A Story in Dialogue

"What's with the cheese?"

"Well, you know that guy I like?"

"Brandon?"

"Yeah. I want to lure him to me, so I'm setting my trap."

"Elaine, he's not a mouse."

"I know - though he does that thing with his nose."

"He still doesn't look like a mouse - his face is the wrong shape. He looks more like a chipmunk, with those chubby cheeks. So, what's with the cheese?"

"What? Chipmunks don't like cheese?"

"Elaine, he's not a chipmunk! And I think they eat acorns or something."

"Those are squirrels. And I know he's not a chipmunk. But everyone likes cheese."

"I'm still not seeing how this trap is supposed to work."

"Oh, I invited him over for a 'study break.'"

"Did you use those air quotes when you asked him over?"

"No. He's going to be here in about fifteen minutes, though, so you should probably go."

"Elaine, do you really think presenting a plate of cheese and crackers is going to make some guy fall head over heels for you?"

"I didn't say anything about crackers."

"Semantics."

"And I didn't say what he was going to eat the cheese off of."

"Okay, I admit it, that trap might work."

Julie & Julia - Is this still topical?

I read Julie & Julia a few weeks ago. I contemplated writing a blog about it right away, but I'm kind of lazy, and honestly thought I should let the material and my feelings about it simmer for awhile first. (Notice that clever cooking reference? Huh? *nudge* Huh? *nudge* Okay, I'll stop.)

Anyway, I had mixed feelings about Julie & Julia, and thought it was a good example of my feelings for the genre that is memoir itself, which is why I'm writing about it on this blog, rather than doing a general review on my other blog.

One thing I will mention right away - unlike a lot of people, I took no offense from Julie's frequent use of certain words. I don't mind swearing, and in reality, most people without kids don't mind swearing. I am more in Julie Powell's book myself, possessing the mouth of a sailor, and offering few, if any, apologies for it. People swear. It's a part of the modern vernacular, it's normal vocabulary to use. If anything, I give Julie kudos for refusing to censor herself despite frequent request. Good for you, Julie! Stick it to the fucking man!

Particularly as a writer, I think that swear words, even if you don't use them yourself, are something you need to not be afraid of. If your main character stubs his toe, or she feels overwhelmed, most likely, he/she/it is not going to say: "Gee Willikers! That hurts/sucks/etc." That would be unnatural, and probably kind of creepy, like you're stuck in some weird fifties TV show universe, where Mrs. Cleaver has a Valium-induced smile pasted on her face as she secretly contemplates whacking her kids with the kitchen knife she uses to chop vegetables.

Timmy ruined another pair of pants today

Of course, a writer doesn't need to use swear words all the time - remember that fiasco that was the Blair Witch Project, with "the f-word" being spoken nearly every other word? Yeah, when you're scared, that's what you do, but such frequent use without furthering the plot is just irritating.

Words of Wisdom: Don't be a Blair Witch Project

Without much transition, I'm going to continue discussing Julie Powell's writing. I noticed something in Julie & Julia that I've noticed in a lot of memoir - sometimes the writing rubs me the wrong way. Since this has happened in several memoirs from authors who have an entirely different voice/writing style, I think there is something in memoir itself rather than Powell's writing that caused this.

Perhaps it's the reality? Knowing that this work is marketed as a memoir, and therefore, ACTUALLY happened? Yeah, some of the words may be flubbed a little bit, but Augusten Burroughs lived through some really crazy shit, and Julie Powell's apartment really was that dirty.

As I was lying in bed the other night, trying to go to sleep, the thought of Julie finding maggots in her kitchen just popped into my head, and really freaked me out. I mean - EW! I'm shuddering as I type this.

Does anyone else get this reaction? This feeling that you have to set the book aside for at least a few minutes before continuing? The mental equivalent from reading that some people physically get when they feel the texture of styrofoam or hear styrofoam being rubbed against itself?

It's... duh duh dun... styrofoam

Of course, I don't think there's anything wrong with writing or reading memoir. If you have a story to tell, whether it actually happened or not, you should write it down. But I think that when I read memoir, knowing that this author is claiming the events actually happened to him/her sometimes makes me cringe.

