eXistenZ

Sorry, movie-makers, I already read the Chris Priest novel with the similiar name, and it was way better. It even got written a year earlier, minus the silly sexual "game pod" imagery and with actual characters.

Letting Go

One of the hardest parts about writing professionally; that is, writing in the corporate world, is letting go of things you know you could do better if you just had more time.

Deadlines come hard and fast. You often don’t have enough information to work with (and sometimes you’re just making up filler with no information at all), and you have to just do your best and get it out the door.

Fiction can feel like this sometimes, too (if only I held onto this book for another 5 years, it would be PERFECT because in 5 years I’ll be BRILLIANTER!), but the last couple of books I’ve worked on, I feel I’ve made them very nearly the best they could be, at the time, with what I had to work with and what my brain would actually parse and digest (GW gets better over time with more input and of course, there are so many months between edits that I tend to improve between drafts, but each time I finish it, I nearly always feel it’s the best I could do with what I had).

Corp writing has been more and less frustrating. More because, wow, you want everything you write to sparkle, but less because this isn’t your baby, your passion, your book. At the same time, I get off on taking crap and making it all make sense. I enjoy written communication; I fall in love with words. Reading can make for great foreplay (so can writing, for that matter), and good prose is terribly sexy.

But I know that I’m getting paid to produce something smart and legible on time to deadline, and Really Great whenever I possibly can. You do the best you can with what you’ve got, and move on and don’t dwell on it. You’re getting paid to produce, not to fall in love. You’re getting paid for product, not for passion.

But I confess that I often just can’t help slugging around a bit of both.

Buy Me "Love"

Fantastic documentary about Japanese "host bars" where women go to pay men to entertain them (and certainly, sometimes, more).

You really should watch the whole thing. I thought the film maker did a great job exploring a number of the complexities involved in this kind of work from the perspective of the hosts and clients (one of the more interesting tidbits: 70-80% of the women who pay extravegent sums for male attention in host bars make that money workingas prostitutes. Watch these sorts of industries perpetuate themselves).

Just Bleed on Your Phone

David's been half-jokingly asking me ever since he saw my cellphone-sized glucose meter when they were going to integrate a glucose meter and a cell phone.

"Soon," I'd say.

And here it is.

It is Hot

That is all.

I'm Just A Girl! (GamerGrrrlz)

Math is HARD

Daniel Abraham observes:

Ms. L suggests that Ms. M is insufficiently feminist because she is encouraging middle school girls to learn math by pointing out that being smart is not inconsistent with shopping and fashion and the consumerism that all us good lefties decry as bad and which middle school girls seem to think is just too nifty for words. If Ms. M wants to be a good role model for girls, she shouldn't do it (Ms. L suggests) by celebrating Gucci handbags....

Ms. L doesn't want math-smart girls. She wants TOTALLY LIBERATED, SELF-EMPOWERED middle-school girls RIGHT NOW, and anything less than total enlightenment is falling short. Which is great if what you want is the illusion of the moral high ground. And since that's not actually possible, it lets her off the hook for any effort toward incremental change.

True/False? Debatable? Totally on crack?

Have at it.

Condoms Beat AIDS

I mean, it's no worse than that whole guys-dressed-up-as-blobs trying to get through the gate video they showed us in third grade.

Certainly more entertaining.

Off to the Races

Despite th ankle silliness, my sugar's been pretty good the last couple of weeks. A sample from the last few days:

116
118
82

106
72
108

93
76
102

80
56
109

112
61
134

107
102

No idea how I'm doing this. A surprising lack of stress, perhaps. I mean: knowing you have health insurance is a beautiful thing.

Also, staying away from those chips at Chipotle? And toffee peanuts?

Priceless.

The Boys Found the Blog

... or, rather, I knew *somebody* at work had found the blog a couple of weeks ago because I found a second IP address sharing the same ISP as my my work IP. I waited around a bit for somebody to say something, but nobody did, so I shrugged it off.

I mean, dude, I work all day with IT guys: all one of them has to do is Google my name, and every hit that comes up is... me.

