11
Mar
I decided for myself I’m something of a critic when it comes to occult and new age writing. Nobody else named me, I just dubbed it on myself, and now I live with the consequences. When at last I myself issue a book into the wild, I’m positive that no one will hold back. It’s scary. I already know for a fact I mortally offended one pagan author for choosing a path other than praise for one of her books. It was in no way an assessment of her character; really, she’s very sweet. But her book had a few failings and raised a few questions, and I pointed them out. It’s what I’m here to do. I feel bad about hurting her feelings, but speaking out about the book was a matter of conscience.
My conscience has an obnoxious habit of winning. For some reason my deepest mind rates honesty over kindness, which I realize is the inverse from the way most people work. I have wished so many times it was the other way around.
So when I see a work that someone obviously cared about, put their passion into and laid it – and themselves – vulnerable to the world, I cringe a little deep down when I feel compelled to write “this is bad” or “this has some serious problems.” It’s been happening less lately – I try to choose books I believe will be good, even though good reviews are much harder to write than bad ones. I know my bad reviews get read; they’re the most entertaining. But I don’t like feeding the fairies Troll and Snark. They gorge on daily life as it is.
Truly, I want everyone’s work to be good. But sometimes, it just isn’t.
10
Mar
I vaguely remember the conversation that prompted it. My father discovered I liked reading classic novels, and even preferred them to the Sweet Valley High books I’d torn through until I could not stand any further comparison between Jessica and her “chocolate brown walls” or Elizabeth’s ponytail and lip gloss.
He began bringing books home for me. Discards from the library at the high school where he taught. Books from flea markets. Stacks of them, from everywhere. I thought he was getting them free and only later found out that no, he paid for rather a lot of them. In fact my most cherished book – a complete collection of the poetry of Carl Sandburg – was gift from him. It seemed like as soon as I read them, he brought four more. A good chunk of my book collection in high school I didn’t read until my 20s. Some I still haven’t read. Once Dad began accumulating for me, he never stopped. Once, when I got into college and mentioned casually I was struggling with writer’s block on an assignment, he greeted me on our next holiday visit with three books designed to overcome writer’s block. I still haven’t read them, in truth. I could never ever talk to my father about boyfriend troubles or the conditions of his household that drove me away, but when it came to writing and keeping working he paid attention with acute detail. He was simply thrilled to finally have something in common with me.
I’m not sure when I began doing it to myself. Hoarding books from library stacks, surfing book sales, even overcharging my credit card for five books at a time at Barnes and Noble. But the evidence was there, my home overstuffed with bookshelves. When I went to meet with a professor in his home, he had to move bookshelves to let us in – his extended out onto his three season porch. I realized that there was no way the man could be regularly accessing and using all those books. My ex had the same reaction that I did to his proposals we buy a wooden Indian for our living room. “No…just…NO.”
The books may have been a point of pride, but after my divorce I recognized their burden. They were the heaviest moving boxes, the ones that took the longest to pack, the ones I paused over, cringed over, cried over. Forget the Waterford crystal and other heirloomish things foisted upon me unwilling. My heart was in the books.
Recent years of fighting to swim upstream in the world with the weight of my belongings tugging at my neck have caused me to rethink who I am, and rethink the place of books in my self-concept. I still have books, quite a lot. But I need them less and less. I’m actually quietly phasing out any book I would not reread, and that’s rather a lot of them. Some I’ve even torn up and used in decoupage, marking up boxes I intend to use for shipping so they’re at least nominally “packaged” in the way many of my perfume clients like to demand. 1 I’ve also noticed more people televised and in real life who are burdened, even restricted, by their stuff. Books weigh heavy among them.
I can be smart and geeky and maybe even someday only own one bookshelf. Besides, I have an awesome computer and the Nook doesn’t look so bad.
- Just because I client “demands” doesn’t mean I do. In fact demanding something is one way to get me to dump a transaction. Your happiness is important to me, and my happiness is way more important to me. [↩]
9
Mar
No.
Chances are, I haven’t read any book you will recommend or reference, especially if it’s got award-winning buzz or time on the New York Times bestseller list.
It’s not that I’m not a reader. I read all the time. Constantly. I have stacks upon stacks of books – it’s actually something of a problem.
But in my quest to be a good writer, I’ve decided that beyond my book reviewing duties, I’m just going to read stuff I enjoy.
And the stuff I enjoy is not the stuff critics acclaim. So to those lovers of Barbara Kingsolver and Maya Angelou, or even Ursula Leguin: I’m sorry. At fifteen years behind and counting on my reading, I’m just not going to tour the vineyard or goldmine when what I want is just a soda pop.
Last year, the Herb Companion ran an essay contest inviting its subscribers to write on “the future of herbs.” What won were very sentimental my kids and grandkids future stuff, which does fit into the vein of the magazine.
