Neither computer problems nor writer's block, nor essays nor a busy schedule will keep me from getting my wordcount done for the day! And look at that, I'm almost at 25%. Pop out the champagne!
. . . okay, not really. I mean, I do have a good wordcount for the point I'm at in the novel (mid-Chapter Four) but I'm struggling with what all writers struggle with: insecurity about their own abilities. The problem with a job that involves being so much in your own head all the time is that you lost perspective on your work too easily. It's not a team job, like architecture- unless you're co-writing, there's no sharing of the workload, so a) it's all on you, and b) IT'S ALL ON YOU. Ergo, if you make a mistake, you generally have to figure out how to fix it by yourself. (I actually have co-written in the past, and the creative sharing of ideas is loads of fun, even if you must occasionally resist the urge to throttle your co-writer.) And of course, writing is a relatively subjective endeavour, so it's not like "the roof caved in! Clearly we did something wrong!" Something can feel wrong, but after being wrapped up in the project for weeks on end, it's hard to put your finger on why it doesn't feel right. (I almost typed "write" there. God, I'm tired.)
The thing that's most important to keep in mind, I think, is the fact that it's a first draft. You just have to keep chanting first draft, first draft, first draft in order to keep yourself from losing it and running naked up and down the freeway screaming about bears. Not that I'm there yet. Mostly.
Never let it be said that I allow computer problems to prevent me from writing.
Pursuant to my post on Tragic Gays, I have a little linkspam for you! Here's a list of four new queer YA books; here's Autostraddle's list of the 20 best novels for queer girls (I did raise my eyebrow at "Perks of Being a Wallflower's" inclusion, given that it's actually queer-free, but I suppose tastes vary) and here's a blog post by Sarah Diemer (author of The Dark Wife, which I highly recommend) on the so-called "realism" of queer YA romances with sad endings.
I was thinking last night that I need set topics to blog about; if I keep going as I am now, I'll run out of steam by the end of the month. And while I'm sure you're all fascinated by my endless computer woes, I should shake things up a bit. So: MUSIC THEATRE MONDAYS!
You know what I love? Music. You know what else I love? The theatre. (I love Slings&Arrows, but I'm always a bit pained when they take swipes at musical theatre for being stupid or insipid or whatever. Yeah, okay, so there's more of a focus on song and dance than language; that doesn't mean that the art form hasn't made significant contributions to the popular consciousness.) Some of my friends and family think of me as a theatre snob, but that's not really true- at least, I don't think it is- I don't object to loving some seriously silly or flawed stuff. I'm an avowed fan of The Producers, after all. When I object to a piece of theatre (or a book, or a movie, or a TV show) it's not because I think it's stupid; it's because I think it's harmful. Like, when I object to Spring Awakening, it's not because I don't like "The Bitch of Living" (it's a pretty kickin' song) or the anachronisms in costume (I think it's a cool way of relating the characters to modern teenagers); it's because I think that it says things about sex and teeenaged-hood that are harmful (it's okay to sleep with someone who has no understanding of what she's doing!)
ANYWAY. That was a total tangent. What I was trying to say was, I like musical theatre. So what I want to do with these music-theatre Mondays is spotlight musicals that I personally really love and talk a bit about why I love them and what I think they're trying to say.
First up: Bonnie and Clyde!
This show opened and closed pretty quickly, which I understand, but think is a shame. It's not what most people think when they hear "Bonnie and Clyde;" they think sexy, they think danger, they think half-naked Faye Dunaway.
Not that I'm complaining, per se . . .
But the actual Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow- who I didn't know too much about until I started doing background reading on this show- weren't especially thrilling or sexy. What they were, above most other things, was tragic. They both had pretty crapsack lives, before and after going on the road, and this is what this musical really touches on. It's the only adaptation of the story that (for instance) that acknowledges that Clyde Barrow spent a chunk of his early life living under a bridge, or that he was raped in prison, or that "nobody ever gets out of West Dallas." It doesn't surprise me at all that this show was written when it was; the original demo was, I think, recorded in 2008, right about the time that the stock market crashed. When does the show take place? 1932. Three years after Black Tuesday. Songs like "Made In America" (my personal favourite, not least which because it's a lot of fun to headbang angrily to) and "What Was Good Enough For You" hammer home the point- life in the Great Depression SUCKED. It sucked even harder if you were poor to begin with. So what do you do if you're poor, starving, and have been repeatedly abused by the justice system? Well, you go on a crime spree! (Note: do not actually do this.)
Unfortunately, the reason I love this show so much is the exact reason (I think) it closed so fast. For one thing, Broadway audiences are generally pretty well-off; you have to be, to afford tickets. So a show about the angry, disenfranchised poor turning on those more well-off than them is not an easy sell for that kind of audience. But more than that- and this goes back to what I said about what people expect from "Bonnie and Clyde-" this musical is just too raw. It's too real. The writers never shy away from the kinds of people they're writing about- and as sympathetic as I find them, they really did do awful things- and when you add in the fact that people didn't go in expecting realistic examples of Depression-era criminals, it's not really a wonder that ticket sales weren't great. So it closed. And I am terribly sad that I never got to see it, though I do live in hope that it'll be put on at a local community theatre. And there is always the soundtrack to listen to. We may be in debt . . .
