I'm not much into TV. There are a few shows that I've stuck with, but for the most part I get bored easily or I just plain don't have the time to watch every episode, much as I'd like to. But there are some good ones coming back, and just starting out, this fall. And I'll admit it, I'm a total sucker for fresh material...especially when it involves superheroes, urban legends, murder mysteries, hipster fashion, show choir drama, and resurrected witches. (No, the last one is not a joke. The hipster fashion, however, is theoretically ironic.)
So this won't cover all the new shows and returns this fall, and no, I won't cover Breaking Bad--I'm still not caught up on all the previous seasons, which makes it a little strange for me to watch the new one--but if you're interested in any of the keywords I mentioned above, read on.
Sleepy Hollow (New)
What it's about: Colonial-era Ichabod Crane kills the horseman of death on a battlefield, gets whacked himself, and wakes up at the same time as his now-headless nemesis in 2013 New York, where he spends half his time hunting monsters and the other half convincing his new partner-in-crime, Lt. Abbie Mills of the Sleepy Hollow police force, that no, he is not insane, he's just a time-traveler.
Check it out if you like: Supernatural, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Criminal Minds, Sherlock, The X-Files, Pushing Daisies...basically if you love mystery/crime/fantasy shows and/or like to have the pants scared off of you.
Why you should watch it: Because you like to have the pants scared off of you--and after just two episodes I can confirm that it will, indeed, scare your pants off. This show isn't for the faint-hearted--especially the second episode, which has so many creepy undead ghouls running around that the Addams Family might mistake it for a family reunion home video. If comedy's more your thing than horror, there's plenty of that too. The man-out-of-time trope is played to a T, so much so that the characters reference it themselves--at one point, Abbie's boss refers to Ichabod Crane as "Captain America"--and may I add here, it's a blast watching Ichabod adjust to modern life?
Warnings: If you're looking for a Tim Burton tribute, look elsewhere. The styling of the show is more Sherlock than Corpse Bride. It's fairly well-done in terms of cinematography, costuming, and other production values, but it's no Breaking Bad--the story gets patchy in places. And did I mention it scares the pants off of you?
Pretty Little Liars (Returning in October, 4th season)
What it's about: Aria, Spencer, Emily, and Hanna (and since the first half of this season, Mona) have been repeatedly stalked and tormented since their friend Alison disappeared and was later found dead. "A," later revealed to be a team rather than a person, hasn't cut them a break, and his/her/their tricks have been getting progressively more daring...until the girls discover that their former friend may be alive, and then, as always, all hell breaks loose.
Check it out if you like: Buffy, Gilmore Girls, Breaking Bad, Criminal Minds, Veronica Mars, any shows with a strong female lead or strong element of mystery/crime.
Why you should watch it: Don't be fooled by the precedented "fluffiness" of most teen-oriented, girl-oriented TV shows, or the faux drama of most ABC Family originals...this one packs a punch. The Liars are well-rounded, fully-developed characters with interests, fears, and goals well outside the realm of romance. The cast is diverse. The story is strong. The plot has more twists than any Cedar Point roller coaster. I cited Breaking Bad as a "sister show" not because of the plot elements--I assure you, no one cooks meth in this show, so far at least--but because both shows have the same level of layering and the same high-stakes, high-emotions type of situation. Don't believe me? In the first half of this season, one of the girls had to keep her mother out of jail on murder charges while another was almost sawed in half by a buzz saw.
Warnings: All right, this one won't scare the pants off of you...but it might make you paranoid, not gonna lie. Also if the lack of romantic subplot is what drives you to shows like Criminal Minds, this probably will not be your cup of tea...but if you're on the fence, don't be afraid to give it an episode or two to hook you in.
Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (New)
What it's about: If you liked The Avengers, get ready to have your world rocked: Agent Phil Coulson is back, and more bad-ass than ever. He runs an operation revolving around new superheroes--and new threats--assisted by the pretty (and pretty damn smart) hacker Skye and broody, handsome Agent Ward.
Check it out if you like: The Avengers, pretty much anything by Marvel or Joss Whedon.
Why you should watch it: BECAUSE IT'S JOSS BLOODY WHEDON THAT'S WHY. Oh wait, you need more reason...okay. It's because, much like Pretty Little Liars and Sleepy Hollow, the show manages to feature strong, smart female characters without delivering Strong Female Characters or falling into the "man-hating cynical butt-kicking chick" trope--a.k.a. the hallmark of a classic Joss Whedon show, along with his usual trick of making the characters utterly self-aware of the ridiculousness of their situation. ("What does the title of this organization mean to you?" "Someone really wanted the initials to spell 'shield.'") Don't be thrown by lack of Avengers--the sass, excitement, and character development is alive and well even in the non-superheroes.
Warnings: If you don't like action, if straight drama or "realistic" drama is more your thing, or if you're bothered by explosions, this probably isn't the best choice. And don't expect Loki to pop up after the trouble starts, you'll be disappointed. (I know I was.)
Glee (Returning tonight, fifth season)
What it's about: Even if you've never watched an episode in your life, I'm going to assume that you probably know that this is about a bunch of high school/college students who...you guessed it...participate in glee club.
Check it out if you like: Any of the previous seasons. (Really, though--this show kind of has a cult-esque following. If you love it, you love it. If you hate it, you hate it. I really don't have much to compare it to.)
Why you should watch it: Really, you shouldn't. It's not the best show on the network (to say the least) and if you don't like Top 40 or show choir/musical theater, you'll be screaming at the musical numbers within the first five minutes. But there's something about this show that I just love, there's something about it that just draws me in...I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's that I can see myself in some (but thankfully, not all) of the characters. Yeah, the characterization changes week-by-week and no one is ever consistent for more than three episodes (if that) in a row, but it employs some of the same self-aware humor as Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and it's funny as hell, especially when you sit there and pick apart all the dumb-ass continuity errors...but I guess that's an occupational hazard of having three creators/writers.
Warnings: Terrible but addictive. Watch at the risk of loving it.
And if my brief list of fall comebacks and premieres wasn't enough for you, here's my top ten list of Netflix's Best:
1. Sherlock (First 2 seasons)
The unstoppable duo of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman make this show worth watching...but it's the dynamic between them and the rest of the cast that makes it addictive. Hands-down the best Sherlock adaptation I have ever seen. Be warned: the third season still hasn't come out.
2. Monk (Complete series)
An OCD detective solves crimes using his finely-honed observation skills. If this show doesn't make you laugh, I'm not sure we can be friends. (And if it doesn't make you cry, you're probably a Dalek, in which case why the hell are you watching human TV shows?)
3. Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Complete series)
Joss Whedon loves writing about complete and total BAMFs with an unbeatable sense of humor (and a knack for pop-culture references)...and this show is no exception. Best of all it actually treats the vampire lore with some respect, unlike certain other franchises I could mention, which lets the bad guys stay scary and the good guys genuinely earn their redemption.
4. Doctor Who (First 6 seasons)
Yes, this is a science fiction show. And yes, it is fairly nerdy. And, yes, watching all six seasons (and all of the classic Doctor Who, also available on Netflix) is pretty time-consuming. So if you don't want to get mega-involved, don't start watching. But if you do, you won't regret it, because the Doctor is hilarious. And pretty bad-ass. And definitely the kind of person whom you will want to be your best friend.
5. Supernatural (First 7 seasons)
The perfect blend of comedy and horror, featuring an adorable Angel of the Lord who will absolutely steal your heart with his first appearance. Better watch this one in daylight, unless you want to start thinking that every creak of the floorboards and every flicker of movement in the mirror is actually a demon set on devouring your organs or enslaving your soul.
6. How I Met Your Mother (First 7 seasons)
Okay...okay. I'm a sucker for Alyson Hannigan, okay? But seriously this is a pretty good show. And it's got Neil Patrick Harris and watching this sweetheart play a womanizer is, no lie, absolutely freaking hilarious. Especially when he breaks out into song. Maybe it's a little drawn out, but I'd rather watch this than something like Two and A Half Men (and why haven't they canceled that one yet?).
7. My Fair Wedding (4 seasons)
Okay, yes, it's a reality show. But it's funny. Especially when the brides apparently have no idea that once they call in David Tutera, they give up control. And watch the fifth season--it shows you all the misbehaving brides and awkward situations that the previous ones skim over. It's like Bridezillas, but with more flair, more fluff, and less bite.
8. Traffic Light (first season)
Short-lived but hilarious, even if you think the whole twentysomething-guys-trying-to-keep-their-shit-together premise is getting old. I promise you, this one doesn't fall into cliche--not very often anyway--but when it does, it manages to turn the trope on its head. Throw in Kris Marshall (My Family, Love Actually) for good measure, and you've got a recipe for comedy success.
9. Coupling (Complete series)
What's funnier than seeing Commodore Norrington talk relentlessly about sex, gynecology, and Lesbian Spank Inferno? Seeing his friends talk about it with him, and make fools of themselves at regular and frequent intervals along the way. This Brit comedy is genius--the writers have a knack for layering comedy the way Breaking Bad layers crime drama.
10. 18 to Life (Complete series)
Never heard of it? I hadn't either, but it's good. Centered around two eighteen-year-olds who spontaneously elope and featuring Life With Derek's Michael Seater, this show is so adorable--and hilariously ridiculous--that it's hard to believe it was canceled so abruptly. (Or, considering all the crap reality shows burning good shows out of network slots, maybe it's not.)
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
While the sky is still dark
Getting up at 5AM, while not my favorite thing in the world, is at least something I'm somewhat familiar with. I was a figure-skater for a few years a looong time ago, and I had many a day at Interlochen where I had to get up before the sun in order to either go running (which I quickly learned was a bad life choice), finish all the homework I'd neglected the night before, or simply because I couldn't go back to sleep. C'est la vie, as my best friend Dean Moriarty would say. (Yes, Dean, I still whole-heartedly want to believe that I'm your Sal Paradise)
Excuse me if this post doesn't make too much sense. Sleep-deprivation will do that to you.
Waking up to a pink sky, after falling asleep at one-thirty AM, and realizing that I have less than a half-hour to be ready to walk out the door is an experience that I have never found pleasant, exactly, but definitely rewarding. I'm always so much more...interesting? Well, some would probably say pretentious...in the morning. I always feel so ready to slip into my Interlochen, or even pre-Interlochen, persona of the girl who, quite simply, had no damns to give. I don't straighten my hair anymore, or I do so very rarely, and I hardly ever leave the house without a tube of lipstick in my pocket. I always have a notebook with me, ready to scribble down my latest screenplay idea or a poem I'm more likely to make up on the spot and then forget later. I'm hard to understand, I'm told, because I change my mind at least 5 times a minute. Multiply that by oh, about twelve when I've just woken up. It's impossible to keep up with.
