Evil, And What to Do With It

Little known fact: When I started blogging here, it was mostly extremely brief reflections on books I'd listen to during my day job.

Well, it's back! Not the day job, but the brief reflections on books—I plan to call them "Book Bites," because alliteration is my jam.

First up. Michael Finkel's True Story: Murder, Memoir, Mea Culpa (apparently alliteration is his jam as well).

via amazon.com

I found Finkel's book by searching for "memoir" (subject keyword) and "e-audiobook" (media type) in the LA public library database, so I had little background information to go on when I started listening.

Background

In short, just as the author is fired from The New York Times for falsifying a character in an investigative news article, he finds himself in an odd friendship with Christian Longo, a man accused of murdering his wife and three children.

Their lives intersect after Finkel learns that Longo impersonated him while on the lam in Mexico—telling everyone who asked that he was a New York Times journalist. The two become avid pen pals and even friends.

Finkel weaves his downfall as a reporter with Longo's account of how he came to murder his wife and children. Although Longo's crimes are exceptional, Finkel comes to identify with Longo, seeing them as in some ways very much alike.

Reflection (spoilers!)

What would it be like to come face to face with evil? And what if you kind of liked the guy anyway? Finkel leaves no doubt in the reader's mind that Christian Longo is an evil person, even as he describes him as charming, witty, and likable.

At the end of his trial, Longo takes the stand to give his account of the murders. It's chilling—not because he's telling the truth (he seems incapable of this), but because of the nature of his lies (as Finkel points out).

I feel like this gets to the heart of a certain something about evil: it gets the details wrong—although internally consistent, Longo's account rings a false ethical note. Longo cannot paint himself in anything less than a favorable light, even as he describes killing his own two year old daughter. He is always the real victim. When he sheds tears over the death of his family (which he caused for no discernible reason), you get the sense that he is actually crying for himself—his loss, his nightmares, his pain. When he remembers hearing his daughter's screams, he feels sorry for himself for having to relive such a painful memory.

I felt conflicted about the character of Michael Finkel, the author. I have a difficult time sympathizing with writers who commit the kind of journalistic crimes that cost him his job. He admits to being an egoist—He was infatuated with "Michel Finkel, New York Times journalist." He admits that he's always had a problem with lying. And when he first brings up his crimes, he gives several superficial rationalizations (deadline pressure, not wanting to let his editor down) which smacks of denying full responsibility.

Ultimately, he comes clean, to his editors and to us. It's harrowing.

But I couldn't shake the sense that Finkel somewhat gleefully capitalized on his special connection with a murderer to revive his own career—I don't know whether this blind spot in the narration is deliberate or not. I don't think we needed a good deal of handwringing over how horrible the death of a women and three young children is—the despicable nature of the crime speaks for itself.

But Finkel seems far more interested in drawing connections between himself and Longo and their mutual manipulation than forthrightly examining the ethics of giving a murderer such free grace to tell his own story. Finkel's self-examination feels surface level at best.

After Longo is convicted on all counts and sentenced to death, he begins dangling the carrot of "What Really Happened" for Finkel—telling, retelling, and revising the story he told in court.

If you've ever dealt with a manipulative person who is trying to maintain a connection with you at all costs, you know exactly what is going on, although Finkel surprisingly seems unaware and initially falls for the gambit (tell me more...)

And there's another connection between Finkel and Longo: neither of them really consider the harm that they've done to other people. Finkel is sorry that he lied, yes, but he never examines (or even mentions) the consequences of his lies for anyone but himself—for example, by considering what it means for a white American male to impersonate a west African child laborer, or how he may have harmed the very humanitarian cause he was trying to support, or, to parallel Longo, how he inadvertently abbreviated or circumvented someone else's story.

In the end, I can't help but feel that as Longo tells and retells "his" story to his devoted audience (Finkel, in this case), he is killing his wife and children over and over and over and over again.

It makes me want to scream at the injustice of it—Longo can revise his life, distorting the truth, changing this or that detail at will, painting himself as the victim, deciding that the murders don't matter anymore and that he's moving on—meanwhile, he put a period on the lives of his family and forever wrested away their ability to write or revise or retell.

After reading this book, I have no interest in reading another word about or by Christian Longo. I don't want to hear his side of the story. Again. I don't care what happens to him. The best I can do is indifference.

Finkel describes having this same experience—wanting nothing to do with Longo—before being sucked back into his web of manipulation and deception. It never ends.

Crossover Recommendations

I was reminded of M. Scott Peck's People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil. There are definite echoes of Christian Longo in Peck's account of evil. I highly recommend this book.

via amazon.com

For more on writers who play fast and loose with the truth, Jon Ronson's book So You've Been Publicly Shamed spends a lot of time on famed fibber Jonah Lehrer. Interestingly enough, Lehrer is also an opaque character—there's never a plausible explanation for why he did what he did, perhaps because the only explanation is that he thought he could get away with it.

Netflix's show Making a Murderer is an obvious companion piece to "True Story"—whether or not you think Steven Avery might still be guilty could be a litmus test of whether you believe in evil or not.

The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists by Eleanor Payson is one of the best books about narcissism that I've read. Longo was diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder, and although most narcissists are not killers, a book about dealing with them might still be helpful.

My Top Five Posts of 2015

2015 may have been the year I spent recovering from everything that happened in 2014, mostly a horrible relationship that managed to hit the traumatic trifecta of my personal life, professional life, and spiritual life.

The question of 2014 was, "How will I ever heal from this?"

The answer of 2015 was, "Through writing. And by the grace of God."

Writing has been one of the most healing practices in my life—and I'm beyond grateful to be able to do that here.

On that note, here are my five favorite posts from 2015, in the order they were written:

Photo by Matthias Ripp

1. Why is Church Cliquey? Part 4

"There's that familiar narrative we tell each other after a breakup: Time to move on. You can do better. There are plenty of denominations in this diocese, or something like that. And I feel a bit silly. Like I'm all torn up over a breakup where the guy was never really that into me in the first place."

I don't know if I would describe this as a personal favorite, but as the latest in my "Why is Church Cliquey?" series it feels significant to my journey as a Christian and (post) Evangelical. Looking back, I can see how even though I left my church for personal reasons, the exodus was both a long time coming and to a certain point, inevitable. I can feel part 5 coming on like a case of norovirus. You're welcome in advance.

2. The INTP & Giving Zero Fucks, Parts 1, 2 & 3

"You don't care," is also emotionally coercive: "You should care. Shame on you for not caring. If you were a good person, a good Christian, a good girlfriend, a good employee, you would give a f*** about what I want you to give a f*** about."

This series was so much fun to write (not least because who doesn't like to drop the F bomb every third sentence, amiright?) Numerous people (two) told me that they also found it amusing, so mission accomplished. Apparently, there is a huge (in the 100s) blog market out there for INTP-related content, so expect to see more in the future. One of my most googled posts is "INTP = Asshole?" and I laugh every single time it comes up in the search keywords.

3. The Church & Mental Health: Interview with a Therapist

"There's an old saying one of my bosses likes, it goes: 'Feelings buried alive never die.' And what happens is they come out in other very nasty ways."

