I hate being scared. It is a feeling I do not enjoy. My wife, however, loves to be scared. When Halloween rolls around, I know there will be an onslaught of scary movies available for her viewing pleasure.
My wife is kind enough to not subject me to scary movies if I do not care to watch them with her. (I'm sure she wishes I would show her the same consideration when it comes to sports.) There are a few times a year when I feel brave and tell her that I could watch a scary movie. Thankfully, she rarely takes me up on the offer.
Yesterday, in the spirit of Halloween, I let her know that there were three scary movies premiering on television and it was her choice which one we watched. I started mentally preparing myself as soon as I got out of bed.
I have always been a bit of a cry-baby when it comes to horror. I once threw-up in a movie theater's bathroom sink after I heard Darth Vader's heavy breathing filtering through the closed doors of a movie that had yet to let out. I cried hysterically when Sammy Terry (I think that was his name,) a man with white make-up on his face, wearing a Dracula-style cape, came on the local cable channel to introduce that night's scary movie. Then came Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, The Brood, The Omen, Psycho, Poltergeist, all movies that scared me to the point of wishing I could take the watching of them back. But I had to watch them: I was saving face in front of my cousins.
My wife picked The Crazies. Okay. Sure. The Crazies. Decent cast. Tainted water supply. I can do this, I kept telling myself as the sun started to set and time drew nearer. I made sure I was finished eating. I snuggled into my wife's chest. The movie started. Oh, god...here we go. We watched. I started to relax. It wasn't scary. In fact, I wish my wife could turn back time and pick something else. She deserved better for her one pick.
What happened to making movies that inspire people like me to turn every light in the house on? To refuse to go outside when it is dark? To question every noise the house makes? Is it because I am older? (I really don't think so because I was well into adulthood when I visited my last haunted house--something I will never do again. The only way out of it was by going through it! My behavior was less than civilized as I yanked and pulled and screamed and let myself be blindly led by my girlfriend at the time.) Is it because the genre has been overdone and the same movies are being made over and over again with different casts and a small tweaking to the stories? Maybe. All I know is Halloween used to mean something. It used to mean climbing the steps to a house, all in the name of sugar, where there was scary music playing through a stereo speaker, a casket by the door, and a moment that needed to be collected while pausing to figure out if the candy was worth it. Was there something in the casket, biding its time to pop out and give fright to a group of kids? Yes, of course there was.
Maybe it's been too long since I've been on the trick-or-treat circuit, but it seems like kids today don't have to work as hard for a handout. And movie makers don't have to try as hard to scare the pants off theater-goers. Maybe I should just shut up and thank god for small favors.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Nightmares
This morning, as the sunlight filtered through the bedroom drapes, my wife put her arms around me and held me tighter than usual. She had had a bad dream.
In the dream, she was in the shower, washing the new tattoo she'd just gotten on her stomach. Her doctor told her she would not live long enough to see it heal: she had stomach cancer. And while she washed around it, she felt herself dying. "You know how the doctor told me I wouldn't live long enough to see my tattoo heal?" Yes, I replied. "This is it. I'm dying." And die she did. But it didn't end there. She watched as I emotionally crumbled.
WTF?!?!
Why can't my wife have "normal" nightmares? She is always dreaming about the end of the world, where everyone around her is dying. Or dreams where she has to save our entire family from a catastrophic event, the cat included. And sometimes we're kidnapped. Or people--people with some kind of affliction, like zombies or space-aged monsters--are chasing her. Why can't she have bad dreams about our house being foreclosed on or burning Thanksgiving dinner? Why do they always have to scare the shit out of me too?
The bedroom is still dark in the mornings, so when she tells me about her nightmares, I'm glad she cannot see my face. It is a testament to how fucked up I think her sub-conscience is. Panic and fear reside in my eyes. My mouth is pulled tight. And I can't help thinking that if I had her nightmares, I would never want to go to sleep.
I keep telling her that some of her dreams would make great screenplays. Screenplays that I think could actually sell. At least that way, while her dreams might still scare the shit out of me, they would scare me from the comforts of a million dollar home.
In the dream, she was in the shower, washing the new tattoo she'd just gotten on her stomach. Her doctor told her she would not live long enough to see it heal: she had stomach cancer. And while she washed around it, she felt herself dying. "You know how the doctor told me I wouldn't live long enough to see my tattoo heal?" Yes, I replied. "This is it. I'm dying." And die she did. But it didn't end there. She watched as I emotionally crumbled.
WTF?!?!
Why can't my wife have "normal" nightmares? She is always dreaming about the end of the world, where everyone around her is dying. Or dreams where she has to save our entire family from a catastrophic event, the cat included. And sometimes we're kidnapped. Or people--people with some kind of affliction, like zombies or space-aged monsters--are chasing her. Why can't she have bad dreams about our house being foreclosed on or burning Thanksgiving dinner? Why do they always have to scare the shit out of me too?
The bedroom is still dark in the mornings, so when she tells me about her nightmares, I'm glad she cannot see my face. It is a testament to how fucked up I think her sub-conscience is. Panic and fear reside in my eyes. My mouth is pulled tight. And I can't help thinking that if I had her nightmares, I would never want to go to sleep.
I keep telling her that some of her dreams would make great screenplays. Screenplays that I think could actually sell. At least that way, while her dreams might still scare the shit out of me, they would scare me from the comforts of a million dollar home.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Wonderful World of Queries
Yesterday, I received a form letter rejection. Today, I received a personalized rejection by an agent who said he/she appreciated my creativity, but it just wasn't right for their agency. It's amazing what a difference a day can make.
The form rejections never make my cry in my pillow. They only remind me that the writing business is tough to break into. But the personalized rejections always fill me with a strange sense of it's going to happen eventually.
The various responses I have received from agents so far remind me that tastes vary. In the same sense that not all books or genres speak to me, I know that my novel is not for everyone. Some agents/agencies generically shut me down while others take the time to let me know that while they're passing, there are many agents and to keep trying. These rejections are my favorite. They make me feel that I am a part of their world, even if they're not inviting me into it.
I didn't send a single query this week. Instead, I focused on working on my second novel. I think next week I'll hit the query trail again, if only to ensure the roller coaster doesn't derail.
The form rejections never make my cry in my pillow. They only remind me that the writing business is tough to break into. But the personalized rejections always fill me with a strange sense of it's going to happen eventually.
The various responses I have received from agents so far remind me that tastes vary. In the same sense that not all books or genres speak to me, I know that my novel is not for everyone. Some agents/agencies generically shut me down while others take the time to let me know that while they're passing, there are many agents and to keep trying. These rejections are my favorite. They make me feel that I am a part of their world, even if they're not inviting me into it.
I didn't send a single query this week. Instead, I focused on working on my second novel. I think next week I'll hit the query trail again, if only to ensure the roller coaster doesn't derail.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
F*cking Wal-Mart
This morning, I saw a commercial for Wal-Mart I had never seen before.
A woman is ecstatic that she has a job at Wal-Mart because she is no longer on welfare. And her son got a job too!
I thought I was going to hulk out of my clothes.
The woman was not white. (White people don't go on welfare!)
The woman will see her son--and other men--get promoted over her, time and time again. (There is a class action law suit against Wal-Mart right now, for this very issue.)
In these "excited" times, the last thing Wal-Mart needs to be doing is telling white people that minorities can get off welfare if they just come on in and fill out an application. Because it's bullshit. Wal-Mart pays their employees like they are thirteen-year-old babysitters.
