a half more to go. That's not to say that the stories aren't wonderful. It was such a smart move on my part to take a break from Charles Baxter to read a few of the stories from this book. I was starting to get bogged down in writing theory. I have found, however, that when one is not running on all eight cylinders (is that how that saying goes? Not a car person...it is a car metaphor, right?), it can be paralyzing to your writing to read a lot of theory and rules. I'm not saying that Baxter isn't brilliant or that I don't love the book, just that my confidence is barely hanging on by a thread. I need to steer clear of sharp object, writers, and observations to avoid it being severed.

Hobson (my cat) must have sensed my need to buckle down and get things done. She came upstairs for moral support. Despite her brief attempts at distraction, she has now curled up happily on my lap and is purring loudly. Nothing quite so soothing (and potentially literary) as that!

Unoriginal Sin: A Review of The Plan and V

2009-11-05T18:13:00.009-05:00

Coming off the glorious ride that was Battlestar Galactica, I have been in a Sci-Fi downward spiral ever since. First there was the disappointment that was The Plan, a Battlestar Galactica straight-to-DVD release that chronicles the story from the Cylon perspective. This was followed closely by the spanking-new show V (I say that tongue-in-cheek, since everything is a remake these days). While I'm certainly not putting these programs in the same category (V could only dream of being of the quality of The Plan), I will say they both are rubbing elbows in the disappointment department.

First there was the greatly anticipated The Plan. The DVD was Argument One for never reading the online buzz and director comments about a film beforehand. Edward James Olmos may have declared this the be-all, end-all of Battlestar Galactica movies that will redefine how fans view the series, but methinks he exaggerated. Just a bit.

First of all, I was expecting revelations, explanations, Cylon history, SOMETHING for crying out loud. What I got was a glorified clip show. You know when sitcoms do those annoying programs that feature clips from the past four seasons strung together by the thinnest of plot lines? Well, that was pretty much The Plan. You're telling me that the Cylons' plan was to kill the humans? Gee, thanks. I pretty much got that from the PILOT! Cavil was the "bad" Cylon? I was able to grasp that from the series. Where there could have been back story on the "Five" or a further explanation of the "Angels" (the supernatural element was one of the most intriguing elements of the series, after all), there was simply a rehashing of the downfall of the 12 colonies with a few new Cylon scenes thrown in.

So Mr. Olmos, you may have been the quintessential Adama, but you should, perhaps, keep your directorial mouth shut on the DVD extras where you made those sweeping statements about the new film. The new movie does not, in fact, make me want to go back and re-watch the series in a whole new light, though, I may re-watch it in order to banish the mediocrity that was The Plan from my mind.

I was only semi-recovered from my traumatic BSG experience when I started seeing previews for ABC's "new" program V. I asked my personal source for geeky, sci-fi information, Steve, about the program, and he informed me that it was a remake of an older series. How shocking. Are we completely incapable of coming up with anything new in American television or cinema these days? Must we either steal the ideas of a previouly successful show/movie or bastardize the work of our friends across the pond?

So suffice it to say I was skeptical about V, but Steve wanted to check it out. I tried not to be the cynical one and added it to my DVR's to-do list. We watched the pilot last night. If it hadn't been for Steve, I probably would have deleted it twenty minutes in, but for his sake, I kept plugging away. The pilot opens with a technique that I usually favor - they jumped right into the action. Bam! The aliens have invaded. The problem? The writers/director felt no need to build any suspense, whatsoever. It was almost as if they had a meeting and said, "Hey, you know what? Everyone saw the original, and they know the aliens are coming and what they want, so let's just fudge that part. It's not that important anyway."

Fast forward to the acting. First there was the appearance of some sci-fi regulars, such as Joel Gretsch (The 4400), and I even noticed Rekha Sharma of BSG. This isn't necessarily a problem, just thought it was interesting. What wasn't interesting was the acting itself. Of course, maybe I'm being too hard on actors who can only work with what they're given. I'm not talking about their God-given talents, but rather...the script. Not even Alan Tudyk could rescue lines like, "The medical examiner says he was tortured before he was killed," a line delivered after finding a dead guy wearing a bloody shirt and tied to a chair in a secret bunker. Really? You needed the M.E. to suss that one out? I hate it when writers insult my (the viewer's) intelligence. In a fiction workshop, you would get flayed alive for that sort of information dumping in dialogue. It doesn't work on the screen either.

Then there's the predictability factor...and I don't mean because it's a remake. I've never seen the original. Don't need to. I was able to predict nearly everything that happened - with ease. When I watch a program and say, "I could have written that!" I don't mean it as a compliment. As for originality, it really is true that things come in groups, and it seems to be apocalyptic programming's turn. Funny that the "groups" even occur on the same network (Flash Forward, anyone?)

Surprisingly, I'm giving V one more chance...against my better judgement. Steve seemed to be pulling for the show in an uncharacteristic burst of pie-eyed optimism. But that's all those hacks at ABC are getting from me. What's the tired old saying? "Fool me once, shame on you..." Well, I have a feeling that next week, it'll be shame on me.

Poetry Break - "A Ritual to Read to Each Other"

2009-10-29T16:10:00.002-04:00

As I struggle through this last new story of the semester, I thought some inspiration might be in order. So here is a poem that I love. Every week before poetry workshop, Dr. Fisher would have us read this aloud, like a sort of prayer. It inspired me then as it does now. Plus looking it up to add to my blog, I got to read/re-read the poems around it. It's a good afternoon for some William Stafford.

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give - yes or no, or maybe -
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

William Stafford. The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems. Graywolf Press, 1998.

Under Construction

2009-10-28T11:22:00.002-04:00

I've been absent from blogland for a little while. Between the chest cold that wouldn't die, my inability to keep a clear thought in my head, and my newly shortened attention span (is there such a thing as pregnancy ADD?), I haven't been doing much writing lately. Perhaps you would assume that I've been immersed in all things baby, and I guess that's partly true. Mostly, however, I've just been in this haze of stupidity that has left me useless for much beyond staring at a TV screen, surfing the internet, and the inescapable housework. I feel like I'm turning into one of my cats, just sitting around, blinking and taking up oxygen. (No offense, Hobson and Abby.)

Alas, I must end my personal inertia and get busy if I'm going to meet my final deadline for the semester. So I think I've got a start on a story (knock on wood.) And I'm trying desperately to plow through Charles Baxter's Burning Down the House, a book which I can tell that normally I would really enjoy, but now with my brain working at half-capacity, I'm struggling with just a bit. If any of you out there have ever been the victim of my vicious trivia game playing, now would be the time for revenge. I'm liable to forget just about anything these days, and I'm certain that you could mop the floor with me (metaphorically speaking.)

On the exciting news side of things (okay, exciting for me, anyway), the workers are diligently toiling away upstairs on the bonus room. Soon all of the office stuff will be stowed away upstairs, and I can get to work on the baby's room. I'm not sure whether I'm more excited about "doing the baby's room" or just excited about having it done and off the list. Right now, everything is in turmoil and chaos with boxes and furniture stashed haphazardly in the office and guest room. I don't function well in chaos (it probably isn't helping my writing any knowing that mess is in there behind closed doors.) So, yes, I'm looking forward to a cute little girl's room all ready to go, but mostly I think I'm just looking forward to an orderly house...at least until February.

Rule #4 The Double Tap - A Review of Zombieland

2009-10-11T18:49:00.007-04:00

I can't quite seem to catch up these days, what with being sick and having deadlines and assorted other commitments. On my birthday weekend, Steve took me to see Zombieland. Well, that was a week ago, and I still haven't posted a review, so I'd better get cracking....

Zombieland, directed by Ruben Fleischer (no, I hadn't heard of him either), follows four survivors of a worldwide zombie-virus holocaust as they master their zombie-fighting skills and search for a zombie-free safe haven. Woody Harrelson stars as Tallahassee, a tough-talking, zombie-slaying pro who joins forces (if a bit unwillingly) with innocent, lost soul Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg, Adventureland.) As they search for food, namely Tallahassee's Twinkies, they encounter two, young sisters (Emma Stone, Superbad, and Abigail Breslin, Little Miss Sunshine), and eventually they become a foursome.

This film is hardly the first to poke fun of the zombie movie genre, but it does manage to walk the fine line between parody and zombie cliche with an ease that even Shaun of the Dead didn't quite manage. While Shaun slipped back into the very overly-dramatic zombie flick elements that it sought to mock, Zombieland maintains its tongue-in-cheek tone throughout without becoming directionless. One of my favorite elements in this film that helped with the overall tone was the list of zombie survival rules. Eisenberg's character begins the film with a list of his top survial tips in order of importance. What's survival rule #1? Cardio. Makes sense if you're going to be doing a lot of running from the undead. As the movie continues, these rules pop up on screen as appropriate situations present themselves. Tired of seeing people die senselessly in movies because they didn't bother to make sure the gutshot zombie was dead? That needed final bullet to the brain is the Double Tap, and every time someone implements it in the film, the rule materializes onscreen, a comic reminder that is funny. Every time.

Of the four main characters, Woody Harrelson's wild man Tallahassee stood out as the most original. His humor, while classic Harrelson, is a departure from the doomed zombie fighters of the past. There is something freeing in not having to "worry" about the main character's safety because he never worries about himself. Eisenberg's portrayal of the bumbling Columbus smacked slightly of a Michael Cera homage, but he was still funny, and at times, charming.

For me, the best part of the film was the cameo. It's not often that inserting a big star into a bit part can steal the entire movie, but Bill Murray's appearance as himself does just that. From the moment the four travelers drive through his gates with the giant "BM" across the iron bars to his final post-credits bit, the cameo is quirky, random, and perfectly wacky.

It is, of course, important to remember that this is still a zombie film. It is not for the weak of stomach. There is blood, guts, and zombie vomit (whatever that is). Overall, however, the film is more about humor than high drama, and unlike the Shaun of the Dead group, this rag-tag team mostly sticks to their zombie-survival rules so the audience can spend less time saying "Look behind you!" and more time laughing hysterically.

Righteous Risotto, or How I Consumed My Weekly Calories In An Evening

2009-10-05T21:57:00.004-04:00

Because I have a wonderful husband who knows what I like (and also because I specifically asked for it), I got to eat at Ristorante Bergamo for my birthday dinner. We didn't get to go on my actual birthday since it was a Sunday this year, but we did get to have a lovely date night at my favorite place with my favorite person (and my favorite waitress.)

Ristorante Bergamo (or just Bergamo's as we call it) is a small Northern Italian restaurant in downtown Greenville. It has been open since 1986, and we're hoping it stays around for many years to come. Chef Nello owns the place and even grows his own herbs. The food is amazing, and you won't find any spaghetti or garlic bread anywhere!

We first visited Bergamo's quite a few years ago (five or six, at least), and it quickly became our favorite place. In fact, we used to eat there so much that we started being considered regulars. (A status we still hold despite our less than regular attendence since expensive milestones like buying a house or me quitting my job to finish my degree.) When we go there, they know us by name. Our favorite waitress, Tanya, knows how I love the risotto and always brings me honey for my Earl Grey without my asking. She even knows what kind of wine I like (not that that matters these days.)

My favorite part about Bergamo's (aside from the food, obviously) is the atmosphere. I don't feel like I'm in Greenville anymore when I'm there. I'm in some big city eating at some trendy, little hole-in-the-wall, like one of those uber-hip travel show hosts. (Okay, I secretly have a thing for Anthony Bourdain.) But seriously, it's a place that transcends location.

So Saturday brought Steve and I there for dinner. We requested to be seated in Tanya's section (which they kindly obliged), and then we proceeded to eat ourselves into a delicious stupor. We learned a long time ago not to eat much for breakfast or lunch on Bergamo days, and we had followed that pattern on Saturday. I was postively ravenous when they brought out the bread and olives. I must have 3 or 4 pieces of bread soaked in olive oil and balsamic vinegar and at least 6 olives. I did finally slow down on the bread, though. I've learned over the years of visits to pace myself.

When Tanya came to take our order (there is small set menu and everything else changes daily), I was disappointed to learn that the risotto of the day (or Risotto del Giorno) had quail in it. Since I have to avoid wild game during my pregnancy, the risotto (my usual go-to dish) was out. My disappointment soon abated, however, when Tanya told me that they would fix the white truffle risotto for me if I wanted it. If I wanted it? Where else will they fix you something on the menu "just because"? Happy Birthday to me!

I ordered the risotto (of course), while Steve got the Stilton cheese salad with arugula and tomatoes and the fettucini con gamberi and arugula. The white truffle risotto was divine. I'll never understand what it is that Chef Nello does to make his risotto so perfectly creamy and delicious. My risotto at home, while far from inedible, comes nowhere near the culinary ecstasy that is his risotto. Steve's food was delicious, too. Part of the fun of Bergamo's is sampling each other's food. But I never regret the decision to order the white truffle risotto. Who knew something so closely akin to mushrooms could taste so good? I told Steve that it made me want to run home and reread A Year in Provence. (Different country, I know, but same truffle worship.)

Dinner was capped off by pistachio gelato (homemade) for me and strawberry and raspberry sorbets for Steve. I also had my standard Earl Grey and honey. It was the perfect end to a perfect ending. I told Steve that we can't wait so long to go back this time...even if we have to rob a gas station in Wellford to do it.

Liquid Memory

2009-09-29T16:08:00.004-04:00

Today, I indulged in one of my favorite cool weather comforts: a giant, steaming pot of Slumgoyan. Sure, the thermometer is pushing 70 degrees outside, but that's positively brisk for September in South Carolina, and quite frankly, I couldn't wait any longer. There's nothing like the comfort of a bowl of Slumgoyan and all the memories that entails.

What is Slumgoyan, you ask? Well, I don't think my description of the soup is going to help your understanding any. It's basically a big, boiling pot of water, ground beef, onion flakes, salt, and the oh-so-crucial potpie bows (called "bowties" by the folks at Muellers.) Not flipping your culinary wig? Never heard of such a dish? And where did that ridiculous name come from?

Slumgoyan is my grandmother's creation. I have no idea where she got the name. I doubt she does either. Not certain when exactly its origins were, but I feel fairly sure that it somehow evolved around a need for simplicity and frugality. It is, after all, cheap and easy. She made it for my mother, who in turn, made it for me. It is comfort food in its highest form: simple, fairly plain, and familiar.

I never really comprehended how personal my love for this dish is until I made it for my husband. Steve, who will try anything once and is not one to criticize my cooking, did the unthinkable...he didn't like it. I was devastated. How could this man whom I love more than life and with whom I have such a connection dislike this food of my soul? He called it tasteless and bland, and even worse, he offered suggestions on how to improve it. I began to wonder how this marriage would ever work with two people who are so different. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I really was shaken by his rejection of my favorite soup.

Now I'm reduced to clandestine affairs with my stock pot. I have Slumgoyan on nights when Steve has to work late or goes out with the guys. I even fixed it once when my parents visited, just so I could have that shared experience again. Don't misunderstand me. I love eating my Slumgoyan any way I can get it, but there's still nothing like digging into a piping hot bowl with your family yumming and eye-rolling their way through bowl after bowl with you. Slumgoyan is about cold, winter nights and being all bundled inside your home with your family. It's about old movies and lunches in front of the TV. It's leftovers reheated on Sunday after church and trying not to let the noodles get too mushy the next day.

Right now, it's just me and my bowties and ground beef. I spooned my way through three bowls today at lunch. I was so full I could hardly move, but it was a sweet discomfort. I was full of warm, nostalgic goodness. It's like memories in soup form.

In honor of my celebration of this family tradition, I am including a poem I wrote a couple of years ago about this wonderful soup. Please remember that I am a fiction writer, NOT A POET, and judge accordingly.

Slumgoyan

Made up name, made up soup.
Grammy's masterpiece of potpie bows
swim with ground beef and
that onion smell fills up every corner of the house.
Only allowed to have it in winter
no matter how much you might crave it come June.
The bigger the pot, the more leftovers
to heat up the next day and the day after
until the noodles are so soft they just fall apart.
Opposite of Mom's vegetable soup
that you eat in tiny spoonfuls
and chase with sweet tea and dirty looks.
Hot, liquid memory slides down your throat.

I still only have it in winter.

Critical Condition

2009-09-24T11:41:00.004-04:00

For the past four years, I have been the thick-skinned, tough who could take anything in workshop. You don't like my story? No problem. Hate the language or structure of my poem? Water off a duck's back. I could take the helpful advice and shrug off the dross. I was made of steel (for the most part, anyway.) I even held my own in the blood bath that was my first MFA residency workshop. I survived being told by a professor that there's no such thing as a successful child narrator. (Poor Laura and her pastoral musings.)

So what happened to that person? When did I change into this puddle of needy goo? I've already written about my struggle with the voices in my head (critics, not crazy voices) that were slowing down my writing. Unfortunately, the craziness doesn't stop there. After receiving the critiques of my first two packets from my professor, I completely melted down. Both times.

So what changed? I've decided it's a medical condition. To quote one of my favorite tv shows, I'm in the Jon Voight way (think Alien,) and it's starting to affect my brain. I've heard of women complaining of pregnancy brain, forgetting everything from their keys to the names of their children. I haven't forgotten anything (yet, don't worry, I'm not being smug), but I have morphed into an overly-sensitive, emotional wreck. To those considering an MFA program, may I suggest that pregnancy hormones and professor critiques are a lethal combination.

After packet #2 came back, I ended up on the phone with the long-suffering Steve crying because there was nothing in the house that I wanted to eat and Leslie hated my story. Sure this was an overstatement. Yes, I knew it was crazy and irrational while I saying it. Didn't matter. It took me a good two days to recover from that little episode. Then I had to psyche myself up for packet #3.

Fast forward to today. I got my email from my professor regarding my third packet, which contained a rewrite of the story from packet #2. I did better this time. I was actually able to focus mostly on the good stuff she said in the opening paragraph of her critique, rather than the two pages of suggestions. Maybe I'm growing. No wait, that's just my waistline.

Bon Appetit

2009-09-15T14:18:00.013-04:00

It's Tuesday, and I feel like I'm still recovering from a very busy weekend. The craziness started on Friday and didn't really let up until Sunday night (late), and yesterday wasn't exactly relaxing. So here I am, days away from my next deadline (I really need to send out packet #3 on Friday), and I'm in no condition to write...anything. I suppose this blog entry will have to serve as my warm up, and then it's down to business, regardless of how I feel.

