Criticism: The Best Bad Friend A Writer Can Have

Posted on August 13, 2014 by clubfredbaja

broken table with three legs

REJECTION

If you’re a writer, that word elicits a very specific set of emotions. Never mind the F word, the real taboo for us is the R word. And any kind of unfavourable critique or criticism of our work can, and often does, feel like a slightly less gut-churning variety of rejection.

You are not good enough.

Can you hear those words behind all the other words?

The problem is that if you want your words to one day pay your rent and buy the occasional bottle of gin, you must get good at the word-making job. How do you get good without learning what needs fixing? You can’t. You won’t.

Criticism is one of the most valuable and useful tools in a writer’s toolbox. Ironically, it’s also the one we are most happy avoiding, ignoring, or “accidentally” dropping down a sewer. Don’t. Look at the tool. Pick it up. Feel the weight in your hand. Get to know it. It will never be a fun tool to use but it can get easier if you’re willing.

I have been told that I’m “so good at taking criticism on [my] writing that [I] should teach a course about it”*. I’m not sure that’s true but I do know that, thanks to years in the film biz, I have a thick skin and I am able to separate myself from my work long enough to learn important lessons before I drown my sorrows in martinis. Because of this, I’m going to share some of my thoughts here. Hopefully, this will be helpful to those of you struggling with accepting critiques but, as always, YKMM (your kilometerage may vary).

*Deb O’Keefe wins all the sweetie-pie awards
 

1. The best defense is no defense

A writer’s first instinct is to defend against any kind of criticism, especially when it touches on one of our darlings. Hands off my darlings, creep!

When we defend, however, we shut our ears and/or eyes. We close off the passages through which helpful information must pass. Not only that, we also make those providing the useful information hesitant to share any more of it.

Do you want to waste your time and energy carefully reading and dissecting someone’s work if they won’t even listen to the results?

No. Neither do I.

I know it’s difficult, seemingly impossible at times, but SHUT YOUR MOUTH. You still may be arguing in your head but at the very least you won’t annoy the person delivering the information and risk losing a valuable asset.

The more your practice this one action—

SHUT YOUR MOUTH!

–the easier it will get and the more likely you will be to develop real listening skills.

Which leads me to my next thought…

2. Hearing is not listening. Reading is not learning.

Have you ever watched someone nod and say “mm, hm” while you’re talking, all the while knowing that they are not listening to a word you’re saying? Sure, they can hear the sounds you’re making but they’re not absorbing any of the information. They’re not listening.

Learning is a conscious act. It requires us to focus and digest what we hear and read. Most of us are poor listeners at the best of times but when we’re listening to criticism?

La la la, I can’t hear you.

The next step after shutting your mouth is opening your mind. For this, you will need to actively read and listen to critiques.

Start small. Focus on consciously and actively listening or reading for a set amount of time. Repeat short summaries of the information in your head, or jot them down, as you read or listen.

  • The reader finds this chapter too slow.
  • The reader is confused by the number of characters speaking in this scene.
  • The reader doesn’t think the protagonist’s motivation is plausible.

Attach no judgment to the summaries. The second you start thinking, “She’s totally wrong, I need that ten page prologue!” you have stopped listening.

3. This is a partnership

Yes, some people are petty and evil, and some people take pleasure it criticizing other people’s work because they are vampires who want to suck every ounce of joy from the universe, but don’t start from that assumption.

Most people who take the time to critique your work want to help you. They want you to write a better story, novel, or poem. They want to see you succeed. They don’t want to hurt your feelings. Some will be kinder than others, but that doesn’t mean the bluntly delivered critique is offered with any less love than the gentle one that comes with cookies, soft pillows, and optional on-top-of-clothes snuggling.

The more you engage with readers willing to offer you feedback, the more you will be able to filter out the aforementioned vampires and build a core group of writing partners. Which sounds very corporate now that I see it in print. Hm…

Writing posse? Writing league? Writing clan?

Whatever. Just stop looking at those people as the enemy. Skim through the acknowledgments of any best selling novel and you are bound to read many heartfelt thanks to the books’ editors. Professional, successful writers understand the concept of partnership and know how much they owe to the folks who tell them, “No, that’s just not working.”

4. Drill, baby, drill!

Something I find that softens the blow of a critique is to get involved and ask questions. It’s easy, it can be crazy helpful, and it shows your Writing Comrades(?) that you value their work.

For example, if the person giving you feedback says that she finds your protagonist’s motivation implausible, ask why. Then go further. Toss out some what ifs.

“What if I gave him a pet elephant in the first chapter? What if the elephant was blind because he was abused by a circus clown? Would that make my hero launching missiles at the traveling circus more plausible?”

Whenever possible, I love turning critiques into brain storming sessions. I’ve gotten some fantastic ideas this way and you’d be amazed how helpful an objective viewpoint can be.

Focus on drilling down from the general to the specific. “Chapter 11 was really slow” is not nearly as helpful as, “All that back story in Chapter 11 took me out of the moment, and then there was a page of exposition about the blind elephant the hero had as a pet, which didn’t do anything to move the story forward and covered the same ground as Chapter 1.” Drill, drill, drill.

5. Your writing is not you

The thing about making art is that you have to shove your hand into your chest and rip out your heart and squeeze its juices onto your creation, which is painful and messy and probably unsanitary. Next, you hand the thing with your heart juice all over it to someone else and if that someone else doesn’t love it then, in a weird way, they are saying they don’t love you. You are not loved. You are a loser and should crawl in your hole and live off dryer lint for the rest of your pathetic and talentless life!

Except that’s all bullshit. You know that, right?

Making art—in this case some form of writing—requires all that heart squeezing business but once the thing is made it is, simply, a thing. It is not you. It is an object.

A table maker may put his heart and soul into making a table but if the table only has three legs, well, it doesn’t mean the table maker is a loser, it means he has to go back and figure out how to put on a fourth leg. The table is an object. Objects can be fixed.

A manuscript is also an object. Objects can be _________.

Or maybe they can’t be fixed. It happens. In that case, you have to learn your lessons and start over again from scratch. That sucks but that’s how you learn to make tables that don’t fall over.

Start thinking of your finished drafts as objects, things that are separate from you. Things that are not you. Tables, perhaps.

6. Time, the great softener

Once upon a time I stumbled across an online writing group that had read and critiqued a short-short story of mine that had placed highly in a Writer’s Digest competition. All the readers in this group hated the story, though I think one commenter said something vaguely nice-ish about it. The worst, however, was a man who not only tore the story to shreds but suggested that the competition was based on votes by peers and that I had clearly only won because I was popular, not because I possessed any talent.

What? I won that competition fair and square! No one voted for me. MY STORY WAS #2 OUT OF ALMOST 8000 ENTRIES! I. HAD. TALENT!!!!

I lost it.

My brain burst out of my head and left my fingers to type blindly on the keyboard. I left an angry reply in the comments of the writer’s forum (two years after the last comment had been made), and even tracked down the man who had ignited my outrage and then posted angry comments on his blog. He replied and publicly apologized for his mistake but my hurt did not subside and I stewed for weeks.

