I have always found goth or emo-type people to be affected. I've never understood why someone would take an interest that most people find bizarre and turn it into a lifestyle. It always seemed like a cry for attention to me - kids who were lonely, feeling on the fringes of their social world, who just want to say fuck it and take their differences to the extreme.
Having said that, I started wondering yesterday what happens to these people when they grow up? Of course there's the famous example of Marilyn Manson, who found a way to make money at it and so never had to. But at some point, most of us have to move out of our parents' houses and get on with our lives. Eventually we all get out of school and have to find real jobs, spouses, and the ordinary day-to-day world begins.
I guess some people just go underground, of a sorts, dress normally during the week and take on a different persona in their free time. But even that, it would seem, would eventually have to end, as the places you frequent and the crowd you fit in with get younger and younger than you each year. What is that day like, when you realize that all those black outfits will no longer be worn? When the black nail polish and lipstick get put away for the final time? How does it feel to finally be forced by society to slough off a personality, a personality you originally acquired to deal with society to begin with?
When I was in high school and college, there were lots of goth kids around. I wonder, as I look around at my Generation X as we've aged, how many of those soccer moms and baseball-coach dads I see everywhere were once those goth kids? Do you lose your angst, or just swallow it? Do you one day decide that the world isn't a bad place after all, or do you just drink the kool-aid?
I can't really speculate too much, as I was never one of them. I was in school, as I am now, just one of those average people who sort of gets along with everyone. I had friends of all ilks, and still do. I blend, like a chameleon, from the PTA to the computer geeks to the art scene. Whatever the weather brings.
Speaking of which.
Raining and cold today. Received a idea yesterday from the fiction gods, my own version of the gothic horror stories of Poe and his ilk. Am still editing the atrocious sci-fi mess that I wrote, though at least I feel now like it is starting to shape up somewhat. Maybe I'll go dress up in all my black clothes, and spackle on the black eyeliner. March on, Marilyn.
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Now playing: a-ha - Little Black Heart
via FoxyTunes
Paint It Black
Anthony Burgess and the Martini Method
There's an old story about the writing habits of Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange, for those of you who don't know). Legend has it that his method for production was to force himself to write 1000 words a day, 365 days a year. Every day, when he'd finish, he'd stop working and reward himself with a martini. When I read this, I thought to myself, hmmm...1000 words is doable. And 365,000 words a year is certainly production. So, I've tried it out, and so far, so good.
I write something, anything, 1000 words. Even if nothing salable comes of it, the exercise itself is honing my craft. I learn something every time I sit down to write. How to create believeable dialogue. How to take a character sketch and shape it into a story with direction. Sometimes I just make one line better, more accurate, more artful. And then I am free for the rest of the day. Free from guilt, and free to think, wonder, and imagine.
Good news has come today. A story I sent off a few weeks ago to a British horror magazine has passed the first read with the editors. Not an acceptance, but it has put me on cloud nine. It's progress. Yeah!
21 January 2008
Ennui
I'm not exactly sure what's wrong with me these days. Maybe it's winter, and the fact that it's been perpetually cold and/or rainy since Christmas. Maybe it's the mounting stack of rejection slips I am collecting, breeding on my doubts and fears. I can't quite pinpoint the cause, but the effect has been staring at a blank screen for days. I've written several sketches for stories, but nothing is going anywhere. The fact that I'm not writing has started breeding a low grade panic in me as well, which in turn contributes to trying to force myself to create something. Deep down I know that there is no such thing as forcing creativity, but the fact is, I need to sell something - I need to start making money at this profession, or it won't be a profession for very long.
Apparently, I'm not the only one having this problem. Wil Wheaton and Elizabeth Bear seem to be having the same sorts of troubles. Luckily for them, however, they have deadlines and agents/editors on their backs. I have nothing but my own motivation, which has not been very active for the last couple of weeks.
One bright spot. Yesterday I got out of the house and started driving. I have always loved to do that, just riding around, listening to music and thinking by myself. And for those few moments, it worked. Stuff started flowing again, as if I'd turned on a tap. Sadly, I had places to go and shit to do, so not much came of it, but it gave me hope.
