Writers Love Drama--When It's Not Ours

Buck buck moose! It's rutting and hunting season, and I, like any serious fiction writer during the month of November, am hiding inside my warm, snug house with my nose pressed to the window, feasting my eyes upon the beautiful, delicious, horny drama outside. And when that's not happening in the backyard, I'm at my writing desk doing "research" that kinda looks like reading smutty trash talk about rockstars--See the end of this post to get your fix, you gossip fiend. How else do we learn how mammalian beings interact but by observing them from a safe distance?

This photo shows three bucks--a big guy in the background, who is standing guard in front of a fair lady doe in the bushes (not visible here), and two young bucks with baby horns. The pubescent yearlings worked in tandem to circle closer and closer until the big buck put his rack down and charged at them, and then they ran away--over and over again. What was the young bucks' strategy, I wondered? Trying to wear down the old man by literally running circles around him? Trying to tempt the fair lady away from her super stud? I laughed at their foolishness. But then again, I'm into old dudes.

Incidentally, have you heard the good news that Yanis Varoufakis is teaming up with Bernie Sanders to save America from Steve Bannon and the world from fascism? Now that is a fight I want to watch. Especially if it takes place in the form of panel discussions that showcase YV's exquisite accent. God, that vowel sound when he says "loan." Can you even stand it? I cannot.


In my personal life, I've spent my youth learning how to avoid my own drama. As a teen, I sought out my own spiritual guidance, clinical therapy, healthy friends and lovers, and strategies to manage my own emotions and achieve my own goals. As a fully baked adult, I have little patience for people my age or older who are still acting like poor Cinderella waiting for a fairy godmother to come along and magic away all their problems. Fix your face, Brenda! (Sorry, I've been watching drag queen shows. Did I mention how I love other people's drama?)

I also work for an organization that helps provide charitable resources to the real Cinderellas of this world. Refugees who are missing limbs and family members they'll never see again. Guatemalan children who can't go to school because their family will starve if they don't scavenge the dump all day. Trans kids abandoned by their own families. People who have been wrongfully incarcerated for decades. You know, people who don't have a closet full of bootstraps like Brenda over here, making it all about herself with a constant warbling about "If you really cared about people, you would...!" Stahp.

I like my drama kept safely behind glass. That's why I dress my kid up like a furry animal and put her in front of the lion enclosure at the zoo--but not on the shore of an alligator-infested Florida pond.

I do not like seeing loose dogs charge at my face or pimply yahoos brandish pistols while I am walking down the sidewalk.

I do not like witnessing domestic violence in person. I do not like wondering when the next person I know will get murdered. I do not like watching the violence escalate, yet again, and feeling helpless to do anything about it after all legal and nonprofit agencies in the land have done everything they can. I do not feel better when the authorities assure me I've done all the right things--when it means nothing. I do not like feeling powerless to help people whose hands I can reach out and touch. I do not like wondering whether any help I can offer will put my own family in danger. Sometimes, I find myself praying that the abusers will off themselves before they slaughter anyone else I know. I'm tired of grief counseling and trauma response teams and the very word "exhausting."

Especially when Brenda-who-doesn't-need-to-work-for-a-living says it. Take a nap, Brenda!

At times like this, it is helpful for me to remind myself that I am no one's fairy godmother. I have no magic wand that can fix Brenda or any of the people I wish I could rescue from their catastrophically failed existences. As they say in Rome, especially when all the buses and other modes of transportation are on strike and there is no way to attend a meeting, "If you can't, you don't have to."

I have worked so hard throughout my life on taking responsibility for my own business that it is sometimes hard for me to let go of feeling responsible for other people's lives too. But, like everyone else, I have far less power over others than I do over myself.

So that's why I continue to hide in my writing bunker every morning, reminding myself to channel the forces of drama into good, juicy fiction. I may not have the slightest bit of magical power in the RL, but in Matka Danu Miklagarth, I am the supreme goddess and HBIC.

Watch me stay in my lane like a seasoned Michigan driver in the November snow. Binches.

And maybe also read a few silly Buzzfeed articles about sexy old men and how other creative and social people also love drama when it's not theirs.

POR EJEMPLO. Here it is, the old man gossip. I've made a recent update to my salacious Bad Romance post about Till Lindemann, lead singer of Rammstein. I'm digging his new lady because she looks vaguely like me + some mediocre plastic surgery + Kardashian/popstar hair and makeup FX and she is exactly my age and just had a geriatric-pregnancy baby named Tilde/Tilda, obvs in homage to her super stud, who is probably not actually the father of the baby but enjoying acting as babydaddy beard because the real daddy is hysterically slashing his wrists and crying. OMG, true romance.

Meanwhile, Svetlana and Till are apparently going on tour together with the Lindemann show, and Till has been supporting her through some kind of serious kidney disease. He recently picked her up at the hospital after an emergency treatment.

These two are doing a fantastic job of sowing coy trails of breadcrumbs on long paths to nowhere. They make titillating but vague statements to the press, neither yes nor no, and Svetlana released a photo of herself posing with her new baby, older daughter, and a mysterious man's wrist and hand wearing a wedding ring. The gossips of the Eastern realms seem to want to believe this is Till's hand in the photo, but every slavering fangirl who has gazed up on hundreds of pics of our man gripping the Tilldo mic onstage can see that it is clearly not Till's hand. The wrist is too thin and hairy. The thumb is not at the correct angle. (We true artists, we notice such details.)

The plot is thick and layered like delicious cake batter. Go to the post and comment with tips and links and unsubstantiated conspiracy theories if you please.

Celebrity intrigue is such a great distraction from real life's sad and hopeless dramas. I feel nourished on this--thank you, thank you, Till and Svetlana--and ready to create some highbrow buckin' literature here. I'll check in next week with my progress.


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