There has been far too much rhetoric lately about people getting a free ride: health care, welfare, social security, Medicare, Medicaid, are all programs that "good-hearted Christians" and their lunatic fringe spokespersons feel need to be abolished or handed over to the private sector. And with the immigrant issue still a hot button issue, all this commercial does is tell all those people that, yes, minorities are to be feared because they're living off welfare, and you're paying for their free ride. You may think I'm overreacting, but the nonsense that is flying out of people's mouths lately is exactly why I made this connection. And I'll be damned if Wal-Mart will get me to believe they are the answer. But I bet Sharron Angle is on board.
I detest Wal-Mart. It has been close to a decade since I have used my purchasing power to support one. They have bastardized too much to be given a free pass. They treat their female employees like shit. They bully the companies of the products they sell. And now they're taking idiocy to a whole new wtf? level. I would rather pay an extra quarter for a box of cereal than bankrupt my integrity.
A woman is ecstatic that she has a job at Wal-Mart because she is no longer on welfare. And her son got a job too!
I thought I was going to hulk out of my clothes.
The woman was not white. (White people don't go on welfare!)
The woman will see her son--and other men--get promoted over her, time and time again. (There is a class action law suit against Wal-Mart right now, for this very issue.)
In these "excited" times, the last thing Wal-Mart needs to be doing is telling white people that minorities can get off welfare if they just come on in and fill out an application. Because it's bullshit. Wal-Mart pays their employees like they are thirteen-year-old babysitters.
There has been far too much rhetoric lately about people getting a free ride: health care, welfare, social security, Medicare, Medicaid, are all programs that "good-hearted Christians" and their lunatic fringe spokespersons feel need to be abolished or handed over to the private sector. And with the immigrant issue still a hot button issue, all this commercial does is tell all those people that, yes, minorities are to be feared because they're living off welfare, and you're paying for their free ride. You may think I'm overreacting, but the nonsense that is flying out of people's mouths lately is exactly why I made this connection. And I'll be damned if Wal-Mart will get me to believe they are the answer. But I bet Sharron Angle is on board.
I detest Wal-Mart. It has been close to a decade since I have used my purchasing power to support one. They have bastardized too much to be given a free pass. They treat their female employees like shit. They bully the companies of the products they sell. And now they're taking idiocy to a whole new wtf? level. I would rather pay an extra quarter for a box of cereal than bankrupt my integrity.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: Road Rage
Get out of the way!
Big trucks think they own the road.
Small penis drive fast.
Angry minivans
Want to run me off the road.
Wal-Mart is waiting.
Turn signals announce
Way too much information.
You're a mystery.
Big trucks think they own the road.
Small penis drive fast.
Angry minivans
Want to run me off the road.
Wal-Mart is waiting.
Turn signals announce
Way too much information.
You're a mystery.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Irrational Fear
I have an issue with being chased. I don't know where it originated or why it is still here. But if my wife is behind me on the stairs, following me, my insides start get all weirdsy. I feel uneasy. My heartbeat quickens. I feel like I need to move as fast as I can before she gets me.
It's irrational, I know, but it cannot be helped.
My wife was taking a shower. She screamed like there was blood coming out of the showerhead instead of water. When I ran in to inspect, she pointed. There, in the folds of the shower curtain, sat a spider the size of a baby's pinky nail.
Last night, as the family was nestled together on the sofa--two dogs and cat included--terror, once again, struck the heart of my wife.
"I see a spider," she announced.
"I don't see it," I replied, looking around the floor.
"It's right there."
"Oh, I see it." It was crawling across the floor, about four feet away from her. She was not sitting on the floor, but on the sofa, so the threat, to me, seemed really low.
The basset had been on and off the sofa for the past thirty minutes. The mutt had finally stopped obsessing over the cat. Everyone had finally settled. There were quilts and pillows involved. The last thing I wanted to do was vault off the sofa and handle a spider. I brought all these details to my wife's attention. She understood what I was saying and said she would keep an eye on it.
I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Her body sat up straighter. She couldn't stop staring at the floor.
"It's coming towards me."
"You're going to be fine."
"But it's coming to get me!"
The spider was not coming to get her. It was two feet away from her. And she was still on the sofa while the spider was still on the floor. Granted, it was moving in her direction, but I knew that there was no way it was going to jump on her face and eat it. Not like she thought it was going to. Still, I got off the sofa and wrangled the spider onto a piece of paper and threw it outside.
Knowing that I have irrational fears of my own, I cannot blame my wife for having her own. We all have something that make us want to scream. Right now, my something is Christine O'Donnell. Though I don't think my fear of her is all that irrational.
It's irrational, I know, but it cannot be helped.
My wife was taking a shower. She screamed like there was blood coming out of the showerhead instead of water. When I ran in to inspect, she pointed. There, in the folds of the shower curtain, sat a spider the size of a baby's pinky nail.
Last night, as the family was nestled together on the sofa--two dogs and cat included--terror, once again, struck the heart of my wife.
"I see a spider," she announced.
"I don't see it," I replied, looking around the floor.
"It's right there."
"Oh, I see it." It was crawling across the floor, about four feet away from her. She was not sitting on the floor, but on the sofa, so the threat, to me, seemed really low.
The basset had been on and off the sofa for the past thirty minutes. The mutt had finally stopped obsessing over the cat. Everyone had finally settled. There were quilts and pillows involved. The last thing I wanted to do was vault off the sofa and handle a spider. I brought all these details to my wife's attention. She understood what I was saying and said she would keep an eye on it.
I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Her body sat up straighter. She couldn't stop staring at the floor.
"It's coming towards me."
"You're going to be fine."
"But it's coming to get me!"
The spider was not coming to get her. It was two feet away from her. And she was still on the sofa while the spider was still on the floor. Granted, it was moving in her direction, but I knew that there was no way it was going to jump on her face and eat it. Not like she thought it was going to. Still, I got off the sofa and wrangled the spider onto a piece of paper and threw it outside.
Knowing that I have irrational fears of my own, I cannot blame my wife for having her own. We all have something that make us want to scream. Right now, my something is Christine O'Donnell. Though I don't think my fear of her is all that irrational.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sponsorship
The Chick-fil-A kickoff.
The Chick-fil-A halftime report.
The Chick-fil-A post-game show.
This injury timeout is brought to you by Chick-fil-A.
If I see one more commercial where a cow is begging us to eat more chicken so it can live--animals wanting to live is so fucking hilarious--I'm going to throw my sofa into the TV.
As long as books continue not to be brought to us by the Chick-fil-A prologue, or the Wendy's You-Know-When-It's-Real table of contents, I'll survive without college football.
The Chick-fil-A halftime report.
The Chick-fil-A post-game show.
This injury timeout is brought to you by Chick-fil-A.
If I see one more commercial where a cow is begging us to eat more chicken so it can live--animals wanting to live is so fucking hilarious--I'm going to throw my sofa into the TV.
As long as books continue not to be brought to us by the Chick-fil-A prologue, or the Wendy's You-Know-When-It's-Real table of contents, I'll survive without college football.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Light a Fire
I've been rather fired-up lately concerning an incident that took place last week. A gay man--someone I do not know--was talking about his boyfriend coming back home and how he needed to get back into shape because his "hot body" had disappeared. Later in the conversation, he mentioned having an oral fixation (he chewed on his fingernails.) A woman--a straight woman--was highly offended.
Straight people are granted the courtesy to define themselves in a myriad of ways: by being single or married, through their professions, the kind of shoes they wear, the kind food they make, the kind of car they drive, their hair, their clothes, their children, the church they attend, how much money they make, the jokes they tell, the friends they have, the talents they possess.