Therefore, the new plan is GTFOOTH, otherwise known as Get the F__ Out Of The House. I'm going to pack up my laptop and go somewhere. Anywhere. Ride around. Stop at a coffee shop and work with no distractions for a couple of hours. I think that by staying home all the time, the first Law of Procrastination comes into play. It's a sad day when I keep up with the laundry around this place, but right now there's not a dirty towel in the house.
Yeah, I need to get outta here.
18 January 2008
Working Again
Today was my first full day back into writing since the holiday season began, and it felt both strange and comfortingly familiar. I am out of practice and have had a very hard time concentrating today when I try to flesh out scenes from the current story I am working on. Conversely, when I work on journaling and just let myself sit and think, ideas are flowing all around me begging for an audience. So, part of the day was spent researching those new tidbits and writing notes for other projects. I think it will take a few days to get my groove back, per Stella.
I am so often pulled in several different directions. I love sci-fi and fantasy, and am working on several short stories in that genre. I have a book inside me about addiction and the havoc it wreaks on families, which is decidedly not sf, but that I wrote the opening scene for today. Also a big fan of African American literature, Ernest Gaines, and Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison, and I want to write a book that brings that experience into the modern age and in connection with white Southern youth who try to overcome the prejudices of their ancestors. Then of course there's Lilith, who stalks me unashamedly and without end, waiting for her turn. They are all in there, begging to get out, and I feel sometimes like a tiny pinhole in a bag full of water.
I got a rejection letter for "The Question" a couple of days ago. Was disappointed, but hey, that's the game. Re-submitted to another magazine this morning, so we'll see.
I'm kept hopeful, and encouraged, by successful writers who are kind enough to blog about their writing process. Although it doesn't make it any easier, it is so comforting to hear that a well-known published author struggles with the same day to day problems as I do. Thanks Neil Gaiman, Elizabeth Bear, Wil Wheaton, and William Gibson. Thank you for giving me a frame of reference along with a healthy dose of reassurance.
09 January 2008
Persistence Indeed
I have always had trouble staying the course with my writing. It is a bit of a love/hate relationship I have with my pen - on the one hand it is part of me, and I am compelled by something bigger than myself to tell stories. On the other hand, it is had for me to focus so intently, difficult for me to get past the daily distractions and stick to a vision. I'm not sure how to describe it, except to say that it is like exposing pieces of myself, pieces I normally keep hidden. They call to me, my characters and stories, and insist on their freedom, but it is hard to let them go.
I have spent years cultivating excuses for not sitting down and writing. I am very good at it. I'll never be free, though, to be the writer I've always wanted if I continue to live from one procrastination exercise to another, spending my days telling those little voices to hush already.
NaNoWriMo has been very good for me. I'm sitting down to write and finding that the words do come. There is more to me than short stories. I am 5000 words in now, and am finding that I have a voice, and something to say. The story is coming together magically in my head- as I write, the story plays out on a little ribbon-movie in my head. It is wonderful. It is enlightening. It is what makes me happy.
Part of the credit also goes to a book I am reading, by Julia Cameron, called The Right to Write. She systematically dismantles all those arguments you make to yourself about why you don't have the time or the skill to be a writer. I have been so focused this year on selling a story that I forgot about the sheer joy that the act should give to me. I let myself get so caught up in the editing, rewriting, fear of rejection, and procrastinating that I lost my focus. This book helped me find it again, and I highly recommend it to anyone who has that "Great American Novel" inside somewhere waiting to see the light of day.
09 November 2007
NaNoWriMo
As many of you in the struggling-writer-in-progress online world know, November is National Novel Writing Month, with its annual challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I signed up last year, wrote two pages, and spent the rest of the month dodging encouraging emails and reminders. This year, I'm committed. I have been writing and submitting stories and articles all year (though have yet to sell any), and throughout the summer that voice which has dogged my steps for as long as I can remember has gotten steadily louder. (You know that voice. The one who says, HEY! WRITE THAT NOVEL YOU'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT FOREVER!!)
