Fuck you, Stephanie Meyer. This is all your fault.

I have been going to my writer's group on Saturday mornings for about a month now. I look froward to it every week. When a few of the group members flake, it disappoints me because I take this seriously. I'm a hobbyist when it comes to writing. I have no published works. What gives me the right of honoring myself with the title of writer? What have I done to deserve it? Going to group makes me feel like I'm working towards being a writer-- a serious writer, with goals and ambition, who wants to hone the craft and not just slap words down on paper and proclaim it's a novel.

In my opinion, I consider my book a Science Fiction book, because I try and bring elements of actual science into it. People aren't immortal because of magic or supernatural reasons. There are no undead, no curses, no people who morph into animals. I try to explain immortality through a scientific means, with present day scientific theories. Things I have read about and learned from documentaries on aging and longevity for humans. But, because it has to do with immortality, it's going to be lumped into the dreaded genre of "Supernatural", and eventually, be lumped with every other bandwagon jumping teen novel.

Today, one of the members, who I respect the opinions of because they work as a professor of this craft, was critiquing my exercise for this week. I knew it was going to be severe. He does this as a career-- it's his job to dissect a piece of writing down to the bones and scatter the entrails across the paper for inspection. He pointed out all the mechanical failings, but nothing really about the imagery, or characters, or a lot of the literary elements that make a story compelling. I guess that is what I am looking for from the group. Mechanics can always be tweaked-- otherwise, Editors would be unemployed. I want to know whether I can write something worth reading? Does it capture humanities best and worst qualities? Is it allegorical? Does it have literary themes like redemption, perseverance in the face of great adversity, finding a family to call your own, revenge, or a journey of discovery and mystery? Will it make you question things like morality, or what is truly right and truly wrong, or what vindicates blurring those lines?

To me, without those things, the best mechanical writer in the world would write a shitty story. Sure, they may have great language and grammar, but is that story worth reading? I want my story to be about consequences. About how we as humans treat each other. About the lines that divide us. But, it seems like all people see when they read it is word choice and contraction usage, or [insert any mechanical problem here].

Anyway, after it was thoroughly murdered with read lines and notes, I defended what I could. He was right. I will give him that. He's a COM teacher, and I'm not saying I can't improve mechanics... but that is not what really upset me. I asked him later about going to the Thursday night Writer's Workshop at the Pharmacy. I told him I was hesitant because of my genre. I don't want people to think it is some supernatural, flash in the pan novel...

His response, "Well, that's kind of what it is."

Ouch. Excuse me a second while I pull your fiery, literary sword from my heart, professor. Really? Is that all people are going to see? Why can't anyone read between the lines anymore?

On Wednesday I watched a documentary called Trek Nation about Eugene Roddenberry, Jr., and his quest to understand the life and work of his father. In the show, there was this quote:

"Science fiction, today, is one of the last places a philosopher can operate." -Gene Roddenberry

I really put a lot of thought into this universe. The entire reason I even began writing this story was to take and idea I had living in my brain for years, and prove that Stephanie Meyer was a fucking hack. And, now, because of her, I'm typecast and stereotyped. Like Randall Graves, I'm taking this genre back. My story isn't supposed to be something everybody wants to read, but I aim to make it something everybody should read. It isn't just a bunch of shallow, white, privileged teenagers running around dealing with like, this totally hard life stuff ,plus superpowers. My characters are all adults. Hell, half of them have been adults for around a century. There is one teenage kid in the whole damn story, and she is there solely as a person for Max to mentor. A way of showing that she has grown as a character, and has life lessons to offer now that she has finally gotten over herself. In fact, Dare, my teenage character is based on some of the students I have met at observation. She's supposed to represent a lost generation underprivileged kids people overlook and dismiss based solely from first impression. She's struggling to overcome the limitations life is trying to set for her. Drew, on top of dealing with family betrayal, is gay. While not the main issue his character is dealing with, he has to deal with the prejudices that come along with being an outed man. Violetta is my Lizzie Bennett archetype- the educated woman when woman should not be clever, they should be pretty and quiet. She's my feminist who questions society and her place as a woman. Max's dad, Gabe, was imprisoned on a deserted island for almost twenty years, and must deal with merging into a digital, fast paced, unfamiliar world. The entire group lives off the grid to avoid detection-- a lifestyle that makes you question our dependence on convenience shopping, electronics, and a myriad of other things that we take for granted as comforts we have come to expect. Not to mention all the atheist propaganda I not so subtly throw in there. And questions that arise from the motivations of the characters. Are their horrible acts justified when you understand their true motivation? The entire idea that death is a limitation that can be overcome with enough money puts the whole idea of Capitalism into perspective.

