Hug me! I’m a blog post!

Have you started laughing and been unable to stop? Most likely this has happened when you weren’t supposed to laugh at all.

Years ago, I went with friends to Steve Martin’s film LA Story. In one scene, Martin’s character, Harris, stops to talk to one of those highway signs that light up and give drivers information, like slow down, heavy traffic. But to him the sign flashes, “Hug me.”

“What?” Harris asks.

“I’m a sign post.”

Only a few people in the theater laughed. There weren’t that many people anyway. But I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Several minutes later my friends asked me if I was okay or if I needed to leave. But the more I tried to stop, the more I laughed.

I couldn’t even repeat the story without laughing and tears.

Nobody else thought it was that funny.

“Hug me! I’m a sign post!”

My friends would give me that look. You know. That look you get when you’ve said something people don’t know how to respond to.

“But it’s a sign post!”

Other than Sara Jessica Parker writing her name on the palm of her hand, I don’t remember anything else about that movie.

This week I’ve been reading a novel I wrote. (Unpublished!) I haven’t looked at it in a long time. Some scenes I love. What was happening to the characters was awful, but I love certain scenes. Reading them I feel happy, like I can write, like I could actually be published one day!

And I want to hand those scenes to someone and say read them! (Hug them!)

But I think the sign post is funny, and nobody else does.

This worries me.

Read me!

What?

I’m a writer!

Faking

I got through high school and college without a boyfriend. I had a few dates, but no one you could call a boyfriend. (By boyfriend I mean someone who would actually refer to me as his girlfriend.)

those college days

So after dating (and I use the term loosely) guys who seemed incapable of anything resembling a actual relationship, I was willing to be someone else.

A friend set me up on a blind date–the reason she decided he and I would make a good pair was that he was taller than me, the general belief being that no relationship begins when the woman is taller than the man. Fine. All my blind dates had been based on height.

We went on a double date to see a play, and while sparks didn’t fly, when he called me to ask me out again, I said yes.

The thing about seeing a play is that you don’t talk much. And when you’re on a double date, you can let the other established couple do all the talking. You can end the evening not revealing much about yourself at all.

He showed up for our second date wearing running shoes, jeans, silver belt buckle, and a plaid short-sleeve shirt. I wore a copper-colered silk blouse, dressy black shorts (pleated and almost to the knee), black stockings, and black flats. And he said, “It’s too bad that’s not a skirt.”

My roommate said to him, “The thing you want to say is, ‘You look great.’”

He looked back at me. “You do. You do look great.”

This, I thought, was going to be a wasted evening.

But okay. Open mind! Positive thinking!

Then I had to climb up the steps of his oversized pickup truck with gun rack.

Open mind! Ooo! Look at that red flag! Isn’t it pretty?

When we pulled into the Denny’s parking lot, my mind made a foolish decision. I decided to barely speak to him and to tell him next to nothing myself. I decided not to be me. I would be the way I thought a desirable girl was supposed to be.

I’d be rubbish at it, of course, and he’d never want to see me again.

All through dinner he talked. I’d ordered a salad, which I’d never done before on dates because salads are too girly and I like to eat. I nodded, and said things like, “Really?” and “Hmmm.” and “Oh, interesting.”

He said, “So, you’re working on some kind of paper thing?”

“Yeah. My Master’s thesis–but you know, I like have to do it.”

He changed the subject. “You’re thinking of joining, what is it, the Peace Corps or something?”

I shrugged. “I’ve filled out the paperwork and had my interview.”

“But you might not go, right?”

I shrugged and changed the subject.

At the end of the evening, I let him come upstairs. My roommate wasn’t home. When he said I was amazing, I assumed this was just talk to let him stay until morning. He told me I was the most interesting girl he’d ever met. “Maybe so,” I said, ” But you’re still going to have to leave soon.”

He said he thought I was “the one.”

He said a few more ridiculous things. They were things no one else had ever said to me, the sorts of things a lovestruck boyfriend ought to say. But he wasn’t my boyfriend and after a while I made him leave.

And that, I thought, was that. I’d talked about almost nothing and let him think the night would end differently than it did. And he lived over an hour away. Surely he wouldn’t call back.

Well, he called. A lot. He sent flowers. He sent a teddybear. He sent a poem. He told my friend that he knew I was the right woman for him.

When my friend asked what I had done to the poor guy, all I could say was, “I wasn’t even me!”

I did feel bad I’d led him on, but I hadn’t thought it would actually work.

