Growing up my family used to watch the same movies over and over until we were so well versed that we no longer needed the actual film to enjoy the experience of watching it. We didn't branch out very frequently (to quote from our repertoire: "We don't normally go where we ain't already been."), but occasionally we would adopt something new. Sometimes we chose well; other times we'd revert to the standards. They made us laugh. They made us cringe. They were comfortable.
Books affect me the same way. Branching out is always fun, and trying new authors feels like living dangerously sometimes. But there are certain standards, certain stories, certain authors that remain constant. These books I've read over and over again, some of them so many times I can quote whole sections. The characters have become a part of my reality, so real to me that it's difficult to conceive of them the same way every time I open the pages. At some point, I reason, they should have learned from these mistakes. They should know as well as I what is going to happen in the next chapter because we've all been there before. Except we haven't. The characters never age, although my perception of their actions and my ability to relate to them does. I love them for who they are to me and what I feel like they could be if they were only given a few more pages. The possibilities are endless.
The scenery in these books and the action feels a bit like watching a familiar film. I know the cracks in the sidewalks and how the paint peels from the porch railing. I know on what side of the castle the moss grows because I've seen it in my mind so many times. It's just as real to me as anything I see on screen.
I look to the characters for consistency. People, real people, are slippery, and it's very easy to put trust in the wrong place. We don't want to think that we are the only ones who have our best interests at heart, but so often that seems to be the case. But the people in the books remain the same through every read. They don't stab the reader in the back. They don't modify their behavior to save themselves at the reader's expense. I always know where I stand with them, even if it's not where I want to be. I respect them for this. I always will. They have become a comfort zone, a place to land when I'm looking for something predictable, something with order, a welcome distraction when I feel like I'm losing control.
7.21.2011
7.20.2011
A Prompt Writing
It was a strange engagement. But she had her own reasons for wanting to go through with it. And so did he.
She waited for him at that bar on Third Street. A friend of a friend had referred him. She had been assured that he could get the job done. They'd never met before, but somehow she knew she'd know him when she saw him. The bar smelled of smoke and rain and made her feel claustrophobic, and if the flourescent light above the bar kept flickering, she'd lose her nerve.
"Another?" asked the ever-attentive bartender. He wasn't used to seeing women in his bar; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd served one. She was a newcomer to the place and as such was worthy of suspicion. Her appearance did nothing to bolster his confidence in her. Her wet hair was matted to her forehead, and her mascara had run just enough to make the dark circles under her eyes noticeable.
"No thanks," she said. "I'm drivin'." Eventually I will be anyway, she thought.
She took a long drag on a bummed cigarette. She'd picked a poor day to quit. She could quit tomorrow. All this would be over tomorrow. Today was a day for a smoke. She finished sipping the gin and tonic she'd ordered over an hour ago. She shouldn't even be here. She should have left half an hour ago. Where the hell was he? She didn't have all evening to wait. She did have a schedule to keep, places to be, things to do...
She was seething by the time the bell atop the door jingled.
Funny, she thought. Seems kinda outta place in a joint like this.
"Did someone call a tow truck?"
"It's about time you showed up," she sighed. "I've been waiting forever. My car won't start, and I have an engagement at a gallery in ten minutes. You know I'll never make it in time to give my opening speech, and even if I did I couldn't give it looking like this. Do you know what kind of important clients..."
"Will you be payin' with cash or credit?" he interuppted. "If it's credit, I'm gonna need to see some ID."
*This story is based on a prompt (at the top in bold) provided by the Writers Digest website circa January 28, 2011. I can't be serious all the time. : )
She waited for him at that bar on Third Street. A friend of a friend had referred him. She had been assured that he could get the job done. They'd never met before, but somehow she knew she'd know him when she saw him. The bar smelled of smoke and rain and made her feel claustrophobic, and if the flourescent light above the bar kept flickering, she'd lose her nerve.
"Another?" asked the ever-attentive bartender. He wasn't used to seeing women in his bar; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd served one. She was a newcomer to the place and as such was worthy of suspicion. Her appearance did nothing to bolster his confidence in her. Her wet hair was matted to her forehead, and her mascara had run just enough to make the dark circles under her eyes noticeable.
"No thanks," she said. "I'm drivin'." Eventually I will be anyway, she thought.
She took a long drag on a bummed cigarette. She'd picked a poor day to quit. She could quit tomorrow. All this would be over tomorrow. Today was a day for a smoke. She finished sipping the gin and tonic she'd ordered over an hour ago. She shouldn't even be here. She should have left half an hour ago. Where the hell was he? She didn't have all evening to wait. She did have a schedule to keep, places to be, things to do...
She was seething by the time the bell atop the door jingled.
Funny, she thought. Seems kinda outta place in a joint like this.
"Did someone call a tow truck?"
"It's about time you showed up," she sighed. "I've been waiting forever. My car won't start, and I have an engagement at a gallery in ten minutes. You know I'll never make it in time to give my opening speech, and even if I did I couldn't give it looking like this. Do you know what kind of important clients..."
