It is What it Is

Romance

You would be hard-pressed to find a copy of Love Story or The Bridges of Madison County in my house. The only romance novels I have would fall under the category of gag gifts, and while I know many people who love the books, I don't read Nora Roberts. I'm also not touchy-feely, I don't hold hands and sing in the round and I've never been a fan of Grey's Anatomy.   

That being said, apart from Nights in Rodanthe, I have seen every movie ever made from a Nicholas Sparks book. In the theater. Multiple times. And cried. 

It's easy to see why I'd like The Notebook. I think Rachel McAdams is awesome, and I think we all know that Ryan Gosling is hot. I also have a not-so-secret old man crush on James Garner. Judge me if you want, but that man is still darn charming. And if you doubt me, find some pictures of Mr. Garner circa 1962.

In a few words: Hubba. Hubba.

I didn't know what to expect with A Walk to Remember, but something in my gut told me that this was a movie I needed to see. At the time the movie was released, I had two male roommates (platonic) and was living in D.C. While one of my roommates had accompanied me to Legally Blonde and Unfaithful, I was still pretty sure that A Walk to Remember would be a hard sell. So, one Saturday afternoon, I snuck out of the house without telling anyone where I was headed and made my way to the movie theater at Union Station.

My House is so Cold

How cold is it? you say.

My house is so cold, I've taken to closing off rooms so that I can try to concentrate the little heat I do have into a couple of rooms where I spend the most time.

Closing off rooms for the winter makes me feel like I'm in some fabulous 18th or 19th century Victorian novel. Of course, I don't have help I can order to re-open the rooms in the spring. (Picture maids taking the sheets off my chaises and settees and throwing open the shutters.)

I also don't remember any classic novels taking place in 3/1s just down the road from JoJo's Gun and Pawn, but maybe that's just me.

I Don't Do Lines

I believe there are certain attributes we're allotted fixed quantities of each day -- cleanliness, courtesy, tolerance for TNT promos. No matter what we do, only a new night will refresh our stores and allow us to again be thoughtful, caring members of the human race. I think patience is one such attribute.

I usually have a wealth of patience for children and animals. For everyone else, it's a crap shoot. Normally, I can allot my patience throughout the day -- an extra five minutes waiting in traffic, a few more minutes for the cashier in training at the BP station, deep breaths when someone asks how I ever expect to earn a living as a writer. But, if anything exceptionally time-consuming happens, my patience for the whole day is shot.

If the pharmacists takes 45 minutes to fill a prescription he or she promised in 10 minutes, I'll be perfectly cordial to that pharmacist. (Should I be worried that all of my anecdotes take place in the pharmacy? I guess we all write what we now.) I'll thank him or her and take my meds without complaint.

However, the next person to slow me down is out of luck.

Controversial Subject Matter

After thinking back to my adventures in the library the other day, I also remembered how difficult term paper time was. Some kids might have been content with topics like Yosemite National Park or the First Thanksgiving, but not I. When it came to research papers, I liked my topics rich and fascinating -- and in the mind of my sixth grade teacher, that also meant controversial. 

In the fourth grade, my first experience in the world of research papers, we were all supposed to choose a country. Naturally, I picked China because my grandmother had recently visited there. I also really liked egg rolls, so it seemed like a great fit. In addition to writing the paper, we also gave presentations. I wore the pajamas my grandmother had brought me as a souvenir, and after a trip to the Asian market with my father (a fascinating outing to what I thought was a secret underworld, but was really just a strip mall in a part of town people from Mountain Brook didn't shop), my mother and I made chicken fried rice that we served to the class. 

(I also remember not being able to understand who in the world came up with the rules for a bibliography. Were the strange rules and off punctuation really necessary? Reverse indentation? Seriously? I'm not sure I get it to this day.)

In the fifth grade, the field was wide open, so I chose the rain forest as my subject matter. While this might have seemed pretty innocuous -- and maybe it was -- I had just read about deforestation and had to know more. So, really, I like to think of that term paper as the first manifesto of a budding environmentalist. 

Banned Books

My grandmother believed that as long as my father was reading, he could read whatever he wanted. This is why, when an elementary school teacher "caught" him with an Ian Fleming novel and demanded "Does your mother know about this?" my father thought, "Who do you think bought it for me?"

My parents took a similar approach to my own reading. I was never told there was a book I couldn't read. And I can only remember being forbidden to watch one TV show. (It was "Married ... With Children," and now that I can watch it as an adult, I can't help but think the ban had more to do with the fact that the show just isn't funny than anything else.) As long as I was reading, I could pick out whatever book I wanted.

Now, of course, this philosophy wasn't understood by all. I can still remember being in the local library the summer before fifth grade. I had my summer reading list in front of me and had circled all of the books I was interested in. The one at the top of my list was "Death Be Not Proud." (I thought it sounded very adult.) But, since I was having a hard time with the Dewey Decimal system -- it's something I still struggle with -- I had to ask a librarian for help. I took her my list and asked her to help me find the books.

I knew I was in trouble when she turned away from the adult section of the library and headed towards the brightly-colored, way-too-much-construction-paper-on-the-walls "young adult" section. "Oh, you don't want these books," she said. "I'll find some much better books for you."

David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness

Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.

(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)

In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:

He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.

What Makes Me Cry

We all have our emotional hot-buttons.

A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite. 

I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)

But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.

I blame this on two main components:

1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.

2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.

Pat Conroy, Writing and Family

Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)

I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.

Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."

That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.

"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."

"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)

"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."

First Love, Vampires and Cynicism

After numerous recommendations, I finally read Twilight this month.

While the book snob in me tries to avoid "popular" fiction, I happen to not-so-secretly love young adult fiction and some sci-fi. Plus, I also have a really-not-secret love of vampire lore. (This does not mean I've ever bought a cape over the Internet, but it does mean that I've seen every episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. I've also seen everything the History channel has to offer on Vlad the Impaler.)

With Twilight, I thought the stage was set for me to fall in love with a book. And boy was I wrong.

* SPOILER ALERT* For those of you who haven't read the book and don't want to know the ending, I suggest you stop reading now.  

Not Something I Recommend

When I was still working for Lipstick, my former co-workers and I decided to do “research” on an upcoming profile story we were publishing about Southern Magic, the local chapter of the Romance Writers of America. (Sidenote: these ladies are awesome! I think about joining their group all the time, but I’m too intimidated.) In the name of “research,” we walked down to the Birmingham Public Library to see what romance books were around. (Hey, we were thorough journalists, after all.)

And that’s the short version of how I ended up in the possession of what might be the worst book I’ve ever read. (Which was not written by a Southern Magic writer, by the way.) I warn you now. From here on out, there will be lots of spoilers, and this post will not be appropriate for those below a certain age.

What it all comes down to is that I should have known any book mentioning an “ass-toe” in the first 100 hundred words wasn’t going to be any good, but it was a train wreck that I couldn’t turn away from.

Trippin’ tells the story of seven Kansas City denizens: Madetra, Kaylantra, Darryn, Finesse, Destanie (please not the alternate spelling), E’An and Gerald St. John. At first I thought, “Who the hell thought of these names?” and “E’An?!?!” but then I got to page two and the ass-toe, and I had bigger questions on my mind.