While it doesn’t quite feel like anything is happening, I am making headway. The envelopes above. There were over twenty of them on high shelves that lined my halls, plus dozens of loose rolled preschool paintings and 5 boxes of school and kiddo related stuff. And cards. Cards from them to us, us to them, Abuela y Abuelo to them, Grandma and Grandpa to them, even one from my grandmother to Man Child. Cards to me and Art Child from several friends met online. So freaking sweet, I wanted to melt with many of them.
My poor Man Child, we had a couple of years when he was 8,9,10 where it felt like a round robin of funerals and ICU visits. “Dear Dad, Please don’t die.” And Nerd Child, from homework on a page of vocabulary sentences, 1st grade, “My aunt was in a ventilator in the hospital.” There are fun ones, too. From NC’s second grade teacher, a note in response to his first homework of the year, an “about me” letter: “Dear Nerd Child, Wow, I’ve never met a kid who said Pink Floyd was his favorite band before.” A note from Art Child to me, “Dear Momy, Im sory, Im doo it nw. Lov lov lov lov” Whittled down to 5 envelopes, period. The shelves have been taken down.
And the fridge magnets. I don’t have any on my fridge in this apartment, it makes the kitchen feel too cluttered when you’re talking about such a small space. But my last apartment? Like 90% of other moms, the refrigerator was covered. Magnets holding pictures, drawings, receipts, phone numbers, appointment cards, glucose level logs, seizure logs, med titration schedules. Ok, maybe not quite like most other moms, but close enough. Apparently I had put all of those into one box when I was moving in here, it got put on a shelf to be dealt with later. Guess it’s later. In the box was the complete set of these:
Two sets, actually. I don’t know if they still sell them, they’re a little electronic learning game, magnetized so the main component and letters can all be stuck on the fridge, and it says the name and sound of the letter when fit into the main piece. The other set does the same, next step, slots for three letter words. Many, many hours playing with these. I was happy to pass them on to the nursery school.
The painting and the floors are close to finished in the new apartment. If all goes well, we’ll be able to really move within the next week or two, hooray! I spent the day celebrating by cuddling with my sick and sniffling girl, Dr Who on the TV. Ok, maybe I wasn’t hanging onto the Dr’s every word quite the way Art Child would have liked. Maybe I was cyber window shopping for tank equipment. I don’t know why I find shopping for curtains and medicine cabinets tedious, but protein skimmers and RO/DI water systems and salt mixes, oh my! Bestill my shriveled reefing heart.
We saw this sky the other evening, I had to take a photo to share.
Think I can trademark the name and be the new Jane Fonda? Jillian Michaels? No? How about Richard Simmons?
The point being I am still unable (will never be able?) to go back to my old yoga routine, or walk the same distances I was–until recently–able to walk. Oh, my back, she is old. But I needed to do something to get myself moving. I wouldn’t mind the weight gain if it hadn’t cut my wardrobe down from small to pitiful. And I still wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for my head. You know, the old advice about exercise releasing endorphins and being good for mood. For me it’s true, and I really, really needed to do something to work off some of the pissy factor. I found a yoga DVD specifically for back care. The workout is short, the poses are gentle, and they aren’t held for the usual amount of time. Bonus, it’s led by Rodney Yee, and I find his voice soothing.
Did I mention the chair?
Yes, it uses props, which I’ve never used before. A chair and a strap. Part of me feels like I’m cheating, and part of me is just grateful to have found a way to get back to a regular yoga routine. I don’t think this is doing a damn thing to whittle down the thickened waistline, but it is helping my head. This and some additional meditation exercises, I’ll be singing in no time (sorry, world). Pissercize, for the bitchy among us.
It’s helping enough so I went for my annual haircut this morning. Not only got my hair cut, but made the appointment in advance, so I was able to see the hairstylist who works magic with my mop, no easy feat.
Thank you, Frank!
