Paper Fruit

Dad passed away. I got there in time to say goodbye, and help Hospice as much as I could, and be there for my mom, who handled things like a champ … but that’s about it. He went into a coma the day after I arrived, and did not come out of it again.

His last conversation was with my mom, and I’m glad they were able to say a few last things to one another. And I’m glad he went peacefully in the end. He deserved it, after fighting an unwinnable battle for 30 months.

I miss him like hell. It was strange having so many family friends gathered together without Dad there. I don’t know if I’d ever felt an absence so keenly before. He was always so very present during gatherings like that, keeping people on schedule, teasing everyone and taking it in equal measure, laughing, telling stories, cooking amazing food, and handling any and all situations that required knowledge of which roads to drive on, what technology to use, or which cars to take. And he loved it. One of the speakers at his service remarked upon how much Dad enjoyed everything about life, citing as an example his enthusiasm over even the little things, like buying a new kind of light bulb. It’s so true, and it made me smile—as did hearing his former co-workers at the Tampa Courthouse giggling over my dad’s love of his pedometer (“I’ve gotten in 12,000 steps today!”) and always eating the same sandwich for lunch every day (“It’s good. Why change?). And I know Dad would have wanted us to be smiling. He loved to laugh, and to make people laugh, too.

I think it always surprised him to see how much he was loved by so many different kinds of people. Dad always thought of himself as being a gruff, matter-of-fact kind of person, the guy you’d go to when you wanted to hear how it really was. And we who loved him saw him as that, yes, but also as an avid reader of science fiction and fantasy, a photographer, a brilliant financial and legal mind, a great appreciator of the natural world, a husband and a father, a mentor, and a friend. And that doesn’t even begin to cover it. He was the definition of unique. I loved him so much, and still do, and always will.

I posted on Facebook last week that if any of you out there have not yet watched Peter Greenaway’s The Draughtsman’s Contract—one of my favorite movies of all time—the whole bally thing is up on YouTube.

It’s a weird movie, unapologetically so, as well as being slow and, I dunno. Tawdry? Maybe that’s the right word. It’s definitely really sexy, or at least full of sex (depending on your perspective/inclinations), so don’t watch it with your parents/kids/nieces and nephews/maiden uncles, unless you have a very different relationship with them than I do with my own. So, yeah. The film as a whole, sex included, will not be everyone’s cuppa of course, but I aspire to write a period piece as awesome as that. It’s my gold standard.

Anyways, the score is super-good, too. Like, I love that movie to pieces, and I consider the score to be one of the best parts. It’s by Michael Nyman, who is a genius of course (he wrote the score to The Piano, The Libertine, and Gattaca; he did a lot on the Ravenous soundtrack, and also wrote an opera based on The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, because why not?). It’s my favorite thing of his he’s done, which is saying something.

Nyman’s score for the film is up on Spotify and YouTube, and though it’s not as complete as I’d like, it’s still amazing and I listen to it all the time. In isolation it makes for wonderful listening; in situ, the score is another character in the film. So, anyways, being the nerd that I am, when I was looking up supplementary information on the movie, I discovered that apparently all the compositions in Nyman’s score are based on “grounds” (a “ground,” to my understanding, is like a “riff” in popular music, but I’m really not musical at all so that might be wrong in some ways) by Henry Purcell and William Croft, period-appropriate composers. Best of all, Wikipedia was kind enough to list the specific songs Nyman is referencing, which meant that I could hop back on Spotify and locate them.

Listening to the tracks side-by-side made for a fascinating listening experience. The original compositions are all beautiful (The Academy of Ancient Music’s rendition of Purcell’s “She Loves and She Confesses Too” with Barbara Bonny’s vocals, in particular, is completely magnificent if you can locate that version, and spellbinding after listening to “The Disposition of the Linen,” Nyman’s interpretation). You can really hear why Nyman selected these pieces in particular, they give The Draughtsman’s Contract the frothy, dark, decadent, dissipated, luscious, and thoroughly-Restoration “feel” it has throughout.

yes, please. actually, come to think of it, I'll take two...

