Reading

Suck It Up, Ya Weenie!

The latest must-have accessory for the woman of 40,000 years.

I tried. Tuesday afternoon I was shaken but feeling positive, “oh, a few days of rest and I’ll be ok.” Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, not so much. I made a bunch of calls on Wednesday morning, trying to find an ortho who could see me that day. No luck–and apparently most of them super specialize, and the offices all insisted I choose if wanted to see someone for my arm or my pelvis. “but they both hurt like hell.” “Well, you have to decide which specialist you want to see.” Screw it. No appointment, the pain seemed like it was easing up, I figured I’d just tough it out.

10:15 Wednesday night, I was lying in bed trying to pretend the pain had not increased by multiples of thousands, and my back doctor returned my call. Bless this woman. I told her what was going on, and she told me to come in first thing the next morning. I did, she checked me out, and sent me off to the imaging place, with more concerns than I thought.

I may not have been able to tough this out, but apparently I’m pretty fucking tough. The next ten hours involved 4 MRIs, 7 X-rays, 1 CT scan, and 3 exams.

At the first MRI stop, after being told it would take 2-3 hours. Umm, do you have a chill pill or something?

Sorry, Mrs F, we’re an outpatient facility, so we don’t offer any medications. We have headphones and music, it’s on classical already.

Find me the classic rock station and we’ll be in business, I can get lost in my youth–where I didn’t humiliate myself by breaking and tearing my body from a simple slip on ice.

Between the music and the two hours of sleep I was running on, I was able to stay very still, no panic in the tube. Could have done without Van Halen’s “Jump,” though.

The doctor was in touch with the imaging center throughout, and it seemed that every test finished sent me to another. Everyone was nice, but suspiciously nicer as time went on, particularly since I had to have been screwing everyone’s schedule, being pushed (figuratively) to the front of the line, staff and techs waiting for me to hobble in at each new stop.

Can I please go get tea before the next one?

I’m sorry Mrs Fringe, they’re waiting for you.

Again and again.

Finally, one woman said I could get tea while they burned the images of all the tests onto cd. Yay! When I limped back in, she told me my doctor was waiting for me to call her. I know, I know, by this time it was clear I’m looking at some serious injury, but by then 7 hours had passed, 8 since my morning coffee–a woman needs a cup of tea–and some of us need several!

Every time I thought I was finished, I was sent to the next test, the next building. I stripped so many damn times by the time I reached the last X-ray tech I expected her to stick dollar bills in my underwear. By then I knew I had 4 fractures, why did I need more X-rays? The day ended at the office of a special trauma orthopedist, his physician’s assistant, his orthotist, his secretary, and the cleaning crew–clearly waiting and wondering when this patient would leave so they could do their jobs.

So. Despite that first X-ray done at the urgent care place, my arm is fractured, and now encased in a super duper molded to my arm but removable for showering cast. The rest of it….As I understand it, there are three types of bones that make up the triangular shape of the pelvis. I have fractures in all three, including one that extends to the hip socket. I would make a joke about not doing things half-assed, but I’m pretty sure this yields the very definition of half-assed.

Dogwalking is out of the question for the time being. I didn’t actually ask about typing, I figure I’ll just go slower and less verbose than usual, stop when it hurts.

On the positive side, even though I feel like I’m completely out of shape, all the past yoga left me in good enough shape that I don’t need total bed rest, can hobble with the cane when I need to, yanno, live. And I think this gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up on my reading.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8V26QkVuew

Don’t Look Back

Closest thing in the house to a pillar of salt.

Art Child and I have discovered the joys of Netflix, and marathon-watching tv series. Earlier this week, we finished Buffy. I know it was hugely popular in its prime, but I had never seen it. I wasn’t much of a tv watcher until the last 7? 10? years. I’ll be honest, through the viewings of the first few seasons it was mostly me reading while Art Child watched. With the later seasons it caught my interest more. I don’t think I’d say this is a must-see series, but it was fun, and while I thought Buffy’s character was pretty much a yawn, I value the message of girl/female power and I did enjoy the way Spike’s character was developed.

