Just happy.

I welcomed in the New Year with board games and over 800 miles of driving in 48 hours. The highlight of my trip was nestled somewhere between The Perfect Hug and becoming the King of Tokyo as the Cyber Bunny (which in my opinion, is the monster most well suited to me: badass and adorable). As I sat around the game table on New Year’s Eve, greedily snatching roasted Brussels sprouts and cauliflower, cheese, rice crispy treats, and molasses chips and stuffing them into my face (not all at the same time) I didn’t think much on the “big possibilities” for the new year or its greater meaning and significance. I occasionally checked the trickle of “Happy New Year” text messages I received and joyfully replied, but I just felt happy to be where I was and grateful for the people closest to me (wherever they happened to be geographically).

I could easily dramatize 2013 as it did carry some rather dramatic changes. But the odd thing about this blog and my conversations with friends… the odd thing is, now that I’m sitting down to write a little bloggity-dee reflecting on this last year, I don’t have much else to say. I lived it, I wrote it, and I spoke it. Could I say, with flair, that this last year was hell? That it was challenging, displacing, heartbreaking and sad? Could I speak of the trees I watched dance, the eye contact I held with strangers, the deep soul love connection made and torn and gingerly handled? Or of the steps taken and the steps still needing to be taken? So many steps left. So very, very many and yet in this moment, as sleep begins to beckon to me, I’m content with letting a memory be a memory and a future, a future. No grandeur, no sweeping resolutions or sentimental statements or reading into what I’ve experienced and where I’m going.

I struggle to say I’m grateful for 2013 and what it offered, but I struggle to hate it in equal measure. The internal work I’ve done, the processing, the experiencing, is most clearly expressed in my blogs from last year but also the rough draft of my novel. I finished that draft shortly before 2013 ended, one year of work. As I start my edits and rewrites, I see the battle of what I was going through and what I was trying to say in those pages. My characters floundered in their own insecurity, though through no fault or even motivation of their own. The insecurity was mine; not just as a writer, but as a human being trying to make choices and changes.

Understandable, I think.

So standing on this side of last year, I can bear witness to a former self and incorporate her into a new being. I can allow myself that poetry, at least. But I think I’ll quietly slip into the new being like I would any other day, because how I felt on New Year’s Eve sums everything up: I’m just happy to be where I am. Home will continue to change, goals will continue to take shape, characters will continue to speak and surprise me, and tragedies will continue to occur along with beauty. Sometimes I don’t need any deeper meaning than that.

Much love to all of you!

Coin Operated Girl

Okay. Okay, look. I’ve got another little annoyance digging in my brain.

The token “strong female character.”

I went and saw the second Hobbit film last night. I won’t really dig deep into what I thought of the film as a whole (summary: good fun, many great elements, was on the cusp of feeling bored multiple times, probably won’t see it again), but I will speak about a very specific character decision that was made: the pretty red-headed elf lady. The orcs call her She-Elf, for some reason. It’s entirely possible that it’s a Tolkien thing, man of his time and whatnot, but really? Not elf. No, not elf. She-Elf. Totally different breed, apparently. Silly She-Elf.

Now before I continue on my ranty ranty bit, let me say this: Evangeline Lilly is lovely as the elf Tauriel, both in appearance and performance. And the little girl inside me enjoys watching her dance gracefully on the wind and on the earth as she shoots and slashes her way through spiders and orcs alike. I genuinely like her character. Tauriel’s compassion, her feisty defy-orders-to-do-what-she-feels-is-right attitude, and her battle skills all mesh together to make… Movie Arwen 2.0. Except redheaded and with more bloodlust.

Here’s my problem: an unnecessary plot addition was written so one single female character got to stand out as strong willed, feisty, and beautiful, among the men she interacts with. Is that, by itself, a problem? Not necessarily. Is it a problem that a female character was written in to a story that originally featured only men? No. Is it a problem that we have a gal who fights, is empathetic, and makes choices independently? Certainly not.

The problem is this character has been written many times before, in different stories and different circumstances, but she fills the exact same slot. She is a token writers stick into a story when they suddenly realize they need or want a female character, because this is nearly 2014, and shouldn’t we be progressive and stuff?