Here is what I submitted, that lost:
Herbs, those little green subversives poking their heads above ground just as we think they’re gone, are plotting a revolution in photosynthetic collusion, appointing their gardeners as generals. Their battle strategies consist of guerilla actions: they have infiltrated foods and gardens, even our sidewalk cracks. We have had agents concealed in our spice racks for years, subtly enhancing the flavors of our lives. We are surrounded. They’re ready to make their move, having signaled to our governments and medical agencies that they have power. Herbs have more attention than they’ve ever garnered before, changing our world and oxygenating our lives. As antibiotics continue to fail, as we reclaim contaminated properties for public use and as we recognize how very much we need to find ways to generate oxygen to preserve a breathable atmosphere, herbs are creeping back in small armies with their sights set on the ecosphere. Watch out for those herbs – once they invade, they put down roots! Already, these little green men are repairing here, correcting there and through their hearty nature even overcoming some of the worst of the damage that we’ve done.
It looks to be a winning campaign for the chlorophyll set. The future of herbs glows green and vibrant with fresh approaches to old problems. Skyscraper rooftops will be dotted with herb gardens as cities offer greenroofing tax-break initiatives to reduce air pollution. Corporate farms will plant marigolds, garlic and thyme between rows of major crops, having finally determined that the whole plant and not just an extraction keeps off parasites. Indoor and outdoor gardens will be absolutely commonplace, with all sorts of technical gadgetry to make their care easy and convenient. A media blitz about the healthful effects of indoor plants on their owners will create a boom in indoor gardening. This mushroom shaped cloud looks like kombucha, as more individuals learn the benefits of cleansing tonics.
The medical field will have the most complex advances. Nurse practitioners will lead the way in introducing live plants to hospital rooms, and greenhouse therapy as a post-treatment follow up will begin with cancer patients but eventually become a routine practice after any surgical procedure. This therapy will involve simply bringing the patient into a greenhouse space attached to the hospital and letting that person enjoy the benefits of immediate, truly fresh air. These greenhouses will double as medical facilities, allowing on-site pharmacists to grow the plants needed for treatments. Since doctors are already overwhelmed with medical advancements, the role of the pharmacist will expand to include herbalism and this will become a new specialization as more pharmacists will need to be onhand who understand traditional medicine and how traditional drugs will interact with herbs.
Herbs will storm our lives, freshen our minds, and gently guide us into a revolution where we can breathe easier, think more clearly and enjoy the taste of simple living. They won’t just be for farmers or homeowners – they will be uniquely urban, and city dwellers who love city dwelling will learn to once again look at their sidewalk cracks, build up their window boxes and even do drive-by herb gardening in the form of guerilla gardens.
Herbs are already everywhere. They’re already uniformed in green, biding their time in fertilizer-filled foxholes, waiting for their chance to take over. All it will take is a few more empirical studies, a few more gardens in neglected urban space and a few more companies recognizing the cost-saving benefits of putting down a few plants. Viva la revolution!
Made of fail pens - shot by Diana Rajchel
I have this box of pens, a type I used to love before gel pens were invented. The kind that live in that in-between space; not quite a marker, not quite a pen. I acquired them when a company I worked for went out of business. I snatched the box of them, knowing that I’d likely never see any benefits for my troubles, and probably on some level motivated by my frustration that what could have been a good job for me went to hell before I could even get anywhere. (If my old boss happens to read this: Phil, I’m the one who swiped the pens. I’m sorry. Also, I’d love to meet you for coffee sometime. I’m freelancing now.)
I now stash them in an old check box in one of my office drawers. Over the years they have dwindled from hundreds to a bit fewer. I’ve taken to using them for my Morning Pages, rather than the gel pens I so love. It’s become a strange ritual act every morning: as I write the crap contained in my head that stands between myself and creative production, I use these pens. As the pens are drained of ink, I also drain the circumstances that screw me over. These are my made of fail pens. By using them up, I drain out the failure from my creative wounds. Maybe I even drain the fail of old workplaces, psychological pressures and that weird period of job-hopping that was so little understood by those around me.
It’s not geometric like ceremonial magic or particularly folksy. It’s a pen, and it’s on paper. The energy all starts flowing from there.
There’s a standard formula for what constitutes a “good” Wiccan book that I’ve seen in various Internet postings and at least one pagan gathering in the past decade. It is as follows:
1. Must have a long bibliography. The more pages of the bibliography, the higher the estimation.
2. Must be historically accurate in whatever form of historical accuracy is presently trendy.
3. The denser the prose, the better.
There are exceptions, but they pass quickly. I’ve barely heard Phyllis Currott’s Book of Shadows: A Modern Woman’s Journey into the Wisdom of Witchcraft and the Magic of the Goddess
I suspect, when publishers insist that the 101s sell better, they are telling the truth but are too polite to say the entire truth.
These dense semi-academic Wiccan books that some clamor so loudly for? They’re damn near unreadable.
Writing quality matters. A good writer can be understood. A bad writer does a lot of things, one of which is refusing to “dumb down” the writing for the sake of some academic self-perception/illusion. One of the dirtiest secrets of the Ivory Tower is that academic writing is some of the worst in the world.