But more than the pleasure of being able to directly experience for myself a source of inspiration for one of my favorite artists of all time (not just “musical artists,” either: artists as a whole), listening to the pieces side-by-side was a weirdly enlightening experience. As a writer whose most popular, well-reviewed story to date is a “riff” on Lovecraftian themes, I understand encountering a piece of art and feeling the need to respond to it in an honest, creative way. I think the enduring popularity of the retold fairy tale speaks to this: Those with a creative streak often desire to play in the same sandbox as other creative types they admire, or take issue with, or whatever. Art can be found anywhere, and inspiration, too, so this makes sense.

But as someone whose musical abilities were never particularly amazing (much to my mother’s dismay—she and my grandmother are fundamentally musical people, whereas I was a mediocre singer and flautist … on a good day) it never really occurred to me that musicians might feel the same need as writers and fine artists to respond to those artists they found inspirational. Other than when listening to samples of this-and-that in rap/hip-hop/techno, and in a jazz class wherein we discussed “riffing” or whatever it’s called, I never really thought much about the way musicians comment on and are inspired by one another. I mean, I knew that musicians took subjects and responded to them musically (Into the Woods, the William Tell Overture, Nyman’s opera based on case studies of neurological abnormalities, etc.) but the notion of hearing something and then feeling an artistic need to reply to it in kind—that absolutely blows my mind.

Perhaps this is nothing new to anyone reading this, but if the idea of musicians pulling a Wide Sargasso Sea seems interesting, unusual, or curious to you, I encourage you to listen to the soundtrack for The Draughtsman’s Contract and then seek out the source compositions and listen to them. At the very least you’ll spend some enjoyable hours listening to gorgeous music…

… is over. I’ve been busy and that means no time for blogging—at least here. I did a guest blog for Damien Walters Grintalis, author of dark/horror fiction, vegan, and super-cool person all around. She was kind enough to offer me a spot and I’m kind of glad I left it a little late, because unintentionally I watched 3 super-cool lady-focused horror films this February (Alien, Aliens (rewatch), and the remake of The Thing), so I blogged about my thoughts on all three, and at least tried to tie it all together.

So please, check it out!

Argh, wtf happened to the internet this week?! Usually when I go on Facebook or wherever I am able to procrastinate over adorable pictures of cats and/or Dumbledore and/or whatever, but good Lord,  it’s apparently National Body-Shaming Week, and so I’m hoppin’ mad instead of mildly entertained. Ugghhh.

I guess people celebrate National Body-Shaming Week in a few exciting ways: If you’re a layperson, you post offensive memes about women’s bodies whereupon women of one size and shape are exulted for their attractiveness and women of another are shamed for theirs; if you’re a medical professional, it seems you celebrate by deciding to spend your money by putting up stupid-ass billboards featuring disembodied people with guts or, heaven forfend, cellulite, whilst alleging dubious claims about diet! Argh, no, please to stop?

So yeah, Infuriating Body-Shaming Piece of Utter Bullshit Number One is the meme to the right. I’ve seen a couple different of these, all with pictures of some random skinny girl I would probably recognize if I read more magazines, and then Marilyn Monroe or Bettie Page, with the general theme of “When did [modern generally-unattainable beauty ideal] become more attractive than [generally-unattainable beauty ideal from days of yore]?”

Now, I get the sentiment behind this one. A certain ideal of tallness, slenderness, and fitness has put pressure on women of all sizes for years and years, put forward by the fashion/entertainment industry. It can be a toxic world out there if you don’t fit in to what people (allegedly) find popularly attractive: Larger women get used as examples of “what [some group of people] don’t want all the time, it can be hard if not impossible to shop for trendy, fashionable clothing if you’re bigger lady, getting adequate medical care can be super-difficult, the list goes on. Hell, it seems the best roles non-skinny actresses can land are either the super-depressing tragic kind, or the “good-natured but sassy friend” or whatever [see: Gilmore Girls, and like, I dunno, every other show. Even Parks & Rec, my current fave show is guilty of this to a point, though to be fair, everyone is ridiculous in his or her own way on that show, not just my girl Donna). It sucks. But it also sucks to promote some redonk “real women have curves” nonsense* by way of responding to this, because it’s feeding the same fire. First up: it’s still alleging that women are only valuable if [some group] finds them physically attractive. Second: it’s not okay to pit women against each other, especially over their bodies. Women get the message all the time that we are constantly in some sort of Darwinian cage match against one another, over men, over jobs, over being considered most fashionable/in shape/successful/whatever. It’s dumb and untrue, and it makes the world a lot scarier if one’s perception of sisterhood is believing the woman hugging you with one arm has a stiletto held behind her back with the other.