Her name is Tauriel. Her name is Arwen when she holds a sword to her lover’s throat and brags about sneaking up on him (Liv Tyler herself later recognized “you don’t have to put a sword in her hand to make her strong”). Her name is Fiona, from Shrek. Sure, she does kung-fu, but so do all princesses these days. What else do you have for her? She’s the blonde from the most recent Star Trek movie, whose only purpose seems to be functioning as a plot device and a hot piece of ass. Her name is Black Widow, to a certain extent, as depicted in the Iron Man movies and The Avengers.

It’s not bad to be kick-ass and pretty, that can be kind of awesome. But it’s not enough to be kick-ass and pretty. Those two elements do not a well-developed character make. Is Legolas strong? Is he kick ass? Is he pretty?

He’s all three of these things. Funny, we don’t seem to need to ask those questions. Well, except maybe that last one. But we often skip the “strong” adjective for male characters. Why? A) it’s a given or B) it doesn’t matter. It isn’t necessarily a part of the character’s merit. That doesn’t have to be proven, so we get to skip ahead to the other parts.

This woman’s token is wearing out real fast because it’s easy to use and it’s used often. The token’s characteristics have expanded to include “strong” and “badass fighting skills” but the role has not changed. The ratio of male to female protagonists has not changed.

But, you might say, some of these stories are based on older works and all the main characters are male! What do you want us to do?

The people behind the 2004 adaptation of Battlestar Galactica did something brilliant. They turned Starbuck, originally a male character, into a female (who was her own person). And it fucking worked. It worked brilliantly. Now, will I always expect gender bending in classic stories? No. Do I want every single story to be carefully balanced between male, female, and othergender characters? No. But tossing in a woman who can fight and be feisty and pretty does not warrant an automatic pat on the back. It does not warrant a “good job, look at how mindful you are to making sure women get positive representation! Look how much you get that women can be strong, independent, and badass! Here, have a cookie, because: Yay! Equality!"

This is not about women being depicted as sword wielding badasses or not. This is about WHY they are depicted as such. The why is incredibly, incredibly important. The why is the difference between a token and a thoughtfully constructed complex character. The why is the difference between a character who impacts and shapes the story and a character who is simply given something “to do” by the creation of elaborate side stories. Tauriel, in the midst of all her badassery, is also kind of just... an excuse for a romantic interest triange. 

As I’ve been writing I’ve come across this problem. It’s not a male vs female vs somegender problem, it’s simply a character writing problem. I find myself thinking “Oh! I want this character to do this, I want them to end up here. So this, this and this needs to happen, and then they can have this moment.”

Characters inevitably fall flat when they just react to whatever plot is written up. They will do anything I tell them to, but that does not mean they should. Characters, when they are allowed to be given life, will shape their own destinies. Is the plot serving the character and story, or is it simply serving a situation? Is the character breathing life, or is she coin operated? 

Thoughts on Frozen: Sisters, snow-dorks, and stone smurfs. (Contains spoilers!)

So I saw Frozen today. I cried.

Which should be no surprise to anybody.

After talking at (and with) a couple friends, I’ve developed a fairly cohesive review of my experience. As should be apparent by the title, this will contain spoilers. Please read responsibly.

~

First impression of the opening title screen and first scene: Dude, music.

And then… everything changes. Kind of.

Looking back, the opening scene has little to do with the rest of the film. So we see Kristoff and Sven’s origin, but what the heck happened to the rest of the ice men?

Change scene: we peek into the childhood of two sisters: Elsa and Anna. They’re adorable little princesses. They frolic, then something bad happens. We glimpse Elsa’s magical abilities (“winter” powers), and the resulting consequences. Terrified of a power she has, but doesn’t understand, Elsa learns she can accidentally harm those closest to her. Because of some vague warning from a few stone trolls, her parents shut her away from her sister and her world. She is shaped by a very strong belief more powerful than her magic: she must stifle and hide a part of herself to keep herself and her world safe. It’s the twisted interpretation of “with great power comes great responsibility.” Aka: “Don’t kill your sister, cause you totally will, even if you don’t mean to. So, just, hide your face or something. Cause, you know, shame! Dishonor! Dishonor on your whole family! Dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow, dis-“  er, ahem. Anyway. While she lives with her family, she is still separated and isolated from them.

