Tight Plot to the Rescue

I've read some mediocre - okay, one was godawful - best! selling! books. Cover to cover. What, you say? Has she lost her edge? Marbles gone fishing or what?

The lesson: P-L-O-T

It's king, it's queen, it's everything.

If you had only those two choices: would you rather read a boring, non-moving book (or watch..... film) where nothing much happens, say, other than on 5 or 6 plot points but it has sort of interesting characters or would you choose the book (film) where something's up every 5 or six pages, even though the chars are not to your liking b/c they're underdeveloped (but perhaps you got 20 of them, or perhaps it's a crime mystery with clues popping up left and right) ?

My answer: I've read a novel that sucked. Twentysome chars, idiotic, but stuff happened all the time and I had to know where it went. Best selling romcom.

On the thriller front: I read Patterson's 1st To Die. Idiotic stereotypical female protag, idiotic Women's Murder Club, stoopidola romance. BUT the other half, the serial killer plot, reeled me in just when I was about to return that thing to the library. At around 100+ pages or so.
(Following volumes in that WMC series were co-written with different authors, the collaborator on the latest two is female, I guess.)

And yep, let me point that out since the question came up elsewhere recently:

We only wonder if the writer is male if your female protag sucks. Got that?

We don't have a general prejudice. Some male writers know they can't write convincing females so they write from the male's POV and focus on him and his friends or whatever. Their female main chars (in romcoms, for ince) might not get much screen time/ many pages. That's perfectly fine, it works.

And some just know how to "write women". Love you guys.

Nuff said.

B-junkie, F- or M-junkie. So what, I buy used.

I don't get people who don't read. Seriously. I can't imagine a life without reading. Hell, I don't want to imagine it. I read a variety of genres. From pulp stuff to literary fiction. Yep, it ain't all Woolf, Camus, Gide, Suter et al all the frigging time. (Don't believe me? What has jet-black hair and green eyes? No, guess again. Nope, next try. Okay, I tell you: one of Jackie Collins'* characters, that's who. See?) That's one reason why I love my black leather backpack - I can always have a book handy. Waiting in line? Horror! Got a book? Allrighty then. (Did ya just see Jim Carrey? Me too.)

Today I read on author Andreas Eschbach's site (note: scroll down, there's a button for English language. French as well, btw) that an "aspiring writer" wanted to know if he indeed "has to read. You know, books." What's that, is writing so much more hip or something? And reading is so yesterday? Christ!

I still remember a reading in Seattle, in a U-District bookstore, with Sherman Alexie. One of the funniest guys ever, for sure. Phantastic sense of humor. He reads in the three digits. A year. I can totally see that.

When I checked in for work last week, waiting in line as usual, there was this guy ahead of me, a book clamped under his arm. I couldn't read author name or title, only the claim that it would be "The best thriller of this year". Wow.

So I tapped on his shoulder. "Yo, what's the best thriller of the year?"

He knew instantly that I was talking about his book. "Der Schwarm by Frank Schätzing." (That's The Swarm by Frank Schatzing to you guys, I know.)

Then the guy in front of Thriller-guy turns around and tells us how he worked at a hotel this summer break and found that everybody is reading the same two or three books. The bestseller list stuff. How weird is that. Dan Brown came up and why he likes to read historical fiction and so forth.

So who the hell are those freaks who don't read? Huh? Who are these people?

They must be mutants. (Or?) the types that just have to play their frigging MP3 stuff - unplugged, meaning without headphones - on the subway. Or gab on their frigging cell phones. Or play games on their effing phones if they can't afford to recharge their prepaid calling cards and gab on for hours about stuff that just. can't. wait. another. nanosecond. It's that effing important.

If I were to believe the headlines of print newspapers, we all don't read. If the numbers are down, something must be off. I can't imagine any more people reading on the subway than I see doing so already.

Perhaps it's the used book sales? With eb-ay and am-azon marketplace, halfpricebooks etc. sure the number of used books bought and sold must have significantly increased, no?

I know I'm in trouble whenever I pass *cough* a bookstore. Yep, passing is the wrong word. I should just write "enter" because passing by one seems to be humanly impossible.

Then there's the other thing... I knew I was in trouble when I saw some bins on the sidewalk last Saturday. After work, of course, plenty of time (mistake. Time plus opportunity equals trouble. Big time.). A bin of DVDs. "They gotta be too expensive", I thought. And "Even if they're not (starting at 3 bucks!?) I'm not gonna buy something I don't know about. Not again. Remember Henry - Portrait of a Serial Killer? Godawful, so foggeddabboudit."