It's just light outside now, and not too cold, and people are just starting to filter into the Oakland Center. And I love this building because where I am, the walls are mostly glass, and it makes looking outside so much easier. I don't have my camera with me; I've yet to bring my camera to OU--too risky, especially when I'm already lugging a backpack and a scooter, I can only look after so many things at once. But I love this place, and I swear that as soon as it's fall, and the leaves begin to turn, I will throw caution to the winds and bring my camera, and take picture after picture of this place looking prettier than any New England campus. (Yes, Saxophone Boy, I'm looking at you and I will forever maintain that my campus is prettier than yours.)
I really do think that there are times when someone needs to duct-tape my mouth (or in this case my fingers) before more word-vomit comes out.
I don't think I've done a post this unstructured since Homesickness, Receding last April. In fact I'm sure I haven't. I think it's because I'm essentially automatic-writing and when I do that early in the morning, there's really no way of shutting me up.
Because I promised new photography awhile ago and can't currently deliver new photography owing to the fact that my camera and memory cards are safely in my room while I'm sitting at a cafeteria table a half-hour's drive away, here are some spring break photos that I never got around to posting. Taken with a Samsung Galaxy II in Cuyohoga Falls, OH and Port Huron, MI, with one random shot of my house.
You don't know what a big deal it was to see this train--for reference, I've been going to this particular spot since I was a baby and I had never seen a train cross through there until that day.
Excuse me if this post doesn't make too much sense. Sleep-deprivation will do that to you.
Waking up to a pink sky, after falling asleep at one-thirty AM, and realizing that I have less than a half-hour to be ready to walk out the door is an experience that I have never found pleasant, exactly, but definitely rewarding. I'm always so much more...interesting? Well, some would probably say pretentious...in the morning. I always feel so ready to slip into my Interlochen, or even pre-Interlochen, persona of the girl who, quite simply, had no damns to give. I don't straighten my hair anymore, or I do so very rarely, and I hardly ever leave the house without a tube of lipstick in my pocket. I always have a notebook with me, ready to scribble down my latest screenplay idea or a poem I'm more likely to make up on the spot and then forget later. I'm hard to understand, I'm told, because I change my mind at least 5 times a minute. Multiply that by oh, about twelve when I've just woken up. It's impossible to keep up with.
It's just light outside now, and not too cold, and people are just starting to filter into the Oakland Center. And I love this building because where I am, the walls are mostly glass, and it makes looking outside so much easier. I don't have my camera with me; I've yet to bring my camera to OU--too risky, especially when I'm already lugging a backpack and a scooter, I can only look after so many things at once. But I love this place, and I swear that as soon as it's fall, and the leaves begin to turn, I will throw caution to the winds and bring my camera, and take picture after picture of this place looking prettier than any New England campus. (Yes, Saxophone Boy, I'm looking at you and I will forever maintain that my campus is prettier than yours.)
I really do think that there are times when someone needs to duct-tape my mouth (or in this case my fingers) before more word-vomit comes out.
I don't think I've done a post this unstructured since Homesickness, Receding last April. In fact I'm sure I haven't. I think it's because I'm essentially automatic-writing and when I do that early in the morning, there's really no way of shutting me up.
Because I promised new photography awhile ago and can't currently deliver new photography owing to the fact that my camera and memory cards are safely in my room while I'm sitting at a cafeteria table a half-hour's drive away, here are some spring break photos that I never got around to posting. Taken with a Samsung Galaxy II in Cuyohoga Falls, OH and Port Huron, MI, with one random shot of my house.
(photo credit to my dad)
"Whaaaat?" (photo credit to my dad)
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Try To Love Again
So I kind of just really need to get this out...
The first cut is the deepest, baby I know the first cut is the deepest...try to love again.
The first cut is the deepest, baby I know the first cut is the deepest...try to love again.
Okay, so in context, that song is actually about not being able to get over an ex-lover. Right. I get that. But I'm using it to mean something a little different in this case. I don't mean "cut" as in "wound." I mean "cut" as in "impression." As in, the first impression is the deepest. The first impression lasts the longest, and the first impression I had of the subject of this blog post was intense, to say the least.
I love movies. I love making them, and watching them, and writing them, and writing about them. I have seen way too many movies, and there were definitely a few in there that I regretted seeing (Diary of the Dead--no. Just. No), but there were so many that I loved that I always pause for a moment when someone asks, "So, what's your favorite movie?"
I have a few kinds of "favorite movies." Of course there are the ones I love because they are, cinematically speaking, phenomenal. Then there's the favorites that I know I really shouldn't love, but I do anyway--the "guilty pleasure" list, if you will. There are the ones that I love and hate at the same time, because they're beautiful but painful to watch. (Yes, Django Unchained, I'm looking at you.)
And then there are the ones I love not because they're aesthetically pleasing or well-written or well-cast or for any other superficial reason, but just because...well...I just love them. They make me laugh, they make me cry, they make me angry, they make me feel all warm inside. They make me feel, period. They give me something I can't get from any other movie. Sometimes they have cinematic value or historical value; sometimes they don't. I don't care; I just love them for what they are.
The last category has a subcategory I like to call "Films that Make Me Want to Make More Films." Every time I watch one of these, I immediately go to my computer or camera as soon as the credits roll and start working on my own screenplays, treatments, or photographs. More often than not, what I write isn't based on or derivative of whatever I've just watched--but there have been pieces I've written or photographed heavily inspired by these "Films that Make Me Want to Make More Films," henceforth known as FMMWMMF (hey, that's a palindrome!).
And if you look at these FMMWMMF, most of them are not exactly about to be nominated for an Academy Award. They are films like Shopgirl or Back to the Future, films that are beautifully made but often overlooked by critics as "chick flicks" or "summer hits." Not to say I can't appreciate the classics; I can--but after watching something like 2001: A Space Odyssey or Titanic (both films I strongly dislike, by the way), I'm too mentally exhausted to go straight into my own work. And there's a huge difference between directors I love because they're brilliant--Hitchcock, Tarantino, and Michael Moore being prime examples--and directors I love because they fucking get it. Directors whose films make me feel welcomed, accepted; directors whose films make me feel I am not alone with my weird little brain and off-the-wall ideas.
Christopher Nolan.
Anand Tucker.
Gus Van Sant.
Jeff Malmberg.
And believe it or not...
Oh, yes. I went there.
Go ahead, laugh at me all you like. Tell me how awful his films have been in recent years, and I'll agree with you. Yes, he needs to shape up. Yes, he needs to get some new material. Yes, he needs to fucking stop casting Johnny Depp; for the love of God, Burton, he won't be offended if you give him some time off now and then...
But...well...
I like him.
I mean I like him a lot.
I mean when I was fourteen I had a giant crush on him.
I mean I had pictures of him on my phone.
I mean I had posters of his films in my room.
I mean I made it my mission to watch every single thing that he released. Including the short films. And his student films. (Still haven't succeeded in that last one, by the way. But I've not given up yet.)
I mean I practically idolized this guy. I used to imagine that he was my best friend. I'd imagine conversations with him, imagine going to high school with him so that being in an online program didn't seem quite as lonely--this was before I went to Interlochen--and when I held my imaginary proms or homecoming dances upstairs, he was always my imaginary date. Even when I actually went to a real high school, with real people and real, age-appropriate crushes, I still obsessively watched his films. I kept a journal of my reactions to and reflections on his movies, his characters, and his poetry and photography. I felt like this was someone, a grown-up, a successful grown-up, a successful grown-up outside of my family, a successful grown-up outside my family with talents that I desperately wanted to develop, who I could understand.
Until I found Tim Burton I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be Jodie Foster, Kathy Bates, Mary Stuart Masterson. Okay, no, that was what I wanted on an intellectual level, but what I actually fantasized about was being Hilary Duff. That was what I really wanted. I wanted recognition from an adoring crowd, millions of screaming fans, movies, pop albums, clothing lines. I wanted to be Magazine Pop Star Girl. I wanted to be rich and famous and, like so many other tweenage girls, I wanted to be a princess.
And then I saw my first horror movie, and everything changed.
I can't accurately describe the effect that Sleepy Hollow had on me, but I'll give it my best shot. It felt like a curtain had been lifted and I was being shown a whole new world, a whole new way of watching a film. Until that point I'd watched films for story, purely for content. This time I was watching it for the lighting, the colors, the cinematography, the design, the sets, the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it all. I was frightened--a girl like me couldn't help but feel like that, watching a film where gory decapitation was a prominent feature of the story--but I could still get enjoyment out of the experience. And I loved it. Oh, how I loved every minute of it.
My next foray into Burtonland was Nightmare Before Christmas...strangely enough in early spring, nowhere near Christmas or Halloween. I didn't care. I watched every second of it, feeling as though the characters in the movie had been written just for me. Unlike Sleepy Hollow, this was a movie I could watch and admire and analyze...and still sleep at night. It was a movie where not just the aesthetic, but the story spoke to me in ways I'd never before imagined. And I wanted more.
Still, it wasn't until I was about fourteen or so that I really hit my Burton phase. I read his biographies and autobiographies. I read as much about him as I could get my hands on. I watched his movies and analyzed them with a fervor that, to that point, I had only dedicated to Harry Potter. I watched his interviews on YouTube. I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in theaters--my first new-release Burton film--when I was twelve; asked for the DVD for my thirteenth birthday. When I got my first cell phone in eighth grade, I set his picture as my background. For my first research paper in my freshman year of high school...well, you can guess who I chose as my topic.
To this day I find it difficult to pinpoint exactly what it was that drew me to Tim Burton's work, sucked me in and held me there with an ironclad grip. I think it was mostly timing. I wasn't the typical little preteen; I noticed boys, I liked boys, but I had a hard time relating to girls my own age, because they seemed shallow to me. It was all about where your jeans came from, or which version of the iPod you had, or how many things your cell phone could do. And I tried to be part of that, but it always ended in misery for me. I can't tell you how many times I tried to be part of a "cool" group but couldn't make it work. Keep in mind, at age twelve, I was still playing with my Barbies and American Girl dolls and Playmobil, but at the same time, I was reading parenting magazines and learning how advertising works and discussing Stanley Milgram's experiments with my mother. So that was the kind of kid I was...and yet it wasn't until watching films like Nightmare Before Christmas that I understood just who I was. I wasn't meant to be Pop Princess; I was meant to be me.
And on top of that, there was the feminism aspect. Look at how girls are portrayed in the media: we're supposed to care about nothing but boys and clothes and tech toys. Even the "heroines" are dressed in tight clothes; the female superheroes, like Batgirl and Supergirl, wear skirts and are counterparts to male superheores. So watching something like Beetle Juice, where the "weird girl" saves the day, or Batman Returns, where Catwoman virtually sacrifices herself to kill Shreck even though she has the choice to run off with Bruce Wayne, was very appealing to me. It showed me a new kind of heroine, the kind who had to make hard choices that had nothing to do with which dress to wear to the prom. But at the same time, I always knew it was okay to care about what you wore to the prom, but it was equally important to understand that it's okay to care about other things too.