Time passes, other stuff happens, and Elsa soon has to face the fact that she cannot hide forever because of, you know, circumstances. She’s terrified, naturally, and Anna has no idea why her sister is as cold and reserved as she is.

But let me take a break here: Where the hell did Elsa’s magic come from? She was born with it, not “cursed.” Okay. Does magic run in the family, then? Why are her parents so inept at helping her harness her powers? Presumably, if they think she can just wear some gloves and everything will be fine, then ice magic has either never been a big problem in their family, or it’s a new thing. Why was she born with it, but no one else in her family has it? What is her magic’s purpose (besides being a metaphor for being “cold” and “unfeeling”)? How does it work? How did it hurt Anna the way it did? Why did Anna’s memories of magic have to be removed entirely? I get the fear, I get the desire and urge to control something that isn’t understood, I get the love themes, I get the acceptance and the sisterhood themes.

But, but questions!!

I like the direction Disney is going with these princess stories. I’m guessing Brave, which focused on the mother/daughter relationship, broke open a new paradigm: stories about women protagonists without a romantic center. This is a new direction for Disney and sadly, a new direction for mainstream film and media in general. While Frozen is not devoid of romantic relationships/interests, I found those that WERE included were more self-aware and organic. Anna starts off excited about finding her “one” true love (which I see more as excitement about finding love and intimacy in general; she too has grown up so isolated, but without her sister’s internal struggle). Anna’s naiveté (which the film is self-aware of) kickstarts a journey to understand what “love” means as a whole. How SHE creates love herself, and how love defines relationships, period, whether it’s between sisters, friends, or partners/romantic.

While Disney may be heading that direction, their vision and execution is not perfect. I sense the legacy of these films shifting but Frozen as a whole is disjointed and scattered. My primary issue with this film is the same issue I had with Brave: too much going on and not enough focus/exploration on the stronger themes.

I can’t decide whether Olaf the snow-dork was a cute comic-relief character that worked within the story, or if he was misplaced. ( Olaf is CLEARLY a big hit with the kids and he’s a great marketing tool; I can’t fault Disney for that.) I get that he is a bridge character between the sisters, linking their past and their current struggle. But if that’s the case, I wonder if there was a better way to use that character. What if the comic relief came from elsewhere and his character explained (or even hint at) the source of Elsa’s magic or its significance?

What if Elsa’s power was somehow connected to Anna in a bigger way than “oh, if I don’t hide it, I’ll hurt her again?” What if Elsa’s magic developed to entertain and protect Anna, out of love, but when it backfired and Elsa accidentally hurt her sister, it raged out of her control? What if the ice magic was an ancient gift bestowed on the rulers of the kingdom, but over the years it was forgotten and Elsa was the first child in generations to have it?

Elsa has a power she is afraid of, and Anna’s power is that she faces her fears. Elsa’s journey to truly embracing herself revolves around her relationship with her sister, just as Anna’s journey to understand what love is revolves around the same thing. While the ice magic serves as a powerful metaphor, ultimately I think it becomes a vague situation for the story to happen around, not through. Like at the beginning? When the royal family goes off in the night to find those trolls to save little Anna? The mind is easy to change but not the heart? What exactly did Elsa DO? Give Anna a bad case of brain freeze? (I admit I was a little confused at that bit. I figure when someone gets hit in the head with a bolt of ice, they’d either end up with a bad headache or, you know, no head. What was the difference between the physical/material ice and the “magic disease ice?”)

And oh god, those trolls. There was another chance to give a little back-story or context for how magic functions in this world, but no. Sure, these trolls seem to have all this knowledge of magic, but besides ridding little Anna of a bad ice-headache and a vague warning to Elsa and her parents of “beauty” and “danger” if you don’t get that darn frost problem under control, what do these supposedly wise, old trolls do?

Apparently, kidnap the kid from the opening scene, raise him as their own, and then sing a little song mid-movie about fixer-upper relationships. A weird song about fixer-upper relationships. I get it was supposed to build the relationship between two of the main characters, but, really? And they look like stone smurfs. Smurfs. Stone. Smurfs.