I was angry though that apparently the only way I could get a guy to pursue me was to lie. From the moment I’d ordered that salad to the moment I kissed him goodnight at the door, I had been faking who I was. The fake me was called amazing.

The real me…not so much.

All these years later I remember this and wonder about my writing. All the rejections and no agent calling me, I wonder–what about my writing should I change? What would make my work desirable? Maybe I should write about completely different things in completely different ways.

I worry that I would have not to be me.

And then! And then I would have an agent.

But it might be an agent who likes teddybears holding heart-shaped balloons.

High School, Facebook, and Who the Hell Am I Anyway?

Former high school friends find me on facebook. This happens to everyone who ventures onto fb-land. Maybe this makes you happy.

Most of the people who “friend” me, are nice people. They never did me any particular harm back in school. In some ways, catching up on their lives is good.

But here is the thing. I didn’t lose touch with most of them. No. Lose sounds so accidental, doesn’t it? Well, when I was 2 months away from turning 18, I packed my bags, got on a plane, and looked back reluctantly. I stayed in touch with one friend. One. We’ve stayed in touch for 20 years because she means an entire world to me.

Everyone else, no matter how nice they are, just reminds me of those high school years.

Did you like high school? I don’t understand people who liked high school. I’m 42, and still, to this day, when in my hometown I feel pressure on my chest, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to be unable to leave. This irrational fear lurks in my mind that one day, no matter how far I go, I will end up back there. In which I shall go mad and drink myself to death.

But my hometown helped make me the writer I am today. So. Make of that what you will. I’m reading If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. So far, so good. She mentions how our personalities are reflected in our writing.

A college friend has a published novel out,(you should read it!), and she mentioned to me how readers would come up to her at different events and talk to her as if they knew her. She, of course, didn’t know the first thing about them. But they felt they knew her because they’d read her book.

Last night I was looking over three stories I’d written, and the mothers in these stories are all horrible. They do terrible things to their children in one way or another. I do not think this means I hate my mother…but should I ever be a successful writer, there is a future college paper that says I do.

If someone read only my fiction, what kind of person would they think me to be? Who are you in your writing? Is it possible to even tell?

Is it just more self-obsession or part of the struggle to understand the self?

Publishing My Way

cover of for a handmade book

I’ve stopped participating in online conversations about self-publishing vs. traditional publishing.

another handmade book cover

Every person has to follow their own way, as we know, so I don’t see the point in even having those conversations. I mean, who cares anyway?

and one more handmade book cover

But I love the idea of making my own books. I’ve made a few in the past.

my novel

And now I’ve got another show coming up in January, and I’ve decided that instead of my usual framed art, I shall show books.

another copy of my novel

I did actually sell my novel as a handmade book once. I don’t know who bought it, but I will love the buyer forever.

So, not a practical choice. I’ll lose money, since I can’t sell enough at a price that will cover the costs. But that’s not why I make things. If I made things just for the money, I’d have to make very different things.

Anyway, I’m very excited about the next show.

And in your future? What are you looking forward to?

Shut the hell up, you silly writer!

So.

I finished (well, as much as I ever finish) the story I was pontificating about yesterday.

The problem with talking about things is that I leave the conversation wondering why I make such a big deal out of…whatever. Now I feel this story has an impossible burden placed upon it.

At this point I don’t even think I can tell you what the story is actually about.

Why did this story even occur to me? Hey, where do these ideas come from anyway?

Oh well. I’ve got lots of other stories to work on.

Phttht.

To Write or Not Write That Sex Scene

Why not fade to black and leave it all to the imagination?

The reader’s imagination is a great thing and shouldn’t be underestimated.

The comments on yesterday’s post made me think about several issues when deciding whether or not to write a sex scene. I’m no expert at writing such things, so this is mostly thinking out loud.

There are all these categories! Porn, soft porn, erotica, romance… Some people may argue that some of of these categories are the same. That may depend on if you think any a picture of a naked lady is always porn that should be hidden in the back of a closet or if it is sometimes art that should be displayed in a gallery.

Strictly speaking I’m not writing a romance. The genre of romance requires the happily ever after ending. So if you want your book to be in that romance section of the book store, you must have a the-couple-gets-together ending. I don’t have that kind of ending.

And I’m not writing a book, but a short story. Still—-there is no happy ending.

Even if I keep the sex scene in the story, I don’t think it qualifies as porn. Porn doesn’t give two fig leafs about relationships and complex emotions. My story is—-or I hope it is—-about my main character’s conflicted feelings.

