The Eyes Have It

Hello my darlings! “I’m not much of a crier.” I say this to people when the topic of crying comes up. And it was true. I’ve never been much of a tear shedding type. When I was a kid, if I got in trouble, I wouldn’t cry. I’d turn into a stormy-faced robot, back up to a wall, and attempt to bore holes into the floor with my laser scowl. Even as an adult, if I get really pissed, or into a feels-heavy argument, you could count on me to turn into this bizarre, calm, lawyer-esque creature which actually kind of terrified me a lot. I like feelings. It makes little sense that I will legit shut down over sadness. A very confusing situation. So, a year or so ago, I was relaying my cold dead heart concerns to my husband and I honestly couldn’t think of a time I’d been so sad I’d cried tears. Seriously, other than my cat getting hit by a car in the second grade, I never get sad enough to cry. I get angry. Upset. Hurt. Scared. Not so much sad. At funerals, I’m the weirdo making inappropriate jokes because I don’t like to see other people sad and I figure any smile is a good smile? Or I’m just awkward as ass and my verbal filter is on back-order. When my kids were born? I teared up, but no tears fell. And those were happy tears, so. But still. No crying. Maybe it’s because I brought it into focus, but ever since we had that conversation, it takes basically nothing to turn me into a sniveling idiot. I have a friend, and every time we’ve talked on the phone, maybe three or four times in the last year, I have cried. And...

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War of the Words

Hello my darlings! When I was a kid, my parents would tell me the tale of the first radio broadcast of Orson Welle’s WAR OF THE WORLDS. The story went something like this: On October 30th, 1938, the radio program aired and was so believable, so terrifying, it sent the country, millions of people, into mass hysteria. People genuinely thought the planet was being attacked by aliens, and chaos ensued. I didn’t just hear the story from my parents. All my older relatives told the harrowing tale. Our history classes taught about it. We learned about the power of fiction, the pull of a well told story. Here’s the thing though; it’s a lie. There was no mass hysteria. There weren’t people flailing in the streets ready to surrender to or do battle with their assumed alien overlords. So where did the story come from? How has it been “common knowledge” for decades that the country fell to it’s knees in front of radios right before World War 2? Somebody lied. That’s it. Somebody lied. The general idea is this; newspapers were super pissy that this new fangled radio contraption was lowering the amount of adertisers buying space in their papers. And so, someone had the brilliant idea of discrediting this hateful electronic devilry by posting on front pages that the radio program had caused actual mass hysteria. Surely no one would ever want to be fooled by such an untrustworthy medium and the radio would crumble, falling beneath the reliable feet of the trusted newspaper. Seriously. Someone thought it would be a good way to solidify trust in the printed word by effectively lying to millions. Check out this article from Slate.com. A lot of research went into discovering the root of this myth. Here’s a more detailed...

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The Way We Were

Hello my loves! I’ve been feeling good and introspective lately. Or morbid. Could go either way. I am chalking it up to an August in and out of the hospital, a crapped out heart, and the fact that this ridiculous heart monitor doesn’t let me forget for a second that my ticker is on the fritz. So, it gets me to thinking about things that aren’t super fun. Like, what happens to my little fam if I were to suddenly perish. Don’t have heart attacks, kids. They can mess with your whimsical calm. But I got thinking about what sort of life people would remember me for. I’d hope it was a good one. But I want people to remember me for who I really am, not what they choose to remember or what they wish I had been. Worse, what I wish I had been. I had this uncle who died a few years ago. I loved him, he was a good uncle. He was always very nice to me. But dude had a nasty side. He could be downright vicious with his opinions and while we all loved him as family does, he hurt a lot of feelings in his living years and caused a few scandals. When he died, I remembered the good and the bad. Apparently I was the only one. The funeral carried on speaking about his wonders, his greatness, his solid moral fiber. Which is great, that’s what you want people to think about you when you’re gone, right? But it wasn’t true. And it really bothered me. To hear people standing up in front of God and family telling stories about this guy that just weren’t true. Actual untruths. It felt really strange to me. He was a pretty good dude, overall....

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“Trust Me, I’m The Doctor.”

Hello my darlings! Okay. Yesterday marked the start of a new series of Doctor Who with Peter Capaldi as the new Doctor. I have some feelings about it. I don’t think I can oversell my enthusiasm for my various fandoms, Doctor Who being one of them. I prep for new episodes the way some people prep for sports events. Instead of a team jersey, I wear one of many fandom-y shirts. I have series appropriate snacks. (My kids couldn’t understand why Mommy kept shouting “FISH FINGERSSSSS!” at dinner last night.) I watch the pre-shows. I get INVOLVED. And I’m pretty easy to please. I’m not the type who sits around analyzing the shit out of things I love to find fault with them. If I’m entertained, I love it. That’s it. So imagine my surprise when I found myself genuinely annoyed about twenty minutes into the new episode. If you haven’t seen Deep Breath yet, some light spoilers will follow. I went into this episode soooooooo pumped, guys. And not in a “anything would be a letdown after that kind of excitement” way, but just as a fan who turns into a giddy little kid when it’s time to play. For the first twenty minutes of the episode, I was distracted. At first I thought I was just being overly sensitive. Then I thought maybe I was focusing on it all too much. Then I wondered if maybe I was somehow misinterpreting everything. But no. By the 20 minute mark, I’d had enough, and shouted, “OH MY GAWD MOFFAT SHUT UP!” I had sat down to watch my favorite show, and instead, I felt like I was watching a writer’s commentary through the mouths of my favorite characters. A few minutes later, this was shouted: “JESUS YES WE GET IT...

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The Suck

Hello my sweets! Writerly peeps. Let’s chat. You know writing is hard. Anyone who says different is either A. not a writer, or B. a filthy damn liar. Sometimes, at least for me, I get so caught up in whatever it is that’s catching me, and I can’t get a word out. Not a word. Example: It’s taken me fifteen minutes and at least eleven different sentences to get this far in the blog. When I hit the wall, it’s full stop. There are no masterful manuscript words flowing, no blogs blogging, and hell, even my Tweets feel like 140 character cement shoes. It’s depressing. Wording is what I do. My head is still full of all the things I want to write, they just won’t come out. Or maybe it will, but it comes out as utter crap, not fit to be read ever by anyone, amen. When I’m writing, I have to meet my own level of pickiness. It has to be something that I know is at least in place enough to stand up to a solid revision later. It has to work on some level. If it doesn’t? I shut down. And then I feel like shit because I’m not getting anything written anywhere and to be quite frank, word creation has a very crack effect on me. The more words, the higher I am. The lack of words knocks me down to a very low level Summer. And then I wonder if anyone else grapples with such wordly debilitating feels? Being a creative type and personally prone to hyperbole, I immediately determine that no, it’s not possible for anyone to suck as much as I am sucking, everyone else is a real writer, a real artiste, and I will flounder in the backwash of the interwebz...

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