Why am I talking about this? Because it occurred to me if this was a book–or more accurately, a book series, it would be Young Adult. That demographic of fiction that has experienced such a huge explosion of devoted readers (and writers) but holds absolutely no interest for me. So if Buffy was a written series, would I have enjoyed it? I don’t think so. If a book starts angsting in a way that makes my mind wander, I close the book. If I was watching this show without Art Child, I don’t think I’d have made it past the first season.

Between spending a lot of time, thought, and in conversation about the how and why of Fifty Shades of Grey being such a hit, watching this tv series, and watching Nerd Child navigate his junior year of high school, I’m thinking about this popularity of Young Adult fiction with adult readers. Regardless of what angle I use to approach, my overriding thought is, why?

I want to be clear, I am not bashing young adult fiction or young adults. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I like teenagers. It’s pretty damned cool watching my kiddos and their friends navigate the world, figure themselves out, develop their interests, values, priorities, and become adults. Young adult fiction can be light and fun or serious and thoughtful, general fiction to romance to sci-fi and fantasy, same as children’s fiction or adult. Of the first two novels that jump out out me when thinking of novels I read and loved this year, one had a woman in her forties as the main character, the other is written from the perspective of a 5 year old boy. But what makes young adult fiction young adult isn’t just the age of the protagonist, it’s the focus, the grappling with becoming, discovering who you are, losing your innocence and finding your place in the world–whether that world is in the South Bronx, a suburb in the midwest, or the planet XCTHRGH.

When I was a teen I read and loved Forever, by Judy Blume, and the works of Paul Zindel–My Darling, My Hamburger comes to mind. I wished there were more of these books and authors then, and I’m glad there are more for today’s teens. I haven’t been a teenager in a long time. Tastes change, interests change.

Being a teenager is hard. Dealing with high school is hard. I guess I think about it a lot because I’m-the-mama-that’s-why. Fun as it can be, parenting teens is hard. As an adult, I know this stage doesn’t last forever, though it feels that way. As an adult, I know things change, and growth and maturity have more to do with resilience and flexibility than anything else. I also know there’re a lot of pitfalls at this stage, pitfalls that can throw someone off course for the next 10-20 years (or more), pitfalls that if handled well can set someone up for a better life. Different choices make for some different challenges. Both of my boys went to high powered boarding schools on scholarship–one long graduated, one attending currently. It was a decision Husband and I made because we wanted them to have every opportunity possible, and we believed they could each handle the workload, responsibility, and independence. Along with these amazing opportunities and education is the early knowledge of exactly where you and your family sit on the socio-economic food chain, no parent on hand to provide chicken soup when you get sick, or help you out and run a load of laundry for you when you’re in the midst of finals. Did we make the right decisions? I think so, I hope so, but I still question it every day. As I recently told Man Child, the worst kept secret is that none of us know what we’re doing as parents, we’re all doing the best we can, trying to avoid the out and out worst decisions and not fuck up too badly.

Positive and negative, there’s built in conflict, drama, and emotion with teens. These are also musts with fiction to make it interesting. But honestly, for me, mama-ing teens is enough. Are there things I miss about being a teenager? I suppose. I miss that oddly emphatic combination of hope, swagger, faith and conviction that my adult life would be what I wanted it to be, complete with multi-book publishing contracts and boobs that would remain firm and resilient forever. Can I look back and recognize poor decisions I made, points when I wish I had gone right instead of left? Yup. Would I actually want to go back in time to do so? Not a shot in hell.

And I’m not looking to regularly settle into the head of a teenaged main character when I have me time for reading. An occasional foray, maybe. I don’t need the featured protagonists of novels I read to be direct reflections of me, i.e.: women who are forty thousand years old living broke urban lifestyles. I have friends of different backgrounds, ages, and experiences, so why limit my novels? I do need the protagonists and their conflicts to hold my interest, and for me, most fictional teens do not. When I read it, I loved White Oleander, by Janet Fitch. I wonder if it was published today, instead of in 1999, if it would be shelved as young adult. I think it’s likely, and I would have missed it. Yet I still don’t “get” what is it about these books–well written as many of them are–that is so compelling for many adults in their thirties, forties, and beyond that people are specifically seeking them out. I don’t often feel I have much to look forward to, but looking backwards isn’t my answer. Except, of course, for the music. I’m never growing out of the music I loved as a teen.

