As a writer, I've had to learn a lot about creating villains in my stories. I used to think that purely evil villains without a hint of remorse were the worst ones to come up against, and thus the most interesting in literature. Like I said, I've learned a lot since then, and now I know that villains are almost never evil incarnate—at least if the villain is believable in a non-comic book world.
This relates to something I've seen a lot in the real world lately. (As a note: this is not a perfect analogy so don't take it literally.) In recent months the struggle to make gay marriage legal in the US, both sides have done a pretty good job with villainizing* the other as bad, and even evil. The people on each side are just that—people. They choose with which side they stand, and it is generally after thinking through the issue on a number of levels. While it is true that some are hateful, perhaps even a bit vile, that in no way says anything about the individuals of either group.
I'm not saying anything for or against any viewpoint here; what I want to point out is that by villainizing the opposition, we close off any opportunity for open and honest discourse, which may well in the end shift opinions and lead to some definitive progress.
Likewise, there are several companies and organizations that are under attack because one or more of their leaders or prominent members is strongly in favor of one party. Boycotts are proposed and enacted. People refuse to associate with even the mere mention of the group to show their disdain for the other's message. That is their choice, both of the group leaders and the boycotters.
I would, however, like to offer an alternative. Instead of closing ourselves against others and labeling those with a different system of values or beliefs as inherently wrong, why don't we loosen the barriers we've placed between us and treat each other as people who are doing the best they can with their lives? Someone may well be wrong in what they believe, but if the people who are right turn their backs and refuse to acknowledge the other, how will truth or right or goodness ever be shared with those who don't agree?
Again, I say nothing as to who or what is right, only that we can't create a better world if no one is willing to discuss things in a caring, gentle way. People believe what they do because of a multitude of experiences, thoughts, and people in their lives. Wouldn't it follow that for someone to change an opinion, they must have new experiences and thoughts introduced in a way that uplifts them? Tearing someone down will only lead to further entrenchment in their ideas; it does absolutely nothing to foster understanding.
So I say this: it's easy to paint someone who does not agree with us as a villain, as someone black-and-white evil like Cruella de Ville who enjoys killing puppies for fun. It's much harder to look at them as an individual who is trying to make tough decisions, just like we are, to see that there is a whole lot of gray mixed in with the black parts we don't like. Wouldn't it behoove us, then, to welcome discussion with them? To foster friendship and understanding so that humanity can grow together instead of apart?
I'm not a hero, nor am I a villain; I'm something inextricably more complicated than that, just as you are. As we all are.
*Yes, I am making up my own word, because I can't find one that describes exactly what I mean. Villainize: to make someone with a differing viewpoint into a villain.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The things I do . . .
I’m insane. Really, it’s true. I’m surprised my family hasn’t tried to have me committed yet with all of the crazy schemes I bellyflop into.
The latest? Moving to France for two months with everything only coming together at the very last minute. Read: I planned far enough ahead to get the most important, basic things in place, but stuff like, oh, calling my bank to let them know I’ll be traveling internationally? Hmm. That would have been a good idea before I ended up nearly stranded in Spain because none of my credit cards would work and the cash I had left was 40 cents shy of my needed fare.
Ay ay ay. Ricky really would be yelling at me for this Lucy of a move.
Good news? The amazing man at the emergency international after-hours collect call center for USAA saved my life. Well, more like what little sanity I have left. And to think that after how wonderful he was in helping a stupid stranded American, I didn’t get his name so I can tell his boss how great he is.
So after my near-disastrous already-stranded-in-Spain-and-I-just-landed, I decided to get one of the little sample cups of what everyone else was drinking. In America our beverages come in “Your bladder will explode in 5, 10 or 15 minutes” sizes. While Europeans have a far more refined sense of portions. Small—or even minuscule—is perfect because what’s in that cup packs a punch.
Because caffeine and I are bitter enemies (hello migraines every time I drink anything stronger than Sprite), I opted for the perfectly petite but exquisitely proportioned Chocolate: thick and dark with exactly the amount of chocolatiness my frazzled soul required.
