In Defense of Me

Tags

Beef, caffeine addiction, Concealed Weapons, Health Food, Marshmallow Peeps, Organic Candy, Pork, Sugar Addiction, West Texas

Yes, I gave the Peeps a party…and then I ate them!

I have a very good reason for not writing my Book Blog today.

I enjoyed a delicious lunch with a friend and came home and spent hours editing my latest novel.  I kept meaning to stop and write my blog, but before I got up from my chair the afternoon just got by me.  I’m a terrible liar…that’s not what happened at all.  The truth is I got myself into a little bit of a sugar-high followed by a giant sugar-crash.  And there you have it.  I’m sure you’re asking yourself…what kind of idiot eats that much sugar?  This one. 

Most adults cringe at the thought of biting into a sugary-neon-colored marshmallow Peep.  Not me.  I’ve been known to eat a whole box in one day.  All right, I confess, one box in one sitting.  That’s a whole lotta Peeps.  But, I stand by the squishy, mushy, sugary chicks and bunnies.  It’s like biting into a little piece of Heaven.

Here’s something fun to do with a bunny Peep.  When someone is talking, bite off one of the bunny’s ears.  When they stop talking, waiting for you to respond, turn the bunny toward them and say, “Ehhh?  What?”

It makes me laugh everytime I do it.  My husband only laughed the first two times.  Now he won’t say anything until I bite off its head ensuring I won’t sink to using the same joke numerous times in a row.  It really does make me laugh EVERY time.

More confession:  I have a terrible candy addiction, but my neurosis goes deeper than that.  It has to be a certain kind of candy for that particular time of year.  Let me explain.  It goes something like this:  At Easter I must have yellow chicks or bunnies (pink ones are not as good, butI’ll eat them if they’re in front of me).  Fall:  candy corn—all kinds of candy corn (they come in flavors now), Christmas:  cherry cordials.  In between all major holidays and in addition to the holiday candy…any kind of candy that can be found at the counter of the movie theater (i.e. Milk Duds, Twizzlers, Junior Mints etc.).  However, I simply cannot eat certain kinds of candy any other time of the year.  Candy Corn in the summer?  Preposterous!

 I admit it.  I am addicted and my dentist hates me.  No, really.  He does. 

So, you’ll never believe this:  I went to lunch at a health food store today.  Yep, me.  In a health food store.  Eating.  And here’s a real shocker: this was my third trip—and I have a punch-card to prove it. 

The first time (a couple of weeks ago) I was skeptical…or more like hesitant.  Okay, maybe I was horrified and repulsed at the thought, but I was with two friends who don’t ply their bodies with sugar and caffeine at unvarying intervals and constant inhuman levels, so I agreed.  I suppose no reasonable person exists on a diet of sugar and cheese.  Of course, I’m not a reasonable person and besides, I was outnumbered that day. 

I stepped up to the counter and studied the menu.  Shockingly, it looked pretty good to me.  Living in West Texas, I am almost certain this is the only restaurant in 200 miles that doesn’t have some sort of barbequed animal on its menu.  Be it pig or cow, you can get your fill pretty much anywhere–at Rite Aid, Joe’s Hardware or in a shack in front of the Little League park.  I once was in an expensive antique furniture store and upstairs, in the back…you guessed it.  You could get a pulled-pork sandwich and home fries.  In an upscale furniture store!

Here in the Lone Star State they serve BIG pieces of barbequed beast.  I mean plate-size portions.  If there is a little bit of room left on the ginormous plate, they might throw on a couple of green beans (with bacon), but those and any  other vegetables are really superfluous.  This is MEAT country.   I’ve eaten so much beef since we moved here that I’m beginning to moo instead of scoff and I’ve had enough pork to squeal at the slightest provocation.  Wait…to be fair, I think I did the squealing-thing before we moved out west.  I could almost swear I never moo’d before though.

So, there I am at the counter ready to order.  My friends go first and then it’s my turn.

“I’ll take the avocado stuffed with tuna salad.”

“Great.  And to drink?”

“Diet Coke?”

The two people behind the counter looked at me like I’d uttered sacrilege and I quickly said, “Kidding! Heh heh.  Kidding.”

I cringed when she said, “No diet Coke, but we have some organic sugar-free fruit-flavored soda water.”

WTF?  What on Earth would I do with that?  Put it in my hummingbird feeder?

“No, thanks.”

“Would you like water or tea?”  Now wait…this is not just tea, but, herbal, natural, no preservative, good-for-you-tea.  I, of course, chose the lesser of two evils—water.

I will admit right here.  The food was fantastic!  So much so…I went back!

On my second visit, I came armed.  I had a can of diet Coke in my purse.  All was right in the world.

I ordered another delicious stuffed avocado.  After our food was served, I dug around in my purse until I produced my prize—my delicious carmel-flavored chemical concoction.  Mmmmm….

Surprisingly, this restaurant is popular.  Why do I find it surprising?  Well, I wouldn’t if it were located pretty much anywhere else.  This place is like a little oasis in the desert for artistic-types. 

This restaurant does NOT have a sign out in front that says, “No Concealed Weapons” like some of the eating establishments around here.  (Apparently, you can’t conceal your weapons while in some restaruants, but it’s probably okay to bring your shotgun in and set on the counter or across the table.  They just don’t want to be surprised by your gun slinging.  I mean if it’s out in the open, then it’s fair game—you’ve been warned.)  But I digress….

This place is filled with people whom I’ve never seen walking around anywhere in this city.  It’s almost like the restaurant imported these people from California just to add ambiance to the earthy bistro—okay maybe not imported from California, but Austin, at least.

Customers—and by customers I mean those of the “natural persuasion” chatted amiably all around our table.  Then…

PSSSSSSST!!!!!

Never has the sound of a pop-top echoed through a building like it did when I opened my contraband can.  Every head turned my way as they attempted to spot the heathen who brought poison onto hallowed ground.  What heathen besmirched the sacred dining facility?

The server asked incredulously, “Did you bring in a Coke?”  I admit she said it with a smile.  One of those, “placate-the-weirdo” smiles.  (I get a lot of those for some reason.)

Turning red, I said, “Yes.  I’m sorry.”  At that moment, I really was sorry.  Sorry that I hadn’t opened my can outside before we came in.

“It’s all right.  Don’t worry about it,” she said.  Everyone went back to eating.  I have made some very good friends here because neither of them pretended not to know me.

But, the woman at the counter?  I knew by her expression that she pretty much wrote me off as a chemically-altered, caffeinated, preservative-laden cretin.  She wasn’t wrong in her assumption, either.  I’m surprised my body didn’t reject the organic-nature of my meal.

Today was my third visit.  I was with a different friend.  We were going to a museum and spontaneously stopped for lunch.  Damnit!  I didn’t have a diet Coke in my purse.  I’m beginning to think it may not be a bad idea to carry a spare.  But…I survived drinking the water and the food was once again fabulous.

I almost made it out without making a food faux pas until…

I opened up a big bag of red Cherry Sours candy from my purse (I always have candy in my purse—I’m like a grandmother—except my candy isn’t hidden under used tissue and sticky with hairs attached—most of the time, that is).

So, I open up my bag of death.  OMG!  Sugar and RED DYE.

We had the cutest young server who looked the part—I mean he could’ve come from Central Casting at Warner-Bros studio after the director found him in the actor-catalog-of-headshots under : cool, sensitive, hippie, tree-hugger poet/lyricist-type—with dimples. This kid could’ve been made to order—but what was he doing in West Texas?  Anyway…he thought eating the detrimental-to-all-living-creatures-candy was akin to signing my own death warrant. 

I popped three in my mouth.

“Did you know we sell organic, sugar-free taffy by the cash register?” he asked cringing as I happily chewed the delicious Red Dye #4 covered in sugar.

I passed on the taffy.  What’s the point of putting my body in shock?  It’s so used to the sugar-high, sugar-coma routine now.  And besides…sugar-free taffy?  Why not just pop an eraser in your mouth?  Ick.

Next time I go in (and there will be a next time) I’m bringing my diet Coke and a box of Peeps.  What can I say?  I’m a conformist in a non-conformist restaurant.