I look back at that incident and cringe. The story was okay but it wasn’t great. It certainly isn’t the story I would want first time readers of my work to seek out. And, yet, thanks to my ragey outpouring and demands for internet justice, if you Googled my name the link to that critique forum would come up on the first page. For years. Blerg.

Hit-me-in-the-head-with-a-hammer lesson learned. If something someone says or writes about your work makes you angry, wait a minimum of forty-eight hours before responding. Go punch an inanimate object. Take a twenty mile walk. Uphill. Buy a voodoo doll. Write a short story about a stupid critic who gets eaten by zombie llamas. In other words… WAIT.

The more time that passes, the less a bad review or critique will hurt. This is particularly important if you’re aiming for a long professional career. Throwing a tantrum endears you to no one, will more than likely make people not take you seriously, and may draw attention to something that’s better off left to disappear into the ether.

Put down the keyboard. Put your hands in the air. Back away.

Keep walking.

Wait.

7. It gets better

The first negative feedback you get on your writing will hurt. You may cry. You may vow to never write again. You may burn your work. (Just make sure it’s a printed copy and not the work on your laptop or tablet).

These reactions are normal. You are not alone. Say it out loud: I AM NOT ALONE.

Pout and cry and drink too many martinis but don’t give up.

You will recover. You will write again. You will dig that story out of the fireplace, dust off the ashes, and start working on fixing your mistakes. The more you do this, the more good comments you will hear about your writing and the less bad comments will sting when they come.

I know you don’t want to believe it but, if you tough it out, one day you’ll be thankful for all those jerks who pointed out that your table only had three legs.

Remember to thank them.

Until next time, I hope this finds you happy, healthy, and lovin’ life!

Kristene

My Thanks

In no particular order, I owe a huge debt to the following people who have taken the time to read my work and offer feedback, (Apologies to anyone I forget, it’s not intentional).

If my table has four legs now, I owe it to…

Helmi Braches (who also urged me to learn how to copy edit my own work as much as possible), Sue McIntyre (AKA MomPoet), Michael Kerr, Gale Parchoma, all the other members of the Shoreline Writers Society whose names have slipped my aging memory, Chris Bennett (who took time out of a very busy life to read some of my earliest and roughest stories), Terri Myers, Megan McLeod, Pat and Joyce Roney, Michael Skog (to whom I owe sooooo many reciprocal critiques it’s not even funny), Nancy Whelan (best mom-in-law ever), Liz Meyer, John Labbe, Ruth-Ann Quarles (AKA Mom II and one of my biggest cheerleaders), Brian D’Eon, Ross Klatte, Sandra Hartline, Morty Mint, Johann von Winternitz,Diana Cole, Margaret Hornby, Deb Macatumpag (wherever you are, thank you), Andy Rogers, Anne DeGrace, Jennifer Craig, Vangie Bergum, Rita Moir, Sarah Butler, Verna Relkoff, Sharmaine Grey, Darcey Lutz, Steve Thornton (who taught me more about copy and line editing than I can ever hope to remember), Deborah O’Keefe, and of course my long-suffering patron of the arts, Fred Perron, who must read my work and comment whether he wants to or not.

Posted in Indie publishing, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Politically Incorrect Snowflake

Posted on August 5, 2014 by clubfredbaja

special little snowflakeSometimes, throwaway comments stick. Case in point: an aside by a friend of mine during a meeting a few years back.

“We’re all special snowflakes, so no one is,” she said, in that sing-song voice, loaded with sarcasm, that always cracks me up.

This year’s stint in Ucluelet has brought me face to face with the backlash against political correctness. I’ve lost count of how many times I have heard, “I guess we’re supposed to call them ‘First Nations’ now”, accompanied by an eyeroll, in less than three months.

Take off the shirt of this town and you will see the collar is a bold, unmistakable blue. Ukee was built on logging and fishing. Long after neighbouring Tofino became a hippie paradise and the two industries that once supported this peninsula were already in rapid decline, Ukee held onto its roots. Coffee shops and eco-tours are only beginning to sprout in this rocky ground. And while I appreciate the availability of coconut milk and Zevia cola at the local grocery store, it’s exactly Ukee’s no nonsense vibe that has always appealed to me over the more popular, and gentler, Tofino.

While I know my right wing friends consider me a dyed-in-the-organic-fair-trade-wool tree hugger, on the grand spectrum of liberal vs conservative thinking, I actually fall just left of center. Trust me, in the Kootenays I am about one offshore shell company away from being a Republican.

So how do I feel about political correctness?

Honestly?

Torn.

Equity, equality, sustainability, respect, empathy, these are all words I associate with political correctness. Good words. Words that make our world a better place.

And yet…

There’s something repellant to me about the idea of a world where all the rough edges have been filed off and humans walk around in psychological bubble wrap.

My first stunt job was on a horrible and short-lived TV show called University Hospital. When I got the call, I was asked if I could do a dive roll. Of course I could do a dive roll! Pffft, easy-peasy. The job was mine and all I needed to do was bring myself and some elbow and knee pads (neither of which I owned), to set with me.

Cut to take number Oh My Cod Not Again: The stunt coordinator is standing about two inches from my face shouting at me. “YOU ARE FUCKING UP THE SHOT!” I am terrified. Not of the car I must narrowly avoid getting mashed by, but of the man in my face who is so angry he is spraying me with saliva.

My perfectly executed dive roll looked ridiculous. I had to make it look messy—like how a real woman would look if she was out jogging and the guy stalking her tried to run her down with his car and she had to dive out of the way at the last second. I was fucking up the shot.

Seriously shaken by the verbal flogging, I did the gag again and this time I made it messy.

At the end of the day, the frothing-at-the-mouth stunt coordinator slapped his arm around my shoulders and said, “Great job! I’m giving you six hundred bucks.” (That was just my adjustment AKA “danger pay”).

He could have given me ten dollars. All I cared about was that I had done my first stunt. I had overcome my fear, I hadn’t cracked under pressure, I’d learned how to fix mistakes on the fly, and I was not in the hospital or the morgue. I may have hated and feared Frothing-At-The-Mouth in the moment but he pushed me hard enough to get the job done and, in the bigger picture, that was probably the perfect introduction to a career where weakness could be fatal.

Years later, I would find out that the stuntman driving the car that day had written “HAS GUTS!” on the top of my 8 x 10 head shot. Yay, self-esteem!

In a perfectly politically correct world, Frothing-At-The-Mouth would have been forced to attend anger management classes. The production company would have offered me some kind of compensation for my emotional trauma, both in dollars and in some form of therapy. We could have all gone home happy that justice prevailed and the victim was being cared for.

I’m glad that world does not exist. I am not a victim. This does not mean that everything that happened to me during my time in the film business was acceptable and should have been tolerated. (To this day I regret not speaking up about some of the abuse I put up with simply out of fear of rocking the boat and getting myself blacklisted). But I came out of that time with a lot of assets that have served me well in all facets of my life.