But today one of the guys came in and said something to somebody else about how he's only a year younger than me....

And my head shot up and I asked, "How did you know how old I am?" In part, I'm sure, because I was waiting to figure out who'd found the blog.

He quite happily directed everyone to brutalwomen.blogspot.com where my Ohio coworkers had their suspicions confirmed:

I am, indeed, from the left coast.

In any case, no harm, no foul. Regularly scheduled blogging here won't change, but if I have any awesome work stories, they'll all go in the locked LJ.

Hi, guys!

One for the Road

The 237 Reasons to Have Sex

And, here's the list of the 237 reasons to have sex thus far recorded and tabulated for SCIENCE. Do be sure to nominate your own....

Let Your Protagonist Be Ugly

Mary Sue is a term originating in fan fiction, for a phenomenon that has probably existed since a Cro-Magnon teenager scratched a stick figure single-handedly slaying mammoths on a cave wall.

The above is a short list of stuff you can do with your characters to avoid the Mary Sue syndrome: that is, the creation of a too-perfect, too-beautiful, infallible main character who makes every reader roll their eyes. I used to think that this was stuff that other writers thought about all the time, and I noted that I had very few really beautiful protagonists because I wanted them to operate in a society where they didn't have that going for them and had to rely on wits and/or brute strength or some other characteristic. At the same time, I'd make secondary characters who were beautiful and terribly flawed, so one of their best assets was their looks, and they knew it. Beauty is a character trait that will affect how you're seen and treated in the rest of the world, just like gender, just like race, just like education and background. You have to take it into consideration.

I don't remember who I was talking to, a couple of pro or semi-pro writers, and one of them said, in conversation, "You know, actually, now that I think about, all of my protagonists are traditionally attractive."

It's not that you can't do this, of course: the Kushiel books do this. It's just that it's one more interesting thing you can put into your character's pot, one more hurdle and/or obstacle they have to overcome, one more trait.

This goes for smarts, too. I think that, as geeks, we want to create people who never fuck up, who are smarter than everybody else, who never get into situations they can't *really* get out of, and who don't have to rely on other people; just their own smarts.

I remember reading the draft of a friend's book and realizing, at the end, that every single plan that one of the characters came up with.... worked. And I don't just mean "got the result they wanted," but every single plan came off exactly like she said it would, in exactly the right way. Halfway through the book, I didn't feel any sort of tension or suspense when she put a plan into motion, because... well, they always came off without a hitch.

I like to write about characters who fuck up. Not stupid characters, mind, but characters who fuck up because they weren't well informed, or somebody was informed more than they were, or they anticipated everything but this one thing. I like putting people in a place where they fail, because seeing a character fail, and seeing how they react to that, tells you an incredible amount about them. And creates a hell of a lot of suspense.

Angst, done well, is a fantastic tool too, but angst to the point of inaction kills your book. I've read a lot of first drafts from morose, angsty, depressed writers who drink too much who then open their books with a morose, angsty, depressed hero who drinks too much. It's not like you can't *do* this (Yiddish Policeman's Union is a good example of an angsty, depressed protagonist who drinks too much, but DOES something), it's that yes, you must DO something. Your character can wallow, but they need to act, they need to move, they need to progress the narrative, and they had better be doing far more action than angst in the beginning, in particular. I'm not going to feel sorry for some angsty protagonist I just met.

Some of this is just going to be personal author preference, I know. I don't like to write about beautiful protagonists: I like to write about unattractive but driven protagonists who angst after the beautiful secondary characters. I like to write about characters who fuck up. I probably default to this because that's my experience of life, and writing it up any other way would feel dishonest. That's not to say, again, that I haven't written dumb, beautiful characters or wily, beautiful characters, because I have (indeed, those people exist too), but these aren't the stories and conflicts I'm drawn to, they're not the ones I best sympathize with.

