How many great ideas have you forgotten?

I've been plugging away at the novel, and a few times I've gotten up out of bed to scribble some notes lest I forget. (The physical act of writing ideas down helps me remember more than the actual note I produce. "Kinesthetic learner," someone told me.) But by and large I don't bother. Even if I forget on an explicit, verbalized, conscious level, the idea tends to pop up as I write and I go, "Oh yeah, that."

Granted, this may be because I am writing regularly, and I'm hip deep in novel revision, but even when I'm not, I don't take many notes. I always have notepad and paper with me, but more often to write down book titles I should look up, or names of songs, or websites. (Or to record complete poems/stanzas that I think up while waiting for a bus.) I have this notion that if my "great" idea is really worthwhile, I'll find it again, and again, if need be.

Likewise, I don't worry about running out of ideas.

I realize this "faith" runs contrary to a lot of writing advice out there, and I just wondered how many of my fellow writers really do the whole "carry around a notebook" thing to capture their fleeting inspirations.

Do you?

It's both hilarious and mortifying to me how many times in the course of this novel I've felt the need to write something like, "Carlos looked at him" or "She looked at me." I swear, once on every page. I'm sure I intended something super-meaningful when I wrote each of them, but gah.

JJ must have one of those joke-a-day calendars at work, because today he brought me home this gem, originally a headline in the Birmingham (Michigan) Eccentric:

Transgressivism!

Last week I got an email reminding me that there was only one week left in which to pre-order the latest Girlyman CD. The trio listed several reasons to do so, including:



It's a bit sad that, upon reading this, I agreed, "Yes, exciting!" It must be the bad-girl copyeditor in me.

A friend asked me if I was going to a neighborhood function this past week. I asked if it was outdoors. Yes. I said, "then HELLno." She laughed, said she thought living in Texas might've rendered me immune to the heat. No, I explained, it just taught me coping strategies.

I'm in summer lockdown mode. I don't open the curtains, I don't turn on lights. I run the AC constantly, and supplement it with strategically placed fans. I plan no-cook meals, I have enough ice to supply a sno-cone stand. I'm down to one warm cup of coffee first thing in the morning, then iced for the rest of the day.

In the cool, dark trenches I sometimes forget my favorite parts of summer: tomatoes, fireflies, fireworks, sno-cones, music in the park...

What are your favorite summertime things?

I found a fun book to read to Tweetie: The Tamarindo Puppy and Other Poems, by Charlotte Pomerantz, illustrated by Byron Barton. The book is bilingual, English and Spanish, but the poems are not translations from one language to the other. The book just kind of layers the two languages very comfortably, much like my family did. We primarily spoke English at home, but with Spanish (or Tex-Mex) a constant undercurrent to our natural speech, if not in the form of actual Spanish words, then in the lilt of our dialect (which I still slip into, get homesick for, and blame for my inability to write proper sonnets).

Tweetie is intrigued by Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. No, I'm not reading it to her, or letting her read it, but she sees the cover and studies it intently. The first time she said, "That picture is quite eerie, isn't it?" Yesterday, it prompted a discussion of what happens to a person's skin after s/he dies and what our culture does for/with dead bodies. And today we talked about spoofs and transformative works. I didn't use those words, of course. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow, when I'm not trying to rush her into her shoes and out the door.

What are you reading? And is anyone reading over your shoulder?

There's a fascinating essay, "The Intersection of Race and Steampunk," at Racialicious. I haven't read the whole thing, but so far it strikes me as well-researched, thoughtful, and optimistic.

I've been revising all day. I'm tired. I'm lonely. I'm tempted to stick my brand new copy of My Bloody Valentine 3D in the DVD player and console myself with Jensen Ackles and gratuitous bloodshed.

But I'm going to be good.

I'm going to be good.

Good.

Growing up, I celebrated Father's Day by giving my mom cards and gifts. She did the work of two parents.

Now, I honor my husband's parenting. He has redeemed for me the whole concept of fatherhood. I don't know how he figured stuff out (his father ain't no prize either) but JJ is an amazing dad.

And thanks to LiveJournal, I've seen there are other awesome dads out there, doing their part to raise happy, healthy, strong, and compassionate children. Knowing they exist has heightened my awareness of the loving fathers I encounter in real life. And it has done much to heal my own hurts.