Another woman may have cracked under Frothing-At-The-Mouth’s tirade. You know what? That would have been okay. Not everyone is cut out for everything. Not everyone is good at everything. We aren’t all special little snowflakes in everything we do.

And yet…

Sometimes there are real victims and what they suffer ripples out across generations.

I know just a little of what happened to the native people of BC right up to a very short time ago. The systematic abuse—sexual, physical, psychological—that went on is horrific and a black mark on Canadian history. There’s a lot of controversy about what is owed, or not, to the native people of BC, and lots of grey areas with no simple solutions.

There are difficult conversations ahead. Difficult and necessary.

On one issue, however, I see clearly. If First Nations is what these people ask to be called, that is what I will call them. If you consider that too politically correct, I don’t care. When you survive this, I’ll call you whatever the heck you want to be called.

We’re not all special snowflakes and the sooner we get that through our skulls the better off we’ll be.

But we are all human and most of us deserve, at the very least, a little respect.

Until next time, I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and lovin’ life!

Posted in News and politics | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Here’s Why *I* Go To The Gym

Posted on July 27, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Every now and then I come across something that triggers insta-rage. Today it was this link, exhorting that women go to the gym because they want to have bodies like the ones shown in the photos (and that men go to the gym to ogle those bodies).

Wrong.

Here’s why I go to the gym… and run, and play tennis, and eat well, and appreciate the luxury of having a healthy body…

Lorraine Marrington

My mother, Lorraine Marrington, spent almost a decade in chronic pain. She endured rounds of chemo and radiation and, near the end of her life, she could barely stand.

My mom’s final and greatest lesson to me was to never take my health for granted.

I don’t go to the gym to get a bitchin’ bikini body. I don’t go to the gym so men can ogle my ass.

I go to the gym because one day it might be me in that hospital bed. Until then, every drop of sweat is a victory, and every victory is dedicated to my mom.

Kristene Perron running triathlon

Why do you go to the gym?

Posted in Health and wellness, Sports, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

The Real Word Crime

Posted on July 23, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Silence typed on a page

So, Weird Al’s “Word Crimes” is being passed among writers, editors, and Defenders of the English Language like ear plugs at a Yoko Ono performance.

 

Grammaristas are all aflutter over a parody video that educates, offends, and confuses in equal measure.

Me? I’m happy that people are talking about language but for entirely selfish reasons. I’m not about to dissect a comedy video as if it were a work by Dostoyevsky—even if Weird Al himself acknowledges there’s a good dose of truth in the silliness—but I will talk about language, grammar, spelling, and prejudice.

As a human being, living and interacting with other human beings who talk and write at or near me, I side with the Weird Als of the world. Clear, concise communication makes life easier in so many ways. As a writer and reader of fiction, however, I am far more in the Stephen Fry camp. Language used creatively is funalicious.

When people complain about word crimes, what they so often miss is intention.

“I’ll see you later” tells me that you plan on seeing me (literally or figuratively) at some point in the near future.

“L8” tells me the same thing but also conveys the message that I am part of your tribe. We know and trust each other well enough that we can comfortably shed our formal grammar skin and walk around with our participles dangling. Oooh, feels so nice in the cool breeze!

The intention of the first sentence is pure communication. The intention of the second sentence is both communication and social bonding. We pick up on these intentions subconsciously but they inform how we feel about the people around us.

Before our private communications became public, tribal language served an important purpose: to include or exclude.

Remember this linguistic subculture from the 80’s?

Gag me with a verb!

But times have changed and the informal exchanges that only happened face-to-face, or via telephone or paper letter, now play out online where everyone can see them. What was once strictly tribal language has become, simply, language. Hordes of people use written slang such as L8, B4, whatevs, defo, totes, and, of course, LOL, in place of their linguistically correct counterparts, regardless of who they are communicating with or where the words are posted.

The lines have blurred. Pun intended, Robin Thicke.

Combine tribal language with poor spelling and a general lack of grammar comprehension (when to use their, there, and they’re, springs to mind), and what you have is an internet experience that is fingernails on a chalkboard x 1000 to anyone who works with the English language. Some days I have to walk away from Facebook lest I start pelting random strangers with dictionaries.

What keeps me from melting down and running into the street screaming, “IT’S SPELLED D-E-F-I-N-I-T-E-L-Y  NOT  D-E-F-I-A-N-T-L-Y!”  is a)my patience b)my sense of humour c) gin d) more gin and e) my belief that imperfect written communication is better than no written communication at all.

In other words, A for effort everyone.

This view did not come easily and I still need frequent self-reminders to drop my grammar snobbery when I’m out in the non-word nerd world. But what bothers me more than misused apostrophes is when a friend apologizes to me for their poor spelling or grammar.

“Don’t.” I want to tell them. “Don’t ever apologize to me for my twatness. And don’t ever censor yourself or stop communicating with me because you’re afraid I’ll judge you. I love you more than commas. Period.”

I’ve also embarrassed myself a few times. Most notably, a couple of years back, when I jumped into an online RPG (role playing game and not the sexy kind, pervert), for a little while. It was a vampire story and lots of fun, even though I was/am vampired-out. Most of my interactions were with Josh and another friend, Roy, but there were some scenes involving multiple characters written by people I had never met. One of these writers, to my eyes, was borderline illiterate. Not something I expected, or particularly enjoyed, in a written storytelling game.

Ham-brained idiot that I can be, I shared my observation with Josh, who very kindly and gently informed me that the player in question was dyslexic. Josh did not say, “IT’S JUST A GAME, MORON!”, but I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. So, here’s this guy just trying to have fun with all his friends, making up a story about vampires and werewolves (and a bar fight over bendy vs straight straws, which remains one of my favourite scenes of all time), and along I come in my shiny jack boots and peaked cap announcing that he should be dragged away and hung by the toenails until he can properly conjugate verbs.

Excuse me while I slink off to a dark corner and hide.

Yes, the Weird Al video is funny to those of us in the tribe but, like so much else in life, the rules are not black and white. My hackles still rise when I see someone being lazy with language, and I’m probably not going to stop posting grammar and spelling jokes on social media, but judging someone by their use of language is no different than judging them by the clothes they wear, the car they drive, or their postal code. Some of the brightest people I know wouldn’t have the faintest idea what a gerund is or when to use “that” vs “which”. If I make them feel bad for that, well, then I’m the asshole in that story.

This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t aim for better language skills. What’s the down side of being a better communicator? But don’t let the Grammar Police stop you from getting your word on, either. The worst word crime is bullying people into silence.

Illegitimi non carborundum!

As for the rest of us linguistic sticks in the mud, lighten up, have fun, and to quote the late, and wonderful, Jay Lake…

…be kind. It costs you nothing and makes the world around you a better place.

Until next time, I hope this finds you happy, healthy, and lovin’ life!