If you haven’t had a saffron marshmallow bunny in a long time, g’head, try one again.  You’ll enjoy it.  If your body hasn’t built up a resistance to large doses of sugar, don’t eat the whole box in one sitting.  It WILL put you in a sugar coma.  But, on the bright side, you’ll have a good 12 hours sleep–that is, after your spouse peels you off the ceiling from the sugar high.

And that is why I do not have a book blog today.

It was a gift! I swear!

Tags

AIDs, Broadway shows, charities, John Cudia, Movers, obsession, Phantom of the Opera, Plush toys

It’s Phantom Friday.

Little known fact: Inside every Phan’s brain is a crazy Phan-girl (or boy) ready to perk up if Phantom is mentioned, seen or thought about. I’m telling you, it’s true.

Yesterday I found a website that sells Phantom of the Opera (Erik) stuffed dolls. That proves it! There are people out there who are more obsessed than me.

Thank God for the Internet. You’re never alone in any obsession. There are others out there–some worse than you.

If you’re wondering…

 I refrained from spending money on an Erik plushie.  I think my husband might object to having that thing in bed with us. Just a hunch…

My better-half does not lack confidence or self-esteem. I’ve never seen him get jealous—simply because he has that much self-assurance. But, sharing the bed with an Erik doll?  Not in a million years. 

My beloved doesn’t even have qualms about the Phantom of the Opera  Broadway Box poster that hangs across from our bed with Erik’s mask dangling below it, staring at us from across the way.

It’s how I obtained said poster and mask that rankles him just a little.

Okay, picture me in the audience after just experiencing Phantom. My heart is still pounding from the last line of the show that the Phantom sings so plaintively it breaks your heart…

“….it’s over now, the music of the niiiiight.”

The curtain goes down; the cast takes their curtain calls, lights come up and I’m forcibly jolted out of my make-believe lair under the opera house.

With tears still making my eyes blurry, the freakin’ Phantom steps out on stage in front of the curtain. OMG! Am I hallucinating?

He says, “Thank you! Please, sit down. I’d like to take a few more minutes of your time.”

I close my mouth and sit down. We do what the Phantom says or…“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!” (Line from the song All I Ask…Reprise)

Anyway…he tells us about Broadway Cares—Equity Fights AIDS Project and how we can donate and get a little trinket for $5.00.

Amazingly, I can listen to what he is saying although I am mesmerized just seeing the Phantom (John Cudia) with all the house lights blazing. It was surreal. I could barely blink. When he finished speaking everyone rose to leave.

My husband decides he has to use the men’s room before we hit the subway.

What? He’s leaving me all alone in the lobby with the Phantom t-shirts, jewelry boxes, necklaces, and hats? Has he lost his mind?

This wakes up my naughty Phan-girl who says, “YEEESS!”

We designate a meeting place so we don’t get lost in the throngs and he heads to the men’s room.

“Kristiiiine….” Phan-girl calls, “They’re giving a signed Phantom Broadway Box poster with every donation over X amount. Signed by the entire cast!” The evil Phan-girl talks to me with excitement dripping from every word—she’s dramatic that way. “You want it. You know you do.”

“No, I shouldn’t. That’s a lot of money.”

“But it’s for a good cause,” the Phan-girl whispers, disgusted at my spinelessness. “Broadway Box poster!”

“Yes, but, I really should only donate $5.00 and get the keychain.”

“Keychain Shmee chain. You want the poster.” The Phan-girl scoffs.

“I can’t spend that much without discussing it with my better-half.”

“Ahhh, but…it’s his fault. Who drinks 48 oz of soda in one intermission, anyway? He’s not here and it’s an emergency. Someone else will get it and you’ll never get this chance again. Look!  See that lady right there?  She’s reaching for her wallet! Quick! Do something.”

“You’re right! Who knows when I’ll be back and it’s certainly no coincidence they’re asking for help with the Broadway Cares Program on the very day we’re here.”

The Phan-girl in my head rubs her hands together with glee. “It’s kismet, baby.”

All of the sudden, I notice I’m standing in line.

At that point, I realize I’m out of control.  Self-control, that is.  And guess what? In order to boost fundraising, the CAST is selling items all around the lobby.

My tongue feels fat, my mouth is dry. Should I do this? I can’t make a decision, but I’m next!

“Hi. Did you enjoy the show?” a cast member (I think from the masquerade scene) asks me when I reach the counter.

“bdfemyek.”  Flustered Phan to human translation:  (very much, yes)

Cast Member doesn’t miss a beat, probably used to seeing tongue-tied phans. “Can I help you?” She bedazzles me with her big smile and perfectly white teeth.

“djofeheh.”  (No, that’s all…heh)

“Excuse me?”

What are you doing? Phan-girl pipes up.  You haven’t even bought anything yet!

“Bracelet,” I force from my lips.  There!  Phan-girl, be quiet!

Cast Member hands me the bracelet. 

I hand her the money.

“Is there anything else?” she asks, her sparkly costume twinkling under the lobby lights.

Say it!  Say it!  Phan-girl sounds desperate.

“I…would like the…box poster.”  I sounded like William Shatner.  It’s just how it came out.

“Fantastic!” She beams with enthusiasm. It spurs me on, gives me confidence.  “Pay for it here and I’ll give you a receipt. You can pick it up at the ticket booth.”

I nod and pull out my credit card. It’s all for charity. It’s all for charity.  AIDS is baaad.

“And I’ll take a mask.” Oh crap! Where’d that come from? Shut up, Phan-girl. I’m in enough trouble.

I walk out a few minutes later, the mask tucked in my purse, a bracelet on my wrist and clutching my prize to my chest. It’s backed with a piece of  cardboard, but I’m still worried someone will run into me and bend it. I’m willing to elbow my way through crowd protecting it like a mother with a newborn. A mother wolverine, that is.

I turn the corner and my wonderful husband is waiting for me at the prearranged spot. “There you are,” he says with his infectious grin, hazel eyes bright and happy. He comes forward for a kiss.

Quickly, I put my hand out to stop him. “NO! You’ll bend it.”

“What the…? What did you buy?”

“Well, now honey…I didn’t really buy it. It was a gift for making a donation.” I smile hoping it’s the end of the conversation, knowing it’s not.

“Oh, for the AIDS thing?”

He’s okay with it. Good. But then–his eyes got bigger, he lost his smile.  At that moment, he remembered how much the donation had to be in order to get ‘the gift’.

“You didn’t!”

“I…uh…well…it’s for good cause.”

I can tell he’s deciding whether or not to ruin a wonderful night (and ruin the chance of making it even better) by having an argument in front of the Majestic Theatre over something that’s already been done. Listening to his inner or should I say lower voice, he rolls his eyes, sighs and takes the ‘gift’ from my hands to inspect it.

He points to the lower edge of the poster.  “That’s dumb. Someone signed right over the mask.”

“Not just someone…John Cudia!”

“Who’s that?”

I nearly choke. I’ve been talking about seeing John Cudia as the Phantom for at least six months. I’m not joking—six months!

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“He’s the Phantom! The guy we just saw singing his heart out. That incredible voice, uncompromising talent. The guy who has taken Phantom to a whole other level. The guy who…”

“…is dumb enough to sign over the mask.”

I take the poster out of his hands and point to it. “It’s supposed to be there!”

“If you say so.”

I thought about continuing, but then I remember he hasn’t blown his top over the purchase in the first place. I’ll forget the fact that he must’ve tuned me out for six months. I can overlook that—I have a Broadway Box poster!

I stare it for a moment before we start walking to the subway. I keep my wrist hidden under my sleeve. No point in telling him about the impulse purchase of a bracelet because I couldn’t get my mouth to work in front of a cast member. He’ll find it later, no doubt.

“But…if it’s the only thing you’re wearing when he finds it…he won’t care. Guaranteed.”

“Shut up, Phan-girl,” I mumble.

I’m still trying to decipher the signatures as we sit on the crowded subway with all the other theatre-goers.

The man next to me, who had his nose in a book just a second before, looks up and sees my trophy.

“Phantom!” he says.

“Uh huh,” I say, smiling. Happy as a clam.

“It’s my favorite show. I’m a phan!”

“You mean phan as in ph…fan?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve seen it five times this year.”

My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t imagine seeing it five times that year…it was only APRIL. I got very excited. I’ve never met a real Phan. As it sometimes happens when someone mentions Phantom, something unintelligible came out of my mouth.