Now, I’m not 100% down with the fat-posi/health at any size movement–in fact, I disagree with a lot of what I’ve read of that group’s writings–but I do believe 100% in body-positivity (to be fair there is a lot of overlap). It’s healthy to love yourself, natch, whatever you look like. More on that later, though. I’m only mentioning the fat-posi/HAAS communities because I think the best thing they’ve managed to get out there is the stone-cold fact that you can’t know anything about a person’s health just by looking at him or her. I mean, my dad is the best example of this. He’s had pancreatic cancer for close to two goddamn years now, and still looks fantastic. You would never think he had anything wrong with him, and yet he’s been in beastly chemo since his diagnosis. Christ, he went to the gym yesterday and did weight lifting. I can’t get to the gym when I have a hangover. The point is, you can’t simply look at any person out there, fat or thin, and claim to know how healthy he or she really is. It’s true that obesity can up your risk of heart disease, diabetes, metabolic syndrome, etc. but it’s also true that there are women out there every day who are in the overweight/obese category who eat right, exercise like total maniacs, and are perfectly healthy. By the same token–and here I am looking right goddamn at you moveon.org, you cannot look at a random skinny girl and decide she is anorexic. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK. How body-negative, judgmental, and icky. And how dubious a conclusion to reach based on A FACEBOOK MEME, amiright? Because unless we’re going to diagnose every cat in the world with dyslexia … you know, I’m not even going to engage further with this, it is too ridiculous. But other bloggers have, and much more articulately than me, so, good.

But, argh, wtf, it’s just too bad for common sense and kindness this week because even goddamn doctors are celebrating National Body-Shaming Week, too! See Infuriating Body-Shaming Piece of Utter Bullshit Number Two, to the left.

Behold: The PCRM, a group I usually like, has released the dumbest billboards this side of PETA, no small honor there. Every bit as bad as the “Save the Whales” campaign of whenever ago, the PCRM has erected the billboards to the left in Albany, NY, as some sort of … I dunno, anti-cheese-eating effort? AAAAHHHHWHAT. I know Americans eat a totally gross amount of cheese, which as I have noted more than once, is made from milk—a substance intended to turn tiny baby cows and sheep and goats into large cows and sheep and goats, meaning those dairy-industry claims that cheese will help you lose weight are REDONKULARIOUS—but this sort of body-shaming is a stupid, ineffective, and nasty way to try to motivate folks to cut back on the brie. First up: there are plenty of fat people who don’t eat cheese. Like, um, me? I was 40 lbs heavier this time last year and I hadn’t eaten cheese in five years. And guess what–now that I’m 40 lbs lighter, can run (knee permitting), hike up mountains, do unassisted pull-ups as of today, rock over 100 push ups at a stretch, lift heavy weights, and pretty much do any physical activity I want to … and, uh, I still have cellulite. OH NOES OMG PUT UP A PICTURE OF MY THIGHS TO SHAME THE MASSES.

Really, PCRM?! No one food makes anyone overweight; for some people, no amount of health eating and exercise will give them bodies that fit into the narrow range of acceptable/attractive in every way. That is some junk science right there.

And furthermore, how this repulsive fat-shaming fit into any of your stated goals? I just don’t get it: The message here is not one of “eat well and exercise as preventative medicine!” which is what I though the PCRM was all about according to their own, you know, “about” page. It says right there in black-on-white text that they are all about, allegedly, providing “vital information to tens of thousands of people” What is the vital information provided via those horrid billboards: “fat people are gross?” Gee, thanks!! That’s some truly revolutionary “bringing the message to the masses,” there. OMFG.