I raise a glass (well, actually a coffee mug) to all the righteous dads.

When I think about books that really hued my childhood, I mostly remember books I read after age 8. And it's easy to see how these stories affected me as a writer.

The first story I remember reading was "The Tell-Tale Heart." My mom showed it to me, and I was flabbergasted. A story about a crazy person? From the crazy person's point of view? Is that allowed? And I had no doubt this guy was crazy from line one. Look at that punctuation! And he killed someone! And then he admitted it! I had no idea fiction could do what Poe made it do. And once he showed me, I was ruined forever.

The next book I remember was Frankenstein's Aunt by Allan Pettersson. It's a YA comedy translated from Swedish. The aunt in question smoked cigars, and she frightened Frankenstein's monster. This was the first story I'd read wherein the monster was sympathetically portrayed, and pitiful even. Obviously, an important lesson for a future horror writer.

Another book, the title of which I cannot remember, was a bio of Mother Teresa. I was both intrigued and repelled by the descriptions of poverty in India. I couldn't quite fathom the squalor of those streets, and I marvelled that the author was "allowed" to tell those truths to children. I'm still impressed by books that tell ugly truths elegantly.

Speaking of books that engrossed and revolted me at the same time, my great-aunt had an awesome collection of pulp fiction with titles like "The Naked Corpse." I spent many an afternoon just reading the titles with reverence and glee. But also on this bookshelf was a copy of Alice in Wonderland, with the original illos. This book I had permission to read, but I couldn't understand why. I always felt like I was getting away with something. The illos thrilled me like a freak show.

I read a lot of Judy Blume books, and I was a fast enough reader that I read a lot of crappy middle-grade books just because they were there. The one that sticks with me though is Nothing's Fair in Fifth Grade by Barthe DeClements. This was the first book I read that admitted some parents just suck, and they don't really love their children, and those kids need to find new families. I'm probably remembering a story the book doesn't tell, but that's what I came away with. Again, ugly truths told effectively.

The Wrinkle in Time Series is the first SF I remember reading, probably because the main character is female with a genius little brother. (My younger brother is/was scary smart.) I talked about these books a lot with my mom, since they had so much in common with the paranormal romances and time-travel stories that she and my aunts filled their bookshelves with. Pulp philosophy.

Last but not least, not by a long shot!, I must mention The Darkangel by Meredith Ann Pierce. If Frankenstein's Aunt taught me that we can feel sorry for and even giggle at the monster, Darkangel taught me that the monster can be downright hawt. So hot, you'd tear out your heart for him. Yes, it's really just a paranormal romance, but it was the first one I'd ever read, and it incorporated the Icarus myth, and the darkangel was a VAMPIRE, and the story was set on the MOON.

The MOON, I tell you.

VAMPIRES on the MOON!

It's no wonder I ended up this way.

Taking a cue from selfavowedgeek, I've been thinking about the books I remember from my childhood. My mother taught me to read early, and maybe because of that I've always read things out of order, by which I mean, as I kid I always read at least three grades beyond my own. So I only remember picture books from the second time around, when I read them with/to my baby brother. His favorite picture books (thus the ones I remember):

The Cat in the Hat
Green Eggs and Ham
The Monster at the End of this Book
Where the Wild Things Are
Whose Mouse Are You? by Robert Kraus
Goggles, by Ezra Jack Keats

We'd listen to Seuss on tapes, and to this day I can recite good chunks in the same intonation as the narrator. We'd read the Grover book with all due melodrama, even hysteria. My brother was very much a Wild Thing, a Max. He had his melancholy moments though, which is where the utter pathos of Whose Mouse Are You? came in--not to mention, it served as wish fulfillment for kids of divorced parents. Goggles was also a book on tape, and the narrator was just kooky. His oddball pronunciation of "goggles" may be the only reason we loved the book--altho as an adult I admire Keats a hellalot.

Evidently, the *sound* of books was really important to us as kids. The right narrator could make or break a book.

I'm not aware of any of these books being a particular influence on my own writing. The Monster comes closest, because it's a strangely "meta" book (hence its unfortunate role in season 4 of Supernatural). Clearly Sendak's Wild Things is a masterpiece, but perhaps because I'm not a Max, it's not my favorite Sendak book. As an adult, I've felt a much more profound connection with the almost arbitrary horror of Outside, Over There and the surreal zany-ness of In the Night Kitchen--which I just decided is like a kid version of The Big Lebowski.