“ganfifrar.”  (Good grief, five times? Really?)

“Excuse me?”

“nvrmefin” (Never met a real phan.)

He studies me like I’ve got two heads and then looks back at his book.
.
“What did he say?” My husband, who’s on the opposite side of me, whispers.

After I told him, he leaned slightly forward to catch a glimpse of the Phan-guy.

“What a nutjob,” he whispers with a scoff.

I fail to tell him that the nutjob just passed me off as an incoherent nutjob.

“Heh heh…yeah…some people…” I say with a sardonic grin. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s tuned out my Phantom-babble for six months.

My prized possession made it unscathed through the subway and back to the hotel room. It survived the road trip home where I set it on my dresser and admired it daily—even if it clashed with the traditional decor.

Things got very busy as I prepared for a move to Texas. Hubby had gone on to the Lone Star State beforehand to start his job the Monday after we saw Phantom.

I didn’t have my darling framed (my poster, not my husband) soon enough. As some of the movers started in my room, I supervised the packing of the china cabinet (experience dictates this is a necessity). By the time I went back in my bedroom, boxes were all over the place and the poster was gone.

I had no choice but to wait until I found it in Texas.

When our household goods were delivered, I tackled any box labeled Master Bedroom first.  It didn’t matter that we were still eating off of paper plates and sharing towels.  I needed to get my Phantom poster framed ASAP!

It wasn’t too damaged.  A corner was bent a little from where they shoved it standing upright into a box of linens–oh and an extra bonus…I had found the towels.

It hangs proudly on my wall. The ticket stubs are tucked into its corner and my souvenir mask hangs from them. Did I mention I had to buy a mask? The evil Phan-girl made me do it!

It’s a good thing John Cudia was not behind the counter that night.  He might not have just passed me off as an incoherent phan.  He might’ve called secruity as I repeated, “disy disryu” while jumping over the counter in an over-heated impulse to touch his mask–just touch it. 

Flustered Phan to human translation:  (It’s you.  Really you!)

I wonder how long it would’ve taken my husband to figure out they had me in custody.  He knows me well enough.  Probably not long.

Here is the link to Broadway Cares if you would like to donate to this worthy cause.

http://www.broadwaycares.org/

And here’s the website to buy an Erik Plushie if you so desire. (If you do…let me know who you are! Please!)
http://www.sixpoint.us/plush%20product.html

A Little Help Here Please….

The Power of Positive Thinking...A space for Goodfellow between Goldstein and Goodman

One of the hardest things for a writer to do is summarize their 300-page novel in one sentence called a tagline.  Most non-writers will recognize this as the one sentence used in the TV Guide screen when you hit INFO on your remote. This got me thinking.  What if everyone had a tagline for their lives?  How cool would that be?

Just for fun I created some for my family.

Kristine Goodfellow:  A woman hell-bent on a career as a writer awaits that one big break while driving her family and friends crazy by advertising her blog.

Hubby:  A successful, good-humored man with massive amounts of patience must support his idiosyncratic, want-to-be novelist, wife without feeling upstaged by her laptop.

Son 1:  A quirky, but brilliant young man sets his eyes on a career as The Fed Chair, but must first conquer Calculus.

Son 2:  An affable teenager with a mischievous side navigates through high school after being uprooted seven times in eleven years.

Feral (Cat):  A cantankerous feline must put up with a family of insufferable humans and resist the temptation to kill them in their sleep when she realizes they are the only ones who know how to operate a can opener.

See if you can say what’s going on in your life right now in ONE sentence.  Just try it.

The purpose of a tagline for a novel is to make the literary agent want to continue reading your query letter and eventually ask for your manuscript.

I am guilty of having horrendous taglines, but I gave it another shot.  I can’t tell whether they’re any good, but I tried.

First, here are some examples of real taglines for famous books (I didn’t write these):

Gone With the Wind:  A manipulative woman and a roguish man carry on a turbulent love affair in the American south during the Civil War and Reconstruction.

Wuthering Heights:  Foundling Heathcliff is raised by the wealthy Earnshaws in Yorkshire but in later life launches a vendetta against the family.

To Kill A Mockingbird:  A lawyer in the Depression-era South, defends a black man against an undeserved rape charge, and his kids against prejudice.

Out of the following, can you guess which ones are real (my own  manuscripts)?

TV Guide-style listings (taglines).

1.   (David, Third Person)  A physically and psychologically scarred librarian falls in love with a charismatic school teacher fleeing her abusive husband.  (75,000-words)

2.  (The Dismantling of Genius) In the late 1800’s, a gifted pianist who suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome and a severe stutter is lured away from his career by a beguiling, but envious failed musician. (103,000-words)

3.  (The Lost Chapter) Seeking acceptance and a chance to feel human, the intelligent creature Dr. Frankenstein created discovers love, alcohol and sex before he learns about hatred and seeks revenge on the mad scientist who abandoned and then tried to kill him. (65,000-words)

4.  (The Tributary)  A man accused of murder and an angry young homeless woman must learn to trust each other in order to survive when a blizzard traps them in a cathedral for ten days. (80,000-words)

5.  (Edge of the Flame) A love story with an alternative explanation for the bizarre behavior and murders attributed to The Phantom of the Opera. (81,000-words)

6.  (The Mansion on Swan Lake) In the late 19th-century, a wealthy industrialist’s wife must drive him into suicidal despair so she can inherit his wealth and marry his brother in order to honor a deal with the devil. (85,000-words)

7.  (In Luke’s Shadow)  A handsome, but mentally handicapped twin has to learn to live on the streets when the brother who took care of him perishes in a fire in a vacant building where they’d taken refuge during a storm. (70,000-words)

8.  (Lion’s Den) An accident on his honeymoon, that left a man paraplegic and with an uncontrollable seizure disorder falls in love with his nurse while his suspicions about his wife and the strange circumstances surrounding the accident grow.

 OKAY…any of them make you want to read some more?  Did you guess which ones are mine?  (All right, I cheated.  They are all mine.)  It’s very important to have a strong tagline in a query letter if I ever want to be published.  If something grabbed you, can you tell me which one(s) and why?  I would appreciate any help.  I’m still dreamin’ the dream.

Bedtime Stories Should Come with Warning Labels and Time Approximations

The other day I had a great phone conversation with my son, a college freshman. It was one of those deep and meaningful conversations you can have with your child when he becomes an adult. We were discussing whether or not the cat in the Cat in the Hat was real or if it was only the imagination of the kids in the story.

“You know, Mom, that story is really disturbing.”

“What do you mean?”

“It bothered me.”

As soon as he said that, I recalled a scenario between him and me.

It was bedtime after a long day. “Will you read Frog and Toad, Mom?”

I glanced at my watch. I was tired and twenty-some pages of The Adventures of Frog and Toad seemed like War and Peace. Scanning the shelf, I pulled out a nice, thin Dr. Seuss book.

The Cat in the Hat. Yeah, that’ll work. It’s short, succinct and maybe I’ll have some ‘me time.’   Yeah…this one will do. This is known as Mom Logic. Sometimes it backfires.

Stephen agreed to Seuss.  We cuddled up and I began reading. All was fine until I got to the part where the mom left.

“Why did the mother leave them?” 

“She’ll be back. She just went to run an errand.”

“She shouldn’t do that. You won’t do that, will you?”

“No, I won’t.  I promise.”

I can tell by the contemplative look on his face. He was not going to let it go.

My precocious, verbose child and I discuss the grievance of the mother’s absence before he lets me continue reading.

I thought we’d passed the part of contention when all of the sudden—

“Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to the store.”

“Why didn’t she take her kids?”

“I don’t know, Stephen. Maybe they didn’t want to go.”

“How old are they?”

“It doesn’t say.”

At this point, I tried to redirect him. However, I realized it was not going to be easy. Once he latches onto something he won’t let it go.  I can’t imagine where he gets it.

“It’s okay. They’re old enough to stay alone.”

“Teenagers?”

“No, they don’t look like teenagers.”

“Why aren’t they in school?”

I sighed. “It’s a Saturday.”

I knew we’d never get through the book at this rate and my ‘me time’ was quickly dwindling.

“Mom…why didn’t she wait to go to the store until they go at school?”