Friday was one of those days that started out one place and ended somewhere completely different. The first part of the day was devoted to my usual Friday pastime...cleaning the house. Unfortunately, I didn't get finished before I had to meet a friend at Starbucks for coffee (or in my case, tea.) I planned to finish my neglected housework after a quick sip and chat, but instead, we camped out in overstuffed chairs in Starbucks for three hours. Who knew we had that much to say? I think we covered every topic and solved most of the world's problems in that amount of time. Perhaps someone should have been there recording our wisdom. I suppose it's lost forever.

While the Starbucks sit-in was fun, it didn't leave much time for me to run home and get ready for girls' night out, a rare but much anticipated event that, of course, involved food. We hit Takosushi in downtown Greenville. Though I had a little trouble getting the waitress to understand my inability to consume spicy food, we eventually ended up with delicious dinners. As usual, I was the least cool person there. My friend munched her veggies, shrimp, and rice with her expertly held chopsticks. I used a fork. I'm not Chinese. Why pretend? I appreciate their food, but lack the coordination to appreciate their utensils.

Dinner was, of course, followed by a movie. I agreed to a chick-flick (a rarity for me), and we saw Julie and Julia. I won't do an extensive review. I lack the energy for such things today. I will say that it was fun. Meryl Streep was quite convincing as Julia Child, and if you like Nora Ephron's usual fare, you'll enjoy the film. There's nothing surprising or particularly original about the movie, but it's mostly charming. Some of the "drama" felt a little forced, and I wasn't sold on all the choices they made for scene selection (especially in the Julia Child portions), but overall, I'd say it was a rental. Put it on your Netflix and skip the trip to the theater. Oh, and don't watch it if you're hungry. There are too many scenes of gorgeous food to count. You'll be gnawing on your arm before it's over unless you're well-fed beforehand.

Saturday and Sunday didn't prove to be much of a break either. Poor Steve had to work non-stop all weekend, and I was left to my own devices. There were lots of events with church, and I managed to make them all. To be honest, by the end of the weekend I was in social overload. Mixing and fellowshipping is always a bit of an effort for me, and so much crammed into such a short time period was exhausting. My friends are wonderful, though, and I'm glad I got to spend so much time with them. It's just that now I'm going to enjoy missing everyone for a while. Does that make me a terrible person? Probably.

Hello Goodbye

2009-09-10T00:48:00.009-04:00

I am wondering where September is going. Things are going crazy fast, and this is a short month. I feel like I just turned in MFA packet #2, and I'm already worrying about the next one due September 25th! The scariest thing about time flying is that the faster it goes, the more pregnant I get. I'll be 16 weeks on Friday! That's freaking me out just a bit. At this rate, February will be here in the blink of an eye (pardon my cliche.) Lots of schoolwork to do between now and then, so it's a little scary.

On the upside, I finally finished all my Flannery O'Connor reading today (FINALLY!) Don't get me wrong...I love her. I was just in O'Connor overload. Now, I'm finally getting to the part of my reading list that I've been waiting to read. First on the agenda? Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club. I love Amy Tan, so I'm very excited about this book. I started today after I finished with O'Connor, and I've already soared through a big chunk of the book. After that it's Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried and Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth (thanks to Leslie for letting me put that one on my reading list.) I'm so excited about all three, so knocking them out before the October deadline should be a breeze.

On a completely unrelated note, today (technically yesterday according to the clock) marks the release of all things Beatles. Beatles Rock Band is being released, and in conjunction with that, they are also releasing remastered versions of all their albums. Being Rock Band junkies, we already had our copy of Beatles Rock Band on reserve, and Steve picked it up on his way home from work. He then proceeded to play like a man possessed. He didn't even stop for dinner. Now that's devotion. The game was great, though. The songs are divided up into the years in which they were released, and the venues coincide with the years. For example, the early songs are performed in The Cavern, and the two American venues are Shea Stadium and the Ed Sullivan Show. We played drums, we sang, and we strummed on our fake plastic guitars. John Lennon is probably rolling over in his grave after my performance of "Twist and Shout," but hey, it was fun.

As with all our previous Rock Band fests, the cats remained unmoved as the music blared through the living room, rattling both furniture and bones. It doesn't faze them anymore. I'd like to think they were just chilling out to the mellow notes of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," but I think it's more likely that they've just grown numb. Good thing. We've got a Beatles party coming up, and they need to be ready.

Breakthroughs, Battlestars, and Bogus Bad Words

2009-09-03T12:49:00.003-04:00

Packet #2 is in, and I can breathe a sigh of relief, well, at least for a few days. The next deadline is September 25, so I'm not exactly basking in free time. I've got a book to finish, 2 papers to write, and a short story to create between now and then. Oh great, now I'm going to start the panicking all over again.

The good news about Packet #2 is that through my work on it, I had a bit of a breakthrough. I've been struggling ever since the residency with a bit of writing paralysis. I won't call it writer's block because that isn't what it is. I've got ideas and stories I want to write, but I've had so many other voices rolling around in my head (professors and such) that I couldn't hear my own voice. I was trying so hard to manufacture something that I thought everybody wanted that I had completely obliterated any hint of my own writing. After months of struggling, really bad writing, and prayer, I finally was able to turn off those other voices. The point of this MFA is to fine tune my voice, not to create some lifeless, hybrid voice that isn't me. The writing came quickly and easily after that. The jury's still out on whether my professor/mentor will like what I created. Either way, though, what I created was mine. We'll see how long the epiphany lasts.

Since I turned in my packet, I've taken a bit of a holiday from all the hard work (I actually missed a Friday house cleaning during the last minute rewrite.) What have I been doing with my brief stint of free time? Just indulging my inner nerd with complete immersion into the world of Battlestar Galactica. A friend of Steve's has been loaning us all the seasons on the Blu-Ray, and we have become seriously addicted. We've been averaging about a season a week!

If you've never seen BSG, it's a reimagination of the original 1978 television show. I mean total reimagination. (Starbuck is a girl.) The funniest part of the show (not that it's meant to be funny) is their made up swear word. Apparently the word has its origins in the original show, though the new version has certainly taken it to new levels. What is the word you ask? Frak. Yes, that's right. Frak. You can imagine all the parts of speech in which it is used. The characters use it fluently and without a hint of amusement. Steve and I are halfway through Season 2, and it hasn't stopped being funny yet...every time they use it. I don't think it will ever stop being funny. I think it may be even funnier than the bleep (a personal favorite.) The best part? You can actually find an entry for "frak" on Wikipedia! I love the internet.

What's Black and White and Dead All Over? - A Review of Inglourious Basterds

2009-08-23T00:21:00.004-04:00

As I sit down to write my review of Inglourious Basterds, I realize that everything I write will be colored by the fact that I'm a devoted Tarantino fan. So regardless of what I say, if you find his previous films ridiculous or his violence gratuitous, you're probably going to feel the same way about this one. It's not a departure for him. Of course, for a fan, that's hardly a bad thing.

Pesky disclaimer aside, I will get down to the business of telling you everything you need to know about Tarantino's latest offering, Inglourious Basterds. The film follows an elite group of eight American soldiers as they enter Nazi-occupied France with the single goal of killing as many Nazis as they can. This hardcore killing team eventually becomes embroiled in a plot to assasinate Hitler and his top men. Brad Pitt stars as Lt. Aldo Raine, leader of the band of misfit American soldiers, and Diane Krueger plays Bridget von Hammersmark, a German actress turned American informant. To say more about the plot would give too much away, and let's face it, Tarantino's films aren't that plot driven anyway. He keeps it simple. Maybe that's why I like him (or at least his movies.)

As soon as the film opens, you are immediately aware that you are watching a Tarantino creation. The opening credits are in his usual throwback style, and the opening music is similar to that of his other movies. Immediately following the credits is the title for "Chapter 1." I have to admit that in the past I have found Tarantino's use (or overuse) of the chapter delineation to be a bit pretentious. I mean, we get it, Mr. Tarantino. You're different. You break all the rules. Whatever. For some reason, however, I found the use of chapters to be more effective in this movie. Maybe it was the fact that for once he used a chronological arrangment. Maybe it was the historical setting of the film. Whatever it was, I felt that the divisions were far more organic than some of his previously different-for-different's-sake chop jobs.

Once you get to the movie, there is no time to get bored or check your watch. There is action from Chapter 1, and it doesn't stop. While the opening scene is a bit slower than the rest of the movie, it still far from static and is absolutely necessary for set-up. With Chapter 2, we are introduced to the Basterds and their charasmatic, mountain-man leader, Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt.) As in his performance in Burn After Reading, Pitt shows us that he is not about being the Hollywood glamor boy. He's flat out funny (and funny looking) from his first scene, and his performance never loses momentum. His accent, which might have sounded ridiculous in any other film, only served to add to his understated comedy.

Of course, I am talking about very dark humor. This film is not for the squeamish. The Basterds harvest the scalps from their Nazi conquests and have no qualms with torture to reach their ends. Inglourious Basterds does manage to avoid the cartoonish violence of Tarantino's previous offering, Kill Bill, where everyone was a bleeder. It is still extremely violent, however, the violence is tempered by the film's demonstration of the Nazi's evil deeds. There is no Valkyrie-esque gray area here. Nazis = bad, Everyone else = good. One of the things that makes this film different from some of the recent WWII movies is the satisfying revenge angle. The viewer doesn't have to deal with any annoying, conflicted, emotionally tortured Nazis. Every Nazi in the film is pure evil, and you can't help but cheer on the Basterds as they slaughter their way across France.

Perhaps one of my favorite aspects of the film is the clever, caricature-like portrayal of historical characters, both good and bad. Hitler rants and raves in a flamboyant cape, Goebbels preens in front of his mistress and her poodle, and Winston Churchill puffs his giant cigar. The people who are most real are not the ones pulling the strings; they are the people down in the trenches getting dirty. Brad Pitt may insist that Tarantino has defined, or perhaps redefined the WWII genre, but I submit that he pokes big funny holes in all the WWII movies that have gone before. It's apparently not enough for him to do it "his way." He has to point out the "ridiculous" (Pitt's word) in the old way.

While I did love this film, there was one aspect of which I was less than fond. The music. I know Tarantino prefers a very specific style of music that has become an easily recognizable characteristic of his films. In this historical flick, however, the soundtrack was anachronistic and, frankly, at times, distracting. It was as if Tarantino felt the need to keep reminding the viewer that they were watching one of his films.

Another curious inconsistency was the one character bio inserted partway into the film. If he had done this throughout, then it might have worked, but instead, I only saw one instance of his taking the viewer completely out of the film to give a comic book hero style introduction complete with massive font graphics of his name flashed across the screen.

Despite his new cast, Tarantino did find a place for his favorites. Samuel L. Jackson didn't appear in the movie, but he did do periodic narration. I wasn't sure if I loved the narration, which seemed a little too sporadic to be effective (or consistent), but ultimately, I wouldn't wish it gone, if only for sentimental reasons. After all, what is a Tarantino film without Jackson? Harvey Keitel also lends his voice to a scene, though it's very brief.

All these little criticisms do not add up to very much in the scheme of things, however. The movie was fun, fast, and vintage Tarantino. I went into the theater wanting to like it, and I actually did. It doesn't usually work out that way. While the movie may break new ground in WWII movies, I don't think Tarantino did anything significantly different from his usual M.O. That's okay with me, though. I go to one of his films expecting certain things, and he certainly delivered. I left satisfied, not only with the movie but also with the justice of it all. The body count is high, but so is the level of revenge. But most importantly, nobody fell in love, felt regret, or found a deeper truth. Oh, and you get to see Brad Pitt speak Italian with a Tennessee accent. Now that's why I go to the movies.

Are You Excited?

2009-08-21T14:10:00.004-04:00

I've been thinking about stupid questions today. We all get asked them, and, let's face it, we all ask them from time to time. Comedian Bill Engvall has even made a pretty good living from people's stupid questions. And while this blog entry will most certainly turn into a bit of rant, I must admit that I have asked more than my share of stupid questions over the years. I may have even asked the stupid questions in question. (How's that for writing skill? Don't ever tell my professors I wrote that sentence.)

I have decided that pregnancy is a time ripe for stupid questions. People rarely think before they ask expectant mothers questions. Like the unwritten rule that mommies-to-be no longer are entitled to personal space, there is apparently a rule that says you can ask a pregnant woman anything. It doesn't even have to make sense.

As soon as you spill the big news to a friend or acquaintance, there are always two questions that follow. One (usually the first) is perfectly logical. It's usually some variation of "When are you due?" or "How far along are you?" Makes sense. It's the next question that kills me. This lovely, well-meaning person looks you (and possibly your partner) in the eye and asks, "Are you excited?"

What kind of question is that? First of all, you've just shared your big announcement voluntarily. What about that smacks of indifference to the asker? Which leads me to my next question. What do they really expect you to say? Is this a rhetorical question? Either you're going to say "yes" and mean it, or lie and say "yes." Do they really think you might say no? I can see it now. "Actually, we're really bummed, but we wanted to track you down and tell you anyway." Now that would be a fun conversation.

Next dumb question? "Are you going to find out what you're having?" (Okay, I admit I'm pretty sure I've asked this one.) Isn't the answer always going to be yes? I know I'm talking semantics here, but I really am tempted the next time someone asks me to just say, "Eventually." After all, shouldn't I get some fun out of this?

I leave you with a quote from one of my favorite movies, Undercover Blues (we're not talking great cinema here, folks, just fun.)

Dennis Quaid is pushing his child's stroller down a New Orleans street when a policeman friend asks him a question.
"Oh, cute baby! Boy or girl?"
"Gosh, I hope so."

Exactly.

Dead Cows, Dead Nazis, and a (hopefully) Not-Dead Story

2009-08-19T15:46:00.004-04:00

I'm feeling slightly less panicked today than I have been over the past few weeks. I have cranked out a VERY rough draft of my next story, and I don't completely hate everything about it. That's progress, right? It actually ended up taking a very different direction than what I had planned (which isn't saying much since I had very little planned.) But just going where the writing takes you usually leads to good things (or so I'm told.) I ended up doing something a little different and splitting up the narrative between a first person narrator and a limited third person. I'm not sure it works yet, but I like the idea anyway, so I guess that's something.

Because I'm working on what has come to be known as a "Laura" story, I had to call one of my technical advisors (my mom) today to get some advice on a somewhat grisly detail of my story. (Just exactly how long could a dying cow remain lying down before the end comes?) Who would have thought I'd ever be asking that question. Unfortunately, my TA couldn't give me a definitive answer and will have to refer to another of my TA staff, my grandmother. I guess if you're going to write about farming, it's handy to have some farming types on staff. Makes me sad that the real expert is no longer around to answer questions. There would be no inaccuracies in my farming stories if Granddaddy were my technical advisor.

Before I start sounding too celebratory about my writing progress, I should remember that I still have several hundred pages of Flannery O'Connor to wade through before my third deadline. I must say that while I love O'Connor, this complete and extended immersion into her writing has tempered my affection a little. I'm afraid there may indeed exist too much of a good thing. All my other books (that I really want to read) on my reading list are tantalizing me and making it harder to plow through yet another story of Southerners fallen on hard times. Was anybody sane or even nice in Georgia in the forties and fifties? Apparently not where Miss O'Connor hung out.

As a reward for all my hard work (we'd be doing it regardless), Steve and I are going to see Inglourious Basterds on Friday. I can hardly wait. We haven't been to the theater since Public Enemies (yawn), and I could use a little cinematic therapy. Actually, it's more like Quentin Tarantino redeeming me from the cinematic sins of Michael Mann. Please, Mr. Tarantino, send me a little senseless violence with a simple plot and lots of dead NAZIs. Warning: If anyone cries, falls in love, or looks passionately into somebody else's eyes, I'm out.

My other reward for eeking out another story (rough though it may be)? I get to write a blog entry. Why is it that writing a blog entry is never intimidating? Nor does it hang over my head like some dreaded chore. Sometimes story first drafts do that. You'd think I didn't love writing the way I have to force myself to sit down and work on first drafts. Oh, well. Here's hoping another good movie will come out soon so I can "reward" myself after the next story. And the one after that. And the one after that.

Tom Sawyer in the Limelight - A Review of I Love You, Man

2009-08-18T00:31:00.006-04:00

Saturday night, we went to some friends' house for dinner and a movie. After some after some highly edible food, we headed into the living room for a viewing of I Love You, Man, featuring Paul Rudd, Rashida Jones (The Office), and Jason Segel (Forgetting Sarah Marshall.)

While this film was not associated with Judd Apatow in any way (as far as I know), it had a similar feel to many of his movies. It had the same same crude humor and even many of the same Apatow go-to cast members. Another thing this film shared with other Apatow movies I've seen is the highly likable characters. Despite the flawed personalities, unimaginable insecurites, and crazy situations, the viewer is left feeling like they understand and care about the characters. No one is a completely bad guy (not even Jon Favreau's character with his hilarious and hideous perm.) These are basically good people just trying to get by in the best way they know how.

The film follows Peter Klaven (Paul Rudd) as he gets engaged (to Rashida Jones' character) only to realize that he has no close male friends. What follows is a ridiculous, and yet somehow still charming, journey to finding a bosom pal. Klaven's new buddy, played by Jason Segel, is a little unorthodox, though certainly well-meaning. Together they bond over their shared love of all things Rush and their mutual feelings of loneliness.

Paul Rudd's performance, while entertaining, is not exactly a departure for him. While I certainly wouldn't deem him a one-trick pony, I will say that no new ground is trod by his portrayal of the clueless Klaven. Jason Segel, however, is truly funny and refreshing as the mostly honest and always on edge, Sydney Fife. The trailers might make Segel's character seem like the ultimate loose cannon, but upon viewing the whole film, he seems more well-intentioned and overzealous than overt troublemaker. Jon Favreau was also good for quite a few laughs, despite his small amount of screen time. His onscreen chemistry with Jamie Pressley (My Name is Earl) is palpable as they play the couple who loves to hate...or is it hates to love? each other.

Perhaps one of my favorite reasons for loving this film was that it was yet another new film that was obviously catering to the uncool crowd. Sure these people had insanely nice houses, cars, and clothes, but deep down they were also ubernerds. The viewer who thinks that crude humor means no clever humor will be surprised by this film. Yes, there's enough frat boy funny to go around, but there's also something there for the well-rounded geek. After all, it's about two guys who worship Rush. How cool could they be?

Stuck In The Middle With O'Connor

2009-08-16T01:19:00.003-04:00

I hate that in-between feeling. One MFA packet in, the next one dangling over my head like some ominous literary cloud, and I keep floundering away at my next story. I worked hard last week on my next piece and ended up with 7 pages of meandering nothings. Then Wednesday I tried just writing with no exact goal in mind and ended up with several pages of creative non-fiction. Somebody needs to tell my brain that I'm getting my MFA in fiction. Oh well. At least I was writing something, right?

