Hell and Wheels

Age. Why is it such an important issue? Or rather, why is youth?

I don’t feel like I’m getting ‘old’. I don’t really think I look it, but lately the slew of advertisements and movies starring people born in the eighties, and (gasp) even the nineties is striving to prove me wrong. Everywhere I look, teen appeal is pounding into my brain the fact that youth has somehow crept away from me in the night as I slept, and I’m well over the age where hippies of old insisted I could no longer be trusted.

As I blame society and The System for most things, I think I’ll stick to my usual for this as well. Someone, somewhere along the line said, “Youth is where it’s at.” And everyone followed. True, there can be arguments made about evolution and the drive to reproduce with the youngest, and thereby most virile, of the species. Yet, I can’t hold our base nature responsible for the total disregard our society has for those who’ve crested the ripe old age of twenty-five.

Young people are dumb. It’s not their fault. They just have no experience. They run out in the world thinking they know everything, and find out they know nothing. I know; I’ve done it myself. Even though I’m lamenting my fate as an initiate of the wrinkled set, I really don’t know how far back into my youth I would go to reclaim that former idyllic visage. Being young was the hardest thing I had to do. So why am I in such a huff about its demise? And why, when most people recognize this fact, is youth so revered?

I think it’s all about ideal. An unlined face. A supple body. A muscle-to-fat ratio that isn’t tipped crazily in the wrong direction. It doesn’t matter what’s under the hood, as long as the looks are there. Take Anna Nicole Smith (I know, we’re all sick of hearing about her, but she’s a prime example, so bear with me). Anna was dumb as a bag of bricks. But, she was beautiful. She graced the cover of Playboy and became a Guess model (something, I’ve heard, that’s difficult to do). Her beauty outweighed her lack of mental ability. Whatever she did, whatever she may, or may not have injected into her system, she was beauty incarnate — and all was good. Then, age began to creep up. That bright red lipstick only served to coarsen her tanned, slightly weathered face. Her mouth sagged just a bit. Even thin again, she wasn’t the Anna she used to be. She was ‘old’ and her looks no longer buffered her from those who sought to exploit her deficits. She became the media’s clown. That’s my theory, anyway.

Unfortunately, I’m not immune to this societal disease. I’ve made Resonance twenty-three (of course, if I were to make her any older the fact that she still lives with her mother would start to veer away from irritating and dive straight into creepy). Still, I could have made Quinn much older. Instead, he’s twenty-five — shouldering just enough years to appear mature without having him suffer the burden of all those gross wrinkles. The characters in my next book are also young (physically, at least). Why? Why am I feeding into this misconception that those who’ve reached over a quarter of a century are nose-diving into the grave? Maybe because I know what sells, and, in the end, I’m still society’s bitch, whether I want to be or not.

I do admire the fantasy writers who’ve broken free of this chokehold. Kelley Armstrong has Paige, a thirty-something witch with a few extra pounds gracing her frame. A. Lee Martinez’s Duke the Werewolf and Earl the vampire were well into their middle years when made immortal. Even Laurell Hamilton’s Anita Blake storms through her thirties with way more vigor than I can muster.

Maybe this is all a bout of hypersensitivity because the face I see in the mirror is no longer the one I remember. Up to a point, every year brought positive changes — the chubby cheeks and the diminutive features morphed into a larger head, more defined jaw line and adult-sized bits and pieces. Then, the changes seemed to stop. For a few years it appeared that time had indeed ceased to march on and I would remain in that state forever. I was fooled. Robbed. The first lines began to appear at the edges of my eyes. The creases of my mouth sagged a little more. And I realized that time was nowhere near finished wreaking its havoc on my face.

Even more disheartening is the never-ending parade of youth marching behind me. For a while I could pretend we were the same age — almost. Now, though, there’s no getting around the fact I’m no longer carded in most establishments. Luckily, I’m in a profession where my brain is more important than my appearance. And, when it comes time for that headshot, well, I’ll be happy that some time-reversing prodigies invented filtered lighting and Photoshop.

When I was a kid, everyone smoked. I’m young enough not to recall people smoking in movie theaters or supermarkets, but I do remember the tall canisters at the entrance to every department store — those alluring mini-sandboxes my mom would always utilize, but never let me play in.