Since I was still at the airport, the Chocolate came from Spain’s Starbucks doppelganger, but oh it was good. I’m planning to spend some time in Barcelona at the end of my trip since I’m flying out from here as well. That means I’ll be hunting down some authentic Chocolate to drink before I leave.
Although it’s been nearly seven years since I spoke Spanish with frequency, I’m keeping to my own. Only twice so far did I break down and go with English.
On a related note, I’m barricading myself inside the cottage once I actually get to France and figure out where the hell I’m supposed to be.
The latest? Moving to France for two months with everything only coming together at the very last minute. Read: I planned far enough ahead to get the most important, basic things in place, but stuff like, oh, calling my bank to let them know I’ll be traveling internationally? Hmm. That would have been a good idea before I ended up nearly stranded in Spain because none of my credit cards would work and the cash I had left was 40 cents shy of my needed fare.
Ay ay ay. Ricky really would be yelling at me for this Lucy of a move.
Good news? The amazing man at the emergency international after-hours collect call center for USAA saved my life. Well, more like what little sanity I have left. And to think that after how wonderful he was in helping a stupid stranded American, I didn’t get his name so I can tell his boss how great he is.
So after my near-disastrous already-stranded-in-Spain-and-I-just-landed, I decided to get one of the little sample cups of what everyone else was drinking. In America our beverages come in “Your bladder will explode in 5, 10 or 15 minutes” sizes. While Europeans have a far more refined sense of portions. Small—or even minuscule—is perfect because what’s in that cup packs a punch.
Because caffeine and I are bitter enemies (hello migraines every time I drink anything stronger than Sprite), I opted for the perfectly petite but exquisitely proportioned Chocolate: thick and dark with exactly the amount of chocolatiness my frazzled soul required.
Since I was still at the airport, the Chocolate came from Spain’s Starbucks doppelganger, but oh it was good. I’m planning to spend some time in Barcelona at the end of my trip since I’m flying out from here as well. That means I’ll be hunting down some authentic Chocolate to drink before I leave.
Although it’s been nearly seven years since I spoke Spanish with frequency, I’m keeping to my own. Only twice so far did I break down and go with English.
On a related note, I’m barricading myself inside the cottage once I actually get to France and figure out where the hell I’m supposed to be.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
All my fault(s)
Enough time has passed since the downfall of my former life and dreams that reality is beginning to set in. Some may see that as a blessing, to look clearly upon the events of the past year and analyze in a logical manner. Those people don't realize that though I see these mistakes in 3-D surround sound, there is no logic to the interpretations. Not yet.
I can't remember if someone has already said this or if I'm being unseasonably insightful, but man is his own worst enemy. Actually, thinking on it, I'm sure someone very famous and smart said it. If someone like that said something this clever, then it must be true.
Anyway, I go through periods in my life where I am more than my worst enemy—I am my absolute destruction. Yes, yes, that is a bit overdramatic, but if you've never felt the soul-crippling effects of absolute failure coupled with perfectionism and an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything, even that not within your power, then you won't understand. That's a good thing. I promise.
As I see it, the fog of panic is fading, plus the inner-survivalist is getting a brief respite. That means recrimination is rearing its repugnant head, its red-hot gaze already beginning to pierce the armor of self-esteem. That is my downfall: my own sense of guilt.
It hasn't progressed much yet, but it will soon enough. I can already feel the bile churning in my gut, ready for the first major wave of self-recrimination to begin.
Though I made mistakes throughout the process of opening the bookstore, they were all committed in earnest and with a determination that it was all for the best. Only hindsight knows the truth, and in this matter, I was wrong on many occasions. I see now what I could not then, and while there are many lessons that I need to learn and many more that others might benefit from, I can't deal with it right now.
That is the simple truth, but it's also the thing I fear most. I will need to face all of my decisions, and soon is the obvious choice, but I don't know if that's possible. Not for me. Not right now.
Why not now? Because I'm not ready to damn myself with my own words. If I say or write the things that trouble me, it would be as though I confessed a sin that was no sin; only mistakes. But still. It has much the feel of a sinner condemned.