I had to smile . He’ll make a great lawyer someday, but… I should’ve read Frog and Toad.

“It’s summer.” I continue reading until—

The Cat shows up…

“They opened the door? You told me not to open the door without you.”

“Yeah. They shouldn’t have done that.” I try to continue with story.
He wasn’t going to let it slide by.   I glance at my watch again.  ‘Me time’ is not going to happen.  That’s all right…

We spent a few minutes talking about the safety of opening the door to strangers until he’s satisfied.

I continue to read.

The appearance of The Cat bothered him, but when The Cat unleashed Thing 1 and Thing 2, Stephen’s brow furrowed, he crossed his arms in front of him. Here we go, I thought.

“Why are they so mean to the fish?”  If you remember, the fish was the voice of reason and no one would listen to him.

He particularly hated when they put the fish in jeopardy at the top of a stack of miscellaneous items.

Although he didn’t quite have the vocabulary to express it in technical terms, he questioned the physics of the stack, exacting at what point it would’ve or should’ve toppled over.

A few minutes later, he finally got off his probability thought train.

“…and that’s why they shouldn’t put him there. The water will spill and how will he breathe, Mom?”

I agreed. It wasn’t funny how the cat harassed that poor fish.

That’s when it hit me. Dr. Seuss classified the three basic types of people in the world!   The fish, the cats and the Things.

Stephen and I are fish. We like order. We don’t think those kids should have been left alone, shouldn’t have opened the door or let a strange cat in to torment the fish.

My other son (who always loved the story) and his father are cats. Always finding enjoyment no matter where they are, always ready for a game, a competition or a party. Life is all about the fun.

Which brings us to the last category.

“Mom, what are the things?”

“They are…I’m not sure, son. That’s why they’re called things.”

“They’re mean.”

“Or maybe they’re just mischievous.”

“What is that? They want attention?”

“Yes! That’s right.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

And there you have the three basic personality types ala Dr. Seuss
Let’s test my theory.

Love adventure? Can you drop everything for a last minute excursion, no notice, no planning? You can jump in the car and find something to do spur of the moment? Chances are you’re a cat.

Make lists? Check things off with a feeling of accomplishment? Make an itinerary not just for your vacation to Disney World, but have a detailed schedule once you get into the theme park? (Yes, I am guilty of that. Hey—we hit all the rides in record time with very little waiting.) Chances are you’re a fish.   Note:  Watch out. Sometimes the cats like to drive the fish crazy because, well, because it’s so easy to do.

Have piercings on your body in attention-grabbing places? Always in the middle of a crisis? Some sort of excitement (negative or positive) follows you everywhere? You might be a Thing. These people are the drama kings and queens of the world. They make life interesting…but it’s always better if it’s someone else’s life they’re making interesting.

To have a successful party you need:
1. The fish to plan it.
2. Cats to attend it.
3. Thing 1 and Thing 2 (but I wouldn’t recommend more than that).

At the end of my conversation with Stephen, we decided it had to be the imaginations of the children. That made the whole scenario work in our minds.

Gregory, my 11th grader, walked in on the last part of the conversation and disagreed. He thought the cat was hilarious and it really ‘happened’ to those lucky kids.

There you have it. The cats in the family think it all happened. The fish deny it. There was only one more opinion I needed.

So, I asked the Thing in our family (whom shall remain nameless). She thinks it was all an allegorical government conspiracy plot with double meanings and Dr. Seuss was a spy. There you have it. My theory works.

The next night, I bet I read Frog and Toad.

There she goes again…

Tags

Andrew Lloyd Webber, classic characters, date night, Emmy Rossom, Gaston Leroux, Gerard Butler, Netflix, Phans, Phantom of the Opera movie, Phantom of the Opera Novel

If you haven’t seen the 2004 movie Phantom of the Opera, you might be surprised at how entertaining it is.  You don’t have to be a crazed, psychotic ‘phan’ in order to enjoy this movie (although it helps).

It is a good flick with which to cuddle up to your honey sharing a bowl of popcorn and a bag of Twizzlers.

What do you mean you can’t get your man to watch this movie?  Tell him stuff blows up.  There’s  sword fighting, kidnapping and a couple of gruesome murders.  (All true!)  If that doesn’t persuade him, promise to let him take you down to his lair later—that always works.

Back to what’s fundamentally wrong with this enjoyable movie.  An oxymoron, I know.  Let me explain.

Andrew Lloyd Webber is not only the musical genius behind the Broadway version of Phantom of the Opera, but he’s also behind the movie.  However, here I must point out that he is playing fast and loose with Gaston Leroux’s character from the novel.

Let’s just state the obvious.  The Phantom (Erik) is supposed to be ugly.  I don’t mean, “Thank-you-for-dinner-but-I-just-want-to-be-friends” ugly.  I mean acutely, hideously ugly.  How ugly?  His own mother cannot look at him.  Uh huh, that’s right.  His own mother.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen some fairly ugly babies in my lifetime.  Their mothers never seem to notice that their little fellow bears a striking resemblance to Rush Limbaugh.  It’s nature’s way of ensuring the continuation of our species and perhaps what keeps us from killing Rush Limbaugh.  Anyway, his mother lacked that maternal instinct, covered his hideousness behind a mask and never showed him any love.  That would screw anyone up, right?  (I’m talking about Erik here, not Limbaugh.)

So, who do they cast to play the butt-ugly Phantom in the movie?  Steve Buscemi?  No.  That would make sense.  He’s a great ‘character’ actor.   However, that isn’t how Hollywood thinks.

The clever casting director picked *drum roll* Gerard Butler!

Huh?  Excuse me?   He’s about as hunky as they come.  Ladies, I must confess…he’s still good-looking, even when they try and make him Phantom-ish.  Now doesn’t that sort of miss the point?

In Leroux’s novel (which this movie and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical are based) The Phantom’s entire face is covered.  Apparently, they had to cut  the mask in half in order for the actor to emote on stage during the Broadway show.  Okay, I get that, but in the movie, the mask shrinks even more, barely covering the top right of his forehead, across his nose and down to the middle of his cheek.  It’s like he’s wearing a “thong” mask.    Full mask = boxers, half-mask = whitey-tighties, movie mask…well, you get the point.  Phantoms should not wear thongs of any sort.

I understand.  The director didn’t want to cover very much of Gerard Butler’s gorgeous face.  Nevertheless, the main freakin’ point of the whole thing is that the character wears a mask to cover his ugly face or else the dynamic doesn’t make sense.  Get it?  The Phantom is ugly!  Not slightly unattractive, but ugly!

Okay, that brings me to my next HUGE point of contention.  The unmasking at the end of the movie.  Christine yanks off The Phantom’s mask in front of a packed audience at the Paris Opera House.  Oh horrors!  It’s the scary part of the movie!  What do we see?  What terror awaits our poor maltreated eyeballs?  Brace yourselves.  It’s…well, it appears to be really bad, blistered sunburn.

I have to admit right here that even as the unmasked Phantom showing the entire sunburn-of-doom on the side of his face, Gerard Butler still maintains his yumminess.  I mean, seriously.  How can you make that man look bad? Especially when he’s wearing super tight, black pants, shiny black riding boots and a pirate-y, puffy shirt unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a solid set of phantom pecks and what looks to be a six pack of phantom abs.  He’s also packin’ a pretty good phantom…….wait, this is a family blog.  (Sorry, mom.)

So, once Christine (Emmy Rossum) rips away the Phantom’s mask, the audience screams as though they’ve never seen a sunburn before.  They shriek and cause havoc as they try to escape the “ugly” thing up on the stage.  These people have obviously never been to a beach in Florida where the milky-white British people bake in the sun for hours.  We go to Florida all the time.  We see these poor people walking around Disney World, their faces looking much like the Phantom’s sunburn-of-ensuing-chaos.  As far as I know, no one has run screeching  from the theme park  into the streets at the sight of one blistered tourist.

Let me explain something before I go any further.  Among Phans there are two divided camps.  Think of it this way…there are the Leroux Purists Phans (Republicans) who want to stay 100% true to the character from the original novel and then there are the Free Agent Phans (Democrats) who will tolerate all kinds of interpretations both on screen and in live theatre.  I’m a little of both which I guess makes me a “moderate phan.”