Maybe the worst part of this whole debacle is that waaaaay more motivated folks than me emailed the PCRM and are all getting the same stock response. My favorite parts have been these:

Thanks for being in touch. You’re making a good point, that people with weight problems might not be especially pleased about seeing obesity depicted on a billboard.

Um, I don’t have weight problems and … never mind.

Certainly, many people have enough self-esteem issues as it is. But that raises the question, what do we do to attack the problem of obesity?

Dude, y’all are supposed to be doctors or something. Even I know shame and fear are the worst motivators for long-term weight loss. Anyways hold onto your (cellulite-riddled, no doubt) butts, because here’s my favorite part of their form letter:

So how do we wake people up? Our ads are designed, not as any sort of “shaming” or falsified depiction of obesity, but rather simply as a view of ordinary obesity exactly as it is. If you thought “fat is beautiful” as some cultures have in the past, you would probably find the images attractive. Take another look, and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

I took another look, and OMG that’s so true! See?

I totally see your point now, PCRM! The warm, loving colors, attractive posing, and non-disembodiment featured in your billboard totalllllllly highlights human beauty if you’re just into fat chicks and dudes!

Anyways. ANYWAYS. Fat-shaming is super-gross, and scare tactics instead of science is a reprehensible approach for a medical group. Just sayin’. Stunts like this are annoying, ineffective, and make vegans look like judgmental crazy people (which, sadly, some are). They also do nothing to inform the public. Ugghhh. There’s so much better stuff out there to talk about with obesity and dietary concerns regarding the Standard American Diet and really pernicious foods like bacon and sausage and I don’t even know what else. But I guess this is dumber and easier, so yay!

Anyways. ARGH! Can we just be kinder to one another? Can we make a vow to celebrate beauty without a compare/contrast attitude that puts people falsely into opposition? Or—even better—not hold up arbitrary standards of physical attractiveness as any determinant of the worthwhileness of an individual, male or female? While we’re at it, can we also please work together to learn about how to make healthy, positive choices for our bodies and the planet? I know it’s hard, but I betcha it’ll be worth it in the end!

_________________

*What is a real woman? What is a curve? How do we define either of these terms? Is a FTM transexual like Buck Angel a “real woman?” He was born female, and he does have some curves: His enormous biceps are super-curvy (and sexxxy), but he identifies as a man/male. Anyways. The point is, it’s a stupid adage because real women come in all shapes and sizes, and anyways it’s crappy to assign concepts of “realness” or “fakeness” to something as nebulous and undefinable as being a woman.

It’s a big bright new year and likely most people (who consider January 1st the start of the new year, anyways) have made some sort of resolution. Mine, for example, is flossing. I don’t floss enough … and, frankly, I am kind of suspicious of people who do, but whatever, it’s supposed to be good for you. So, flossing: YES!

I have a few fitness-related goals, too, because of course I do. I want to run a race (well, I am going to run a race: the Warrior Dash, in August), and I want to be able to bench press 100 lbs by the end of the year. Just because. Oh, and I want to conquer my fitness nemesis: the unassisted pull-up. For some reason I am just awful at pull-ups, and it’s total bullshit and I’m tired of it.

But anyways! This post isn’t about that. It’s about how not to talk about fitness, inspired by an unpleasant interaction I had today at my gym.

So I got it into my head it would be a good idea to get my body fat percentage checked. It’s a free service at my gym, and I was curious. I got it checked last year, and was in the low 20s if memory serves. I haven’t lost that much weight since then, but given how much muscle-building I’ve been doing at the gym, I figured it would be interesting to see what was going on inside my body.

This morning I’d never seen the lady sitting at the desk before, but I asked her if I could use the little weird electronic thingy they have to measure my body fat, since the personal trainer I’m friendly with at my gym had said it would be cool. The lady said sure, and led me to her office. There, I told her my weight (135 lbs) and height (five feet five inches) and age (30, going on 19). She plugged these numbers into the device and handed it to me—and I was pretty pleased when it blinked, beeped, and said 19.6%.

Woo! I thought to myself. That’s pretty awesome. I’m under 20% body fat! Rawr!

But I was just thinking this when the lady, her brow furrowed in maternal concern, said, “Ohhhhhh … 19.6 percent … hmmm.”