Addressing the intersection of Christianity and mental health, the interviews in this series brought healing when I least expected it. I can't emphasize enough how thankful I am—how God used conversation, and questions, and writing to bring healing and resolution to some traumatic things that happened in 2014 around the issue of mental health, and even more inexplicably, to a trauma that I have struggled to make sense of for over 10 years (I haven't published that interview yet. Bring it on 2016!) I don't know what to make of it. It's a miracle in its own right. And for me, it was one of the most grace-filled moments of 2015.

4. Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - Entitlement

"It's not anger. Because anger doesn't cause abuse. It's not pain. Because there are many, many men (and women) who experience intense, searing, heart-rending pain and yet fail to abuse anyone. It's not that they rage--it's that they feel justified in their cruelty."

Wow, talk about raw pain. The "Undateable" series might be the most popular series I've ever written—and some of the most appreciative readers have been men, which is awesome. I've used the series in part to process one of the most traumatic relationships of my life, and I think this post gets at the heart of why dating men like this can make you question your spiritual and religious beliefs. Because unfortunately, Christian men and men in the church are no less entitled (some would say they are more entitled because of historical Christian misogyny) than non-Christian men. What happens when you would no longer like a side of misogyny and sexism with your Christianity (thank you, but I don't like mushrooms). Do you give it up altogether?

5. Jessica Jones, Sex Robots for Jesus, and the Love/Respect Binary

"So I'm going to call 'Love and Respect' what it is: a false doctrine. Idolatry. A dangerous, misogynistic, and abusive ideology masquerading as the biblical, magic pill solution to all male/female relationships."

Hello misogyny, my old friend. Speaking of misogyny and the church—I've always had something of a personal vendetta against "Love and Respect" the franchise. But I had never actually read the book. HOLY BLANKETY BLANK. It was so much worse than I thought it would be, and that's saying something. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this book is evil. And if even one person questions 1/100th of its assumptions about men, women, gender roles, and marriage, I will consider that a success. I see more writing about complementarianism and "Love and Respect" in my future, God help us all.

Runners up:

Why I kept Quiet About Being Sexually Harassed
Should I Stay or Should I go?
"Give Me Sex Jesus"

Stories That No Longer Serve

When I graduated high school, I had one or two stories hanging off me, like particularly clingy mollusks. One of those stories was this:

Photo by Jason Rogers

I have no self-discipline.

In high school, I tried to homeschool myself (don't try this at home, kids) and with insane ambition but complete lack of structure, didn't quite manage it. I slacked off for about three years.

Failure #1

When I got to college (or more accurately, Bible college), I took two correspondence courses, one in American literature and one in American history.

There were no deadlines, only a free form "You have 9 months to finish this course." With inane ambition and a complete lack of structure, I did the first assignments for both courses and then nothing after that.

Failure #2

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I decide to write a thorough literary analysis of the book of Lamentations for my Old Testament class. Line by line. Line by line.

I ended up sitting in my professor's office completely stressed out and overwhelmed, describing how this paper on Lamentations had consumed me, taken over my life, turned into a monster. Oh, and by the way, I hadn't finished it yet.

And then my professor said something about monsters or about this paper being a monster that I strain to remember. It feels important. I don't remember. It was probably some combination of smartass and profound.

In that space of lost memory, I have only the image--that in my life I have two modes of being:

One--Painstakingly, perfectly, picking my way through the rubble of Jerusalem.

Two--Running, screaming from a nameless, faceless terror.

One--Struggling, straining for complete control.

Two--Drinking, smoking, drugging (or in my case, getting loopy as a can of worms on lack of sleep), all to turn off the perfectionist and tune into divine possession.

Whether I was being pursued by the monster or slave-driven by the perfectionist, my story had no space for ordinary, everyday divinity:

The holy normal of 2:34PM. The spirit-filled comma. Visions of eternity punctuated by trips to the bathroom. The transcendence of non-linear video editing. The glory of God. The glory of a perfectly timed cut.

It feels odd to look back now on what might have been the most productive period of my life and realize that this story of "no self-discipline" defined me. It turns up again and again, despite the overwhelming evidence of things made.

Fifty-eight pages, later, I even finished what was meant to be a 10-15 page paper.

I slayed the monster, before it could slay me.

Day by Day: The Quantified Self: Future Me

The premise is simple: Write a letter to your Future Self.

At futureme.org, you can write a letter and send it far, far into the future. What would it be like to get a letter right now from the You of one year ago? Five years ago? Ten years ago?

What would you want to read about your Past Self?

I've found that Future Me can be a powerful tool for both imagining the future and reimagining the past. There's nothing quite like getting an email in your inbox from your Past Self. It's trippy, in the best possible way.

The layout is quite simple:

Dear Future Me, How are you?

You can choose to make your letter public or private. You can also choose to add a picture--perhaps you wish to attach a picture of yourself on the date you write the letter, so that your Future Self has a visual reference.

Tips & tricks for writing to your future self:

1. Be specific

There's nothing quite like getting a vague, angsty email from your Past Self. What is this, Past Self, middle school? Save the vagueness for your facebook status updates and be specific:

What are you doing?
How are you feeling?
Why do you think you feel that way?
What do you want to happen?
What do you think will happen?
What challenges are you currently facing?
How are you coping or not coping with those challenges?

The awesome thing about writing to your Future Self is that you get to connect the dots later. "Oh, right, I had a huge crush on Matt from the beginning" or "I was unhappy with my job but didn't want to admit that to myself."

The dirt is in the details, so try to be specific. You might know exactly what you are talking about, but chances are, Future You will need some supporting data.

Reading letters from your Past Self will help you see how far you've come (or alternatively, how much things stay the same!).

2. Use writing to your Future Self to visualize who you want to be today.

Talk to Future You about your goals, dreams, hopes, and aspirations for the future. If you have no goals, dreams, hopes, and aspirations for the future, brainstorm about these with Future You. Write about who you are, and who you hope to be.

Perhaps you will feel a twinge of what could be. Hope. Write about that. Perhaps it will prove prophetic.

3. Try writing to yourself at 30, 40, 50, 60, 80 years old.

It's hard to think about growing old--but eventually, if we don't die first, it happens to us all. Instead of only sending letters to next year, write to yourself at various ages, especially milestone years. Think about how much your 80 year-old self would appreciate getting letters from you!

I've been working on writing to my 40 year-old self. It's weird to think about being 40. But it helps me to realize that my time is finite. There are things that I want to accomplish, and if I don't start on them now, I may never accomplish them. It's a sobering feeling.

4. Put writing to your Future Self on your calendar to remind you.

Writing to your Future Self once a month seems like a good goal.

5. Write to your Past Self...

But send it to your Future Self.

It sounds convoluted, but I recently wrote a letter from my 80 year-old Self to my Present Self (an exercise from the "Artist's Way") and sent it to my 40 year-old Self.

Write a letter to your 10 year-old Self, but send it to your 50 year-old Self.
Write a letter to your 20 year-old Self, but send it to your 33 year-old Self.
Etc.

Writing to your Past Self tends to open up a well of understanding and self-compassion, because you are able to see yourself from a distance. And sometimes the things that we wish our Past Self knew are things we could benefit from, even now.

