Because some of us already have too many mugs…
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Hello, new and old readers! Today happens to be the tenth anniversary of my arrival in Los Angeles, and I also seem to have picked up some new readers from my YA Lit post, so I think it’s a good time to write an intro/The Current State Of Me update.
- I’m a recovering Southerner, y’all.
- My dayjob field is proofreading and copyediting, sometimes (currently) freelance and sometimes contract or full-time. I’ve worked in finance and in publishing, mostly the former.
- I’m also a freelance script reader, with a lot of years and a lot of scripts/manuscripts under my belt for companies like Lifetime Television and 1492 Pictures, as well as development-style coverage for individual writers.
- I’m not an actress, but I play one on TV: I’ve done background work from time to time as well. Being on set in any capacity makes me incredibly happy. Highlights of that part of my life include Gilmore Girls “To Live and Let Diorama” and “Pulp Friction”, Mad Men “Waldorf Stories”, and Weeds “It’s Time”.
- I’m a Geek Girl. Grew up on Star Wars, Star Trek TNG/DS9, Lois & Clark, X-Files. Read DC comics as a little kid thanks to the Wonder Woman TV series, then returned to the comics fold after the first two X-Men movies. I’m a Marvel partisan with Strong Opinions About X-Men, though due to time and financial constraints my current pull list consists of just one title: Matt Fraction’s brilliant Hawkeye.
- I write hour-long drama, always landing somewhere on the Venn diagrams of mystery, science fiction, fantasy and teen.
- I watch a lot of TV. A lot of TV. If I make a list we’ll be here all day, so I’ll just say that the best show you’re not watching is Continuum, Allison Tolman is my personal pick for the Lead Actress Emmy this year, and the two moments of of the 2013/2014 TV season that made me sob like a baby were Adalind Schade’s window-shattering wail of heartbreak on Grimm and Phil Coulson’s reaction to [redacted] telling him [redacted] in the Agents of SHIELD season finale. (I know at least one regular reader who hasn’t seen the episode yet, so no spoilers. If you’ve seen it, you know.)
- One of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received is “Do you know Jane Espenson? You remind me of her.”
- My biggest reach-for-the-stars dream right now is to work on a Marvel Cinematic Universe project. Being a part of that world would be amazing, even making copies and fetching coffee.
- As evidenced by my treatise from yesterday, I love Young Adult and Middle Grade fiction. Teen/preteen me would’ve been completely boggled by the embarrassment of riches that today’s teens have. My recommendation list is another we’d-be-here-all-day, but I recommend starting with The Raven Boys if you like genre and Code Name Verity if you like literary/historical. Bring kleenex.
- To borrow a line from Almost Famous (one of my top five movies of all time): I dig music. A lot. All kinds. (My top ten lists are in the archives here.) I love karaoke. I’ve taken a few voice lessons and want more. I’m (re-)teaching myself the guitar, slowly.
- My educational background is in fine art. I’ve been an artist and a crafter my entire life — drawing, painting, needle/fiber arts, ceramics.
- Current non-writing-related passions: my balcony garden and bird feeders, and my sewing machine. In cooler weather, I love to cook and bake.
- I volunteer in animal rescue. I grew up with dogs but I work with (and get along best with) cats.
- My friends are my family. The people I’ve met since I moved to LA — whether in person or through the magic of the internet or both — are the smartest, funniest, weirdest, kindest, most talented, most amazing people in the world and I love you all. I hope you’ll stick around for my next decade… it promises to be a good one.
By now I’m sure nearly everyone in the writing world has read or heard about the Slate piece on how adults should be embarrassed/ashamed to read Young Adult literature. (I’m not going to link to it, because I refuse to give them the clicks.) I couldn’t possibly have missed it – when I checked Twitter on Thursday morning, my timeline was a seething mass of fury. And I… well, went off implies a brief explosion. This took place over the course of nearly three hours, prompting what I consider one of my top five greatest honors of my entire internet history:
And, you know what? It was. When I get up a good head of steam on some righteous anger, it looks a little like this:
More often than not, I’m reduced to outraged sputtering, but every now and then I am able to find and use my words, and I will show you the life of the mind, even within the limitations of 140-character posts. But Twitter is so ephemeral that I wanted to collect my thoughts on this topic somewhere more permanent.