Posted in Entertainment, Humour and satire, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

The Day I Talked To Ralph Macchio

Posted on July 9, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Last night I stumbled upon this video of Jack Gleeson, the young actor who played the much-hated Joffrey on HBO’s Game of Thrones. The video is long and comes with a lot of um’s and uh’s but the essay he reads aloud is a good examination of the phenomenon of celebrity worship in our culture.

For a long time I’ve been mildly amused by the fuss over actors, musicians, sports figures and the like, but there’s been a shift in the past few years. We now make a fuss over any person we deem a “celebrity”, even if their claim to fame is an unkempt beard and blatantly racist comments in favour of the Jim Crow South. It’s bizarre.

But I can’t point a finger without looking at the three pointing back at me. I was lucky; I had the celebrity awe exorcised from me. Before that, I was just like anyone else.

My first job on a film set was in my late teens. I’d signed up with an extras agency and this was my first call. The movie was the unmemorable Distant Thunder, which starred Ralph Macchio and John Lithgow. I don’t think I slept more than a few hours the night before. I WAS GOING TO BE IN THE SAME ROOM AS THE KARATE KID!

For three days, I ate Costco muffins and sat in rooms that were alternately freezing and stiflingly hot. The pace of filming made watching paint dry look thrilling. But…BUT…the actors were often right there, right where I could see them! And at one point Ralph Macchio spoke…wait for it…right to me! To me! He made words with his mouth, directly at me, and I made words directly back at him.

BEST DAY EVER!

Or was it?

Truthfully, I can’t remember what Ralph said. It wasn’t profound, just the kind of conversation people make when they’re standing around bored. He probably said something like, “Wow, those chocolate Costco muffins are really chocolately, huh?” In the Karate Kid, Macchio was lean, all sinew and super wax-on/wax-off power. In person, he was actually a bit pear shaped and doughy. And I was not overwhelmed by his acting prowess—not that those scenes were exactly Oscar material, to be fair.

In short, he was just a regular guy. And, in the spectrum of actor personalities, that’s not so bad.

If you had told me, on that day, The Day Ralph Macchio Spoke To Me, that there would come a time when I would not only not care about talking to famous actors but also that I would often deliberately avoid it, I would have pelted you with Costco muffins. And yet that’s exactly what happened.

stars are just like usThere’s a celebrity ragazine I read as a guilty pleasure if it happens to be close at hand when I get my hair cut three or four times a year. In it, there’s a section titled, “Stars–they’re just like us!”. This is where you see famous people buying groceries or pushing their kids on the swings or picking their noses. You’re supposed to look at these photos and be both amazed and comforted that these godlike creatures must indeed perform human acts…just like us. GASP!

Yeaaaaaah. They’re like us but they’re not. Yes, they eat food, and poop, and sleep, but many times that’s where the similarities end. You can’t spend your life in a bubble, working at a job where people follow you around tending to your every whim, and where thousands, or tens of thousands, or millions, of people hang on your every word and action, and not be changed by that. Some can handle it. Lots can’t.

Oddly, actors in the UK seem to do a much better job of staying “normal” than their US counterparts. Is it the tea? I like to think so.

As a stunt performer, you are in a strange position when it comes to celebrities. You don’t just work with them, you have to “be” them. You’re not there to be a person getting hit by a bus, you’re there to look like Tom Hanks getting hit by a bus. You’re there to make the actor look good and to keep them safe, which requires a certain degree of trust and intimacy. Stunt performers can spend months on set, sometimes in stressful conditions, and under those circumstances you’re going to see a version of the celebrity that you won’t see on a talk show or in a “candid” interview.

Most of the time, things go well. Actors have a vested interest in maintaining a good working relationship with their stunt doubles. Quirks are overlooked, for the most part, because…actors. But every now and then you have an opportunity to double someone of whom you have been a fan, and that’s when dreams can get smashed.

My first experience with this happened on a TV movie. I won’t name the actress (not that many people would know her name anymore) but I will say that she was one of the leads on a popular 90’s TV show. I’d always loved her character—smart, independent, funny, strong—and thought she did a brilliant job bringing those qualities to life. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Cue the sad music.

She was nice. She was also a complete ditz. She was everyone’s image of the dumb blonde except without the blondeness. There’s nothing wrong with that, she seemed happy, but I could not reconcile the person I “knew” from TV and from magazine interviews with the person standing in front of me giggling like an idiot.

A disappointing moment but a lesson I’ve never forgotten.

My story is tame compared to others. An old friend of mine practically jumped out of her skin when she learned she would be doubling Pam Grier. We all want to see heroes on screen that look like us. Back in the day, it was difficult to find female action heroes, never mind black female action heroes. Enter, Foxy Brown. Yow! When the long awaited meeting occurred, my friend introduced herself and politely told Ms. Grier that she had been an inspiration. Grier’s response was one of the worst and rudest snubs I’ve ever heard. My friend walked away deflated and disgusted.

I have a long list of stories like this from my former stunt co-workers. Combine that with some of the on-set behaviours we witnessed—Christian Bale was not the first actor to throw a tantrum on set, he was just unlucky enough to get caught on film—and you have a pretty bleak picture of the people our society bestows with the honour of “celebrity”.

Work in the business long enough and, one by one, all your actor heroes will fall.

Don’t despair, there are good folks in the business, too. Ironically, the actors who traditionally play villains are often the nicest people in real life. Renowned soap opera bad girl, Susan Lucci, was one of the sweetest and classiest people I ever met on a film set. Maybe I caught her on a good day, but I’m going to hold onto that happy memory.

My point is merely that image and reality can reside light years apart from each other. When you buy into the celebrity culture, you’re buying into a lie.

And the lie was bad enough when it was all about people with actual skills. Now, with the explosion of reality TV, the lie has spread like a virulent strain of mouth herpes.

Who is Kim Kardashian? Why does anyone care about her? Why do I even know her name? Explain this to me.

The herpes has spread down into the population of us common folks, too, via social media.

Popularity is no longer a minor blip on the radar in our adolescent years. Popularity can now be quantified. It has a numerical value. Look to the right of this post and you will see a line that tells you the Coconut Chronicles has 1069 followers. JOIN THEM! Below that, a box announces that 167 people “like” Warpworld on Facebook. LIKE IT! And if you head over to Twitter you’ll see I currently have 841 followers. FOLLOW ME!

What does any of that mean?

Am I a more valuable person than the woman with 839 Twitter followers? A less valuable person than the person with 852 followers? Does the “quality” of my followers matter? Shouldn’t it squick us out just a little bit that we have “followers”?

There are entire businesses now devoted to getting you more likes and follows and increasing your numerical social status.

Oh wait…someone else just liked Warpworld. Make that 168.

performing monkey

The author at work

The worst part is that I can’t opt out of the system without risking my career. As an author, particularly as an indie author, I need to be seen. I need to shove my big face in every body else’s face and do what I can to collect likes and follows and favourites and pieces of kibble just so that my little scribbles can hopefully be found in the ocean of noise. And, if I told you the thought of thousands of screaming fans lined up for me to sign copies of my book doesn’t elicit masturbatory thoughts, I’d be a liar of Godzilla-like proportions.