So, write a letter. Future You will thank you.

Day by Day: The Quantified Self: Morning Pages

I recently started doing the Artist's Way study. Described as "A spiritual path to higher creativity," it's basically rehab and recovery for your creative, artistic, imaginative self.

One of the core components of the book is something called morning pages: everyday, you wake up early and write three pages, stream-of-consciousness--no stopping, no editing (free-writing).

I've kept a journal since I was 11 and I've always been partial to writing longhand. But at the suggestion of someone else in my study group, I started using an online app called 750 Words.

The premise is simple: Write at least 750 words every day. That's it.

So far it's been extremely helpful. Something about going to the same place online everyday and seeing virtual confirmation of my consistency and word count makes a big difference. Plus, 750 Words will give you a breakdown of not only your words per minute, but also things like what you are feeling and thinking (I know, it's weird).

Accurate.

Hmm. Not accurate. Though I do love bacon.

Granted, some of the conclusions feel either far-fetched or a bit obvious (it regularly records that my mindset is "introverted" when I write--no kidding). 

Sounds about right.

Hug me. Now.

There is also the opportunity to include metadata in your daily entires. I haven't tried this feature yet, but it would be interesting to graph everyday data as a quantified self.

I just discovered this feature: If you click back on your daily entires, there's an option to view your words with the analytics applied, explaining how they come up with their results.

Choose the second option.

750 words is free for the first month. After that it is $5/month.

There is also a free French site that operates on the same concept. I haven't used it yet, but I may be giving it go when my free trial runs out at 750 Words.

So far I've been writing (almost) everyday, sometimes longhand, sometimes in the app. I highly recommend trying morning pages no matter what the medium. They provide a blank space in which to reflect, rant, process, emote, feel good, feel bad, feel into.

Morning pages are awesome.

Day by Day: The Quantified Self: Sketching

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives."

-Annie Dillard

"Live all you can; It's a mistake not to."
-Henry James

At my last job, we had these awesome whiteboard walls--four blank canvases for thoughts, ideas, sketches, possibilities.

I adored those walls.

They opened up a new way of thinking for me--visually, rather than analytically--by nature, I am less likely to draw something and much more likely to write it out. Like in a blog, for example.

I can't draw. Okay, I can barely draw. Stick figures are a challenge.

But since then, I've been looking for a way to add some kind of data visualization to my life.

I am also what you might call "between jobs" (unemployed), and so with large blocks of unscheduled time (*gulp*), I want to quantify in some way how I am spending my life.

I use the term "quantify" loosely--I might eventually get to actual numbers and graphs. We'll see.

"I spent my life marathoning 'Breaking Bad.'"

"I spent my life making sure that people in Germany would be able to watch CSI, season 13."

"I spent my life eating ice cream to battle the heat, while refusing to turn on the AC."

"I spent my life talking to people and asking questions."

"I spent my life doing fun things with friends."

Each of these is true, in their own way--

I started reading about the quantified self via Sacha Chua and her index card sketches. I also downloaded the Cardflow app on my iPad (I'm loving it so far!)

By sketching out what I do on any particular day on a virtual index card, I can record and visualize both how I am spending my life and whether I am living all that I can, à la Henry James.

My attempt

Inspiration. Photo by Sacha Chua

Hopefully, this will be the first in a series about using different apps to record life on a day-by-day basis in different mediums: words, pictures, video, etc. 

Bullshit

Everyone has it. Everyone knows what it is.

The telltale sign that something coming out of someone else's mouth is complete mierda?

Your eyes start to glaze over. You resist the urge to roll them. You carefully control the corners of your mouth.

"Uh huh."

It's a lot like BO--we're so good at discerning other people's stench and so bad at recognizing our own.

You know what I want to call bullshit on?

"Everyone wants someone who will call them on their bullshit."

There's no way that can be true. Maybe on a micro-level. Like, "Hey, as far as I can tell, you're not going to Coachella for the music" or "I'm pretty sure you fake laughed at your girlfriend's joke."

No one wants to get called out on the big stuff.

"Hey bro, you continually take on projects that you have no chance of completing so that you can avoid your own persistent sense of failure."

"You constantly talk about how 'hot' you are, but at your core you feel unlovely and unloveable."

"You complain about how stressful your job is, but secretly you get off on it."

"You find it so easy to criticize other people's efforts, but you can't even attempt work of your own."

You wanna know what goes hand-in-hand with bullshit (no, not rhetorical questions)?

Self-deception.

We all do it. I'm pretty sure we even need a certain dose of it just to survive. The truth, it burns. Self-deception, it goes without saying, preempts growth. It also keeps us safe.

I know I don't want to be called out on my bullshit. It's too painful.

Unfortunately, your bullshit is not just your own. It affects the people around you. Sorry to break it to you, but your bullshit is hurting other people.

Your bullshit is hurting me. It's hurting you too. I want better for you.

And I know, it's probably rooted in deep insecurity, possibly even self-loathing, and you're not even aware that you're doing it.

[Indirect putdowns are the worst.]

And my bullshit is hurting other people. I'm sorry. And I'm working on it.

Notes on Style: The Semicolon

The Short Version

NEVER USE SEMICOLONS, EVER EVER EVER--unless you want to and you know what you're doing.

The Long Version

“Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.”
- Kurt Vonnegut

I have a theory about semicolons. It goes like this: most people wouldn't know what a semicolon was if it walked up and slapped them in the face with a mackerel. However, the semicolon is one sexy and highly academic-looking punctuation mark, so your average college student will throw a couple in at random whenever he or she is writing a paper. You know, to be smart and stuff. 

STOP THAT. STOP THAT RIGHT NOW.

Rule #4547 of Grammar: If you don't know what it is or what it does, don't use it!

Semicolons are not your friend. Semicolons are more like your frenemy--your somewhat exotic, strangely hybridized frenemy (transvestite hermaphrodites anyone?), but still. Just like every other kind of punctuation, you must make semicolons work for you, and the only way to do that is to know what they mean. 

Any guesses? Bueller? Look at the semicolon. Look at it. What is it telling you?

;

That's right. Semicolons, despite their name, function nothing like colons (:). Rather, they exist somewhere on the spectrum between a comma and a period.

A semicolon represents an identity crisis of sorts. It's not a full stop, like a period, but neither is it a brief pause, like a comma.

"Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much." 

-Helen Keller

Here, the semicolon is like, "Hold up, Imma let you finish, but first I need to pause in-between these two complete but related thoughts."

This is important--each unit separated by a semicolon must be a complete grammatical unit (clause).

Either half could stand entirely on its own, i.e.:

"Alone we can do so little. Together we can do so much."

[If you don't know what a complete sentence is, you might want to mind your subjects and your verbs.]

Notice what happens if we use a comma and a coordinating conjunction instead of a semicolon: "Alone we can do so little, but together we can do so much."

INCORRECT/BAD version:

"Alone we can do so little, together we can do so much."

So now we have the original sentence and two grammatically sound variations: 

"Alone we can do so little. Together we can do so much."

"Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much." 

"Alone we can do so little, but together we can do so much." 

Notice the difference in feeling among these three sentences. Which do you like best? Discuss.