An added plus–he’s fun, my age group, and very politely didn’t mention that the top of my skirt doesn’t actually close anymore. Maybe he didn’t notice, I kept my shirt untucked and over the waistband. It’s possible.
Still trying to figure out getting the work done on the new apartment. The price quotes we’ve received so far are literally exorbitant. The work that needs to be done on the walls is more than I can do, but I swear we’re talking about some plaster work to repair cracks/holes, and painting. No structural renovations. Thinking about the discussion re Brooklyn roots and Barbra Streisand’s new album as my hair was tamed, I’ve come to the realization that what/who I need is Dolly. As in, Hello.
Yes, messy apartment, try to ignore the clutter–I do. Everyone knows I’m waiting to hear about the larger apartment. In the meantime, I know it will need some work before we can move in, and that means paying on two apartments. Obviously, I want to minimize the hemorrhage of funds. I’m not buying anything (what if it doesn’t come through?), but my current place is hung with paint swatches and little floor samples scattered in different lighting. My kitchen table won’t fit in the new space, and Art Child needs new furniture, so we’re cyber-window-shopping. We like to look at the web sites for the out of budget stores, and get ideas from those. One thing we saw that we both thought was a great idea was a wardrobe rack for her bedroom. The site we saw this on is charging $300. For a coat rack! It’s ok, we aren’t buying anything, just looking.
Yesterday afternoon we splurged and went for tea at our favorite place, lots of fun. Afterwards, we made our way to the thrift store. I rarely find anything in there, I think you have to be more of a shopper to do well. But then, there it was. A perfectly good coat rack. $30. How could I not? It’s on wheels, so we walked it home. Of course, those wheels aren’t meant for city streets, so we lost two screws by the tenth block, and the bottom rack was now perpendicular to the top. Five more blocks, found a hardware store, where the manager got us two new screws and fixed it. $1.19
Between the find and a conversation with a writing friend, I’m thinking about this second hand life. For the record, I’m a big supporter of recycling and reusing. In its way, Astonishing is recycled. Do you know it’s my fourth completed manuscript? I want to kick myself, each and every day, feeling like I wasted so much time. First I felt like I had plenty of time ahead of me to sit down and write that Great American Novel. Then I started, but practicality (also known as fear and insecurity) had me write romances first. Romance isn’t easy, or an easy market, but it is a larger market, a bit more open to newcomers.
When I wrote Wanna Bees (third manuscript) it was an attempt to blend my two loves, reefing and writing. It was also my first experience writing something close to magical realism. I loved it. Sent a small number of queries, a couple of requests–rejected–and realized I didn’t care enough. So I recycled. Both Wanna Bees and Astonishing begin with the death of a mother (within one year, I lost my mother and learned of the death of my birth mother. Writing may not be as effective as traditional therapy, but it’s easier on the budget.) both open in New York, both main characters have sisters they’re close with, both have magical realism. But very, very different books. I had fun writing Wanna Bees. I love Astonishing.
Will it get published? I have no idea. Is is good enough? Good enough is the underlying theme in all of my manuscripts. I think so, but I have researched enough, listened to and had enough conversations with the pubbed and unpubbed, agents and editors, to know good enough isn’t always enough. There are other considerations. Some of the mistakes I’ve made are part of the process, the only way to learn (unless, maybe, you go the MFA route, have real life mentors and such, but even then I suspect those craft mistakes need to happen). But waiting so long to take myself seriously? Avoidable. Waiting even longer to write a manuscript I really wanted to write? Avoidable. This is where I can and you should say, “that Mrs Fringe is a hard-headed woman.” It’s okay, Husband says it all the time.
Everyone who writes has their own process, what works for them. Personally, I don’t believe in writing only for yourself if you’re interested in publication. I write with an eye/ear towards what I think would be interesting to others, intrigue them enough to keep reading. But if you want to do this writing thing, if you want to be published–be just hard-headed enough to do it. Don’t wait for the right time, don’t write what you think is the more practical choice–just because it’s more practical. Writing fiction isn’t exactly practical. I saw plenty of items in the thrift store that were still impractical and out of budget, second hand or not. But when it’s in budget, right in front of you? Grab it and fix the wheels when you get it home.