For various reasons, I haven't been able to sit down and write anything for a few days, and I think the hiatus has done me some good. Only time will tell, of course, but I may have come up with a solution to my problem with the story. Who am I kidding? One of the problems with my story. I guess the other hitches will have to work themselves out as I go along. Either way, I feel less panicked about getting to work on Monday. I have so much to write in the next 3 months that sometimes (mostly at night when I'm trying to go to sleep) I break out into a sweaty stress fest. That's when I have to remind myself who gives me these stories and the ability to write them, and I have to remember to trust Him. It sure it hard at 2 o'clock in the morning, though.

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm currently reading Flannery O'Connor's Mystery and Manners, a collection of her essays on writing. The woman is merciless in her criticism of modern writers and literary fiction. Everything she says is so spot on, and her open disdain for inferior work leaves me in such a state, that when I sit down to write I'm paralyzed with fear. Maybe that fear is a good sign. If I could just blythely read her criticisms without feeling the burn, I would be the most clueless student writer in history. Maybe my panic shows an awareness of my inferiorities and serves as a reminder of what all writers aim for - perfection. I know that unattainable goal is thousands of miles off, and I'm still stuck at the starting gate. And after all, isn't knowing half the battle?

"Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

2009-08-09T00:01:00.005-04:00

Thursday I was out running errands and such when I got a text message from my husband, Steve. It said, "John Hughes died today. What's going on this year?" I couldn't believe it. The man whose movies helped define 80's teen culture was gone. I know it all sounds a little dramatic on my part, but the more I thought about it, the moved I was. I mean, who else's films have become such an intrinsic part of my life and family traditions?

First, there's Thanksgiving. Every year since Steve and I got married, we have had a Thanksgiving Day tradition. Sometime during that day (or during that week if we have company), we watch Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. There's no Macy's parade on the Gray family TV. Just Steve Martin and John Candy bumbling their way across the US. Every year. And every year, I sit waiting for Steve Martin's profanity-laced meltdown at the rental car counter. Steve and I can recite it together. Sometimes he's Steve Martin and I'm Edie McClurg. Somtimes we switch it up. It's funny every time.

On the heels of Thanksgiving comes Christmas, and with it comes another John Hughes tradtion. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. While we put up the tree and decorations we watch Christmas Vacation and A Christmas Story (not Hughes, but still great.) Actually, we put up our tree around Thansgiving, so this doubles as a Thanksgiving tradition, too. Then we rewatch Christmas Vacation several times as the merry holiday approaches.

Then there's the dreaded sick day. Feeling feverish? Got a stomach bug? Too sick to leave the house? That's when I pull out the greatest sick day movie. Ever. Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I've seen this movie probably hundreds of times, and it doesn't matter. It never gets old. I love Ferris. I want to be Ferris. Alas, I'm not even Sloane Petersen. I'm probably more Cameron Fry than anything. Oh, well.

There are sentimental favorites, too, that have no association with holidays, but are still a major part of my life. There's The Great Outdoors, National Lampoon's Vacation, and Weird Science. And dont' forget She's Having a Baby. These movies are like comfort food for my soul. I know what everyone's going to say before they say it, and that only makes the films better.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt, but I would have to disagree...at least with regard to John Hughes' films. Steve and I are obsessed with movie quotes and trivia, but we both have a weakness for Hughes quotes. We can do whole blocks of dialogue from Ferris Bueller. It's like remembering the words of a friend. In honor of John Hughes, I have been posting quotes from his films on my Facebook status. When I used one of my favorites from Ferris Bueller, a friend immediately responded with another quote, and we went back and forth, amusing each other and wallowing in nostalgia. Do I feel guilty? Not a bit.

You may wonder at my leaving out some Hughes classics such as: Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles. These aren't as close to my heart as the ones I mentioned above, but if they speak to you, celebrate them. There's nothing wrong with a little Judd Nelson quote or a Molly Ringwald quip. Lay it on me. Or just turn up your boom box and pretend like you're dancing in the library.

I leave you with the words of a very wise individual:
"-Ism's in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon, 'I don't believe in Beatles, I just believe in me.' Good point there. After all, he was the walrus. I could be the walrus. I'd still have to bum rides off people."

Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986)

Confessions of a Baby-Hater

2009-08-03T22:30:00.003-04:00

I know I have 30 more weeks of this insanity to go, but I have to let a little of the crazy out or I'll never make it. After ten weeks of being pregnant, I have come to the comforting realization that pregnancy didn't magically turn me into that girl. (What a relief.) Wondering who that person is that I dread morphing into? Allow me to elaborate.

The other day, Steve and I were watching a Married With Children marathon. One of the episodes was from the season where Katey Sagal was pregnant. It began with the family gathered around the kitchen dinette set having a "baby meeting." Peg is massively pregnant, and the rest of the Bundys are less than thrilled with the prospect of competition for the scant nutrition of toaster leavin's. Each time their lack of enthusiasm leaks out, Peggy insists that they do penance with a chanted "Hail Baby." After a particularly anti-baby comment, Kelly is told that she must say multiple "hail baby's in the privacy of your own room."

On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the belly rubbers. I actually read today where some woman said that she enjoyed having people rub her pregnant stomach. I think she should have her head examined. I have to come to terms with the fact that friends and family are going to be coming at me soon, hands first. (Actually, it's already started.) What I refuse to accept as inevitable are the curious hands of strangers groping my mid-section. I have never in my life felt the compulsion to touch a total stranger's belly, and I am completely mystified by others' desire to do so. As I told a friend the other day, I'm never going to be that person.

Of course, I've been painted as a baby-hater in the past. After I wrote a short story about a woman who fakes a pregnancy and miscarriage to stop her co-workers from hassling her about not wanting children, people assumed that I was opposed to even the idea of babies. Apparently being inspired to write a story after years of harassment about my procreative plans made me an evil, neo-natal nazi.

I like to think I fall somewhere between the pie-eyed baby enthusiast and the hardcore DINK (that's Double Income No Kids.) I like the idea of babies. I've decided to have a child. Therefore, pregnancy is just kind of means to an end. I don't like baby shower games, and I'll never see the point of gruesomely detailed birthing stories relived over lunch. Does that make me a terrible person? I don't think so.

The worst is being judged by the pregnancy romantics. After my first doctor's visit, the nurse stopped me as I walked away from the lab station of the doctor's office. Didn't I want to keep my pregnancy test? Was she kidding? Why would I want to keep something soaked in...well, you know. Did she think I'd forget the result? I smiled and said no thank you, but I could feel her judgement all the way to the waiting room.

Then there was the ultrasound. I'll admit that it was pretty cool to see the baby's heartbeat. I still felt like my response was somehow less than what the technician expected, though. My one concession to the traditional prenatal excitement? I posted the ultrasound pictures on Facebook. Okay, so they were kind of amazing.

So to summarize? I feared that the day I got pregnant I would change into somebody completely different. I guess I'll have to save that experience for when the baby actually gets here (as everyone I meet likes to warn me.) As for all my other anti-baby rants? Well, I guess I'll just have to do a little prenatal penance. Hail Baby.

The Dog Days of Summer

2009-08-02T00:15:00.003-04:00

I've been MIA from blogland for over a week, so it feels like time to check in. I'd love to say that I've been off working away on some new story. Truth is, it's taken everything I have to finish my draft of my current one. Apparently, nausea and fatigue don't mix well with great writing. It's not easy to come up with new material when all you want to do is lie down (or barf.) I'm still plugging away, though.

While I haven't been as prolific with the writing as I would have liked, I have been reading, chipping away at my MFA reading list. Currently, I'm reading Flannery O'Connor's The Complete Stories and her collection of essays on writing, Mystery and Manners. Her short fiction is, as always, amazing, but what has been really been blowing me away is her writing about writing. She is so plain spoken and wise. Every time I read something that I think will be the most insightful thing ever, I go on to the next chapter and find something else. If my first 9-day residency wasn't enough to make me think twice about writing anything, Miss O'Connor's hold-nothing-back advice would make me tremble in my flip-flops all by itself.

On the lighter side, I've had some fun on the days when I don't feel like yuck personified. Last weekend, Steve and I went to the Greenville dog show. It was so much fun to see the breeders that we've befriended over the past year or two. I got to love on/hang out with Cash, the super-amazing Pointer with whom I am desperately in love. We got to hold a baby Min Pin, and we also got to see lots of gorgeous Komondors. After the show, all the Komondor people came over for a cookout at our house, and a Komondor came over, too! Ella, a beautiful little girl who's just starting to cord, stayed in her portable crate most of the visit, but when she came out, she was little-miss-friendly. She even jumped up on the couch and sat on Steve's lap! (Please keep in mind that is a huge dog,) It was the cutest thing EVER, and Steve was extremely pleased with himself. I just wish I had gotten a picture of Steve pinned to the couch by a giant ball of white fur, all while grinning like an idiot.

Unfortunately, this weekend hasn't been quite as fun-filled. I cleaned the house all by myself yesterday (a first in recent weeks), and I definitely paid for it today with lots of fatigue and nausea and loitering in a horizontal position. Big moment for the day? A trip to Bloom for groceries. Tomorrow is church, though I'm still not quite up to Sunday School yet. Seems I can't be separated from food for that long. Hopefully, I'll feel well enough tomorrow to be able to enjoy church.

On the update front, I have a couple of doctor's appointments coming up over the next two weeks. Maybe there will be new ultrasound photos forthcoming. I must admit that while I don't go in for a lot of this pregnancy stuff that other women seem to go nuts for, the ultrasound experience is pretty exciting. It certainly lends a reality to the whole affair that my puking hasn't quite given me. It's nice to have a tangible reminder of why I intentionally made myself feel this crappy.

It's The "Cold" War - Put On Some Underwear: A Review of The Watchmen

2009-07-22T17:38:00.010-04:00

Last night, we had a tacos and movie night. Steve picked up The Watchmen on Blu-Ray, and we watched (I watched, he re-watched) it during and after dinner. While I'm always excited about a new Blu-Ray to test the limits of our HD television and rocking surround sound, I must admit that I was less excited about this film than I might have been about others. For one thing, Steve had warned me that it was quite long, and for some reason that will remain a mystery, this "director's cut" version was significantly longer. I tried to keep an open mind, however, and we settled in for some extended movie watching.

The Watchmen is based on a comic book/graphic novel of the same name. It follows several unorthodox and slightly unsavory superheroes as they try to maintain peace and order in an America gone wrong. The story is set in 1985 (mostly) and follows an American history slightly different from what we all read in high school. Nixon has been re-elected multiple times. We won the Vietnam War (thanks to superhero assistance.) But the Cold War still rages on, and people live in constant fear of nuclear holocaust.

As a writer, I am always intrigued by alternative structures for a story. I love it when someone finds a way to top "Once Upon A Time..." followed by a chronological telling. Perhaps, I should rephrase. I am always intrigued by effective alternative structures for a story. The Watchmen was a harrowing hash of flashbacks that kept the story from moving forward for at least an hour.

An hour of flashbacks, you ask? Wondering how there was any room left for the story? Don't worry. There was plenty of room in the 3 hour film. Of course, there are stories that can support 3 three hours of movie. This wasn't one of those. It's one thing for a film to be preachy or heavy-handed. It's quite another when it's preachy and heavy-handed for 3 hours. By the end, I was hoping that Dr. Manhattan (a glowing, blue, naked, know-it-all) would die just so he would shut up.

Then there were the characters. This can't all be blamed on the filmmakers, however. According to my source for all things comic book, Steve, the film characters stuck pretty close to their book counterparts. The problem was, most of them were boring. Dr. Manhattan was a blow-hard, know-it-all. The Night Owl served no purpose in the story whatsoever, and as for the girl, well, her purpose was mostly to run around in latex. Hardly a compelling reason to exist in a story. The only character I found remotely interesting was Rorschach, a no-compromise idealist with a penchant for violence.

I know that I am probably signing off on my own hit by nerd assassins for knocking this film, but I can't endorse such a manipulative, over-wrought piece of drivel. I quickly got tired of the hand-wringing and posturing. Nothing in this movie felt timely for me. Even though V for Vendetta shares a lot of the same warnings against heavy-handed government, this film lacked any believable link to today. The Cold War is over. Perhaps the filmmakers or the writers were hoping to draw a parallel between America's past obsession with Communism and their current focus on Islamic extremism. If that was their aim, however, they missed the mark. Instead, the story felt dated and ridiculous. Nixon as the ultimate evil, re-elected year after year, grinding our country into the ground? I was more frightened by the actor's prosthetic nose.

So if you read The Watchmen and thought it was brilliant (though I'm really having trouble with that idea), go rent/buy/see the movie. From what I've been told by my resident expert, it sticks fairly close to the original (at least for a movie adaptation.) If you're hoping for another V For Vendetta, skip it. Better yet, get out your old copy of V and have a re-watch. Neither film is particularly subtle, but at least V's clever, something that The Watchmen certainly can't claim.

Oh, well, at least the tacos were good.

Pampered, Petted, and Possibly Spoiled

2009-07-20T17:17:00.004-04:00

What a weekend! After two to three weeks of misery, I had such a lovely weekend. All this loveliness was thanks in part to not feeling like death for a change, but mostly, it was due to Steve. Apparently, this pregnancy had turned him from attentive husband to doting crazy man. I have only to think something, and my wish materializes before my eyes. I can't imagine he'll be able to keep this up until February. What a sweetheart.

Friday afternoon I was able to get most of the housework done before I gave out. Saturday morning after he mowed the grass, Steve did the vacuuming that I didn't get to the night before while I mopped the kitchen. Then we decided to take advantage of the unseasonably gorgeous weather and went shopping. After lunch and quick trips to Home Depot and Sam's, we headed to Fresh Market where Steve bought our groceries for the week. So much nicer than shopping at our usual Bloom. I got olives at the olive bar, my favorite Imperial nut mix, and a loaf of fresh-baked sourdough bread. Steve bought some gorgeous meat, including some amazing filets which he grilled for dinner, along with some peppers and zucchini. Then after dinner, we did something we haven't done in AGES...played Rock Band. I scored two 100%s on the drums in one night. Must have been all the good eats fueling my drumming fury.

Sunday was church, of course, and Steve had to work for a while in the afternoon. After work, he went to the driving range, but he made up for his absence later by making his delicious lasagna for dinner. I ate a massive slab that tasted even better than I remembered. I even got to pick the movie we watched. I must admit, I was sorry to see the weekend end.

Lest you think I'm letting all this pampering go to my head, however, I'm making Steve his favorite risotto for dinner tonight - risotto with gorgonzola, apples, and walnuts. I'm even going to watch Band of Brothers with him during dinner.

On an unrelated note, the writing is going better (finally.) I hope to have the first draft done within a day or two, and I already have a pretty good idea of what I plann to do with the next draft. I'm actually looking forward to writing again. That's a nice change.

Play It Again, Sam

2009-07-16T22:07:00.000-04:00

Today as I was feeling yucky and procrastinating writing (I did eventually get to my writing), I watched an old favorite that my trusty DVR had recorded for me, To Have And Have Not. To those who scorn old movies as boring, over-the-top, unrealistic, irrelevant or any of those other lame excuses for not watching the silver screen classics, I challenge you to not love this movie. The dialogue is quick and clever, and the suspense is tight. And if you're looking for glamour, well, it doesn't get any more glamorous than Lauren Bacall. She is beautiful and sultry and her verbal parrying with Bogart? Smoking.

This re-watching of an old favorite got me thinking, however, about the movies that I love to watch over and over. Some movies you watch, they're okay, you forget about them. Then there are those that make you laugh/cry/think every time. So here's my list of flicks I love to watch and watch. It's far from comprehensive.

Adam’s Rib
African Queen
The Big Sleep
Bringing Up Baby
Casablanca
Dark Passage
The Desk Set
Fargo
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
Get Shorty
Juno
Little Miss Sunshine
The Mask
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
Pride and Prejudice (the mini-series)
The Princess Bride
Raising Arizona
Rear Window
The Royal Tenenbaums
Rushmore
Sense and Sensibility
Snatch
Speed
Spellbound
The Thin Man
To Have and Have Not
Undercover Blues

You've probably seen most or all of these. Some are fine cinema classics, while some are just guilty pleasures. Either way, if you see a favorite get it out for a re-watch. Got one I've left off the list? Let me know. I'm always ready to add to my favorites!

High-Heat Hiatus

2009-07-13T23:53:00.000-04:00

The past three weeks have been three of the most surreal, exciting, and miserable I've experienced in a very long time. Of course, there's been the air-conditioning saga (henceforth to be known as the A/C Debacle of 2009.) The extreme temperatures inside my house meant no writing. When your house is already hot, you avoid electronic (heat-producing) appliances like the plague. So, no laptop. My struggling story stalled under the high-heat hiatus. Then there were other distractions. Early morning queasiness, dizzy spells, and fatigue always point to one thing in the movies, and turns out real-life isn't all that different. So a doctor's visit confirmed that I will be suffering through an additional nine months of queasiness, dizziness, and fatigue accompanied by weight gain. May I take this moment to say that there is nothing like a hot, sticky, air-conditioningless house to turn queasiness to full-on nausea?

We finally have cool air circulating through our rooms again, though, and I'm hoping to soon feel like a human being (or at least something close) and get some schoolwork done. Thanks to my faithful writing buddy, I have some ideas of how I want to shave down my story and get to the meat sooner. Deadlines that seemed so far away in June now are looming hot on my neck. So tomorrow I've got to get busy regardless of how I feel.

Last night, Steve was out, and I was left to my own devices. So I headed to Ingles for some Big Red Soup (Lipton's = comfort food) and some DVD's. I ended up renting Last Chance Harvey and Changeling. Both were on my list of "Must See But Steve Won't Want To." Unfortunately, one of my other list picks Mrs. Pettigrew Lives For A Day was no longer at Ingles, so I guess that'll have to wait until sometime when Steve is out and I feel like driving to Blockbuster. Since I watched two relatively recent movies, you know I've got to give my two cents worth on my blog. Here goes...

Last Chance Harvey was charming. I mostly wanted to see this film because I loved Hoffman and Thompson together in Stranger Than Fiction, and funnily enough, that is also why this movie got made (at least according to the Bonus Featurette.) If you're looking for a touching love story without all the saccharine and sap, then this is your flick. The characters were quirky and real, and the dialogue was simple and true. If there was a weakness in the film, it was the writer/director's one concession of the romantic comedy formula - someone promises someone else that they will meet somewhere at a certain time, and you know something's going to happen to keep one of the someones from making it on time. The film does resolve this one annoying tic fairly quickly, however, and the end of the film is lovely. Of particular note in the acting department is Dustin Hoffman's father-of-the-bride speech about halfway through the film. Even I got a little choked up.