Gays are not afforded the same consideration when it comes to being who we are. Instead, we are immediately defined by the kind of sex we have. When a straight person finds out we are gay, they--for some insane reason--picture us in the bedroom. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why it is straight people are so obsessed with what we do with our sexual lives. There is an arc of perversion when a gay man can sit next to a straight women and not say a word about his sex life, yet she immediately sees him on his knees when he says oral fixation. Seriously!? Get your mind out of the gutter, straight lady, and get over yourself. What does it say about this woman? It says that she has a mind that works in a very strange, creepy, warped way. The last thing I do when I know someone is straight is picture them boning someone of the opposite sex. It's just gross.
I would bet a trazillion dollars that if it had been a fellow straight woman talking about her husband coming home and how she needed to get back her hot body and needed to curb her oral fixation--biting her nails--the woman who was offended would have thought nothing of it. She might have even had suggestions. I know it in my heart.
Ken Buck, a viable option to represent the citizens of Colorado in the United States Senate, believes being gay is a choice. The only way that argument makes sense is if Ken Buck has fantasies about the opposite sex. And because he is inherently straight, he thinks he's choosing not to be gay. Those who protest to much, who gladly show their ignorance, show the true nature of their fears: that they will not only be discovered as frauds, but their darkest thoughts will be revealed if they show compassion or understanding.
I lived a straight life for the first twenty-two years of my life. And had I chosen that life, I would have chosen emotional death. Fuck you, Ken Buck. Fuck you for just opening your mouth and speaking on a subject you know nothing about. You're entitled to feel the way you do, but when you're running for high office I expect your mouth to remain closed on the gay issue. Because when you say, to a national audience, that being gay is a choice, they are only words to you. But to me, it is real. To me, it is young gay people killing themselves because they were incessantly bullied. To me, it is gays being beaten, tied to fences, and left to die. To me, it is not holding my wife's hand in certain places for fear we will be targeted. To me, it is a gay man, just being who he is, offending a straight woman because people like you will always make it okay to hate and judge, preserving your "rightful" place by feeling better than others.
Straight people are granted the courtesy to define themselves in a myriad of ways: by being single or married, through their professions, the kind of shoes they wear, the kind food they make, the kind of car they drive, their hair, their clothes, their children, the church they attend, how much money they make, the jokes they tell, the friends they have, the talents they possess.
Gays are not afforded the same consideration when it comes to being who we are. Instead, we are immediately defined by the kind of sex we have. When a straight person finds out we are gay, they--for some insane reason--picture us in the bedroom. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why it is straight people are so obsessed with what we do with our sexual lives. There is an arc of perversion when a gay man can sit next to a straight women and not say a word about his sex life, yet she immediately sees him on his knees when he says oral fixation. Seriously!? Get your mind out of the gutter, straight lady, and get over yourself. What does it say about this woman? It says that she has a mind that works in a very strange, creepy, warped way. The last thing I do when I know someone is straight is picture them boning someone of the opposite sex. It's just gross.
I would bet a trazillion dollars that if it had been a fellow straight woman talking about her husband coming home and how she needed to get back her hot body and needed to curb her oral fixation--biting her nails--the woman who was offended would have thought nothing of it. She might have even had suggestions. I know it in my heart.
Ken Buck, a viable option to represent the citizens of Colorado in the United States Senate, believes being gay is a choice. The only way that argument makes sense is if Ken Buck has fantasies about the opposite sex. And because he is inherently straight, he thinks he's choosing not to be gay. Those who protest to much, who gladly show their ignorance, show the true nature of their fears: that they will not only be discovered as frauds, but their darkest thoughts will be revealed if they show compassion or understanding.
I lived a straight life for the first twenty-two years of my life. And had I chosen that life, I would have chosen emotional death. Fuck you, Ken Buck. Fuck you for just opening your mouth and speaking on a subject you know nothing about. You're entitled to feel the way you do, but when you're running for high office I expect your mouth to remain closed on the gay issue. Because when you say, to a national audience, that being gay is a choice, they are only words to you. But to me, it is real. To me, it is young gay people killing themselves because they were incessantly bullied. To me, it is gays being beaten, tied to fences, and left to die. To me, it is not holding my wife's hand in certain places for fear we will be targeted. To me, it is a gay man, just being who he is, offending a straight woman because people like you will always make it okay to hate and judge, preserving your "rightful" place by feeling better than others.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Holy Sh*t Balls
On nights when I do not have to rise-and-shine to an alarm clock the next morning, I allow my mind to wonder and fight off sleep until it is done. Last night, my thoughts were filled with Anne Boleyn. For no particular reason, really. Granted, I do have a mild obsession with her rise and fall, and the barbarically, hedonistic reign that defines Henry VIII's kingdom, but there was something specific my mind latched onto last night: Anne Boleyn's beheading.
In the beginning of the year I finished a book by Alison Weir (The Lady in the Tower) dedicated strictly to Anne Boleyn's fall. A bit of a dry read, I found the subject matter fascinating nonetheless. I, like Ms. Weir, believe that Anne was innocent of the crimes she was found guilty of committing. (I do not think she was hashing a plan to kill Henry with her alleged lovers, nor do I think she slept with her brother. Was Thomas Cromwell behind it all? Absolutely!)
There have been so many actors portraying the Tudors that I think it might sometimes be hard to think of them as real people. My mind cannot help but to think of Anne as a real-life person, with real-life fears, and thinking of her sitting in the Tower of London, knowing her head was to be removed from her body, makes me feel icky inside.
Beheading was considered to be the most compassionate way to do away with someone sentenced to death. When beheading is considered the most humane option to die, there are problems. But these were far from peaceful, friendly times. I guess if I had to choose between being hanged, beheaded, burnt at the stake, or torn into quarters by horses, I might choose the beheading. It's a tough call.
Because the thing about beheadings--and thanks to Ms. Weir I had never thought of it before--is that your brain does not die until all the oxygen is gone. Anne Boleyn's head may have been severed from her body, but her brain could have had a good thirteen or so seconds to wrap itself around what was happening to her. Holy shit balls! It shivers me timbers and makes my core cringe! I think about her head, lying in blood and straw, her eyes open, thinking, 'Well, that's that. There's my body. Here's my head. Fuck. This feels weird.' Thirteen seconds does not sound like a great deal of time, but I bet when it's your last thirteen seconds here, you're stretching it out. It could seem like a lifetime.
I can't stop thinking about what Anne might have felt and thought during the last seconds of her life. But I am grateful that when the bedroom is dark and quiet, and my mind wants to figure something out, that I am thinking of Anne's death and not my own.
In the beginning of the year I finished a book by Alison Weir (The Lady in the Tower) dedicated strictly to Anne Boleyn's fall. A bit of a dry read, I found the subject matter fascinating nonetheless. I, like Ms. Weir, believe that Anne was innocent of the crimes she was found guilty of committing. (I do not think she was hashing a plan to kill Henry with her alleged lovers, nor do I think she slept with her brother. Was Thomas Cromwell behind it all? Absolutely!)
There have been so many actors portraying the Tudors that I think it might sometimes be hard to think of them as real people. My mind cannot help but to think of Anne as a real-life person, with real-life fears, and thinking of her sitting in the Tower of London, knowing her head was to be removed from her body, makes me feel icky inside.
Beheading was considered to be the most compassionate way to do away with someone sentenced to death. When beheading is considered the most humane option to die, there are problems. But these were far from peaceful, friendly times. I guess if I had to choose between being hanged, beheaded, burnt at the stake, or torn into quarters by horses, I might choose the beheading. It's a tough call.
Because the thing about beheadings--and thanks to Ms. Weir I had never thought of it before--is that your brain does not die until all the oxygen is gone. Anne Boleyn's head may have been severed from her body, but her brain could have had a good thirteen or so seconds to wrap itself around what was happening to her. Holy shit balls! It shivers me timbers and makes my core cringe! I think about her head, lying in blood and straw, her eyes open, thinking, 'Well, that's that. There's my body. Here's my head. Fuck. This feels weird.' Thirteen seconds does not sound like a great deal of time, but I bet when it's your last thirteen seconds here, you're stretching it out. It could seem like a lifetime.