And then there was the filmmaking angle, and once I went to a "real" high school and started studying moviemaking seriously, Tim Burton became even more important to me. He really drew my attention to directing, because his films aren't character-driven, they're more settings-driven. An exception to this would be something like Edward Scissorhands, where the character is so perfect for the settings and he's a well-developed character--and I adore Edward Scissorhands, by the way, because I spent my teen years in a housing development, so I could identify with it as well as appreciate the artistic elements of it--but watch something like Beetle Juice. Who the hell is Betelgeuse, anyway? No one knows, no one cares. Who is Otho? Who are the Deetzes? No one cares, because they're in this rich environment and they're so wild, they're all absolutely crazy and their environment is so perfectly created that you love them anyway. Until I started watching Burton's films, I never understood that you didn't have to follow the structure--Underdog Becomes Hero And Slowly Wins Over The Girl, or Misunderstood Girl Becomes Popular And Gets The Guy. You could write other things. You could do things like Beetle Juice, parodies and comedies and mysteries and a little bit of horror, all wrapped into one.
I wouldn't say my films are just like that--on occasion, some element of a Burton film might inspire me, but I never try to re-create what he's done. I'm more on the side of realism--think Anand Tucker or Diablo Cody--but he's still important to me, because he first drew my attention to the concept of filmmaking as an art. And that right there is the bottom line. If I'd never seen Sleepy Hollow, I would not have wanted to become a director, or a screenwriter. It's that simple. I never would have gone to Interlochen, read Girl Director and Make Your Own Damn Movie, studied the work of Hitchcock and Kubrick, or taken a college class that required me to write a full feature-length screenplay in less than four months.
Imagine my distress, then, when the reaction to my love for Tim Burton, nine times out of ten, consists of "Oh...you like that guy."
Yes. Yes, I do. And no, you do not get to judge me for it. And if you do, I will judge you for liking James Cameron (who, in addition to directing some damn terrible movies--watch Avatar and seriously tell me he's got any shred of creativity--is a flaming a-hole) and Francis Ford Coppola (I don't care what anyone says, The Godfather is a trainwreck in terms of script. Period.).
Watching Tim Burton films gives me hope. His work tells me, with every flaw, every bad casting choice, every repeated storyline and every awkward line of dialogue, that I have hope of becoming a filmmaker. His work tells me that the awkwardly extroverted young girl who made Playmobil shorts with her father, who wrote stories in which her pet rabbit could talk, who once filmed her every move and called it "the Avery Udell TV Show," can someday turn into a legitimate filmmaker whose work speaks to other awkward young girls much like herself. I still tear up at Ed Wood--because I fucking am Ed Wood. You really think that I'm delusional enough to think that I will ever win an Oscar? I'm not--I will not be a Hollywood darling. I know this. But I still try. I wrote a feature script in four months. I sent my films into festivals. When they weren't accepted, I found a best friend and started making shorts--and the president of my college noticed. Did I care that he wasn't the president of the Academy? No--because he noticed, and he cared, and that was enough. I don't care, I truly don't, that I am destined to be a writer--and be virtually anonymous. If I touch one person the way Tim Burton has touched me, then I will be happy.
So yes, I still believe in Tim Burton. And when Big Eyes hits theaters next summer, I will be first in line to buy a ticket. (Christoph Waltz and Amy Adams starring in a Tim Burton film? Yes, please.) And yes, I still credit him for introducing me to the world of filmmaking as an art. Is this unfeminist of me? Should I perhaps be gushing over Kathryn Bigelow, Jamie Babbit, Kimberly Peirce, Catherine Hardwicke, Julie Davis--the women who made the independent films that I so love, whose style of filmmaking is so much closer to mine than that of the wild, surrealist Tim Burton? Maybe. But the fact remains that it wasn't Boys Don't Cry or Thirteen that sucked me into the artistic world of filmmaking and held me there while I found my niche--it was Sleepy Hollow and The Nightmare Before Christmas and Edward Scissorhands.
I still believe in you, Mr. Burton. And I won't give up on you...no matter how many more like Dark Shadows you make. Keep doing what you're doing. When you make another film that I fall in love with, I'll be the first to reaffirm your brilliance.
Just...please promise you'll keep exploring new actors, won't you? I love Johnny Depp as much as the next person, but there are others who would be so very well suited to your style, you know.
And then there are the ones I love not because they're aesthetically pleasing or well-written or well-cast or for any other superficial reason, but just because...well...I just love them. They make me laugh, they make me cry, they make me angry, they make me feel all warm inside. They make me feel, period. They give me something I can't get from any other movie. Sometimes they have cinematic value or historical value; sometimes they don't. I don't care; I just love them for what they are.
The last category has a subcategory I like to call "Films that Make Me Want to Make More Films." Every time I watch one of these, I immediately go to my computer or camera as soon as the credits roll and start working on my own screenplays, treatments, or photographs. More often than not, what I write isn't based on or derivative of whatever I've just watched--but there have been pieces I've written or photographed heavily inspired by these "Films that Make Me Want to Make More Films," henceforth known as FMMWMMF (hey, that's a palindrome!).
And if you look at these FMMWMMF, most of them are not exactly about to be nominated for an Academy Award. They are films like Shopgirl or Back to the Future, films that are beautifully made but often overlooked by critics as "chick flicks" or "summer hits." Not to say I can't appreciate the classics; I can--but after watching something like 2001: A Space Odyssey or Titanic (both films I strongly dislike, by the way), I'm too mentally exhausted to go straight into my own work. And there's a huge difference between directors I love because they're brilliant--Hitchcock, Tarantino, and Michael Moore being prime examples--and directors I love because they fucking get it. Directors whose films make me feel welcomed, accepted; directors whose films make me feel I am not alone with my weird little brain and off-the-wall ideas.
Christopher Nolan.
Anand Tucker.
Gus Van Sant.
Jeff Malmberg.
And believe it or not...
This guy.
Oh, yes. I went there.
Go ahead, laugh at me all you like. Tell me how awful his films have been in recent years, and I'll agree with you. Yes, he needs to shape up. Yes, he needs to get some new material. Yes, he needs to fucking stop casting Johnny Depp; for the love of God, Burton, he won't be offended if you give him some time off now and then...
But...well...
I like him.
I mean I like him a lot.
I mean when I was fourteen I had a giant crush on him.
I mean I had pictures of him on my phone.
I mean I had posters of his films in my room.
I mean I made it my mission to watch every single thing that he released. Including the short films. And his student films. (Still haven't succeeded in that last one, by the way. But I've not given up yet.)
I mean I practically idolized this guy. I used to imagine that he was my best friend. I'd imagine conversations with him, imagine going to high school with him so that being in an online program didn't seem quite as lonely--this was before I went to Interlochen--and when I held my imaginary proms or homecoming dances upstairs, he was always my imaginary date. Even when I actually went to a real high school, with real people and real, age-appropriate crushes, I still obsessively watched his films. I kept a journal of my reactions to and reflections on his movies, his characters, and his poetry and photography. I felt like this was someone, a grown-up, a successful grown-up, a successful grown-up outside of my family, a successful grown-up outside my family with talents that I desperately wanted to develop, who I could understand.
Until I found Tim Burton I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be Jodie Foster, Kathy Bates, Mary Stuart Masterson. Okay, no, that was what I wanted on an intellectual level, but what I actually fantasized about was being Hilary Duff. That was what I really wanted. I wanted recognition from an adoring crowd, millions of screaming fans, movies, pop albums, clothing lines. I wanted to be Magazine Pop Star Girl. I wanted to be rich and famous and, like so many other tweenage girls, I wanted to be a princess.
And then I saw my first horror movie, and everything changed.
I can't accurately describe the effect that Sleepy Hollow had on me, but I'll give it my best shot. It felt like a curtain had been lifted and I was being shown a whole new world, a whole new way of watching a film. Until that point I'd watched films for story, purely for content. This time I was watching it for the lighting, the colors, the cinematography, the design, the sets, the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it all. I was frightened--a girl like me couldn't help but feel like that, watching a film where gory decapitation was a prominent feature of the story--but I could still get enjoyment out of the experience. And I loved it. Oh, how I loved every minute of it.
My next foray into Burtonland was Nightmare Before Christmas...strangely enough in early spring, nowhere near Christmas or Halloween. I didn't care. I watched every second of it, feeling as though the characters in the movie had been written just for me. Unlike Sleepy Hollow, this was a movie I could watch and admire and analyze...and still sleep at night. It was a movie where not just the aesthetic, but the story spoke to me in ways I'd never before imagined. And I wanted more.
Still, it wasn't until I was about fourteen or so that I really hit my Burton phase. I read his biographies and autobiographies. I read as much about him as I could get my hands on. I watched his movies and analyzed them with a fervor that, to that point, I had only dedicated to Harry Potter. I watched his interviews on YouTube. I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in theaters--my first new-release Burton film--when I was twelve; asked for the DVD for my thirteenth birthday. When I got my first cell phone in eighth grade, I set his picture as my background. For my first research paper in my freshman year of high school...well, you can guess who I chose as my topic.
To this day I find it difficult to pinpoint exactly what it was that drew me to Tim Burton's work, sucked me in and held me there with an ironclad grip. I think it was mostly timing. I wasn't the typical little preteen; I noticed boys, I liked boys, but I had a hard time relating to girls my own age, because they seemed shallow to me. It was all about where your jeans came from, or which version of the iPod you had, or how many things your cell phone could do. And I tried to be part of that, but it always ended in misery for me. I can't tell you how many times I tried to be part of a "cool" group but couldn't make it work. Keep in mind, at age twelve, I was still playing with my Barbies and American Girl dolls and Playmobil, but at the same time, I was reading parenting magazines and learning how advertising works and discussing Stanley Milgram's experiments with my mother. So that was the kind of kid I was...and yet it wasn't until watching films like Nightmare Before Christmas that I understood just who I was. I wasn't meant to be Pop Princess; I was meant to be me.
And on top of that, there was the feminism aspect. Look at how girls are portrayed in the media: we're supposed to care about nothing but boys and clothes and tech toys. Even the "heroines" are dressed in tight clothes; the female superheroes, like Batgirl and Supergirl, wear skirts and are counterparts to male superheores. So watching something like Beetle Juice, where the "weird girl" saves the day, or Batman Returns, where Catwoman virtually sacrifices herself to kill Shreck even though she has the choice to run off with Bruce Wayne, was very appealing to me. It showed me a new kind of heroine, the kind who had to make hard choices that had nothing to do with which dress to wear to the prom. But at the same time, I always knew it was okay to care about what you wore to the prom, but it was equally important to understand that it's okay to care about other things too.