Yes, I know. Overdramatic again. But there it is. I made mistakes and plenty of them, but until I have enough emotional strength built up after such a crushing defeat, I can't bear thinking of them without feeling the guilt beginning to take over. It doesn't matter if the guilt is valid; it's there and will wound me all the same.
And so my demons will be shoved back into the closet for a forced hibernation. I'm not ready to deal with the emotions of the past year. When will I be? I haven't a clue.
I can't remember if someone has already said this or if I'm being unseasonably insightful, but man is his own worst enemy. Actually, thinking on it, I'm sure someone very famous and smart said it. If someone like that said something this clever, then it must be true.
Anyway, I go through periods in my life where I am more than my worst enemy—I am my absolute destruction. Yes, yes, that is a bit overdramatic, but if you've never felt the soul-crippling effects of absolute failure coupled with perfectionism and an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything, even that not within your power, then you won't understand. That's a good thing. I promise.
As I see it, the fog of panic is fading, plus the inner-survivalist is getting a brief respite. That means recrimination is rearing its repugnant head, its red-hot gaze already beginning to pierce the armor of self-esteem. That is my downfall: my own sense of guilt.
It hasn't progressed much yet, but it will soon enough. I can already feel the bile churning in my gut, ready for the first major wave of self-recrimination to begin.
Though I made mistakes throughout the process of opening the bookstore, they were all committed in earnest and with a determination that it was all for the best. Only hindsight knows the truth, and in this matter, I was wrong on many occasions. I see now what I could not then, and while there are many lessons that I need to learn and many more that others might benefit from, I can't deal with it right now.
That is the simple truth, but it's also the thing I fear most. I will need to face all of my decisions, and soon is the obvious choice, but I don't know if that's possible. Not for me. Not right now.
Why not now? Because I'm not ready to damn myself with my own words. If I say or write the things that trouble me, it would be as though I confessed a sin that was no sin; only mistakes. But still. It has much the feel of a sinner condemned.
Yes, I know. Overdramatic again. But there it is. I made mistakes and plenty of them, but until I have enough emotional strength built up after such a crushing defeat, I can't bear thinking of them without feeling the guilt beginning to take over. It doesn't matter if the guilt is valid; it's there and will wound me all the same.
And so my demons will be shoved back into the closet for a forced hibernation. I'm not ready to deal with the emotions of the past year. When will I be? I haven't a clue.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
When the past becomes bearable
I like who I am.
Years ago, most of my life, really, I never thought I'd be able to say that and have it be true. But it is.
It didn't happen in a flash, a brilliant moment of enlightenment: I LIKE ME! Like nearly everything important, it came when I didn't realize.
It's an odd thing to mention, I know, but this evening a group of authors who write young adult novels filled their little niche of the internet with tweets and blogs and Facebook statuses with notes to their high school selves saying what they wish they had known. Each started with "Dear teen me . . . "
A lot of wonderful advice shot back and forth across the web, coming from writers across the globe. Much of the advice they gave sounded eerily familiar: boys, friends, parents, school, weight.
Thinking about it, though, I realized that I wouldn't want to have gotten little hints or cheats from my future self. I like who I am now, so that means if something in the past changed to make my life easier, I wouldn't be the woman I am today.
The purpose of the exercise wasn't to bridge the gap of space and time between past and present selves. I realize that. But most of the advice I saw was tailored to the woman sharing it, specific situations or people they had dealt with.
Instead of giving a specific piece of advice to my young self, I would say the thing I had wished most to hear. This is what I'd say:
Life would have been a lot easier had I known that, but as I said, I like who I've become because of this journey. That doesn't mean I won't tell this to every young woman I get to know. You'd better believe I will, most importantly because it's true. Nothing they could do would ever make me hate them.
Once someone lets me into her life, she's not getting rid of me. I'm like a parasite that way.
Years ago, most of my life, really, I never thought I'd be able to say that and have it be true. But it is.
It didn't happen in a flash, a brilliant moment of enlightenment: I LIKE ME! Like nearly everything important, it came when I didn't realize.