This is my morning. Every morning. I begin each day on the terrace with my coffee and my phone for a morning email check in with a friend–“ready?”– who lives many states away. Whichever of us is awake first sends the first email and cybercup.
But there’s a new and important difference to this little tableau. Can you guess what it is? Until yesterday morning, I didn’t have a real grown up sized chair, or this cute table. That’s right, for the past seven years I have woken up anywhere between four and six AM, gone onto the terrace, and sat down with my coffee and phone, pretty much on the floor, no table.
What do I mean by pretty much on the floor? This.
See the difference?
Yes, I’d been using the low-slung reject beach chair–rejected for the beach because the back can’t be adjusted/reclined. Why, Mrs Fringe, wasn’t your butt cold sitting on that in the winter months? Yes, yes it was. Mrs Fringe, didn’t that aggravate your back over the past year, when you’ve been dealing with the back pain from Satan? Yes, yes it did. When I first moved into this apartment, a little patio set went on the list. But yanno, the list is long, and things like a real outside chair for myself fall way down to the bottom of the list of needs and wants that never stops growing. We’re still waiting for an official *go* on the larger apartment, but it seems like it is going to come through, and this would push a patio set that much further down the list. Because budget.
Initially, I didn’t really mind. First of all, how could I complain when I actually had an apartment with a terrace? And you all know how much I love the beach, so I would sit in my little chair, close my eyes, and pretend I was on a beautiful beach somewhere else.
When Mr Smitholini first saw this, years ago, he laughed and told me he was going to bring me the sandbox from when his kids were younger, so I could really live the dream. Not a bad thought, really. It became a running joke, every time I spoke with Mrs Smitholini on the phone, every time they came to visit. They don’t come very often. Let’s face it, driving and parking in the city sucks, we are 8000 people and creatures in a two bedroom apartment, and their family of seven squished around the dining room table in addition to my family of five creates an, ummm, cozy dinner. They have a spacious and beautiful home in the suburbs, so it’s more frequent that we go to visit at their house.
Until about two weeks ago, it had been a couple of years since they were here. Life, work, twelve people’s schedules…not so easy to coordinate. But then they were here, in dress clothes because they came over after a family function. Mr Smitholini wanted to sit on the terrace to have his cigar, and I, the hostess with the mostest, offered him the beach chair. He was a good sport about it, Mrs Smitholini and I sat on the ground, but, ummm, suit + beach chair + middle aged bodies + middle of Manhattan = not so fun. We went to visit them two days ago, and Mrs Smitholini had this present for me.
A real, grown-up patio set. Two (matching!) chairs and a table. One of her kiddos even put it together for me before we got there. Squee! It isn’t just the furniture that’s a gift, the past two mornings have been a gift to my back, as I settled with my coffee and phone, watching the sun rise.
I don’t consider myself an outdoorsy gal, but I need to start my days like this. Sun, rain, or snow, I have to be outside. My beach house will remain a fantasy, but I figure out what I can to get my imagination there with the pesky reality of my body being here in the city. Time on the terrace, forever friends, and soon I hope, another little slice of the ocean in a glass box.
So here I sit, on a grown-up chair, like a real person on the terrace. My laptop even fits comfortably on the table, coffee cup to the side. Are you ready for coffee?
Because I’m more than a bit out of focus. I think about lines a lot. Don’t cross this line, don’t cross that line, balance on that one over there. Sometimes I feel like the lines shift, but do they really, or is it my perception–and oh! is that line on a fucking hill?