That means I love the novel’s crazy, twitchy, weepy, yet angry characterization of Erik.  In the book, he is a total nut job, but there’s something about him that makes him a perfect anti-hero (Note:  Not a villain—don’t ever call him a villain in my presence.  It has been known to cause me to foam at the mouth and trust me; it’s not pretty when I have a mouthful of Twizzlers).

As a moderate phan, I don’t mind when people interpret Erik in different ways, but how can you mess with the one thing that makes him a character in the first place?  He’s ugly!

Gerard Butler?  There ain’t enough make-up in the world to ugly him up enough.  Let’s face it.  They’re paying him to drip sexiness all over the screen because that is what sells.

Handsome Gerard puts his hands all over Christine (Emmy Rossom) as he serenades her down in his lair.  This scene is hot.  He’s oozes sexiness.  Watch it, you’ll see.  It makes a woman want to jump down that secret passageway, push that airhead, Christine, out of the way and scream, “Forget her!  Take me!”

Umm…I mean, I’ve never actually pictured this or anything, I’m just sayin’…

So,  if watching the movie is your only insight into this classic character, well, then, take it.  But, remember, Sir Webber is changing who Erik is—the very core of the character.

I admit Erik is creepy in the book and it may not transfer very well to the big screen.  For example, he has cold, clammy hands, yellow eyes and parchment-like skin.  In the novel, Christine says The Phantom smells like death!  Ewww…that part totally grosses me out.  In my mind, Erik had oysters and Limburger Cheese for dinner that night and well, that accounts for any odor of decay.  It’s the only way I can process it in my head. If something doesn’t make sense to me, I have to find a way to make it work in the scenario in my mind until I’m satisfied.  Oysters it is!

So, go ahead and order it off Netflix.  I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.  And remember to brush your teeth after eating oysters and cheese lest someone acuse you of  having Odeur de Decomposition.

Use With Caution

Tags

critique groups, high school students, humor, metaphors, teachers, teaching, writing

It’s Writing Wednesday.

Members of my online critique group know I am not a fan of metaphors.  I will ‘call them out’ on a poorly written metaphor.  One writer in particular had the habit of using them instead of description.  Once he figured out they are not a substitute for narrative, his writing improved tenfold.

I rarely use metaphors.  It is very difficult (in my opinion) to write a serious metaphor.  So, it must be even more difficult to teach how to use them.

God Bless, Teachers!  I marvel at the job teachers do like an OCD clean-freak marvels at what a three tier bin at The Container Store can do.  (Disclaimer:  Used only as a demonstration to explain metaphors.  No nouns, verbs or adjectives were harmed in its making.)

I found a website featuring the best and worst of analogies and metaphors by high school students.  These are real, folks.  I am going to try and put together the scenario to figure out how these little beauties came to be.  Just for fun, I will decide whether I would’ve let it slide in my classroom—if I had one.

1. Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.

This cracks me up.  I imagine Gene the pocket-protector-wearing math genius writing the first half of the sentence:  “Her eyes were like two…”  Using his dominant left-sided brain, Gene works through the puzzle as he would a polynomial.   He quickly writes the second half of the equation “…brown circles with big black dots in the center.”  The words “were like” is an equal sign and both sides of the sentence need to balance, right?   Of course!   Eyes = Circles and dots!  No argument there.  No credit, either.

2.  He was as tall as a 6-foot tree.

This one made me chuckle.  In my mind, this student is a big, jolly jock named Dirk.  Our hulking letterman believes numbers tell you what you need to know about a person.  Batting averages, yards gained, touchdowns scored.  Dirk’s looking at his screen thinking of writing a metaphor about a tall man, but he’s puzzled about how to describe such a person.  Ah ha!  I got it.  Give the readers something they can use—a stat.  Dirk smiles and types in the rest of the sentence.  Who can argue with logic like that?  I can’t.  Alas…still no credit.

3.  John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

Here you have your typical teenage boy named Harry Hormone.  This distractible fellow is forced to write a short story for his English class.  Harry’s mind is not on the story.  He writes, “John and Mary had never met…”  He pauses.  Flashes of a cheerleader in her short skirt fill his mind.  Pom-poms flying, she does a flip and then the splits.  Holy cow!  That was exciting.  Young Mr. Hormone looks at the screen.  Ugh.  He’s got to finish the assignment if he ever wants to get back to the magazine hidden behind his math book.  Harry remembers his English teacher told him to expand on his thoughts to bring his writing to the next level.  “Ah!  Expand!   What are two things that haven’t met?”  He glances around the room and sees a hummingbird on a motivational poster above the teacher’s desk.  “Got it!”  He smiles–not because of what he’s written, but because some cheerleader just dropped her pencil and has bent over to pick it up.  No credit.

4.  Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

At first glance, this appears to be lazy writing.  I picture a Goth girl named Tiffany (she goes by Tiff) with black hair and lipstick to match.  Tiff is slumped in her chair as she begins to write a murder mystery about the cheerleader who just dropped her pencil in front of the class.  Goth girl rolls her eyes and tries her hand at ‘irony’.  Yeah, I’m giving her partial credit.

5.  The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.

Ha!  Howard High-Strung wants to please the teacher.  He wants to be perfect, but he’s just not creative.  Howie is staring at the screen, trying to come up with something…anything.  “I’ve got it.  Plus, I get to use ‘inanimate’ in a sentence. Yes, she’s going to love this.”  Well, the kid’s going to need therapy, but sorry, no credit.

6.  They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

This struck me as hilarious.  It’s the type of metaphor I would’ve used in high school; therefore we’ll call her Susie Smart-ass.  It’s not a good metaphor.  In the fact, it’s jarring.  However, it does its job.  After all, you can picture those picket fences, can’t you?  Partial credit…Naw… I’m going to give Susie full credit.  I like the way this kid’s mind works.

7.  She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword puzzle.

Brilliant!  This would get a gold star from me.  Does it leave any doubt in your mind how easy this girl is?  I love it!  This was from Freddy Flamboyant.  He’s over-the-top flashy in everything he does.  Teacher wants metaphors?  Not a problem.  Freddy’s got a million zingers that he uses on his friends all the time.  Full Credit and gold star.

8.  The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

Oliver Obvious had a word count and an assignment to use metaphors in his essay.   No credit, Ollie.

9.  Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”

This is another gold star winner.  I think it’s wonderful.  I wish I would’ve thought of it.  You get the point and you don’t have to wrack your brain to figure out just how that date went, do you?  This kid, we’ll call her Patty Pulitzer is a writer-in-the-making.  She’s got a box full of poetry and several screenplays she intends to finish someday hidden under her bed.  Credit.  Gold Star.

So without further ado, I leave you.  I enjoyed these as much as seeing a humming bird that I haven’t met, fly out of a six-foot tree and crash into Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth making her look like hungry fighter.

If you want to read some more of these priceless beauties, here’s the link:

http://www.losteyeball.com/index.php/2007/06/19/56-worstbest-analogies-of-high-school-students/

He’ll Forget. I Won’t.

Tags

aliens, Big Wheel, Coming of Age, Coming of Age Novels, Godzilla, growing up, photographs, remembering childhood, Teenagers

I miss these guys...

 

 My son parked behind me again.  No matter how many times I tell him not to park behind my car, he does it anyway.  It drives me crazy.

“Greg!  Move your car.”

“I will.  Just let me… (insert any of the following) make a sandwich, find out the score of the game, get something to drink, grab my workout clothes, finish texting).  Doesn’t matter.  He’ll forget.

I can’t believe my youngest child is driving.  Whenever I picture him in a vehicle, it’s a Big Wheel tricycle.  I can see him whizzing around the Cul de Sac with the wind in his hair and a toothless grin on his face.

 “Look, Mommy!”  he’d call before he did a “spin-out” by braking fast and sharply turning his handlebars.   He really believed he was performing a daring feat, so no matter how many times he did it, I always acted amazed…and frightened.

“Oh, no!  Don’t do that, Greg.  You’re scaring me.”

His response was always the same.

“It’s okay.  I’m big enough now.”

“You’re so brave.”

His eyes sparkled with pride.