I would also be lying if I didn’t confess that the thought of thousands of screaming fans also terrifies me. If that dream/nightmare came true then I might end up as someone else’s celebrity hero. I couldn’t be me anymore. There would be expectations. What if I had a bad day and sniped at a fan and they then went on to write a blog post about how all celebrities are shite and how their dream was smashed?

I just want to write stories people like. I care if readers like my stories, I don’t care if they like me.

And yet, it matters.

I think of that actress who disappointed me and I wonder if I could watch her work now and still lose myself in her character? I don’t know. I can say the same of the books I read. Once upon a time, all I knew about authors were their names and maybe what they looked like, thanks to the photo at the back of the book. Story was everything. The only thing. Now, authors are public figures and, for reader me, that’s not always a good thing.

There’s a big kerfuffle going on the publishing world right now again between two corporate powerhouses who shall remain nameless because I am sick of hearing their names. Battle lines have been drawn and authors are taking sides. I do not have a side. I will not be taking a side. As Scalzi points out so eloquently, this is about business.

In the meantime, however, I watch the authors on both sides of this conflict, as well as on the sidelines, behaving in ways I find unappealing (at best). This makes me less enthusiastic about seeking out their work to read. That bothers me. I want to separate artist from art, person from product, but I’m not sure I can.

Hey, there are actors whose work I will never pay to watch, why should the work of an ill-behaved author be any different?

Are people now products? Is fame the real commodity?

I don’t have any answers, only questions. More every day.

What will the future look like? Will we all be reduced to popularity numbers? Will this cult of celebrity grow until fame is meaningless? Can I succeed as an author without sacrificing at least part of who I am and what I believe? Have I done that already, before success has even arrived?

I know I can’t stop the machine but I can ask you, my friends and…ugh…followers to spend a few minutes thinking about the cult of celebrity. I can tell you that you are not a number.

I can assure you a million likes will never equal one real life person who loves you.

Posted in Entertainment, Indie publishing, Life at Work, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

The Thing I Didn’t Want To Talk About

Posted on July 2, 2014 by clubfredbaja

I’m interrupting my regularly scheduled “real” work because…hell, because I’m so angry and frustrated I could punch a baby sea otter in the mouth. Every time I’ve thought about posting a Coconut Chronicle on this subject I have wimped out, for reasons that also make me otter-punching mad.

Sea Otters

What did she say?

I am in perimenopause. There, I said it. Some of my close friends know this already but it’s not a fact I’ve shared widely. My doctor gave me the news a couple years ago. It’s not life threatening or anything, it’s just life annoying, especially at my “young” age.

What bothers me most about this condition (is that the right word?): no one talks about it. When the symptoms first presented—non-stop bleeding, fatigue, crazy hormonal swings—I panicked. Out of the blue, my body went from normal to WHOA, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE? There was only one logical conclusion: I was dying of cancer or some other terrible disease.

When the blood results came in and I found out I had what every woman eventually gets, just a lot earlier, my first thought was: Well, why didn’t anyone ever warn me about this?

Why? Because we live in a society where “female problems” have been taboo for a long time. Dirty, dark little secrets, involving blood and other ickyness. Nice women don’t talk about such things. I don’t think I even knew what menopause was until I heard it on TV in my teens. In our family, it was referred to as the “change of life”.

“She’s going through the change of life.”

Makes it all sound so pleasant, as if women wake up out of their cocoons one day with beautiful multi-coloured wings and gently float away on the breeze.

How about a new phrase that captures the pure hell menopause can be for some women? Sweaty Blood Bath of Rage, for example.

Honestly, I know it’s not the most pleasant topic but it sure would have been a lot easier on me (and other women, I’m guessing) if I’d at least had some inkling of what to expect. The few menopausal and post-menopausal female friends I’ve talked to since my “diagnosis” have shared a similar story.

“Oh yeah, I thought I was dying of some horrific disease until my doctor told me what it was.”

What? How do we go through decades surrounded by older women who have been-there-done-that and still find ourselves in shock at this bizarre body change? Is this some kind of hormonal Fight Club initiation? The first rule of menopause is you don’t talk about menopause.

What kind of society would rather let women think they’re dying rather than just openly talk about a natural human process? Hm, well, maybe the same society that gets a collective case of the vapors if a woman on stage accidentally reveals a bare nipple.

So, younger women or women my own age who have not been visited by the hormone fairy yet, consider this a public service announcement. At some point in your forties or fifties, your body is going to go whacko. If you find yourself crying at a Taco Bell commercial—Oh, the shredded beef reminds me of my shredded dreams WAAAA!—or bleeding so much you are certain you must have accidentally swallowed a Swiss Army knife, or becoming oddly tired to the point of narcolepsy, or waking up so drenched in sweat you need a pint of Gatorade to rehydrate, don’t panic. I repeat: don’t panic.

Do go to your doctor and get your blood tested.

Ironically, of all the weird symptoms I noticed (and mine are mild, apparently), it was the flood of emotions that first made me think that something was very wrong. I felt myself tearing up over some stupid scene on television and a voice in the back of my head said, “Um, dude, you did not even cry at the end of Old Yeller. Something is messing with your wiring.”

Yes, for the first time in my life I had big emotions that came right to the surface and that was a sign to me that I was probably dying. Not sure what that says about me.

Here are 35 symptoms of perimenopause. Fun, eh?

And why am I so frustrated this morning? Well, in short, I’m tired. Not “I just ran ten miles and I sure need to sit down for a minute” tired, but stupid, hormonal, “I just slept for eight solid hours and I still need a winch to drag my ass out of bed” tired. And I will nap today. At some point the hormone induced narcolepsy will hit and no matter where I am I will be seized with the need to get horizontal and inspect my inner eyelids. That’s not the worst part though. The worst part is that, like everything else female, I feel guilty and ashamed for being weak. It doesn’t matter that I have little to no control over what my body is doing these days, it’s a “woman thing” and our society automatically judges women things as weakness. For someone who has spent a lot of years trying to prove she is just as tough as the guys, this sucks non-existent balls.

So, screw all this secretive business.

I am perimenopausal.

I am not weak.

Sometimes I’m going to be tired for no good reason.

I am not weak.

Sometimes I’m going to cry at things I never used to cry at.

I am not weak.

Sometimes I’ll punch a baby sea otter in the face.

OK, I’ll never do that.

But even if I did…

I am not weak.

And if you’re perimenopausal or menopausal, you’re not weak either. Now go get a Kleenex, dry your eyes, and take a nap.

Until next time, I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and lovin’ the change of life,

The Princess

Posted in Health and wellness, Women's Issues | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

The Is-ness of Writing

Posted on June 18, 2014 by clubfredbaja

I have almost eaten the elephant.

