The Interruptions

Leap Day.   I wanted to mark it somehow.  This time, given to us, because there is an excess of hours.  And so, moments before it fades, I come here with good intentions.  I stand at the door, breathless, ready, and yet...

There is nothing to tell, I think.  How unremarkable. The monotony of these days.  Walking through rain, clutching the subway pole, sitting where I always sit.

There were cupcakes today, for a coworker I knew only briefly, in passing, who will leave us.  Who will fly across the country to a new life.  Fifteen minutes away from meetings and emails and phonecalls to say goodbye to someone who peeked in. Who turned around.

I spoke to a friend, in the morning, first thing.  I sat at my desk with brown sugar and oatmeal. She smiled, spoke quickly, tripped over words, laughed.  Stopped.  Wondered.  I like him, she said.

And, I remember, that is everything.  There are hours.  And there are interruptions. The interruptions are so full of possibility.

A Sense of Place

Place is important to me.  In my writing.  In my life. 

I like to understand how we fit inside a space or stand at the edge.  Places cling to memory.  They hold on to moments we've never known. 

I am working on a new story and I decided to set it on the streets I walk every day. I wanted to keep it close.  And true.

So I have to ask, where are you?

Glee No Longer Gleeful and What Message Do We Owe Bullied Teens?

So. I'm going to go down a road today. I don't know where it will lead.  Bear with me.

Last night, I tuned in to watch a recorded episode of Glee and I've decided to just...give up watching cold turkey. I've been disappointed with the show for a long time, hung on for reasons I didn't fully understand: the music woven through story, the memory of a first season that had such a delicious dark humor.

The show has lost all that was smart about it.  No longer a commentary on the absurdity of high school, it shed all its gleeful irony.  Became preachy, melodramatic, a sappy soap opera that forced me to keep a waste-bucket near should I feel the urge to puke (which turned out to be every .5 seconds.)

The main reason this show lost all its appeal for me?  The writing. Which I can only describe as appallingly bad.  The characters became puppets. The writers took each character, threw it into a situation, forced it to to spit-up dialogue that made absolutely no sense given all the character had been through before it.  Character motives were messy.  Storylines had strange beginnings, no middle, and unearned neat endings that left me WTF-ing.

And then they took on 'issues'.  Or, I should say, they repeatedly took on one issue: bullying.  Or, I should say, they repeatedly took on one issue: bullying gay teenagers.

The first time, one gay teen endured months of bullying, then made the decision to leave schools (then return to the school for unexplained reasons. Wait. What?) 

The second time, a bullying teen herself was publicly outed as gay and promptly disowned by a family member (there has been absolutely no followup to this storyline.) 

The third time, a bullying teen himself, struggling to come out, immediately attempted suicide after one week of being tormented through facebook, twitter, tumblr (the show really enjoyed ticking off the likely social media suspects.)

I respect any medium that attempts to deal with this issue.  It is admirable. It is vitally important.  

I can not respect a show that takes on the issue three times and fails.

In my opinion, the show has done a great job accurately portraying what is really happening out there.  Bullied gay teens are forced to leave their schools, they are ostracized by family members, and they are attempting suicide, among a host of other scenarios the show will, no doubt, take on in the future.

However, the show has failed to leave us with the message we need to hear: THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE.

Instead we get the I'm-better-off-dead, the maybe-someday-Grandma-will-love-me-again, the wistful dream of a better future, group hugs, and tears, tears, tears.

Here you have a show with a massive media following frenzy.  And they take the bullying issue, grab it by the horns over and over, beat me over the head, again and again with it and what?  Slink quietly into the shadows...

Where is the character who, rather than sitting in a hospital bed crying next to some dead flowers, stands up and shouts: SCREW ALL OF YOU. I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE.

File this under: Missed. Opportuntity. Repeated missed opportunity.

I'm so upset about this. I mean, really upset.  As in tossed and turned over it, wrote a stupid, ranting blog post, wondered what am I doing with my life, I should be setting up my own massive media frenzy following with my own anti-bullying campagin, why am I so freaking useless, upset.

A lot of you write for children and teens.  Some of you are children and teens (I think there's, um, one of you who reads my blog.)  What do you think we can do to strike a better balance?  To accurately portray an issue and, at the same time, send the message: THIS IS HAS TO STOP. NOW.  Who does this right?  What am I missing?