The line I’m thinking about this morning is, of course, writing and publishing. There’s a small group I’ve been spending some online time with. All talented and writing varied genres, all filled with optimism and hope. Different stages of pursuing publication, a couple who are self pubbing with thought and intention. Needless to say angst and self-doubts are part and parcel of writing, querying, and submitting, everyone takes turns pumping up whoever needs it most on any given day. Most of the members of this group are young, those who aren’t young are relatively new to the process. I don’t mean new as in still learning basic storytelling, but new as in less than 5 years of seriously pursuing publication.
I’m not young. Or new. At the moment I’m not writing or submitting. I still have several requested fulls out, but at this point any responses that come from them will be unexpected.
Am I the fly about to be captured, the trap that can only wait for food, or the blackened trap that needs to be removed before fungus sets in?
I don’t want any pep talks. I’m not angsting, thinking my words and stories truly suck. They don’t.
To me, worse than limping along to the battle cry of “I coulda been a contender” is the nonagenarian still waiting for their big break. Yes, I see/hear it. New York. Not that I’m ninety, or qualify for the senior discounted Metrocard, but still. I have to figure out if I’ve crossed the line from being patient and persistent to delusional.
There’s a part of my brain that will always be taking notes for future characters, will see that one moment, hear that one phrase that begins a story in my head. I will probably always write. I love blogging, I’ve enjoyed the experience of posting a couple of stories here on the blog, and suspect I will continue doing so every so often. But full length novels? Querying? Submitting? There’s a phrase I’ve heard a lot over the past ten years or so, maybe it was always there and didn’t come across my radar before, I don’t know–return on investment. Writing full length manuscripts, querying, submitting to the paying lit mags, these are things that require a lot of time, energy, work, and focus. I can’t help but wonder at this point if it’s a poor use of limited resources.
While nothing is official yet (which means plenty of room for something to go wrong) it’s looking likely we will get the larger apartment. Please don’t shout hooray and tempt the fates yet.
Wonderful news, right? Of course it is. What I’ve wanted forever, right? Of course. But there’s that part of me that keeps whispering, “suckerrrrrr!” Because getting and moving into the bigger apartment moves my dream of living by the beach from the category of infinitesimal to bwahahahaha. Which in turn leads me to I want a big tank again.
I miss reefing. I miss Sadie the fire shrimp and Gloria the glorious yellow tang. I miss my electric blue crocea clam and my florescent green hydnophora colony. I miss stinking of low tide and vinegar from doing tank maintenance. I miss playing God in a glass box, having my own little slice of the ocean. And I really miss having a big tank. I’ve been thinking this for a few months. Several months. OK, since the first time I heard the larger apartment was a possibility. Hearing Big Senile Dog’s diagnosis of kidney failure turned the thought into a rumination. (There’s a limit to how many creatures with significant needs I can take care of at once, and setting up a new tank is a lot of work.)
The other day I was at a friend’s house. Her tank is currently a mess, choked with cyanobacteria. I stared into those waving reddish snot flags and thought, “I miss my tank.” Yeah, I got it bad. My hands were itching to get into that water. Bizarre, because the skin on my hands and arms is in better condition than it’s been in for years because I’ve been tankless for a while. If I had been able to find her turkey baster I would have started doing some manual removal for her.
Part of what made keeping up with a big tank unmanageable would be much easier in the larger apartment. Because there’s an extra half bath, I could set up an RO/DI unit, mix my own saltwater and not have to buy and lug distilled or RO/DI water from the local fish store. Or be begging Husband or boys to pick it up for me.
My tanks have always been my beach house, my fantasy measured in gallons. At this point in my tsunami of downward mobility, I’m thinking eighty gallons sounds about right.
English: Drawing of Marie de Lorraine as the Duchess of Valentinois. She wears a ball gown (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I’ve heard people talk about sharing their writing, how it feels/can feel like being naked. Not me. I don’t feel exposed when I share my work. Not to say I’m always completely confident, it’s like getting dressed and made up for an evening out–I think I look good, but I’m still hoping for some validation from whoever I go out with/run into. Cause there’s nothing worse than thinking you’ve got your game face on, and you run into someone in the lobby who asks if you’ve been ill. Because yes, that’s when I’m most likely to make the effort, when I feel the worst, physically or emotionally. That or I haven’t done laundry.