Did I stay away from that bin? Of course not. But I didn't buy anything, right? Right? Oh, well, you see, it wasn't Robin Williams. Hey, with this guy, you never know. No, it was the story concept. I read about that Zoe-chip and how it records your whole life and re-memories and the guy who cuts together a feature-length film from someone's chipped memories.

How effing cool is that? Hey, I had to see it. How bad can it be, I thought? I buy it b/c I have to know what they did with this excellent premise. It's not like Click, where I heard the premise and went HOW COOL, and then I saw the trailer and thought "Shit, another great premise driven into drivel-land." Oh well.

The FINAL CUT I liked a lot. Glad I bought it for 5.50. I also dug The Break-Up, which opened here recently. Only it's weird with that film - it's so much better than the sum of all its many clichés. Weirdorola, definitely.

By the way: still not impressed by Burrough's Running with Scissors. (Nope, Jerry Springer freak show guests aren't my cuppa joe, not even if there's a writer in the mix who thinks this stuff is all so new and so very interesting to his readership who never ever have heard of white trash with college degrees or somefing and are just thrilled to bits by (t)his drivel. Oh, wait, he's also gay. Yeah, phew, right. That changes everything. Gold, pure gold, this stuff. Uh. Gotta do the pc thing? Do I hafta? Didn't think so. There's another movie coming out I don't have to watch. RWS with the non-Brit Blonde, what'shername, you know, Apple's mom? Gwyneth, right. How cool, 7.50 I can spend ... on Perfume: Story of a Murderer. Yeah! That's opening soooooon! In a theater near moi! Not you, honey, near me. Me, me, me. Yyyyyuuuppp.)

While I'm sort of still on RWS, I've read a romcom by a bestselling authoress (unbelievable, that bestselling part) and am now back in more thrilling waters with James Patterson's 1st to Die. Inspector Lindsay Boxer. His Warren Jacobi char reminds me a lot of Cornwell's Marino. Remember Kay Scarpetta and Marino? Here it's Boxer and Jacobi plus a hunky guy.

Okay, this Boxer chick cries a lot. A whole lot. Might be the illness. I hope that's it. I'm only 115 pages in, so we'll see. It's hardcover, not that cool to carry around, so I'll do some more reading tonight.

All is well on the writing front, I'm happy to report. Remember how I tried out writing Riddance the novel? It's very freeing, this form. Before I forget, check out this blog entry Why I feel sorry for screenwriters by screenwriter-turned-novelist Tess Gerritsen. She knows what she's talking about.

** I'll never forget the first Jackie Collins novel I ever read: Lucky. I bought it - used of course - in Madras, India. If you spend some time over there, you're bound to figure out that everybody reads stuff that's never gonna be a conversation topic at, say, Mrs. Bush's Kaffeeklatsch, at least when they're on vacation far away from home. The books that changed hands there, oh my. They weren't all about yoga or Eastern religion and there wasn't any literary fiction with fresh imaginative and oh-so-clever metaphors to go all geeky-crazy over, let me just say that.

Church vs. Airport

You can't build that airport there.

We have to.

Hm. Okay, but no planes on Sundays.

Here's the flight schedule.

60 planes during my 90-minute sermon? Can this be?

We're building it because we need it, you see?

No planes on Sundays. Or else.

What are we going to do with those 60 flights?

Tell people to attend the service instead.

Yeah, right. No, seriously now.

We'll sue.

Yeah, right. (laughs)

Dot, get me Jawbreaker on the phone. Now. (to mayor) I suppose we're done?

I guess.


My first reaction: 90 minutes sermon? Should I come help edit that overlong speech? What's easier to move - a little church or big city airport? Is there any place where the planes wouldn't disturb anyone? I mean, this is a city, we've got millions of people living here. 24 hrs a day, not just 90 minutes on Sundays. They may even talk to each other during those 90 minutes on frigging Sunday. Or so the rumor goes.

Nevertheless, the church is suing. Anyone wanna bet on the outcome?

There's More to Life - Unfortunately

"I'll fly to Frankfurt, rent a car, visit Annemone, drive to Karlsruhe to stay with Chris for a couple of days or so, then I'm off to Cologne where I'll stay in Suzie's guest room. Then I'll drive up to Hamburg to see you, Chris will come, too. The rest of the time I'll be in Berlin from where I'll fly back to Seattle. Arrive back here in the morning and will attend my first lecture in the afternoon. How cool is that?"

"Nice. I'm looking forward to seeing you. Plenty of time to talk then. I should let you go."