I wonder when he rode his Big Wheel for the last time?  Obviously, he didn’t know it would be the last time.  How could he?  It just happens.  I wonder if he would’ve known ‘this is it…this will be the last spin out, the last screech of the wheels against the sidewalk I’ll ever make’ would he have cherished the moment?  I know I would have.

It seems when he got off his Big Wheel that night, he thought he’d ride it the next morning.  Instead, the plastic, low-rider, tricycle collected dust and took up room in our garage until we moved. 

Life is full of those moments–the last time we do something.  When I pushed Greg on the swings as he said, “High-oh, Mommy!  I wanna be in “other” space!” I didn’t realize it would be the last time before he learned to pump his legs.  If I’d have known, I might have pushed him for a few minutes longer.

Greg had a thing about “other space” spaceships and aliens.  I remember always picking up his little plastic aliens from the driveway—the kind from gumball machines and Dollar Stores.  He had a huge collection.  I wish I would’ve stopped whatever I was doing and watched the last time he dumped out his bucket of little aliens to set up another battle on the driveway.  He did this all the time, but oddly, I don’t have a single picture of him doing it.  Why?  Maybe, at the time, it seemed too ordinary to pull out the camera.  Or, I thought I’d catch it ‘next time.’

I’d love to see a video of him drawing boundaries with bright chalk lines on the driveway like a map.  Although Gregory was very creative in his drawings; he was never very strategic.  It was always the same.  He’d lined them up on either side the chalk borders facing each other– alien vs. alien.  How he chose which ones he’d knock down and which ones he’d let stand in triumph, I’ll never know.  What was I doing that was so important that I never asked him?

As he made his way down the line, he’d make them grapple a moment in his hands as he made snarling and fighting noises.  Other times, he used his giant 20-inch Godzilla to mow them all down leaving a colorful alien annihilation across my driveway.  Yes, I’d love to have video of Gregzilla lumbering down the line of aliens kicking them over with Godzilla’s feet.

“Greg, if you’re finished playing with them, you need to pick them up.”

“I will, Mommy.  Just after I… (insert any of the following) find my red ball, look for worms, hop on one leg ten times, hide until you find me.”  It didn’t matter.  He’d forget.

Just when does a boy step over the line and become a young man?  It’s hard to tell, which is why I believe ‘coming of age’ stories are so popular. 

Since it is Monday and I’m supposed to be doing a book review, I’ve listed several of my favorite classic “coming of age” books in no special order.  Please feel free to add some to the list.

1. Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
2. Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane
3. To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
4. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
5. North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

Once your child crosses that bridge into young adulthood, you cherish memories of scraped knees healed by a Mommy kiss and a Spider Man bandage.  You’ll laugh at the dirty handprints on the back of your clean blouse because he just had to hug you one more time before you left.  You’ll always remember how he greeted you with a muddy fist full of Dandelions when you returned.

Now it’s curfews, SAT scores, driver’s license drama, video games, football and girls.  Instead of hamming it up in front of the camera like he used to, he hates to be photographed.

Birthdays and recitals make great pictures, but I’d love have more photos of the ordinary, everyday things my boys did when there seemed to be no reason to take the camera out at all.    You won’t know when it will be the last time they do something.

Godzilla is long gone, lost in another move.  However, the bucket of plastic aliens is safe on the top shelf in his closet.  Next time we move, they’re coming with me in the car.

Where’s my camera?  I’m going to take a picture of his car parked behind mine.  Someday, I might remember it with fondness.

Was it worth risking my life? Sure!

Tags

accidents, Broadway shows, bus trips, Holland Tunnel, humor, Navy SEALs, Peeps, Phantom of the Opera, restaurants in NYC

My two favorite things....

Before I start…Yes, that is a Peep dressed up like the Phantom.  Yes, I made it.  Yes, I am that twisted.  Now onto the blog to prove it:

HOW MAKING A PILGRIMAGE TO SEE PHANTOM ALMOST KILLED ME

I made my first trip to New York with my husband (and twenty of our closest friends) in November 2007.  We lived in Pennsylvania—a mere three hours away, but a world apart.

From the moment the skyline of Gotham City came into view, I was hooked.  I’ve never felt such a personal connection to a place in my life and I’ve lived all over the U.S.

As our party-bus got closer to our destination to our hotel on 5^th Avenue, we passed through the Holland Tunnel.  Somehow, we’d missed the usual snarl-up and traffic moved along pretty well.  Sheer providence!

A sreeeeeeeeeech (like giant nails on a billboard-sized chalkboard), a razor-sharp swerve and a string of obscenities coming from the driver interrupted the rowdy banter of our group of energized forty-somethings.   Everyone gasped as we realized we’d been sideswiped inside the tunnel.

Welcome to New York.

Our bus had been grazed by a garbage truck on the passenger side.  Now, that doesn’t sound so bad.  The only victim had been the car behind us that got hit with something from either the bus or the truck which bounced off the hood and rolled onto the side of the tunnel.  Not a problem.  We were all alive and still moving at a pretty good speed.

“Can I get someone up here?” the bus driver yelled alarming us with his panicked-sounding demand.

A bus full of type-A personalities and no one moved.  Everyone looked at each other with befuddled expressions of silent fear.

“Someone needs to get up here right now!”

My husband I looked at each other.  Does he want someone to drive the bus?  Is he hurt?  Flashes of the movie Airplane came to mind.  “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but…does anyone know how to fly a plane?”

“I can’t see…” before the driver finished his sentence, five of the closest guys jumped from their seats and collided with each other in the aisle.  As I said before, this was a bus of over-achieving, type-A personalities.  They seemed to elbow each other trying to get to the driver—my husband among them.  It looked like a scene from the three stooges, plus two.

“G-damnit!  Someone stand there!” the driver yelled pointing toward the door.  The closest guy took a step back and waited for further instruction.

“Sit down! Move back!” he screamed to the others who’d gathered around his seat and assembled in the aisle.

“Is everything…”

“Shut up and sit down!”

The man on the steps by the door clutched the arm rail and stared at the driver dumbfounded.

“Turn around, you idiot!  Tell me how close I am to that lane, forgodsakes!  I thought you were all supposed to be smart!  What are you looking at me for?”

The other men found their seats.

The poor fellow in the bus stairwell said, “Uh…you want me to tell you how close you are?”

“What’s wrong with you?  Can’t you see we don’t have a mirror!”

“And…you want me to be the mirror?”  He sounded horrified.

The bus crowd let out a nervous laugh.  If we’re going to die, we might as well make fun of someone, right?

“Dude!  Shut up and be the mirror!” someone shouted.

He turned toward the door and said, “You’re close to the lane, but, uh…I think you’re okay.”

“How close?  Tell me how close!”

“I think-the-guy-next-to-you-driving-the-Miata- just-had-a-cardiac-close.”

“Is that a nautical measuring term?” someone yelled from the back.

This is how we navigated the tunnel and then the congested streets of New York, until we arrived at the hotel.  The “mirror guy” was a little pale when it was time to disembark.

“You look scared sh*tless, man,” someone teased him.

“Yeah, well, you would, too.  I really couldn’t see squat.  I totally bluffed the whole way.”

“What?”

“Well, what other choice was there?  We’re here, aren’t we?”

Did I mention the guy was a Navy SEAL?  The moral?  A SEAL is going to see the maneuver to its completion if it kills us all.

Once we got off the death bus, I knew, just knew that I found my “happy place.”  We spent six days and five nights in the big city.  I wanted to cry when we boarded (the now repaired bus) to go home.

One year later, we made the bus trip again.   We had a new driver.  The other guy retired.  I wonder if that trip had anything to do with it?

That year, I fell more in love…with my husband and my “happy place.”

The group made reservations for a very expensive restaurant.

“All right.  Your call.  We can get great seats for Phantom or go to dinner tonight with the rest of them,” my hubby said to me as we strolled down Times Square.

Eat like a queen or see a phantom?

“You mean, if we don’t eat at X, we can get the better seats?”

“Yes.  You decide.  We splurge on food or entertainment.  Your choice.”

“Look!  There’s a street vendor selling hot dogs!”

We went back the year after that, too.  We struck a standing deal.  Moderately priced meals and decent seats for Broadway shows.

Luckily, I found a mate who loves live shows.  Okay, most of the time I have to wake him up halfway through it, but he swears he enjoys theater.  He has done his best napping in some of the finest shows in New York.   The man can sleep anywhere as long as its dark and the seats are cushioned.