For the last few days I have been doing research on my topic (Lilith), as well as some historical time periods I plan to include. I have worked out a vague storyline in my head, and I hope that Neil Gaiman is right when he says at some point it will all come together like magic and I'll know what I'm doing.
My main strategy this time is just to WRITE. I have a terrible habit of writing two paragraphs, then spending 3 days editing them to death. This time, I am going to just write, get the words down on paper, and forbid myself to go back and look at anything until December 1. As they say at the NaNoWriMo hints page, the time for editing is later, when you have a manuscript. The important thing is to get to that point first.
I will add updates here, hopefully every couple of days, to let my faithful reader(s) know how it is going. I also have a post coming up on E.A. Poe, in celebration of All Hallow's Eve.
25 October 2007
News and Info
The Times Picayune's Book editor Susan Larson has written an article on Fall 2008 books by Louisiana authors. You can see it here.
Also, local author Chere' Coen has recently launched a new website for readers and writers called Louisiana Book News. Very cool to have a place where you can find local author appearances and signings, reviews, and general goings-on in the reading and writing community. Chere' also writes a book column here on Sundays in our local newspaper.
Finally, the State Library of Louisiana has an interesting site worth checking out, The Center for the Book. Here you'll find a searchable database of Louisiana authors, information on a couple of writing contests, as well as info pertaining to local book festivals. Good resource - check it out.
Off to the Friends of the Lafayette Parish Library Used Book Sale today. Hurricane Humberto is knocking on my front door, but who cares when there are yummy books to peruse and buy. :)
13 September 2007
The Graveyard Road, Pt. II
Photo - Paul Devereaux from the Fortean Times
Related to my previous post about The Graveyard Road in my hometown, I've been doing some research lately on the lore of the Coffin Road, sometimes referred to as a Corpse Road or Lych Way. They were medieval creations in Europe, primarily the UK from what I can gather, and although they started out as political tools, have all sorts of interesting myths surrounding their creation and use.
In the Middle Ages, the Roman Catholic church reigned supreme in Europe. Individual parish churches were numerous - sometimes too numerous for the populations in their immediate vicinity. In order to guarantee a bit of revenue from funeral and burial fees, they asked for and received permission to require residents of certain areas to use a specific church for the burial of their dead. Sometimes families had to transport their loved ones several miles in order to reach the cemetery where they had to be buried. In order to facilitate this transport, paths and small lanes were constructed, leading from various villages and settlements to the graveyards they had been assigned. Some even had large "coffin stones" carved on which to occasionally rest Grampa or Uncle Joe, as carrying a full coffin for several miles over sometimes rough terrain could be pretty tiring.
As you can imagine, lots of stories, traditions and folklore sprang up around these highways of the dead. People in those times had no scientific explanations for the odd lights that showed up occasionally in fields at night, or why little Susie came down with a mysterious illness no one could explain or cure. People really, really believed in curses and ghosts, and took them very seriously. Care was taken to keep the spirits of the dead in their place, as fear of revenants was common. Many times coffin roads passed over streams, for example, because it was commonly believed that spirits could not pass over running water. Another trick was to transport the dead to the cemetery with their feet pointing away from home, in the hopes that when and if they walked, they would do so in the opposite direction from which they came.
A traditional English Lychgate (entrance to cemetery)
Courtesy of Wikipedia
Courtesy of Wikipedia
Interestingly, the idea of spirit roads was not a new thing, even in the Middle Ages. In Celtic Europe, "fairy roads", which always traveled (in theory) in straight lines, criss-crossed the countryside and were the reserved travel ways of the fey. People took great care not to build structures across them, or block them in any way with fences or hedges. Violation would incur the wrath of the supernatural - hauntings, poltergeist activity, and mysterious illnesses.
Related to all of this is the folklore surrounding crossroads, which by tradition are places where not only roads, but worlds, intersect. The Devil is said to keep watch at crossroads, a myth manifested in America by the legend of Robert Johnson, who sold his soul in Mississippi at a crossroads at midnight in exchange for the ability to play and sing the Blues. Suicides and criminals were often buried at crossroads to keep them from roaming and seeking solace with the living. One famous example in Britain is Tyburn, the traditional spot for hangings in London for centuries. It was located at the crossroads of two ancient Roman roads.