And then there was the filmmaking angle, and once I went to a "real" high school and started studying moviemaking seriously, Tim Burton became even more important to me. He really drew my attention to directing, because his films aren't character-driven, they're more settings-driven. An exception to this would be something like Edward Scissorhands, where the character is so perfect for the settings and he's a well-developed character--and I adore Edward Scissorhands, by the way, because I spent my teen years in a housing development, so I could identify with it as well as appreciate the artistic elements of it--but watch something like Beetle Juice. Who the hell is Betelgeuse, anyway? No one knows, no one cares. Who is Otho? Who are the Deetzes? No one cares, because they're in this rich environment and they're so wild, they're all absolutely crazy and their environment is so perfectly created that you love them anyway. Until I started watching Burton's films, I never understood that you didn't have to follow the structure--Underdog Becomes Hero And Slowly Wins Over The Girl, or Misunderstood Girl Becomes Popular And Gets The Guy. You could write other things. You could do things like Beetle Juice, parodies and comedies and mysteries and a little bit of horror, all wrapped into one.
I wouldn't say my films are just like that--on occasion, some element of a Burton film might inspire me, but I never try to re-create what he's done. I'm more on the side of realism--think Anand Tucker or Diablo Cody--but he's still important to me, because he first drew my attention to the concept of filmmaking as an art. And that right there is the bottom line. If I'd never seen Sleepy Hollow, I would not have wanted to become a director, or a screenwriter. It's that simple. I never would have gone to Interlochen, read Girl Director and Make Your Own Damn Movie, studied the work of Hitchcock and Kubrick, or taken a college class that required me to write a full feature-length screenplay in less than four months.
Imagine my distress, then, when the reaction to my love for Tim Burton, nine times out of ten, consists of "Oh...you like that guy."
Yes. Yes, I do. And no, you do not get to judge me for it. And if you do, I will judge you for liking James Cameron (who, in addition to directing some damn terrible movies--watch Avatar and seriously tell me he's got any shred of creativity--is a flaming a-hole) and Francis Ford Coppola (I don't care what anyone says, The Godfather is a trainwreck in terms of script. Period.).
Watching Tim Burton films gives me hope. His work tells me, with every flaw, every bad casting choice, every repeated storyline and every awkward line of dialogue, that I have hope of becoming a filmmaker. His work tells me that the awkwardly extroverted young girl who made Playmobil shorts with her father, who wrote stories in which her pet rabbit could talk, who once filmed her every move and called it "the Avery Udell TV Show," can someday turn into a legitimate filmmaker whose work speaks to other awkward young girls much like herself. I still tear up at Ed Wood--because I fucking am Ed Wood. You really think that I'm delusional enough to think that I will ever win an Oscar? I'm not--I will not be a Hollywood darling. I know this. But I still try. I wrote a feature script in four months. I sent my films into festivals. When they weren't accepted, I found a best friend and started making shorts--and the president of my college noticed. Did I care that he wasn't the president of the Academy? No--because he noticed, and he cared, and that was enough. I don't care, I truly don't, that I am destined to be a writer--and be virtually anonymous. If I touch one person the way Tim Burton has touched me, then I will be happy.
So yes, I still believe in Tim Burton. And when Big Eyes hits theaters next summer, I will be first in line to buy a ticket. (Christoph Waltz and Amy Adams starring in a Tim Burton film? Yes, please.) And yes, I still credit him for introducing me to the world of filmmaking as an art. Is this unfeminist of me? Should I perhaps be gushing over Kathryn Bigelow, Jamie Babbit, Kimberly Peirce, Catherine Hardwicke, Julie Davis--the women who made the independent films that I so love, whose style of filmmaking is so much closer to mine than that of the wild, surrealist Tim Burton? Maybe. But the fact remains that it wasn't Boys Don't Cry or Thirteen that sucked me into the artistic world of filmmaking and held me there while I found my niche--it was Sleepy Hollow and The Nightmare Before Christmas and Edward Scissorhands.
I still believe in you, Mr. Burton. And I won't give up on you...no matter how many more like Dark Shadows you make. Keep doing what you're doing. When you make another film that I fall in love with, I'll be the first to reaffirm your brilliance.
Just...please promise you'll keep exploring new actors, won't you? I love Johnny Depp as much as the next person, but there are others who would be so very well suited to your style, you know.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
To heal, not to harm
This has been a bad year for blogging. Not because I don't have anything to say--I do, believe me, I do. But I keep getting into these long periods where I think, "Does anyone really give a fuck, pardon my language, about what I've got to say? 'Cause really, I'm not sure they do. Does anyone really want to know what I think? Am I just blogging for myself?" And is this a self-pitying way to look at it? Well sure. But it still happens. And the end result is that I always conclude that, for better or worse, I am blogging for myself, because that's how I have to do it. I can't censor myself, or stop writing because I'm afraid no one's reading my posts. I blog because I have something to say, and even when people don't agree with it, their disagreement can't change that this is how I feel.
So, I have some thoughts about tomorrow's date that I'd like to share, and if anyone wishes to debate this point, I respectfully request that you go elsewhere. I'm not here to debate, and perhaps if you hear me out, if you read all the way through before you head for the comment box to give me a piece of your mind, you will understand why.
I have never been one to shy away from writing about violent tragedies. I am not afraid to write about hard-to-understand events. I am not, nor have I ever been, afraid to stand up for what I believe. And yet this is something that is hard to put into words, because if I don't get my point across correctly, I will hurt more than I will help, and that is not the point of this post.
I came across a post on Tumblr that made me stop and think about what tomorrow's date really means, and why we continue to think/talk/"celebrate"/generally make a big deal of this day:
But I do agree that we need to let go of 9/11.
Not because it wasn't a horrible, terrifying thing that we can just brush under the rug. Not because if we were a "tougher" nation we'd just go "Whatevs" and move on. Not because we can let our guard down now because OBVIOUSLY no one's after us; it's always better to do what we can to protect ourselves. And certainly not because it's been "long enough" that the memories of what happened that day no longer sting for those who lost family and friends.
But let's recap. Since 9/11, we've seen other horrible things. The safety of movie theaters was thrown into question after the 2012 attack at the Dark Knight Rises midnight opening. A young shooter broke into an elementary school last Christmas and killed 28 people including himself and his mother--and 20 young children. Just this past spring two bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, killing 3 and injuring an estimated 264. And let's not forget six years ago, when a devastating massacre at Virginia Tech left 32 dead and 17 wounded. And those are just the well-publicized, close-to-home ones. Last August a shooter massacred a church in Nigeria, killing at least nineteen people including the church's pastor. To say nothing of the conflict in Syria, which seems to be getting worse by the day.
My point, before you start screaming at me for reminding you of our nation's (and our world's) capacity for violence, is that terrible things happen. And when they do, we like to publicize them. We like to, for lack of a better word, wallow in them. And even if we don't like to wallow in them, per se, the media loves to force us to do so. And what this does, in my not-so-professional, casual-bystander opinion, is force those personally involved into the spotlight. I can't tell you how many pieces I read on gun violence after the Aurora Dark Knight shooting. And for every story about the shooting I read, there were another five or six that I just couldn't bring myself to read. I even wrote about the event myself, in the immediate aftermath/news explosion. The whole thing was so prevalent for weeks and months and then...
And then wait, where did it go?
On July 20, 2013, I waited for the explosion of media talking about the anniversary of the Dark Knight Rises shooting in Aurora. I waited for the documentaries, the we-remembers, the blogging, the excitement, the mourning. It didn't happen. Maybe one or two bloggers or papers wrote about it, but there was certainly no outpouring of media. And I was so relieved about that, because you know what that means?
That means that the people who were truly affected by it--not the media analysts, not the news anchors, not the documentary filmmakers, and certainly not the social media commentators, but the families of those who were lost--could deal with it in their own way, on their own time, without outside or media interference.
And that, to me, is how we should truly deal with tragedies. Even the huge-scale ones like 9/11. Becuase it's only when we let go that the healing can begin. And I don't know about you, but if I lost someone in an event like 9/11, the last thing I would want is a news show, 12 years after the fact, still making a point of publicizing my loss and my pain.
I don't have any personal stories from 9/11--I don't have a lost family member or other loved one to remember--so I don't feel like I have the right to tell others how to recognize 9/11. If you want to spend it with your family at a midweek barbecue, go right ahead. If you want to go to your church and pray for those lost, you should do that. If you want to write poetry, paint or draw an abstract picture, make some graphic art about it--do it. Do it and remember what happened that day, and recognize your own feelings about it.
And if you lost someone that day, if you had a personal stake in the fallout of that day--I pray for you, I pray so hard for you and your family, and I wish you a long and happy life that celebrates the memory of the person you lost. If you lost someone that day, you are entitled to do whatever you need to do to celebrate their memory, to honor them however you believe they should be honored.
And if you don't want to do anything special at all? If you just want to go to school, go about your day, go to your shift at work, listen to your iPod, watch some America's Got Talent and have a sandwich before collapsing in bed and groaning at the thought of waking up early on Thursday? Be my guest.
But news stations, history channels, documentary filmmakers, analysts, historians, politicians, anyone who is on the outside looking in, anyone who is using 9/11 as a pep rally for patriotism or as a springboard for another discussion of How And Why Obama Is Screwing Up This Country or How Bush Screwed Up This Country--I beg you, don't do it. Don't turn someone's personal day of remembrance into a media circus. Don't keep pushing this "day of patriotism" onto people.
If you have a reason to, for lack of a better word, celebrate 9/11, do it. But if you are just doing it because the news channels and history channels are plastering it over your TV and computer screen, please stop.
I am not a politician, I am not a bereavement counselor, I am not a historical analyst or even a history buff. I'm not an expert.
I'm just a girl who will offer up a single, heartfelt prayer for those lost tomorrow, who will offer up that single, heartfelt prayer for their families, their friends, and anyone else who was deeply, truly affected by what happened that day twelve years ago, who will offer up a single, heartfelt prayer that we can all move on together from that day.
And then I'll let it go.
So, I have some thoughts about tomorrow's date that I'd like to share, and if anyone wishes to debate this point, I respectfully request that you go elsewhere. I'm not here to debate, and perhaps if you hear me out, if you read all the way through before you head for the comment box to give me a piece of your mind, you will understand why.
I have never been one to shy away from writing about violent tragedies. I am not afraid to write about hard-to-understand events. I am not, nor have I ever been, afraid to stand up for what I believe. And yet this is something that is hard to put into words, because if I don't get my point across correctly, I will hurt more than I will help, and that is not the point of this post.