I don’t think my story qualifies as erotica either. And what, might you ask, is the difference between erotica and porn? I found this interesting perspective here. Since my main character is male and I never say what is going on the minds of either the girlfriend or the other woman, the story doesn’t seem to meet the basic criteria for erotica.

And well, good golly, that’s not what I’m trying to write!

But if you write a sex scene are you automatically in one of these categories? I shouldn’t think so. I hope not.

I find it odd that people who have no hesitation in writing violence—-using various instruments used to puddle brains on the floor—-become squeamish about writing a sex scene. Sex is at least a normal part of life. Most people are going to have sex. Not that many people (one hopes) are going to butcher their neighbors. Of course, it is probably just such familiarity that makes the subject difficult.

Of course, we’ve all heard—-and any glance at advertising will tell you—-sex sells. This isn’t enough of an argument to include a sex scene, unless selling is all you’re interested in. First, there are people who don’t want to read stories with sex scenes. Second, nothing should be in a story that doesn’t reveal character or move the plot.

Well, how a character thinks and feels about sex reveals character, and whether or not the character has sex probably does move the plot.

But in the story I’ve been working on, can the intimate relations between the characters be off-stage?

The tension in the story starts with will he or won’t he cheat on his girlfriend? And I really want the reader to sympathize with my main character. I may loathe the likes of David Vitter and John Edwards (the list is long there, but we don’t have time for that), but I also don’t think every person who cheats is an automatic sleaze. That’s too simplistic. If I’ve done my job, you might think the character an idiot, but you might feel kind of sorry for him.

And I don’t want the reader to think the main character has left his moral conflict at the door.

To up the tension in the story, the main character may very well be caught. Sure, the girlfriend could catch him by finding a letter, lipstick on his collar, or text message, but let’s be honest, that just doesn’t have the immediate drama of being caught in flagrante delicto. I’m not saying he is caught. (spoilers!) But he might be.

And what I would really like if I could pull it off is to create a conflict for the reader—-to want him to get away with what he’s doing but not want him to hurt his very nice girlfriend, to want him to get what he wants but to feel bad for rooting for him.

This isn’t going to be a story for people who live in a black and white universe.

This brings me to a conversation I had with coworkers last week. It was a conversation that got a tad bit out of hand, and it started with the question: what is sex? Trying to come up with an answer led to more questions such as is oral sex sex or is rape sex. I am so not trying to answer those questions here (we didn’t really answer them at work either–thank goodness), but it seems that if you’re going to consider whether or not to write a sex scene, you ought to be clear about what you mean and what that might encompass.

This sure is an awful lot of rambling on for a story that may not even be any good. But at least you’ll know a lot of thought went into it.

Your thoughts would be appreciated!

Slippery Little Bastards

I really good at not writing sex scenes.

I was, after all, raised not talking about lots of things. In fact, by my teenage years, I was an expert at figuring out what my family was not talking about.

The more I didn’t talk about the things, the happier everyone was with me. There have been times in my life where attempting to talk about certain things has rendered me unable to speak at all. And relationships ended badly—-or strangely—-because I would look at them silently. Well, look away from them silently.

Girls are supposed to love talking to their boyfriends about the status of their relationship, right?

If I felt that a relationship needed discussing, I just stopped talking to him all together.

But okay. I’m a writer.

I wrote a fair number of letters. It is my fervent wish that these letters have since been thrown away by the recipients.

So I don’t write letters anymore. I write stories. And in stories certain things must be written! Deep emotions and thoughts and reactions must be expressed!

Such emotions, thoughts, and reactions can be expressed in small gestures—-like handing someone a cup of tea. Or, you know, in sex scenes.

The last few days I’ve been working on a difficult short story. I hate admitting to that because if you read the story you might be mystified as to why I think it is difficult, but my way of looking at things has mystified a lot of people. One more won’t hurt.

But why is the story difficult?

The main character is cheating on his girlfriend. And the story is about his emotions, thoughts, reactions to his infidelity. So, it kind of seems necessary that the infidelity is in the story. Am I wrong about that?

Am I finding the story difficult because I find writing such scenes difficult or because the story is rubbish? I could give up.

But I don’t want to.

Here is where I pull out my hair, hit my head on my desk, and shout, “Stupid words!” Sigh. No. Words aren’t stupid. They’re slippery little bastards.

Women Are Awesome. How about if We Stop Murdering Them?

I don’t remember when I started to care about women. (And I’m not going to say women’s issues because it’s not a self-contained status sort of thing. We’re half the population—-nothing special interest about that.)

In grad school I complained about a professor who told the class his favorite bar was called “The Silent Woman” and out front it had a picture of a woman with her head chopped off. I was told he had tenure and to go away.