But submitting, querying…that’s a different story. At first I thought this end was more like working the pole, but no. Stripping may not be the most desirable way for every woman to earn a living, but it does earn dollars. This? Not a dime. I know, I know, I should have done this when my boobs were still in the same zip code as the rest of me. Living the dream, oh yes. The dream where you realize you’re standing in Times Square with no clothes on, not even a guitar to cover the saggy bits, a la The Naked Singing Cowboy.
Yah, yah, I’m not supposed to write these types of posts. Because for as much as you educate yourself about the business of publishing, follow agent and editor blogs and tweets about how things work, what their days are like, how many rejections they send daily (or don’t send, in these days of no response means no), the unpubbed and unagented are supposed to pretend we’re pure and innocent and virginal–just lucky enough or brilliant enough to know how to follow the rules or break the rules in a way that works, and haven’t received any rejections from anyone else. No matter how many times you read or hear publishing industry professionals talk about the many, many reasons they reject a work that often have nothing to do with with the quality of the writing, nope, those are the other wannabes. Not you, of course. Because, just like a wanton woman of yesteryear, no one’s going to want you/your work if someone else has already sampled the goods and didn’t like it enough to make a legally binding offer.
I’m a 40,000 year old woman with three children who are closer to grown than not. I think my days of playing the virgin are over. And Fringeland is about being honest, a blog to explore what it means to be downwardly mobile without being crushed by those climbing up.
Those stories you hear about people who receive an offer of rep and/or publication their first try? Their first dozen tries? Bullshit. Not saying they aren’t real, they are, but they are the exceptions, not the rule. I’d like to have been one of those stories, I’d like to be the mega lotto jackpot winner, but I’m not. The rules, the rules, all the rules passed on from wannabe to wannabe. The rules about how to interpret rejections, the nice and orderly progression from brusque form letters to nice form letters to personalized letters to invitations to submit more work to acceptance. Oh, the squeals of anticipation upon requests for fulls, personalized rejections, “you’re almost there!” Or not. I’ve been almost there since I started. Contracts in mirror are a fucking mirage, forget closer than they appear. The rules about the right way to query. Bullshit. There are wrong ways to go about querying, but no one right way. And hell, even amongst the wrong ways, there are stories of those who queried completely “wrong,” and still got an offer. C’mon now, there isn’t an agent or wannabe out there who hasn’t heard the story of the twelve year old kid who called the agent to query his book and got an offer. Not right then and there, and I don’t recommend calling agents’ offices when every US agent says not to do so, but obviously a phone call isn’t always the immediate and permanent never-to-be-published-blacklisted-forever-and-the-dystopia-beyond it’s portrayed to be. Does this mean I’m not smarter than a sixth grader?
I read broadly, across many genres. Yes, I have a special love for literary fiction, but I also love thrillers–political and psychological, some horror, contemporary, narrative non-fiction, and poetry. I read classics, and I read what’s being published today. Some books are so fabulous I want to swallow them so they’re permanently part of me, some are entertaining reads to pass an afternoon, and some, well, some I wonder what it is I’m missing that they were represented by an agent, championed by an editor, and published, a trade paperback I picked up for $14.00 off the shelf of the bookstore and wish I had instead tucked those dollars into someone’s g-string at the local Girlz Girlz Girlz. All my reading tells me something. I can write. Sharing manuscripts with writing friends (published and un, agented and un) and reading their feedback confirms I can write–if you don’t write, you’ll have to trust me here, no one is more adept at ripping apart a manuscript than others who write–feedback I’ve received from industry professionals tells me I don’t, after all, look sick when I think I look good.