I came across a post on Tumblr that made me stop and think about what tomorrow's date really means, and why we continue to think/talk/"celebrate"/generally make a big deal of this day:
"I think the USA needs to move on from September 11th...The events are tragic. I'm not saying they aren't. But the U.S. Government and the media make it out to be some worldwide catastrophe that claimed the lives of millions of people around the world, when really, the event only killed about 2,600 people...I understand that a lot of people died, and I should be respecting them. But while we honor the dead, we can't have these extravagant 2-hour TV specials reading the names of all these people who died 12 years after the disaster...It was a terrible thing that happened, but it's been 12 years. The USA is comparable to a person who still clings to their ex-spouse or significant other years after they broke up."Let me take a moment to be disgustingly obvious: This is obviously the least-tactful way anyone could possibly state that opinion. So, disclaimer time: I don't agree with every point made here.
But I do agree that we need to let go of 9/11.
Not because it wasn't a horrible, terrifying thing that we can just brush under the rug. Not because if we were a "tougher" nation we'd just go "Whatevs" and move on. Not because we can let our guard down now because OBVIOUSLY no one's after us; it's always better to do what we can to protect ourselves. And certainly not because it's been "long enough" that the memories of what happened that day no longer sting for those who lost family and friends.
But let's recap. Since 9/11, we've seen other horrible things. The safety of movie theaters was thrown into question after the 2012 attack at the Dark Knight Rises midnight opening. A young shooter broke into an elementary school last Christmas and killed 28 people including himself and his mother--and 20 young children. Just this past spring two bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, killing 3 and injuring an estimated 264. And let's not forget six years ago, when a devastating massacre at Virginia Tech left 32 dead and 17 wounded. And those are just the well-publicized, close-to-home ones. Last August a shooter massacred a church in Nigeria, killing at least nineteen people including the church's pastor. To say nothing of the conflict in Syria, which seems to be getting worse by the day.
My point, before you start screaming at me for reminding you of our nation's (and our world's) capacity for violence, is that terrible things happen. And when they do, we like to publicize them. We like to, for lack of a better word, wallow in them. And even if we don't like to wallow in them, per se, the media loves to force us to do so. And what this does, in my not-so-professional, casual-bystander opinion, is force those personally involved into the spotlight. I can't tell you how many pieces I read on gun violence after the Aurora Dark Knight shooting. And for every story about the shooting I read, there were another five or six that I just couldn't bring myself to read. I even wrote about the event myself, in the immediate aftermath/news explosion. The whole thing was so prevalent for weeks and months and then...
And then wait, where did it go?
On July 20, 2013, I waited for the explosion of media talking about the anniversary of the Dark Knight Rises shooting in Aurora. I waited for the documentaries, the we-remembers, the blogging, the excitement, the mourning. It didn't happen. Maybe one or two bloggers or papers wrote about it, but there was certainly no outpouring of media. And I was so relieved about that, because you know what that means?
That means that the people who were truly affected by it--not the media analysts, not the news anchors, not the documentary filmmakers, and certainly not the social media commentators, but the families of those who were lost--could deal with it in their own way, on their own time, without outside or media interference.
And that, to me, is how we should truly deal with tragedies. Even the huge-scale ones like 9/11. Becuase it's only when we let go that the healing can begin. And I don't know about you, but if I lost someone in an event like 9/11, the last thing I would want is a news show, 12 years after the fact, still making a point of publicizing my loss and my pain.
I don't have any personal stories from 9/11--I don't have a lost family member or other loved one to remember--so I don't feel like I have the right to tell others how to recognize 9/11. If you want to spend it with your family at a midweek barbecue, go right ahead. If you want to go to your church and pray for those lost, you should do that. If you want to write poetry, paint or draw an abstract picture, make some graphic art about it--do it. Do it and remember what happened that day, and recognize your own feelings about it.
And if you lost someone that day, if you had a personal stake in the fallout of that day--I pray for you, I pray so hard for you and your family, and I wish you a long and happy life that celebrates the memory of the person you lost. If you lost someone that day, you are entitled to do whatever you need to do to celebrate their memory, to honor them however you believe they should be honored.
And if you don't want to do anything special at all? If you just want to go to school, go about your day, go to your shift at work, listen to your iPod, watch some America's Got Talent and have a sandwich before collapsing in bed and groaning at the thought of waking up early on Thursday? Be my guest.
But news stations, history channels, documentary filmmakers, analysts, historians, politicians, anyone who is on the outside looking in, anyone who is using 9/11 as a pep rally for patriotism or as a springboard for another discussion of How And Why Obama Is Screwing Up This Country or How Bush Screwed Up This Country--I beg you, don't do it. Don't turn someone's personal day of remembrance into a media circus. Don't keep pushing this "day of patriotism" onto people.
If you have a reason to, for lack of a better word, celebrate 9/11, do it. But if you are just doing it because the news channels and history channels are plastering it over your TV and computer screen, please stop.
I am not a politician, I am not a bereavement counselor, I am not a historical analyst or even a history buff. I'm not an expert.
I'm just a girl who will offer up a single, heartfelt prayer for those lost tomorrow, who will offer up that single, heartfelt prayer for their families, their friends, and anyone else who was deeply, truly affected by what happened that day twelve years ago, who will offer up a single, heartfelt prayer that we can all move on together from that day.
And then I'll let it go.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
On the Move
I have never spent four years in the same school.
I'm not sure why this is the case. Maybe I'm just really bad at choosing schools. Maybe I'm too picky. Maybe I just don't give places enough of a chance. I don't know. What I do know is that, as of Tuesday, September 3rd, I will officially begin my life at Oakland University. Yes, that's right, I'm moving from my tiny little liberal arts college in Maryland to a huge-ass university near my suburb. I'll have three night classes and an online class, which just meshes SO WELL with my job...where I can only get evening and weekend shifts. Oh, and did I mention my fiancee still lives in Maryland...along with a large percentage of my friends?
In short: What in the hell was I thinking?
Well, I was thinking that the Michigan film industry, while it does fluctuate (and recover) like anywhere else, has gotten a lot of attention and money as of late. There are plenty of opportunities for people like me, who want to go into the film industry, right here in my home state. But two years ago I was so focused on getting out, on trying to find freedom somewhere else, that I didn't understand as well as I should have what was going on in my own backyard. (Literally--Real Steel was shot in a gravel pit mere yards from my house. The crew actually knocked out our power a couple of times because the equipment used so much electricity.)
And here's the thing: I'll have a better chance of getting a job in my preferred industry right out of college if I stay here. In fact, some of the students in my chosen major have already been chosen to intern and work on professional sets, which is great news for me because I've been dying to do that since pretty much forever. And that's not the only reason OU is awesome for filmmakers. We have our own filmmakers' guild and our own film festival. I'm psyched. Nervous, yes, but definitely psyched.
But this takes me again to the fact that, yet again, I'm changing the rules halfway through the game. I'm uprooting myself, going to a new place, and basically starting over. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I think it's mostly because of my generally restless attitude towards life. I always want something new. I get bored easily, I tend to move from thing to thing because I like new things and I don't want to let old things go but I forget things sometimes and...yeah. I want to keep moving on--my dream is to travel and never live in one place too long--but at the same time, I want something to last. It's a bit conflicting, to say the least.
So I move on. I move from high school to high school, from college to college, hoping that somewhere I'm going to fit in, somewhere I'm going to say "this is where I should have been all along." I tell my friends that I will miss them, that I love them, that I will try--this time I will try (and this time, I really mean it)--I will try my hardest, I swear, to stay close to them, to stay in touch no matter what. Thank God for Facebook and email; these are my greatest allies in times like this. And I promise that no matter what I will always think of them, that they will always be in my heart, because that's true. And I keep going. Always keep going. Anything that derails me must be dealt with immediately and thoroughly.
I won't write my good-byes here. The people I love have already been written to, and they know they will be missed. My Gamma Sig sisters, my best friends, my fiancee (who knew, almost before I did, that I was going to say yes to this chance)--they know where I am. They know I need to be here. And they know, or at least I desperately hope they do, that this isn't abandonment. I am not saying "Screw you, McDaniel College." I am saying, "McDaniel, I'm so sorry, it's not you, it really isn't you, it's me and my selfish need for the elusive 'something more.'" What I learned at McDaniel is invaluable, and I wouldn't trade my experience there for anything.
But for me, at least, it really is time to move on.
And as one friend wrote on my Facebook farewell/announcement, "It's not 'good-bye,' it's 'see you later.'"
See you later, McDaniel. I'll miss you.
...
Hi, Oakland. Let's get to know each other.
I'm not sure why this is the case. Maybe I'm just really bad at choosing schools. Maybe I'm too picky. Maybe I just don't give places enough of a chance. I don't know. What I do know is that, as of Tuesday, September 3rd, I will officially begin my life at Oakland University. Yes, that's right, I'm moving from my tiny little liberal arts college in Maryland to a huge-ass university near my suburb. I'll have three night classes and an online class, which just meshes SO WELL with my job...where I can only get evening and weekend shifts. Oh, and did I mention my fiancee still lives in Maryland...along with a large percentage of my friends?
In short: What in the hell was I thinking?
Well, I was thinking that the Michigan film industry, while it does fluctuate (and recover) like anywhere else, has gotten a lot of attention and money as of late. There are plenty of opportunities for people like me, who want to go into the film industry, right here in my home state. But two years ago I was so focused on getting out, on trying to find freedom somewhere else, that I didn't understand as well as I should have what was going on in my own backyard. (Literally--Real Steel was shot in a gravel pit mere yards from my house. The crew actually knocked out our power a couple of times because the equipment used so much electricity.)
And here's the thing: I'll have a better chance of getting a job in my preferred industry right out of college if I stay here. In fact, some of the students in my chosen major have already been chosen to intern and work on professional sets, which is great news for me because I've been dying to do that since pretty much forever. And that's not the only reason OU is awesome for filmmakers. We have our own filmmakers' guild and our own film festival. I'm psyched. Nervous, yes, but definitely psyched.
But this takes me again to the fact that, yet again, I'm changing the rules halfway through the game. I'm uprooting myself, going to a new place, and basically starting over. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I think it's mostly because of my generally restless attitude towards life. I always want something new. I get bored easily, I tend to move from thing to thing because I like new things and I don't want to let old things go but I forget things sometimes and...yeah. I want to keep moving on--my dream is to travel and never live in one place too long--but at the same time, I want something to last. It's a bit conflicting, to say the least.
So I move on. I move from high school to high school, from college to college, hoping that somewhere I'm going to fit in, somewhere I'm going to say "this is where I should have been all along." I tell my friends that I will miss them, that I love them, that I will try--this time I will try (and this time, I really mean it)--I will try my hardest, I swear, to stay close to them, to stay in touch no matter what. Thank God for Facebook and email; these are my greatest allies in times like this. And I promise that no matter what I will always think of them, that they will always be in my heart, because that's true. And I keep going. Always keep going. Anything that derails me must be dealt with immediately and thoroughly.