“Hmm?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s just … well. You’d need to be between 15%-17% if you wanted to be an athlete.”

I was sort of shocked by this—not only did that sound low to me (it is), but also … really? ‘Hmm?’ With a furrowed brow of maternal concern? And also: percentage of body fat makes you “an athlete” and not, like … being athletic? I regularly swim, lift weights, run, and hike, and yet … I’m not an athlete? Because of a number? What now?

If ever there was an IRL moment for the O RLY? owl to swoop down and hawk up a pellet of mouse bones on someone’s head, that was it.

So anyways, there I am, proud–and there she is, shaking her head. What came next, you ask? Hahaha!!

“Did you just join?” she asked, staring at my body.

“No,” said I. “I joined last year, in August I think.”

“And what do you do at the gym?”

“I run, swim … but I love weight-lifting the most! It’s so fun, I really enjoy it.”

“Of course you do,” she sneered. “It’s the easiest thing to do.”

“Uh,” I said. “Well…”

“Do you eat a lot of junk food?” she interrupted, still staring at my figure with obvious distaste.

“Not a lot,” I said, only sort of lying, because technically beer is a drink and not a food, “I’m vegan, and eat a pretty healthy diet.”

At this, her brow furrowed so much it appeared to have actually been plowed by a vigorous bucolic farmer with 17% body fat, perhaps with the aid of a stout horse with 15% body fat. An athletic horse, you get my meaning.

“Vegan means no eggs or dairy, right?”

“Right, no animal products.”

“What about fish?”

“Fish … is an animal,” I said, with what I hope was a polite smile, and added a cheerful “ha-ha I’m sure you were just joking right omg” laugh.

She stared back. “I guess I never thought about fish that way.”

I did not respond to this. Because, what? Also, I was trying to figure out a way to get away from her without actually fleeing.

“Well, the good news,” she said, in a doubtful, concerned you were hit on the head with a large boulder, but the concussion is only a mild one tone of voice, “is that the average American woman has 24% body fat. So you’re doing good by that standard.”

“Great,” I said, at this point desperate to leave her presence.

“And I’d never have guessed you were so heavy,” she said, also doubtfully. “You’re tiny—you must be really dense.”

“Okay, haha, yeah, cool,” I said, or something like that, beginning the inch-away-from-the-situation tiptoe-dance as she started to babble at me that it would be a reasonable goal to get down to 17% body fat (putting me at around, oh, 115 lbs, btw), and if I were her client and blah blah blah omg wtf bbq.

Whew! Hahah, sure, whatever. She sucked, no harm no foul. But the thing is, I’m super-duper lucky that I have an amazing, supportive family, and confidence in my own athletic abilities, because Good! Friggin! Lord! I can’t imagine how that interaction would have made me feel if I wasn’t secure in my knowledge that Crom himself forged me of Atlantean steel. Probably I would have felt like I was actually 19.6% dog poop.

I’m also lucky I didn’t have that encounter a year ago, when I was just getting into fitness (and had a far, far higher percentage of body fat!). I probably would have been really discouraged, and felt like “fitness” was some sort of insane impossible goal that only professional athletes could attain by spending thousands of dollars on equipment and training and whatever. (It’s not!) And this person is the Wellness Coordinator at my gym!

Don’t most people in this country already have a vexed enough relationship with fitness, overall wellness, and balancing the stresses of modern, sedentary life with healthy athleticism? Eesh!

This is the season when many people will join gyms, hoping to live healthier lives, and I think that’s so awesome, and I hope anyone who does so sticks with it until it’s a happy habit instead of a slog. I know I’ve never been happier than I’ve been since starting my quest to be a hard badass of legend, and I hope to pay that forward someday, in some way. But my greatest hope is that no one who is motivated to start working out and eating right has such a heinous encounter with a “fitness professional.” I know first-hand that it’s pretty easy to give up on goals, especially ones that make you sweat! Exercise and eating right isn’t always easy, but it is rewarding–and that should be the message people in the fitness industry try to promote. Not that you’re not an “athlete” unless your numbers are this, that, or whatever!

Talking about fitness in a worrisome, negative manner is not cool. Better, I think, to be encouraging; to play up the positive, celebrate success, and challenge yourself (and others, if it’s your business to do so) towards reasonable goals. Revolutionary stuff, that, I’m sure!