It's dark, and scary, and meant to put our world in perspective. It's not written for teenage girls to read, and make T-Shirt marked "Team Finn" or "Team Ridley". It's for adults, or in rare cases, though few and far between despite the fact I know these kids exist, teenagers mature enough to get it. It is supposed to make you feel a little unnerved. Make you rethink the way you look at things. These characters are extremely flawed. Nothing happens to them because they are popular, or pretty, or smart. They're fates are the result of a genetic lottery. You're either normal and you die, born without a soul which will allow you to live forever, or born with a soul and, Surprise!, a super power and immortality thanks to a genetic mutation. But, superpowers and immortality aren't all great. Being an empath turns Max into a selfish, alcoholic. Having the power to remove a person's soul turns Finn into a smug assassin who doesn't question the ability to choose who lives forever and who dies. Being immortal turns Dethridge into a psychopath with delusions of grandeur, stemming from his desire to make his human wife wife immortal. Which brings me to the greatest question of all-- if you don't die, does that even make you a human being anymore, or something greater, more evolved? Is a life that never ends worth living?

Granted, I am making a big fucking deal over one guy who read one excerpt of my story. Who knows how he would feel about the big picture? I can't say. But after some bitching to Craig, who I thank for letting me vent, I realized that I'm losing my own perspective. Who am I writing this for, really? Is this my manifesto of sorts? Is writing a novel my own way of combining three of my loves-- science fiction, history, and social commentary? Is it a window into the world I grew up, and the world I live in now? Or is it about pleasing people? I will never write a novel every person in the world loves. I have no illusions about that. But, if I ever get published and walk into Barnes and Nobles, and see my book sitting the recently created "Teen Paranormal" shelf, I may swallow a bottle of pills.

I'm not claiming to be some undiscovered, unappreciated Mark Twain or anything. It just pisses me off how quickly people are prepared to put everything in neat, labeled boxes. Sure, my story is about people who are immortal and have super powers. But, Star Trek was about a group of space travelers. Did that make it any less noteworthy? The network cancelled it. They didn't want a show that made you think, they wanted a show with explosions, creatures of the week, and fist fights. It was referred to as a western in space. But, the fans got the message. They read between the lines. They related to characters, some even found reasons to live in this silly little science fiction show. And, now Gene Roddenberry is a science fiction titan. He used that genre to open people's eyes to the world around them-- expose prejudice, injustice, and ignorance. That is all I want to do. Leave some impression on this planet that proved I existed, that I had a mind and a voice, and a story I thought was worth telling. Maybe it was about silly things like super powers and love and revenge, but fuck, can't it be more than that? Can't that just be the vehicle I use to paint a bigger picture?

People are going to hate this story. Others are going to love it. The majority of people aren't going to bother to even read it. Most people won't even get it. To them, it's going to be face value for them. But, somewhere, someone on the planet may pick it up, and appreciate the effort I put into it. And, it may change their mind about something hey thought they were sure about. If a story I write can do that, it is all worth it. Of course, that is all if I can even get someone to publish the damn thing.

In the end, I have to remember, I am the one devoting my life and time and money and energy into this endeavor. I am the only person that needs to matter. Everyone else can join me, or they can go to hell.