In 2010, we found out he was being transferred from Pennsylvania–three hours from my happy place to…

Texas—three hours from, well, nowhere.

Right before we left, my man surprised me with tickets to Phantom—one last trip to the Majestic theatre!  I had never been to NYC in the Spring.  It was gorgeous!

That was a fantastic impromptu trip.  A night I’ll never forget.  Going all out, my beloved even made reservations at a 4-star restaurant before the show.  WOW!  A fantastic feast and Phantom.

Bless his Catholic-convert heart, he forgot it was Good Friday, a day of fasting.

I hope I’m forgiven.

A Peek Into The Twisted and Oftentimes Scary Mind of a Writer (well, this one anyway)

Tags

character development, character ideas, father-daughter relationships, Myers-Briggs, novel writing, personality profiles, student loans, writing

It’s Writing Blog Wednesday!

Come with me, readers.  See what it’s like inside my mind…if you dare.

I frequently have people ask where I get ideas for my books.  Let me see if I can walk you through the process.  I’ll try to show the creation of a story—a simple piece of wool that can be made into thread that could become a tapestry.

Usually the conversation begins like this:

“Kristine, where do you come up with the idea for your books?”

“I put a character in a situation and build from there.”

“But how did you find the character?”

“I make a character file and viola! A new character.”

For those of you who don’t know what a character file is, it’s basically a listing of all your Main Character’s (aka MC) physical descriptions, likes, dislikes, habits, goals etc.  I also give each of them a Myers-Briggs personality profile.  (I’ll devote another blog to Myers-Briggs later as it’s fascinating stuff.)

The crazy part about this method is I don’t use 95% of the information I create for their Character File.  For example, Cameron, one of my MC’s in The Mansion on Swan Lake, stuttered as a child.  Is that tidbit used in the book anywhere?  No.  It’s something only I know (now you do, too).  However, this bit of his background helps me define who he is as an adult.  That helps me determine how he’ll react in a given situation.  Make sense?

Having a degree in Psychology and taking out all those student loans has come in handy at last.

See, Dad…I didn’t go into debt for nothing.  (I love my dad.)

**As an aside**  Some of those student loans financed Spring Breaks in Daytona or California.  They also paid for a darn cute wardrobe. This irritated my father to no end.

“Just how do plan on paying all that money back?” he asked looking at me with a stern you-don’t-know-what-you’re-doing glare.

“Never fear.  I have a most rockin’ plan.”

“And that would be what?” He scoffed.

“Simple, dad.  I plan to marry well.”

With eyes wide in disbelief, he opened his mouth ready to say something, closed it, opened it again, but then just walked away shaking his head.   How could he argue with solid financial planning like that?  Or maybe he was too disgusted by my future fiscal preparation he couldn’t say anything.  I’ve rendered my father speechless twice in my life.  Want to hear how I managed the second time?  Okay…

I was in college.  My car (the one pictured above) was making a weird noise.  One day, it wouldn’t start, so I called him.  After he pulled out the dipstick-thing, he stared at it in disbelief for a second.  Mortification filled his eyes.  He double checked it, his brow furrowing.  Sure enough…he found it lacking even a single droplet of oil.  His lips pursed with vexation.

Through clenched teeth he asked, “Did you happen to hear a loud ticking noise?”

“Yes, dad.”

“Well, what did you do about it?”

“I turned up the stereo.”

He turned white, then bright red.  He couldn’t speak for a full twenty seconds.  By then, having recognized the look of an imminent, thunderous response and knowing it was about to rain a verbal paroxysm on my head, I moved out of the way.

I nonchalantly sat on the curb and opened my Physics 102 book—probably the first time I ever glanced between the covers, but that’s a whole other story.  Looking down, I pretended to study.  That didn’t stop him.  He towered over me as I sat with my nose in the book doing my best to look all collegiate.  What masterpiece of verbiage came from his mouth when he gathered enough self-control not to throttle me?

“You!  It!  Broken!” he declared as he pointed to the car with fury.

Have I mentioned that I really love my father?**

Back to writing:   Once you have your character profile, you can set your MC into a situation and watch how he reacts.  I know it sounds strange for me to say, “watch” what happens, but it’s called ‘organic method.’

A shy, sci-fi writer friend once asked me if I worked from an outline like he did.  I said, “No.  I use the organic method.”  With his pale cheeks turning bright red, he gasped and said, “I get excited about my characters, too, but I wouldn’t call it orgasmic.”  Ha!  Smart ass that I am, I answered him, “Yeah, well, I guess I’m lucky that way.”

After he realized his mistake, it was all I could do not to throw myself down, hold my stomach and laugh myself silly, but the poor man was mortified.  Had it been anyone else, I would’ve carried on in hysterics, but he was such an introvert, I didn’t want to spook the guy back into his mother’s basement.  No really.  Alright, technically it was a “lower level.”  And he had his own entrance.  From then on, he turned red whenever I asked about his outline.

Anyway…I put my MC into the situation by inserting him five minutes before or after his life changes.  I watch the scene unfold in my mind as my fingers race to catch up with the maneuverings of the director/producer in my brain who plays the “movie” for me.

This sounds deceptively simple; however, it is not.  Sometimes I write down what I see, but after I read it, I feel sick.

“OMG! I’m a hack!  That didn’t come out right at all.  That’s horrible!”

It might be because I did not ‘transcribe’ the scene properly, or the author (me) got involved and ruined the original idea the director/producer (also me) had in mind.  I call that Authorus Interuptus.  That’s never good.  Can’t have that!

I will have to delete the whole thing and try once more to get my brain to translate “pictures” into words and words into scenes that make sense.  Writers do this rewriting part of the process a lot.

Sometimes when I give the short answer to where I get my characters (The Character Profile) someone will call me on that response.  They’ll ask, “But, where did you get the initial idea for the character?”

All right!  I admit it!  It comes from all of you.  The ones I know and the ones I’ve never met.  I’ll show you what I mean.

I’m writing this from the computer bar at Starbucks.  (I’ll post it Wednesday, but it’s really Tuesday morning.)  I set up my laptop, put on my iPod and now I’m looking around the coffee shop.  (I swear I’m doing this right now and writing it as it occurs to me.  So, what follows may be really bad, but you’ll see the process.)

There is always someone or something that will awaken a certain part of my brain and a new character can be born right there.

*Looking around Starbucks*

Didn’t take long.  Let’s use the guy in the corner by the window.  He’s eating a banana while sipping his Venti.  He’s staring at the table in front of him lost in his own world.  Now he checked his watch.

Ahhh…I got it.  He’s waiting for his wife to leave the house because he needs to get the insurance policy out of the file cabinet.  He’s had a bout of food poisoning this week (hence the banana.  I mean c’mon!  There are pastries here—food of the gods and he’s eating fruit?)  Okay, back to Newton Rhinehold (that’s his name now because he looks like the guy from the old Fig Newton commercials.)

Newton contemplates how his life has been very odd as of late.  He realizes before the food poisoning episode, last week he found the iPod port balancing on the edge of the tub when he got out of the shower.  Then there was the new heavy shelf his wife hung on the wall right above his reading chair two weeks ago.  “She was never interested in heavy stone sculptures before,” he thinks.

So, Newton wants to see if there have been any changes to the policy.  However, he doesn’t want to alert her to his suspicion.  Why?  Because he’s decided to kill her first.

Yes, that’s it.  He’s staring at the table in Starbucks plotting a way to get rid of her before a mahogany shelf full of granite art pieces hanging above his favorite napping chair puts him into an eternal slumber.  He knows he must be quick about it.  Her schemes are getting more creative as time goes on.

He’s got a sardonic grin on his face.  The caffeine has kicked in and he remembers the Christmas lights are still up on the roofline.  He’s wondering how he can get his silicone-enhanced wife to the top of the ladder at dusk.

Oh, look!  Newton’s getting up now.  It’s safe to go home because Botox Betty said she had a meeting at 10:00.  Newton doesn’t know his wife left an hour earlier.  Her twenty-four-year-old boy toy texted her and she’s looking forward to a quickie before her Junior League meeting.  (When it’s time to create the young lover’s character profile, he might bear a striking resemblance to the kid making coffee at this very moment, but I digress…)

Now if I would’ve chosen to, I could’ve continued writing.  I would’ve moved (in my caffeinated, sugared-up-from-pastry-mind) to their beautiful house by the lake.  I would’ve watched as he sifted through the file cabinet.