Omg. Anyways! Here’s hoping you all have a healthy, happy 2012! I know I plan on it—even though I’m so dense.

Nick Mamatas (who wrote Sensation, one of my favorite books I read this year), is really smart. He blogs and writes a lot about writing (I haven’t read Starve Better yet, but it’s on the list as they say), and a few days ago, responding in part to one of the usual kerfuffles over genre vs. literary writing, he said something that (seriously) moved me:

Anyway—here’s a secret. This is what creative writers should be interested in doing. Writing their own best material. Not the most popular thing, or the most acclaimed, or that which will be part of some conversation or leave a mark on this or that genre (including bourgeois realism), but that stuff that is unique to yourself and the complex of life experiences and interests and prior readings and environmental factors of which your writing is an emergent property. Writing is orthogonal to publishing and marketing. It’s also orthogonal to true mass culture. Mass culture only deals with aspects of writing—those aspects that can be reproduced according to the needs of either artisan creation or industrial manufacture. That, being the mass, is what an individual cannot control.

Happy Monday! Let’s all go be productive.

ETA: worst blog post title ever? Mayyyybe!

When I was in fifth grade I got really into dragons. I got into dragons the way some girls get into horses: I had pictures on my walls, read every book I could find in the YA section of the library, drew pictures on all my notebooks, subscribed to catalogues where you could purchase insanely expensive pewter wyverns clutching mystical orbs, you know. The usual stuff. I even kept a journal of my boring tween life—with added dragons. I had a scaly, wingéd, wise-cracking (of course) posse who would follow me around, comment on how boring math class was, etc.

My parents were big fantasy readers, which helped me read my way out of the YA section pretty quickly. My father especially: he has always loved fantasy, the longer and more convoluted/complicated the series the better, and he read a lot because of his constantly needing to travel for work. He brought home oodles of Tor and Ace and Ballantine paperbacks with covers that appealed to me big-time. It’s how I came to read Steven Brust and L.E. Modesitt, Jr. and a host of other writers.

Then my uncle Glenn (another fantasy nerd of legend) sent me a box of books, chock-full of dragonish glory. I still remember the day I got off the bus to find the enormous box sitting in the hallway; opening it up and pawing through the loot. I remember, too, which two books stood out to me the most:

It’s probably pretty obvious why I’ve been thinking about that afternoon recently: Darrell K. Sweet and Anne McCaffrey recently passed away. I admit I got a little teary-eyed at the news, both times. Both were incredibly important to me as a young fantasy reader—and a young writer.

Darrell K. Sweet’s artwork captured my imagination before I even realized who he was. His artwork was on the cover of so, so many books I read as a kid and young adult, and my own doodles of dragons were largely inspired by his lizard-faced monsters. He did the covers for the Recluse books as well as Xanth; his image of Gandalf and the Lord of the Eagles graced my cover of The Hobbit. He did the cover for Mercedes Lackey’s The Fire Rose, which I thought was the #1 Top Summer Jam when I read it (okay, I confess … I still have it on the shelf), and he did some covers for Robin McKinley, too. I still love his artwork. They are pure escapist fun, and instantly transport me to other worlds: the bold colors, the stalwart men and women, the reliable horses, the fantasy coaches. The moonlit nightscapes; the golden afternoons in magical woodland realms. They are pictures full of possibility and they ask the important questions, like, say … “Where does this road lead?” “What might we find in that castle across the river?” “Will there be monsters in the craggy snow-capped peaks?” (Yes!) “What wisdom will that dragon offer us?”

And as for Anne McCaffrey … oh my stars. For many years I was firmly convinced Ms. McCaffrey was the greatest writer in the entire goddamn universe. Seriously. I was an unattractive, lonely outcast like so many other nerdy adolescents: I got bullied by awful girls in the locker room and battled the worst acne, lived in an isolated neighborhood without many other kids—let alone ones who shared my interests—and could not dress myself to save my life, which didn’t help the whole “unattractive girl with terrible acne” thing. Her books provided me the escape I needed.