Changeling was a very dark mystery/true story directed by Clint Eastwood. I had high expectations for this film (because of Eastwood), and I was not disappointed. The acting was superb. The period set and costumes were perfect. I was immediately drawn into the suspense and tension surrounding this woman's (Angelina Jolie) injustice. At well over two hours, the film was long, but I was so wrapped up in the movie that I didn't mind. While I certainly shouldn't have been surprised based on Eastwood's other films, the movie was even a bit darker than I expected. The disturbing violence was more often implied than shown, however, which made it far more effective than some over-the-top bloodbath. Overall, Jolie's character helped the film maintain its humanity despite its inhuman circumstances. Jolie was compelling as the wronged mother of a missing boy, and even if you're usually a fan of her work, I would encourage you to give her one more chance.

On a completely unrelated note, I want to give a plug for something else that gives me viewing pleasure and a recent find. Though a friend had recommended this show to me quite a while ago, school, work, and other programs kept my viewing schedule a bit too booked to check it out. This weekend as I rested up in my cool living room, however, Sci-Fi (or SyFy as they are now known) ran a marathon of Eureka, and I checked it out. What fun! If you're a nerd (like me), then this is definitely a show for you. While it doesn't pay to ask too many questions while watching it, it is definitely pure fun. So if the summer re-runs have you craving something new, check out Eureka on Friday nights at 9 on SyFy. It's a show about a hidden town full of geniuses working on secret government projects. What's not to like?

Kissing, Crying, and Other Crimes: A Review of Public Enemies

2009-07-10T00:20:00.000-04:00

In an effort to beat the heat of our air-conditioning-free house, Steve and I headed to the movies this weekend to check out the latest Johnny Depp offering, Public Enemies. We enjoyed the abundance of cool, flowing air, and I was grateful for the two-plus hours without sticky skin or wayward, bloodthirsty mosquitoes. It seemed apt that, like the characters in the 1930's set film, we were using the movie theater as an escape from the summer heat. Steve and I were kicking it old school. The only thing we lacked were the newsreels before the movie.

Public Enemies is a Michael Mann film that follows the career of the infamous John Dillinger. The film is based on a book of the same name by Bryan Burrough. I can only guess that the film is based very loosely on the book, which is published as history/non-fiction, since the movie takes great liberties with the facts. Johnny Depp plays Public Enemy Number One, John Dillinger, the bank robber/folk hero who robbed, charmed, and murdered his way across the Midwest in the 1930's. Christian Bale plays Melvin Purvis, an overzealous FBI agent hot on Dillinger's trail.

I had high hopes for this film. Johnny Depp is one of my favorite actors, and I was fully prepared to enjoy his usual quirky, edgy acting and a unique interpretation of a criminal legend. Unfortunately, Public Enemies misses the mark. It's not Depp's fault, of course. His acting is always solid, and he is lovely to look at. Once again, however, Hollywood has underestimated the intelligence of the American viewer. Dillinger's folk hero status and the complications and implications of his Robin Hood persona are dumbed down to a nauseating degree. Rather than showing the poverty of the time and, therefore, the appeal of Dillinger, the film tries to make him likable by turning him into a sensitive, romantic, weepy girl. If one is to believe this film, Dillinger's actions were determined by a desire to be with the woman he loved - a woman he loved at first sight. There are way too many scenes featuring long stares and passionate embraces, at least as many as there are of gun battles and car chases. If Dillinger was really that bad of a tactician, being led solely by his overly mushy heart, then surely he would have been caught long before the famous Biograph Theater trap.

Perhaps unrelated or perhaps symptomatic of the above complaint, the movie was boring. That's it. No fancy word for it. The film was over 2 hours long, and I found myself checking my watch early on. There was no getting lost in this film, losing track of time as you live the lives of the characters. Rather, there were too many characters, too many shootouts, and lots of muddled confusion. Most of the criminals were too similar in appearance and mannerism to be differentiated one from another, with the possible exception of Baby Face Nelson who was actually the only character I found remotely interesting. Crazy is always interesting.

As for shootouts, well, there were plenty. Almost every corpse in the movie got that way from acute lead poisoning. While machine guns and car chases were certainly an important part of Dillinger's crime spree, I was able to grasp that after a couple battles. I didn't need one every five minutes to remind me of his violent lifestyle. In fact, it felt like the writer/director/whoever's making these choices overused shootouts in an attempt to build suspense and excitement in an otherwise directionless film. They seemed unaware of the adage that more is sometimes much, much less. Any power these violent scenes might have given the film were weakened by their ubiquity. As the film neared its end, I started hoping that a stray bullet would hit Dillinger so I wouldn't have to sit there and wait for the Biograph shooting.

Not everything about the film was bad. The look of the piece was right, and the acting was solid. If only the dialogue written had been worthy of the actors' skills. The music was mostly of the period so it was evocative. There was one exception of the fine acting assessment, however. Christian Bale. Though the audience was spared the gravelly voiced growl that he featured in The Dark Knight, they weren't exactly treated to an Oscar-worthy performance. Bale's portrayal of G-Man, Melvin Purvis, was one-dimensional at best as he followed the Keanu Reeves school of acting: monotone delivery sans any sort of facial expression. While the filmmakers were obviously pushing the idea of Purvis as a soulless puppet of J. Edgar Hoover, Bale failed to pursue any opportunities to give Purvis any sort of depth.

So if you're a screenwriter, director, or producer who's always dreamed of making the ultimate 1930's crime drama, the slot is still wide open. Give America a Dillinger they can sink their teeth into, not some modern, misunderstood guy who's not afraid to cry and spoon. Give me Robin Hood in a suit, tie, vest, and overcoat. I want a chain-smoking, skirt-chasing, devil-may-care, Clark Gable-meets-Errol Flynn-meets-Jack Nicholson guy. I don't go to a gangster movie to feel warm fuzzies, so please, keep the canoodling to a minimum.

They Were Hollywood

2009-07-01T16:13:00.000-04:00

With July 4th this Saturday, Steve and I have been getting in a patriotic mood with a weeklong marathon of Band of Brothers. It's so inspiring and humbling to see the way these men sacrificed for our country. Of course, every time I watch something like that I'm reminded of another veteran who served our country. To honor him, I thought I'd post an essay I wrote about my grandmother's late husband. Enjoy reading about Scheller Garlock, 1922-2008.

They Were Hollywood

You probably wouldn’t have guessed it if you had seen him that day, ordering his dinner at the Mountain View Diner in Frederick, Maryland. There’s usually nothing that marks our veterans of foreign wars, nothing on the outside anyway. And that day he was just Scheller Garlock, a man ordering a massive plate of French fries smothered in cheese and gravy in complete disregard of dietary concerns. If diabetes, two heart attacks, and two wars didn’t kill him, the greasy plate of fries weren’t likely to either. At the time, as I sat across from him watching him eat his unhealthy fare just to annoy his wife, my grandmother, all I knew was that he retired from the Army as a Major, loved Corvettes and golf, and that he loved to fix things. Sure, I knew that he fought in World War II and Korea. He frequently participated in events for the VFW and the Korean War Veteran’s Association. I guess I just never thought about his story.

Then Scheller was interviewed for the Library of Congress’ Veteran’s History Project, which archives documents and interviews (both recorded and written) of veterans from World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, and the Iraq war. A woman and a videographer sat with Scheller for over three hours and questioned him about his entire military career and his life. Though the Project archives data from multiple conflicts, recording WWII veterans’ stories seems the most urgent. According to many sources, more than 1,000 WWII veterans die every day. With each passing, another story is lost.

Scheller Garlock’s story, however, will not be lost. In addition to the copy that is archived with the Library of Congress, several family members, including myself, have a copy of his interview. In the video, which lasts over three hours, he sits in his favorite recliner, his face and shoulders the only thing in the frame, and tells the story of his service in the United States Army.

Growing up in Baltimore, Maryland, during the Great Depression, Scheller and his family learned early how to get by on very little. Raised by his mother after his father left the family, he became a breadwinner at a young age. When he left high school to join the Army, he said that his mother could hardly complain since he was the one trying to provide. This is not a story of hardship, however. Like many of his generation, Scheller focuses his story on all the things he had, the experiences, the friends, but mostly, his stories ended with girls.

“Along came the army war show,” Scheller says. “That was in 1942 after Tennessee maneuvers. A group of us were selected due to our size and height and appearance to go on a bond tour, around the country, selling war bonds and recruiting. And we started in Baltimore in the stadium on 23rd street, stadium where the Baltimore Colts used to play.” He smiles as he describes the reaction of their adoring female fans, “We were Hollywood. All the girls thought we were Hollywood, they wanted to know what movies we were in, had been in.” Then in his typical understated way he says, “It was pretty nice.”

Of course, the glamour couldn’t last forever, and he was eventually shipped off to the war that he had been promoting on his cross-country tour. Though one would hardly think of France in ’42 as somewhere you would want to go, Scheller saw it as preferable to the alternative. “I’d prefer Europe to the jungles of the Pacific,” he says. “[I] heard terrible stories about Pacific fighting.”

Sailing over in the USAT George Washington, they landed in southern France sometime after D-Day. The harbor of Marseilles was so heavily bombed that they had to enter it in landing craft. Once they were in France, the fighting started for Scheller in earnest. He tells stories in his cozy living room about German soldiers who stole the dog tags of dead Americans and faked their way across American lines. He says that if they were caught, they could be killed on the spot. He tells this fact without so much as a flinch, no coldness in his manner, just acceptance. The only time his detachment seems to falter is when he discusses fallen comrades. His promotion to officer was the result of a battlefield commission. “December 5th or 6th, Lt. Grubbs got killed in combat, bouncing betty in his face, and I took his place,” he said, his voice getting quiet. “He was a good guy, good officer, great young man from Alabama…Alan E Grubs, nice fellow, couldn’t replace him.”

Before the injury that took him out of the fighting, Scheller was injured once before. He mentions it as almost an aside to his story. “That wasn’t very serious,” he says. “I only went to the aide station, but they gave me a purple heart. It was shrapnel, mortar fire. I was in a barn. A mortar hit the door, and I had splinters in my face and in my neck. It wasn’t too bad. They picked it out. It was wood mostly.” His dismissive tone makes the lady conducting the interview laugh off camera. His second injury, which earned his second purple heart, did take him out of the fighting, however, it didn’t seem to discourage him. “I was in the hospital when the war ended,” he says, grinning. “So I celebrated with the nurses.”

After WWII, Scheller left the service, only to return a short time later. His return to the Army took him to Germany to aid in the Berlin Airlift. His view on helping the people he had just risked his life to fight was philosophical. “Every German I met had never fought the Americans,” he says. “They always fought the Russians. I never met one who fought Americans. I don’t know who was shooting at us because they were all on the Russian front.” He laughs, and you can hear the interviewer laughing along off camera.

After his return from Germany, Scheller was eventually shipped off to Hawaii. This posh assignment didn’t last long, though. In July of 1950, he was sent off to fight in Korea. His thirteen months there were cold and hard, but they also yielded the most amazing of his stories.

“We were in this village, and we just came back off the line,” he says. “An enemy patrol came into the village. They were looking for a prisoner to take back with them for interrogation, and they came in from behind us.” Though the village was in a circle, they hadn’t placed any guards in the back, and the enemy snuck in hoping to find an unwitting soldier to torture and question.

When Scheller heard noises outside, he went to investigate. “I went outside on the porch,” he says. “I don’t know why I put my cap on.” A few seconds later, he saw movement, could tell it was a North Korean, and he shot. After that, there was no sound, just a drop of blood running down his head. He reached up his hand to touch a scratch where his cap, with its now dented lieutenant’s bars, had sat. It had been knocked off by the shot. Apparently, the North Korean had fired at exactly the same time. Only the bars on his hat saved his life.

The next morning, they found the North Korean dead. Shot in the throat, he couldn’t call for reinforcements. Scheller’s life was saved by a wool cap and a lucky shot. Unfortunately, one of the other American soldiers wasn’t so lucky. The North Koreans did find a prisoner that night, just not Scheller Garlock. When he tells this part of the story, the smile again slides from his face. He doesn’t know if the man they captured was ever released.

As I watch and re-watch the video of Scheller telling the stories of his wartime service with such calm and reserve, I am always amazed that this is the same man I knew and loved. It is so hard to imagine someone whose life you treasured being able to take the life of another. In the interview, he talks about a time when his young granddaughter asked him what it was like to kill somebody. He seemed unable to give answers to a child to such a complex question. That’s understandable. Sometimes I have trouble reconciling the man in these stories with the man who told me I was pretty because I had beautiful lips. How could it be the same man falling asleep petting my cat and shrugging off a wound involving flying shards of shrapnel and wood?

Perhaps the unassuming nature of these veterans is a reason why we need things like the Veteran’s History Project. How many families are living with men, and women, like Scheller who fought so hard for our country, and then quietly stepped back into the shadows to live their lives? Without this video interview, I would never have known that Scheller was once the Cary Grant of the Army set, or that tiny lieutenant’s bars could save your life. All I would know is that once upon a time he used to be in the Army.

If You Can't Take The Heat...

2009-06-29T15:08:00.000-04:00

This past week and weekend had a theme: heat. Wednesday dawned bright and humid, and I began the day quite innocently expecting that my air conditioning would continue functioning as it always did. While the compressor was replaced on Friday afternoon, it was nighttime before the house truly cooled down to its usual temperature. The theme was by then well-established. Sweat, sweat, and more sweat. Even with the somewhat cooler house, there was much sweat-inducing work to do on Friday to rid the house of it's open window and fan induced grime in time for my dad's arrival on Saturday afternoon.

On Saturday morning, I was repaid for all those times I've moved in the worst heat of summer and asked friends to lend a hand. Steve and I helped some friends move into their third floor apartment in some of the worst heat we've had all summer. Boy, am I glad I started working out the other week. I may not be Jane Fonda yet, but I'm certain it helped me through innumerable trips up three flights of stairs. The downside of helping non-family members move in the extreme heat? I had to keep reminding myself not to lift up my t-shirt to wipe my face!

Sunday meant church and returning the much appreciated fans to our friends. I can't remember when I've ever felt such a fondness for an electrical appliance as I did for those two white plastic fans. In the afternoon, I headed back over to my friends' house for the fun part of moving...unpacking, hanging pictures, and making things homey. Like the grunt work of moving, this is an area in which I am very experienced (as is my friend), and we powered through all kinds of jobs like a well-oiled machine. Okay, maybe the well-oiled machine analogy is a bit strong. Too bad there wasn't video of us hanging pictures. Two crazy women beating on the apartment wall trying to find the stud while her husband wanders by making a well-worn stud finder joke. Is there really a man alive who can walk by someone looking for a stud and not say, "Here I am"?

When I got home, Steve grilled hamburgers for dinner. They were amazing. Nothing tastes like summer like hamburgers on a charcoal grill. Maybe that's what prompted Steve to suggest we go get some ice cream. I must say I nearly fainted when he mentioned it. It very well might be the first time in our 9 years together that he has made such a suggestion. Sort of an Invasion of the Body Snatchers: Greer Edition.

Of course, there have been upsides to my drama-filled week of heat. First and foremost, I was reminded of the kindness and generosity of the people at Holland Park Church. In addition to the fans, we had offers of hotel rooms and guest bedrooms. It's such a blessing to be surrounded by such wonderful people. Another upside? People share their no-air-conditioning horror stories. As a writer, this is a gold mine. My aunt even sent me a massive post on Facebook that included not only her air-conditioning history, but also linked everything back to my own. I'm going to chalk it all up to future material. After all, isn't that the cliche: suffering for your art? I certainly felt I was suffering as I sat between the two fans, grateful that I had lost my sense of smell. Perhaps one day I'll write a story about someone sweltering away or about a family getting their first air conditioner or about....never mind. It's time for me to step away from the blog and get some serious writing done. I think I know where my main character would probably get a little overheated and need to sit in front of a white plastic fan that makes a vibrating hum when it oscillates to the right.

You Say You Want A Revolution?

2009-06-27T00:46:00.000-04:00

Today, Steve's birthday present, a new amplifier for our tv's surround sound, arrived. After several fevered hours hovering over wires, remotes, and cantankerous equipment, he finally got everything set up to his satisfaction. Then out came the Blu-Ray disc to test out the new sound. He tried all the ones we owned that had big sound, Pirates of the Carribean, Chronicles of Narnia, and also V for Vendetta. Watching clips of the latter reminded me of the review I wrote of the film for the school paper, and I thought I'd post it. (Forgive any dated material, like a reference to the impending election.) If you've already seen V, good for you. You already know. If not, then keep reading...

You Say You Want A Revolution?

With the presidential elections just around the corner, it is easy to find yourself disgusted with petty politics and puzzling policies, and the ongoing financial crisis does nothing to improve your mood. Maybe a reminder that things could always be worse would make you feel better, so you decide to check out that movie you missed in the theaters, V for Vendetta. Suddenly you are not sure whether you feel better, or just worried.

V for Vendetta is based on a graphic novel by Alan Moore, and the screenplay was written by the Matrix creators, the Wachowski brothers. The film is set in London and shows our world in the near-future, with the U.S. in civil war and Great Britain under a totalitarian regime. Out of the chaos walks a revolutionary in a Guy Fawkes mask and black cape intent on bringing about change at any cost. This man-in-black goes simply by the name “V” and is played by Hugo Weaving (The Matrix). Natalie Portman plays Evey, a young woman alone in the world with little to lose. Together they work to overthrow corrupt leaders, both political and religious.

While the film takes liberties with the original story (and what book adaptation doesn’t?), it manages to capture the look and mood of the graphic novel. Because the main character remains behind a mask for the entire film, you might think that it wouldn’t matter who they cast. Somehow Hugo Weaving manages to make the mask work, though, and soon the viewer feels like they can see subtle changes in a face that never actually moves. Natalie Portman manages to be one of the few non-British actresses who can pull off a decent British accent, and her portrayal of Evey, the conflicted revolutionary, is compelling.

Music plays an important role in V. Apart from the soundtrack, there is also the highly symbolic music that “V” chooses to accompany his terrorist activities. You will probably never feel the same way about the Overture of 1812 ever again, and as anyone who knows Morse code will tell you, the three-short-one-long beats of Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 (or V) are code for the letter V.

Aside from the great acting and stirring music, however, there is the all-important plot twist. For the viewer who loves a good head-scratching surprise, V delivers in a big way. In fact, this twist is the very thing to keep the film on the entertaining and touching side and away from the dogmatic.