There is, I think, certainly some wish-fulfillment in much of the fiction we all write (which is probably why all the genre writers - SF/F, thriller, romance, etc get all the shit form the literary folks who think writing about drunk writers who can't get laid in New York is somehow realer and more noteworthy than writing about hard-up interstellar bounty hunters who save the world and get laid), though it's not necessarily a wish-fulfillment embodied in the character; perhaps merely the situation. It's the idea that we can all be powerful, we can all make a difference. And what I like to show, what I like to write about, is how we can all make a difference, we can all change the world, no matter how imperfect and fucked-up we may sometimes be (other writers' mileage and motives vary wildly, but that's mine).

If my protagonist can change the world while being illiterate, wombless, only carrying around one good kidney, with three fingers on her right hand, no money to her name, a not-beautiful face, a nice ass, a bad shot, and a fair ability in a boxing ring, I mean, really, you and me - with my faulty immune system, sprained ankle, graduate education and money in the bank - we really don't have any excuses.

The Navy Does "Hey Ya"

This is probably a far more effective recruiting video than anything they've got out there now. Enjoy.

Men & Women: Not So Different

I mean, it's like, we come from the same planet and similiar cultures and everything.

After exhaustively compiling a list of the 237 reasons why people have sex, researchers found that young men and women get intimate for mostly the same motivations.

I mean, who would have guessed that the number one reason people have sex is "Because I was attracted to the person."

Baffling, really.

What attractiveness means to different people (no matter the gender) varies quite a bit, which is why some people would argue that the title is a misnomer. I'd argue, in fact, that the title's right on. A lot of women, growing up, hear that it makes us better people to be attracted to people primarily based on how "good" they are, and men are told it's better to be attracted to people based on how "hot" the person is (socially determined standards of "attractive" of course). I think both genders factor in personality and looks, and those things influence each other to a huge degree, so sure, you're going to bed with someone cause you're attracted to them: what attraction is, what is means, varies wildly from person to person (which is why even those of us who are socially deemed "unattractive" by the media at large are still having lots of hot sex).

There were social things that were pretty unsurprising, too, like the fact that women were more likely to have sex to "please a partner" (or to say they wanted to have sex to please a partner: absolutely, there's patriarchy and coersion and etc. to deal with, but I think men are more likely to omit this or pretend it's something else, or even just more likely to refuse to have sex if they don't feel like it because of privilige, I think).

The aggrevating thing about this "study" was that they left out all the good parts. Like, women rank "wanted to give sexual partner a sexually trasmitted disease" at the bottom of their list of reasons why they have sex, but they don't say where men ranked this one (!). Why the omisson? Because it ranked #2 or because it ranked second to last? And then there's this tantalizing quote at the end:

“Originally, I thought that we exhaustively compiled the list, but now I found that there should be some added,” Meston said.

Like what? What was missing? What were the top things people wrote in? And where's a copy of the comprehensive list of 237?

Why does the AP always leave out the most interesting parts and make the huge "news" story about the "well duh" part?

Basic Geometry

Living in Three Centuries

Portraits (and stories) of age.

Independence

Another night, another attempt at making some kind of stupidly unnecessary move as a symbol of my independence, another four hours in an emergency room.

I had a lot of time to think about my foolish symbols of independence, the unnecessary treks I make and tasks I perform in order to prove I'm not dependent on other people, on insulin, on breathing; to pretend I'm somehow unlike other people, somehow removed from everyone else.

I fought hard for my independence in my early twenties, fought to show how strong and brave and emotionless I was. I could buy one way tickets to Alaska and live in third world countries and stop dating all together for six years, because all that would prove how strong I was, how coldly unemotional, how removed from this tide of people, from the social networks that keep us alive.

I did that for a long time, and I know it was a reaction. It was a reaction to a bad relationship, where I'd depended on somebody to do stuff who was actually inept, where I'd given up too much of myself, thinking that he knew what he was doing. I lost myself slowly over those two years, and then rapidly during the six months we lived together. I tried too hard to please somebody who was really just a scared kid like me, who really didn't know much more than me. If we could have been partners, if he could have admitted weakness, maybe things would have worked out better ie not in an abusive clusterfuck way. But neither of us would owe up to the fact that he wasn't invincible, and then the whole thing fell apart, and we tore each other up.