Tweet tweet, Bonus Post

Books (Photo credit: henry…)

I could have left today with a relatively humorous and inoffensive blog post, but why stop there? There’s one thing that’s been on my mind since yesterday. I don’t have it in me for a full political rant, but I have to mention it. Because I’m Mrs Fringe, that’s why. There was a “campaign” on Twitter yesterday: #WeNeedDiverseBooksbecause Part of me thought this was cool, and I suspect we’ll keep seeing that hashtag for a long time. More of me thought WTF? How is it that we need such a campaign, over 50 years after the Freedom Riders rode through the country, President Barak Obama on his second term as president of the United States…and yet we still have to tell the publishing industry we need diverse books that reflect the diverse people buying and reading those books.

The thing is, while tweets are catchy, they don’t really tell a whole story. Kind of like the various colored ribbons representing awareness for different diseases–ribbons are cute, no one feels threatened by them, they might even match your t-shirt–but they’re a far cry from the messy, painful, and complex reality they represent.

I saw some clever tweets with that hashtag. Saw some not as clever tweets, but well intentioned, the right idea. Still felt sad that it was necessary. I know it is, though. I live in a diverse building, in a diverse city. We are a diverse family. But a few years ago, when Nerd Child was applying for high schools, I read an online comment from a parent who lived somewhere else, bemoaning the fact that the private boarding schools are committed to having diverse classes, stating that this isn’t representative of the “real world.” Umm, maybe not this parent’s real world, but mine and many, if not most (once you branch beyond US borders) others.

Yes, both my boys went (one is still going) to private boarding schools, schools that put thought into the diversity of each year’s class, in addition to test scores, recommendations, skills/talents and after school activities. Both on scholarship. (And don’t kid yourselves, there many more bright and accomplished disadvantaged kids, of color and not, who are qualified that the admissions committees think they’d like to spend 4 years with, and then have representing their schools as alumni. There’s no golden path) But you know what’s beautiful? When I see my boys’ friends, and see how these things do make a difference and carry through. Both have friends from different cultures, different races, different countries. Not just school friends, but friends kept beyond the boundaries of a school day or year.

Still, this trending twitter campaign feels a bit preaching-to-the-choir, no? I have to think the publishing industry includes some of the most culturally conscious people in our society. I mean, books! Reading! Classics! Freedom of Speech and down with censorship! Maybe the marketing/purchasing end of the publishing industry will pay attention to the twitter feed, maybe not. Maybe they’ll take it to mean they should add a title or two to the “multicultural” lists. You know, that small, separate section of the bookstore, stuffed between romance and erotica.

Years ago, when I was looking at kindergartens for Man Child, I went on a tour with two friends, both looking for spots for their own children. We left the school, and one parent said, “I liked it, very diverse.” The other said, “You thought so? I didn’t think it was diverse at all.” Why the different perception? Because to one parent, diverse = many children of color. To the other, diverse = many white children. My way of illustrating that it’s all perception. So point of view in the books we read should represent these different perceptions, if we are going to do more than pay lip service to diversity.

I saw a tweet from a publishing professional that reminded me why we still need this type of campaign. Nothing terrible, definitely not racist, sexist, or homophobic. But it was the equivalent of #weneeddiversebooksbecause some kids want to wear boots instead of sneakers. Umm, huh? Individuality is absolutely important, I’m a huge supporter who rants often about kids being raised and expected to be sheep instead of critical thinkers. But this particular campaign is about diversity. About having characters that all readers can recognize and identify with, not just a default of middle class white girls battling dragons and making the world safe for democracy in Young Adult books, and the stifled white man in suburbia, or cute and earnest young white women figuring out how to get the guy, get that promotion and a good deal on those pumps they just had to have. Diversity of race, culture, religion, gender, socioeconomic class, politics, and sexuality.

I agree, we do need books that recognize and reflect the diversity of our world, our communities. Real diversity, not just the token black/latino/male/lgbtq and not just “issue” books where that difference is the focus of the book, and not taking books that do reflect diversity and sticking them in the corner, on their own shelf, where only those specifically looking for those books will find them.

John L. LeFlore and Freedom Riders (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Tail End of Sunrise

Somewhere between 6:30 and 6:45 this morning.