If you have already seen V for Vendetta, don’t worry. There is still a new experience waiting for you…the V for Vendetta blu ray disc. Not only will you get the most amazing HD picture ever, you also get tons of bonus features that give you the skinny on all things “V.” Most importantly, though, if you have already seen V and you have a friend who has not, don’t give away the surprise. Just hand them your copy and maybe hum a little Tchaikovsky to yourself.

Trapped On The Set Of A Time To Kill

2009-06-25T15:17:00.001-04:00

Welcome to Day 2 of "Sarah Goes Back to the Dark Ages Before There Was A/C!" Yesterday started out innocently enough. I got up and ate my customary oatmeal, worked out (yes, I'm still doing that), and then took a shower and headed to my dentist appointment. I probably should have taken the dentist appointment as an omen of bad things to come. It took my dentist (whom I absolutely love) 3 separate attempts to get my tooth numb enough to pull of the temporary crown and glue in the permanent one. Good times. 2 hours later, I headed for home, my drooping lip dragging behind the car. As I walked into the house from the garage, I thought, Wow, it doesn't feel much cooler in there than in the garage...what's up with that? A quick check of the thermostat revealed that it was 83 degrees in the living room, and it was even hotter in the back of the house.

Fast forward to last night. I went to church for drama practice. I threatened to extend practice several hours so that I could remain in the lovely air conditioned building. Unfortunately, no one went for my suggestion. As I was reluctantly dragging myself out to the car, I ran into a friend whom I told about my a/c woes. This lovely person offered us the use of 2 wonderful, glorious, beautiful fans and even offered to meet me somewhere halfway between her house and mine. May I take this moment to say that these 2 fans are quite possibly the most innovative inventions ever conceived by man? They saved us last night. After a few miserable hours together in the living room (heat does little to improve my mood or geniality), Steve and I headed back to our sweat lodge, I mean, bedroom to pretend to sleep for a few hours. Mostly I watched TV until the wee hours, and poor Steve cuddled with his cool, wet cloth. You just can't buy memories like that.

The a/c repair guy came bright and early this morning. (Was it my heat-addled brain or was he the kindest man and did he not have a glow about his angelic face?) He informed me that our compressor had gone to that great air conditioning in the sky and that he would have to order us a new one. I wanted to cry. Not because of the money. Not because the air conditioner is only 3 years old. I wanted to cry because he couldn't fix it today.

After he left and I called to break the news to Steve (who was sleep deprived and less that cheery), I headed back to my bedroom and laid on the bed between the two fans to try to get a little sleep. I did manage a couple hours before the sun started doing her worst. Now, I'm holed up in the cavelike house with all the blinds and window closed, strategically poised between the really exquisite fans. Did I mention that I love the fans?

The good news is that the a/c people called, and the compressor will be here tomorrow. So only one more night of sweaty misery. Of course, the kitties don't have a great grasp of time, and so they suffer on in the heat, wearing their fur coats and looking at me reproachfully from time to time. At least, my dad is still in Spartanburg, and I can go meet up with him later in some well air-conditioned place. I"m thinking some ice cream may be in order.

Technophiliac

2009-06-24T00:24:00.000-04:00

When did I become that person who perpetually has a phone attached to their head or whose fingers are frequently found to be flying over a tiny keyboard texting away? I have become so addicted to all this technology in such a short time. Less that 2 years ago, I believed I was as likely to join Facebook as I was to start shopping at Abercrombie & Fitch. (That's who I imagined populated Facebook - the 20 year olds who people the A&F ads.) I also scorned texting and was only able to gaze longingly at the iPods that everyone but me seemed to own.

June 2009: I sit at my laptop typing away at my blog while my cell phone sits on the arm of my chair just in case I get a text message. While I type, my iPod Nano plays my favorite tunes that I purchased from iTunes. I just finished uploading pictures from tonight onto my Facebook profile.

What changed? When did I go from being the girl who didn't even own a VCR 9 years ago to this plugged in, logged on, status updating woman I am now? The first and most obvious answer would, of course, be Steve. Nobody loves technology like my gadget craving sweetie. When we first started dating, he would bring his DVD player to my apartment so we could watch movies. (I didn't have cable at the time.) I remember being so impressed that he owned a DVD player.

Then we got married.

I got a cell phone "just for emergencies," since I would have such a long drive to work. While Steve always had the newest, coolest phone, mine was the most basic model in existence. I was okay with that. What did I need with some fancy phone that I probably couldn't figure out anyway?

I suppose another reason that I've slipped into this hi-tech addiction is my return to college. Nobody is more technologically savvy (at least when it come to communications and music storage devices) than college students. I watched my new (and much younger friends text during class without even looking at their phones. I saw them checking their Facebook pages as if their lives depended on their friends' status updates and pictures.

Then these new friends started texting me.

At first I was indignant that anyone would assume I had a texting plan and would send me text messages over seemingly small things. It didn't take me long to realize 2 things, however. #1 - This is the way these people communicate, so I'd better get used to it. #2 - I've never been big on phone conversation with its awkward pauses and meaningless chatter. Texting was the perfect solution to my phone anxiety. Of course, the other way my college friends communicated was Facebook, so I soon found myself signing up for an account "just so I could access things for school."

The third reason I have gone from retro recluse to high-def devotee? I've made friends. When I think back to even 2 short years ago, I am amazed by the number of really wonderful friends I've gained. I've never made friends easily, and consequently, I've always kept to myself. Now, between school and church, I've have this huge (at least huge for me) circle of friends that I want to stay connected to - with texts, status updates, tagged photos, phone calls, and blogs about random nothingness. I don't know how it happened. Apparently I underestimated the sneakiness.

So the cynics out there can say that my cravings for cool phones, downloaded music, and Facebook surfing is just a result of commercialism or that technology isolates us. I'm going to go ahead and disagree with that. Sure I "friend" people on Facebook that I haven't seen in years and may never see in person again, but I also plan lunch dates, read my friends' good news, and share photos.

Though I may have become a bit of a techonphile, I haven't become jaded yet. I still get a little thrill when I get a text message from someone (beside Steve and my mom, they have to text me.) I check my Facebook "Wall" frequently for postings from friends and find myself beaming when I see a comment on one of my pictures. I see the cool acceptance of others as they smoothly respond to a text or return a voicemail. I'm not there yet. There's still a part of me that thinks, "They must have called/texted me by accident."

Maybe one day I'll see all these texts and postings as a nuisance. Perhaps I'll be able to call up a friend on my cell phone "just to chat." Not today. Today I rush through my blog entry so I can check Facebook. Maybe someone has looked at my latest pics....

My I-Don't-Have-To-Run-Day(s)

2009-06-22T15:51:00.000-04:00

After a long and less-productive-than-I-had-hoped-for week, the weekend did finally arrive. Friday dawned hot and muggy with a side of ick. That's when the phone rang. It was my friend, Martha (or Bess, depending on where you meet her), wanting to meet for lunch. Usually, Friday is my housecleaning/laundry day, but I threw my plans to the wind and decided to spend a few hours with one of my favorite people instead. I was feeling kind of blue anyway, and it seemed like the right choice. So, off for pizza and laughs with Martha. Lunch turned into late afternoon as we sat and talked for 3 hours. It was a marathon of catching up, deep discussion, and bizarre stories. Good times.

After finishing up with Martha, I headed to the grocery store and then home. My journey into the so-thick-you-could-cut-it summer air left me feeling a little snoozy, so I stretched out on the couch until Steve got home. Then it was off to the Barkery Bistro for doggie treats. Downtown Greenville was a madhouse (as usual), so Steve just slowed down and pushed me out of the car when we got near the store. (Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but not much.) Inside, the lady behind the bakery display case asked me if the dog I was purchasing the treats for was a girl or boy. (Steve later suggested that I should have said, "I hope so.") After I told her my purchases were for a little girl dog, the woman filled a bag with doggy treats shaped and decorated like butterflies and flip-flops. Then she put bright pink tissue paper in for a final touch. Is that classy or what? I hope the dog appreciates it!

After a pit stop at Best Buy (Steve's suggestion for killing 30 minutes), we headed over to a friend's house for dinner. Did I mention that my friend has a Golden Retriever named Molly, and that I LOVE Golden Retrievers? No? Well, now you know. Though the food and wine were wonderful that night (and the company wasn't bad, either), I was pretty psyched about getting to hang with a Golden. Oh, and for the record, she loved the treats. She didn't say anything about the tissue paper, but I'm interpreting all the licking as her doggy endorsement of its pinkness.

We didn't get home until very late Friday night. (I'm certain that most everyone had turned into pumpkins, except for us.) So, Saturday was good for a lie-in, and then we got to work. Mostly, I got to work. You want to see the list? I cleaned the house, did the laundry, reorganized the pantry, and cooked a giant pot of spaghetti. (Steve mowed the grass.) That's okay. Steve had a hard week, and he needed some rest. He had special permission from me to be a vegetable for the entire weekend. (You notice I said be a vegetable, not eat one. He didn't do much of that.)

Sunday involved lots of relaxing, after church and a Sam's trip, that is. I took an epic 3 hour nap, and Steve played video games with a friend. The evening wrapped up with a little movie watching. Steve rented Capote for me, and he watched it with me - even though I'm certain that he couldn't care less about Truman Capote or anything discussed in the film. Such a good sport. It was an amazing film, however, and I'm glad I got to watch it.

Now, it's Monday, and it's back to work. Last week, I struggled as I worked on my story. I'm praying that this week will be better. I'm also hoping that my weekend of rest and doing anything but writing (I did, at least, read) will aid my attempts this week. So, enough rattling on. Here goes.

Warmup

2009-06-18T15:29:00.000-04:00

Last night was the second performance of the Theater of the Galaxies (a rather grand name for the VBS skits, isn't it?) We had to do our skit three times, and it got funnier each time. Perhaps the finest moment of acting was my friend Kayla's imitation of a quail (or was it a chicken?) while dressed in Biblical garb. Not something you see every day.

Being the Always Prepared Girl, I brought my camera, and first chance I got, I passed it off to someone who took pics of us during the performance. A very generous man he was, who snapped away faithfully while we said our lines, did jumping jacks, and shushed wiggling kids. If only the camera had been so generous. Alas, when I got home and downloaded the pictures, I found that it was not.

Fast forward to today. After breakfast (my daily oatmeal, Cinnamon & Spice flavor only), I dug the dreaded DVD out the bottom drawer of my dresser. You know the DVD. You probably have one, too. The exercise DVD. I bought it about a year and a half ago. I used it for about a week, and then my life fell apart for a while (hospitalization, broken kneecap, bronchitis, it was a fun time.) So, I pulled the DVD out from under some winter clothes, brushed the dust off my tennis shoes, and I actually.........exercised.

It wasn't pretty. In any sense of the word. I am so out of shape. Even the cats were horrified. I actually heard them hiss at each other. I think they were so disturbed by my appearance that they needed to vent their disgust in the only they knew. Maybe they were unnerved by the elevator/club house music that all aerobics instructors love. That or they were just in shock at seeing me do anything that makes me break a sweat. I'm not big on sweating. Ever.

So, I've exercised, done my devotions, eaten my lunch (a sandwich without cheese), and now it's time for work. Lots of writing to do, and this is my warmup. I hope it's moderately more graceful than my messy marching and contortionist crunches. I know it'll involve better music.

Cooking by the Recipe

2009-06-16T14:28:00.000-04:00

Miracle of all miracles: Today I've actually gotten some writing done. Ever since the last day of the residency, I've been plodding along with my newest story idea one paragraph (and sometimes one word) at a time. Then a few days ago, I had a long talk with a writer friend who asked all the right questions about my story and my characters. Since then I've just been thinking, letting everything "cook." So, today, I have nowhere I have to go and no big chores hanging over my head. Enough cooking. Time to write.

I've been very disciplined today (here's hoping that catches on.) I didn't sleep in, I did my devotions (instead of putting them off 'til the end of the day), and I jumped right in on my work. When I sat down to write, I didn't feel any more inspired or clear-headed than I have for the past week, but things started to clear up the more I typed. I'm now up to 7 pages, and I'm feeling super-productive. So, just a little more writing, then it's back to Holden Caulfield.

Now there's a transition. You try making a segue from thanking God for my productive day of writing to JD Salinger's angsty lad who looks at life through crap-colored glasses. I do love Holden Caulfield, though. He's such a cheery fellow, what with his drinking and swearing and penchant for prevarication. To steal his favorite line, he absolutely kills me.

So, here's hoping my week continues in this organized and productive manner. Lots of writing. Lots of reading. Less cooking. Well, except for dinner, that is.

Nerd Wars: A Review of Fanboys

2009-06-14T23:08:00.000-04:00

Kyle Newman's Fanboys is a 90 minute reiteration of all my nerd theory philosophizing. From the multiple scenes of Fanboy on Trekkie violence to the repeated comments of scornful Star Wars Fans mocking lowly Trekkies, the lack of unity among the I-live-in-my-mother's-basement crowd permeates the entire film. With cameos by Billy Dee Williams, William Shatner, and Carrie Fisher, there's plenty of campy fun and nit-picky allusions to satisfy both the casual movie watcher and the hardcore fan. However, I doubt that someone who's never seen Empire Strikes Back or who think Jar Jar Binks is hilarious would seriously appreciate the film.

Fanboys follows four friends as they travel cross country in 1998 to break into Skywalker Ranch (for the uninitiated, that's the home of George Lucas) and steal a rough cut of Phantom Menace six months prior to its release. The one friend's terminal illness tempers the absurb nature of the plot and gives it an almost touching twist. He is, after all, a true fan and couldn't possibly consider dying without having seen the much anticipated film. So it's easy to believe that he would risk everything to steal the rough cut and breathe the rarified air of Skywalker Ranch. Of course, there is the overriding irony that every Star Wars Fan recognizes - Phantom Menace sucked.

As for stars, there aren't many in this film, and that is part of its charm. There are no big names among the main characters (with the possible exception of Kristen Bell who plays the ultimate girl nerd sidekick.) Seth Rogen makes some appearances as minor characters, though in his first appearance as a periodontally challenged Trekkie, he is almost unrecognizable. There are also the memorable cameos that I mentioned before, but mostly it's just a bunch of guys who were probably nerds in high school making a film about guys who were nerds in high school. The exuberance with which the actors approach these gleefully socially inept characters is charming and hilarious.

Both the director and the actors described Fanboys as a "love letter" to the work of George Lucas. The description seems apt. From the scene in the Lucas vault where the gang fondles all his movie memorabilia to the perfectly timed trip into the Lucas trash compactor, there was nothing but love for all things Lucas. While this film is a laugh a minute for Star Wars Fans, it may not be for everyone. Though it isn't as "colorful" as some of the other like-minded films (Knocked Up, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Zack and Miri), it does feature a cameo of Jay and Silent Bob, and as every nerd knows, Kevin Smith is somewhat synonymous with less-than-lily-white humor. They did manage to avoid the crude-for-crude's-sake humor that can sometimes lead to boredom.

If you're the type of person who can quote Star Wars dialogue like Scripture and thinks Dog the Bounty Hunter is a Boba Fett rip off, then this is the film for you. Watch it and enjoy philosophical debates about Luke and Leia's nefarious kiss. Watch it and know you're not alone. And may the force be with you.

To Do: A Day Late and a DVD Short

2009-06-13T01:32:00.000-04:00

I am something of a small time movie buff. I don't claim to have the movie prowess of some of my older and wiser friends, but I can certainly hold my own on trivia night. My husband and I have a fairly extensive dvd collection, and I Tivo everything I can from IFC and any of the premium channels' free weekend offerings.

The best part of being a self proclaimed Movie Geek is that other Geeks find you and want to talk shop. Inevitably, my obsessed friends mention some film or films that I've yet to catch. They breathlessly explain the plot and highlights of their favorite flicks, and I make a mental note either to look for the film or avoid it scrupulously (depending on their description and tastes.) Of course, as soon as I am separated from my enthusiastic friend, the titles begin to slip my mind. So as I sit in bed watching The Purple Rose of Cairo (which I've never seen before), I think I'll make a list of movies I still haven't seen, but fully intend to:

The Deer Hunter
Capote
Manhattan
Schindler's List
The Professional (I've only ever seen the last half.)
To Kill A Mockingbird
On Golden Pond
Sweeney Todd
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest
Roman Holiday
Bottle Rocket

Okay, my brain hurts trying to think of more. It's like I said, five minutes away from the movie talk, and I can't remember a single recommended film title. I guess it's not enough that I'll be playing literary catch up for the rest of my life. I have all these movies hanging over my head. And the new ones just keep coming. Maybe I'll start requiring friends to only mention movies that they own and are willing to lend. Otherwise, it's going to be a case of Will-Work-For-DVD-Rentals.

It's Five O'clock Somewhere...

2009-06-11T00:10:00.000-04:00

Today was Day #3 in "Sarah is a college graduate/housewife/graduate student." It's so weird to have nothing due until August and no classes again until January. The freedom is dizzying, and I must admit, it has turned my head just a bit. I probably need to get on some kind of schedule before I turn into one of those people who sleep all morning, write all night, and drink in the afternoons.

Therein lies the problem, however. I function better at night. I like to write at night. I procrastinate my writing all day, and then, as soon as Steve starts snoring away next to me, my fingers fly across the keyboard. Maybe if I get more disciplined about doing my reading during the day, the writing discipline will follow.

What reading you ask? Well, let me tell you about my reading list. I have twelve books, both fiction and craft, that I have to read over the next semester and write critical responses to. (No, I won't end sentences with prepositions in those responses.) Actually I'm very excited about my reading list. That's the great thing about an MFA program. Unlike undergraduate work, you get to have a say in what books you read. My advisor and I chose a great mix of classic and contemporary and even one book I've already read that I just want to reread. Curious what MFA grad students are reading? Wonder no longer...

Lost in the Funhouse, John Barth; The Complete Stories, Flannery O’Connor; Unaccustomed Earth, Jhumpa Lahiri; Monkeys, Susan Minot; Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan; The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien; Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger; Ellen Foster, Kay Gibbons; The Tiny One, Eliza Minot, Mystery and Manners, Flannery O’Connor; Burning Down the House, Charles Baxter, and Best American Short Stories 2009, selection of 4 stories.

Are you jealous yet? I know I can hardly wait for the FedEx guy to show up with my great big Barnes & Noble box full of literary goodness. I am so glad that a couple of wonderful people gave me B&N gift cards for graduation. It's been a lifesaver with all the book buying I've been doing.

Right now, I'm still trying to finish Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Of course, I don't mean trying to in the sense that I'm having trouble finishing it. It's just that I started the book before the residency and then had to stop. Now I'm having to get back into it and remember who's who. I really love the book, though. Makes me want to read some of his fiction. I guess there's one for another semester's reading list.