Sadly, many of the old Coffin Roads have fallen into disuse and neglect. Most people don't know the origin of these strange, overgrown tracks and pathways that lead through the countryside. The dead have to find their own way these days, picking among the ghosts of their former highways and byways. I like to imagine, however, that in time they find their destination anyhow.
References:
"Where The Ley Lines Led" from The Fortean Times
Wikipedia articles on Coffin Roads, Lych Gates, and Tyburn, London
Related to all of this is the folklore surrounding crossroads, which by tradition are places where not only roads, but worlds, intersect. The Devil is said to keep watch at crossroads, a myth manifested in America by the legend of Robert Johnson, who sold his soul in Mississippi at a crossroads at midnight in exchange for the ability to play and sing the Blues. Suicides and criminals were often buried at crossroads to keep them from roaming and seeking solace with the living. One famous example in Britain is Tyburn, the traditional spot for hangings in London for centuries. It was located at the crossroads of two ancient Roman roads.
Sadly, many of the old Coffin Roads have fallen into disuse and neglect. Most people don't know the origin of these strange, overgrown tracks and pathways that lead through the countryside. The dead have to find their own way these days, picking among the ghosts of their former highways and byways. I like to imagine, however, that in time they find their destination anyhow.
References:
"Where The Ley Lines Led" from The Fortean Times
Wikipedia articles on Coffin Roads, Lych Gates, and Tyburn, London
12 September 2007
A New Forum
(Authors Note: I'm posting this here, and also as the initial article on the new blog, in order to direct traffic. I'll be posting my first article on the new blog soon.)
Even after I wrote about my political posting, I wasn't happy about the state of my blog. What is it about? Writing? Politics? I am well aware that art and political discourse don't play well together. Hell, they don't even look good sitting on the same bench. Therefore after some thought I decided to break things up into separate entities.
The Persistence of Vision will continue to be about the things that prompted its origin - art, writing, folklore, magic and other interesting tidbits. The Paradox of Vision will be my activist voice - reserved for the constant struggle I feel as a citizen of the United States in 2007. There are days when I read the news and it is filled with things I don't want to see, things which outrage me and cause me to question the future of our nation. Other times I look around and see people and ideas that make me proud to be an American. It is open to any topic under the political umbrella - from the latest despotic labors of Mr. Bush and his cronies to rampant Republican hypocrisy, Louisiana politics and candidates and citizens that I admire and support. I know there are tons of political blogs out there supporting both sides of the aisle, but I don't care. I am a citizen, and a voter. My voice is important, even if it is drowned out in the crowd. I won't hide my eyes to what is going on around me. Democracy cannot die as long as there are informed voices that demand truth and justice.
I'll also be welcoming the LOML as a co-author and occasional ranter-in-residence. His screen name is El Prez, and he'll be offering his own take on free speech issues, legislation affecting electronic freedoms, and occasionally, opinions which are totally at odds with my own. But hey, I welcome discourse. It's what America is all about.
The Graveyard Road
When I was a little girl in rural (very rural) Louisiana, we lived in a tiny neighborhood close to the crossing of what is called there "the backroads". Generally, people got around on the main highway of the area, US 165, which runs north to south through the western edge of the state. The backroads were a collection of paved and unpaved ways that led between all of the same towns as 165, but were small, narrow, and cut through the deepest parts of the woods. They didn't lead triumphantly into the little towns, with cute little flower gardens kept up by the ladies' auxiliary and "Welcome to..." signs posted, but instead crept surreptitiously into neighborhoods only the locals knew. One of these roads, within walking distance of my house, was called the Graveyard Road. I think it had an official name of some family or other, but the Graveyard Road is what everyone called it. It was short, more of a lane, really, less than a quarter mile long, and it dead-ended in our tiny community cemetery. When we were bored in the summertime we used to take walks down there, picking blackberries that grew on the fences alongside and swatting mosquitos. When we got to the graveyard we'd wander among the tombs and crypts, speculating about how the people there had died. Trees grew thick and heavy along its length, keeping the little street shrouded in quiet darkness even on the brightest of days. Everything down that road was laced with mystery. It didn't seem like a serene resting ground for loved ones. It just seemed spooky. My grandfather is buried there. So is my mother.