I read most of the Pern books more than once, and obsessively read and re-read the Harper Hall trilogy. Riding the bus, I dreamed of someone coming to take me away from middle school like F’Lar comes for Lessa or T’gran/Masterharper Robinton for Menolly. I spent more than a few hours wondering what color dragon I’d most like to ride, whether I’d rather be a harper with fire lizards or a dragonrider, made klah, etc. I bought The Dragonlover’s Guide to Pern with my allowance. I got a perm, because if there is one thing old covers for Anne McCaffrey novels will inspire in a young lass without much fashion sense, it is a love of big hair.

Actually, both McCaffrey and Sweet are equally guilty for inspiring my love of seriously big hair, come to think of it—but, more seriously, they also showed me a lot of exciting possibilities, when I was a young woman searching for her sense of identity. Anne McCaffrey was one of the first, actually maybe the first female author of non-YA SFF books I really got into. She wrote big ol’ fantasy epics, just like the boys, and reading her, it occurred to me that hey, I could do that too! Also, her main characters were often fierce females … and, when they weren’t fierce enough, or too bitchy—or sweet—for my liking, it made me realize I could write the ladies I wanted to see in books. And Sweet’s artwork is rich in warrior babes as well as warrior dudes, which I always appreciated.

Thanks for inspiring my love of ferocious ladies, rich fantasy worlds, and badassery, you two.

The end of October and the first weeks of November have been very busy what with turning 30, signing my first book deal, finishing up a major goddamn project that ate my life for a year (huz-fucking-zah), and whatever else has been occupying my time. Jesus Christ, it’s Thanksgiving next week! (Or, rather, “Thanksliving,” as Article 10, Section 2 of the Vegan Code mandates I call it: “Vegans shall be required to rename and/or feminize any and all foods associated with meat or meat-consumption, e.g. “Thanksliving” “shepherdess Pie” “cheatballs” “pepperfauxni”, etc.”)

But seriously, it’s been a good few weeks. My dad was just approved to be part of an experimental study for pancreatic cancer patients, which means he’s off of traditional chemotherapy and taking a combination of pills to combat the tumors. Also, he turned 64 today. (My mother says this answers the eternal question of “Will you still feed me/will you still need me/when I’m 64, because she is adorable.)

Additionally, I had a rockin’ Big 30 Birthday. My homeslice Brad and his ladyfriend Suzanne came to visit, and we went hiking, ate too much food, and had a big old Halloween party. Pics!

Here’s me at the Halloween Party as Han Solo. Who’s scruffy-looking?

Raech as a vampire hunter:

John and Jesse as 24 and 21 from The Venture Brothers:

Brad as one of the dudes from this awesome OK Go music video, and Suzanne as the girl with the dragon tattoo:

aaaaaand the punch I made that gave Jesse one of the most hilariously awful hangovers I’ve ever witnessed. Recipe here!

The next night, at the 30th Birthday Bash, me and John:

Jesse and Raech:

aaaaaand me getting all red-faced and teary-eyed upon being given the complete Jem and the Holograms DVD box set:

Woo! So yeah, good times. I’m excited for upcoming things too, like eating too much and going on a long hike next week, starting a new fitness regimen (with part of a birthday windfall I purchased a new program from Sandra, who guided me through her Virtual Boot Camp), and, I dunno, some other stuff.

Oh shit, I almost forgot! I got tattooed for my 30th b-day! Here’s a picture of the tattoo, and also part of my right boob:

Soon: a recipe for delicious Thanksgiving-flavored Cheatballs!

Dear folks involved with the Conan the Barbarian reboot,

Let me break it down for you because I guess it wasn’t obvious enough:

1. Here’s what ladyfriend and/or love interest should look like in a goddamn Conan movie:

Note the muscles and weapon; the costume that allows for freedom of movement and babealiciousness both. See the film itself for how she should behave. Cliffs Notes version: Doesn’t need to be saved all the time, cracks wise, commits awesome acts of brutal violence without squealing or looking appalled at herself. Also, she should be wise and cunning and her lines should be more substantial than “Eeeeek!” or “Conan!” in that save me because I am a girl tone of voice.

