Rambling [Wo]Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.