Patience (Or the Making of Something, Like A Dream)

Patience is a problem for me. 

My desperate plea yesterday is a symptom of that impatience.  Of course, I can not expect an entire novel to reveal itself to me instantly.  Of course, I shouldn't label it.  I should go with it.  The process is going to take the time it always does and I'm fortunate to have that time at all.

I'll admit I spend a lot of wasted energy, panicking, thinking When am I going to get there? 

Yesterday I learned that a good friend at work (and in life) is leaving the company. I have known this was coming. She's been nurturing a kind of dream for a while, spent time taking classes and workshops, getting the necessary certification, meeting the right people, investing volunteer time.  Her process has been slow but steady (as the turtle taught the hare.)

Together, we've tested the limits, took too-long lunches to walk the Highline, circle Madison Square Park, and lounge in the secret garden-- there is one in this concrete jungle but, as the name implies, I can not tell you where it is.  We'd find ice cream and Indian food and, through it all, talk about hopes, make big plans. 

I'll miss her but I'm happy to have walked a small part of her journey, excited to see where she'll go next.

I think desire is easy.  Once it's been found, the I want this comes without any effort at all.  It's the making of a dream that takes time.  I'm learning this.

Just as I'm learning every day to be patient.  It is very (very) difficult for me.  But things come.  Not just to those who simply wait but, I think, to those who make.

Snapshots Only

I'm working on a new novel.  I find myself in a strange position.  Each passage I've managed to write has been in the form of a snapshot.  As if I have to lift the camera and capture it quickly before the image disappears.

In other words, I'm only able to write moments.  Not scenes. 

If I didn't know better, if the very thought of writing poetry didn't cause me to break out into hives, I'd think I was writing a verse novel.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.  It's just...well...

Someone please.  Help. Me.

When It Comes to Reading Is Timing Everything or Nothing?

I often find myself in terrible reading funks, unable to concentrate, disconnected and distracted.  It happens a lot more than this self-proclaimed book lover cares to admit, the weary push through book after book. Whether the book is good, bad, or mediocre, it can be an awful lot like pulling teeth.  The funk is Seinfeldian in nature. It's not you it's me, I whisper to the poor pages.

I am happy to report that I am on quite the opposite track these days.  I'm on a runaway reading spree.  Completely alert.  Flying through books.  As soon as I finish one, I'm ravenous for another. The New York Public Library can barely keep up with me.

But, again, it's me, not the books.  I recently raced through two books.  They were written by two critically acclaimed writers with big prizes attached to their names. The reading experience was completely painless.  However, I did not like them.  My impression of them will remain stagnant, stale.

I think it's interesting that a book can still be unsatisfying, whether I'm in the right mindset or the wrong one, whether I'm racing forward or slogging through.

And, in the same way, a book can stand out no matter what frame of mind I'm in. I read Marcus Zusak's The Book Thief during one of my worst reading funks to date. It lifted me out of the reading funk only temporarily, for the six hours I sat to read it, then I drowned in the funk quicksand immediately after.

And yet, the love of a certain book can be all about timing.  For example, I read Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen and despised it, then read it several years later and, to this day, count it as one of my all time favorite books.

But I'm finding little rhyme or reason to it all.

I'm curious to know your thoughts. Do you think it is particular mindset that allows you to love or hate a book?  Is it the quality of the book itself?  A serendipitous combination?

Puppies and puppies and puppies, oh my!

We now take a break from our regularly scheduled blogging to...

LOOK AT PUPPIES!

(Just so you know, all dogs in my world, regardless of age or size, are referred to as puppies.)

These were taken in the benching area of the 136th Westminster Kennel Club Dog Puppy Show.

Not sure if you can see from the angle of the photo but this dog is about 3 of her.

 

This Samoyed, Hayley, had the softest fur. I almost stole her.



Long day for the Saint Bernard.

His name is Benson.

Don't mess.

This dog can only take so many cuddles. Bored to death of 'em huh?

Long day for the Golden Retriever.

Toto dog being groomed for the Terrier Group.

I realize she's not a puppy but she was sitting on the grooming table.