I can't stop thinking about what Anne might have felt and thought during the last seconds of her life. But I am grateful that when the bedroom is dark and quiet, and my mind wants to figure something out, that I am thinking of Anne's death and not my own.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Unfocused
I have a variety of things I am trying to do right now, like I can do them all at the same time:
Writing another novel. Rewriting my synopsis. Perfecting a query for an agent. Chatting with a couple of friends. And now this.
I'm struggling with focus right now. I should pick one thing and get it done, then move on to another. But for some reason, that's not happening.
Is it the weather? I wish. I would just pull the blinds.
Is it my diet? If only. I would just stop eating.
Is it because I want everything to happen right now? Probably.
Writing is not only a solitary profession, it also requires perseverance. If any of you out there find you're reading this because you're putting something off, remember that time is going to pass regardless of what you do with it. Our time here is short, and we all have things to do.
So let's stop putting off what we know we should be doing. Like checking our gmail and checking our yahoo mail and checking out the Daily Beast for today's top stories and looking at the weather cam to see if it's snowing and checking our cell phones for any missed texts!
Writing another novel. Rewriting my synopsis. Perfecting a query for an agent. Chatting with a couple of friends. And now this.
I'm struggling with focus right now. I should pick one thing and get it done, then move on to another. But for some reason, that's not happening.
Is it the weather? I wish. I would just pull the blinds.
Is it my diet? If only. I would just stop eating.
Is it because I want everything to happen right now? Probably.
Writing is not only a solitary profession, it also requires perseverance. If any of you out there find you're reading this because you're putting something off, remember that time is going to pass regardless of what you do with it. Our time here is short, and we all have things to do.
So let's stop putting off what we know we should be doing. Like checking our gmail and checking our yahoo mail and checking out the Daily Beast for today's top stories and looking at the weather cam to see if it's snowing and checking our cell phones for any missed texts!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Chasing Anna
I have always been an avid reader. In first grade I was placed in the advanced reading group. The books were red, unlike the yellow I had been reading before. I don't remember the words I read, but I remember how it felt. It felt odd and exhilarating and wonderful: I--me?--was an advanced reader!? I asked my wife the other day if she thought one was born a reader or if one acquired a taste for reading. We didn't really come up with an answer, but I think I was born a reader.
I remember perusing the shelves of the school library, barely tall enough to reach the third shelf, looking for something that peaked my interest. There were red ferns growing. Shel Silverstein. Roald Dahl. Charlotte's Web. The Hobbit. I skipped Judy Bloom and God and Margaret. I don't know why. Something about those books just never appealed to me.
And then, at the approximate age of fourteen, a single book changed my life.
My mother, grandmother, and I were in a neighboring town's mall--the Anderson mall. In the middle of the fairway--where kiosks for cell phones, lotions, fake hair, sunglasses, etc. now reside--a man was selling books out of boxes. I remember thinking there were so many books, but I bet if I were to see it now, it was a modest amount, just like the hill I used to ride my bike down seemed like a mountain at the time and now seems like nothing more than a speed bump. I had my allowance money, and so I started looking.
I was drawn to the dark, yet faded blue of the spine first. The letters were in simple block-like letters and ran across the spine instead of down. The title and author's name were etched into the spine in dirty, white letters:
I remember perusing the shelves of the school library, barely tall enough to reach the third shelf, looking for something that peaked my interest. There were red ferns growing. Shel Silverstein. Roald Dahl. Charlotte's Web. The Hobbit. I skipped Judy Bloom and God and Margaret. I don't know why. Something about those books just never appealed to me.
And then, at the approximate age of fourteen, a single book changed my life.
My mother, grandmother, and I were in a neighboring town's mall--the Anderson mall. In the middle of the fairway--where kiosks for cell phones, lotions, fake hair, sunglasses, etc. now reside--a man was selling books out of boxes. I remember thinking there were so many books, but I bet if I were to see it now, it was a modest amount, just like the hill I used to ride my bike down seemed like a mountain at the time and now seems like nothing more than a speed bump. I had my allowance money, and so I started looking.
I was drawn to the dark, yet faded blue of the spine first. The letters were in simple block-like letters and ran across the spine instead of down. The title and author's name were etched into the spine in dirty, white letters:
Anna Karenina
Leo Tolstoy
It was a hard cover. There was no dust jacket. The book's cover felt like material more than paper, with a texture like it had been tightly woven together. I cracked the book open. The binding crackled: a sound that is now one of my favorites. My fingertips ran over the soft paper inside. My eyes loved the small, bold typeset. There were no dog-eared pages. The only writing was on the first page. It was in pencil and notated the cost of the book: $2.50.
I bought it. And devoured it. When Anna threw herself under the train, I cried. Real tears. Like a hungry baby, wrapped in a wet diaper, waking from an afternoon nap. Like I had pushed Anna and could not undo my actions. A book had never made me feel like that before. So engaged. So wrecked. So engrossed. So moved. So a part of the world. So in love with words.
I am in a constant search to regain that feeling. It happens maybe once out of every ten to twenty books or so I read. And while it now happens differently (I find 19th Century Russian literature moves a little too slow for my liking,) I will always be grateful for Tolstoy's Anna. She helped me cross over the threshold of adolescence and into the world of literature.
Anna made me realize that consonants and vowels pump directly into my heart.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: The Family
The "church" on C Street
is a home for men of God.
Thou shall have affairs.
Power hungry men
Say it was all God's doing.
They decide nothing.
If not for being
covered by the news, smiting
would happen daily.
is a home for men of God.
Thou shall have affairs.
Power hungry men
Say it was all God's doing.
They decide nothing.
If not for being
covered by the news, smiting
would happen daily.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Sunday Brunch
When I wake up on Sunday mornings, all too often I lay in bed and wish I could go to the Chocolate Maven for brunch. I guess I could, but it would require a four to five hour drive. I simply don't have that kind of time on football Sundays.
This past Sunday, however, the dream became a reality. As sunlight filtered through the crappy blinds in our room, I knew it was only a matter of time: today was the day I would be sipping yummy, decadent hot chocolate and eating the kind of food that monopolizes my mind on weekend mornings.
Last time my wife and I ate at the Maven for brunch, the parking lot was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and we had to wait forty minutes. This time, as we made our way through the parking lot, there were spaces available. People weren't clustered outside the door. We walked in and were seated right away. I wanted to kiss the hostess.
The hot chocolate was everything I remembered. The red chile is never as spicy as I want it to be, but it's still mmm. It was divine.
The check came. I opened my wallet to produce my debit card when my driver's license picture caught my eye. I studied it. It was taken almost eight years ago. My cheeks look swollen. I was probably a good twenty pounds heavier than I am today.
I stretched my arm over the table and presented my wallet to my wife like an FBI agent presents their badge. She was looking down, so I said, "Look at my big fat face!"
With no hesitation, with no qualms whatsoever, my wife bypassed the picture in my wallet and looked me right in the face. My real time face.
My mouth fell open. I gasped like I was wearing a $10,000 gown--on loan--and had just dripped marinara sauce down the front of it.
My wife finally looked at the end of my arm to see what I meant. Of course, she didn't mean it the way it all seemed.
Brunch in Santa Fe...there's nothing fatter, I mean finer.
This past Sunday, however, the dream became a reality. As sunlight filtered through the crappy blinds in our room, I knew it was only a matter of time: today was the day I would be sipping yummy, decadent hot chocolate and eating the kind of food that monopolizes my mind on weekend mornings.