Mrs Fringe hasn’t been innocent in a long time, if ever. But I’m still naked, and even though it’s July, it’s fucking cold outside.
Is there a 12 step meeting for queriers? Except I’m not really querying now, just waiting for responses on requested material.
Every afternoon, when it’s 6PM and I don’t have any responses in my inbox, I think, “Tonight after Art Child goes to bed I’m going to have a drink, so I will relax and remember only that it’s out of my control at this point.” I even bought lemonade to go with the gin. Instead, by the time I would do this, I walk the beasts, have my 8000th cup of coffee or tea and go to sleep. Art Child and Nerd Child have enjoyed the virgin lemonade.
The other day a comment was made by someone on the writers’ forum, to the effect of if the manuscript is good enough and the query letter is good enough, you only need one agent to request…if that agent rejects, the manuscript isn’t good enough. The type of comment that always makes me freaking nuts. a) It reeks of sanctimonious superiority, and b) it isn’t true. There are many reasons why a manuscript can be rejected, and not all of them have to do with the writing/story. I didn’t respond to the post, because I know I’m feeling overly sensitive right now as I wait for replies, and didn’t trust myself to do more than splutter.
I was thinking about this yesterday, when I walked past a local church and saw several people waiting to go in the side door. I assumed for a 12 step meeting, but it could have been Bingo. Or something. Anyway, it had me thinking about the whole Let Go and Let God approach to what’s out of our control.
Step 12. Oh 12. That’s the spiritual awakening. What is the equivalent of the spiritual awakening here? It could be an offer of rep, but it could also be the acceptance of when it’s time to trunk the manuscript and move on. Maybe it’s the (to me) mythical ideal of writing only for oneself, being satisfied with or without validation. Damn. I’m gonna be asleep forever. Spiritual coma?
To decide to write a book, to do so, to tell people you’re doing it…all of this requires not just a leap of faith but big brass ones. To query, well, that means polishing them up to put them on display. But then once the work is out, humility.
For the moment, I will contemplate cleaning the bathroom, and decide what to cook with the goodies I bought at the farmer’s market this morning. And blast the iPod. Nerd Child always has interesting new (to me) music.
A couple of weeks ago I was having a conversation with a writing friend about the query process. Surprising, it isn’t like I’m obsessed or anything. Sigh. And by conversation, I mean I said something like, “It’s never going to happen, I have a better chance of winning the lottery, blahblahsuckageblah. And my friend said something lovely and supportive like, “Oh, Mrs Fringe. Don’t say that. It can happen for you, it will happen for both of us, you have to have faith.”
I don’t play the lottery on a regular basis, maybe I’ve purchased five tickets over the course of my life. I wasn’t disappointed when I checked the numbers for the same reason I don’t play regularly–I don’t expect to win. I’m no math whiz, but I can look at the odds and know this is not a sensible way to spend a dollar.
I was saying there’s a specific aspect to querying that’s completely illogical, no different than playing the lottery, and yet here I am–hoping to “win,” even sometimes believing I have a shot. My guess (I’m not looking up the numbers and doing math) is that my odds are even worse than if I bought a lottery ticket for every query I send. If you pick the “right” numbers, you win your money, less the government’s share. Fair enough. But if a wannabe claws their way through the slush pile with sharp words and a clear, enticing plot to receive an offer of representation from a reputable agent, that’s just the first step. Because the jackpot (for a wannabe who wants to be traditionally published) isn’t receiving an offer of rep, it’s seeing your book in print, in a bookstore. So step two is the agent querying editors, in hopes of a publishing offer. Only a percentage of agented debut writers/manuscripts actually see a publishing contract. Step three is (hopefully) revisions with an editor and an advance, and then if nothing goes awry–step four, publication. That’s the winning ticket. Golden ticket is if the book actually takes off and you see good sales numbers.