In college I complained about a physics professor who said, “You ladies with your pressure cookers will understand this…” I was given extra points on my grade and told to go away.

In 10th grade a male classmate who sat next to me in the computer class told me repeatedly how he was going to find out where I lived, force his way in, and show me how he was “a real man.” I complained to the office. They told me to avoid him and try not to provoke him. (Even by sexist standards, I failed to understand this. I was a flat-chested, make-up-less bookworm. Short of not existing, I didn’t see how I wasn’t going to provoke him.)

In 7th grade I was sent to the office for slapping a boy. He had me pinned to a wall and was about to punch me. He wasn’t sent to the office. I didn’t get into trouble because, as the guidance counselor said, everyone knew I was “really a nice girl.”

In 5th grade I had a button on my person that read, “A woman’s place is every place.” I’d found the button in a bowling alley parking lot. I think it had already been run over. But I pinned it to my purse.

In 3rd grade I complained to teachers about a boy because, “He shouldn’t be talking to girls that way.” He had looked up my skirt and asked me to kiss him. I kicked him really hard. I was told to play nice. He got in no trouble at all.

And those are only the moments I’m going to share.

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of about violence against women around the world and in school shootings. And today I read a piece riffing on the famous quote, “Well-behaved women seldom make history”.

And another piece about having The Right Reader.

It’s funny how everyone agrees with the saying, “You can’t please everyone,” until they’re the one not pleased.

Recently a male facebook friend made disparaging comments about the Duchess of Cornwall–Camilla Parker Bowles. His main complaint wasn’t that Charles had cheated on his wife. Sure that was bad. But the bigger sin was to cheat on his wife with someone ugly, and he hoped the if William ever cheated on Kate, it would be with someone pretty.

I am insecure about my looks, and I had to ask my friend if he really thought that women judge unattractive were underserving of loving relationships. Really? Honestly, while I think Charles is a cad, I reluctantly admire his ability to devote himself to a woman whose looks are constantly insulted in the media. Here is a man who ignored his pretty, young wife for an older, dowdy woman. How cliche breaking is that?

In most places a woman is only as valuable as she is pretty. And virtuous.

I think one reason I had trouble killing a character in a short story recently was because that character was a teenage girl. Before her death, she had not been virtuous… Gosh, now I’m rethinking the ending again. Don’t we have enough violence against women and girls? Then again, because it happens, shouldn’t we write about it?

So, I realize that my “right reader” would be someone who cares about women too.

Do you ever consider how your characters reflect the culture or an issue that matters to you? And I don’t mean being didactic about it. Just, do you consider such things?

Kill Them All!

I’ve just killed someone. Well, a fictional someone. A fictional character that I quite liked.

She was young. And sympathetic. I wanted her to live, but that seemed…so unlikely. I’ve killed characters before…this one just bothered me more than usual.

Maybe I’ve watched too much of Stranger than Fiction.

Am I killing a character because it makes sense or for shock value or to end the story when I can’t think of anything else?

How do you know?

How many characters have you killed? Do you ever bad about it?

This Witch Doesn’t Make Love Potions, She Makes Stories (although maybe that’s the same thing)

Gypsy Witch Fortune Telling Playing Cards

To be a successful writer takes many things. The first thing may be a definition of success. For some people, that’s lots of sales.

I’ve had my art in two art festivals. Hundreds of people walked through my booth. Some of those people stopped to look. A few of those people talked to me. And a few of those people bought my art. I think I sold about 20 pieces. I can’t remember exactly.

Two days of standing for hours in a booth chatting with strangers. Hours of set up and tear down time.

Unknown number of hours making the actual art.

Money spent to apply to the show, to pay for the space, the rent the tent, to have business cards, to build a display system, art supplies, frames, and all sorts of incidentals you don’t realize you need until you’re in the middle of a thing like this.

I didn’t make money.

I broke even (maybe) if I don’t count my effort and time.

And I’m not counting the art I made that I had to give up on or throw away–because not every picture you start is going to work. That’s just lost supplies and time.

Some people think the art is too expensive. Although the people who go to art shows all the time think the art is wonderfully priced. But here is the odd thing I learned, most of the time, when an artist’s work isn’t selling, the best way to get people to buy is to raise prices.

I ponder this as I watch the race to lower prices on stories. My reader-self would like stories to be free. I want everyone to have access to fiction. No matter how poor you are, if you want to read, you should be able to.

But writers have to eat.

How much is a story worth? How do you know?