As I have been working along on a pile of stories lately, one thing has become clear to me - that a large number of them share a common theme - the supernatural. I have a couple of ghost stories, a Louisiana swamp werewolf, and the usual odd assortment of various creepies. I've decided then, to bind them up as a collection when I am done, and to try to sell them as a book instead of individually. The title? The Graveyard Road.
11 September 2007
The Usual Suspects
You know I am absolutely fascinated by how the Bush Administration struts around and boasts about making the world safer since 9/11, when the actual perpetrator is still out there, making new videos and (I have to believe) laughing his ass off. Bush and his pals managed to turn what should have been an international criminal investigation into a pointless, expensive war that has so far managed to kill more Americans than the actual attack itself. It galls me to see these videos surface, and then to hear a Bush spokesperson claim that bin Laden is "virtually impotent". Excuse me? This man killed 2,973 people on American soil. Sorry, Mr. President, but that doesn't sound impotent to me.
Meanwhile, Rudy Giuliani, who, along with Bush, has made a virtual career of profiting off the misery of the victims of 9/11, especially the brave first responders who lost their lives that day, is caught telling a big, fat, boldfaced lie on television. Check out the video at "The Real Rudy", a new project that strives to let the world know there is more to "America's Mayor" than a few slick and well-played television appearances.
Also, for those of you who watched the video I posted a couple of weeks ago concerning the genocide in Darfur, but don't quite understand why the hell all that misery is going on, here is a quick explanation.
Finally, I found this great cartoon from Harper's which sums up the Democrats in Congress very well:
Could it be...could it be...a backbone?
Goodbye, Ms. L'Engle, You'll Be Missed
Very sad last night to hear of the passing of Madeleine L'Engle. She has always held a very special place in this reader's heart, as her book, A Wrinkle in Time, was the first sci-fi/fantasy-type book I ever read, and she literally opened up a new world to me that I had no idea existed. I was a skinny little girl from the back woods of Louisiana, and as you can imagine there wasn't a lot of Asimov or Bradbury on our library shelves. One day, however, my teacher offered up as a prize in a math quiz a little paperback she'd gotten as a class bonus from Scholastic. It had a picture of a centaur on the front, and when my turn came to choose a prize from the box, I picked up that book, intrigued. When I started reading it I was astonished and delighted, but most of all, I felt like Meg and Charles Wallace lived in a world that I knew, a world where you were considered "weird" if you were smart and slightly isolated from everyone else. In Meg and Charles Wallace, I found my long lost sister and brother.
In the obituaries I've read about Ms. L'Engle, she is always described as a Christian author, which I suppose she was, but I never felt her work to be preachy. She conveyed her vision of Christianity as a fundamental battle of good vs. evil, light vs. dark, rather than dogma. Even now, when my own faith has faded and drifted away, I can read her books and agree with much she had to say. She was the best kind of teacher. Shine on, Meg.
08 September 2007
To Stand or Kneel
I opened this blog up to different topics earlier in the summer mainly so that I could go off on tangents concerning subjects I found interesting, subjects which in one way or another have influenced my stories. By that I meant some of the few things left in the world which still have an air of mystery about them - things that could conceivably, if we squint our eyes and promise not to overanalyze, exist because of a bit of magic.
Instead it seems I have been posting a lot lately about politics. In fact, almost exclusively so since I re-launched. This has come about as a direct result of where my attention has been focused in the last few weeks, as I have been finding it very hard to search for bits of magic in the midst of what seems like the darkest days of American politics. I am genuinely concerned about what kind of world my children will inherit - not in the 'high school valedictorian/Miss America speech' sort of way. No. I mean, I really am concerned that there will be no more America, that my kids or their kids could actually live in a United States which no longer exists as a democracy.