Last time my wife and I ate at the Maven for brunch, the parking lot was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and we had to wait forty minutes. This time, as we made our way through the parking lot, there were spaces available. People weren't clustered outside the door. We walked in and were seated right away. I wanted to kiss the hostess.
The hot chocolate was everything I remembered. The red chile is never as spicy as I want it to be, but it's still mmm. It was divine.
The check came. I opened my wallet to produce my debit card when my driver's license picture caught my eye. I studied it. It was taken almost eight years ago. My cheeks look swollen. I was probably a good twenty pounds heavier than I am today.
I stretched my arm over the table and presented my wallet to my wife like an FBI agent presents their badge. She was looking down, so I said, "Look at my big fat face!"
With no hesitation, with no qualms whatsoever, my wife bypassed the picture in my wallet and looked me right in the face. My real time face.
My mouth fell open. I gasped like I was wearing a $10,000 gown--on loan--and had just dripped marinara sauce down the front of it.
My wife finally looked at the end of my arm to see what I meant. Of course, she didn't mean it the way it all seemed.
Brunch in Santa Fe...there's nothing fatter, I mean finer.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
It's a Red Chile Kind of Day
Greetings, all!
This may be my last post until next week: I'm off to Santa Fe!
This is the perfect opportunity to catch up on past posts, or to read them over and over again until you've committed them to memory. Whatever gets you through until my return.
On my last trip to Santa Fe I ended up causing some drama at the local CVS. Apparently, they really like to have the line you're in clearly defined. I had no idea that my waiting for the next available register was going to cause such a fuss. But, before I knew what was going on, a lil' old lady angrily asked me, "Which line are you in!?!?" She had not appreciated I'd let another lil' old lady go ahead of me either. Who knew being nice would cause such annoyance and grievance. If I ever meet Oprah, I must ask her how she does it.
So this time, I will try and be aware of my surroundings and not rile the blood pressure of any more old people. But I can't make any promises.
This may be my last post until next week: I'm off to Santa Fe!
This is the perfect opportunity to catch up on past posts, or to read them over and over again until you've committed them to memory. Whatever gets you through until my return.
On my last trip to Santa Fe I ended up causing some drama at the local CVS. Apparently, they really like to have the line you're in clearly defined. I had no idea that my waiting for the next available register was going to cause such a fuss. But, before I knew what was going on, a lil' old lady angrily asked me, "Which line are you in!?!?" She had not appreciated I'd let another lil' old lady go ahead of me either. Who knew being nice would cause such annoyance and grievance. If I ever meet Oprah, I must ask her how she does it.
So this time, I will try and be aware of my surroundings and not rile the blood pressure of any more old people. But I can't make any promises.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: Religion
hCongress rep Bachmann
Was told to run for her seat.
Thanks for the laughs, God.
Fred Phelps heads a church.
Members are mostly family.
Hell has group rates, right?
I'm so important
Someone in the sky watches
As I go potty.
Was told to run for her seat.
Thanks for the laughs, God.
Fred Phelps heads a church.
Members are mostly family.
Hell has group rates, right?
I'm so important
Someone in the sky watches
As I go potty.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The List
Certain behavors are guaranteed to kick you off my list of respectable human beings. The following are just a few examples. Enjoy.
When you tell me that I need to respect what other people want to do but will not allow me to have my own opinions without growing horns and trying to gouge my point of view out of existence, I take issue with your hypocrisy. Off the list.
When I hold the door open, and you walk through it like I was born to be in that exact spot, at that exact moment, to hold the door open for your precious, important self. Maybe you're saving up your thank you's for your Oscar speech. Regardless, Your Majesty, you're off the list.
When you tell my wife how hot she is and that you hunt Libras (my wife's sign) like you're some kind of sexualized Rambo, and your girlfriend is less than two feet away, you're off the list. (I don't care that you told my wife she is hot, because she is. But your girlfriend might.)
When both of us are headed towards each other on the sidewalk, and you assume I will be the one who will move out of your way without the slightest acknowledgement that I'm even there. Allow me to step aside, Mr./Ms. President. Off the list.
When you take one bite out of a hot dog and throw the rest of it in the trash. Why, yes, the animals DO love to suffer and then meet a grisly death so you can be so frivilous with your food choices. A big hug and thanks going out to you from the barnyard. So off the list.
When you tell me what God is thinking, and how he feels. Really? Crazy, party of one. Off the list.
When you score a touchdown or last minute shot and you point to the sky. Get your ego in check. God could really give a shit about your game. I don't care how much money you make--your catching a ball is not that important when it comes to an entity who allegedly created the whole flippin' universe. Supernovas, black holes, 5000 species of frogs, and the six/two points you just scored. Get off the list, egomaniac.
When you set boundries--and stick to them--for what you will and will not deal with, the list becomes a short one. But those who have made the list are very dear to me. I would have my life look no other way. And thank you all (you know if you've made the list) for being in my life.
When you tell me that I need to respect what other people want to do but will not allow me to have my own opinions without growing horns and trying to gouge my point of view out of existence, I take issue with your hypocrisy. Off the list.
When I hold the door open, and you walk through it like I was born to be in that exact spot, at that exact moment, to hold the door open for your precious, important self. Maybe you're saving up your thank you's for your Oscar speech. Regardless, Your Majesty, you're off the list.
When you tell my wife how hot she is and that you hunt Libras (my wife's sign) like you're some kind of sexualized Rambo, and your girlfriend is less than two feet away, you're off the list. (I don't care that you told my wife she is hot, because she is. But your girlfriend might.)
When both of us are headed towards each other on the sidewalk, and you assume I will be the one who will move out of your way without the slightest acknowledgement that I'm even there. Allow me to step aside, Mr./Ms. President. Off the list.
When you take one bite out of a hot dog and throw the rest of it in the trash. Why, yes, the animals DO love to suffer and then meet a grisly death so you can be so frivilous with your food choices. A big hug and thanks going out to you from the barnyard. So off the list.
When you tell me what God is thinking, and how he feels. Really? Crazy, party of one. Off the list.
When you score a touchdown or last minute shot and you point to the sky. Get your ego in check. God could really give a shit about your game. I don't care how much money you make--your catching a ball is not that important when it comes to an entity who allegedly created the whole flippin' universe. Supernovas, black holes, 5000 species of frogs, and the six/two points you just scored. Get off the list, egomaniac.
When you set boundries--and stick to them--for what you will and will not deal with, the list becomes a short one. But those who have made the list are very dear to me. I would have my life look no other way. And thank you all (you know if you've made the list) for being in my life.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Waiting
I'm working on sending out more queries.
Just because an agent requested to see my manuscript is no guarantee he/she will want to represent me. I read recently that an agent requested to see 125 manuscripts in a single year. He/she ended up representing two. So I continue to move forward as if nothing has happened.
When I think about it, nothing really has happened. Waiting for something to happen feels strange and exhilarating and depressing all at the same time.
The numbers will never be in my favor. But still, an agent's eyes are/will be reading my words and that still feels oddly incredible. If I could convince my heart to stop trying to climb up my throat and right on out of my mouth so it can get a better view of what's to come, I think I would feel relatively calm.
Just because an agent requested to see my manuscript is no guarantee he/she will want to represent me. I read recently that an agent requested to see 125 manuscripts in a single year. He/she ended up representing two. So I continue to move forward as if nothing has happened.
When I think about it, nothing really has happened. Waiting for something to happen feels strange and exhilarating and depressing all at the same time.