What?

Not only did the story feel disjointed in parts, but the music was aaaaall over the place. I am not musically educated enough to articulate WHY, but that’s exactly how I experienced it. Intense, powerful opening music and then… where the hell was that during the rest of it?

I found “Let it Go,” sung by Elsa, to be one of the strongest songs overall, and one of the most impactful. Elsa goes from barely keeping her magic hidden to completely unleashing it from her fingertips, creating this gorgeous ice castle. But Olaf the snow-dork has his own style of song (which is admittedly adorable), the trolls have their own weird song (a total wtf moment), a few Disney-style pop songs, and… I don’t really remember much else. Regardless of whether or not the songs had merit, the main thing I remember is… not remembering them very well.

Growing up, Disney movies were all about the music for me. As questionable and cringe-worthy as Pocahontas was, damnit that movie had some amazing music. Lion King? Unforgettable, plus my all-time favorite villain song. Each decade, each “age” of Disney had its own flavor, animation, story, and perhaps most importantly for many of us, music.

Watching Frozen in a theater filled with children and families, I wondered how this generation of kids will remember the music. To them, is it the best thing ever, and am I just biased because I’m not their age anymore? Perhaps.

I really did enjoy the film. The visuals of ice and snow are stunning, the journeys of both sisters are wonderfully done and tender (like a steak, hehe). Character dialogue and exchange felt organic and fluid, right down to the most subtle of body language details, which made the motivation and development of each character clear and engaging. While largely scattered, the music did contain a couple gems that I hope kids will sing loudly in the backseats of cars, much to their parents’ chagrin or joy (or both). The kids sitting with us in the theater loved the movie, and were very vocal about it. And while I question how focused the story was and the roles some of the side characters played, I think those critiques are best served in thinking about how we might make even better films, stories, whatever, in the future. 

Living with an eating disorder.

Every day becomes a choice.

Each day rests on a series of pivot points; I find the first one sitting on my chest when I wake up in the morning. That’s when it starts and I pass through one after another after another after another. When I blearily blink the room into focus and slap around for the deactivated iPhone I use for a bedside clock. When I peer at the digital numbers, then look away to stare off somewhere around the window to ponder when I really, really have to get up. Repeat this last step several times. Looking at the time again helps, because sometimes it feels like my body and the objects around me aren’t quite real.

That’s when the first choice happens. The “what kind of day is this going to be?” sort of choice; except for me, it’s “what kind of life do I want to live?” And I’m surprised by how complicated the answer is. Not every time. But sometimes.

A friend reminded me of the balance: the balance between falling in love with the journey and not losing sight of the goal. It’s like there’s some goal out there leaving a trail of note pages for me. Every day I pick up another one and flip it over twice, trying to find a clue or hint. But there isn’t one. There never is. So what I write on that page becomes my choice. I can write as much or as little as I want to, but I have to remember that someday I’ll end up with this pile of pages and that’ll be it. That’ll be how I chose to represent my potential.

That’s staggering. You know? That’s completely staggering.

Some days I write thousands of words and hate every single one. But other days I fill up a whole journal and recognize its importance and its beauty. Some days I care less about the product and just enjoy the process; who gives a shit if the quality falls short? It’s quality to me. Then there are those days I write less than a paragraph and I’m convinced those are the best goddamn words I’ve ever strung together. The next day I’ll write three times more then cut out half of it.

Every day I write and look at what I’ve compiled so far. And I realize I need to write more. A lot more.

Because this is the choice. It’s the choice in creating substance or stopping before the story is finished. And the story may never be finished. Or it may be cut short before I make my next choice. But each one I do make will be mine, they will be precious, and they will be lovely. Even the ones I am most disappointed by. 

Little thoughts: Bedroom door.

I closed the bedroom door, listening for the muffled click of the latch. Over time the wood had warped enough to not quite fit its frame; often a careful little thrust was required to shut it. On those evenings when I watched the digital clock betray my trust, the time leaping over my body hunched in the recliner, I rarely crept in to bed before 4am. Mom slept in the room next to mine; I didn’t want to wake her. The floor itself had declared war upon anyone who dared to walk brazenly upon its face. It croaked, yowled, and brayed, practicing its barn yard battle cries even when we tiptoed along the edges of the hallway.