Maybe that's a good thing. I have a pretty strong stomach, and even if I'm disliking something I'm reading, the writing is inspiring strong feelings.

The Mermaid

Blue-green, aquamarine water

sifts and coils

in its’ own intricate dance

that I have no choice but to follow,

my tail entranced and constantly moving.

I tire

of the incessant journey,

and my voice often warbles

as it drifts in the air,

luring sailors to lean over the sides

of those small wooden vessels

in which they expect to safely traverse the ocean,

all too often falling over,

into the water they realize

too late

they don’t want to be a part of.

I don’t pity them.

They had a choice,

and they chose to make the ocean

a large part of their life,

rather than using spindly legs

to run from the life-sucking water

as quickly as they can,

breathing in gulps

and gulps

of thin, largely salt-less oxygen.

My weariness remains –

I have no options –

yet I am strengthened –

through anger –

with humans

who have the chance to do almost anything,

and far too often,

do nothing at all.

Committed

As you'll note, from the rather large badge to the left, I have committed myself to doing NaNo again this year.

The site doesn't officially roll over for the new year until October, but the new badges are up, and I've written a rough outline for this year's novel.

If you know YOU want to write a novel this November, let people know!! You feel more encouragement to continue if your friends/family/the bum on the corner know you're participating.

Okay, my preaching for the day's done. Hope you'll join me in this year's NaNo.

A New Twist or Plagiarism?

I'm sitting here on the couch, watching the movie "Obsessed," and I'm a little disgusted.

I realize that Hollywood's not an area known for showing a great amount of originality, but I think it's a little ridiculous how many parallels this movie contains to the '80s classic "Fatal Attraction."

I'm also not too happy with the manner in which the film differs.

Basically, "Obsessed" looks like the drunken result of someone ranting about the fact that women can claim that Dan deserved having to deal with that crazy Alex character because he shouldn't have cheated on his wife. Add Beyonce's poor "acting" ability, and if you like movies, I strongly suggest skipping this one.

But this is a writing blog, and while I watch far too many movies to be considered completely sane, I am not a movie critic.

So why am I writing a blog about this movie? Because it's a recent DVD release, and therefore provides a recent example of the concept of how much a writer can steal from others before it becomes plagiarism.

Many people contend that there are no new ideas. Everything has been done. Every plot has been written. Adding to this philosophy the fact that all writers are human, and therefore influenced by the media which surrounds us every day, and every word which graces a page (or a computer screen) these days is an appropriation from a myriad of previous works and ideas.

Thus arises the question: when is it NECESSARY to cite a source?

One situation is in an academic paper, when a scholar is often directly replying to a certain academic writing, or wants authoritative sources to back his or her point of view.

Another situation, such as I saw in this movie, is when there are enough parallels to an older book/movie/etc. that if the writer of the material hasn't read/seen/etc. this prior work, then the writer is clairvoyant or something. (In case anyone missed this, I think "Obsession" is one such case.)

Upon taking a brief, biased survey of the people who are watching "Obsessed" with me, my mother noticed the parallels when I pointed them out, my boyfriend had never seen "F.A.," but guessed that I had that movie in mind when we watched the commercial, and my 17-year-old sister and her 19-year-old friend had no idea that the "F.A." movie existed.

So maybe Hollywood thinks it's okay to do a movie obviously taking many cues from an '80s movie, because the under 20 crowd has never heard of it.

Yet I think that we writers need to pay attention to our influences, and make sure that we don't copy too much material from another work. Or at the VERY LEAST, that we make sure to note our sources if we're going to so blatantly take ideas from a single source.

The Art of Contest Writing

So, I type here, procrastinating from the short story that is going completely off-tangent and inducing headaches (or maybe it's the humidity here in godforsaken Lafayette, IN...). As I was staring at the aforementioned story, waiting for words to magically appear on my computer screen without my actually having to TYPE them, this little light bulb lit up over my head. It kind of freaked my boyfriend out. And by "kind of," I mean, not at all, because it didn't actually happen, and my boyfriend is so engrossed in his new MLB '09 game that he wouldn't notice if a homicidal maniac came through our front door right now and hacked my screaming body into itty bitty pieces.

Of what, pray tell, did this epiphany consist?

Contests.