The numbers will never be in my favor. But still, an agent's eyes are/will be reading my words and that still feels oddly incredible. If I could convince my heart to stop trying to climb up my throat and right on out of my mouth so it can get a better view of what's to come, I think I would feel relatively calm.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Lost
I once got lost in bed. I know how it sounds, but still, it is true.
It was in the middle of the night and the bedroom was so dark I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see my wife--a sleeping lump--beside me or our dogs lying on their beds. I had to use my other senses to try and solve the mystery my mind could not wrap itself around--where am I!?
My hands frantically slapped around on the fluffy comforter. Yes, I am in bed, but where am I in bed? I felt like I'd been turned upside down, or sideways, or some kind of way that didn't make any sense. How did I get to be positioned that way? Who was fucking with me? Finally, in a complete state of panic, I called out to my wife, who was only two feet away from me, "HONEY! I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM!"
She calmly and coherently responded, "You're in bed."
"But where in bed?"
Gathering that I wasn't going to let it go and let her peacefully fall back asleep, she snippily said, "Find an edge!"
Find an edge...good advice. So I searched. I found an edge, and then my hand found the wall. Nothing was making any sense. Why did I feel the wall? What edge of the bed was this? How did I get so turned around?
My wife had presented me with a reasonable solution, but it only managed to confuse me more. Like our bed was a plane going down over the Atlantic, I said, "I don't know what's going on!"
My wife sighed loud enough for the walls to shake. I felt the disturbed air of her throwing her covers off. Her feet padded across the room.
Then the lights came on.
She was standing by the light switch looking less than pleased. I was sitting in the middle of the bed, not turned around, not upside down, but right where I should be. I thanked her, apologized, and we both fell back asleep. (We laughed about it the next morning and still laugh about it today.)
There is no greater feeling than knowing my wife will always lead me back to where I am.
It was in the middle of the night and the bedroom was so dark I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see my wife--a sleeping lump--beside me or our dogs lying on their beds. I had to use my other senses to try and solve the mystery my mind could not wrap itself around--where am I!?
My hands frantically slapped around on the fluffy comforter. Yes, I am in bed, but where am I in bed? I felt like I'd been turned upside down, or sideways, or some kind of way that didn't make any sense. How did I get to be positioned that way? Who was fucking with me? Finally, in a complete state of panic, I called out to my wife, who was only two feet away from me, "HONEY! I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM!"
She calmly and coherently responded, "You're in bed."
"But where in bed?"
Gathering that I wasn't going to let it go and let her peacefully fall back asleep, she snippily said, "Find an edge!"
Find an edge...good advice. So I searched. I found an edge, and then my hand found the wall. Nothing was making any sense. Why did I feel the wall? What edge of the bed was this? How did I get so turned around?
My wife had presented me with a reasonable solution, but it only managed to confuse me more. Like our bed was a plane going down over the Atlantic, I said, "I don't know what's going on!"
My wife sighed loud enough for the walls to shake. I felt the disturbed air of her throwing her covers off. Her feet padded across the room.
Then the lights came on.
She was standing by the light switch looking less than pleased. I was sitting in the middle of the bed, not turned around, not upside down, but right where I should be. I thanked her, apologized, and we both fell back asleep. (We laughed about it the next morning and still laugh about it today.)
There is no greater feeling than knowing my wife will always lead me back to where I am.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Imaginary Friends
Her name was Pinky. She was a leather-clad, motorcycle riding bad-ass. And she stood two inches tall.
Looking back, I realize she was a miniature Pinky Tuscadero from the TV show "Happy Days". Although, I don't know if I gave her origin much thought at the time. All I knew was that she was there whenever I needed her.
She accompanied me to the bathroom in my grandmother's house.
If I was in the car, she rode her motorcycle along the shadow of the power lines, doing front flips, back flips, and popping wheelies.
I cannot remember if I talked to Pinky out loud, but I do remember we always had two way discussions. I can't help but to think if Pinky were here today, and I was still that small child, if we would text each other instead. Or if she would even exist at all. With video games and all the other shit we have to keep our minds occupied these days, I wonder if children even have the time, or focus, to have an imagination.
Looking back, I realize she was a miniature Pinky Tuscadero from the TV show "Happy Days". Although, I don't know if I gave her origin much thought at the time. All I knew was that she was there whenever I needed her.
She accompanied me to the bathroom in my grandmother's house.
If I was in the car, she rode her motorcycle along the shadow of the power lines, doing front flips, back flips, and popping wheelies.
I cannot remember if I talked to Pinky out loud, but I do remember we always had two way discussions. I can't help but to think if Pinky were here today, and I was still that small child, if we would text each other instead. Or if she would even exist at all. With video games and all the other shit we have to keep our minds occupied these days, I wonder if children even have the time, or focus, to have an imagination.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Preparation
My behavior yesterday was completely absurd. I definately lost my cool. Anyone who had to deal with me, my sincerest apologies. It was like it was 1776 all over again, and the revolutionary war was taking place in my chest.
But things are back to normal, kind of. I was able to complete, with my wife's assistance, a synopsis of my novel, and I sent it, with my manuscript, along to the agent first thing this morning. I even managed to spell everything correctly. I finally feel like I can breathe again. Now I just want to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.
Because, truth is, I can think about the day someone of importance (not that anyone who has read it up to date isn't important, but they certainly can't get me published) will take an interest in my work. I can think about it, invision it, try to think about how it will feel, but when it comes right down to it, I don't know what I'm going to do, or how truly spectacular it is going to feel. Did I think I would jump out of my chair with my hands over my mouth, repeating, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," over and over again? Did I think I would run around the work place like there were firecrackers in my ass, telling my bffs between deep breaths, "An agent wants to see my manuscript!"? Did I think I would take off like a screaming eagle to find my wife--who was surrounded by people--and stare at her like a child needing to tell a parent that the toilet was overflowing and there was water everywhere!?
No, I did not.
But seeing how all that actually happened, it just goes to show that you can try to prepare yourself for the important moments in your life, but your preparation will not help you. The elation is unimaginable. The way my heart beat was unlike anything I have ever experienced. My body shook from the inside. If this agent actually likes my manuscript and thinks he/she can sell it, I may very well throw myself through a picture window so I can run down the street and race a motorcycle.
And if the agent doesn't, I'll start preparing myself again.
But things are back to normal, kind of. I was able to complete, with my wife's assistance, a synopsis of my novel, and I sent it, with my manuscript, along to the agent first thing this morning. I even managed to spell everything correctly. I finally feel like I can breathe again. Now I just want to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.
Because, truth is, I can think about the day someone of importance (not that anyone who has read it up to date isn't important, but they certainly can't get me published) will take an interest in my work. I can think about it, invision it, try to think about how it will feel, but when it comes right down to it, I don't know what I'm going to do, or how truly spectacular it is going to feel. Did I think I would jump out of my chair with my hands over my mouth, repeating, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," over and over again? Did I think I would run around the work place like there were firecrackers in my ass, telling my bffs between deep breaths, "An agent wants to see my manuscript!"? Did I think I would take off like a screaming eagle to find my wife--who was surrounded by people--and stare at her like a child needing to tell a parent that the toilet was overflowing and there was water everywhere!?
No, I did not.
But seeing how all that actually happened, it just goes to show that you can try to prepare yourself for the important moments in your life, but your preparation will not help you. The elation is unimaginable. The way my heart beat was unlike anything I have ever experienced. My body shook from the inside. If this agent actually likes my manuscript and thinks he/she can sell it, I may very well throw myself through a picture window so I can run down the street and race a motorcycle.
And if the agent doesn't, I'll start preparing myself again.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Somebody Pinch ME!
I'll be spending most of my day constructing a synopsis for my novel, so this might be it for today's posting. Why, might you ask?