I bring this up because I just read a doctoral thesis with lots of historical accuracy and a huge bibliography. I know I’m supposed to say it’s excellent. But truthfully? I found it unreadable.
I think relatively few people think I’m stupid. Most people know that I finished my bachelor’s degree (and had to fight for it) and that I do have three years of graduate-level education as well. I do know a little bit about academics and academic writing.
So I’m going to risk accusations of heresy and say the following:
Now I’m hoping that the next think on my review pile is something I can read.
27
Feb
When I was a really little kid, no older than kindergarten, I would lie in bed for a little while before my mother came to get us up, staring at these colorful curtains with blocks of different patterns and colors. As I did, I would challenge myself to imagine things: “Think of a purple giraffe!” or, “What would the neighbor boy look like with a clown nose?” It wasn’t conscious, the exercise of imagination, but it still happened on a regular basis.
Then one day I challenged myself to think of a color I’d never seen.
And I couldn’t do it.
I always get a little sad, thinking about that day.
More than thirty years later, every so often, I try to imagine a color I’ve never seen. Sometimes I feel like I’m almost getting there. But then I stop. And it makes me a little sad, like I’ve discovered some limit to what used to be a limitless mind. But then I try again, and I can feel my third eye buzzing, and it’s like I can almost see it, this little mystery of the universe – the color I’ve never seen.
In Wicca the young are served the least and the worst. While honoring our elders is much needed, the dismissive or exploitative way people under 35 (or under 30) are often treated by more “traditional” Wiccans sets us up for a troubled future – some of which we are already experiencing. There is a very real generation gap, and some of the ideals that were adopted by Wicca in the 1960s and 70s are still there among the youth but are moderated by a reality of very different demands than what has been experienced by our elders. The elders must learn to respect and listen to the experience of the youngers; without this considered exchange the wisdom of age is rendered irrelevant because wisdom that helps no one is not wisdom.
I’m going to expand on this at some point1, particularly in light of Starhawk’s statement last year that pagans need to reach out to younger women via their own platforms (Facebook, Myspace, etc.) While this overlooks young men, I agree with the general spirit of the sentiment.
I’m seeing some success in that direction in the Twin Cities community, and I’m delighted to say I was wrong about how effective they would be. The reaching-out is working because those managing it are managing it exactly correctly. The trouble, frequently, has been one of relevance. There’s a lot of “pagany” stuff that I don’t like or don’t want, and I’m not alone – but I’m also one of the few unafraid to say it out loud. Hell is likely to freeze over before I’d go on a “pagan campout.” I don’t do festivals. I like the great outdoors, and I am grateful that nature allowed humanity to evolve the sense to move into caves.
However, I’m impressed to see a job/business networking program and some integration with “geek culture”2 without confusing religion and fandom.
What really needs to happen first though is that the elders who want to reach out to the youngers must stop and really examine their attitudes and assumptions. Maybe do that exercise where you deliberately call up stereotypes about different groups and where those stereotypes come from. The youth will benefit from doing the same exercise. Before the groups can connect you have to look at these attitudes, as they really are dividing us all right now.
- readers may have to remind me [↩]
- although I can’t say I’ve cared for the way it’s been done in the past [↩]
24
Feb
Or really, attention-whoring. Or not.
This isn’t just a weird female psychology-dichotomy thing. And in some ways, it might go better on the Artist’s Way blog, but I’m going to write about it here.
Sometimes I just feel ignored.
A lot of the time, actually. It’s not that I am ignored. You’re reading this. So I have your attention. I know that.
But still.
Maybe it’s not so much ignored as…overlooked. And I know that’s not something I can resolve within myself in one blog post.
I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this.
It’s stuff like writing fanfic for years that’s actually pretty innovative, only to get regular recognition after the show goes off the air.1 It’s the way Fat Chic gets passed over in some circles. Yes, I’m actually jealous of some other bloggers, and this is a new experience for me. I get frustrated by being overlooked but me being jealous of someone else? It’s new. But now that I’ve experienced it, I know for sure that acting out and hurting someone you’re jealous of due to jealousy is utterly inexcusable. You know your bad feelings aren’t their fault. It is to some extent my writing career – this is the other block that’s revealed itself.
What if I sort of make it, and then no one cares? The only real way to succeed in the writing biz is to get and keep attention, and if I can barely get a comment on a photograph being picked up, what hope do I have for a book?
I realize this is why we’re to build a support group. You have to have a cheering section. Without their attention, you’ve really got nothing.
I’m posting this here now to acknowledge that it’s one of the areas I’m struggling with. It’s that little well of despair that sometimes pools out on the skin of my consciousness. It’s not so much that I need an ego boost, it’s just that I need to bookmark this particular well so I know it’s there when I’m dealing with the thoughts and feelings standing between myself and finishing a work.
Also, jealousy is really itchy. For me it is kind a new experience, and I don’t like it. But I’m not mad at the people I’m jealous of – but it makes me really mad at the people that are jealous of me and who act on it. Really, you suck.
- I would not call what fanfic I do nowadays remotely innovative. And the stuff that got attention was not. [↩]