There’s a disconnect, and even a wacky old gal like myself can see it. Too practical to buy lottery tickets, but oh yeah, I’ll query. And I’m lucky. Lucky to be receiving requests from agents to see the full. I wonder if full requests are like winning $2 on a scratch-off ticket, just enough to entice me to keep trying. Each request is a step, but quite far from an offer of rep–not to mention the neuron marbles lost with every ping of my email as I check to see if it’s an agent response. Patience, Mrs Fringe. Patience and faith.
Because I don’t play, I don’t know–do people have systems for playing the lottery, formulas and equations, the way people sit with the racing form at the track? I admit, I used to enjoy going to the track, where I had an elegant formula for which horse to bet on, using the names I liked the best.
My query formula
Above is my system. Sure I use the laptop to write and edit, but it’s a basic composition book for notes on the manuscript, and keeping track of queries. With, of course, my lucky pencil. Yes, it’s true, it’s that one specific type of pencil, exclusive to a Staples near you (maybe, they could be in other office supply stores also).
I had pushed this line of thinking out of my mind, but this morning on Twitter, I saw a tweet from an agent I follow. I think he’s an agent, he tweets anonymously as Agent Vader. For all I know he’s another wannabe, or a she, or the real Darth Vader, or the most powerful literary agent in existence. I don’t care, as long as he doesn’t send me to Jabba the Hutt in metal underwear. He’s often funny, and offers many great one liners about this whole business. Today he tweeted, “Writing is art. Art is subject to perception. This is a lottery. Most people don’t win the lottery.”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But I’ve got this little pile of winning scratch-off tickets that say please send me the full. And I’ve got beta readers and family and friends and Fringelings who say keep going. I’m even fortunate enough to have a couple of experienced, knowledgable-about-writing-and-the-publishing-industry friends who have read my work and tell me to keep going. But I’ll be honest, seeing and hearing the realities of this business, the long, long odds that involve the magical combination of writing that’s good enough, story that’s good enough, landing on the right desk at the right time, making the right numbers on a projected Profit and Loss statement in a publishing house, these are equally important. I’m wacky enough to believe I have a real shot, but need to keep my eyes on the sanity of facts and odds at the same time.
(I’ve posted this song/video before, but can’t think of anything more appropriate)
This is the hashtag making the rounds on Twitter right now. Yes, sorry, back to back quasi feminist rants.
The Gilded Cage (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The hashtag and tweets are in response to this atrocity. A young man went on a rampage and killed seven people, including himself, in Santa Barbara, California. First and foremost, my heart goes out to the victims and their families, including the family of this young man–who reportedly saw his rantings/manifesto, tried to get him help, reported him to the police. I’m not sure how this still happened, and I’m not blogging about this to speculate re who dropped the ball.
No matter how many episodes of Criminal Minds I watch I’m not a psychiatrist, not his therapist, not an expert in human behavior, I can’t say if he was a sociopath or plain old crazy. What I am is a woman. And this young man’s harmful delusions centered around himself and women, their rejection of him. His sense of entitlement to “get” hot (or whatever the current catchphrase is) blonde women, and their lack of interest in having sex with him. Gee, can’t imagine why, his videos make him seem like such a charmer. #YesAllWomen have said no at some point. If you’re an asshole, you’re going to hear no a lot.
The problem as I see it, the reason #yesallwomen is the hashtag and not something tied in to gun control, or “affluenza,” is that he was so easily able to find his peeps, other men who feel their dangly bits entitle them to say insulting things to and about women, have sex with whatever women they want. In addition to his 140+ page manifesto, he left a hell of a cybertrail, rants on misogynistic websites. No, I’m not going to link them, I’m not going to help give them more hits and traffic so easily.
It’s the same sick fountain of bullshit that allowed the man I wrote about in my last post to not see any jail time, for his ex-wife/victim to be told instead she should forgive him. #YesAllWomen are still individual beings with the right to say no, even if we get married
How many women, whether they’re twenty or fifty, can say they’ve never had the experience of being called a bitch or a tease because they didn’t want someone touching them? Or commenting on their bodies? Because, yanno, we should all be flattered–it’s a compliment, someone wants you. Yeah. #YesAllWomen have experienced that moment of fear and tension, hoping the man making kissy sounds and following them will leave them the fuck alone.