When we last left this trainwreck, I had been informed that in order to recover my data, I had to haul my computer over to Best Buy and pay them a round $250 to get them to transfer it over to an external hard drive. This I did! But there have been developments. Oh, there have been developments.
So I paid the money and got the data on the EHD, and carried my computer back home to get it fixed. I called up the computer repair people- who are also the people who manufactured and sold it to me in the first place- and did as they told me to reset it to factory defaults. I clicked on the buttons. Error message. I went back and clicked again. Error message.
Me: Um hello, your process for fixing my computer isn't working?
Him: Oh, it seems it needs to be repaired by professionals. Send it to our outlet in Markham, and you should get it back in about two weeks.
Me: -wait. Can I not take it to the local repair place?
Him: Well you can, but it won't be covered by the warranty, and you'll have to pay for it.
Me: . . .
So I'm just like- SURE. FINE. WHATEVER. So into the outlet in Markham it goes, and I'm on a borrowed computer until it gets back. So I head back to my dorm earlier today and attempt to log on to the internet.
Internet: Error. Product key not valid.
Me:
CTHULHU FHTAGN
So, having finally snapped once and for all, I call up the helpline and go "HELLO, I AM YOUR CUSTOMER AND I AM AT THE END OF MY ROPE. YOU SEE THIS ROPE? I AM AT THE END OF IT. I AM, IN FACT, PAST THE END OF IT. THE THINGS HOLDING ON TO THE END OF THE ROPE HAVE FALLEN TO THEIR DEATHS AND ONE OF THOSE THINGS WAS MY SANITY."
Customer Service Dude: The code only works once, and then it's obsolete. If you want to get our service on another computer, you need to go to the co-op office and explain the situation to them.
Me: THANK YOU MUCHLY. *hangs up*
I read a book today. I'm not going to mention the title or author, because honestly, they're both beside the point. I've read this book before. I've read hundreds of this book before. It varies in content and genre and reading level, but one thing remains consistent no matter what the variables: it always, always has a Tragic Gay.
Case in point.
The Tragic Gay (always gay- bisexuals don't exist in the universes this book takes place in, and transpeople aren't even considered) sometimes exists during the timeline of the story, and sometimes is only a footnote in the main characters' backstory. Sometimes they even get to be a main character. Sometimes they're the protagonist, sometimes the antagonist. The one common thread in this parade of gays is that they are Tragic. Often they're victims of bullying, usually they have some unrequited passion for a straight person, and frequently they commit suicide. Very frequently, they end up in the great refrigerator in the sky, and our mains weep and beat the ground with their fists and cry many straight person tears for their poor Tragic Gay friend. Then they go off and save the world with their magic, heterosexual powers and the Tragic Gay smiles beatifically from heaven or wherever they've been shuffled off to. For lo, they have served their purpose; the author can feel good about themselves for "representation," and the audience can cry for the plight of those poor Tragic Gays and the queer audience . . . um . . . well gosh, you just can't please some people! But some will no doubt eat from the plate they've given, because even if the food is rotten, it's better than starving.
I have read- and seen- this story so many times, and I am beyond goddamn sick of it. Hey powers that be, know why our kids keep killing themselves? Because you're telling them to. Tell someone a story often enough, and they start to believe it. Tell someone that being gay automatically equals a lifetime of noble suffering often enough, and they start to understand that this is what they can expect their life to be. Is it true? Not necessarily. I'm not one for the empty platitudes of the It Gets Better project- well to be honest, I'm not one for Dan Savage in general- but I do think that when you create art, you have a responsibility to consider what cultural and sociological impact art has. We tell stories because they mean something to us- they tell us who we are and where we come from. They tell us not to talk to strangers and to be kind and keep our promises. They tell us what we can expect from the world, and what is happening around us. Do you think it's a coincidence that in the eighties and nineties, we had somany stories about gay men dying of AIDS? Did a bunch of artists wake up one morning, isolated from all current affairs, and say "I'm gonna write an AIDS story?" Of course not. They wrote it because they saw the issues being faced in the world around them and said "I want to explore this story with my art." And now, on the heels of several well-publicized suicides of gay teenagers, we have stories about attempted suicide. And people- children- are surrounded by these stories and decide that this is what they can expect from life. Can we blame them? It's not like we offer them alternatives.
If I never have to watch another outing story or bullying narrative, if I never have to read another book where the main character's sidekick is defined by being gay and persecuted, if I never have to watch another goddamned episode of goddamned Downton Abbey where the lone gay character sits in a corner and cries because his love interest slashed his wrists- if you agree, if you're sick of this shit too, here's what you can do.
Don't write it.
It's as simple as that.
Don't write it. It's more than possible to write stories about gay people- or, shock of shocks- queer people who are NOT gay without drowning them in misery and calling it inspirational. It'sbeendone. It's been done well! (Although how fucking depressing is it that two of those books had to be self-published? Mainstream publishers, you need to STEP UP YOUR SHIT.) I know Annie on My Mind and Keeping You A Secret were important when they were released, and I'm grateful for what they accomplished. But it's not enough anymore. If you agree? Then say so. Comment right here, comment on your blog, comment in your writing that you're not participating in this any longer. It has to stop.