I won't write my good-byes here. The people I love have already been written to, and they know they will be missed. My Gamma Sig sisters, my best friends, my fiancee (who knew, almost before I did, that I was going to say yes to this chance)--they know where I am. They know I need to be here. And they know, or at least I desperately hope they do, that this isn't abandonment. I am not saying "Screw you, McDaniel College." I am saying, "McDaniel, I'm so sorry, it's not you, it really isn't you, it's me and my selfish need for the elusive 'something more.'" What I learned at McDaniel is invaluable, and I wouldn't trade my experience there for anything.
But for me, at least, it really is time to move on.
And as one friend wrote on my Facebook farewell/announcement, "It's not 'good-bye,' it's 'see you later.'"
See you later, McDaniel. I'll miss you.
...
Hi, Oakland. Let's get to know each other.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Summer Reading Round-Up
It's that time of year again--that time where I read and read and read, and then proceed to read some more. Great Scott, gadzooks! half my life is reading books...
...Okay, when I start quoting the more obscure bits of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I know I've officially read too much. Going along with the Willy Wonka motif, if I read any more I might actually turn into a book.
But I can't help it--I love the library. I love books. I love reading, more than I can ever express. I hate to use the cliche describing books as other worlds, but it's true. When I open a new book, I'm not just a girl reading a new story. I'm an intrepid explorer studying a new landscape, learning a new language. Every author speaks with a different voice. Kerouac, the beauty-hunting soul-searcher, the voice of the weary. F. Scott Fitzgerald, the transcriber of 20's materialism and disintegration of morals, the voice of the cynical. J.K. Rowling, the triumphant woman who inspired a new generation of readers, the voice of hope. Suzanne Collins, the storyteller so skilled at weaving together horror and beauty to create a very possible dystopian future, the voice of determination. Eve Ensler, leader of a movement that refuses to allow women to be shamed for their bodies, the voice of unwavering strength.
So this is my book-review post--if you want to see some of my old ones, go look at my old blog, Alien Water Torture, I did like three or four book-centered, summer reading-type posts. I like new reading material, and I have to imagine I'm not the only ones. So if you, like me, have burned through the classics and are looking for something new to sink your teeth into, look no further--my list reviews are always comprehensive. ;)
IF YOU LIKED: The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
CHECK OUT: Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin
I was skeptical about this book, I'll admit. I wrote it off as a fad book, ignored the TV show, resisted the temptation to just peek into it and see what it was about. But once I actually gave into that temptation and started reading, I was hooked. Some of the characters may initially seem like caricatures--Arya is the tomboy princess who wishes she were a warrior; Daenerys is the token virgin married off in exchange for power; Jon is the misunderstood misfit with the heart of gold--but the plot is anything but typical. The sex and violence is plentiful--enough to satisfy a die-hard Clockwork Orange fan, for reference--but it's effective, especially within the context of a plot that has more twists than a Cedar Point roller coaster. If you're looking for princess daydream stories, don't look here--but if you want mystery and fantasy splashed with a dark streak of reality, I'd recommend it. I couldn't put it down.
IF YOU LIKED: A Separate Peace by John Knowles
CHECK OUT: Peace Breaks Out by John Knowles
It's not a direct sequel. It's not even an indirect sequel. It could, I suppose, qualify as a companion piece, but just barely: the events of A Separate Peace are only alluded to once, in context of a death, and the setting is the same...but not really. Devon School seems to be a hotbed of conflict whether in war or peace, and Knowles pulls no punches in his narrative. Yet this book is so underrated, especially in the shadow of A Separate Peace, that whenever I mention it in conversation, people look at me like "You meant A Separate Peace, right?" But Peace Breaks Out is a book with a mind of its own, and if you loved Phineas and Gene, you'll love bright-eyed Nick, devious Wexford, broken Pete, and cynical Eric--and in some cases, you'll love to hate them.
IF YOU LIKED: Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling; Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer
CHECK OUT: Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan
This was another one I initially wrote off--a plucky adolescent who's thrown into a supernatural situation? Heard it! But I picked it up on a recommendation, and just the first few pages were enough to get me hooked. Like the HP gang's humor? You'll love Percy Jackson. (Faced with a scaly, lizard-like salesman who introduces himself by announcing, "Hi, I'm Crusty," Percy silently observes Yes, you are.) Sherlock Holmes himself would approve of this kid's razor wit and lightning-quick thinking. Think this book is too young for you if you're past high school? Think again--I'm a rising junior in college and I loved it. Mythology nerds will either love it or hate it. Personally, I think it kicked ass. Just don't read it in the library--you might get in trouble for laughing out loud.
IF YOU LIKED: The S.A.S.S. (Students Across the Seven Seas) series
CHECK OUT: Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins
If travel fiction's your thing, look no further. The lead character is funny and relatable--and far more three-dimensional than any character from the S.A.S.S. series--and the characters around her are equally fleshed-out and lovable, they're not just her "props." The love interest is a little too good to be true, but given that this is young adult fiction, that kind of flaw is to be expected and is largely forgivable in the greater context of the book. Best of all, every bit of info about France is 100% accurate. Stereotypes are addressed (like the one about the French wearing designer shoes 24/7) and landmarks are presented in an interesting, non-gimmicky way. Not that I'd use this as a guidebook for preparing for a trip to France--but if you're looking for culturally accurate travel fiction, this is the book I'd recommend.
IF YOU LIKED: Science fiction, particularly of the contemporary variety (think Future Eden)
CHECK OUT: Adaptation by Malinda Lo
I can't even think of the right genre for this book...sci-fi paranormal lesbian coming of age political adventure? Okay, let me put it this way: I've never read anything like it before. It's like The Birds meets The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer (which I'll cover later) meets The Day The Earth Stood Still. Birds are attacking all over the country, and theories of an alien conspiracy abound...and in the middle of all this, a teenage girl survives a deadly accident and falls in love with another girl who may or may not play a role in the bird attacks. The love story is a little random, but in the larger context of the book it's a welcome surprise--especially since it turns the whole girl-falls-for-boy-and-disaster-brings-them-together trope on its ear. The SF thread is interesting, especially since it turns another genre convention on its ear--I can't explain that one without spoiling the book, so you'll have to take my word for it. If you're into the classics (think Michael Creighton, Ray Bradbury, Douglas Adams) I can't make any promises that this will be your cup of tea...but give it a shot anyway; you might be happy you did.
IF YOU LIKED: Paranormal romance (think Impossible by Nancy Werlin, possibly Twilight--sorry, I haven't read much paranormal romance so I don't have much to compare it to)
CHECK OUT: The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer and The Evolution of Mara Dyer by Michelle Hodkin
DISCLAIMER: DO NOT READ THESE AT NIGHT. Unless, of course, you're interested in bad dreams, or the creepy sensation of someone watching you. This is not just paranormal romance. This is paranormal everything. When you first start to read the book it's like, well, this isn't so bad. But then keep reading...and once you figure out what Mara's power is, the shit really hits the fan. Just the thought of this power being in the hands of a teenage girl is enough to turn stomachs. When you figure out why she had to uncover that power in the first place, it's enough to make a person throw up. But you'll keep reading...because you just have to know what happens next. And oddly enough, of the three love/romance stories I've just listed, this one features the most believable love interest, despite being the most far-fetched of plots. But that's just what Michelle Hodkin does: she takes an unbelievable plot and makes it feel eerily real. Given that this is one of the most terrifying books I've ever read, in this context that's both a blessing and a curse.
IF YOU LIKED: The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling
CHECK OUT: Big Trouble by Dave Barry
J.K. Rowling's sense of humor, particularly dark humor, might be unbeatable...but isn't there a saying about if you can't beat 'em, join 'em? Dave Barry's humor is more pointed and frequent, to be sure, but he has the same knack for bringing out the light in a dark situation. And he's got the same talent for creating a plot that has more twists, turns, and surprises than a Cedar Point roller coaster. Comparing The Casual Vacancy to Big Trouble answers the age-old question: What's as awesome as a book about a bunch of British people trying to get their shit together after a huge upheaval? A book about a bunch of Floridians trying to keep their shit together in the middle of a huge upheaval! A variety of humor, sassy police officers, attractive divorcees, drunken security guards, Kias, goats, exasperated hitmen, and mysterious (and hilarious!) Russian bartenders...need I say more? (P.S. This book was made into a movie starring Tim Allen, Zooey Deschanel, Janeane Garofalo, Stanley Tucci, and the late, great Dennis Farina...if that doesn't make you want to read it I don't know what will.)
IF YOU LIKED: My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Piccoult
CHECK OUT: A Quiet Storm by Rachel Howzell Hall
The first time I read this book I didn't cry. I didn't have nightmares. I didn't stop and question everything I'd ever thought I'd known. There was none of that. No dramatics. I didn't throw the book across the room at the ending, like I did when I first read A Separate Peace. I just looked off into space and wondered how and why things like this were allowed to happen. And before you say "But it's fiction!" think about this: Mental illness is a thing...as is the concept of ignoring mental illness for the sake of "looking normal." What made me think of My Sister's Keeper is the concept of two sisters, the older dependent on the younger, but the younger feeling less valued than the older for various reasons. The idea of an illness (in this case mental) tearing a family to pieces. The idea of a family bond stretched to its breaking point. If you're looking for a novel that will take you to the moon and back emotionally, this one will do it. And you will laugh. Hard. And you will cry. Hard. Maybe, like me, you won't cry the first time you read it--but once I understood the story well enough, I couldn't hold back the tears.
...Okay, when I start quoting the more obscure bits of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I know I've officially read too much. Going along with the Willy Wonka motif, if I read any more I might actually turn into a book.
But I can't help it--I love the library. I love books. I love reading, more than I can ever express. I hate to use the cliche describing books as other worlds, but it's true. When I open a new book, I'm not just a girl reading a new story. I'm an intrepid explorer studying a new landscape, learning a new language. Every author speaks with a different voice. Kerouac, the beauty-hunting soul-searcher, the voice of the weary. F. Scott Fitzgerald, the transcriber of 20's materialism and disintegration of morals, the voice of the cynical. J.K. Rowling, the triumphant woman who inspired a new generation of readers, the voice of hope. Suzanne Collins, the storyteller so skilled at weaving together horror and beauty to create a very possible dystopian future, the voice of determination. Eve Ensler, leader of a movement that refuses to allow women to be shamed for their bodies, the voice of unwavering strength.
So this is my book-review post--if you want to see some of my old ones, go look at my old blog, Alien Water Torture, I did like three or four book-centered, summer reading-type posts. I like new reading material, and I have to imagine I'm not the only ones. So if you, like me, have burned through the classics and are looking for something new to sink your teeth into, look no further--my list reviews are always comprehensive. ;)
IF YOU LIKED: The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
CHECK OUT: Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin
I was skeptical about this book, I'll admit. I wrote it off as a fad book, ignored the TV show, resisted the temptation to just peek into it and see what it was about. But once I actually gave into that temptation and started reading, I was hooked. Some of the characters may initially seem like caricatures--Arya is the tomboy princess who wishes she were a warrior; Daenerys is the token virgin married off in exchange for power; Jon is the misunderstood misfit with the heart of gold--but the plot is anything but typical. The sex and violence is plentiful--enough to satisfy a die-hard Clockwork Orange fan, for reference--but it's effective, especially within the context of a plot that has more twists than a Cedar Point roller coaster. If you're looking for princess daydream stories, don't look here--but if you want mystery and fantasy splashed with a dark streak of reality, I'd recommend it. I couldn't put it down.