"Dad, I've got 20 bucks on that prepaid card. Don't worry. How are things in Hamburg?"

I was too excited about this whole trip to just hang up. So we talked for an hour. Then I called my brother Chris to let him know he'd be indeed reunited with our father. He hadn't seen him in something like 20 years. Dad wasn't exactly hip to the whole queer thing, ya know. But now he was gonna put it behind him. Wisdom of old age, I thought. Even though every time I thought of him I remembered him the way he was when he was living in the fast lane. He still had a lot of that crazy energy left that would drive "normal people" up the wall.

How did this trip come about? I don't know, really. I've never felt the desire to fly over and visit. Never. Suddenly the idea popped into my head and in no time flat the flight and car were booked, thanks to the IT. I rationalized the expense as an early graduation gift to myself. A quarter early, big deal. And flights were cheap. And I hadn't seen the man in forever, either. And he said he'd come to my graduation. How very unexpected. It all seemed weird and unreal but I like weird.

Exam dates were announced and I realized I could fly a day earlier, even two if I would be really organized with packing and all. I had this sense of urgency which seemed to intensify by the nanosecond. But no, no seats available on an earlier flight. Too bad. Oh, well. Spring Break in Europe! Whooooo-heeeee. Party, party, party in Beeeerrrrlllin. Yeah.

I didn't sleep one second on the flight. Popped my jet-lag pills and wiggled around in the chair. Tried to re-read Virginia Woolf for my honors thesis. As if I could focus on that...

So then, a couple of days later, I thought I'd phone Dad to let him know all was swell. I thought I should - even though he never did strike me as one who worries like other people over 60.

His live-in girlfriend answered. "Well, you know, I'm not sure you want to stay here.... there's a problem..."

Oh Jesus Christ. What now? Did he have to ask her permission for my stay or what? I was not gonna put up with her shit. Nuh-uh. We're gonna make the Dad-and-Chris-do-Oprah-Winfrey-ish-Reunion. Come hell or high water. That bitch wasn't gonna get in our way. End of story.

"I tried to call you but you were already on your way, I suppose."

How delusional was she? I'd cancel my flight b/c she didn't like our little family gathering? Come on, Blondie, get real.

"I'm sure we can sort this out."

"Well, it's.... I'm going to just come out and tell you.... Your father died. You were probably on the plane when he died. A heart attack. He died here, the paramedics couldn't do anything anymore."

Dead. The man was dead. No family reunion, no talks, no kissing-and-making-up. Ever. No good-bye.

I cried, I smoked, I partied, I got laid. I cried while I partied. And I chain-smoked like an idiot. Bro and I got drunk together and shared what we remembered and knew about the man. He reminded me on him. A lot. The way he could tell a story. The way he laughed.

I realized that I had a gazillion questions I needed to ask my Dad. Shit.

I flew back as planned. The chain-smoking didn't stop. I lost weight with the speed of light. I couldn't sleep. I thought I was sick or something.

The way this whole thing went down bugged the hell out of me. What was up with that feeling of urgency? Why did I feel the need to fly over there? Why now and not a year before or two or three? Or never, for that matter? Where did this idea come from in the first place? WTF? I mean, I'd been living my life all these years, my whole life, basically, without the man. I've seen him on few occasions. Still, I felt closer to him than to my mother. And I actually met her and stayed with her and stepfather # 3 (8 years MY senior) for two months. Can't believe I was related to that Texan (by frigging choice. Uggh.) Manipulative Bitch Barbie. But I sure as hell was his daughter.

"Coincidence. Sheer coincidence." Said Jenna who subscribes to The Objectivist. She looked at me like I was some sort of lobotomized victim of my Christian upbringing. Some time ago I might have agreed with the coincidence-theory, sort of. But this was too weird. It felt too weird.

I like things I can see, explain, measure. Logical stuff. When all is clear and talking about it doesn't make me sound like someone who believes in aliens or the second coming or one of the many conspiracy theories. I don't have a problem with something like this happening in lit/film. There I might find it interesting. But not in my own life, not in my "reality".

I hate premonitions partly b/c I can't tell them apart from other impulses. They are not visuals, just feelings. And then there's the other thing - when you visit a place for the very first time and you have strong feelings about it. Love it (like Turkey) or hate it with a passion (like France) for no apparent reason. Sure, my Dad's ancestors can be traced back to Switzerland where they lived for a while after they fled France. Huegenots. But gimme a break, what's that got to do with me? Why should I feel uncomfortable when I'm in France?