Sometimes, people say, when you're abused, you become like the person who abused you, because you see that they had power; you, too, want to be powerful, so you emulate them. What I learned, I think, was all of the things I hated about myself. I hated my blind trust. I hated my inability to fight back. I hated the screaming, sobbing person I became during a conflict. I hated who I became in that relationship, and for years, I avoided relationships because I believed they made me weak, dependent. They would turn me into that screaming, sobbing, wreck of a woman, and I didn't want to be that. I wanted to be somebody who wrote books and bought one way plane tickets. I wanted to learn French and learn how to fight.

The diabetes thing should have been a wake up call, should have torn me back from that other place. I was still having trouble with relationships, with, I believe the complaint was, at the time, "my inability to connect" or "a lack of connection." I formed relationships in such a way that I would always be OK if I stepped away from them. I made sure I didn't rely on them for anything: for money, for emotional support, for a trip to the bank. When you relied on people, it made you weak. People let you down. People weren't perfect.

But it was Jenn who saved my life and found me in a coma and called 911, and Jenn who sat with me two nights in the ICU, sleeping on two chairs pushed together, holding my hand every time they dug into my veins looking for a line. It was Jenn who cut things for me when I came home too sore to move my hands, and Jenn who offered me everything, anything, whatever I needed.

This was love.

But to me, it was dependence. I pushed it away. I railed against it. I had to prove I was strong, prove I was still me, prove that I could do anything. I could fly.

Obviously, there were other issues involved, but that was a big one I was dealing with, one I was unable to deal with. I'd spent so long working so hard at not relying on other people that to not only have that freely offered, but to actually, in fact, sometimes really need that.... it was devastating. It was heartbreaking. It shook the core of who I was, who'd I'd become, what I'd made of myself.

I didn't know who I'd be anymore, if I wasn't this woman I'd built.

I lost a friend in part because of my inability to depend on others, to accept love and affection and just plain friendship, but that wasn't enough. No, I couldn't inconvenience people. I had to prove I was strong.

It took a harrowing, horrible situation in Chicago to make me accept Steph & the Old Man's offer to stay here in Dayton. Things had to spiral into some kind of chaotic nightmare, and telling you how ingrained this idea was in me - this idea that I should not count on or rely on others - and yet, I moved to Dayton anyway, tells you how bad things had gotten in Chicago.

By accepting the offer, I hoped I was making some progress. Here I was accepting kindness, relying on others for a roof over my head. But no, I had to continue to do needless, stupid things, like not ask for rides to places they could easily take me and map out convoluted bus routes instead. Refuse to "inconvenience" them by asking for a trip to the grocery store because really, I could get most everything on my bike, and I didn't really *need* any pop or anything really heavy. If everyone was home, I didn't *need* to work out in the living room. If everyone was around, I didn't *need* to eat with them, because I was independent. I'm strong. I can do anything.

And tonight I came home, and, me being me, I needed a copy of The 300. Because I'm me, and it's payday. There's a Wal-Mart three miles down the street, but I didn't want to bike there because I wanted to pick up a book shelf for my pony mods, too. Steph was home, but she was visiting with her mother and sister in law, and you know, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone. I didn't want to get in the way.

So instead of asking Stephanie for a ride down the street to get the shelf, I took a half hour bus ride down south to the Dayton Mall. I wandered around the way-out-there Wal-Mart, lost track of time, and stood in a big ass line with my movie, waiting to check out, realizing I wouldn't have time to get the shelf anyway. By the time I finished the transaction, I had four minutes to make the next bus.

I ran. I bolted out of the store and I ran like mad, because, this being Dayton, the next bus wasn't for an hour and a half, and me being me, I wasn't going to call Steph or the Old Man to come pick me up because I'd missed the bus. I would have to find something to do for an hour and a half, and it was Friday night, and I just wanted to get home.

Within sight of the bus station, I tripped over the curb and went down hard.

I rolled my right ankle and came up wincing. One look down, and I knew something was very wrong.

There was a fist-sized swelling on my right ankle.

Well, fuck.