Five Degrees of Separation

2009-06-09T13:12:00.000-04:00

Just the other day I was informed that I was a “professional nerd.” When I asked what that meant, my friend explained that I wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill nerd. According to her, I embrace my nerd status and make a study of it. I make nerdy cross-references and study the implications of nerd philosophy. While I have never attempted to hide my less-than-cool status, I had never thought of my place in the nerd hierarchy in those terms before my friend’s casual comment.

As I consider my place in the kingdom of Movie Geeks, Comic Book Collectors, Star Wars fans, Gamers, and Trekkies, I realize that while I dabble in several areas of “nerdom,” I have never specialized. Each of these groups considers itself as slightly superior to the others, except perhaps Trekkies who seem to have accepted their rank at the bottom of the totem pole. Hang out in any of these circles for long and you’ll hear comments like, “Well, at least I don’t collect comic books,” or “It’s not like I play D&D in my mother’s basement.” Yes, even amongst nerds there is no solidarity. The cliques and prejudices of the popular crowd plague the nerds, too. Maybe that’s why I’ve never picked a side. I guess I’m more of an equal opportunity nerd. I accept all types of freaks and geeks, well, except for Gamers. They’re just weird.

Let us examine those I view as the highest functioning of the nerd set: the Movie Geek. This brand of nerdiness manifests itself in compulsive purchasing of DVDs including, but not limited to: classic cult films, sci-fi flicks, indies, complete television series, and childhood favorites. The average Movie Geek will probably have The Princess Bride, The Original Star Wars Trilogy, Pulp Fiction, Caddyshack, The Godfather, and Office Space in their DVD library. Of course, the title of Movie Geek is not bestowed on every person with a DVD collection in their closet. No, the title involves far more responsibility than simply maintaining an impressive list of films. There is the movie quote/trivia knowledge factor. A true Movie Geek can always think of the most appropriate movie quote for any situation. They always win at “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” (If you aren’t familiar with that game, don’t worry. It just means you’re not a Movie Geek.)

I must confess that I have a soft spot in my heart for this type of nerd, as it is a vital part of my own nerd makeup. When my husband and his friends spent a year speaking to each other in quotes from the film, Snatch, I could join in and hold my own. When my friends talk about a movie but just can’t remember who played the girl-who-killed-that-guy, I always come to the rescue. Movie trivia games at my house turn ugly, fast.

Many times, different nerd groups overlap. This is often true of the Movie Geeks and the Comic Book Collectors. While hard core Collectors certainly scoff at the “inaccuracies” of film adaptations of their beloved comics, they still line up to see the latest attempt to bring one of Stan Lee’s creations to life. Many films even celebrate the Comic Book Collector. Writer/Producer/Director/Actor Kevin Smith features comic books and collectors heavily in his films. In Smith’s Mallrats, one of the main characters has an epiphany after an encounter with Stan Lee in front of a comic book store. Even a blockbuster film like Live Free or Die Hard includes a brief interlude where Kevin Smith plays an uber-nerd who helps save the day. The Comic Book Collector may be mercilessly mocked by people both in and out of nerdom, but if Hollywood is any indication, their stock may be rising.

Closely related to the Comic Book Collector due to the similarity of subject matter is the Star Wars Fan. When I asked my husband what a fan of Star Wars was called, he said, “Cool.” Unfortunately for my husband (and me), that’s mostly wishful thinking. While Lucas’ recent offerings may have upped Star Wars’ popularity, the true Star Wars Fan still stands alone. Many a Fan has scoffed at the Star Wars neophyte who commented that Phantom Menace was awesome. The Die Hards know who they are and that Empire Strikes Back was the best Star Wars movie ever and that Admiral Ackbar can always spot a trap.

While I do claim to have a toehold in the Star Wars Fan realm of nerdom, I have to surrender to the greater power in the Force, my husband. One of his greatest regrets in life is that he never got a Millennium Falcon as a child. He actually plays a game with other Fans where they name random characters and decide who is “better,” a nerdy variation on the more risqué “Who Would You Do?” game. He recently lost this game to a seven-year-old boy. They were having an argument over who was better, Chewbacca or the Ewoks. My husband was arguing for Chewy while his little friend insisted that the Ewoks were better. When my husband asked him why, he simply said, “Chewbacca was fooled by a piece of meat.” No one could argue with that. (If you listen closely, you will hear all the nerds laughing at this story. They get it.)

Like the other layers of nerdiness that I have already explored, the next level of nerd flows nicely from Star Wars Fan – the Gamer. Once again, we have some overlap. Gamers like to live in a world of their own (or someone else’s) imagination. The same people who love LucasLand, also love to play Dungeons and Dragons (or D&D as it is affectionately called) and video games like World of Warcraft. The D&D Gamer hand-paints tiny figures to represent their characters whose fates are decided by the roll of 12-sided die. The D&D game is led by an all-powerful person called the Dungeon Master – also known as the guy who never got a date in high school. Gamers speak a language all their own and often see their imaginary worlds as a place of escape. Though this is the nerd group with whom I have the least affinity, I do have to salute their commitment to their own nerdiness. They make no attempt to hide their Gamer label. If anything, they seem to wear it with pride. You’d have to admire their bravery in parading their obsession in front of a cruel, uncaring world if you were sure they accepted this world as their own.

The final group in the nerd hierarchy deserves a paragraph without transition or link to the discussion of previous groups. In the land of nerds, Trekkies, or Trekkers as those in denial prefer to be called, stand alone. The devoted fans not only watch and memorize episode after episode of Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager, and Enterprise, they also attend conventions where all their fellow Trekkies gather, many of whom are dressed as their favorite character. They tell each other to “Live Long and Prosper” and translate Klingon love poetry.

For some reason that I can’t quite grasp, other nerds view Trekkies as the weakest of the Pocket-Protector Pack. They are the butt of jokes that nerds tell each other. To be called a Trekkie is considered an insult by many. This seems unfortunate to me since I have found Trekkies to be some of the nicest people I have ever met. Maybe it’s just my inner Trekkie bonding with a kindred spirit. Sure, I’ve never used the offer of a Vulcan mind meld as a pick-up line, but I do love the show and feel deep indignation at the fact that J.J. Abrams (of Lost fame) is bastardizing the series into some overblown action flick. Oh, no, my Trekkie is showing.

This explication of nerd-theory and the organic hierarchy of nerds across America has brought me to a higher understanding of my place in the cold, dark world of the uncool. Maybe my title shouldn’t be “Professional Nerd” as much as it should be “Nerd-For-All-Seasons.” I like to think I celebrate all the different areas of nerdom, and there are many. After all, I haven’t even started on the International Nerds. Great Britain has “Whoies,” a group obsessed with the show Doctor Who, a long-running program about a time traveling alien who regenerates into a different actor every time one Doctor “dies.” And as everyone knows, Tom Baker was the best of all the Doctors, and can I offer you a jelly baby?

Waking Up Is Hard To Do

2009-06-09T12:48:00.000-04:00

So it starts today. The residency is over, the house is clean, and I've slept my brain to mush. The real work of this MFA begins this very afternoon. No one is standing over me with looming deadlines, pop quizzes, or midterm exams. It's just me and my laptop and a big blank screen. Sure, it's a little intimidating. I have so many voices bouncing around in my head - professors, characters, my own self doubt. Now I just have to shut everything out and try to write something.

At least I'm not alone on this journey. Ever since the residency, I've talked daily to a friend in the same boat. He's been sending me pieces of his hilarious story and making me feel like a complete slacker. I've got to get working so I have something to read next time he calls.

In the vein of trying to get motivated and focused, I made Steve watch Wonder Boys with me last night and shock of all shocks, he liked it. Well, he didn't wax poetic about it or anything, but I did hear him laugh out loud several times, and he admitted it was "okay." In Steve-ese that's practically effusive. So he may never give more than an "it's good" as a critique to one of my stories, but at least he sat through of one my favorite writer movies. Small victories, right?

Well, the day is speeding by, and I have writing to do. So it's time to go. I have lots of rejection letters to earn.

Dead On Arrival, Or How I Survived My First MFA Residency

2009-06-07T01:10:00.000-04:00

So after a prolonged absence, I am back. Perhaps a little worse for wear. I had 9 whole days of break between graduation and my first residency in my graduate school program. If I had known how tired I was going to get during the residency, I think I would have slept the entire 9 days between graduation and the residency.

The Converse College MFA Program's inaugural residency was amazing, but it was also very intense. For 9 days, I was either in a lecture, workshop, reading, or huddling over my laptop and wishing I didn't have to squeeze in a rewrite. The other students were great, however, and the faculty was unbelievable. Every day ended with a reading (both faculty and student) followed by a reception, which involved drinks and laughs. (One reading actually began with a student reading an epigraph by W.C. Fields in the voice of Christopher Walken. You can't make that stuff up.) I guess that is one theme that ran through the entire week and a half - laughs.

Of course, I learned lots of stuff during my week of intense study, and much of what I learned will greatly benefit my writing. Then there were the things that have absolutely nothing to do with writing. For example, my friend Rebecca taught me at least one new word meaning (which I won't be sharing in print.) I learned that people in the south put mayo on everything. I also learned that sleep deprivation and alcohol are an interesting combination. It's amazing the effect that one beer can have on someone who's had 4 hours of sleep. And by somebody, I mean me.

Then there was Rock Band night. Yes, my Rock Band obsession has spread to my professors, and we actually had a Rock Band party during the MFA residency. It was so great to see everyone loosen up and participate after they saw someone else make an idiot of themselves at the microphone. And by someone else, I mean me.

My favorite part of the week, though, was simply the time spent with friends and fellow writers. There were deep conversations and all that heavy stuff, but there was also a lot of flat out cutting up. Why are writers so much fun? There was truly a sense of solidarity among all of us, students and professors both. I got to meet some new people, and even more importantly, I got to spend time getting to know some of my Converse friends even better over Thai food and chocolate chip cookies and tapas and overpriced cocktails.

Of course, there were a few occasions when we almost got to know a little too much about each other. With 9 days of constant contact, everybody starts to let their real selves show. I read somewhere that if you are sleep deprived for long enough that it is like being intoxicated. If that is really true, then most of us were, in fact, quite buzzed most of the time. There were oversharing incidents and Freudian slips and invasions of personal space on a daily basis. Just a lot of glorious, messy life. One professor commented that she couldn't remember what her real life was like after so many days on the Converse campus. I must admit, I'm looking forward to remembering what my real life is like. At least until January.

The Surreal Life - Graduation Edition

2009-05-19T14:50:00.000-04:00

Well, I did it. I graduated from college. It still feels a little unreal, though it sinks in a bit more with each passing day. I've been an official graduate for 3 whole days, and I'm already a grad student. No rest for the weary (or is it the wicked?) My first residency starts next week, and I can hardly wait...well, that's not entirely true. I am enjoying the break from school, no matter how short. It's nice to know I don't have anything I have to do for school for a few days. Yesterday was one, long, glorious day of wasting time and accomplishing nothing. It was everything I dreamed of and then some.

Back to graduation, though. It was an amazing experience. (No mocking my vague, hyperbolic adjective, either. It really was. I couldn't think of a better word, except maybe awesome.) Last Thursday was the first of the surreal graduation experiences. I sat in Twichell auditorium, shivering in the overwrought air-conditioning and marveling that I was actually there getting ready to graduate. Despite the mind-numbingly boring explanations (and over-explanations) of how graduation would run, none of us could stop grinning. We looked like a bunch of high-class hyenas in dresses, heels, and pearls. You don't get much more surreal than that! Then there was the Candlelight Senior Dinner with its tearful, drunken toasting and slideshow set to graduation classics like Green Day's "Time of Your Life." I felt a little like I was trapped in some bad 80's movie, but I loved every minute of it. Baccalaureate was the next night, followed by Hats Off and dinner with family.

Graduation Day dawned gray and rainy. Apparently, it never rains on Converse graduation...except when I graduate. So lunch on the lawn wasn't going to happen, but I didn't care. They could throw my diploma to me as I drove by the school, so long as I had that document in my hot, little hands when it was all over. Fortunately, that didn't happen. I got my diploma like everyone else, during Commencement. I must admit that after Steve walked me over to Wilson Hall to line up, it all started to feel a little unreal. I don't think I was the only one feeling this way, either. Everyone seemed a little on edge, a little different, like we were strangers meeting for the first time. We made polite conversation and took pictures together because that's what we were supposed to do. No one seemed clear on what we were supposed to do after all this was over.

Once I got settled in my seat in Gee Dining Hall, I looked over the program. I quickly found my name, also a little unreal. Sarah Elizabeth, summa um laude. Wait a minute. Did that say what I think it did? Sure enough. The only typo in the entire program was next to my name. That one little missing "C" gave me and those around me a good laugh until it was time to head into Twichell for the big event. As we walked out of Wilson, the faculty applauded us, another surreal happening for the history books. We lined up outside Twichell and applauded the faculty as they processed into the auditorium. Then it was our turn. I know I am a writer, and therefore, should be able to explain how I felt as I walked to my seat. Alas, I cannot. I suppose I could say that my heart was full or some other cliche like that, but that just wouldn't cover it. As I found my seat, I looked up to the balcony to see where Steve and my parents had promised to sit. I waved hello with my grin.

I must confess that I barely remember walking across the stage to get my diploma and hood. I certainly didn't hear any of my friends names as they were called after mine. I was in a daze. I couldn't then (and still can't now) believe that I was holding my diploma in my hand. It wasn't just me, either. My friend, Megan, kept giving me the most ridiculously wide grin (I know mine was exactly like hers.) We kept squeezing each other's hand. I'm not sure if we were congratulating each other, or trying to make sure the moment was real.

After lots of hugs and pictures, we made our way to Gee Dining Hall for some bad food, good friends, and continued photo ops. My night of no sleep was starting to kick in. When we finally peeled ourselves away from the festivities (I wasn't sure I was ready for everything to be over), we headed home to get ready for the graduation party. I began my preparations with a nap. Nothing glamorous or surreal there. Just one tired graduate. Not even graduating summa Cum laude could make up for a good night's sleep.

Hold On To That Feeling

2009-05-12T00:32:00.000-04:00

Four days to go. It seems unreal that in four short days I'll be a college graduate. Tomorrow I drop off my final paper/exam for Domesticity class (and no, that's not a class on how to make beds and sew on buttons), and then that's the last school assignment of my undergraduate career. I know it's cliche, but the past four-and-a-half years have gone by incredibly fast. It literally feels like yesterday that I was psyching myself up for my first class (Art Appreciation.) I had to make a deal with myself before the class that I would speak out at least once every night. Now, they can't get me to shut up.

It's really hard to comprehend the changes we go through unless we have a frame of reference, and this school journey has given me an excellent one. I am no longer the girl who's initimidated by a room full of other students...even if I don't know anyone in the room. I feel confident in my opinions and my ability to speak them in a coherent manner. I am so grateful for my time at Converse and for the knowledge and confidence that I gained there.

Today, as I sat waiting for the delivery truck to bring my new dining room furniture (a whole blog entry in itself), I received two phone calls from classmates. That's one thing I'm certainly going to miss...a built in group of women with the same interests and ideals. I have been so amazed and overwhelmed by the friendship of the women of Converse, and I will miss the interaction with them.

This weekend promises to be fun enough, however, to drown any I'm-going-to-miss-everybody blues. Thursday is commencement rehearsal and the senior candlelight dinner. Friday is Baccalaureate (not certain on the spelling of that one) and Hats Off and then dinner. My parents and Steve's will be here for that, so it should be fun. It also doesn't hurt that I have a fabulous new dress for those occasions. (Who doesn't love to get dressed up in a pretty dress?) Saturday morning is graduation and then brunch on the lawn. Everything is capped off by the graduation party that Steve is throwing for me that afternoon. There will be grilling and friends and cake, and I am certain that the evening will devolve into Rock Band. What party at the Gray house doesn't end up with a roomful of people pretending to play instruments and wailing into a microphone? The cats will probably have to go into hiding.

In less that two weeks after graduation, my first grad school residency begins. I am very excited about that, too. Though it's hard to focus on that with all the graduation frenzy bubbling up inside me. It promises to be a lot of fun, though...spending 9 days with a bunch of other writers. I'm thinking summer camp, only, hopefully, with better food.

The Final Countdown

2009-05-04T01:39:00.001-04:00

Okay, so my title probably makes you think of Gob Bluth and his bird killing magic tricks (at least it does if you run in the same circles I do.) Anyway, I'm not writing a blog entry about bad magic tricks, or even cancelled sitcoms. The final countdown which I am referencing is the one I am updating every day on my Facebook page...the number of days until graduation. Of course, maybe the magic is not so far off either. I have lots to do between now and graduation, but somehow, bit by bit, it's becoming more manageable, more believable. In less than 2 weeks, I'm graduating, ready or not.

This past week has been filled with all sorts of pre-graduation events, and each one has lent a bit more reality to the impending date. Last weeked was the most AMAZING wrap party for Concept Literary Journal. The staff and our professors/advisors came over to my house for dinner and, inevitably, Rock Band. It was a night I won't soon forget. Of course, they probably won't either. One girl informed me that my rendition of "Pretty Fly For a White Guy" was the greatest moment of her senior year. Hyperbole aside, though, it was a fun evening and a great release from all the end of semester stress.

Next I had the Gamma Sigma dinner and the Concept release party. Gamma Sigma, which is Converse College's version of Phi Beta Kappa, was such an honor, and the dinner they held for the new inductees was lovely. It isn't often that you get to spend a couple of hours with highly educated people who proceed to pat you on the back the entire time. It was actually a little surreal, but I highly recommend the experience. Who doesn't like to be told they're great? If don't believe me, we'll go to lunch, and I'll spend the entire time telling you how impressed I am with you. You'll be a new person in no time.

The Concept release party went far better than I expected. After several delays in delivery, the books finally arrived, and they look terrific. I was worried that the location of the party (the Writing Center) and the time (so near the end of the year) would hurt our attendance, but we had a great turnout, and everyone was so willing to read their work. I really enjoyed reading my essay, "Denver For Dummies," and everyone seemed to get a chuckle out of it, which is always nice. Of course both of these events were held the same evening, and I had a presentation that morning, so I spend a rather long day in my dress clothes and heels. I must be getting old because I can't traipse around in strappy, high-heeled sandals all day like I used to do.

Saturday was Awards Day at school, and that was lovely, too. I was recognized for Gamma Sigma and being a Nisbet Scholar, and I also recieved a Lykes award for my fiction and an honorable mention for my non-fiction in Concept. Best of all, Steve got to be there, and that made me very happy.

