Skip to main content

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.

Anyway.

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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

35 Great Things About Turning 35

The prime of life starts at 35! It's the best-kept secret from younger people, but your 35th birthday is a major cause for celebration. For mine, I have made my own listicle of 35 reasons why experts agree that 35 is the best age to be:
You get to say, "I'm 35." The number 35 carries so much more gravitas than 30, but you're only a few years older. At 34, I've started fudging my age--by adding a year. People automatically take me seriously, and if they don't, at least they tell me I look young for my age. (Eye roll, hair toss, "whatever.")  35-year-olds DGAF. Inner chill reaches new heights at 35. Despite its #2 status on this list, it's the #1 response I hear about what's best about hitting 35. My gorgeous friend Nerlie was beautiful and resilient and wise beyond her years in high school, but now, at age 35, she gets to fully enjoy being herself on her own terms. She writes,  "I've survived so much that I don't waste time o…

The Tiny Tweens

Girls really do grow up faster than they used to! My baby has just started third grade. Here she is looking like a tiny tween. Some of the girls in her class are bigger, taller, and older looking than she is. This is the new reality of girls in elementary school.

My daughter has given away nearly all of her toys and set up a neat and tidy homework desk stocked with notebooks and pens. She's more interested in Minecraft than My Little Pony now, but she still prefers to run around and play with other kids outside than to sit with a device.

Sometimes people ask me if I'm sad that my child is growing up so quickly. So far, not really. She was a very cute baby, but every year older is easier and more fun for me! We haven't yet hit peak enjoy-it-while-it-lasts.

She gets herself ready for the day. She can help with more chores. She sleeps in until about 7:00 a.m. (It used to be 5:00.) She still wants me to read to her at bedtime, but now it's horror chapter books rather than…

My Alpha

It turns out my husband is a fantastic alpha reader. Who knew? We've been married for 13 years and have known each other for 21. And last weekend was the first time I ever had him alpha read for me. Turns out he's the best creative partner I could ever hope for and that he still has the ability to surprise me with hidden talents and acts of love.

My husband is not really a fiction reader. He probably hasn't read a novel since high school AP lit class. It's not that he doesn't love a good story, it's that he doesn't like sitting still long enough to read a book or watch a movie. He's a very active and extroverted man, and he'd rather have a conversation or a real-life adventure than read a book. He's kind of like Gaston if Gaston weren't an asshole.

So until now, I haven't wanted to bother him with requests to read my writing, because reading novels isn't his jam, and also because I've always harbored guilt at how much time I spen…

The Golden Moments

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone. -George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) 

The only time this is not generally true for me is in the fall. This is the golden moment when I feel most alive, aware, and present with everyone and everything around me. This is when my daughter and I begin most days with a walk in the golden hour of the morning, in this most golden season of the year.

It's also that magical time when my little golden child is still excited about school, from our morning walks to seeing her friends at recess to the Scholastic Book Fair to riding the bus home with more friends. She has already earned another "Golden Warrior of the Week" award (for exceptionally helpful behavior) and received an excellent, glowing report at the first parent-teacher conference of the year.

I've extended my "fallow period" from working on my novel, and I'…

"Steh auf" for the Friday the 13th Harvest Moon!

Tonight, the lunar fall begins! Behold the Harvest Moon on the night of Friday the 13th, which hasn't happened since the year 2000 and won't happen again for another 30 years! I'm so excited because fall is my favorite season. Summer is generally when my anxiety peaks, and I question my whole life and my existence and whether I am an idiot for spending so much time writing books that might turn out to be incredibly silly and ridiculous.

And now the Harvest Moon finally comes, and with it a marvelous reminder that some of my favorite kinds of art and media are silly and ridiculous. Lindemann has released their latest video, for "Steh auf," which feels like a direct message to me from the universe to quit mainlining the Weltschmerz, stand up, recommit to my 2019 resolution to Be Bestial, and get my own silly and ridiculous work completed.

Like, I have no idea what's going on with this small stage / looney bin / Mongol invasion, but I like it. This resonates wit…