IF YOU LIKED: A Separate Peace by John Knowles
CHECK OUT: Peace Breaks Out by John Knowles
It's not a direct sequel. It's not even an indirect sequel. It could, I suppose, qualify as a companion piece, but just barely: the events of A Separate Peace are only alluded to once, in context of a death, and the setting is the same...but not really. Devon School seems to be a hotbed of conflict whether in war or peace, and Knowles pulls no punches in his narrative. Yet this book is so underrated, especially in the shadow of A Separate Peace, that whenever I mention it in conversation, people look at me like "You meant A Separate Peace, right?" But Peace Breaks Out is a book with a mind of its own, and if you loved Phineas and Gene, you'll love bright-eyed Nick, devious Wexford, broken Pete, and cynical Eric--and in some cases, you'll love to hate them.
IF YOU LIKED: Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling; Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer
CHECK OUT: Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan
This was another one I initially wrote off--a plucky adolescent who's thrown into a supernatural situation? Heard it! But I picked it up on a recommendation, and just the first few pages were enough to get me hooked. Like the HP gang's humor? You'll love Percy Jackson. (Faced with a scaly, lizard-like salesman who introduces himself by announcing, "Hi, I'm Crusty," Percy silently observes Yes, you are.) Sherlock Holmes himself would approve of this kid's razor wit and lightning-quick thinking. Think this book is too young for you if you're past high school? Think again--I'm a rising junior in college and I loved it. Mythology nerds will either love it or hate it. Personally, I think it kicked ass. Just don't read it in the library--you might get in trouble for laughing out loud.
IF YOU LIKED: The S.A.S.S. (Students Across the Seven Seas) series
CHECK OUT: Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins
If travel fiction's your thing, look no further. The lead character is funny and relatable--and far more three-dimensional than any character from the S.A.S.S. series--and the characters around her are equally fleshed-out and lovable, they're not just her "props." The love interest is a little too good to be true, but given that this is young adult fiction, that kind of flaw is to be expected and is largely forgivable in the greater context of the book. Best of all, every bit of info about France is 100% accurate. Stereotypes are addressed (like the one about the French wearing designer shoes 24/7) and landmarks are presented in an interesting, non-gimmicky way. Not that I'd use this as a guidebook for preparing for a trip to France--but if you're looking for culturally accurate travel fiction, this is the book I'd recommend.
IF YOU LIKED: Science fiction, particularly of the contemporary variety (think Future Eden)
CHECK OUT: Adaptation by Malinda Lo
I can't even think of the right genre for this book...sci-fi paranormal lesbian coming of age political adventure? Okay, let me put it this way: I've never read anything like it before. It's like The Birds meets The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer (which I'll cover later) meets The Day The Earth Stood Still. Birds are attacking all over the country, and theories of an alien conspiracy abound...and in the middle of all this, a teenage girl survives a deadly accident and falls in love with another girl who may or may not play a role in the bird attacks. The love story is a little random, but in the larger context of the book it's a welcome surprise--especially since it turns the whole girl-falls-for-boy-and-disaster-brings-them-together trope on its ear. The SF thread is interesting, especially since it turns another genre convention on its ear--I can't explain that one without spoiling the book, so you'll have to take my word for it. If you're into the classics (think Michael Creighton, Ray Bradbury, Douglas Adams) I can't make any promises that this will be your cup of tea...but give it a shot anyway; you might be happy you did.
IF YOU LIKED: Paranormal romance (think Impossible by Nancy Werlin, possibly Twilight--sorry, I haven't read much paranormal romance so I don't have much to compare it to)
CHECK OUT: The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer and The Evolution of Mara Dyer by Michelle Hodkin
DISCLAIMER: DO NOT READ THESE AT NIGHT. Unless, of course, you're interested in bad dreams, or the creepy sensation of someone watching you. This is not just paranormal romance. This is paranormal everything. When you first start to read the book it's like, well, this isn't so bad. But then keep reading...and once you figure out what Mara's power is, the shit really hits the fan. Just the thought of this power being in the hands of a teenage girl is enough to turn stomachs. When you figure out why she had to uncover that power in the first place, it's enough to make a person throw up. But you'll keep reading...because you just have to know what happens next. And oddly enough, of the three love/romance stories I've just listed, this one features the most believable love interest, despite being the most far-fetched of plots. But that's just what Michelle Hodkin does: she takes an unbelievable plot and makes it feel eerily real. Given that this is one of the most terrifying books I've ever read, in this context that's both a blessing and a curse.
IF YOU LIKED: The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling
CHECK OUT: Big Trouble by Dave Barry
J.K. Rowling's sense of humor, particularly dark humor, might be unbeatable...but isn't there a saying about if you can't beat 'em, join 'em? Dave Barry's humor is more pointed and frequent, to be sure, but he has the same knack for bringing out the light in a dark situation. And he's got the same talent for creating a plot that has more twists, turns, and surprises than a Cedar Point roller coaster. Comparing The Casual Vacancy to Big Trouble answers the age-old question: What's as awesome as a book about a bunch of British people trying to get their shit together after a huge upheaval? A book about a bunch of Floridians trying to keep their shit together in the middle of a huge upheaval! A variety of humor, sassy police officers, attractive divorcees, drunken security guards, Kias, goats, exasperated hitmen, and mysterious (and hilarious!) Russian bartenders...need I say more? (P.S. This book was made into a movie starring Tim Allen, Zooey Deschanel, Janeane Garofalo, Stanley Tucci, and the late, great Dennis Farina...if that doesn't make you want to read it I don't know what will.)
IF YOU LIKED: My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Piccoult
CHECK OUT: A Quiet Storm by Rachel Howzell Hall
The first time I read this book I didn't cry. I didn't have nightmares. I didn't stop and question everything I'd ever thought I'd known. There was none of that. No dramatics. I didn't throw the book across the room at the ending, like I did when I first read A Separate Peace. I just looked off into space and wondered how and why things like this were allowed to happen. And before you say "But it's fiction!" think about this: Mental illness is a thing...as is the concept of ignoring mental illness for the sake of "looking normal." What made me think of My Sister's Keeper is the concept of two sisters, the older dependent on the younger, but the younger feeling less valued than the older for various reasons. The idea of an illness (in this case mental) tearing a family to pieces. The idea of a family bond stretched to its breaking point. If you're looking for a novel that will take you to the moon and back emotionally, this one will do it. And you will laugh. Hard. And you will cry. Hard. Maybe, like me, you won't cry the first time you read it--but once I understood the story well enough, I couldn't hold back the tears.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Freeze Frame
August 6, 2013, the most terrifying day of my life.
The light turns green.
A white car, make and model unknown, makes violent contact with the side of my little red sedan, going at least 40 miles per hour.
The crunch can be heard at least ten yards away. The force is enough to turn me back into oncoming traffic Out of the corner of my eye, I see the airbags on my fiancee's side deploy. I think I scream before the cars actually make contact, but later all I will remember is that even as I sobbed hysterically, I could tell Ella our exact location, so she could relay this information to the 911 operator.
In the seconds following the collision my thoughts are, as follows:
The next half-hour of my life is the worst. Bar none. A man who witnessed the collision, comes to my window. Automatically, I roll it down. I can't remember how my finger finds the button; right now I don't think I can remember my own last name. I can't stop crying. The heavy rain just keeps falling, falling, it won't stop, my tears won't stop, between the rain and my own tears I'm soaked and I can't breathe. He asks if we're okay and I say not really, no one is hurt, but I don't know what to do. My mom, I tell him, my mom doesn't know I've been in an accident, my mom will be so afraid when she hears. He asks if we're physically all right and I say yes.
I realize that we should call for help. My fiancee does, because I'm too hysterical to form a sentence that doesn't begin with the words "my mom." The 911 operator tells Ella to have me get to the side of the road so we're not obstructing traffic. I manage to get my car to the side of the road, completing the turn I was starting when we collided. The first words out of my hyperventilating, sobbing mouth when we stop are, "Oh my God, oh my God, my mom, I need to call my mom, I can't call her, she's going to be so scared and there's nothing she can do."
Crash witnesses attempt to calm me down. My heart won't stop pounding. Ella lets me grip her hand. I can't stop crying, the pain is too real. I almost wish I were physically hurt, because if I were, I could concentrate on that instead of the heartbreaking agony of knowing that in a few moments, I will have to call my mother and tell her one of the worst things a parent can hear: "Mom, I've been in an accident." I can't tell her, I can't tell her, but I have to.
At some point the focus shifts to Ella, I ask her another thousand times if she's okay. A policeman comes to my window and asks for our licenses and papers. I can't stop crying, I will never, as far as I know, be able to stop crying again. My worst fear is that I have killed someone. "Are they okay, the other driver, is she--is he--okay?" I ask, and the officer says that as far as he knows, they are. I breathe a little easier; as far as I can tell, I am not a murderer.
I can't think, I can't pray, I can't even speak properly. All I can say is "This never happens to me, I'm not a terrible driver, I wasn't even playing with the radio, I wasn't on my phone, how did I get into an accident?" Ella tries to soothe me, to no avail. All that I know is that my mom has to know, she can't find out on the news--oh God what if I'm on the news?--and she can't see the tow truck--or, God forbid, ambulance--pull up in front of our house and not know until then what's happened.
I call her.
She will be mad, I vaguely hear the officer tell me. It's a given, she'll be angry, but I think she'll just want to know you're safe, first and foremost.
I tell her, and she is strangely calm. Later, she will tell me that as soon as she saw the rain and heard her phone ring, as soon as she saw it was me, she knew. She asks, several times, "Are you okay? Is Ella okay?" and I tell her, over and over again, "Yes, we're okay. We aren't hurt. There are no physical injuries." We hang up when the ambulance arrives. The EMTs check us over and pronounce us all right. Can we turn our heads, did we hit our heads, did the airbag hurt Ella, did the door crush her, am I seeing spots. No, no, no, no. We are fine, physically, but my heart won't stop pounding. It's adrenaline, they say. I'll be fine.
What is a much, much bigger relief than hearing that I am all right is hearing that Ella is all right--and hearing that the occupant (occupants?--I still don't know) of the other car are all right.
No one, thank God, needs to go to the hospital.
I see the damage and nearly pass out. This, I realize, is going to cost us. There is no way I will ever be able to pay my mother back for this, I don't care if our insurance covers it, I am responsible. In my head I begin to calculate how much I'll have to save to pay for the deductible, the rising cost, the repairs. I want to pass out. I want to run to my mom. I want to go home. I want to collapse in the wet grass and cry until I completely dehydrate myself.