So as I look back over this entry, I realize that it reads a bit like a list of my accomplishments, which was not my intention. Rather, I wanted to share all the exciting events that have been going on as my final year as an undergrad winds to close. The past four-and-a-half years have been such an amazing journey, and I am so grateful for each and every part. I have met so many wonderful people as a result of my time at Converse. Never have I encountered so many brilliant, talented, and caring women as I have there. I am certain that we will be hearing about them for many years to come as they go out into the "real" world and make their way. As an older student, I have a slightly different perspective, and I must say that I am heartened by prospect of these women being our country's future.

This may be my last blog entry for a week or two. (I know, I said that before, and here I am.) Graduation and all its festivities are right around the corner. I will be back, however, bearing pictures and my very own diploma. And yes, there will be cake.

Wide Open Spaces

2009-04-25T00:02:00.000-04:00

I'm coming out of stealth mode to do a little warm-up writing. I've a rewrite of a short story to work on, and I need some "narrative calasthenics" (I stole that phrase from some guy in Poets and Writers mag) to get my fiction juices flowing. It's such a irony that the same house-cleaning frenzy that frees up my mind so that I can write also makes me to tired to want to do anything.

So this week in Domesticity class we've been talking about the open floor plan and its many evils. It's so weird how everything we've talked about in that class keeps popping up at random moments in my "real", non-school life. This week we read about how the advent of the open floor plan placed so much more responsibility on already overworked women. With all that visually pleasing open space comes the ability/expectation to multi-task. Mother has to be everywhere at once, and she can be if she can see everywhere. Plus, there is no front room that you can keep clean for company. Now, everything has to be presentable all the time because it's all visible to visitors. At Bible study last night, one of my friends was lamenting that fact that she spends so much of her time chasing her 2-year-old son. When I mentioned what we read in class about Betty Friedan's maligning of the open floor plan in The Feminine Mystique, my friend couldn't help but agree. (Though she seemed almost too tired to so much as nod.)

Are we (and by "we," I mean women) creating more work for ourselves by selecting those oh-so-popular open floor plan houses? Just because HGTV says we need all that open space and "flow," does it really make it true? As I've read so much about domestic advice and its history over this semester of Domesticity class, I've become aware of how transient domestic advice really is....fluid and rarely reflective of the society it is meant to represent/guide. So much of the advice is never followed, but we are left with this guilt that we aren't doing the "right" thing by our homes and families.

Don't get me wrong, I am in no way suggesting that HGTV is evil or that I will never again flip hungrily through a decorating mag. I simply submit to you, dear reader, that when making house/decorating/cooking decisions, we women should start basing it on our own convenience/comfort/taste rather than on something that the "experts" tell us we should like. It is important to remember that so much of the modern domestic advice is driven by consumerism and marketing. Product placement almost overwhelms some of those HGTV decorating shows. 100 years ago, women couldn't even vote. Now we have a female Secretary of State. Women have not come this far to be controlled by a clever jingle or compelling commercial.

Of course, if we're talking about convenience, there are some inventions/innovations that do make our jobs easier. I have a couple of items, like my Kitchen Aid Mixer and my insanely wonderful laundry cart, that make my domestic tasks so much simpler. But even my household tools deserve a second look. So many of the tools that we use to make our jobs easier/faster, really just isolate us more and raise the standards by which we measure our housework.

Okay, enough of my housework rant. I'm still seeking the title of Domestic Goddess. That didn't change. I do, however, have a different understang/perspective when it come to my role as wife/cook/laundress/housekeeper. But I suppose I should use some of my mad multi-tasking skills to get some serious writing done. Thanks to the inventor of the open floor plan for giving me that oh-so-useful skill!

Laying Low

2009-04-15T23:43:00.000-04:00

I am officially going into stealth mode. As of tomorrow, I will be a month from graduation. That's right, 30 DAYS from graduating with a Bachelor of Fine Arts. Pretty exciting stuff. Nevertheless, these will be 30 of the busiest (and likely craziest) days of my life. I have assignments, meetings, and deadlines coming out my ears. Sunday is my reading at College Town (to be held at the uber hip, Hub Bub in downtown Spartanburg.) May 7th is my oral defense. I've got presentations coming up in 2 classes. Lots of public speaking, lots of work...I need a new outfit and a hair cut. I mean, I have to look good, right?

So blogging will probably take a backseat for the next few weeks. I'll probably post some pictures from the reading even if I don't have time to wax verbose about it. Next week is the Concept Release Party and the Wrap Party. I am really excited about those, and I will definitely post pictures of them as well.

Well, I guess that's all for tonight. No rants, muses, or clever turns of phrase. Just an update and apology for my probable absence. See you at GRADUATION!!!

Fireproof: A Night At The Movies

2009-04-10T15:51:00.000-04:00

For the past few months, I have heard tons of buzz about the film, Fireproof, a new film by the people who did Facing The Giants. I haven't seen FtG, either, but last night, I finally got a chance to watch Fireproof. What seems most impressive about this film is that it was done almost entirely by church volunteers in 30 days! What an amazing accomplishment! It was also really beautiful to watch the DVD bonus features where they showed the cast and crew covering each scene/shot in prayer. Very powerful.

Impressive feats aside, however, it was still a film meant to entertain, and I tried to set aside any preconceived notions aside and just watch. The film follows a young couple, Caleb and Catherine Holt, as their marriage spirals toward divorce. After a heart-to-heart with his father, Caleb decides to spend 40 days trying to save his marriage using "The Love Dare." This journey of discovery turns into a story of redemption as Caleb finds salvation and prays to save his marriage. The ending is touching, though predictable, and more about message and meaning than it is about art.

I hesitate to criticize the film as I am certain that many will see it as some sort of snide swipe at a church's inspiring production. However, it is a film, and I endeavor to review it objectively. The writing, while far from inspired, is actually better than I expected. There were times when they snuck in a bit too much exposition in the dialogue, but overall, it wasn't bad. The acting, unfortunately, left something to be desired. Kirk Cameron, though far from my favorite actor (Hello! He's Mike Seaver, for crying out loud!), was at least passable. Even Erin Bethea, the church volunteer who played Catherine Holt, wasn't terrible. What seemed a shame to me was their choice for Caleb's father. Arguably one of the most important characters, Mr. Holt was wooden (at best) as he delivered his speeches on relationships and spiritual things. How unfortunate that the man who shared the most important message of the film (salvation) frequently sounded like he was reading from a cue card.

On the positive side, the special effects were well-done. The fire and car crash scenes were both believable and suspenseful. The emotions in the film also felt very genuine, which is crucial in a film that relies so heavily on emotional impact. Also refreshing was the film's frank use of scripture. No dancing around Christian themes here. Everything is laid out clearly for the viewer, no apologies.

I am certain that I have now sentenced myself to the pantheon of Christian movie haters - but unjustly so. I applaud what these people were trying to do with this film. It is a message that needs to get out - marriage is a committment, a decision, not an emotion. I simply feel after viewing the film that it is less popcorn and pj's and more marriage seminar. A fun, entertaining marriage seminar (and no, that's not an oxymoron.)

Theory of Relativity

2009-04-08T01:24:00.000-04:00

It's nearly 1:30 in the morning, and I'm getting droopy-eyed and fuzzy-brained, but I'm blogging anyway. Who knows when I'll get another chance. Last week was Spring Break, and I spent it in Maryland with my family. It was so much fun and such a good (and very needed) rest, but I didn't get much schoolwork done. So now I'm even further behind than I was before Spring Break, but I'm hoping that the rest I got will enable me to dig in and get the work done. Just over a month to graduation after all.

We submitted the final proof of Concept today. I am so excited about the way it turned out. It looks great, and I think we made the right choices about what submissions to include. Everyone on the staff worked so hard, and it is so satisfying to see everything come together. Tonight there was a reading at school, and I got a chance to talk to Professor Mulkey about some of my grad school questions. I found out that I have to have a story ready before this month is over! Yay! Another thing to add to my neverending to do list. I'm starting to freak out a little bit about getting everything done. (Okay, I was already freaking out before Spring Break. I guess, I'm just freaking out all over again. Or maybe I never stopped.)

At least I got to spend the week with my family. It's always wonderful to see the whole gang up in Maryland. There's nothing more soothing than an evening of Nanny's good cooking and baked goods. Of course, I also managed to squeeze in the requisite shopping with Grammy and a side trip to Antietam for Steve, the Civil War history buff. It is always like some kind of miracle how for a week I can slide into the lives of people whom I see so rarely. Sometimes I wonder what their lives are like when I'm not around. It's like quantum physics for relatives - if an aunt has dinner with your grandmother and you're not there to see it, does the gravy taste as good? Seriously though, it is curious how I can be folded into the lives of people and then slip away for another year. During the intervening year that passes between visits, there is no piece of me remaining in Maryland. Everyone's lives go on whether I'm there or not. Remember that movie Brigadoon about the town that sleeps for one hundred years only to awaken for one day before sleeping again? That' s what my annual visits feel like: updates on what has passed in my absence.

This digression about my Maryland visits makes them sound so negative, and that was not my intention. My time away from family would not seem so poignant if I didn't feel such love when I'm in their presence. Ultimately, I am grateful for my family and the time I have to spend with them.

Frederick Foodie

2009-03-30T18:45:00.000-04:00

What goes with roast beef, turkey, mashed potatoes, pasta, fudge, Texas sheet cake, and watergate salad? How about an antacid? Maybe a nice 10-mile run? I've only been in Maryland since Friday night (it's now Monday evening), and I've already consumed a month's worth of fat and calories. Nanny definitely missed the memo about cholesterol, and I completely lack self-control whenever I'm in Frederick County. I think it's something in the air.

All this eating has gotten me to wondering about food and why we associate certain foods with home? Would family still be family if they didn't come bearing doughy sugar cookies? Today, Steve, Grammy, and I drove to Gettyburg, PA, to visit the Boyd's Bears Bear Country flagship store. (Pictures forthcoming in a future blog.) On the way there, we drove past Mountain Gate Family Restaurant, one of my favorite Maryland indulgences. Yet this time, I felt no inclination to exit the highway for its yummy, homecooked goodness. Maybe, it's because I always went to Mountain Gate with Granddaddy. Going without him seems a bit like sacriledge. I may go back one day, but for right now, the restaurant has lost its charm for me.

So tonight after Bear Country, we hit Outback instead. Not one of my favorite places to eat, but it made my grandmother happy, so that made it worthwhile. I thought that Steve and I would probably wear her out, but instead, we're the ones dragging tonight, and she's powering away the miles on her treadmill. Shame on our saggy, baggy, out-of-shape selves!

Back to the dining digression...last night was all about food and family. We had dinner at Nanny and Pap's with my uncle and aunt and my cousin, her husband, and her two little girls. We had the requisite amounts of chaos and catching up with a little turkey, gravy, and macaroni and cheese thrown in. After all, would it really be a Lantz family gathering without Nanny's culinary stylings? I think not.

Why Exaggerate When The Truth Is So Much Scarier?

2009-03-25T23:09:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow is the last day of class before Spring Break. (Cue: Singing, dancing, and weeping openly.) I am so excited about the break, though I fear that the word "break" may be a trick. Sure I won' t be going to school for a whole week, but I will be driving to Frederick, Maryland for a week of visiting with family, and I do have MOUNDS of work to do during that time. Seriously. This is not hyperbole. I have piles of stuff stacked in our home office that all has to be done.

You remain unconvinced of my plight? Well, I have to read 21 Julia Mood Peterkin entries over Spring Break (or SB, as it shall be referred to henceforth.) Then there's the essay I need to rewrite and the 3 new essays I need to write for Creative Non-Fiction. (And let's not forget the 4 essays I need to critique.) That's one class's work. Then there's Domesticity. (Yes, that's a class.) I have major reading to do, plus research for my project and 2 journals to write. I need to do research for my Senior Seminar Careers project. And last (and certainly not least, well, maybe a little bit least), there's Buffy. We're up to Season 6, and I have episodes to watch, Buffy Blogs to write, and a presentation/discussion to prepare. Are you tired yet?

On the up and exciting side, I have turned in the final manuscript of the 2009 issue of Concept!!!! (Yes, I used exclamation points despite my training.) I think it looks really professional (the journal, not my exclamation points), and we are very, very proud of how it's turned out. Everyone has worked so hard, and I hope it's going to pay off in a wonderful journal.

So tomorrow is going to be a full day of housecleaning, laundry, packing, shopping, Buffy class, working in the writing center, and women's Bible study. I'm going to be too tired to go on vacation! Unfortunately, no one has told the cats yet that we are leaving. Maybe we can sneak out before they notice we are gone. Hobson gets very upset when we leave.

Despite insanity and severe bouts of overwhemedness (yes, I made up a word - it's a gift), I am still excited. Regardless of what craziness goes down in the next month and a half, I will be graduating on May 16th. I think I may look different once I'm a college graduate. You may not even recognize me if you see on the street. But then again, you probably will...I'll be woman walking around town in blue jeans, flip flops, and a mortarboard and tassle.

Retail Therapy, or How To Succeed At Shopping Without Really Trying

2009-03-21T01:05:00.001-04:00

Sometimes you see changes coming and you have time to prepare. Then there are those times when changes just start coming at you fast, and you just have to sit back and hold on. Apparently, this is one of those times. Graduation is approaching at lightning speed. (This has been the fastest semester in the history of academia.) I ordered my cap and gown this week, and I've been receiving all kinds of info regarding the events of graduation week. It does make it all seem a bit more real. This time two months from now, I'll be a college graduate. It seems like only yesterday (regardless of the cliche) that I was starting at Converse and working full time and wondering if I would ever be able to finish and graduate. Now, here I am. It's all a little surreal. Now, I just have to get through this semester. One more week until spring break, and I can hardly wait.

Of course, I've had four years to prepare for this. It's exciting, but it's the expected result of four years of college - graudation. If I only had graduation to contend with, things would be pretty tame. It isn't just graduation, though. Changes are everywhere. The other day a friend was talking about how things happen in clusters. That rule must include changes. In the past couple of months, I've gone from being an overachieving, overworked, overstressed, super-nerd, reclusive college student with no clear idea of life after graduation to a woman with friends, a life, and a plan. (I'm still an overachieving nerd. No change there.) I've been accepted to the MFA program at Converse, so life after college is going to be, well, more college. I'm so excited about grad school. Two years of hanging out with other writers. It doesn't get much better than that.

School isn't over yet, though, and it has been crazy. We finished the manuscript for Concept (our literary journal) on Thursday. It was such a relief to get it done. Another check mark on my crazy to do list. I also picked up the finalists for the Julia Mood Peterkin Award, and I get to read/judge them over Spring Break. Super fun! I'm going to be in a television commercial on Tuesday for Converse II. That should be interesting. They're going to film me doing my Writing Center/tutoring thing.

The biggest (and best) change in my life right now has been the addition of a new group of friends. Since our move to Holland Park Church of Christ, we've met some really amazing people. Our Sunday night Life Group includes three other young married couples who have taken us in as family. I am amazed daily by their openness and generosity of spirit. As someone who doesn't make friends easily, I have appreciated their patience with me and my innumerable quirks. For the first time in my life, I feel like I am making women friends with whom I can have a close, spiritual relationship. My goal for the future? Try not to mess it up.

Today, I went shopping with one of the girls from Life Group, Terra. She is a kindred spirit and crazy fun. I'm not sure that Mall of Georgia was ready for us. I swear we spent half an hour just looking at the jewelry at Macy's and another at the shoes. A woman after my own heart. It was positively the most normal thing I've done in years, and it felt really wonderful.

Tortellini, Tri-Bond, and the Leaning Tower of Birthday Cake

2009-03-16T21:20:00.000-04:00

So another crazy weekend has come and gone. Last week was insane. I felt like I never stopped, and maybe that's good. If I had stopped, I probably would have collapsed. The list of things I needed to do just kept getting longer and longer and time shorter. On the upside, however, lots of really fun and exciting things happened.

On Tuesday, I went to the Elizabeth Cox reading at school. She was amazing! The story she read was wonderful, and she was so willing to answer questions. I bought two of her books, and she signed them both. I also got to hang out with one of my favorite people (who also happens to be named Sarah. Coincidence? I think not.) You just can't beat time with a friend combined with a Panera cinnamon scone.

Wednesday started with a dentist appointment. Fun, fun, fun. My face was numb for so long afterwards that I had to eat my Chick-Fil-A lunch with half my tongue completely dead and trying desperately not to bite anything important. Then it was on to the writing center followed by 2 1/2 hours of creative non-fiction.

Thursday was the most non-stop day ever. Ten o'clock class followed by a lunch break of gift shopping that took so long I had to hit the ubiquitous Chick-Fil-A, and I was still a few minutes late for my Concept meeting. The meeting ran long, and I had to run straight to Buffy class. After working in the writing center, I headed down to print off the Concept stories for the Lykes award contest. Converse printers and I never get along, so this took much longer than I had hoped. I had to drive straight home, run inside and grab my stuff for Bible study, and drive straight there just in time to sing "Happy Birthday to Terra" and then recite my memory verse that I had been practicing out loud in the car on the way there. (I'm out of breath just typing all this.) When I got home from Bible study I almost collapsed. What a day.

My weekend wasn't exactly restful either, but at least it was full of fun. A friend of mine refers to taking a "mental health day" from time to time. Well, let's just say I took a mental health weekend. Friday started with lunch with Terra and her parents at Soby's on the Side. (Have you ever heard of a red velvet cookie sandwich? Well, I have, and it's a beautiful thing.) That night, Sarah came over, and we had tacos and a Rock Band fest. Major fun. Sarah even made a video of our performance of "My Sharona." Let's just say it was inspired. Especially the part where Sarah realized the lyrics were somewhat colorful while she was singing them.

Saturday, we went to the Joe Beam marriage seminar at church. It was great, and he was very funny. Afterwards, Kayla and Daniel came over for dinner and games. The couples in our Life Group have been so open and friendly to us, and it was wonderful to be able to have them over and try to return the favor. So, we all bonded over tortellini and Tri-Bond. Good times.

Sunday night was Life Group at our house. We had a houseful of friends from church, and a garage full of smoke. We had volunteered to grill hamburgers, and the weather wasn't exactly cooperating, so we had to "grill out" in the garage. (Don't worry, we left the garage door open.) I also made a birthday cake to celebrate two Life Group birthdays. Unfortunately, the baking gods were once again not smiling on me. By the time we got around to the celebrating, my cake had started to split in half, the strawberries on top sliding down into the crevice. The good news is that I didn't have a meltdown. (Though my candles did. We had to sing an abbreviated version of the "Happy Birthday Song" before the candles completely ran down the sides of the cake.) We just ate my very deformed, but very tasty, cake. No one seemed to care that it didn't look like a magazine cover. They were too busy licking cream cheese frosting off their forks.