Keller's sentence demonstrates two very good reasons to use a semicolon--parallelism and juxtaposition.

"ALONE we can do so LITTLE; TOGETHER we can do so MUCH."

Alone/Together
Little/Much

The semicolon conveys the parallel relationship between the two clauses in the way that a period cannot. In addition, the contrast is starker without the use of a comma and coordinating conjunction.

Can you see now how punctuation can affect style?

The original sentence is statelier and more controlled.

And now, a response to Vonnegut and his semicolon hatred:

"Great quote, but total bullshit. The semicolon is beautiful, the epitome of a soft pause that gives cadence to an otherwise abrupt shift in ongoing thought. The semicolon is delicate and necessary and, if not overused, the most romantic of punctuation marks."

-Jen Knox

Like I said, semicolons can be sexy in a certain light. I don't care for them, but maybe you like that sort of thing. More punctuation power to you. Know what a semicolon is and how to properly use it in a sentence.

Then, go crazy. Walk around with an extra swagger in your step, 'cause, "Yo, I know how to use a semicolon properly, just call me the 'Grammar Gangsta.'"

Go ahead. You have my permission. You're welcome.

Crying. In public.

It was 9pm last Wednesday night and I was crying in a booth at Canter’s Deli on Fairfax. I pushed at the corners of my eyes with my knuckles and dabbed the snot leaking from my nose with a napkin. The edges of my vision blurred with tears, like a watery postcard. At the center of the postcard, still surprisingly in focus, sat my friend. 

I get ugly when I cry. My entire face turns blotchy and red. The salt stings my nostrils. My eyes puff up, causing me to look more Asian than my usual fifty percent. My nose swells. My eyelids start to itch. The corners of my mouth dry out. I can’t breathe through my nose. 

I try to avoid crying in public, mostly because of the ugliness and the sluggish way the signs of it fade from my face. I feel marked long after the impulse to weep has gone. As a kid, my dad would call me “red eyes” as I sat at the dinner table, unable to hide the signs. 

I’ve locked myself in countless stalls in countless bathrooms at countless churches, waiting for the telltale puffiness to leave my eyes, giving the all clear. 

I’ve always felt shame at any strong display of emotion. 

I have a good memory too, for emotions and things. How do I know this? Because when I say to a friend or family member, “Remember when such-and-such happened?” or “Remember when you said this-or-that?” they almost never remember. For example, my sister doesn’t remember the hurtful things I said to her when we were eleven, but I do. I remember the emotional charge of hate, fear and pain. 

My dad recently told me, “When you were little, you would burst out crying at the dinner table because of some promise Mom or I had made to you months ago.” 

It’s like I was born to hold grudges, to internalize forever the hurt and unmet expectations of the moment: “You wounded me on this day, at this hour, wearing this blue shirt.” 

Last Tuesday night, I had a dream that my sister was telling me that it was over between us. There was no yelling, no screaming, just calm, rational argument. She was making several very valid points: I had said this. Done that. Sure, it was in the past, but still the facts were there and the only logical step would be to cut ties. 

I dreamt this, knowing my sister. I dreamt this, knowing that she would never reject me. Never. In the dream, I felt numb. 

My dad and I had a fight about a year ago that ended in my tears. And honestly, I despised myself for crying. I hated the vulnerability of it. 

And sitting there in that booth, in Canter’s, on Fairfax, in Los Angeles—all I could see was how I needed to forgive myself. That it was okay to be hurt, okay to remember, okay to cry. 

Perhaps God made me this way for a reason. Perhaps it’s part of being a writer—this emotionally fraught memory of mine. 

I looked across the booth at my friend. All I could see in her eyes was empathy. I was crying, but I felt no shame. 

Resolutions: A 2012 Retrospective

So, last year I made a few New Year's resolutions. This is a recap of what I actually did. Warning: Yes, it is depressing.

1. Read more.

Er, well, maybe I read more. You see, in 2011 I spent most of the year working at a bookstore warehouse surrounded by books, many of which I wanted to read, but couldn't (you know, what with working getting in the way and all).

I was textually frustrated.*

In 2012, I got another job, and then ANOTHER job, neither of which involved books. I did read a few books. I did not read as many as I would have liked.

New goal: get paid to read books.

Truthfully, I still read all the time. Probably for hours a day. I just read online material: blogs, Slate, articles, more blogs.

2. Write more.

I did write more (mostly for this blog). I did not, however, get published all that much. I kind of stopped trying after submitting to two places and not getting published.

One blog post that I wrote, Are You Experienced?  I originally submitted to Relevant. They didn't take it.

However, I don't regret the effort that I put into that essay. I worked a little harder than I normally do on the craft of it, and I took the time to be really honest with myself about not only what I felt but why I felt that way.

I think it paid off.

It's gotten more of a response than any other thing I've written.

Although my top post of all time is still How to hit on a girl on facebook. Thanks, Google.

3. Think less.

There's no real way to measure this. Did I go with my gut more? Worry less? Overanalyze less? Now I'm thinking about thinking!

4. Participate.

I'd like to think I participated, at least a little bit. I also blew off social commitments and plans for no other reason than that I was tired. I was that lame person who fell asleep by 11pm on New Year's Eve. I was the person who RSVP'ed on facebook and then never showed up. Sorry everyone.

5. Shoot more.
This one was actually kind of a success--I shot a lot, especially toward the beginning of the year.

I shot a short film with my sister. I shot footage for a music festival near San Diego, I shot a friend's feature-length Shakespeare adaptation. I had fun.

There are studies that say sharing goals actually makes you less likely to achieve them because just by getting positive social feedback, you already FEEL like you've achieved your goals, when actually you've only stated them out loud (or online).

I think this year will be more about discerning the difference between what I think I should want to do and what I ACTUALLY want to do.

I'm pretty sure I want to do more of the above.






*My theory about working in/at/for a bookstore or owning a bookstore is this: You should love books, but not too much. If you love books too much, you will want to keep them all for yourself, so you can read them or decoratively display them in your tastefully furnished hipster apartment. You won't want to let them go. Working around books without being able to read them is hard. Luckily, I have the willpower of small, scrappy mule with an eyepatch.

Nihilism, Ambition, and Minor Revelations

I recently spent some time at my mom's house going through all my stuff in the garage. In the process, I had a few minor revelations--let's call them "Thoughts upon going through all my crap."

Minor Revelation #1 - Taking Latin was unnecessary. As was taking trig, calculus, Bible Literature, European Civilization 1...

I've already mentioned my penchant for academic masochism. And I took a lot of classes. A lot. Like way, way more credits than I needed to take.

I don't regret any of the unnecessary classes I took though (actually, scratch that, I regret taking chemistry). There's something so hopeful about registering for a new semester. I miss that part of college. I miss learning for the sake of learning.

Now explain to me why I kept all of my trig homework...

Minor Revelation #2 - I spent a lot time researching things.

I don't even want to talk about how much time I spent researching what college to go to, leafing through those glossy brochures with pictures of attractive undergraduates spread out like lawn ornaments. I think the hypotheticals themselves were compelling. It's fun to dream about the future. However, my life has been a lot of theory, not as much action. The research has to end eventually. Right? Eventually, you have to make a choice. Choose a college. A career. A city.