It’s all about knowing what you can and can’t control. I can’t control the floor, god knows I tried, but the bedroom door, that’s my domain. I remembered judging peoples’ moods by the way they shut a door. Did they slam it just a bit? They slammed it just a bit. What’s wrong? Are they mad at something? Someone? Are they mad at me? And here, when I said “I remembered” I really meant: “I still do that.”

I heard the voice in my head and wondered how old it was. If it was a fixed age, imprinted or woven into a tapestry that I hung around my neck as a representation of who I am inside. Or was it a shifting system spanning decades or centuries of life experience both lived and imagined? If I lived to be 150 years old, would I still talk about closing doors quietly and would I care if someone heard it? 

Female Sexuality and Empowerment (Your ass is showing.)

I got all inspired to write a blog on self-esteem, power, and female sexuality (and its expression) back when the whole Miley Cyrus thing happened at the VMAs. Not to talk about the event itself, but to talk about the conversations that happened after Sinead O’Conner’s barrage of open letters and then Amanda Palmer’s blog in response to Sinead’s first letter.

I wanted to talk about the comments people made in response to those responses.

I wanted to talk about the atrocious blog from a guy who likes, prefers, women with low self-esteem (because strong women are just so not vulnerable and don’t make him feel like a man).

I wanted to talk about power, and what it means to own it or to take it back.

I wanted to talk about what women taking back sexual power means and what it means for men to be in their own power.

I wanted to talk about what being “female” means and what being “male” means and how that’s not so easy, is it?

I wanted to talk about what seems to be a broken dialogue because I look at all this and just see scared people lashing out against other scared people.

I see big, influential people wielding more influence than they are willing to take responsibility for.

I see puppet strings and I see strings cut.

I see myself, at 13 years old, and I wonder what words like “self-esteem,” phrases like “your body is a temple” would mean to her.

I see myself, now, as a woman in her 20s, and I don’t have an answer to: “what’s the right way for a woman to express her sexuality?” (I know there isn't a “right” way, but the fact it’s still such a highly talked about and DEBATED subject indicates that this isn't over even if the answer is there.)

I don’t have answers to: “When is nudity exploitation, when is it not?” and “When is sexuality exploitation and when is it not?”

Discerning is hard, arguing is easy; I wonder if this debate is messy because we have to continue putting female sexuality in a box in this discussion (what is it/how is it and how should it be expressed/what does it mean), when by its nature, female sexuality (and sexuality in general) is extremely fluid and hard to pin down.

Two questions about sexuality and power keep coming back to me. If women try and take back their personal power by owning their sexuality rather than letting it be owned, what does that look like? And how do we tell the difference?

But when I ask those questions, more keep coming. What does male sexual power mean in this day and age? And whether it’s just women, just men, or some combination of both, is there a way to respect the human beings represented by such a powerful force?

I think this goes beyond slut-shaming because that argument, at its surface, is easy. “Look, she has no self-respect,” “Look, she is comfortable with her body.” Where’s the line? Is there one? Who holds the power? Who’s being exploited? Is anyone being exploited? What is appropriate? What lessons will my 13 year old learn if she sees this? My question is: what lessons will any of us learn if we don’t talk about what we see, read, watch, think, feel or do?

If we ask individual women: “What does ‘my body is a temple’ mean to you?” what answer will we find? I’m betting we’ll find a huge spectrum, but I don’t know what that spectrum is.

The big reason why I took so long to write this should be obvious. There are so many question that I don’t even know where to begin. It’s overwhelming, and while I could sit here, pick a place to start, and start dissecting all the information, I would never post the blog because I would be writing it for the rest of my life. And right now I don’t want to debate or argue; I want to share and listen. So I’m going to change the conversation.

I don’t want this one to be just me talking at you; I want this to be a dialogue. Not just from women or those typified as women, but anybody, however they choose to describe themselves, their gender, their sexuality.

Can people be strong and vulnerable at the same time? If no, why? If yes, can you give a story, an example, experience, or even some thoughts on what that looks like?