Draft number two of the third Warpworld book is almost complete. It is a mammoth beast, spanning three worlds, with a plethora of perfectly paralleled plotlines. Say that last bit ten times fast, I dare you. Somehow I foolishly believed Josh and I would be finished this draft in March. Clearly, my optimism strangled my pragmatism when I wasn’t looking. Bad optimism!

Despite vastly over estimating my production capabilities, the editing has gone smoothly this time, with only a few minor episodes of metaphorical arm wrestling between me and my partner. We’ve both noticed this change and can only chalk it up to the thousands of hours of practice and our innate awesomeness.

But this noticeable improvement, along with some crazy positive comments I’ve received about the first and second books, has made me think on the craft of writing. Again.

Here’s the short version of my thoughts…

Great writers: born or made? Discuss.

And here’s the long version, which involves a lot of talk about fishing. (You have been warned.)…

Few people are born experts at anything. Unless “shitting one’s pants” can be classed as a skill, in which case all of us are born experts. No. Baby poopers and idiot savants aside, no matter what we may have a natural inclination for, we all must learn and hone the skills that will make us “great” at the thing we want to do. Some people learn quickly, others can spend years just trying to grasp the basics, but we can all improve.

But there is something else going on here. I’ve heard it said that to become a successful writer you need equal parts talent, luck, and self-discipline. But to be a “great” writer I think you need one more ingredient. I call it “is-ness”.

JUMP CUT TO THE DOCKS OF UCLUELET, BRITISH COLUMBIA, A SMALL FISHING VILLAGE ON THE EDGE OF VANCOUVER ISLAND. A TALL MAN, WHO MOVES AT THE SPEED OF A BUMBLEBEE ON COCAINE, IS OBSESSIVELY ORGANIZING AN ARRAY OF FISHING TACKLE.

Fred Perron fishing UclueletMeet my husband, Fred Perron, AKA Prez, AKA Fast Freddy.

Prez knows a little about a lot and a lot about a little. But there is one subject about which I will always trust his opinion one thousand percent: fishing.

On our latest Baja adventure, our friend Tim Thurston made a lovely speech thanking Prez for sharing all his fishing knowledge and passion with the group. He ended with a question: “Fred, why do you love to fish so much?”

Prez thought long and hard. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. I’ve always done it, it’s always been a part of my life, I never think about why.”

I know lots of people, myself included, who love fishing. But Prez? Prez IS fishing.

Fred Perron fishingWhen you see Prez with a rod and reel, you see a person so completely in their element that they become one with the surroundings. Everything he does, everywhere he goes, every waking thought he has is connected to fishing. If you took a sample of Prez’s blood and put it under a microscope, you would see the cells are shaped like little fishing hooks.

Knowing that, you might think that Prez is the best fisher in the world and that he always comes home with fish. Nope. Not true.

What is true is that failure to catch a fish is not failure to Prez. If he goes out and gets skunked, he doesn’t throw his hands up in the air and quit. No, he has to know why he was skunked. Like a fishy Sherlock Holmes, he will consider the tides, the water temperature, the weather conditions, the currents, what kind of food was available in the water, how his lures presented to the fish, what phase the moon was in, what colour underwear he was wearing, etc, etc, and on and on. There is no failure; there is only a mystery to be solved: How can I do this better? What am I missing?

Fred and Kris Perron fishTime after time, I watch him show up in a new country, in new waters, start out as the guy not catching a thing, and end by consistently being top boat at the dock.

But it gets better.

Not only does Prez succeed at fishing but he wants others to succeed at it too. He wants people to love fishing and he wants them to be every bit as good at it as he is. There’s no jealousy or scarcity mentality in him. If you ask him how to catch a fish, he will teach you.

Joyce Roney and Fred Perron fishing

Martha Roney’s first cabrilla

Um, actually, even if you don’t ask him how to catch a fish he will try to teach you.

But wait, it gets even betterer.

As much as Prez enjoys solving fishing mysteries himself, he’s not an ego machine. If the things he tries don’t work, he will happily learn from other fishers who are successful. His mind is never closed. If you can show him a way to do it better, he will listen.

Fishing, like writing, requires talent, luck, and self discipline for success. But success and greatness are not the same. To be “great” at fishing, you must “be” fishing. Fishing must be so deeply woven into you that you cannot separate yourself from it. It must transcend conscious thought. That’s the is-ness I speak of, the step beyond, the place where there is no failure or success…only more fishing.

Fred Perron fishing BajaThere is no question in Prez’s mind that he will fish until he dies or at least as long as his beat up and battered ex-stuntman body will let him. Sometimes he makes money with his fishing, often he does not, it’s all the same to him.

To me, a great writer is not someone who spews award winning prose as easily and naturally as breathing. Nor is a great writer someone who is AMAZON #1 BESTSELLER! A great writer is someone who returns and returns to the page because they must, because it is who they are.

A greater writer is writing.

I love to watch my husband fish, to see that perfect synchronicity of mind and body. It reminds me of the importance of the moment.

This one.

Right now.

My fingers moving on the keys. Keys which have been worn to a shiny patina from hours and hours of fingers on keys. Making words.

Writing.

Now.

Always.

 

Posted in Hobbies, Nature & Environment, On Scribbling, Sports | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Feminist Who Loved Men

Posted on May 28, 2014 by clubfredbaja

I couldn’t think of a better title amid my seething, but I think it’s accurate. I have embraced the moniker of feminist, as in: I actively promote the betterment of women. Let’s face it, historically, we’ve had  it pretty rough.

So the latest woman-hating whacko went on a rampage. People got angry, naturally. Many have taken their anger to the internet. I have watched the #Yesallwomen campaign unfold, with quiet solidarity.

For those unfamiliar with Twitter, I won’t bore you with a long explanation of hashtags but essentially this is a means by which anyone can join in a common conversation. In this case, women were responding both to the tragedy and to the old (oh so old) standby, “but not all men _______” (rape, murder, harass, etc), that gets used to silence women who speak up about violence against women. (Based on the assumption that women are so stupid we don’t know that not all men are the same?)

Here are a few example of these tweets:

Tweet 2

tweet 3

Tweet 4

You can read more here but be warned that some are extremely graphic.

I had not chimed in on the #yesallwomen public conversation until this evening. I have experienced bulldozer loads of misogyny in my lifetime but I’ve made my peace with that and have chosen to move forward with positivity. I did not, however, make any move to stop or stifle the other female voices who have been expressing their anger, frustration, and, (sometimes), hate in the wake of this latest crime.  They have earned that right and for too many years we women have been told to be quiet, to be nice, to be kind, to not rock the boat.

Every right and freedom I have, as a female, came from the blood, sweat, and tears of other women who would not be silent. They faced all the same criticism the #yesallwomen folks face today, and they refused to back down. Because of those women, I can vote, I have access to birth control and safe legal abortions, I can do jobs that were once closed to all women regardless of their qualifications, and I know I can report sexual assault and actually be believed. Thanks to those brave women, I am now a “person” under the law.