It's no coincidence that one of my resolutions for 2012 was to "Think less."

Minor Revelation #2.5 - The direct correlation between my attachement to an object and my affection for the person or experience with whom/which the object is associated

Minor Revelation #3 - I wrote/write a lot. A lot.

I mean, dear God, if there was a margin to be spared on an index card, pamphlet, or receipt, I wrote in that margin, dammit. I scribbled down shreds of profundity and banality--okay, mostly banality.

I guess this isn't much of a revelation. I write. It's what I do. Now, if only I had confined my writing to logical places, like journals and notebooks. Sometimes you just need something to write on.

Minor Revelation #4 - If there was something I was even remotely interested in, I went after it 100%.

I was extremely ambitious in my teens (not that my work ethic always cooperated). Where any rational, sane person might have been like, "Hey, maybe flying to Tahiti to build an ice cream factory isn't such a good idea," I was like, "Sign me up!" I had quite a few terrible ideas. Thankfully, not all the things I pursued panned out.

Sometimes it's not the thing itself (say, video production) that's the misdirection. Sometimes, you are simply incompatible with the people or the organization. I hate to say it, but you really do have to be in the right place at the right time. Perhaps the world is not yet ready for your genius. Or more likely, you still have some growing up to do. Right place. Right time. Right person (that would be you).

There I go, giving advice again. I need to write about another career myth--the myth of experience, or how do you figure out what you want to do when you grow up? I'll tell ya what you don't do--base your entire career on a single negative or positive experience.

Again, I don't regret being overly, scarily ambitious during my high school years. I did a lot of worthwhile things, however,

Minor Revelation #5 - Everything is meaningless.

"Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done

    and what I had toiled to achieve,

everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind;

    nothing was gained under the sun."

[Ecc. 2:11]

Sifting through years worth of stuff--keeping the best of it and tossing the rest--I was reminded of Ecclesiastes' famous existentialism.

I spent a lot of time thinking and/or worrying about things that I could not care less about now (I'm looking at you, Homeschooling).

Likewise, things that seem to matter now probably won't matter at all at some future date. We can all relate to the thought that "everything is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." Pleasure. Wisdom. Accomplishments. Great hair. The perfect body.

People. I believe that people matter. And despite the meaninglessness of accomplishments, I still feel compelled to offer something to the world, however small, insignificant and temporal.

I still have to figure out how to live this life.

[GUEST POST] 10 Reasons Not To Date That [Probably Non-Christian] Coworker From That One-Day Gig

[Today's guest post is from Rachel. She lives and attends church in Los Angeles and works in entertainment. This is in response to 10 Reasons You Should Think Twice Before Dating Someone Who Goes to Your Church. - MT]

1) When is faith gonna come up? Is there a good way for it to come up? Do you really want to say, I think you're absolutely great. You're hot, funny, and I could talk to you for the rest of my life, but since you're not a Christian, this isn't gonna work?

I don't know what's worse, the inner battle I've fought with myself over what I wanted and knew I couldn't have, or anticipating/trying to avoid the conversation. I know some great people who have ended up at the altar without having that conversation, and it's a difficult thing later. You're always pulling apart on the thing that matters most. Let's not forget Solomon, who was the wisest man who ever lived, but foreign wives led him to worship idols. Or Samson, who had his talent taken away by someone who he let get very close, who did not believe. 

2) If you keep dating them, they are Mr./Miss Right Now rather than Mr./Miss Right. They are taking up a space that should be vacant. You don't want to miss the opportunity to meet a great Christian because you are taking up all your time seeing someone who's not right. 

3) I can hear it now: But, I know so-and-so, and they dated (and maybe married) that guy or girl, and they eventually became a Christian! Isn't that sweet? 

Look, I know those people too. But it's like dating someone and hoping they will magically grow taller, or that they will magically be more considerate, or they will magically stop being shallow, or that they will magically quit working so much to spend more time with you (or that you can argue/convince them into any of the above things, and more). What you see is usually what you get. The only guarantee of change that you have, is that this person is going to get older, and probably less attractive, and some of the things that you like about them now will probably begin to annoy you over time (Wow I'm romantic! I can't hold back! Just full of sunshine!)

4) This is probably distracting you from what you should be doing, whatever it is that God is calling you to do with your life right now. Oh, sure, it's super-fun to feel that totally smitten feeling, but it's hard to tear away from and the crash comes hard. Instead of getting myself worked up about this guy/girl, maybe I should have been [fill in the blank] (for me personally, finishing that screenplay draft). I would probably already be done by now.  

Think about all the magical and wonderful things that God has for you to do right now--okay, sometimes they are hard and require discipline and perseverance, and do not feel as magical as said coworker, but instead of dating someone after which you will have nothing to show, you could be… duh dun-nuh! finished with your next project, and soaring into your future awesomeness, becoming the person who is right for the person you are going to meet. Or, you could be helping out foster kids and homeless people. Or learning a foreign language, or… whatever floats your boat.

There's a whole section in the Screwtape Letters about how having a person who could influence you, who isn't an on-fire Christian, or who is deceptive while dating or just plain a bad match, can eventually make you less effective or on-fire for God. It's a strategy of the enemy! Don't fall for it!

6) The pain. Do not underestimate how hard it is to let a fond attachment die, just for the sake of faith. I wrote in my journal recently, "All the things I have walked away from before were not really sacrifices that God required, but this one is the real deal. I never knew what it was to take up my cross and follow Jesus, until now." I have gone on a lot of dates (please read this as coffee/dinner/outing, not make-out session), so I now know pretty much exactly what I'm looking for. I am not talking about physical appearance or even the essential chemistry, but discerning beyond. And I almost never (approaching zero) see "it." Makes it that much harder to give up. 

7) You might find someone who is more of a match for you than the Christians you currently know (except for the faith thing). Why tempt yourself?? Why put yourself in that situation? It's definitely better to widen your circle of acquaintance and get to know more Christians. Date Christians, date many, date often (once again I mean coffee/dinner/outings, not makeout sessions)--see a great article about this at Relevant magazine. Now is the time to date around, not when you are married (Sorry, I have a sick sense of humor). 

The essence of faith is, I am going to trust God, who I can't see, rather than reaching out for what I can see, that is right in front of me. I am trusting God to provide, as I actively pursue the right thing, rather than what just what is immediately available. 

There were so many fruit trees available in the garden of Eden. I wonder how long it would have taken Adam and Eve to try all the ones that *were* available to them? They obviously had not tried all the trees that they were at that time allowed to try, because they had not eaten from the tree of life… clearly, the Tree of Life was much more awesome than the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Wait for your Tree of Life! Go try all trees available until you find your Tree of Life! Why just stand around the one tree that you can't try??? It's pretty much a recipe for disaster, the story of the whole human race. 

8) If the other person doesn't share your faith, most of the time they do not share your idea of pre-marriage physical boundaries. The standards that are common in popular culture and the standards that we Christians would like to have, but do not always have, are, let's face it, pretty different. 