I limped the rest of the way to the bus station and propped my leg up. I started getting those rolling waves of black flashes across my vision. I wanted to throw up. I thought I was going to pass out. My ankle kept swelling.

I called Stephanie as my bus pulled up and told her to come and get me and haul me over to the Miami Valley emergency room.

And when Stephanie and the Old Man arrived, the first thing Stephanie said, of course, with a sigh, was, "You realize we would have come and picked you up if you missed this bus."

Yes. Of course I knew that.

But I didn't want to rely on them. I didn't want to inconvenience anyone. I wanted to be strong and independent.

But I'm an insulin-dependent diabetic. This desire makes no logical sense anymore. I can't pretend I wouldn't die without insulin. I can't pretend I won't die without other people to make that insulin, and the other tools I need to survive. But I can try and make myself less of a burden. I can try and be strong.

But these days, all my attempts to be strong just end up being attempts at being stupid.

And there I was, lying once again in a hospital bed in the Miami Valley emergency room, waiting for the X-ray results to come in, thinking about how lessons are repeated until they're learned.

Tonight, I learned how to be a funny patient. I joked with the staff and was loud and gregarious when I was not hobbling or haggling with the security people who delayed my progress. The X-ray tech was hot, and I waxed on with the billing clerk about what it's like being a document writer for a tax company. He remembered me from my last visit to this emergency room, and we joked about suing the RTA.

Hospitals, at some point, become terribly funny, because once something is done, it cannot be undone. Once you make a decision, a foolish action, you must live with it.

And you must learn from it.

Because if you don't, it will be repeated.

I stared down at the fist-sized swelling on my ankle and thought about surgery, about broken bones, about half a dozen bad possibilities. I prepared for those while the Old Man waited for me out in the waiting room as the hours of his Friday night ticked by.

A nurse swung by and gave me some vicodin.

The friendly, boisterous doctor showed up with the X-ray results and exclaimed:

"It's not broken!"

"It's not?" I said, with a great rush of breath, an enormous sense of relief. Another tragedy averted. Another foolish warning given.

"You've severely sprained it, though," he said. "You've chipped some of the bone on that knobby bone here on the inside of your ankle. Sometimes severe swelling is good, because it means you took most of the strain on your tendons and all the fleshy bits here."

Thank god for the fleshy bits.

"We'll set you up with an air cast you can strap on and take off for showerings, but you'll need to be on crutches for a week. Here's a prescription for some more vicodin and a doctor to call for a follow-up appointment."

Not broken.

No surgery. No blood. No needles. No months lugging around a clunky cast. No crutches in Switzerland.

Sometimes I have to stop and wonder why I'm so lucky.

"Thank you," I said.

And as I made my way back into the waiting room, there was the Old Man waiting for me, saying, "So you didn't die? Too bad. I wanted all your stuff!" because he knows, more than anybody else here, how you deal with the never ending fight with your body, with the world, with failure and rebirth:

Humor and sarcasm.

I am so lucky.

When I came home and sat down with Stephanie and her mother-in-law at the table, I owed up to it, I told them, "I know this is a lesson. I know it'll happen again unless I learn it."

"People need people," Steph's mother-in-law said. "It's really OK. It's how we survive. We need each other."

But I don't want to need anything. I don't want anyone to need me. I want something else, some phantom strength; I want to be a superhero.

But the person I want to be isn't human.

I went to bed and rearranged everything and made sure the laptop extension cord can reach the bed and put the phone next to me and the hard candy near by and settled in for a long weekend of meals in bed and writing.

Writing in a world about a woman who thinks she lives, somehow, outside of the world, apart from it, a woman who believes she can live without love, while her body breaks down around her.

At least I have no illusions about where my core emotional story arcs come from.

There's not much else to think about when you're staring at the ceiling in the emergency room.

Except maybe that hot X-ray tech.

And my surprising ability to squeeze out just one more breath of life, just a little bit longer.

Overdosing

8 + 8 would be 16, not 32.

Which would mean one unit of insulin, not two.

This is why you should never work and shoot up at the same time...

Top Ten Reasons Gay Marriage Should Be Illegal

I mean, isn't it obvious?