Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Last year someone I know, or, well, someone I used to know, published a book. It’s been a huge hit, a huge success. I’m happy for her. Truly. I never would have taken her for the literary type, but there you go. Apparently she found a book in herself, wrote it, got it published and now she’s all famous and revered, there’s even some gossip about Oprah liking her book. I know. I know. I realize in my mind, in most peoples’ minds, an Oprah! book is not a compliment, not an indicator of good writing. (To Kill a Mockingbird aside, of course.) And it’s just gossip at this point, probably more wishful thinking on the part of her publishing company.
I’m really happy for her, truly. I’m proud of her. She sat down and wrote a book and got it published.
But here’s the thing: Her book sucks.
It’s chick-lit, at best, and not very good chick-lit. It’s not funny or insightful or profound or even sexy.
It’s just trite, pithy fiction-lite.
So naturally it’s selling like hotcakes in the ‘burbs.
Anne Lindbergh wrote some darned good poetry, don’t get me wrong. I admire her depth and gift with words. Her words are inspiring without being preachy (or most of the time, pithy.)
My acquaintance’s book clearly aspires to be a non-poetic version of Lindbergh. It fails on all counts except for obviously trying way too hard to be Lindbergh-esque.
Or maybe that’s just my take on it. Maybe I’m missing a point, the point, something about her words that makes them special or even publish-worthy.
It lacks depth. It lacks soul. There’s nothing in that book that can’t be read on a greeting card or heard at a motivational seminar or reflected upon during the rinse cycle.
I know. I’m being really, really critical. Cynical. Maybe even mean.
Or jealous.
No. I don’t want to be a writer.
But swutting underworld, if she’s getting that waste of time published maybe I should reconsider my stance on my words.
The thing is, she found the time, found a way to sit down and write the book. No, she doesn’t work. Yes she had a husband paying the bills while she wrote. Yes, she had a nanny taking care of her kids while she wrote. Yes, she has healthy parents who are happy to take care of the kids while she and her husband go on book tours.
Writing that book sounded like a “fun” idea to her, she had some time on her hands, so she wrote a book.
And just like that it was published.
And people are buying it.
Wow.
Wow.
At some point during my dad’s illness a friend gently implied that our acquaintance’s book is utter crap and that I should show her, and the world, how it’s really done. “Trillian, this should be you. It should be you with the published book. I could randomly grab any email you’ve ever sent me and it would be better than this, this…”
“…book of intelligence insulting drivel masquerading as profundity?”
“Yes!! Yes!! See? That’s what I mean. You say things like ‘intelligence insulting drivel masquerading at profundity.’ The words just roll out of you.”
“Maybe I should be a book critic,” I suggested.
“Or maybe you should write a book.”
Sigh. “We’ve been over this. I don’t want to prostitute my words. I’m not inspired, I’m not driven to be a writer. The words are just there, they’re a nuisance more than anything.”
“Then put them to work for you. Don’t let them bug you, let them work for you.”
“Pfft. It’s not that easy. You know, no matter awful we think her book is, credit must be given to the fact that she was inspired and driven to sit down and write a book. Okay, a stupid book, but let’s realistically consider the source.”
“There you go again!”
“Okay, fine. What do I write? What’s the plot? The characters? The insight? The take-away?”
“I don’t know, you’re the creative one, you’re the one with the words,” my friend implored.
“See? More credit must be given to the fact that she was inspired enough to plan and plot and write a book. Its level of importance or intelligence is moot. She wrote a book.”
“And got it published.”
“And people are buying it.”
“Yes! See? You do get it. You do know you could write circles around her stupid book,” my friend enthused.
“I dunno, maybe, I dunno.”
“Have you ever actually tried to write a book?” my friend asked.
“Uhhh, isn’t it obvious? No, I have not tried to write a book. Marketing reports and presentations, some short stories, essays, music reviews, intentionally bad country songs, but no books.”
“Do it. Figure it out and do it. If for no other reason than to prove how stupid she is and how dumb her book is and how people are lemmings.”
“People aren’t lemmings. People are just scared and lazy. So they look like lemmings. But really they’re just afraid to look into their own souls or too lazy to care, too lazy to push themselves beyond what’s presented to them on Oprah!.”
“There you go again! There’s a line for your book.”
“My book about what? Two snarky friends making fun of an acquaintance who’s become a successful writer?”
“Why not? I’d buy it, or at least borrow it from the library. It has ‘book club’ written all over it.”
“I think that’s been done. I think there’s a book about a book club. I think maybe there’s more than one book about a book club. It’s a great marketing gimmick for selling books. You have a ready and eager audience with book clubs. I think there’s a whole new genre of literature devoted to books about book clubs. Book clubs are changing the social fabric and as goes society, so goes literature. As goes literature, so goes book marketing.”
“And once again, ladies and gentlemen, Trillian demonstrates how she manufactures words that make people laugh and think at the same time.”
“Oh whatever, I have to go.”
“WRITE!!!”
“Right.”
I toiled around with a couple ideas, worked out a couple outlines, and then my dad got more sick, and then he died and then, well, I’ve been in a horrible, horrible emotional place. Usually when I’m in a horrible emotional place I at least realize it, I know I’m in a horrible emotional place. Until recently I was in such a bad emotional place I didn’t even know I was in a really bad emotional place. I mean, I knew I was in a bad emotional place, duh, my dad died. But it was a lot, lot deeper than “just” that.
So, along with going to the gym and working on strength and balance for my ankle and foot, dictated by my doctor, I’m also committing myself to writing. It’s something I can do for me and I can do it anywhere.
Writing, really writing is hard. I have to give my acquaintance credit for that. Forcing words to fit a plot is really, really hard. When I exorcise the words in my head I’m not thinking about a plot or even giving much thought to a subject. They’re literally spilling out of me. If I don’t write them my head hurts. They get all jumbled up and impair my thinking. If I don’t exorcise them, release them, they nag and nag and nag away at me, consume me, don’t let me focus on anything else until I free them. I don’t pay to much attention to what the words are, I just want to get them out of my head so the headache stops and I can concentrate on work or fixing my kitchen sink.
Channeling them, corralling them to fit a plot? Yeah, well, my words don’t work that way. My head doesn’t work that way. So we’ve hit a bit of an impasse on the book front. Still. I’m trying.
So, as for the blog? It’s sporadic at the moment. The problem is that I have plenty of words for the blog. Blahg blahg blahg. It’s like breathing. I don’t even think about it. Corralling those words to a plot? Characters? Ugh. That’s hard. Which is why I’ve always staunchly said I. Am. Not. A. Writer.
But then, neither is my acquaintance and she wrote a book and got it published.
So on I forge. Probably an exercise in futility, but I can say, hands on hips, “See? I tried. I suck at it. I failed. Okay? Now leave me and my words alone. I’m not a writer, I just have a mental illness.”
(If anyone has a plot they want developed, please, share it with me. I could use some inspiration. Because right now all I've got is a book about nothing.)
2:11 PM