I have a good friend who has hung out with more non-Christian guys than I have, who she also typically meets through work, and she actually relies on the physical boundaries conversation to end the relationship, so she doesn't have to tell them, "Hey you're great, but you're not a Christian, soooo…" Her typical experience is along the lines of, an unexpected kiss turns into a conversation about the status of the relationship that turns into the guy saying, "I was kind of looking for sex, so I guess we can't date."

When I called her for advice two weeks ago, she suggested I use this strategy. But, as she recently found out, sometimes non-Christians are okay with your pre-marriage physical boundaries, so then you have to find another reason to break up, if you don't want to have the awkward conversation. 

Also, for me, there is no such thing as an unexpected kiss, because I am so aware of physical movement (shout out to all my dancers out there!). I will deflect with my body language! I always require an official conversation about interest before a kiss (words first--writer's rule! lol). You're just not gonna get an opportunity to lean in, before you speak out! Ha!

And what about your other commitments? Do you want to go to church alone for the rest of your life? I don't. Do you want your kids to come to church? I do. One of my dear friends comes to church alone, without spouse and kids. It's really sad!

But, you say, it's not that far along! It's just dating! See how you feel when your new bestie of the other gender keeps you out late Saturday night when you're the only one who is going home and getting up Sunday. See if you really make it out of bed. See if you are still hung over, because they don't have the goal of not getting drunk, and well, that's starting to slip for you, too.

I'm not judging, though. When I lived overseas, I would party with my Irish/British/South African/Canadian friends from Sunday school on Saturday nights, and there was one particular Sunday that several of us had hangovers in Sunday school. We'd all been at the same house party, and I'd ended up crashing on a couch that night. Yes, we were all Christians. Yes, it says, "Do not be drunk on wine, but be filled with the Holy Spirit." Point is, no matter who you hang with the most, they will influence you. I guess we were acting like Job's first set of kids. You see what happened to them! But I digress…

9) If this person is a coworker or in your profession, you don't want to screw up your business relationship by breaking up with them because they aren't a Christian. This could both hurt you professionally and mess up your chance to share Jesus with them.

People sometimes say you shouldn't date coworkers or business associates at all, but for me, there seem to be so few Christians in LA, if they are a Christian and we also click personality-wise, and I feel attracted to them, I'm willing to jeopardize a business relationship to give it a shot. Also, I kind of want someone with the same mission in life as me, who has a heart for the same profession and the same people group. Overall the saddest people I have ever met (including third-world countries) are people in Entertainment. Who else is gonna get that?

10) Someone else's heart is involved here. You, knowing that this will end, are playing with this person's heart if you keep dating them, knowing it's gotta end. I have done this to a non-Christian friend. It is awful. I was fine--I had been 100% sure this was gonna end the whole time, and I was even kind of lying to myself about the fact that we were dating- I kept saying to myself, we're just friends, there's no "action" here--but meanwhile the other person was growing more and more attached. The other person did not even have a friendship with Jesus to support them, so they were going it alone through de facto rejection (I moved to another town for career purposes). If I had it to do over, I (hopefully) would not do it again. 

I will say, that God has used these people in my life for my good, but that doesn't mean that the relationship itself was good. It's because of who He is that it turned out for my good. In retrospect, dating someone who didn't share my faith was the wrong decision. Ultimately, it was a waste of time.

You Never Marry the Right Job

My dad's a really funny guy. He also gives pretty good advice. I can remember some advice he gave me once, when I was stewing in a post-high-school-what-the-heck-am-I-gonna-do-with-my-life funk:

Just move. Choose a direction, and go in that direction. It's much easier to steer when you're moving.

It was and is still pretty good advice. And I think I'm slightly less anxiety-stricken about the whole "What am I going to be when I grow up?" conundrum.

I can remember posing this question to a handful of college professors my senior year. One of them said, "The more I live life, the more it becomes a question of 'How?' rather than 'What?'" And man, isn't that profound. Another professor said that the movie High Fidelity contained the answer to my question. I've seen the movie High Fidelity, and I still don't know what he's talking about. [If you know, please point me to chapter and verse. Thank you.]

And the more I think about, the more I think that we (naive young persons) tend to view the choice of career as we do the choice of a mate. We believe in "The One."

We believe in that one career, dream, passion that will completely and utterly fulfill us, forever and ever and ever. Find your passion. Follow your dreams. Keep pressing on and don't give up.

Have you read the article, You Never Marry the Right Person? What if you applied this same basic concept to your career?

What if your dream job was occasionally a nightmare? (All y'all filmmakers know exactly what I'm talking about.) What if it required hard work, sacrifice, and doing a bunch of crap you don't wanna do? What if, on some days you can't stand it, and on other days, it outright takes your breath away?

Maybe, just maybe, some people do have "The One"--that one thing they were created to do, that they would wither away without: Einstein and physics, Beethoven and music, Emily Dickinson and poetry...

I know that at times, writing feels less like a hobby and a whole lot more like an identity. I don't just write. I AM a writer. It seems like part of my very being, something I take for granted.

But the more I live and work and write, the less I believe in "The One"--the one job/career/calling that will bring me the fulfillment I think I deserve.

I get a little bit frustrated with people who think that their very identity is tied to a career or artistic endeavor. [You're not an actor, you're a freakin' human being! Your life and identity cannot be encompassed in the word "actor."]

Truth be told, most people are good at more than one thing and find enjoyment in doing more than one thing. For example, I really like my current job. I truly enjoy what I've been learning to do. However, when I think about it as a "career," I freak out.

Can I really see myself doing this for THE NEXT 10 YEARS?!! (They're called commitment issues. Yeah, I know.)

That's the problem with believing in "The One." It breeds panic and a sense of discontent. But there exists the possibility that I only think this way because I have yet to meet the right job/person. Maybe you never meet or find the one, you just meet or find the one that's right for you.

I think we can at least agree that it's possible to marry the WRONG person or job.

And I'm challenged, too, by the words of a friend, from back when I used to work in a warehouse everyday: "You didn't come to LA to pack books into boxes."

Yeah, I didn't. I don't think anyone does, truthfully. No one comes to LA to wait tables either. What then, did I come to LA to do?

This question brings up a mixture of guilt, fear, and avoidance. It's answering this question that asks more of me than I think I can bear.

Facebook and Telling Our Own Stories

"Is that your girlfriend?"
"What?"
"In your facebook profile picture. The one you're dancing with. Are you a lesbian?"
"No. That's MY TWIN SISTER."
-Not a real life conversation. Oh wait, this actually happened. *facepalm*

I've been thinking recently (and not so recently) about the relationship between my real life and my social media life. I've been thinking about how we "write" our lives--both online and off.

When it comes to social media, it seems that not only do we need to lead a happy, fulfilling, sparkly life, we have to prove that we are living a happy, fulfilling, sparkly life. Having lemonade on the porch with a good friend and a weighty philosophical tome? Instagram it. Convinced you have the best boyfriend everrrr? Tag him in a post on facebook. Losing weight on an awesome new diet/exercise plan? Tweet daily updates of your progress.

Of course these things aren't wrong or bad. It just sometimes feels like the equivalent of grabbing the world by the shoulders and screaming, "Look at me. I'M HAVING FUN AND LIVING LIFE!! DO YOU BELIEVE I'M HAVING FUN YET??!!"