2. Regarding Sidekicks

Sidekick Pirate Man in the reboot does not look like he would be up to the task of, say, crying for Conan because Conan will not cry, being Conan. Actually, while we’re on that topic, New Conan totally looks like he’d shed a manly tear, which, whatever. Anyways. Subotai was awesome enough that he was actually of use to Conan in the original, where as new dude just has, I dunno, a boat.

3. On Villains 

What the hell is this:

While I admit we do a bit better with Zym’s daughter, Marique, neither are as interesting or compelling as Thulsa Doom. I’ll admit James Earl Jones is a hard act to follow, but come on! Khalar’s just a schoolyard bully with a creepy daughter. Marique would have done better on her own. . . but then those involved would have had to give a girl character a personality and lines and stuff, which seemed a bit hard for some reason I guess, here in 2011.

Anyways, Thulsa Doom could make an acolyte jump to her death with just a wave of his hands and a come-hither look. Just sayin’. It’s basic stuff that villains should be interesting. Frankly, they should be show-stoppers in S&S films! The key is that a good villain should be more than just the reason the Hero is doing stuff. Otherwise. . . yeah.

Anyways, due to the critical reception, I doubt we’ll get another Conan film anytime soon. But if it happens, I sincerely hope those involved will try a bit harder. The new Conan film was pretty awesome for its first 45 minutes, then took a nosedive and quickly went into freefall. All it takes is a good script with interesting characters, folks. Kid Conan was a good character, so was Corin, Conan’s dad. After that. . . good lord.

Sincerely,

Molly

***

Anyways! Moving on to another letter I needed to write:

Dear folks involved with the Fright Night reboot,

You’re all awesome, thanks for making a great film. I really appreciate all the work and time and effort and care you put into the remake. It was completely enjoyable and smart and gory and wonderful. Mad props! 

xoxo,

Molly

I went on a hike for my cardio today, and it occurs to me that as hiking was one of the main motivators for my recent foray into fitness, I should probably talk about that for one of these Boot Camp posts.

Hiking, man. I live in Colorado, and so I have plenty of mountains everywhere to hike around on, up, and down. Since moving here I’ve conquered a few trails of note, some of which I’ve even bothered to take pictures of, but there are many I have yet to explore. Some of them, however, are beastly to the point that I’m intimidated to start them, so I’ve been focusing my workouts on building up my strength in my legs and increasing my cardiovascular capacity.

When I moved out here, the landscape awed and inspired me, which is why I’ve been writing (and, uh, rewriting) this novel set in the Rocky Mountains. But I had this moment of clarity a while back, as I was hammering out something about my protagonist making her way through the wilds, when I realized she was more of a badass than me when it came to hiking. I had one feeling regarding this: Total bullshit. I have no problem with her being more of a badass than me when it comes to any number of things, since obviously she is the protag of my novel and I am not competitive with my imaginary creation when it comes to any of the more ridiculous things she can do well … but hiking? Come on, I live here! It was time to remedy this imbalance. It was time … to become more of a badass.

In the fiction I enjoy consuming, writing, and editing, characters routinely do all kinds of crazy stuff. They might cover many, many miles in a day through serious terrain, solve crimes, conjure demons, invent in time travel, accomplish various feats of strength, slap a ghost, talk with beasts, wield heavy or at least challenging weapons with expertise, raise the dead, or really anything at all. Badasses are awesome, and badassery comes in many forms. And while I’ll likely never solve crimes, talk with beasts, invent time travel, or heaven forfend, raise the dead, I can get strong and flexible, hike up mountains, and even become skilled in martial arts.

Right now I’m more focused on getting strong and covering distances (though I have a guest pass to my local YMCA and I plan on checking out kickboxing and/or kendo), but still—badassery. It’s become more of a priority for me, and I’m enjoying my newfound confidence and abilities! It’s a challenging process, but totally worth it, and I recommend it for everyone who feels they have to experience being a badass on a purely vicarious level. So not true!

I just saw the preview for the Captain America movie and there was a line about how “a weak man knows the value of strength.” This is likely probable, and we lovers of genre fiction could, I suppose, extend it laterally to apply to us: “the nerd knows the awesomeness of badassery.” Hellz yes.

x-posted to my LJ