“What’s this,” he asks himself, holding up a manila envelope.

Uh oh.  Looks like Newton found something interesting in the file cabinet.  Something that will make killing his wife a very bad idea at that particular time.

“That’s okay,  Change of plans,” he says.  Newton thinks for a moment.  “How about in the mean time, she becomes…incapacitated?”  He smiles, slaps the envelope into his hand and then shoves it back into the cabinet.

Ooops…Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep going.  I’ll stop now.

So, dear readers, this is how I come up with a character and a story.  I wrote this blog in a short time span, so it’s a rough, very rough, version of a possible tale.  Should I ever choose to revisit Newton and Betty; I would embellish and embroider it into a tapestry until it became a full manuscript.

There you have it folks…the machinations of a mind that cannot stop thinking of story ideas–a very confusing and crowded place full of characters and ideas.

Is it any wonder I cannot keep my calendar straight?

Writer friends, tell me your method, please.  I’d love to hear it!

If you’d like to learn more, below is a link for a very good version of character development told without any ADD moments and sudden veering off into memories of college life.  Oh, how  I admire the mental discipline of others.

http://liv2write2day.wordpress.com

The Portrait of Destruction

Tags

addiction, book reviews, cats, Charlie Sheen, classic literature, drugs, hedonism, humor, narcissist, Oscar Wilde, overdose, Picture of Dorian Gray

MONDAY:  BOOK BLOG

If any of you follow me on Facebook, you might remember that I challenged myself to read nothing but classic literature all summer.  I shamefully admit that I put down Dickens’ Bleak House because I could not get through the first chapter without falling asleep.  I started Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility twice and lost interest.  (Sorry, Austen fans.  I tried.)  However, I did not give up on the classics.  I picked up Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein at a used bookstore.  Holy Neck Bolts!  I discovered a treasure.  I will review that book on my blog soon.  I promise you a big surprise, too.  I can’t wait.

That summer I read and enjoyed some incredible classic novels.  I put a few back on the bookshelf unread, too.  I’m only human.  (Tolstoy?  C’mon.)

I continued reading classics throughout the fall and winter which is how I came across The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.  That is the last book I read, so without further ado, I shall commence blogging about it.

I give it two thumbs up.  I thoroughly enjoyed it.  However, the cat found it dull and the characters too human.  At one point, while I read an incredibly well written passage aloud, she bestowed upon me a look of both apathy and annoyance–an expression only a feline can master.  She then stood up, turned around and sat down again with her back to me in a non-verbal expletive of true disinterest.  She obviously prefers Oscar Wilde plays.

To start us off, here is a description of the main character:

Dorian Gray – a handsome and narcissistic young man who becomes enthralled with…(the) idea of a new hedonism. He begins to indulge in every kind of pleasure, moral and immoral. (Source:  Wikipedia)

Wait as second.  Back up here.  Something about that sounds familiar doesn’t it?  Whom does this character reference describe?  I’ll give you a moment to think about it.

Give up?  Let’s turn on the news and watch for a few minutes.

*switching to the all-news channel*  “Libya, Wisconsin, Gas Prices, Economy, Charlie Sheen.”  Yes!  That’s the one.

It only took seven minutes for Charlie Sheen to be mentioned.  Hmmm, people must be losing interest because last night it only took five minutes.

This got me thinking.  A dangerous pastime, I know.

There are many parallels between Dorian Gray (the character described above) and Charlie Sheen.  Dorian Gray didn’t have his own webcast to show him living it up with porn stars, but, perhaps Dorian let people peek through his windows while he cavorted with loose Can-Can girls.  It could’ve happened.  I’m just saying…

Once again I rely on the place where the modern world gets its information:  Wikipedia.  Here’s a quick overview of one of the themes in The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“Dorian’s major flaw is that he is never able to hold himself accountable, instead, avoiding admission of responsibility by justifying his actions according to the philosophy of the new hedonism.” (Source: Wikipedia)

Question for you:  Is the “new hedonism” of the Victorian era the “old hedonism” of today?  It hasn’t changed all that much since the late 1800’s, has it?  Drugs, orgies, egocentric and deviant behavior without thought of consequence.

Dorian Gray is a handsome, wealthy, spoiled, self-destructive pleasure-seeker.  Sound familiar?  Dorian seeks fulfillment with powerful, addictive drugs, hordes of women and non-stop sex. Ring any bells?  Sound like anyone we know?

Dorian finds out no matter how many drugs he takes, how many parties he attends, how many women (and men) he beds (at the same time or individually) he is not happy.  Yes, dear readers, all this can be found in a 19^th century piece of literature.  I’m not kidding.  Doesn’t this make you want to read the book?

While in the blush and vigor of his youth, Dorian Gray has his portrait painted.  But, it’s not an ordinary painting.  You see, everything Dorian does that harms him physically or morally changes his portrait somehow.  As Dorian sinks to ever lowering levels of debauchery, the uglier the portrait becomes.  And descend into depravity, he does.  It doesn’t take long before the picture becomes too repulsive to look at, so he hides it.

Dorian continues to get weirder and it continues to get uglier.  Weirder how?  Well, read the book and find out.  Put it this way, if they had The National Enquirer back then, he’d be all over it.  He might even have his own column in the “Dear Penthouse” section of that magazine. Uh huh.  You’re even more curious now, aren’t you?  Just read the book.

Dorian spends a good portion of the novel chasing the high he felt when he first started indulging in hedonism.  Just like any addict, he wants to feel that first, orgasmic rush again.  He consumes more and more opium trying to find it.  Frustrated that he cannot attain that feeling, he turns to sex, fetishism and violence.  Admit it.  You want to go to Amazon and buy this book right now.

Dorian ultimately alienates everyone who ever cared about him.  Did anyone see the interview with Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez?  Yeah, like that.

In the novel, Dorian does not age and remains handsome.  Charlie Sheen, however, lost his youth and beauty a while back, so at least we know there isn’t a portrait somewhere in his attic growing older.  There’s still hope for him.

I believe that Charlie Sheen sees himself through the eyes of his own moral “portrait.”  He can’t see how distorted his picture gets day by day because he’s trapped inside it just like Dorian’s soul.  Everyone looking at the painting can see ‘the portrait’ will explode in some sensational accident.  Or maybe it will implode.  The canvas will pull from the frame, shrivel and disintegrate with one occurrence of overindulgence too many.

Like it or not folks, we have ringside seats at the destruction.  At least any Victorians peeking in Dorian’s windows chose to catch a glimpse into the noxious behavior of a sad narcissist.  We don’t get that choice. Just try not to hear, read or watch anything about Charlie Sheen in the coming week.  My bet is it cannot be done.  Even if you curl up in a ball under your bed with your iPod on full blast, you cannot escape it.

Eventually, you’d get hungry. So…

You’d wander into the kitchen and find the New York Times sitting on your table.  The New York Times, people!  It’s true.  Even they are publishing stories on Charlie Sheen.  After you slam the paper into the recycle bin, you take it to the curb.  Guess what?  There’s your neighbor.  She can’t wait to discuss the latest porn star interview on E!  You duck back inside and log-on to check your email.  Guess what?  Yahoo and Google want you to know the latest developing stories, so they put them right there where you can’t miss ‘em.  Charlie Sheen ties monkey to chest and skips rope down the street while singing, “I’m a winner!” to the tune of the old Dr. Pepper commercial.  Oh yeah, there’s also some other story about Khadafi…but he doesn’t have a webcast.

Back to the book The Picture of Dorian Gray:

Poor, unhappy, lonely, Dorian learns he cannot keep living the way he has been.  He ends up acting out in pure desperation.  No, I’m not going to tell you what this tortured character does.  Read the book.  It’s juicy.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde – I recommend it.  The ending is rather awesome.

The Picture of Destruction by Charlie Sheen – Coming to a screen near you.  I hope and pray Charlie can find a way out of his own portrait, take a good look at himself and move away from the hedonism that never fulfills anyone.  Dorian would agree.  I’m sure of it.