What about you? What are the books you remember from your childhood? Which kids' books do you wish you'd had as a child?

I bought an adorable little alarm clock on Sunday. I already had an alarm clock, but despite its retro look, it has this bloody annoying electronic beeping for the alarm. So I bought this cute clock that had a charming little old school ring. I brought it home only for the winding mechanism to suddenly stick. I handed it to JJ. Last night he told me he couldn't do anything for it. And then five minutes later he'd fixed it. I put it on my night stand and we went to bed.

It is the Clock From Hell.

It is the loudest effn clock I've ever heard, and it ticks like a metronome on meth.

Thus, this morning I am lurching around like Living Dead Girl.

At the risk of becoming rachel_swirsky's minion--altho I can think of several worse fates--I would like to point out that Rachel is participating in the Clarion West Write-a-thon, which runs from June 21 to July 31. Why should you sponsor her?

This is a nifty way to support diversity in SF/F, and Rachel's sweetening the deal by offering handmade earrings to those pledging at the $25 level or higher. I have a pair of her earrings, and I love them, almost as much as I love her lush, perceptive writing.

ETA: Oops! Here's a link directly to Rachel's pledge site.

rachel_swirsky did this meme, and I love seeing what people come up with.

"Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.

I'm assuming this is supposed to indicate fiction."

Here's my list of 15:

Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand
The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
Off Season, Jack Ketchum
Lizzie Borden, Elizabeth Engstrom
Dhalgren, Samuel Delaney
The Little Prince, Saint-Exuperay
The Iliad, Homer
The End of Alice, AM Homes
American Psycho, Bret E. Ellis
The Tell-tale Heart, collection, Poe
Interview w/ a Vampire, Anne Rice
The Girl Next Door, Jack Ketchum
The Monk, William Hallahan
Deathbird Stories, collection, Harlan Ellison
Wrinkle in Time, Madeline L'Engle
The DarkAngel, Meredith Ann Pierce

I realized as I was making this list that it's not my favorite 15 books, at all. I wish, for example, I could scrub American Psycho from my mind forever. Most of these books I remember because I read them and thought, "You can do that?"

What about you? I want to see more lists!

When I was in high school, my best guy friend walked me home one afternoon. He lived in the opposite direction, but he didn't care; he didn't want me walking home alone, even if it meant he had to go a mile out of his way. We walked alongside the busy highway until we came to a huge puddle. More like a lake. We'd been talking, so we didn't notice the lake until our shoes squished in the mud.

As cars zoomed past, we stood there trying to figure out the best way around this pit.

"Let's go this way," I said, pointing. We'd have to go far afield to avoid the mud, but that would do it.

My friend looked at the detour, looked at our shoes, and sighed. "Oh forget it," he said. Then he picked me up and proceeded to walk through the lake.

"What? Wait! Stop! You're getting soaked!" I said, and that's about all I could do without pitching us both in the lake. Because I weighed maybe 100 pounds, and he was, to quote Desperado, the biggest eff'n Mexican I ever saw.

We'd gotten halfway across the lake when a passing car slowed down to honk. We looked up and saw the woman driver just leaning on the horn and cheering my friend's gallant display. My (blushing) buddy looked at me like the driver was a two-headed muppet and carried on.

To this day, my friend can't believe the applause he got for keeping my shoes clean. And to this day, no matter how many times I tell him how awesome he is, he doesn't quite believe me. But he's catching on.

He's one of the good guys, and I love him madly.

Art

Stacie Ponder, aka Final Girl and one of my hardest girl-crushes, is having a special sale of her stick-figure art cards to help fund production of her horror movie, Ludlow, which is now in the editing phase. I love these happy little homages to The Thing, Michael Myers, Scream, Werewolf Woman of the SS, and all movies sick or schlocky.

shadesong pointed out a new offer posted at the Give to Get community. Make a donation, get beautiful jewelry.



Rape, and What, if Anything, We Expect of Men

cereta calls men out, and readers applaud her critique but also share stories of the unsung decent men in their lives. If we don't talk about what makes a boy or man "decent," rather than just providing a laundry list of "don't you ever"s, how can our sons and brothers, friends and partners learn by example?