Instead, I stay standing. I call my mom again and again, keeping her updated bit by bit until the full story emerges. The correct citation is issued, all legal documents are issued, all of our licenses and registrations and proofs of insurance are returned. The tow truck driver gives us a lift home, since my mother cannot come and get us. I weep on and off for the rest of the drive, but still manage to give the truck driver the correct directions. I stagger out of the car, nearly tripping on the back of my skirt, and manage to get myself around the front without falling over the curb.
When I see my mom again it is like I haven't seen her for ages. I run to her, crying all over again. She holds me close for a moment and then tells me to go inside, she'll see that the car is taken care of. I stumble into the garage, then into the house. I can't process everything that has happened. My makeup is streaked down my face. I can't stop crying. I can't think straight. All I can think of is how much I've ruined.
Yesterday my father won the first race of the Thistle Sailboat Nationals. Now he might have to come home. I've ruined this for him. I have wrecked our car, cost us a ton of money, might even get us sued. I cry and cry and cry. My mother comes in and holds me, tells me, "The car is a thing, it can be replaced. You and Ella can't. You are alive, and that is all that matters.
This is when it hits me: The car hit Ella's side, if it weren't for the airbag, if it weren't for the safety features, if that driver had even gone a little faster, if I'd gone faster, if I hadn't stopped when I did...if it hadn't been for a myriad of circumstances, the woman I love would be dead.
I collapse into her arms. "I almost killed you," I cry, and she holds me and whispers "Shh--shh," until I can breathe again. I bounce between her and my mom--well, stagger between her and my mom--until we are herded into the living room and sit down. I can't let go of either of them. I almost lost them both. I have hurt them both. I can't believe what has happened today. Nothing even seems real.
Only one fact stands out: My mother is not angry. She is not going to yell, or tell me how horrible I am, what a waste I am, or that if it wasn't for me we could have so many new things that we can't have now because we're paying to fix my mistakes. I call my dad to tell him I am okay, and he tells me much the same thing. "I ruined your week," I blurt out. "I'm so sorry--you'd just won Nationals--" and he tells me it's okay, that my life is more important to him than a sailboat race. I hang up and cry some more.
Later, after he has made the multi-hour drive home to see, in person, that I'm all right, my dad comes into my room and holds me close. I tell him the full story. He stays quiet, then holds me tightly again, kisses me goodnight, tells me to sleep. I know I will not sleep tonight. Ella has already passed out, worn-out from the excitement and the Nyquil she took for her allergy-like symptoms. I know I will not sleep tonight. My parents will, my fiancee will. I know I won't.
Tomorrow I will hug them all extra-tightly and tell them that I will always love them. Tomorrow I will tell them how much they mean to me. I could have died today. I could have killed someone today. But I didn't, and I can't keep telling myself that because of one mistake I am worthless. I have to keep going. Hug my family when I see them in the morning. Kiss my parents just because they're there and I can. Tell them I love them, every opportunity I get. Thank them again and again, just for being there and for being mine, for loving me and protecting me every step of the way. Show them how much I appreciate their existence and their support. Kiss my love on the mouth, peeping eyes be damned, hold her hand and let her know she is loved. Plan our wedding, show her my hometown, ask her to dance.
I could have died today. What I can't do, what I will not allow myself to do, is use that as an excuse to stop living.
The light turns green.
A white car, make and model unknown, makes violent contact with the side of my little red sedan, going at least 40 miles per hour.
The crunch can be heard at least ten yards away. The force is enough to turn me back into oncoming traffic Out of the corner of my eye, I see the airbags on my fiancee's side deploy. I think I scream before the cars actually make contact, but later all I will remember is that even as I sobbed hysterically, I could tell Ella our exact location, so she could relay this information to the 911 operator.
In the seconds following the collision my thoughts are, as follows:
1) Am I alive? (Yes.)
2) Is Ella okay? (Yes, she is.)
3) How can I tell my mom, she's home alone and can't come to me, she will absolutely die.
The next half-hour of my life is the worst. Bar none. A man who witnessed the collision, comes to my window. Automatically, I roll it down. I can't remember how my finger finds the button; right now I don't think I can remember my own last name. I can't stop crying. The heavy rain just keeps falling, falling, it won't stop, my tears won't stop, between the rain and my own tears I'm soaked and I can't breathe. He asks if we're okay and I say not really, no one is hurt, but I don't know what to do. My mom, I tell him, my mom doesn't know I've been in an accident, my mom will be so afraid when she hears. He asks if we're physically all right and I say yes.
I realize that we should call for help. My fiancee does, because I'm too hysterical to form a sentence that doesn't begin with the words "my mom." The 911 operator tells Ella to have me get to the side of the road so we're not obstructing traffic. I manage to get my car to the side of the road, completing the turn I was starting when we collided. The first words out of my hyperventilating, sobbing mouth when we stop are, "Oh my God, oh my God, my mom, I need to call my mom, I can't call her, she's going to be so scared and there's nothing she can do."
Crash witnesses attempt to calm me down. My heart won't stop pounding. Ella lets me grip her hand. I can't stop crying, the pain is too real. I almost wish I were physically hurt, because if I were, I could concentrate on that instead of the heartbreaking agony of knowing that in a few moments, I will have to call my mother and tell her one of the worst things a parent can hear: "Mom, I've been in an accident." I can't tell her, I can't tell her, but I have to.
At some point the focus shifts to Ella, I ask her another thousand times if she's okay. A policeman comes to my window and asks for our licenses and papers. I can't stop crying, I will never, as far as I know, be able to stop crying again. My worst fear is that I have killed someone. "Are they okay, the other driver, is she--is he--okay?" I ask, and the officer says that as far as he knows, they are. I breathe a little easier; as far as I can tell, I am not a murderer.
I can't think, I can't pray, I can't even speak properly. All I can say is "This never happens to me, I'm not a terrible driver, I wasn't even playing with the radio, I wasn't on my phone, how did I get into an accident?" Ella tries to soothe me, to no avail. All that I know is that my mom has to know, she can't find out on the news--oh God what if I'm on the news?--and she can't see the tow truck--or, God forbid, ambulance--pull up in front of our house and not know until then what's happened.
I call her.
She will be mad, I vaguely hear the officer tell me. It's a given, she'll be angry, but I think she'll just want to know you're safe, first and foremost.
I tell her, and she is strangely calm. Later, she will tell me that as soon as she saw the rain and heard her phone ring, as soon as she saw it was me, she knew. She asks, several times, "Are you okay? Is Ella okay?" and I tell her, over and over again, "Yes, we're okay. We aren't hurt. There are no physical injuries." We hang up when the ambulance arrives. The EMTs check us over and pronounce us all right. Can we turn our heads, did we hit our heads, did the airbag hurt Ella, did the door crush her, am I seeing spots. No, no, no, no. We are fine, physically, but my heart won't stop pounding. It's adrenaline, they say. I'll be fine.
What is a much, much bigger relief than hearing that I am all right is hearing that Ella is all right--and hearing that the occupant (occupants?--I still don't know) of the other car are all right.
No one, thank God, needs to go to the hospital.
I see the damage and nearly pass out. This, I realize, is going to cost us. There is no way I will ever be able to pay my mother back for this, I don't care if our insurance covers it, I am responsible. In my head I begin to calculate how much I'll have to save to pay for the deductible, the rising cost, the repairs. I want to pass out. I want to run to my mom. I want to go home. I want to collapse in the wet grass and cry until I completely dehydrate myself.
Instead, I stay standing. I call my mom again and again, keeping her updated bit by bit until the full story emerges. The correct citation is issued, all legal documents are issued, all of our licenses and registrations and proofs of insurance are returned. The tow truck driver gives us a lift home, since my mother cannot come and get us. I weep on and off for the rest of the drive, but still manage to give the truck driver the correct directions. I stagger out of the car, nearly tripping on the back of my skirt, and manage to get myself around the front without falling over the curb.
When I see my mom again it is like I haven't seen her for ages. I run to her, crying all over again. She holds me close for a moment and then tells me to go inside, she'll see that the car is taken care of. I stumble into the garage, then into the house. I can't process everything that has happened. My makeup is streaked down my face. I can't stop crying. I can't think straight. All I can think of is how much I've ruined.
Yesterday my father won the first race of the Thistle Sailboat Nationals. Now he might have to come home. I've ruined this for him. I have wrecked our car, cost us a ton of money, might even get us sued. I cry and cry and cry. My mother comes in and holds me, tells me, "The car is a thing, it can be replaced. You and Ella can't. You are alive, and that is all that matters.
This is when it hits me: The car hit Ella's side, if it weren't for the airbag, if it weren't for the safety features, if that driver had even gone a little faster, if I'd gone faster, if I hadn't stopped when I did...if it hadn't been for a myriad of circumstances, the woman I love would be dead.
I collapse into her arms. "I almost killed you," I cry, and she holds me and whispers "Shh--shh," until I can breathe again. I bounce between her and my mom--well, stagger between her and my mom--until we are herded into the living room and sit down. I can't let go of either of them. I almost lost them both. I have hurt them both. I can't believe what has happened today. Nothing even seems real.
Only one fact stands out: My mother is not angry. She is not going to yell, or tell me how horrible I am, what a waste I am, or that if it wasn't for me we could have so many new things that we can't have now because we're paying to fix my mistakes. I call my dad to tell him I am okay, and he tells me much the same thing. "I ruined your week," I blurt out. "I'm so sorry--you'd just won Nationals--" and he tells me it's okay, that my life is more important to him than a sailboat race. I hang up and cry some more.
Later, after he has made the multi-hour drive home to see, in person, that I'm all right, my dad comes into my room and holds me close. I tell him the full story. He stays quiet, then holds me tightly again, kisses me goodnight, tells me to sleep. I know I will not sleep tonight. Ella has already passed out, worn-out from the excitement and the Nyquil she took for her allergy-like symptoms. I know I will not sleep tonight. My parents will, my fiancee will. I know I won't.
Tomorrow I will hug them all extra-tightly and tell them that I will always love them. Tomorrow I will tell them how much they mean to me. I could have died today. I could have killed someone today. But I didn't, and I can't keep telling myself that because of one mistake I am worthless. I have to keep going. Hug my family when I see them in the morning. Kiss my parents just because they're there and I can. Tell them I love them, every opportunity I get. Thank them again and again, just for being there and for being mine, for loving me and protecting me every step of the way. Show them how much I appreciate their existence and their support. Kiss my love on the mouth, peeping eyes be damned, hold her hand and let her know she is loved. Plan our wedding, show her my hometown, ask her to dance.
I could have died today. What I can't do, what I will not allow myself to do, is use that as an excuse to stop living.
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