You do realize that, in Canada, it has been less than 100 years since women were declared “persons” under the law, don’t you?

So here I was, quiet yet supportive, watching the situation unfold and waiting for the inevitable denouement, when I see a little Facebook rant posted by a male relative that I am quite close to. He meant well, I know that. He was reacting to some of the more overtly hateful diatribes against men going on via the #yesallwomen conversation. From his vantage point, he saw the hate as pointless at best and damaging at worst. And while, in the most general sense, I agree with that sentiment, seeing a male (any male, even one I love), essentially telling women how to conduct themselves in the face of yet another misogynistic tragedy pushed all my buttons.

Yes. You can have your opinions. We’re all entitled to those.

No. You don’t get to tell us to shut up–even the hateful ones.

No. That is not a double standard. As Chuck Wendig put it, the big difference here is the result.

(Yes, the search for equality is messy.)

And, still, I refrained from comment. Until I read some of the replies, like this one…

Feminists usually start out with their heart in the right place, but their “activism” so often turns to misandry and clouds their opinions.

This generalization from a man who is angry at feminists for making generalizations about men.

Ignoring the nails-on-chalkboard condescending “oh those poor women mean well but they don’t know what they’re doing” attitude in that statement…

First, my feminism has very little to do with my heart. It has to do with equity and equality and the need for such in order to promote a healthy society. This idea (surprise!) comes from my brain. You know, where all the logic happens. And my activism, if that’s what you choose to call it, has never turned to misandry. I have never advocated hate or violence toward men. It pisses me off (as I know it pisses so many other women off) that I even have to counter my arguments in favour of equity and equality for women with the addition of “but I love men”. Finally, my “opinions” are based on facts, on statistics, and on my own personal experiences over 45 years.

And so, against all better judgement, I jumped into the fray.

What always amazes me in these arguments is how narrow they are. “My experience has been this and so therefore all the other information out there is invalid.” Look, no one’s suggesting that men aren’t ever the victims of violence (perpetrated by a male or a female) or that they don’t ever experience gender bias or sexism. But if you step back, if you step waaaaaay back, if you look at the world and not just your tiny corner of it, and then if you look at history, not just the small section you have occupied, what you will see is a trend. And it is not a trend that favours women. Not at all.

Yes, men have their own problems and their own forms of discrimination. No one is trying to take that away from you.

BUT.

Globally–we’re talking big picture here–who has the least rights and freedoms? Women or men? Who is mostly likely to be a victim of violence and/or rape perpetrated by the opposite sex? Women or men? Historically, who has been more oppressed? Women or men?

If you answered “men” to any of those, get thee to the Google and do some research.

And here’s where it just gets weird. You see, every time women come forward en masse to speak up against violence and sexism against women, EVERY TIME, there are men who stand up and tell us women (politely or otherwise) that we are doing it wrong. That they, the men, know what is best and that we, the women, should follow their directions and express our outrage in ways the men find acceptable.

Huh?

Weirder still. Our outrage becomes the conduit through which these men convey all the ways in which they suffer and they are discriminated against.

Wha?

Dude, if you’re suffering and being discriminated against that’s awful but hijacking our voices to talk about it is just…well, can you see the irony here?

(Hint: You’re doing exactly the thing you’re complaining about).

I hate hate. Which sounds weird, I know. I don’t encourage hate, let’s put it that way. But if there are women out there who need to stand up and yell and pound on their chests and decry the patriarchy and denounce all men as the devil, I’m not going to stop them. I don’t feel that way but I understand where their rage comes from. Because, like it or not, we are still less powerful than men, we still have fewer rights, we are still less privileged, we still get shot for trying to get an education, we are still stoned to death for marrying the man we love, we still have our genitals mutilated, we are still kidnapped and abandoned by our governments, we are still, STILL not equal.

My hackles were firmly up when I first joined in this Facebook discussion–mostly because these old derailment tactics have been going on as long as I’ve been alive–but ultimately I am glad it was out there. I doubt I changed the minds of the strangers who posted there but the person I love who started the conversation felt genuinely bad when he saw how angry and upset this had made me. It helped him to see how these kinds of sentiments affect real women, women who matter to him. And it gave me the opportunity to speak with him privately about my own experiences and about what it means to be a feminist, and that kind of dialogue is actually beneficial.

Whatever my personal situation may be, I support the rights of all women to speak out against violence, inequality, and misogyny. And I ask men to respect that, to respect the rights of all women, even the ones who you think are hateful, or too angry, or who make you uncomfortable. Change never comes for women when we sit back and quietly, politely, and patiently wait for it. Sometimes the voices that seem most hateful in the moment happen to be the ones who actually make a meaningful difference for all women.

Yes, all women.

Posted in News and politics, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Words I Know By Heart

Posted on May 21, 2014 by clubfredbaja

The eagle has landed!

Prez and I have touched down in Ucluelet for another summer of fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing…and writing. Between Nelson and the edge of the earth, however, we were lucky to spend time with friends and family including my two nephews, Sean and Scott.

WisdomIt was my time with my nephews that prompted this Coconut Chronicle. As the official “Cool Aunt”, I want to use my powers for good, to pass along to these young men some of the lessons and advice that have helped me over the years. I don’t, however, want to be one of those annoying old people that tells them how to live their lives. I slip in a nugget of wisdom when and where I can but this got me thinking about all the people who have changed my life for the better with a few simple words.

Some of these may sound trite but they all came at a time when I needed to hear them.

What you resist will come to you. ~ Todd “Marley” Beem

Time and again this one has come true for me. The harder I run from something, the more likely it is to find me. What this has taught me is to remain open to all possibilities and to understand that life is unpredictable. Control, for the most part, is an illusion.

What’s the difference between a reason and an excuse? ~ Sensei Frank Clayton

I learned many important life lessons from my karate sensei over the nine years I studied with him but this little kōan is the one that made the biggest impact. Sensei Clayton never answered the question for me and every time I volunteered an answer he would simply shrug in a way that said, “Maybe but maybe not.” When the answer did finally come to me—like the proverbial lightening strike out of the blue—I understood that his goal was never to hear my answer but merely to make me keep searching for it.

Every time you point a finger, three more are pointing back at you.

No one walks all over you without your permission.  ~ Al-Anon

I only attended two Al-Anon meetings in the brief period between my announcement to my alcoholic first husband that I was leaving him and the day I actually left, but that’s all I needed. Al-Anon did not save my marriage or reconcile me with my spouse’s addiction but they did force me to take responsibility for my own happiness and well-being. These two gems were a much-needed kick in the ass and took me from helpless victim to self-reliant strong woman almost overnight.

You can have anything you want but you can’t have everything you want. ~ Steve Ferguson

These words came at a time when I really was trying to have it all. They took awhile to sink in but when I finally came to terms with them they freed me from a lot of frustration. Prez and I have made some bold and atypical life choices, which have meant that we now miss out on some of the comforts and luxuries others enjoy. It’s easy to forget how fortunate we are, with our gypsy ways, so it helps to remember that every choice comes with a sacrifice.