"Will you be payin' with cash or credit?" he interuppted. "If it's credit, I'm gonna need to see some ID."
*This story is based on a prompt (at the top in bold) provided by the Writers Digest website circa January 28, 2011. I can't be serious all the time. : )
7.19.2011
If the Cliché Fits...
I'm no advocate for stereotypes in general. Among other reasons, I find them to be suspicious and unreliable. But sometimes I can't help indulging, if only briefly, in some admission that there are some that are based in truth. Some, mind you, not all and not many.
Take, for example, Hal. Hal is travelling from Ohio. He is a middle-aged businessman who enjoys a good game of golf, particularly if the company is paying for it. He is tall, but he allows himself to hunch over, evidence of what might long ago have been some vague insecurity about his height. No signs of that insecurity now. Hal has made something of himself. He needs to prove himself to no one. The clubs in his bag are proof enough.
Today is the perfect day to head to the course. It's sunny, and there doesn't seem to be much wind. To hell with the golf shoes: Hal is on vacation. Flip-flops will suffice. He practices his swing a few times, all the while calling it a futile exercise; Hal's swing is top-notch. He wheels the golf cart to the first tee and lights his stogy. Oh yes, it's going to be a good game.
We managed to somehow make it to the first tee at the same time and were thus paired with Hal for the eighteen-hole duration. Throughout the game, we learn nothing of Hal's personal life. Is he married? Does he have children? Grandchildren? What kind of business is he in? All we know is what we see.
Somehow my mind wanders to every image I've ever conjured of the traveling businessman making the most of his time on the golf course, but all I can see is Hal. I've seen him on television sitcoms all my life. He's in movies and books. He's in commercials. Hal is that guy. In my mind's eye, Hal has a modest home in the suburbs. He has modest cars and a modest wife. Occasionally he knocks back one too many beers at the July 4 barbecue, but since that's only once a year, it's no big thing. Hal has a 401K with his company, and he's hoping to hold onto the job for just a few more years when he can (finally) retire. He has children who should be finished with college by now and almost are. When they're finished, he and the missus will look further into buying that vacation home. Whether Hal has any of these things is irrelevant. This is what my media experience has taught me about guys like Hal.
If I thought this stereotype was dangerous, I would never have allotted the situation so much attention. But Hal's situation has me thinking: where do the stereotypes come from? Would Hal be offended if he knew I thought of him this way? Would he be amused? Does his life follow this outline at all? Without really realizing what I was doing, I created a tidy life story for Hal, and in reality I know nothing about him. Why do I do this? Is it wrong? How do I stop?
*Disclaimer: I don't manufacture life stories for everyone I meet. I think poor Hal was simply typecast based on a fleeting moment of boredom. Forgive me if this was wrong.
Take, for example, Hal. Hal is travelling from Ohio. He is a middle-aged businessman who enjoys a good game of golf, particularly if the company is paying for it. He is tall, but he allows himself to hunch over, evidence of what might long ago have been some vague insecurity about his height. No signs of that insecurity now. Hal has made something of himself. He needs to prove himself to no one. The clubs in his bag are proof enough.
Today is the perfect day to head to the course. It's sunny, and there doesn't seem to be much wind. To hell with the golf shoes: Hal is on vacation. Flip-flops will suffice. He practices his swing a few times, all the while calling it a futile exercise; Hal's swing is top-notch. He wheels the golf cart to the first tee and lights his stogy. Oh yes, it's going to be a good game.
We managed to somehow make it to the first tee at the same time and were thus paired with Hal for the eighteen-hole duration. Throughout the game, we learn nothing of Hal's personal life. Is he married? Does he have children? Grandchildren? What kind of business is he in? All we know is what we see.
Somehow my mind wanders to every image I've ever conjured of the traveling businessman making the most of his time on the golf course, but all I can see is Hal. I've seen him on television sitcoms all my life. He's in movies and books. He's in commercials. Hal is that guy. In my mind's eye, Hal has a modest home in the suburbs. He has modest cars and a modest wife. Occasionally he knocks back one too many beers at the July 4 barbecue, but since that's only once a year, it's no big thing. Hal has a 401K with his company, and he's hoping to hold onto the job for just a few more years when he can (finally) retire. He has children who should be finished with college by now and almost are. When they're finished, he and the missus will look further into buying that vacation home. Whether Hal has any of these things is irrelevant. This is what my media experience has taught me about guys like Hal.
If I thought this stereotype was dangerous, I would never have allotted the situation so much attention. But Hal's situation has me thinking: where do the stereotypes come from? Would Hal be offended if he knew I thought of him this way? Would he be amused? Does his life follow this outline at all? Without really realizing what I was doing, I created a tidy life story for Hal, and in reality I know nothing about him. Why do I do this? Is it wrong? How do I stop?
*Disclaimer: I don't manufacture life stories for everyone I meet. I think poor Hal was simply typecast based on a fleeting moment of boredom. Forgive me if this was wrong.
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