Word To Your Mother

2009-03-11T22:37:00.000-04:00

One of the reasons I love creative writing is the continual process of revision. There is such freedom in knowing that you can begin badly. It's the great literary do-over. If I sit down to write and I can't seem to get started, I just give myself permission to write complete drivel. Often, after a few poorly written paragraphs are enough to get my juices flowing, and I start cranking out real words and passable sentences. Even if the result isn't pure poetry, at least it's something I can edit.

Unfortunately, life is not a creative writing project. A few rare exceptions aside, we don't get a lot of mulligans. Words that sounded okay in my head exit my mouth in a jumbled mess of embarrassment. I can't think and re-think every word before I say it. At the rate I edit, it would take days to say anything. Consequently, I spend a lot of time with my foot wedged firmly in my mouth.

Words are arguably the most powerful thing on earth, yet we throw them around with careless abandon. We don't take care about words' connotations, their etymology. A misplaced comma or pause can completely alter the meaning of a sentence. As Americans, we abuse our language to such a degree that it can become unrecognizable. I read a short story this week that actually said that a character came in out of the cold to "dethaw." So, they came in out of the cold to do the opposite of thaw? Freeze? HUH? Don't even get me started on the whole I-could-care-less/I-couldn't-care-less debate.

There are still those who care about words, however. (Some might say they care too much.) I had creative non-fiction workshop tonight, and I must say that those people care about word choice. Where else could you spend ten minutes discussing someone's use of the word counterintuitively? (I didn't make that up. It really happened.) Sure I wanted to induce vomitting in order to get out of the room, but you do have to admire their committment to the written word.

Outside the realm of creative writing nerds (yes, I'm including myself in that grouping), though, I have almost given up hope. The other night I watched the beginning of the film Idiocracy. In it, two people awake from cryogenic stasis to find themselves in a future world where the English language has been reduced to a muddled mix of slang, grunts, and grammatical abominations. Didn't seem too far off to me.

The upside to taking time to consider your words is that you are forced to take time to consider your words. As I said before, words are powerful. Even a well-meaning joke or comment can cut deeply if the hearer misunderstands. Slang can be misinterpreted. Look to the always clever and ever elegant Jane Austen as your conversational paragon. The ladies and gentlemen in her stories take such care with their words; even their jibes are wrapped in silk scarves of slippery language. How long must it have taken Austen to create and edit those exchanges? What a polite and urbane world she created.

So tomorrow when the goofy starts working its way up my throat toward my mouth, I'm going to stop, take a deep breath, and channel my inner Elizabeth Bennet. (Does that make Steve Mr. Darcy? Hmm.) With my verbal skills, I'll probably be something closer to Mr. Collins. Maybe I could just write everyone a nice letter.

Fun, Fellowship, and Fiji Water

2009-03-09T14:28:00.000-04:00

This weekend was the Holland Park Church ladies' retreat at the Bonclarken Conference Center in Flat Rock, NC. There were about 70 of us women bunking together, four to a room, on Friday night. I knew only a handful of people going in, but left feeling connected to 70 beautiful Christian women.

If you know me, then you know I'm not a big group kind of girl, so, of course, there was anxiety attached to this event. While the ladies from my Thursday night Bible study and Sunday night Life Group were all going, I've still only known them for a couple of months, and here I was about to spend the weekend with them. When I met the Bible study ladies for the drive to Flat Rock, I just had to say a prayer and hop in the car.

The drive to NC was great, and once we got there things only got better. Many of the women had brought crockpots full of their favorite soups, and we had a dinner of every soup imaginable and giant chunks of French bread. I consider good food to be a good sign. Our speaker was Cheryl Cannon, and she was amazing. Though she claimed to be goofy and a little ADD, she led us seamlessly through funny stories and explications of Scripture. Her overarching message? God is enough.

That night, we played games. (Can you say, "organized chaos"?) After that, it was time for sleep (or at least attempted sleep.) Whoever thought that rubberized mattress covers were a good plan should be soundly beaten. Every time you shifted your weight (or breathed), the sheets slid on the mattress cover and made terrible noises. So I basically laid there intensely aware of every move I was trying not to make. Fun night. At least nobody snored.

The next day we had more fellowship, singing, and Bible study. We also got to take a walk across the grounds down to a beautiful little lake. Very scenic. Most importantly, though, I was so grateful for the friendship extended to me by so many women. I am including some pictures, though they don't do the fun justice!

So now it's back to the real world of mountains of school work and deadlines. I feel renewed and ready to face them (well, mostly, anyway.)

The 3 R's: Reading, wRiting, and Rock Band

2009-03-05T22:40:00.001-05:00

It's never boring at the Gray household...at least, it hasn't been for a while. School, of course, remains a neverending blur of work and commitments. I am trying to balance classwork with Concept Literary Journal obligations and reading entries for the Julia Mood Peterkin contest and working in the Writing Center and applying to grad school and scholarships and trying to get some work submitted to journals. At least one thing is going right...drum roll, please...I found out last night that I was accepted to the MFA program at Converse! I was so excited. (Still am, actually.) Feels good to check one small thing off my very long list, well, that and having my FAFSA finally completed. (Thanks to Steve for that.)

If only school were the only thing keeping me busy. There's the everyday, daily stuff like cleaning the house, cooking meals, laundry, grocery shopping, and trying to see Steve occasionally. Then there's my church commitments. Starting next Sunday, we'll be hosting Life Group for a while. I'm actually looking forward to this, but it is another thing on thelist. On Thursday nights, I attend a women's Bible study. This means more homework, but it is so worth it. Once a week, I get to go spend a couple of hours with some truly amazing women. We not only study God's word, but we also get to love and support one another in a deeper way than simply seeing each other on Sunday mornings would allow. Sure, I'm usually exhausted from a full week by the time Thursdays roll around, but I wouldn't want to miss it for any extra rest time. It's such a wonderful time to recharge and pray for one another. Plus, the lady who leads has the most adorable little boy ever, and he is always entertaining.

This weekend will be a bit more challenging than usual (and that's saying something) since I am going to a women's retreat tomorrow (Friday). Our church is having a special women's weekend on Friday and Saturday in Flat Rock, NC. I'm really looking forward to the drive up with the girls and sharing hotel rooms (translation: one big slumber party). It does, however, mean less time to work on school stuff, but I'm just going to have to trust that God will help me get through my work despite my condensed schedule. I'm definitely going to take my camera, so I hope to have some pictures to post when I get back.

My exciting life doesn't end there, though. Steve, too, is having an eventful week, and by that I mean that the Stevie Ray Vaughn songs finally came out for Rock Band. I really wish I liked SRV since I know I'm going to be listening to Steve play his songs on the game over and over for quite some time. (He's playing them as type, in fact.) Ah, Rock Band...It really is a wonderful time to be alive, isn't it?

So that's my life right now. I've probably left something out (like my 1:30 am brownine baking or 2 am history assignment), but you get the general idea. No need to belabor the point. I think the name of my blog pretty much sums everything up right now.

On a completely unrelated note, if I don't graduate soon, I'm going to weigh six hundred pounds and be in desperate need of bypass surgery. I love Zaxby's as much as the next girl, but really, if I eat any more chicken and french fries, I'm going to rupture an artery! Why does fast food have to equal fried? I'm going to start having dreams where angry vegetables are chasing me down and beating me senseless with a cold, hard french fry.

America's Snow Playground

2009-03-02T11:11:00.000-05:00

At moments like these, I like to quote the words of great men. This morning I look to the sage Admiral Ackbar when he said, "It's a trap!" A few weeks ago we were all walking around campus in t-shirts and flip flops and feeling very smug about the glorious warm weather...well, I say "we" loosely. I knew it wouldn't last. I tried to warn my friends when they said foolish things like, "Spring is here!" I mean, we live in the land of April ice storms and snowy spring surprises. Would it kill the weather man to just once give us a white Christmas instead of spring snow? (Look at my poor froggies below. They were freezing this morning. Plus everybody knows it's impossible to keep your instrument in tune in this kind of weather! And yes, that is snow on their poor, little noses.)

On the upside of all this winter wonderland business, it does slow everything down. Today, I was dreading having to drive to Spartanburg to continue my transcript drama (related to scholarship drama.) Of course, I live in South Carolina where everything shuts down if a flurry of snow is spotted within a 30 mile radius. With our current two-inch dusting, all the schools are shut down, so I'm at home doing what I wanted to do in the first place - reading JMP entries.

Poor Steve had to go to work today. (At least he got to sleep in.) I, on the other hand, am bundled up in the warm comfort of my living room. Alas, I have no pictures of me in the snow because that would require me going out in the cold, cold snow. Some of the pictures I even took through a window. A bit later, I may make myself some hot tea and soup (or at least get dressed.) I take it back. I LOVE this surprise snow and cold weather.

To Nap Or Not To Nap...

2009-02-28T15:51:00.000-05:00

Another weekend, another pile of work. Don't get me wrong. Some of the work I really, really want to do, like reading the entries for the Julia Mood Peterkin Award. Unfortunately, I decided that I must do my other work first, and it's far less interesting. Steve's gone for the weekend to Gatlinburg. (He sent me pictures of beautiful scenery from his phone. How unfair is that?) So I'm free to work away and not worry about anyone or anything. Why does it never actually play out that way?

Yesterday was fun...mostly. I planned to go eat lunch downtown with Terra. So of course, monsoon season began, and we were afraid to head downtown where we might have to park far away and traipse through the rain. But Doc Chey's proved to be a fun alternative. (I got my edamame fix.) We ended up staying at the restaurant so long that they sorta-kinda threw us out! Very cool. Then it was on to gelato @ Whole Foods. I had planned to finally try the new gelato bar downtown, but Whole Foods' gelato was an acceptable substitute. Unfortunately, hanging over this afternoon of fun and frolic was transcript drama. I found that they need a copy of my transcript for this one class I took at Spartanburg Tech about a million years ago. When I called Spartanburg Tech, I was connected with a woman who apparently was overlooked at the DMV hiring fair for lack of personality. She was SUPER helpful. Oh, well, there goes my Monday.

So, last night I slept terribly! Sure there was no husband snoring away, but for some reason I just couldn't sleep for more than hour at a time without waking up. Now, I'm trying to get homework done, and I'm getting drowsy. Then there's tonight. It's Game Night for our Life Group. I was looking forward to it. Now, not so much. Why do I do that? I always talk myself out of things. Don't worry. I'm going, and I'll probably have fun. It's just that suddenly a quiet night at home looks so attractive. (Imagine me in my comfy clothes, reading JMP entries and sipping hot tea...very literary.) Tomorrow's church, of course, and I still have to decide what to take to Life Group. (It's potluck night.) So my weekend of R&R hasn't turned out exactly as planned. Such is life, I suppose. On the upside, the house is clean(ish), the laundry is done, and Steve will be home tomorrow...probably trailing a cloud of friendly dirt behind him.

Taken To The Movies

2009-02-24T23:05:00.000-05:00

So tonight, Steve and I took a little trip to the cinema. I was cautiously optimistic as our last few movie outings have had mixed results. (Coraline good, Benjamin Button bad.) From the first time I saw the trailer for Taken, I knew it would be a movie for Steve. He does love his revenge flicks, after all. I share his love for all things violent, but I was skeptical. We had heard several recommendations of the film, though, so we braved the ridiculous ticket prices and headed to the movies.

Allow me to begin with a note to all Hollywood producers/screenwriters/directors/guys who write checks. People who go to movies like Taken don't want a lot of extra plot. They don't need back story. CUT TO THE CHASE. There. I've said it, and it's out of the way. Taken begins with about 25 to 30 minutes of back story that I didn't need in order to appreciate a man's desire to rescue his daughter from human traffickers. It is enough for me that Lliam Neeson is angry, and those bad Albanians messed with the wrong guy.

Once we got through the whole divorced-dad-feels-conflicted back story, things got good. Neeson's daughter is kidnapped while he is on the phone with her, and I'm not sure what was more disturbing: the violent abduction or the calm with which he instructs his daughter on what to do. This man is infinitely cool in a crisis, and you got to love that. From that moment forward he is a one man killing machine. There is no monologuing or veiled threats here. Just "tell me where my daughter is" and then BANG! you're dead.

Steve read a review that panned the writing in the film. I will concede that the dialogue is far from stellar. But once again, who goes to an action/revenge flick looking for pitch perfect dialogue? He's just a pissed off guy with a gun (or fist or pipe or whatever's handy), and that's all I really needed him to be.

On an unrelated note, am I the only one who is tired of the shameless product placement in movies? It seems unlikely to me that everyone in Paris drives an Audi. Then at the end of the film credits, it lists Audi. Oh well...it was a really nice car...

"I thought all writers drank to excess and beat their wives. You know one time I secretly wanted to be a writer."

2009-02-23T18:18:00.000-05:00

Sometimes life gets a little too real. You're coasting along thinking everything is crazy but manageable, then BAM! you get knocked flat by a little taste of reality. For the past couple of weeks, I have been tasting all the reality I can choke down. Last semester I was bemoaning the fact that I had no writing classes...just easy little GEP courses that I needed to graduate. Enter Spring Semester. I am presently so loaded down with work that I am in danger of becoming bowlegged. (And with my skinny legs, that's quite an image!) It isn't just classes either. There's Concept Literary Journal, grad school applications, the writing center, church stuff, and countless other committments. May has gone from being the quickly approaching end of all things school to a distant light at the end of a very long and winding tunnel.

In the past two weeks, I have written way too many essays about myself. While I love navel gazing as much as the next writer, I think too much introspection can lead to backward thinking. (How's that for an image?) I have analyzed and dissected myself to such a degree that I'm practically unrecognizable. With essays for scholarships, classes, and applications, I have explored my feelings on school, relationships, my writing, you-name-it. I should now be the most well-adjusted writer on the face of the earth. Alas, that isn't the case, which is probably a good thing for my writing. I have written about my literary influences (love Harper Lee, can't get enough of Jhumpa Lahiri) and my plans for the future. All these deep thoughts and decisions, and I still don't know what I'm going to wear tomorrow.

So here I sit, putting off writing yet another essay (this one for my grad school application.) I know writers are by nature introspective people, but this is ridiculous. No wonder some of the greats lost it and killed themselves. You've got to go out and live, not just write away in your little hole. So that's what I'm doing. Sure I still have a mountain of schoolwork tottering over my head, but I also am going to have a life - a life that involves leaving the house and being with real, live people. Friday, when I probably should have been buried in homework, I went to help with some stuff for church. That afternoon, I met a friend at Starbuck's, and we talked for two hours. I cannot tell you the last time I did something like that. Talk about catharsis. (On a side note, we did manage to solve all the problems of the world in that time. Aren't we clever girls?) Saturday night, we had a couple over for dinner, and I swallowed my guilt and played Rock Band and Buzz for hours.

Of course, you do have to pay to play. Friday night, I was still cleaning the house at 11 o'clock. I've been deep in essays and a prospectus all day long today. Tomorrow it's back to classes and craziness. I have to maintain a balance though: a little reality, a little fun, a little deep thought. Maybe one day I will look back and decide that's the secret to being a writer...or I'll be that scary, old lady recluse who lives with 30 cats. One or the other...

Risky Business

2009-02-19T01:18:00.000-05:00

I don't make New Year's resolutions. I see nothing magic about the date, January 1, and I always let it pass without a single vow to give up sweets or exercise every day (as if either of those would ever happen.) Apparently, somebody didn't get the memo, however, because a resolution has forced itself upon me. I'm calling it my "Risk Resolution" because at every turn for the past couple of months, I have been faced with one challenge after another that requires me to take a risk - hold my breath, make the dive, and hope for the best.

The year began with a major change - Steve and I decided as a couple to change churches. This was not a decision we came to lightly or quickly, but once it was set into motion, it snowballed into Risk 101. Suddenly, I find myself going to church with 500 people I've never met. I'm going to Bible studies and small groups and dinners with total strangers. While no one who's met me would ever describe me as shy, the word reticent might come to mind. Just like when I first started at Converse four years ago, I find myself making little deals in my head. Okay, Sarah. Just speak out at least once during this get together...even if its only to ask where the bathroom is.

Then there's grad school. Sure I wanted to go to grad school. And yes, I planned to apply before the school year was out. I've been working on my manuscript for Senior Seminar, and I planned to use that for my grad school applications. Then about a week ago, I got an email about a scholarship opportunity. While I was thrilled about the possibility of being nominated for a scholarhship, this did accelerate all my plans. So I'm meeting tomorrow with Professor Tekulve to go over my manuscript as it stands to see if it's grad school ready. Scary. I have to send my baby (my manuscript) off to total strangers who will tell me if they think I am good enough for their school. No pressure.

Apparently, I decided I didn't have enough risk in my life, however. I had an essay due tonight in my Creative Non-Fiction class. I decided to expand on something I wrote for a previous blog entry (see "The Secret Life of Cupcakes.") I am intrigued by the lyric essay, and we read a wonderful essay for this class that also followed a more experimental structure (See "The Pain Scale" by Eula Biss.) So I sat down to write a lyric-style essay using my blog entry and weaving it with some additional writing. By the time I was finished with my first draft, I was practically in a cold sweat. Professor Howie said he would reward those who took risks, but what if the essay was so bad that he couldn't even see what I was aiming for? I frantically called a writer friend and asked her to read the essay. She generously did so and gave me her comments and suggestions. After working some more on my essay, I was still terrified about turning it in. (This was a reflection on my writing, not Martha's wonderful advice.) As my panic reached its zenith, I sent my email to the long suffering Professor Howie. A portion of the text follows:

I'm freaking out just a bit about my essay that I'm bringing in tomorrow night for next week. For some reason that I can't even remember right now, I decided it would be really exciting to try a sort-of-lyric arrangement for my essay. I just didn't want you to think that I thought it was good. I just decided to experiment, and, now, I'm just going to have to go with it. I know this email is getting more bizarre by the minute, so I'll end it before I start sounding too needy.

Though Professor Howie was very comforting, class tonight did little to allay my fears. Very few of the people in class are writers, and as we workshopped other stories, I found myself disagreeing with most of the things the non-writers said. Next week's workshop of my story may end up a blood bath, but, alas, I have offered up my story as gift to the writing gods, and I shouldn't whine if I get a little singed. I took a risk with the essay, and I'm going to stick to it. It may be a cliche, but I'm going to say it, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."