In case that succinct reply was not definitive enough, I will go into a bit more detail.

As some know, I recently entered ktliterary's "prompt contest." (My entry is a bit further down this page.) Not surprisingly, I was not the winner of a coveted free book, but that's okay. I didn't really EXPECT to win. I just thought, "What the hell?"

One of the best feelings, to me, when writing is that rush I get when I've finished a piece of writing. It's like the world becomes a better place, and I will be set for life because I've finished a crappy first draft.

With contests which a person chooses to enter, comes a deadline, comes pushing oneself to finish a piece of writing, rather than lolly-gagging (I have no idea how to spell that word; corrections are welcome) and saying, "I've written five words...that's good for today...where's my beer?"

I'm exaggerating, of course - I don't drink beer.

To conclude this blog entry, I come to a resolution: enter more contests. More writing means, hopefully, that the writing will get better. I think I'm going to write a contest entry every two weeks.

Now, on to working on this difficult short story. I think...I think my characters HATE me. ;)

A la mode

For a guy, it is as American as apple pie to lose your virginity at sixteen. This is when all of my friends did - relating the fulfillment of a long-term relationship or drunken luck at a large party to me the following day.

So here I am, seventeen, the only one of my friends to retain the purity valued in women and scorned in men.

I guess my problem is that I don't have females figured out yet. I'm a nice guy. Or, at least, I'm not an asshole. Yet when I work up the courage to ask a girl out, she tends to be busy. A smile and a half-hearted apology should lessen the blow of rejection though, right?

I'm too old to be a virgin. So, since I'm not charming/asshole/nice/Robert Pattinson clone enough to seduce my peers, it is time for more drastic measures.

* * * *

"Room 13? Are you serious?" I ask. Not that I'm superstitious, but it doesn't indicate a long, fulfilling sex life, to lose one's virginity in a motel room of an unlucky number. "I thought motels skipped 13."

"Relax, kid,"Trixie says, fidgeting with her shiny gold top. With a name like Trixie, which she assures me is her real name, no matter how many times I ask, a person has to wonder if her parents foresaw what her career would be. "It's just a room. It doesn't mean anything."

I have to wonder, for a second, if Trixie maliciously picked room 13 to screw with me because I'm just a kid. Then I realize I'm paying her to screw with me, so if she does it in the figurative sense as well, I'm probably getting double my money's worth. We walk to room 13.

It's not really that different from the more expensive hotel rooms I've shared in the past with my parents and younger sister. The carpet's a little more worn, the television's a little older, the bedspread's a weird brownish-purple color.

Trixie leans forward to kiss me, and I feel nervous, suddenly - even though this is what I want. "So, how did you lose your virginity?" I ask her.

She raises her eyebrows. "You do realize you're paying me by the hour, right?"

"Well, yeah. But it's just - too weird, to lose 'it' to some chick I don't even know."

"Okay. If you must know - I was raped. Under a stairwell during a school assembly. Other students were cheering while a guy I knew took advantage of the fact that they wouldn't notice my screams."

"Really?" I ask.

"Nah. I lifted that story from a movie," she says, smiling. "Do you mind if I smoke?" I shake my head. She lifts a slender white cigarette to her mouth, lights, and inhales deeply. "What does it matter where I lost my virginity, or who I am? You know where I end up, so it's not a happy story."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not. If I didn't have an unhappy story, you wouldn't be about to get laid."

I nod my head. She's right.

"So - are we done with this 'getting to know you' shit?" she asks, placing her purse on a square table to the left of the door.

I take a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm ready."

She kisses me, with firm pressure, with her soft mouth, and I taste the smoke that lingers in her mouth.

* * * *

"So, kid, do you feel different?" Trixie asks.

"I'm not a kid," I answer.

"Sex doesn't make you a man," Trixie says, lighting another cigarette.

"I know." I find my pants on the floor, and retrieve my wallet. As I count out the proper number of bills, I say, "I do feel different. Not grown up, but...okay with myself."

"That's good, kid. Let's hope it's not just afterglow." She takes the money from my outstretched hand and walks out of the motel room.

The room's still paid for a half-hour. I turn on the television, and sit against the headrest of the bed.

*This story is a piece written in response to the kt literary blog. I hope you enjoyed it.