Of course, this isn’t limited to misogyny, this young man’s rants had a heaping dose of racism and self hatred (he was half Asian). Because it all goes together. Hatred is hatred. I do believe, I have to believe, that he was mentally ill. But I don’t believe everyone who agreed with him, egged him on, everyone who is trolling by making provocative and hateful comments in response to the Twitter hashtag, is mentally ill.
Like every other social issue, I don’t think there is one answer, one solution. So many things feed into these attitudes, beginning with children, teaching little girls to hate their bodies and at the same time teaching them their bodies, their faces, and how they display them are the most important part of who they are. What? You would never feed into that! Never teach your little girl to objectify themselves, or teach your little boy to objectify girls/women. Of course not. So how come there are padded, push up bras in minuscule sizes in the girls’ department of clothing stores? I’m a shoe gal, I admit it. Heels are sexy, they make me feel…I dunno, powerful, in a way. Women are and should be entitled to dress however they’d like. Women. Not girls, women old enough to have learned their bodies are a part of who they are, not the sum total. Sure I’m uptight, sure I’m not an expert, but what is the reasoning behind these types of things beyond objectifying girls? #YesAllWomen don’t look like the ones in magazines, and it can be a hard battle to find self acceptance.
Children are still told that when they’re shoved to the asphalt on the playground, it’s just because he/she likes you. The same pressures put on girls are put on boys. Stop it. Being a man has nothing to do with your girlfriend–who she is, what she looks like, or if she exists.
Women are still attacking each other for individual choices. What do you mean, you don’t want to have children/be married/have a career/use cloth diapers/breastfeed/formula feed? #YesAllWomen are being told they not only can have it all, they have to do and be it all.
With all my waiting on agent replies, I’ve been doing a lot of obsessing thinking. One of my thoughts (and I’m sorry, I can’t remember how much I blogged about this and I’m too lazy to read my old posts) is about those romance novels that I wrote. I’m wondering how much our society’s emphasis on romantic love contributes to these delusions. I know, the romance heroes (mine or anyone else’s) aren’t misogynistic assholes–or if they appear to be at first, they quickly realize the error of their ways and come around to worship the heroine. On the writer’s forum I’ve seen several instances of people being told by agents or editors they need to add in or increase the romance in their stories to make it more marketable.
Is this true, readers will be unsatisfied without romance in their thriller/fantasy/coming of age story? Yes, we, as women, have come far. As a society, we’ve come far. Most people will at least pay lip service to lifestyle choices. But. How often do you hear people asking a single woman when they’re going to get married? How about hearing someone ask your 10/11/12 year old if they have a boyfriend/girlfriend yet–and if the answer is no, why not? And I’m not referring to Great Grandma asking these questions. If we believe a story is not complete without strong romantic elements, and we are partaking in a steady diet of these books and movies, how far away are we from saying people are not complete if they don’t have a significant other? Hmmm, somehow this isn’t sounding as far removed from the days of “old maids” as it should be. #YesAllWomen need to feel good about who they are, not just who they’re with.
Not all men are aggressive, entitled, driven-by-their-gonads jerks. I believe, at this point, those men are the minority, especially as we look to the younger generations. But too many still are. And too many more are given a pass, because oh, well, that’s just men. No, it isn’t just men. It’s us, male and female, what we’re willing to say is ok and close our eyes to, and what we’re willing to stand up and say no to. Enough is enough.
#YesAllWomen because
everyone gets rejected. Deal with it.
rape jokes aren’t funny.
we still hear, “all she needs….”
we still hear, “well, what was she wearing?”
men need to know we value those who treat us as human beings, not objects.
mrsfringe 