A spinoff link from that discussion, regarding a "group sex or gang rape?" controversy unfolding in Australia; and then commentary suggesting consent should not be the gold standard for sexual relations. I think about some of the things I was willing to do to avoid a "real" rape, and I agree that "consent" is not all it's cracked up to be.

I worked on two poems today as a pre-writing exercise before working on my novel.

I'm pretty sure pre-writing shouldn't take three hours.

But at some point, pre-writing morphed into writing-writing, and I now have two decent drafts of those poems. And I did eventually get to the novel, just not as far as I should have.

I'd say I could do more novelling after dinner, but truth to tell, I will more likely fall asleep. Thunderstorms rattled our windows most of last night and kept Tweetie, and us, awake.

We need a do-over.

Family Film Night's feature was Star Wars. I'd forgotten how much I identify with C3P0; it's sad, really. Tweetie had trouble negotiating the swift scene changes and all this talk about rebels versus the empire, but she liked the variety of alien types and the talking robots.

Incidentally, Tweetie is also very interested lately in the idea of heroes versus villains.  The other day when I told her I'd watched Lost Boys II: The Tribe, and that it was about vampires, she asked if there was a hero. She wanted to know if there was someone she could root for, I guess. She's a little too young to understand the genre trope of rooting for some bad guys. On the other hand, she smiled across the table at me during dinner the other night and cooed, "I'm drinking blood" in this freakishly adorable yet creepy way.  Which might be the only way for a child to say such a thing.

JJ and I watched Hancock after Tweetie went to bed. I wasn't all that eager to see it, but I was blown away by how much better I liked it than, say, Iron Man. (Of course, I dislike Robert Downey, Jr intensely and I think he stopped acting a long time ago, so I was predisposed to dislike Iron Man.)  I could watch Hancock over and over again.

And then on Sunday the extended tribe went to see UP in 3D. I'm starting to think every movie should be in 3D, and I'm peeved to the maxx that I didn't catch My Bloody Valentine in 3D. It could've been life-changing! The pick-axe! The flying jawbone! The bouncing breasts!

Wait...what was I saying?

Oh yeah, UP...you know, it's not really a children's movie. The prologue completely goes over their heads (would have in 2D too), and the emotional themes are beyond them, I think. The adults in the audience seemed to be having the most fun. The short film before UP, "Partly Cloudy," was so sickly sweet I gagged. And to Tweetie, who's been trying to convince her best friend that babies do not, in fact, come from a woman's belly but from her uterus, the whole stork thing was a mystery.

Our family just got home from trying to see the Squirrel Nut Zippers perform at the Iowa City Arts Fest. They were supposed to start at 9, but there was some kind of electrical blowout that left the stage and an adjacent university building without power. We waited around, people-watching and chatting until 9:45, but then we gave up. Tweetie was up way past her bedtime anyway.

Drats. I haven't seen a live concert in almost a year.

On the other hand, yesterday while eating dinner I saw a naked guy in the house across the street from the diner. He was apparently examining himself by the light from the uncurtained window, and nonchalantly allowing all passersby also to examine him. By the time I realized what I was looking at, I was no longer looking at it, but at his backside.

There's some smutty joke about nuts in that anecdote, but I'm too tired to figure it out.

Last night our family ate dinner at the Bluebird Diner and then walked over to the local indie bookstore, Prairie Lights, to hear Michael Perry read from his book Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting. A buddy of mine is quite the fan, and since she introduced me to GirlyMan and Bob Hillman, I figured this was an event not to be missed.  And I was right.

Perry is also the author of Population: 485, Meeting your Neighbors One Siren at a Time and Truck, A Love Story. He gave a great reading and is quite the performer. I loved how he slides into his farmer's drawl time to time, how he knows way more about dairy cows than is probably healthy--and shares!--, and how unconventional a life path he's chosen while maintaining an effective bullshit detector. I hadn't read any of his books before, but I was hooked after he described feeling his pregnant wife's belly while the midwife outlined the "constellation of baby."

I couldn't stay to get a copy of Coop, on account of Tweetie behaved excellently and deserved immediate release, but I will. And the other books too.

What a world.  (Heatworld.com, to be exact)

I guess I should be glad the torso isn't washing up on a beach somewhere.