A good reputation follows you around, a bad one catches up with you. ~ Joe Steiner

My former boyfriend was instrumental in helping me piece my life back together after my divorce. I’d been living a pretty wild life, which is not unexpected for someone in their early twenties, but I wanted to move forward and was having a hard time being taken seriously. When I finally “got it” and realized that all my actions (no matter how small) had far-reaching consequences, I also discovered that I had the power to change the world’s perception of me.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch. ~ Robert Marrington

My dad had a list of familiar sayings I could always depend on him to rattle off. He probably thought I didn’t listen, and for a lot of years that was true. But this one stuck and the older I get the more I appreciate its simple wisdom.

There are a lot of people in the world…be patient. ~ My arnis instructor

I wish I could remember this fellow’s name. Arnis is a Filipino martial art that focuses on stick and knife fighting and my instructor had come from the mean streets of Manila where arnis wasn’t a sport but a necessary skill. He was a surprisingly gentle man, considering his upbringing, and after every class we would have five minutes of deep breathing and meditation. Sometimes he would end with words of advice. These were my favourite and I call on them often.

There’s no such thing as a stressful situation only a stressful reaction. ~Fred Perron

When I first met my future husband, I was amazed at his positivity. We’d been together only a few months when he received the news that his life’s dream—the house and boat in Baja that he had worked so hard to buy—had burned to the ground. He had not yet purchased insurance, so he had lost everything. His reaction? “Well, we’ll go take a look and decide if we want to rebuild.” His ability to control his internal life inspired me and, ever since, I have aspired to do the same.

When you are late, you tell people, “I am more important than you”. ~ Marny Eng’s mom

This much-needed slap in the face was not directed at me but probably should have been. Fellow stunt woman Marny Eng and I were chatting with the hair and make-up people on set one night and somehow we ended up talking about lateness. She shared what her mother had to say about the subject and—as someone who used to be chronically late—I have never forgotten it.

Honey, if you’re not on somebody’s shit list you’re no damned good. ~ Erin Moir 

Another smart mom. My author friend Rita is never lacking a strong opinion and I’m sure that comes in part from her feisty and determined mother, Erin. The gist of this statement is that if you want to create change, you’re going to piss people off. The alternative is that you go through life never causing a stir but you never make any lasting contribution to the world either. At least, that is my interpretation and, as someone who struggles with a deep-seated desire to be loved and accepted, I need this statement and the sense of “permission” it gives me.

If you want a happy relationship, find someone who accepts your flaws … then you accept theirs. ~ Roy Walker

It’s the last part of this statement that is the most important, and the most difficult. I am married to an alpha male with a STRONG personality, and sometimes that can be a challenge. I don’t think we need to unquestionably put up with every flaw in our partners but often what we perceive as flaws are really just “differences”. I also know that I am far from perfect and I can’t expect my spouse to put up with my glitches if I can’t do the same in return.

Do you have any favourite words of wisdom that helped make your life better? Leave a comment!

Posted in Family & Children, Friends, Health and wellness, Life | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Every Day

Posted on May 6, 2014 by clubfredbaja
Big heart mosiac

Image by qtomasbower

Mother’s Day is coming soon. I’ve always resented the holiday, even before my moms—adopted and biological—died. Well, not only Mother’s Day but every holiday designed to play on our emotions and guilt/pressure/manipulate us into feeding the consumer machine. More than that, however, I resent the notion that our love and gratitude, (for those of us lucky enough to have parents we love and are grateful for), must be dictated from some unknown THEY and expressed on one designated day of the year.

Does this mean that I skipped Mother’s Day while Mom, (adopted but from here on in to be known as the one-and-only), was alive?

*sound of me laughing*

I had my mother in my life for twenty-eight complicated years. (Don’t worry, this won’t be one of those Grab A Kleenex While I Tell You About All My Feels posts). I have been motherless for almost seventeen much less complicated years. I miss her but I do not miss having her in my day-to-day life.

Does that sound harsh? It should. It’s the truth.

In the days, weeks, months, and years following my mother’s death, I had to fight down the If only’s at every turn.

If only I’d spent more time with her, she would have been happy.

If only I’d put aside my pride and worn pink dresses and grown my hair long, she would have been happy.

If only I hadn’t married my first husband, she would have been happy.

If only—

No.

It was not in my power to make my mother happy. Mom’s unhappiness started long before I arrived on the scene. In rare moments of honesty, she would tell me about her alcoholic and abusive father (a grandfather I never met). She had spent more than one night out on the street, hiding behind dumpsters with her sister and her mother. At the age of thirteen she had to swear in front of a judge, and her own father, that she wanted to live with her newly divorced and penniless mother. Those are the bits of her past she felt safe enough to share; I assume there were many she didn’t share. I can’t imagine what kind of scars that leaves on a person.

Oh wait, I can. I lived with my mother and her scars, which sometimes faded but never disappeared.

She loved me and my sister, but she did not love herself. Not even a little. We were her avatars in a way, the better versions of herself that she would make perfect. We would have the life she never had—two loving parents, stable home, nice things. But you cannot control children completely and whenever we deviated from her plans, which happened more and more as we aged, she would come undone.

There is a story she loved to tell about a time she took me out to the park when I was a baby. Mom had trussed me up in a frilly dress and had struggled with the pale fuzz that was my hair—topping it all off with a dainty bow—to make me into a little princess. Before she was even out the front door, she said, I had ripped out the bow, tangled the hair-fuzz, and messed up the princess dress.

And so it went for the next twenty-eight years—me always ripping out the bow and wrecking everything.

It is easy, now, to look back on my mother and see how her disappointment with herself was projected onto me, my sister, my dad, etc. But in those moments all I felt was anger. Why can’t she love me for who I am?

When I say I do not miss my mother in my day-to-day life, this is what I mean. I can love her fully now and miss all the good things about her without dreading our next phone call, my next visit, the inevitable guilt, the crushing weight of her disapproval.

On May 11th, I will not pick out a sappy card that cannot possibly express the web of emotions I feel, and a meaningless bouquet of flowers that’s expensive enough to make it look like I made a sacrifice, and spend an afternoon biting my tongue and trying not to rip the bow from my hair. On May 11th, I will remember the woman who would come home exhausted from her full time job and spend her evening sewing sequins on my dance costumes. Her absence has given me the space to love her genuinely, to be grateful without bitterness.

I don’t want to misremember my mother. Her life reminds me that we have to speak out for victims of abuse, seek help for our scars, refuse to let our past define us, and accept the person in the mirror no matter how imperfect they may be.

I never was and never will be the daughter my mother dreamed of but I am everything I know she would have wanted me to be: whole and happy. In the end, she did, in fact, give me the life she never had.

In my world, every day is Mother’s Day.

Until next time, I hope this finds you healthy, happy and lovin’ life.

The Princess

Posted in Family & Children, Love, Women's Issues | Tagged , , | Leave a comment