Back then, ashtrays were art. The best were glass and had a matching tabletop lighter, so all of ones’ friends could light up in style. The coffee table ashtrays were made for the cigarette to casually rest, perfectly balanced within one of the deep, wide V’s ringing it. The cheap plastic ones (more often seen about my house because of the convenient portability) had those narrow channels my mom would — on the rarest of occasions — be forced to crumple and bend her cigarette into. It would tightly hold the burning remains hostage while she attended some urgent matter (usually involving me, and yelling). More often than not, though, those little depressions remained unmarred. I never saw a party where a cluster of my parents’ friends gathered around the ashtray, propping their individual vices in the slots provided. Instead, they clutched them (in all the various styles that gave a spark of individuality to a common habit), or swung them about as they spoke, or forced them to share space in their hand with a drink.

It seems to me smokers like to be close to their smoke. Never once did I see my grandmother put hers down. Not even for a photo. Throughout our family album, she’s there in her chair, one leg slung over the other, right elbow on the armrest. Her hand is lifted casually to the sky, cigarette nestled between her fingers like a miniature, glowing extension of her very being.

All of this reminiscing brings me back to the main inspiration for this bit of fluff — the Smokeless Ashtray by Ronco. For those who are too young to know of this invention, it was the Yuletide equivalent of the Chia Pet — marketed heavily once Santa made his way along the Macy’s parade route, only to disappear from television ads the minute the Ball fell in Times Square. The Smokeless Ashtray’s intended purpose is clear in its title; a canister positioned over an ashtray that sucked the smoke up into itself, purportedly relieving everyone else in the room from the negative effects. But, unless the smoker stored his cigarette in the ashtray after each puff (which — by my grand, worldwide observations noted above — is doubtful), it couldn’t have possibly done much to stop a roomful of people from suffering from the effects of someone’s smoke.

Obviously, the most smoke escapes when a smoker exhales. The rest of the time, it’s just a tiny little chimney sending curls of smoke straight up into the air. In order for the smokeless ashtray theory to be properly implemented, the smoke would have to be curtailed when it’s being put out at the highest volume. And here is where a brilliant idea is born — The Smoker’s Helmet. An umbrella-like creation affixed to the head of the smoker that would pull up the exhaled smoke, sucking it into the top of the helmet where it would be disposed of via the Smokeless Ashtray method.

If people could be convinced the Smoker’s Helmet was fashionable, the glorious heyday of my youth could be restored. There would be smoking in the malls, in bars and in restaurants. Moviegoers could again enjoy lighting up in a theater (although there would have to be a Smoker’s Helmet section, because sitting behind one would be like sitting behind Darth Vader). The decorative ashtray could return from its exile and once again grace coffee tables everywhere. And I might just get a chance to play in that sandbox, after all.

http://www.ifilm.com/efp

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Many thanks to Squeaks for making me laugh hard enough to want to write about the Smoker’s Helmet.

Can we trick our readers into thinking they’re in a place that we ourselves have never been? Can we fool them enough to make them believe our characters actually dwell where we say they do? How important is it for us to put ourselves wholly into their shoes before setting fingers to the keyboard?

This topic arises after reading about Sidney Sheldon’s passing. I have to say I’ve never read any of his work, and didn’t even know he was the creator of “I Dream of Jeanie.” The article I read mentioned his habit of traveling to the exotic locales in which he placed his characters, and how he liked to immerse himself in that aspect of the world he was recreating on the page. I began to wonder if a reader could tell if a writer has never been to the location he or she is writing about. Could two writers — one who has been to say, Hawaii, and another who has only done extensive library research on the islands — each write a story and then present it to readers and have them guess which one actually traveled there? Could the readers tell the difference? If so, would it matter to them?

Part of my novel involves ancient Sumer. Because ancient Sumer is now Iraq, it’s safe to say I haven’t been there. I researched the buildings, the people, the culture, but the day-to-day sensations cannot be researched. Here, on the eastern shore of Maryland, I know that on a winter day it will be anywhere from chilly to cold. I know that the sun shines most days and when it doesn’t, the usual precipitation is rain, not snow. I know that when the snow does fall, it sticks to the grass, but not usually the road. I know when it does stick, the next day will most likely be warm enough so that by the afternoon the only evidence that remains of the snow is in plow-blackened mounds by the curb. I know that in five months, it will be in the upper eighties. I know that walking to the car will make me breathless from the moisture-thick air and that my hair will start forming weird little kinks. I know the asphalt will blast arid heat up my legs, but my skin will still be tacky. I know this because I live it every day. What I don’t know — and can’t feel from a book or Internet site — is what midday in Iraq feels like.