This quote here? It's by E.M. Forster, the author of Maurice. His book wasn't published until the 1970s, because the idea of gay characters having a happily ever after was so anathema in the time it was written, he didn't dare try publish it. It's not the 1970s anymore. I think we can do better.
"A happy ending was imperative. I shouldn’t have bothered to write otherwise. I was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows, and in this sense Maurice and Alec still roam the greenwood. I dedicated it ‘To a Happier Year’ and not altogether vainly. Happiness is its keynote – which by the way . . . has made the book more difficult to publish. If it ended unhappily, with a lad dangling from a noose or with a suicide pact, all would be well . . . but the lovers get away unpunished and consequently recommend crime."
There must be a universal rule somewhere that states "if you are awoken before nine in the morning by a customer service representative, it probably means your day is not going to go well." Whether there is or not, it certainly applies in my case. On Wednesday morning, I was awoken at the charming (if you're a bird) hour of 8:45, by a Bell Canada salesperson to inform me that my message of "hey, please cancel this order" finally got through to them and they'd cancelled it. I didn't actually drag my carcass out of bed until an hour after that, having already recognized that the day had given up before it even started, but sure enough, it went flying downhill as soon as I got out of bed. It was blisteringly hot (one might point out that it's been blisteringly hot for weeks now, and this is not a sign that the universe is conspiring against me, but I know better) I missed the bus (although "missed" implies a certain amount of complicity on my part, like I was running late and didn't get to the stop on time. What ACTUALLY happened was the bus driver speeding right through the stop, even as I waved to get on, possibly flipping me the bird as he did so) a call from home informed me that my cat had pissed all over my beloved childhood stuffed animals, and last but not least, my computer done broke.
Now my computer is only two months old, so I might be forgiven for assuming that a) this is pretty early for it to go and die on me, and b) that the warranty it's under will cover repairs. So after I did what I always do when the computer breaks and called my mommy ("MOMTHECOMPUTERWONTTURNON! ALLMYWRITINGISONTHERE! IDUNNOWHATTODOOOOOOOOOOOO!") I called up the computer tech people to ask why their fine product appeared to be functioning as well as the toy telephone I had when I was three.
[Half an hour of consultation and several automated sales pitches later]
Me: So what you're saying
Me: is that the computer I paid you five hundred bucks for
Me: the computer I paid you five hundred bucks for last month
Me: has suddenly come down with a case of corrupted hard drive
Me; and now I have to schlep down to Best Buy and pay them a hundred bucks to retrieve my data
Me: the data in danger of being lost because the computer you sold me failed
Me: and I have to pay for this out of pocket
Me: because your warranty doesn't cover it?
Sales Rep: Yes ma'am.
Me: *SILENT FACE OF RAGE AT THE PHONE*
So adios amigos until we meet again! Let it be known that if lightning strikes the Toshiba headquarters in the meantime, they totally deserved it.
Admittedly not the most prolific day I've ever had, but that's what comes of afternoon naps. Do as I say, not as I do.
The word counter I've been using since I started this novel is the NaNoWriMo Word Meter. I've tried NaNo several years in a row, but never managed to complete one. I think my highest wordcount was 5k. I attribute this to two things:
NaNo is held in November, which is the worst of all possible times for students to take up writing 1667 words a day. At least, not 1667 words of stuff that isn't term papers and exams.
I am just really, really bad at deadlines. I'm getting better! I've never missed a deadline in the two years I've been at university! But when your professor isn't looming over you promising hellfire and failing grades should you fail to turn in ten pages on the life of Catherine Tekakwitha, the deadline just lacks that extra oomph.
Number #2 (heh) is a big part of why I started this blog. In 2011, when I signed up for a fanfic challenge to write a fic of at least 15k over the course of a summer, I used the same word counter when updating on Livejournal, and I found it helped when trying to motivate myself. It's easy to get discouraged when you're just staring at the wordcount at the bottom of the Word document; it helps a lot to watch that colour bar inch ever closer to the finish line, whispering "soon, my precious . . . sooooooooooooon."
The other helpful thing, I find, is the percentage calculation. Which is a bit odd, because if you had suggested to me before I started using the word counter that I would be comforted by a percentage, I would have laughed in your face and possibly spit on you and cursed your descendents. I hate math. Haaaaaaaate it. I hate arithmetic. I hate multiplication and division. I hate algebra. I hate calculus. I even hate numbers. Like the number 2, what does it think it's fooling? I can feel it laughing at me. I see that sarcastic upper curve there. My hate extends yea verily to the very first caveperson who invented the concept of numbers. I don't know who or where they are, but I hope they feel very guilty about it.
And yet . . . percentages! They calm me! I think it's a matter of perspective, honestly. Looking at "6445 out of 50, 000" is a good inducement to taking up drinking. Looking at "13%" is much more encouraging. I'm in the double digits! I'm in the teens! And I'm only on Chapter Four! Maybe I can do this after all.
But I haven't forgiven the number 2. Smug bastard.