It's an odd thing to mention, I know, but this evening a group of authors who write young adult novels filled their little niche of the internet with tweets and blogs and Facebook statuses with notes to their high school selves saying what they wish they had known. Each started with "Dear teen me . . . "
A lot of wonderful advice shot back and forth across the web, coming from writers across the globe. Much of the advice they gave sounded eerily familiar: boys, friends, parents, school, weight.
Thinking about it, though, I realized that I wouldn't want to have gotten little hints or cheats from my future self. I like who I am now, so that means if something in the past changed to make my life easier, I wouldn't be the woman I am today.
The purpose of the exercise wasn't to bridge the gap of space and time between past and present selves. I realize that. But most of the advice I saw was tailored to the woman sharing it, specific situations or people they had dealt with.
Instead of giving a specific piece of advice to my young self, I would say the thing I had wished most to hear. This is what I'd say:
I love you, no matter what you do or what happens to you. Please don't ever be afraid that something you've done will push me away or make me hate you; it won't. I will always be here. Nothing can change that.My mom died when I was sixteen, so I lost that person, the one who could have said this to me. Hearing this may well have changed my life. It seems like a small thing, knowing there isn't anything I could ever do or say that would make me reprehensible to her. No matter what.
Life would have been a lot easier had I known that, but as I said, I like who I've become because of this journey. That doesn't mean I won't tell this to every young woman I get to know. You'd better believe I will, most importantly because it's true. Nothing they could do would ever make me hate them.
Once someone lets me into her life, she's not getting rid of me. I'm like a parasite that way.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Over it . . . or not
With the insanity that has been my life for the past two years, I'd gotten over the notion that I'd ever get married. I'm only months away from entering my third decade of life, and I have to say, not worrying about dating is a blessing—especially at this age. But damnitall if I didn't just have a twinge of longing when I saw pics of old friends/unrequited-love interests online, some of whom may still be single and most of whom are still very attractive.
NO! This is not what I want. I want to be the happy spinster who travels the world and dotes on her nieces and nephews. I'm wretchedly tired of pining for something that will never happen.
I have to phrase it like that—"never happen"—because if I don't, then my feeble little heart gets to hoping again, and it's all down the crapper from there.
So I say to you, Aphrodite, that you must not seduce me with your talk of marriage and kids because if I am disappointed by love one. more. time. you will have one hell of a woman scorned to deal with. It won't be pretty.
NO! This is not what I want. I want to be the happy spinster who travels the world and dotes on her nieces and nephews. I'm wretchedly tired of pining for something that will never happen.
I have to phrase it like that—"never happen"—because if I don't, then my feeble little heart gets to hoping again, and it's all down the crapper from there.
So I say to you, Aphrodite, that you must not seduce me with your talk of marriage and kids because if I am disappointed by love one. more. time. you will have one hell of a woman scorned to deal with. It won't be pretty.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Brains of a hare
So I've been a little scattered lately. Erm, a lot scattered, but it's not like I want to be. It's really difficult for me to sit down and commit to something when I have no idea what the hell I actually want to do with myself, other than run off to the French countryside, which I can't do for a few months, and so I'm stuck here trying to figure things out and make money so I can actually afford to run off to France . . .
Yep, my brain whirls about me faster than the vomit comet at the local amusement park. It all makes me so dizzy, and I puke when I get dizzy. You know how much I hate puking.
In other words:
me = chicken
universe conspiring against me = axeman
Well, not quite that dramatic, but I figure the visual of blood, guts, and feathers being flung through the air conveys my state of mind a bit more, um, graphically.
But here's the breakthrough: I'm actually picking a project to focus on—and then seeing it through till it's finished! Loud cheers!
Okay, not a huge deal to most people, but when you consider how I've been jumping from one project to the next to the twelfth,* it's a bit overwhelming to work on all of them at once.
Basically, my mind is working its way through "freakout" mode and into "let's get something done" mode. It's a much better place to be.