Firstly, on whether YA fiction has merit: of course it does. It has the same percentage of bad, mediocre, good, and transcendent as any other category (and it is just that, a marketing category). I challenge anyone to deny that Code Name Verity and Rose Under Fire are serious, important books; or that the characterization and sense of place in Beautiful Creatures are exquisitely nuanced; or that the impact of socioeconomic privilege on the characters in The Raven Boys is poignant and boldly truthful. But even beyond the merits of subject matter and of craft — what of imagination and fun? I find Middle Grade and YA novels to be imaginative in ways that many adult novels are not; their target audience, after all, is not assumed to have figured out who they are or how the world works or what is and isn’t possible. (Not that any of us adults really have either, though a lot of us like to make a good show of it, either for our own peace of mind or for the sake of conformity.) As someone who’s always becoming, always questioning and growing, I find a great deal to relate to in MG/YA books — we’re all “coming of age” in one way or another, wherever we are in life, and I love the sense of possibility inherent in stories about young people. It’s not that possibility only exists for the young; it’s just that a lot of us stop seeing it at some point. Whether that point feels like comfort/stability or stagnation/suffocation depends on the person.
I can’t begin to tell you how many adult novels I’ve read — mostly for various jobs I’ve had — that focus on an upper-class, middle-aged character, usually from the general vicinity of New York City, who feels dissatisfied with and stifled by their life. Certainly, this is a subcategory of book the same way, say, faery stories are a subcategory of Fantasy or space operas are a subcategory of Science Fiction — but if you think I have one ounce of sympathy for the privileged one-percenter chafing at the restrictions they placed on their own lives when they chose conformity (or just accepted it, being unaware of any other options)… ahahahaha. Stories like that might as well be science fiction compared to my rural upbringing and an adulthood spent struggling to create my own life as I want it to be rather than as I’m told it must be. But, “the 1%”/”the 99%” aside, those books are about people who are miserable because they don’t see possibilities in their lives. I’d always rather read about the people who discover possibilities, and who set off on their own paths before falling into that grey flannel prison. It’s not escapism, it’s inspiration. (For some, it’s salvation — the number of readers who have gotten through difficult times in their lives with the help of “escapist” or “lowbrow” fiction of various kinds must be in the hundreds of thousands at least.)
Secondly, on attitudes fostered by Internet echo-chamber culture: I don’t know what angers me more — Slate-ism (“everything you love is inferior because you love it and are therefore not thinking critically/like an adult”) or Tumblr-ism (“everything you love is harmful because everything harbors *isms of various sorts and you are doing harm by choosing to see the good in flawed work”). I’ve had a hate-on for Tumblr-ism for some time now, but Slate-ism is akin to the elitism of the college English department I fled without looking back, the favoritism of certain subject matter and media in the fine art world, and the blinkered attitudes of some media critics towards non-“Prestige” television; I’ve been fighting it longer and on multiple battlefields. Both seem to boil down to the following ideas: love is blind, joy is infantile and good is a fairy tale. Pernicious lies, every one, born in the festering cynicism of holier-than-thou intelligentsia, disillusioned idealists, and the kind of people who have bought into the ideas fostered by the “Eat your vegetables” approach to reading that’s taught in what I imagine is a majority of high schools and colleges. It seems that not only is adulthood Serious Business, but to be an adult you have to choose the serious, the important, the high-fiber no-sugar no-salt no-fat no-taste grey flannel suit life and thoughts and attitudes. Anything else isn’t really adulthood. Which seems a rather juvenile and simplistic view of adulthood, don’t you think? Especially considering that childhood and adolescence are Serious Business too, especially when you’re right smack in the middle of them — a fact that MG/YA fiction illustrates exquisitely, whether in realism or in metaphor, time and again.