What does that look like for women to take back their personal power by owning their sexuality? And how do we tell the difference between empowerment and dis-empowerment?

(If something else provoked a thought, go with that!)

If you are comfortable enough to post a response on the blog I would love for you to share. If someone posts a comment you want to respond to, respond away (but please be respectful and considerate). Feel free to post anonymously or if you prefer to share privately and have other ways of contacting me directly, go for it. I will not post anything without permission.

Be honest and be bold. Much love, and we’ll pick this up again soon!

Fingertips and Steel Strings

I judge how often I play guitar by two details: how long the fingernails on my left hand are, and how callused my left fingertips are. Last night I picked up the black painted body of the steel stringed instrument, running my fingers along the only case decoration: an old name tag. The name tag reads “Fredrick the 3^rd” and it’s secured by four pieces of worn duct tape.

I haven’t pulled the guitar from its case in a long time. I've trimmed my fingernails and the skin on the tips of my index, middle, ring finger and pinkie are smooth and soft. No trace of calluses. To which I say, “This shit’s gonna hurt.” Because, you know, digging a bundle of nerve endings into the side of a steel string? No pain, no gain or something like that. I think about learning guitar as a kid. Not only do we get to suffer through shaky chord changes, figuring out which finger goes where, but we have to build up the hand and fingers strength to play anything properly and, well, prettily.

Coming back to the instrument now, I can play all the basic chords, and change between them, with reasonable aptitude. But those first few practice sessions are agony on the fingers. I know what I want to play and I know how it’s supposed to sound. But as the minutes tick by the sharp, stinging pain radiating through my hand and into my arm is difficult to ignore. To compensate, I don’t press as hard for every chord.
 

Point being, everything sounds like different levels of shit. There’s: “Oh that’s good. Really solid,” as the rarely reached goal. Then: “Eeeh, it’s a bit fuzzy. And what was that buzzing twang? Damn B string, damn you.” Then: “Hnnnng. Fuckfuck OW. Okay, that was a chord, right?” *strums again* “Well, I can hear all the strings I’m NOT pressing on, so that’s good?” Then: “…Well in my head I know what it’s supposed to sound like.” Then: “Fuck, I give up. We’ll do this a cappella.”

So why the sudden break-out-the-guitar inspiration? Funny you should ask. I first learned to play church hymns and folk songs. The latter speaks to a longer, deeper love of folk. Traditional tunes can be such a beautiful vehicle for expression. English, Irish, American, folk music holds a grounded space that I inevitably come home to again and again. Kate Rusby is one of those spaces.

I don’t remember how I stumbled upon her, but I began listening to Kate Rusby’s albums several years ago. Frankly, discovering her at all was a bit of a miracle given my spotty music knowledge and the fact that Kate isn’t that well known in the US (to my knowledge, anyway). She’s a contemporary English folk singer-songwriter armed with a skill on strings and an understated, melancholy voice that effortlessly slips under my skin. A fluid combination of old English songs carried on by her own tunes, folk tunes from the mid to late twentieth century, and her own tunes, her delivery is simple and stripped down. She offers a vehicle easily accessed and easily felt. The first album I listened to, “Little Lights,” was not one I instantly fell in love with. One track caught my interest and for some reason I decided to just buy the whole damn album. That album has been a long, slow love story. Similar to my experience with Patty Griffin’s “Living with Ghosts” album, it took time and patience for me to dig into the subtleties that ultimately became the reasons why I love it so much.

That is art to me. Vehicles of feeling offered by one and accessed by another. There is no greater honor than when something I produce impacts someone else so deeply that they spend their time digging in, exploring, and making their own experience. That’s a sort of soul sharing that can transcend time, distance, even culture. It can be a convoluted plot based film with complicated action shots and intense character development, a brutally honest self-portrait by a painter suffering from crippling old injuries and pain, an old English folk tune, or a new English folk tune.

They all remind us that the stories are the same, repeating in time and across space. Not that the differences don’t matter. My God, they matter so much. Those differences make our version unique; no one can tell our story for us. Those variations enrich us if nothing else. The ability to look into the soul of another and say “I love our sameness and value our differences,” that’s a precious wisdom.