Still, I did. And I nearly got raped there, had to deal with racist cops and realized that there are situations where maze doesn't do diddly squat for ya. I could have used it after the fact but revenge wasn't my thing. I would do that now and not bother with the cops. But then again - not going to France if I can help it. La Streisand doesn't perform in Germany, either.

I happily forgot most the French I've ever learned at school. I notice I still use words and phrases I grew up with. French and Jiddish. We are a multicultural and multiracial lot. This means I don't have to act so frigging pc around people of other cultures if they act like complete idiots. An idiot is an idiot no matter what race or culture or whatever.

Jane Espenson went and did the work. She read Dan Brown's supposedly badly written bestseller and noticed the overuse of events or things triggering memories. She's right, we often don't know why we remember stuff at a certain time. It actually takes digging what triggered the memory. Could be a sound, a smell, whatever.

Today would be my paternal grandfather's birthday. Maybe that's what woke me up at 3:55 at night and triggered this. Maybe it was the red lentil soup.

Gut-Mensch or Individualist?

I'm alive;) Just barely, though, b/c I had to shift priorities towards selling more of my time for actual $$. C'est la vie for a single orphan w/out the ties that may form a security net - financially or otherwise.

It's election time and with it come political opinion polls that may or may not awaken the delusional. 'Tis the time of spin-masters and manipulators, of sound-bytes and one-answer questions designed to get a certain result. Sigh. 'Tis the time to pretend there's only black or white in this world of grey.

Need an opinion? Don't bother thinking for yourself, buddy, just pick one of your choice of three. That's a lot easier. Don't waste precious time you could spend watching reality on TV.

Bonus material: politically correct statements for you to recycle whenever a hot topic puts you in danger of wasting time thinking about it. Do not think. It'll only ruin your mood. Don't want that to happen. Plus - you might come to a conclusion that's unpopular. See? So totally not worth it! Run with the herd. There's power in numbers.

"Eat shit. Gazillions of flies can't be wrong."

So very '80s. Welcome to the new century, honey. Get your hi-tech gadgets and shut the hell up unless we're calling to poll you. Do not complain about your choice of answers. Pick one and we'll be through in no time flat. Tomorrow you'll read your paper or watch your "news" show and it will tell you where on the mainstream-spectrum you belong. But hey, as long as you're mainstream, you're good.

It's like fashion. You can't go wrong if you buy your clothes in a store that belongs to a fat-ass chain. You wouldn't want to stick out of the crowd, would you? See. If you're a girl, just make sure your nipples are covered. See-through or not doesn't matter. Show what you've got and claim your prize: nipple piercings and a tribal ass-tat that peeks out from your low-cut jeans.

Church.

Doesn't matter which one as long as it isn't Scientology b/c that's so last century. You don't have to go to any services, don't worry.

You don't have to follow the rules, either. Break them at will, just make sure you feel guilty about it.

That's the key. Guilt.

But you already knew that. Because, hell, there's lots of stuff you do and feel guilty about without ever wondering why that is. Walked past the beggar without shelling out some dough? Horrible person, you. Feel entitled to the bonus you got b/c you put in more hours and more effort than that mommy-type who spent half her "working" hours sending text messages to her family and her lover and her girlfriend re: that alibi? How dare you. And then you think that you ought to sell your time to the highest bidder even though you should work for half the dough for a worthy cause from which you yourself do not benefit. At all. That makes it even worthier, ya know.

Never question your guilt. When in doubt - Pascal.

You know you've got to be a Gut-Mensch, not an individualist. Individualists lose sight of what's right - they forget or - gasp - decline to reproduce, those selfish bitches. But don't despair: your punishment is on the way. Higher taxes, high rents for small apartments, higher cost of living. There you have it. Conform or pay up. Isn't it much better to be a live-in girlfriend or wife? Get your calculator, girlfriend, and figure out how much cheaper your life would be then. You might even be able to share a car or own half a house, be covered by his health-insurance. Work part time! Hey, doesn't that sound tempting? Plus: it comes with the right to complain, bitch and moan about the high cost of living!

Of course, if you choose to pay up and stay single and free, you selfish bitch, you got absolutely no right to complain about anything whatsoever -- and you'll really pay through your nose. No safety net. What for? The individual is worth shit. The family is the smallest unit of society. Got that, you freak?

Now go and clean out your closet or something. Donate your old threads to the AIDS-hospice for men that wouldn't take you in, girlfriend, even if you had only hours to live and after you'd volunteered there for years and years. Give and never ever ask to get anything back.

That's the spirit. Good girl!