Thirdly, and most importantly, I want to address the great, steaming mountain of bullshit that is “Should”. All this policing of what is and isn’t appropriate to read or wear or do or think or say is contained in that one miserable little word. If we’re going to throw around ideas about what is and isn’t adult behavior, let’s start there. That’s what adults do, right? Ask the hard questions and examine their own lives? Serious Business, remember? So let’s unpack our “Should”s. Where do they come from? Our parents? Our communities? Our religions? Our jobs? Ideological choices made long ago, when entertaining the possibility that there was more than one side, more than one option, was too much for us to consider? Who decides what “Should” and what “Shouldn’t”? What you “Should” read, watch, listen to, eat, do? Who you “Should” love, hate, marry, work for, emulate? Who you “Should” be? I’m sure a lot of the people who are raising holy hell over the fact that — gasp – people over the age of 21 are reading books that are meant to be marketed to younger people — would be the first to stand up and call bullshit on outmoded sociopolitical “Should”s. Some pretty sweet irony, that.
I’m not casting any stones here — I have “Should”s, present and former. We all do. But, for the love of all that’s precious and important in the world, FUCK the “Should”s. Listen to your own heart and your own instincts and follow your bliss, whether that’s curling up with the latest Booker Prize winner or devouring a stack of Gossip Girl novels or reading every issue of Hawkeye or watching the Harry Potter movies over and over again. I don’t care whether you’re fifteen or fifty; if something brings you joy and causes no harm to others (which, memo to the intelligentsia: that does not count readers’ love of MG/YA hurting your feelings), you should do that as often as you possibly can. Adulthood is serious business, and to get through it all and take on the responsibility of making the world what we want and need it to be, we need to feed our whole selves — we need those reserves of hope and joy, we need that catharsis, we need those reminders of possibility and who we were and who we could be. And whether we find that in Harry Potter or The Fault in Our Stars or the new Jay McInerney or a well-worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye — or, hell, all of the above; we are human, we contain multitudes — doesn’t matter at all, as long as we find it.
It’s been horrendously long since I blogged, so after listening to today’s Children Of Tendu podcast I decided the questionnaire from Inside the Actor’s Studio would be a fun way to get back into it.
What is your favorite word?
“Squish”. It’s just fun to say.
What is your least favorite word?
“Moist”. Which is funny because something has to be “moist” in order to “squish”. Maybe I should rethink this.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
What turns you off?
What is your favorite curse word?
“Fuck”. Can’t go wrong with the classics. I’m also rather fond of the phrase “goatblowing assclown”.
What sound or noise do you love?
Rain. (I have at least three rain/white noise apps on my iPad, because Southern California is a bit short on precipitation even in a good year.)
What sound or noise do you hate?
Any smacking, sucking, or slurping noise.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Paid TV writer.
What profession would you not like to do?
Anything that has to do with death or blood. Real death or blood, that is. Many of the shows I’d like to write for are fairly murderous.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
You done good, kid.
Just a little something for Halloween.
by Elizabeth M. Thurmond
The landlord still hadn’t fixed the middle two stairs. Kind of hard to do everything a guy needed to do without the neighbors knowing all his comings and goings. If the neighbors weren’t all deaf, stoned or both. Maybe the rats noticed, but they didn’t matter so much.
Door locked. Groceries away. Dinner in microwave.
Another Hungry Man dinner. More low-budget living. Not that that was a permanent situation. Just a few days more. Worth the wait, even if the TV-dinner mashed potatoes tasted like spackle.
Must be the downstairs neighbors. Better wait a while, in case one of those potheads decided to knock on the door looking to borrow a cup of Cheetos or something. A little TV, maybe. Rabbit-ear antenna on a black-and-white TV… another temporary situation, though it was getting old watching staticky reruns of The Big Bang Theory every night til the neighbors went to sleep.
Rats. He’d found them gnawing on his equipment again last night. No matter how many traps he set out, there were always more. There might be a better way to handle the situation, but… no. Not til he was ready. Best not waste time and energy on the rats.
Not a sound except the rats. Everybody else in the building must be asleep. Time to get to work. First, the storeroom.