Every day I read things which alarm the hell out of me. Every day part of me wants to stop paying so much attention, stop writing letters to the newspaper, stop blogging about it or endlessly aggravating anyone who will listen about the state of my country. Bear in mind, now, that I live in the heart of an almost purely Red state. It's hard to find anyone here who takes Progressive politics seriously. Most people I know despise the ACLU, think global warming is an elaborate liberal hoax, and believe that we should legislate against gay marriage. If it weren't for the sympathetic ear of the LOML to listen to my almost daily rampages, I don't know what I'd do.
In any case, I do have other interests. I do still believe that magic exists in small pockets here and there, and it does influence what I write about and how I see the world. I promise that my posts will be more varied in the future, but I can't promise that I'll leave politics completely out of it. One day, when all of this shit is over and done with, I want to be able to look my children in the eye and tell them that when I was challenged and times were dark, I stood up instead of knelt down. I owe it to them.
06 September 2007
August 29, 2007
Two years ago today I was sitting in my boyfriend's apartment in Lafayette, Louisiana. I huddled down with my children in front of the television and watched Katrina, in a matter of hours, change my life and the lives of millions of others forever. I watched the screen and cried all day, wondering if my friends were alive, wondering if my home was gone, wondering who or what would be left when the winds and water went away.
A day later I watched again, slack jawed, tears running down my face, as thousands of human beings were treated like cattle, hungry, thirsty, dying in the heat, waiting for someone to help them. I watched the local politicians get on television, crying, begging and screaming for help from the federal government. I watched the federal politicians play golf and issue a couple of declarations, while turning down international aid. I watched as Canadian Mounties arrived to help before our own military was deployed.
And here we are, two years later. Our city and region have become a fashionable stop off on campaign trails, but little more. Neighborhoods and cities still lie in ruins. Once again, I am watching the screen, watching videos of the recovery progress so far, and not much has changed.
In the time since, volunteers have come by the thousands, offering their time and money to help rebuild. It is a pathetic and infuriating truth that our government has not followed their example. Local and state politicians wring their hands and gnash their teeth at Washington in hopes that the voters will think they're "doing something". Federal politicians just don't give a damn. We're a small, poor state, with only 9 electoral votes. We don't count, basically. Do you think that if Los Angeles had been devestated by a tsunami they'd still be living in FEMA trailers two years later? What about New York?
Douglas Brinkley (who, I might add, has since left New Orleans himself) has a great opinion piece here called "Reckless Abandonment".
What have we gotten in the two years since Katrina? Empty words filling jars of empty promises. Just ask our esteemed President:
This is America, for god's sake. What are we doing? What if this were your home? Everyone, every single one of us, should do somehing. Sign the petition for the Gulf Coast Recovery Act. Contact your Congressman and ask them where all that foreign aid went. Don't let our beautiful city die, and the people who make it so unique fade into oblivion and be forgotten. I am these people. You are these people. Our response to Katrina as a nation is a direct reflection of our values, our compassion, and our unity.
"The ultimate measure of a person is not where they stand in moments of comfort and convenience, but where the stand in times of challenge and controversy." -Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
29 August 2007
The (IM)Moral Majority
My oh my: once again it seems a Republican Congressman has been caught rockin' out with his...well you get the drift. I find it amusing (ok, sad, really) that Bill Clinton was politically crucified for his extramarital affairs, and yet the holier-than-thou set keep getting caught in extraordinarily compromising situations. Let's see...in the last year we've seen an unhealthy interest in boys, frequent trips to the local escort services, and now some attempted touchy-feely in an airport men's room. At what point do the Republican political strategists say "hey, maybe we should tone down the morality issue, 'cause we can't really defend it all that well." If it weren't so infuriatingly hypocritical, it might be funny.
Of course they'll never back down, because the Republicans are the annointed party of God. Everybody knows that. They have been charged from on high with saving this country of sinners from abortion rights, gay marriage, and the teaching of evolution. Or...could it be possible that the Republican party only panders to the Christian right in order to snag that voting bloc? Nah, couldn't be.
28 August 2007
Something Everyone Should See
This video shocked and saddened me. Why are we not hearing more about this in the American media? What a shame that the lives of pampered and spoiled celebrities are worth more than thousands who suffer and die daily.