Hold on to your fucking hat.
An agent has requested to see my FULL manuscript!!! But along with it, I need to send a synopsis. And unfortunately, I have yet to write one of those.
I feel like I want to pass out, flip out, or tag out.
Is this really happening?
Hold on to your fucking hat.
An agent has requested to see my FULL manuscript!!! But along with it, I need to send a synopsis. And unfortunately, I have yet to write one of those.
I feel like I want to pass out, flip out, or tag out.
Is this really happening?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Query Hell
I am trying to keep my wits about me.
I am doing my best not to stand up and scream.
I just spent the entire morning researching an agent, perfecting the introduction to said agent, only to see, far too late, that the agent is closed to queries until December!
Am I embarrassed? Perhaps.
Do I feel foolish? Oh, yes.
Do I know better? Hell yes, I do.
Did that matter? Apparently not.
To anyone out there who is getting man-handled by this roller coaster of querying, you are not alone. Always make sure you read ahead and find out the agent's submission guidelines before you start perfecting their query. That's Query 101, really.
And, considering the last query I sent out I made the grave mistake of not checking the spelling of the agent's company name and sent it out misspelled (OMG!?!? I'm so embarrassed I could crawl into a hole!), I'm going to go on record and say it's not been a great week for me. I might as well have flipped the agent my middle finger and told him/her to suck it. I can only imagine that's exactly how he/she feels about it too.
But, still, I forge ahead, knowing that if this doesn't happen, I'll feel more foolish than I do right now.
I am doing my best not to stand up and scream.
I just spent the entire morning researching an agent, perfecting the introduction to said agent, only to see, far too late, that the agent is closed to queries until December!
Am I embarrassed? Perhaps.
Do I feel foolish? Oh, yes.
Do I know better? Hell yes, I do.
Did that matter? Apparently not.
To anyone out there who is getting man-handled by this roller coaster of querying, you are not alone. Always make sure you read ahead and find out the agent's submission guidelines before you start perfecting their query. That's Query 101, really.
And, considering the last query I sent out I made the grave mistake of not checking the spelling of the agent's company name and sent it out misspelled (OMG!?!? I'm so embarrassed I could crawl into a hole!), I'm going to go on record and say it's not been a great week for me. I might as well have flipped the agent my middle finger and told him/her to suck it. I can only imagine that's exactly how he/she feels about it too.
But, still, I forge ahead, knowing that if this doesn't happen, I'll feel more foolish than I do right now.
Hump-day Haiku: Politics
Christine O'Donnell
thinks evolution is bunk.
God made her stupid.
Dan Maes was a spy
In the Kansas CIA.
Crazy, one. Sane, zero.
Palin likes to tweet;
Easier than governing.
Shame on you, McCain.
thinks evolution is bunk.
God made her stupid.
Dan Maes was a spy
In the Kansas CIA.
Crazy, one. Sane, zero.
Palin likes to tweet;
Easier than governing.
Shame on you, McCain.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Pimpin' Myself
I have always kept my desire of getting published internal. Sharing it seemed like a serious show of hubris, and that has never been my style. But I can contain it no longer.
So now, with no ego whatsoever, I present to you, <drum roll>
www.kelceymckinley.com
<Confetti falls from the sky. Horns blow in harmony. A parade passes by.>
I could say that every tenth visitor gets a trip to Tahiti, but that would be lying.
If you have a direct line to Jesus, tell him to put it on his Facebook page.
On a side note, I sent a query off today. Maybe if we all click our heels together three times and repeat, "There's no place like Tattered Cover, there's no place like Tattered Cover, there's no place like Tattered Cover," it will peak this agent's interest.
If it doesn't, I'll know some of you out there didn't do it.
So now, with no ego whatsoever, I present to you, <drum roll>
www.kelceymckinley.com
<Confetti falls from the sky. Horns blow in harmony. A parade passes by.>
I could say that every tenth visitor gets a trip to Tahiti, but that would be lying.
If you have a direct line to Jesus, tell him to put it on his Facebook page.
On a side note, I sent a query off today. Maybe if we all click our heels together three times and repeat, "There's no place like Tattered Cover, there's no place like Tattered Cover, there's no place like Tattered Cover," it will peak this agent's interest.
If it doesn't, I'll know some of you out there didn't do it.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Bases
On the way to dinner last night, my wife and I were discussing the sexual bases. We were more confused than President Bush when he was told the country was under attack.
It went something like this:
Me: I wonder what the bases mean today.
Wife: Bases?
Me: Sexually, I mean.
Wife: What did they mean when we were kids?
Me: I don't know.
We look at each other like someone should know.
Wife: Me either.
At this point, I'm thinking, yeah, right...
Me: Well, first base was kissing, right?
Wife: I think so.
Me: And second base was a handful of boob?
Wife: Maybe...?
Me: And third base was touching <insert your favorite nether region because the word I actually used is not PG-13>? And a home run was penetration?
We look at each other, still puzzled.
Wife: I don't know.
Me: Me either.
Being a sexual prude in high school (which is really easy to do when you're not attracted to the gender everyone on your side is raving about), the bases were never clearly defined to me. Whenever the topic of sexual acts was brought up, I giggled or oohed-and-aahed along as if to say, "Oh, yeah. I've totally done all that too." (I still do this today.) But the truth of the matter was that it was terrifying territory for a confused baby-dyke who didn't know that two women could touch each other. I'd never seen anything like it with my very own eyes, so how was I to know.
And then, blessed be, Basic Instinct hit the big screen. I dragged my boyfriend at the time to see it about fifty times (a mild exaggeration). He was as confused as a boy in a theater watching the same shitty movie he'd just seen with his still-in-awe girlfriend. When Sharon and the other actress, who was never seen again, kissed each other, it was like harps started playing, like a spotlight shone on the duh! of my psyche. I decided then and there that I wanted to be an actress so I, too, could kiss other women.
When I watch Basic Instinct today, I see it for what it is: a ridiculous movie with no redeeming qualities. But I will always give it the props it is due: it got me thinking about things that have led me to who I am today.
So, when I asked my wife what the bases are today, I was looking to her for guidance. Seeing how she doesn't know either, I can only guess:
First base: kissing
Second base: intercourse
Third base: pregnancy
Home run: creating a make-shift family around this idea that two people who sleep together are perfect for each other.
I am grateful for my sexual prudence. And I am grateful I am not in school today. Although, I do regret, knowing what I know now, that I didn't get a chance to bag a cheerleader.
It went something like this:
Me: I wonder what the bases mean today.
Wife: Bases?
Me: Sexually, I mean.
Wife: What did they mean when we were kids?
Me: I don't know.
We look at each other like someone should know.
Wife: Me either.
At this point, I'm thinking, yeah, right...
Me: Well, first base was kissing, right?
Wife: I think so.
Me: And second base was a handful of boob?
Wife: Maybe...?
Me: And third base was touching <insert your favorite nether region because the word I actually used is not PG-13>? And a home run was penetration?
We look at each other, still puzzled.
Wife: I don't know.
Me: Me either.
Being a sexual prude in high school (which is really easy to do when you're not attracted to the gender everyone on your side is raving about), the bases were never clearly defined to me. Whenever the topic of sexual acts was brought up, I giggled or oohed-and-aahed along as if to say, "Oh, yeah. I've totally done all that too." (I still do this today.) But the truth of the matter was that it was terrifying territory for a confused baby-dyke who didn't know that two women could touch each other. I'd never seen anything like it with my very own eyes, so how was I to know.