The Accidental Threesome

Last night, a cursory search of the new additions to NetFlix revealed that they had finally placed How I Met Your Mother on Watch Instantly. So, I added it to the Instant Queue, and waited for Wyatt to get home from Jam Night at Kyle's so we could watch a few episodes of the last season, which we have yet to see. A few episodes turned into ten or more, and we didn't end up going to bed until after four in the morning. Nothing really for Wyatt, working third shift, but I had woken up early that day and was approaching twenty-four hours of straight awakeness. I was beginning to get a headache when we laid done. I did not take anything for it though because I figured it was just my body trying to tell me, "Hey Lady! This sharp pulsing pain in the middle of your brain is a warning alarm. Your brain will shut down in approximately ten minutes if you don't go to fucking bed." That being said, I was approaching a point we will call... cranky... yeah, that's the word we'll go with.

While lying in bed, I made the mistake of asking Wyatt a question. It was a mistake for two reasons. Reason 1-- I already knew the answer. Reason 2-- I knew the answer annoys Wyatt, but he refuses to do anything about it, because Wyatt is the guy that just sits back and lets shit roll. Shit that should not roll. Shit that should be addressed by adults, because we are mature-- well, that is a malleable term in my case, but I digress-- and sometimes you have to say things to people that they need to hear. Things that they don't want to hear, and sometimes, that you don't even want to say. But that is part of what being an adult is-- doing stuff you don't like or are uncomfortable with. It builds character and makes you stronger, even if you whinge about it a lot.

Well, I tried to make this point, and Wyatt took the route of just picking on me as a response. For some unknown to me reason, he thinks this is cute. He thinks this is flirting. This is not flirting. Trying to annoy someone to the point they fight with you is not flirting. Flirting requires wit.

My response to his taunting, "If you're going to pick on me, can't you at least try to be flirty about it? Why can't you be clever with your brain?"

Yes. There is no need to point out the irony in that sentence, because as previously stated, I had been up for almost twenty-four hours. Did I mentioned we had done a little drinking? No, I forgot that. We had been drinking. My brain was flushed with two drinks and deprived of sleep. No one was expecting me to be clever with my brain. I wasn't the one on trial here-- Wyatt was.

I don't want to be picked on like some third grade girl. Wyatt seems to have digressed from when we were first dating in his affection and flirting ability. He used to do amazingly romantic things, like the time he drove all the way from Bloomington-- sixty miles-- in a fucking blizzard to follow me home from school and make sure I was safe. Um. Sploosh. Flash forward seven years later, and Wyatt thinks flirting and romance is pissing me off to the point I want to punch him, because to him it is fun. I think we are both past the "I pick on you because I like you stage". If we are going to pick on each other, can't we at least be sexy about it? Can't we banter? I don't want Calvin hitting Susie with a water balloon type of flirting. I want the Doctor and River kind of flirting. Back and forth, tit for tat, clever with your brain kind of stuff. Sure, that might annoy me a little, but it also hot.

Doctor: River you have that face on again.
River: What face is that Doctor?
Doctor: The he's hot when he's clever face.
River: This is my normal face, Doctor.
Doctor: Precisely. (Sexy smirk)

SPLOOOSH! Hot. Take some notes.

But, because he is Wyatt, his response to Why can't you be clever with your brain? was to, without a word, simple roll over on top of me to squish me until I could not breathe.

For the rest of my life, I will always be Susie I guess. So, as I laid there, under hundred of pounds of my husband, oxygen squeezing slowly from my flattened lungs, using up whatever excess I had to kind of struggle, blinded by the sleep mask I could not remove because my arms are pinned under his weight, I hear:

"Are you licking my shoulder!?"

WTF? "No. My mouth is close to your shoulder, but I am definitely not licking it!"

Still blinded, I hear, "Damn it, Moe!"

A that point Wyatt lifts up, and says "Look."

Finally able to move, and breathe, I removed my mask to see that Moe had silently hopped into Wyatt's spot on the bed that he had vacated to squish me. While Wyatt laid on top of me, Moe was licking him shoulders from behind.

Last night I discovered my dog is better at flirting that my husband.