All of this leads me back to the original question; is an educated guess enough where setting is involved? Or am I cheating the reader of something, no matter how small it may be?

Image borrowed with thanks from Dawnrazor

A recent posting by SQT, subsequent comments by Stewart about the market saturation of zombies, and a coincidental link from my friend “X” all led me to believe this was exactly what this blog needs right now.

Don’t tell me you’re not doing the claw thing at your desk; I know you are.

I know I said I’d never have recycled content, but the talented (and rightfully defiant of the the dodgy and mercurial rules passed down from the Writing Powers That Be) Kate has requested I transfer this post from my blog on MySpace to here. Never one to turn down an appeal — especially one that makes me feel all kinds of special — here it is.
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Are You a Real Writer?

No, this isn’t some Internet quiz that will tell you if you’re on the right track or not. Sorry to disappoint, but odds are, if you need a quiz to tell you, then you’re probably not.

I read a few books on the craft of writing when I first started this project. In many ways, they proved invaluable. Nonetheless, I’ve started to shy away from them. Each time I get into one, I find myself in a spiral of intimidation. “What’s your theme? What are recurring images in your work?” The list of questions goes on and on, until I feel like a kindergartener with a Crayola-scrawled piece of paper in an interrogation room. The light on me keeps getting brighter, the interviewer more antagonistic, and I shrink down in my chair, holding up my little paper like a shield and say, “But — see what I did? Pretty.”

The investigator lets me go and I scurry away, self-doubt dogging my heels as if it were my shadow: What if I don’t have a theme? Am I filling 200,000 words worth of pages with absolutely nothing? Do I even know anything close to what the hell I’m doing? It may be what all new writers go through, I don’t know. All I’m certain of is the plague of uncertainty that is left in the wake.

I just picked up another one of those books, one recommended to me a while back but had been banished to the dustiest corner of my shelf for the reasons stated above. While revising, I decided I indeed needed some guidance and set about reading through this one, hoping for some sort of validation or direction. Instead, I got the doubt-monster for company.

On Saturday night I went out with a group of friends. We were in one of the Ocean City local restaurant/bars — one of the few that doesn’t shut down when tourist season ends. The conversations went all over the place, but, finally, the subject turned to my writing. Now, I don’t usually talk about the novel. First off, I just don’t see any natural way to insert the topics I cover in any standard conversation (“Hey, did you guys know that in dark magic poison can be made extra potent by straining it through the hair of a redhead?”). Secondly, I get nervous they’ll all catch on to the fact I have no idea what I’m talking about. So, I end up replying to their queries in a vague manner, like, “Oh, it’s going okay.”

For whatever reason (maybe the thick, brain-clouding haze of cigarette smoke, or the trauma from a three hundred pound man toppling off his barstool and nearly taking me out with him), I felt compelled to corner one of my poor friends, subsequently launching into a hour-long tirade about the story and it’s plot twists and turns. During that time I realized two things: 1) My friend is an extremely patient person, and 2) I DO have a handle on this novel.

I started talking about Resonance and her plethora of issues and I realized — hey, I actually go somewhere with this thing. I went on and on about acceptance, the development of humanity in the absence of all that can be defined as human, and the struggle for a sense of self. I talked for so long my lips started to stick to my gums and my voice became hoarse. To my friend’s credit, her eyes never once glazed nor did she check her watch. She actually seemed — interested.

I guess this self-acceptance (that which I write so prolifically about in fictional terms) comes for me in stages. Despite my lack of formal training and despite my seeming inability to play “name that theme” in the early stages of my work, I am a real writer. I’ve got the tools, and I’ve just shown myself I can use them. It’s a nice feeling — like a paternal pat on the head from The Beyond, a reassurance I’m in the right place at the right time, and definitely doing an okay job.