He had to admit, it was creepy to go in there and see all the faces staring at him. Plastic, porcelain, wood. Painted eyes, shabby clothes. The product of endless searching through thrift shops and antique shops and even the garbage. The ones with only one leg wouldn’t do, but one arm was enough for most. He preferred two, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He moved through the storeroom — freezing cold, the landlord wouldn’t fix the broken window — to the back shelf, where the faces didn’t stare. The newest arrivals — Howdy Doody, creepiest puppet on the planet, and a baby doll in a diaper with all its hair cut off. Two arms and two legs on both. Best score he’d had in a while.
Rats. In the storeroom. So far none of them had dared actually chew on the merchandise, but the sounds made him twitchy. He needed everyone intact… or as intact as they were when he picked them, anyway. The clothes didn’t matter so much, but limbs and eyes…
Cursing under his breath, he left the dolls on their shelf and headed to the kitchen, returning with two rat traps loaded with cheese. He could feel all the faces staring at him again.
From storeroom to darkroom, dolls in hand. The negatives were waiting; he’d handled that this morning before he went to work at the tattoo place. Shitty job, but useful. He’d found both of his current subjects there. Most of the customers loved to show off their ink. And in this neighborhood, a lot of them wouldn’t be missed. Much.
But before the enlarger… the ritual. Chalk. Salt. Candles. Herbs.
Just enough fire to burn the herbs. Not enough to set off the lone smoke detector in the hallway. He couldn’t disable the thing without somebody finding out — landlord didn’t want the crackheads burning down his rat-infested cash cow, so the smoke detectors were checked once a week.
He almost stopped chanting. Neighbors? No, it wasn’t coming from the hall. Closer, but smaller. Rats.
He completed the ritual.
He stopped, one hand on the negative in the enlarger, to listen.
Rats? He could swear they were getting bigger… they didn’t used to be heavy enough to make anything creak.
Enough of that. On to the project at hand. Negative. Doll. Light. Face over face, eyes aligned with eyes. Another chant. The doll went heavy, thudded to the side. Somewhere, so did a body. Not dead. Coma patients all over the city. Mostly the worst hospitals. Mostly on the public dime. Still on life support — first, do no harm. Even if they couldn’t find a next of kin.
Negative. Doll. Light. Eyes over eyes.
Back to the storeroom. Two more faces now, staring.
Got him. An almost-beheaded rat, over in the corner. Two words, and four of the faces quit staring at him. Scrabbled down the shelf in a rustle of plastic limbs. Pallbearers at a rat funeral. Cheese still intact. Saved having to reload when the four brought the trap back, empty. Wasn’t too hard for four dolls to open the trap and heave a dead rat through the broken window. All they needed was a little leverage.
Another scrabble of plastic, and the four staring faces returned to their shelf. All quiet. Still. Back to the living room.
Too wired to sleep, he took out the book he’d stolen from the library and the pages he’d printed off the internet. More chants. Spells. Commands. Strategy. Targets. Not a foolproof plan yet. The first wave, the ones with the bombs, mostly one-armed, would be cannon fodder, but the second wave… that was more tricky. Easy for them to steal without leaving fingerprints; not so easy to keep from being traced back to him somehow.
It was coming from the storeroom.
He waited for the SNAP!
It didn’t come.
3am. Impossible to keep his eyes open any longer.
3:15am. Asleep on the couch, spell book and city maps in his hands.
4:07am. Rats. In the living room? Loud enough to wake him. He had traps everywhere. A quick look around — all still empty. He put the book and papers on the crate he used as a coffee table. Sleep again.
He woke slowly. His lips were stuck together. How…?
He tried to raise his arms, but something was weighing them down.
Panic. What was happening? Had the junkies across the hall come to rob him? Good luck to them finding anything they could sell or smoke.
Not the junkies. Not loud enough. Not big enough.
He didn’t realize what was happening until he hit the floor, face first. Dozens of glass and plastic and painted eyes staring at him at the dark.
He’d never asked himself if they could move on their own. They never had before.
Not a foolproof plan. Not by any means.
Wasn’t too hard for a hundred and forty dolls to heave a man through a window. All they needed was a little leverage.