Looks like an impossibility, no? I stood on the terrace drinking my cafè con leche, camera in hand and the blue and gray and pink and white of the sky made me feel inside out, upside down. I could have been looking into an ocean as easily as up to the sky, if it weren’t for the water towers and smokestacks of neighboring buildings to orient me.

This morning’s sunrise was a surprisingly accurate reflection of how I feel as I’m reading The Woman Upstairs, by Claire Messud. So perfectly simple, natural, it’s a deeply complex piece written with such honesty it makes my heart stop every few pages. The words and phrasing aren’t pretty but they’re beautiful (if that makes sense to anyone other than me). Her main character is pure in her anger– no coyness, no stereotypical qualifiers, I’m not reading into it, she tells us exactly how angry she is and how she sublimates that anger in order to function–much the way I know those deep pinks above, stunning as they are, represent a big storm on its way later. I took the photos so I can look at this sunrise again tomorrow or next month or next year, but they won’t give the same wow they did when I stood there this morning.

There are many writers I admire, for craft, plotting, characterization, descriptions, but. There aren’t many writers who have made me feel like I’m holding my breath, chest and head hurting but I’m afraid to exhale, afraid to keep turning the pages because then it gets me closer to the end. I don’t want it to be over, and I also don’t want to find out if it was wrapped up in a neat and tidy package where everyone gets to live happily ever after because sales-marketing-feel good-life is a cabaret.

*this, by the way, is why I don’t write book reviews on the blog. Not too many people looking to buy a novel want to know how a book made me feel, but the feelings are what’s important and memorable to me.

Some novels I read and know no matter how much I enjoy them, they aren’t my type of story to write. Thrillers, horror, so fun! My imagination doesn’t go in those directions. Some novels I read and think yes, I should be querying and pursuing publication, my work is competitive. This is a whole other category.

This is the type of book I will remember the name of, will recommend to friends and acquaintances for the next ten years. I’m guessing there are a lot of people who won’t like it. Anger, especially women’s anger, tends to make people uncomfortable. It’s also the type of novel that makes me wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. A strange feeling, hard to state clearly because it’s inspiring at the same time. There’s a little back room in my brain where I’ve been drafting a character for another story, and he’s starting to knock, wanting to move forward. As much as I’m loving The Woman Upstairs, feel it was money well spent, it also makes me want to stomp my feet and shake my fists because this is what writing can be, but my writing is not. Cliche as it may be, the word that keeps coming to mind is heartbreaker.

Must mean it’s time to get the Led out before I get back to reading and before the rain comes.

Lost in Space

Lost in the space (Photo credit: JimmyMac210)

Feeling kinda

Betwixt and between.

I’m trying to decide what to work on next, while I begin the process of querying. I have to be working on something, because querying without another project to focus on is a certain design plan that leads to a very fitted white jacket. Nicely accessorized with padded walls, but really, I’d prefer something loose and flowing right now. I could go back to the WIP that’s been frying brain cells for years already. I could begin something completely new. I’ve got an idea for a character, but no plot. This is new for me. Usually by the time I’m at or near the end of a project, and I’ve been writing regularly, the first portion of the next project seems to write itself, because it’s been brewing. Not this time. I’m not blocked, just unsure of which direction I want to take.

betwixt (Photo credit: Daniel*1977)

In the meantime, I’ve been trying to do some reading. In doing so, I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about Mrs Fringe has changed. I don’t remember not knowing how to read, I don’t remember not loving to read, and I’ve always been a trope of a bookworm. Sure I had books I liked, books I loved, books I raced to finish because I didn’t enjoy them, but I read them. I would read anything, and finish it. If I had nothing new to read, I would reread; hell, I remember my mother yelling at me because I was standing in the refrigerator, reading the labels on the condiments.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been broke for long enough that I’ve adjusted to not having things to read, or because of my period earlier this year of not being able to lose myself in a novel, but it has changed. I’ve picked up at least three books in the past few months that I didn’t enjoy, and I didn’t finish them. How does this happen? Something so much a part of me, how others see me and how I define myself, no longer true.

I’ve also read several books I liked, and a couple that I loved. But now that I’m feeling this whole whichwaydoIgo in terms of writing, I wonder if the two are connected. I wonder if Heinz is still running that write-our-slogan campaign.