There's something about expectations and being in your 20s. Or expectations and being in your 30s. Or expectations and being in college. Or expectations period. These are the best years of your life, after all. Shouldn't you be out there enjoying them?

And so we post pictures. And we tell a story. A story about our lives and how much fun we're having. Whether we mean to or not, we tell a story of one kind or another.

Facebook, of all things, understands this. I remember joking about the ads I would get when my relationship status was listed as "single."

"__ years old and still single?" (obviously, you're a freak). "Lose weight with this awesome new diet!" (and then you will feel lovely and desirable). "Revolutionary treatment for herpes!" (no wonder I'm single: I weigh 250 pounds and my body is ridden with STDs).

And what could concern me about these ads is their emphasis on controlling women's bodies. My body. My other body. (You're female. Clearly you're unhappy with your body and you want to lose weight.)

But facebook is not the only one telling me stories about myself, repeating back to me the stories I have consciously or unconsciously told.

And it's not all negative, either. I enjoy the stories that my friends tell. I realize that they're not the whole picture, however--not even close.

Have you ever tried talking to someone whose entire picture of your life is based on social media? It's very confusing.

Recently, a (former) facebook friend summed up my life in one damning question: "Still having trouble finding a man?" (Yes. Haven't you been paying attention? Lesbian. 250 pounds. Herpes. 'Nuff said.)

I found this confusing for several reasons. For example, if I'm looking for "a man," will any man do? Why am I trying to find him? Is he lost? I did not remember having a face-to-face, heart-to-heart with this person about my attempts at finding this poor man. And yet, to him, this was my story.

I can't find a man. Done. Finished. Written in bold.

Nevermind that the phrasing is insulting. Nevermind the "still," implying a lengthy search over an extended period of time (It's all I ever do, actually. Really. I'm exhausted.) Nevermind the implication that not having found a man, I am incomplete. Nevermind that this narrative has little to do with what I want and everything to do with being wanted. Nevermind how much it pisses me off that a woman can be belittled so easily with so little.

Most of all, that this was the story I'm telling, via facebook, via blogging. We tell stories. Other people tell them back to us, adding their own spin. I write about dating. I must be beyond desperate to find a man (any man) who will date me.

Bullsh**.

This is my story. I get to write it. Better yet, I get to live it. Granted, I can't completely control the hermeneutic by which other people choose to interpret my story, and that's frustrating. I can't even, on my own, eradicate the harmful stories that advertisers continue to tell women about their bodies, their lives, their worth.

But I will continue to write. And, reader, what you choose to believe is up to you.

Sincerely,
A 250 Pound Lesbian with Herpes

How to Make Me Happy

In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy famously wrote that "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

My happiness depends more than I would like to admit on external factors that I usually have very little control over. Which is to say, all the environments I've been happy in tend to share certain characteristics.

The title actually doesn't make sense, of course, as no one can actually make me happy. But, you know what I mean. If someone needed a user's guide to me, it might include some of the following points. 99% of the time, I am super easy to please. Really. And now for a few items:

1. Food.

This one should go without saying. Food is important. I like it. I may not be particularly great at feeding myself, but I am really great at exploiting--I mean, finding--events with free food. I am all over that.

My sister is really good at feeding people. Seriously. She owns her own dumpling truck, and you should check it out. I always eat well when she's around.

2. Junk food.

Junk food goes into its own special category. I like it. Particularly if it's free. I'm the only one in my family who still thinks junk food is cool. The rest of the lot have all embraced something scary called "healthy eating"--and yet my brother still steals my skittles. Who's the hypocrite here, hmm?

3. Freedom to work independently.

I'm crazy independent. I like figuring things out on my own, but I also want to be able to ask questions. Sometimes, I just do stuff. I can't help it! It's the way I am.

4. People.

People make me happy. I like being around them and bugging them. You know how you just like people sometimes for no reason? You see them and you just want to smile.

5. Writing (and the freedom to write whatever I want to write).

If I'm not writing, something is wrong. Or I'm just being lazy. Or I'm afraid that people are actually reading what I write. It's complicated--but the freedom to write the truth the best that I know how feels a bit like God's intention for my life.

6. Talking through ideas.

If I couldn't do this, I think I would die.

7. People making fun of me (teasing me?).

I'm not sure why I love this, but I do. I myself can't pull it off without sounding like a jerk.

8. Learning new things.

9. Good writing.

10. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Challenging circumstances. Being on set. Filmmaking.

11. Teaching/training

I used to work as a master control operator at a small TV station and I was so excited to get to train new employees (three people, singly, to be exact) to do the job. My favorite part had been the training, and so I was looking forward to training other people. There's something about seeing someone put into practice something you've taught them. There's definitely a sense of pride.

Sex, Text and My Other Body

I'm sure there's a literary/sociological/psychological theory* that addresses this, but I've been thinking about something I can best describe as "my other body."

This is not my actual, physical body, but my symbolic one--not how I experience the world as flesh and blood, but how the world chooses to experience me. Perhaps I can explain.

I might see someone I don't know and based on his appearance alone conclude that he is smart, dumb, nerdy, a douchebag, etc.

Another person might see me and based on appearance alone conclude that I am not American and must be from a different country.

Or a person might view my body as a sexual object, no matter that I am not (an object).

I'll put aside for the moment the question of whether our bodies do have any inherent value, worth, or beauty. Let it suffice for this blog that there are in fact two very different bodies in play. [I imagine someone who saw the two bodies as one and the same would have some kind of body dysmorphia.]

I find this concept extremely helpful as a writer. From the earliest days of literature, writers have identified their works with their own bodies--often as mother or father to an errant child. Anne Bradstreet famously wrote a poem titled "The Author to Her Book" in which she chides the "ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain." In this conception, the work is both intimately associated with the writer's body (as child) and dissociated and excused for its flaws and imperfections (the text as orphan).

Another Renaissance writer wrote of having undergone "pressing" to produce his book (don't you just love a good suggestive pun?). Both of these metaphors indicate the vulnerability (to criticism, etc.) of not only the author, but the author's body.

I'm sure every writer can relate to this in one way or another. You write something. You put a little (or a lot) of yourself into it, then the editor/publisher changes a word here, a phrase there and completely changes what you wished to say.

[I used to metaphorically hit the ceiling every time the school paper came out and the editors had once again marred my flawless copy with one or more grammatical, typographical, or idiomatic errors. Did I mention I was a joy to work with?]

Or someone reads something you've written and takes it completely out of context, interpreting it to mean something it doesn't mean or imputing to you a belief you hate.

And for whatever reason, women's symbolic bodies have always been more vulnerable then the symbolic bodies of men: witness online (or in print) attacks on a woman's looks or sexual history or anatomy, all because she wrote about, I dunno, anything. I can understand why authors like Charlotte Bronte wrote under a male pseudonym. Protection. Safety. No one drawing attention to the vulnerability of your body as female.

I feel this vulnerability--as much as I have tried to protect this other body so intimately associated with my own. I've tried to protect it in the way that I dress (that doesn't really work, by the way). I've stopped writing because a man read my words and thought that he knew me, thought that he could read me, thought that he could take liberties because hadn't I put myself (my body) out there for everyone to read?