*I'm not kidding when I say twelfth.** In the past month I've been working on 2 editing projects, 4 nonfiction writing projects, 5 fiction writing projects, 2 websites, 2 blogs, and helping my 6-year-old niece write a book for her parents. Okay, that's more than twelve, but I think you get the picture.
**I should probably mention that of the 16 projects mentioned above, I've completed 1 editing and 2 nonfiction writing, with 2 projects postponed and 1 perhaps indefinitely. Um, yeah. It's probably time I focus.
Yep, my brain whirls about me faster than the vomit comet at the local amusement park. It all makes me so dizzy, and I puke when I get dizzy. You know how much I hate puking.
In other words:
me = chicken
universe conspiring against me = axeman
Well, not quite that dramatic, but I figure the visual of blood, guts, and feathers being flung through the air conveys my state of mind a bit more, um, graphically.
But here's the breakthrough: I'm actually picking a project to focus on—and then seeing it through till it's finished! Loud cheers!
Okay, not a huge deal to most people, but when you consider how I've been jumping from one project to the next to the twelfth,* it's a bit overwhelming to work on all of them at once.
Basically, my mind is working its way through "freakout" mode and into "let's get something done" mode. It's a much better place to be.
*I'm not kidding when I say twelfth.** In the past month I've been working on 2 editing projects, 4 nonfiction writing projects, 5 fiction writing projects, 2 websites, 2 blogs, and helping my 6-year-old niece write a book for her parents. Okay, that's more than twelve, but I think you get the picture.
**I should probably mention that of the 16 projects mentioned above, I've completed 1 editing and 2 nonfiction writing, with 2 projects postponed and 1 perhaps indefinitely. Um, yeah. It's probably time I focus.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Broken
I've had my heart broken before, but never like this. I had cried out my eyes until only dust remained so many times in the previous months, but still I fought to keep it alive. Then the day came that I knew I couldn't do it any longer. It was over.
Had it been a romance, I doubt the sorrow would be so acute. Instead, it was the death of a dream come to life. I'd fought—hard—every waking moment, and more than enough sleeping, to keep it going, to make it last another day. No matter what I did, it just wasn't enough.
When I got sick, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. For months. Then a flash of brilliance: open a bookstore. A pipe dream from over the years become a nearly feasible reality.
The thing about getting sick—this time, at least—was that I finally learned that only I could control when happened in my life. I stopped letting fear stop me from pursuing something crazy and absolutely insane.
And so I quit my job and opened a bookstore for kids and teens. It's much more complicated than that, but for now I'll say that passion can lead a person through so many incredible hardships so long as possibility remains. It stayed a good time, but eventually possibility became harsh reality. No matter what I had or hadn't done, it wouldn't last.
Tears didn't fall the day I made the soul-splitting decision to close the store. We just hadn't gotten enough people in who would buy books. Another time, another town . . . but it didn't matter. What-ifs bring pain, not resolution, and I already hurt more than I could realize. I didn't question but moved forward with what-must-be-done.
But eventually the must-be-dones were done, and time to think returned. With thinking came remorse, sorrow, loss, and anguish. I've loved men before, and subsequently had my heart stomped on, but not like this. Never like this.
A man is a human. A person. Fallible and real. A dream, though . . . A dream is the purest desire of the heart, mind, soul.
When people pass through breakups that seem more excruciating than is possible, I imagine it's the death of a dream more than the death of the relationship that makes the heart shudder, slow, and stop beating altogether. The dream of the little house with its white picket fence. The idea of a lifelong companion and lover.
I'd given up dreams of the adorable little family a few years before I lost this dream in the form of a beautiful little bookstore. Each in its own way has changed and shaped me to what I am now.
Instead of turning away from the hope of a successful love or career, these disappointment have proved to me that even more is possible. I got so close. Next time it'll be closer.
I'm the only one who can truly stop myself from dreaming and succeeding. I've never liked disappointment; even more, I hate not knowing what could have been, if I'd only been strong enough to try.
And that's why I'm packing my bags and preparing to move across the world in search of my next crazy adventure. What I find in that small cottage in the French countryside doesn't matter. What's important is that I'll find something there and know for sure, without regret.
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