And then, blessed be, Basic Instinct hit the big screen. I dragged my boyfriend at the time to see it about fifty times (a mild exaggeration). He was as confused as a boy in a theater watching the same shitty movie he'd just seen with his still-in-awe girlfriend. When Sharon and the other actress, who was never seen again, kissed each other, it was like harps started playing, like a spotlight shone on the duh! of my psyche. I decided then and there that I wanted to be an actress so I, too, could kiss other women.
When I watch Basic Instinct today, I see it for what it is: a ridiculous movie with no redeeming qualities. But I will always give it the props it is due: it got me thinking about things that have led me to who I am today.
So, when I asked my wife what the bases are today, I was looking to her for guidance. Seeing how she doesn't know either, I can only guess:
First base: kissing
Second base: intercourse
Third base: pregnancy
Home run: creating a make-shift family around this idea that two people who sleep together are perfect for each other.
I am grateful for my sexual prudence. And I am grateful I am not in school today. Although, I do regret, knowing what I know now, that I didn't get a chance to bag a cheerleader.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Assumptions: A Rebuttal
(This post is in response to a blog that was brought to my attention yesterday, which I shall not name.)
I am perfectly calm.
I am not operating from a place of maliciousness.
I simply provide another point of view.
A woman is driving. She is a mother. As she looks next to her and sees her daughter beside her, happily singing along to the childish music coming out of the speakers, her heart swells to the size of the ocean. The mother cannot believe how blessed she is to be consumed by love. And then, nothing.
The woman wakes up. She still feels like a mother, but when she is told, in the confines of her hospital bed, that her daughter did not survive, the mother stupidly runs her fingers over the bandage on her forehead. It is explained to her that fifteen stitches were required--her head busted open when it forcefully hit the steering wheel.
She doesn't understand. It makes no sense. Because now she is a mother without a child.
She is home. She must find a way to climb out of bed every morning. When she looks in the mirror, her scar is a constant reminder of what she has lost, and the hole that resides in the middle of her. The thirty minutes it takes in the morning to apply the base and powder to her forehead is gut wrenching. Her hands shake. Her heart beats faster and faster. The tears are on stand by. But she knows that the torture she spends each morning is worth it because it saves her from going through the entire day feeling that way. Once it is complete and the scar is covered, she can glimpse herself in the mirror and not be immediately reminded of what she once had and loved.
A little girl is playing in the kitchen. Her father keeps telling her to stop running around the table, but it is too late. The little girl brings the pot of hot water down onto her head. She is burned to the point that on one side of her face the skin is bright red. Over the years, the color will dull, but it will always look like leather. Make-up allows her to balance the two sides of her face.
While these examples are extreme (but relevant), they can be, and often are, boiled down. A woman's internal strength is brought out in a multitude of ways. No one gets to decide how she finds it but her.
I am a firm believer that everyone has the right to find their own way, using whatever means they deem necessary.
To assume that women do what they do because of men is irresponsible, irrational, and ignorant. I am no more qualified to tell a man who has been kicked in the scrotum to stop rolling around on the ground and stand up already than any man is to assume they know why a woman wears make-up or high-heels.
Until you have had a vagina, you do not get a say in the business of women.
I am perfectly calm.
I am not operating from a place of maliciousness.
I simply provide another point of view.
A woman is driving. She is a mother. As she looks next to her and sees her daughter beside her, happily singing along to the childish music coming out of the speakers, her heart swells to the size of the ocean. The mother cannot believe how blessed she is to be consumed by love. And then, nothing.
The woman wakes up. She still feels like a mother, but when she is told, in the confines of her hospital bed, that her daughter did not survive, the mother stupidly runs her fingers over the bandage on her forehead. It is explained to her that fifteen stitches were required--her head busted open when it forcefully hit the steering wheel.
She doesn't understand. It makes no sense. Because now she is a mother without a child.
She is home. She must find a way to climb out of bed every morning. When she looks in the mirror, her scar is a constant reminder of what she has lost, and the hole that resides in the middle of her. The thirty minutes it takes in the morning to apply the base and powder to her forehead is gut wrenching. Her hands shake. Her heart beats faster and faster. The tears are on stand by. But she knows that the torture she spends each morning is worth it because it saves her from going through the entire day feeling that way. Once it is complete and the scar is covered, she can glimpse herself in the mirror and not be immediately reminded of what she once had and loved.
A little girl is playing in the kitchen. Her father keeps telling her to stop running around the table, but it is too late. The little girl brings the pot of hot water down onto her head. She is burned to the point that on one side of her face the skin is bright red. Over the years, the color will dull, but it will always look like leather. Make-up allows her to balance the two sides of her face.
While these examples are extreme (but relevant), they can be, and often are, boiled down. A woman's internal strength is brought out in a multitude of ways. No one gets to decide how she finds it but her.
I am a firm believer that everyone has the right to find their own way, using whatever means they deem necessary.
To assume that women do what they do because of men is irresponsible, irrational, and ignorant. I am no more qualified to tell a man who has been kicked in the scrotum to stop rolling around on the ground and stand up already than any man is to assume they know why a woman wears make-up or high-heels.
Until you have had a vagina, you do not get a say in the business of women.
Friday, October 1, 2010
No Never Felt So Good
Since my wife is currently sleeping, I reach out to anyone to share my news. I just received this reply to a query I recently sent out to an agent:
"Thanks for sending me your query for SIMPLY UGLY. While an interesting idea, I'm afraid that I don't think I would be able to sell your novel in this tough marketplace. That doesn't mean it isn't saleable, but it does mean I'm not the right agent to try and take it out. I'm sorry I have to pass on requesting more material, but I want to wish you luck in finding a good home for your novel. Thank you for the opportunity to consider."
To this agent, I would like to say, you have melted my butter and made a batch of hope cookies. You have blown up the balloons in my chest and let go of the string. You have single-handedly built a float for my one-day parade. If I could, I would buy you a Coke. And teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony.
(It should be noted that I do not endorse or promote the ingestion of sodas, especially when they are made with high fructose corn syrup, which the industry is currently trying to change the name to "corn sugar". Do they really thing we're that stupid? Oh, wait...they do.)
While I know this kind of promise is not always a given or guaranteed, I will take this small shred of light and keep it with me, knowing that it will go out. But I will not give up. I will not quit. As the rejections pour in, I will remember that it only takes one yes. You and your friends and your family and your aquantences and your pets and your children and your favorite movie stars will read Simply Ugly one day, even if I have to invite you all to my house and read it to you from the comforts of my own sofa.
Remind me of this tomorrow, when I'm feeling down about my future in the writing world.
"Thanks for sending me your query for SIMPLY UGLY. While an interesting idea, I'm afraid that I don't think I would be able to sell your novel in this tough marketplace. That doesn't mean it isn't saleable, but it does mean I'm not the right agent to try and take it out. I'm sorry I have to pass on requesting more material, but I want to wish you luck in finding a good home for your novel. Thank you for the opportunity to consider."
To this agent, I would like to say, you have melted my butter and made a batch of hope cookies. You have blown up the balloons in my chest and let go of the string. You have single-handedly built a float for my one-day parade. If I could, I would buy you a Coke. And teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony.
(It should be noted that I do not endorse or promote the ingestion of sodas, especially when they are made with high fructose corn syrup, which the industry is currently trying to change the name to "corn sugar". Do they really thing we're that stupid? Oh, wait...they do.)
While I know this kind of promise is not always a given or guaranteed, I will take this small shred of light and keep it with me, knowing that it will go out. But I will not give up. I will not quit. As the rejections pour in, I will remember that it only takes one yes. You and your friends and your family and your aquantences and your pets and your children and your favorite movie stars will read Simply Ugly one day, even if I have to invite you all to my house and read it to you from the comforts of my own sofa.
Remind me of this tomorrow, when I'm feeling down about my future in the writing world.
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