I've despaired to think that in the career path I wish to pursue, my male coworkers will see me primarily as the cute girl (with "deep, dark, and soulful eyes," direct quote from one confessional email) and not as competent, smart, or talented.

I know I've been stressing the disconnect between my actual, physical body and this other body, but truthfully, they're not always so disconnected. It's this other body, I think, that causes men to casually touch my leg, my waist, my butt (without, as one friend so memorably put it, even bothering to buy me a happy meal first). It can't be me, right?

I don't know what it's like to be white, male, and heterosexual (a girl can dream), but I imagine there's less of a gap between the way other people perceive you and the way you perceive yourself. I imagine there are fewer moments of disconnect. I could try to primarily see myself as a sexual object, but I think that would get in the way of my writing.


[Based on this, one of the major feats that women in our culture are expected to achieve to become adults is internalizing the male gaze, or viewing themselves as primarily sexually attractive or not. Thus, being sexy is a culturally conditioned behavior that requires seeing a reverse image of yourself (as sexy) and then projecting it back to the world.]


*This might be Lacan and the mirror stage. Or Marx and alienation (alienated from work, from your body, from other people's bodies which then become instruments of production?). Or feminism and the male gaze.

Places to submit stuff to

1. McSweeney's

2. Relevant Magazine

3. Hyphen Magazine

4. Prodigal Magazine

5. Modern Love (NY Times)

6. Brevity

7. Guernica 

8. Cracked

Who I Am v. Who I Wish To Be

“Before I can tell my life what I want to do with it, I must listen to my life telling me who I am.” 

-Parker J. Palmer, Let Your Life Speak

I read (most of) an intriguing little book by Parker J. Palmer called Let Your Life Speak. It's a book about calling, vocation and listening as a means to discovering calling and vocation. 

Part of letting your life speak is separating who you are from who wish you were.

To give an example: I wish I were more of a technical/visual filmmaker than I am. I wish I could get excited and nerd out about new technology. I wish I cared about the visual style of David Fincher or John Ford. I wish I intuitively understood the difference between different video codecs.

Zadie Smith wrote a great essay about ideal readers and the authors they do not choose (rather, the writing of that author chooses you). She writes of E.M. Forster:

It happens that I am E.M. Forster's ideal reader, but I would much prefer to be Gustave Flaubert's or William Gaddis's or Franz Kafka's or Borges's. [...] Rightly or wrongly, I feel I get all his jokes and appreciate his nuances, that I am as hurt by his flaws as I am by my own, and as pleased when he is great as I would be if I did something great. I know Morgan. I know what he is going to say before he says it, as if we had been married thirty years. But at the same time, I am never bored by him. You might know three or four writers like this in your life, and likely as not, you will meet them when you are very young. Understand: They are not the writers you most respect, most envy, or even most enjoy. They are the ones you know. (from The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2003) 

I love this idea of writers and readers meant for each other like soul mates. Again, it's not about who you wish you were drawn to but about who you actually get, I mean really get. I can remember having feelings like this whilst reading Jane Eyre, though I'm not sure who I am the ideal reader for. I suppose I wish I were the ideal reader for Henry James.

I admire writers who can write for miles, days, pages and pages, but I am not that kind of writer. I struggle to reach page and word counts. When I write, I often skip over a bunch of explication and get straight to the point (or at least that's what one professor said). Am I leaving things out because I assume they are obvious? Am I just too lazy to properly set things up? Is this just the way that I write?

In a similar vein, to go back to filmmaking, I wish I had the compassion of a director like Cameron Crowe or Brad Silberling. I wish I cared about my characters the way that they do. I wish I had that kind of empathy, which is to imply that I don't.

All of this is to say a lot about who I am not--not technical, not obsessed with visuals, not given to torrents of words, not empathetic. I know less about what I am. I think that's where the listening comes in. Or the just doing. Relaxing into vocation.

If I'm hearing correctly, I think my life might be saying that I don't write/create within a social vacuum. Filmmaking is always collaborative and I enjoy that aspect of it. I create with my friends and the quality of the work reflects the quality of my relationships. I used to see that as a liability, because if the relationship fell apart, so would the project. But maybe it's more of a gift than a liability.

What about you? Is there a gap between who you are and who you wish you could be? 

New Year's Resolutions: The Who, What, Where, and When

1. Read more.

One Hundred Years of Solitude
The Wings of the Dove
Tropic of Cancer
The Grass is Singing
Anna Karenina
Art and Madness
Bleak House
The Rings of Saturn
Possession
TBA

In coming up with a reading list, I realized that I want to read "the classics" less than I thought I did. Maybe this is because there are relatively few "classics" (intellectual snobbery alert)  that I have neither read nor attempted to read. I have an especial distaste for books that I have--more than once--tried and failed to finish. (I'm looking at you, Slaughterhouse-Five and Huckleberry Finn.)

I find myself drawn more to memoirs, essay collections and literary theory.

The thing about a childhood spent reading is that it's extremely difficult to live up to as an adult, at least for me. I despair of being able to replicate the wonder and delight of reading certain books at a certain age. More than I want to read more great books, I want to re-experience reading the great books of my past. Am I doomed to an adulthood of literary nostalgia?

Of course, there is always re-reading. But there's something risky about re-reading a book you once adored. It might not stand up the second time around, which is why I've probably never reread a certain book I read at age eleven. I want to preserve the sacred memory of that first reading.

2. Write more.

Specifically, I'd like to be published in 10 places other than this blog--this can include web or print. One down, nine to go. (update 1/25: At least one of these must be in print)

3. Think less.

This is a difficult one. How does this even work? I suppose the only way to plan on thinking less is to plan on doing instead of thinking. So far, I've tried to put this into practice with mixed results.

A few days ago, I read:

"Try an experiment today: What would happen if you did NOT conceptualize everything before taking action?" (Understanding the Enneagram, 93)

What does that even mean? Do people really do that? 

I'm kind of kidding. 

I have recognized a tendency to read about doing things (like writing a screenplay) rather than actually doing them. That madness has got to stop. 

4. Participate. 

Anyone up for some beer pong?

5. Shoot more. 

One short film per month.

New Year's Resolutions

1. Read more.

In 2011, I rediscovered the audiobook, which is all well and good. However, I'd like to actually read a few books this year, eye to page, balls to leaf, etc.

2. Write more.

Maybe I should specify: write more for public consumption. I write a fair bit--I can't imagine NOT writing. It's part of who I am. A delightful cocktail of perfectionism and procrastination keeps me from writing for persons other than myself--I'm always looking for the perfect title, idea, opportunity.

So yeah. I'd like to write a feature length screenplay, and you can hold me to that. And more blogs.

3. Think less.

In the same category as thinking: talking about it, reading about it, writing about it. Write more, think less--sounds paradoxical, but there is certainly an element of writing that does not come from thinking but from putting pen to page. In other words, just do it. Less theory, more praxis.

4. Participate.

Sometimes, this means playing beer pong.

5. Shoot more.

Ideally, at least one project per month. Starting tomorrow.