1. "I should give a copy to my mom. She likes to read trashy novels." (So what do you like to do to express yourself creatively? Because I'd like to belittle you for it now.)
2. Any sentence containing the phrase "bodice ripper." (Let me guess--you're an unimaginative reporter who hasn't done your research?)
3. "I've always wanted to write a book. But I'm going to write a REAL one." (Whatever, dude. Let me know when someone decides to pay you for that mess.)
4. "So, like, with Fabio and sex on every page?" (NO! God.)
5. "I only read literary fiction." (Oh, I'm just too, too impressed. Has Stephen Hawking's think tank begged you to join them yet?)
6. "Yeah, I'd read your romance novel set in Latin America, but Mayan archaeology is a hobby of mine, and I'd be picking out all of the things you got wrong." (I didn't think my kneejerk response of "Die, b--ch, die" was appropriate given my nonviolent beliefs.)
7. "Does your husband do research with you?" ::::horrible wink:::: (No, actually I grab the mail carrier for that.)
8. "I'd read it if you wrote actual suspense." (I'd give you a copy to read if you had an actual brain.)
9. "Boston College would probably be really embarrassed to know that this is what you're doing with your M.A. in Literature." (In that case, YOUR alma mater must be mortified. As is Miss Manners.)
10. "Eeeeuuuuwwww!" (Generally, I believe in nonviolence, but for you, I'll make an exception. :::roundhouse kick to the forehead::::::)
Friday, April 14, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Not Your Mother's YA Novels
As anyone who knows me knows, I became a HUGE worrier once I had Maggie, my 2-year-old--a condition that has only worsened since having Marin five months ago. I worry about their health. I worry about the crazy drivers in our city. I worry about their getting their licenses and maneuvering amidst crazy drivers in the future. I worry about whether they'll be bullied in school, and how we'll handle it. I worry about their pre-college education options not being nurturing or educational enough. I worry about how I'm going to make sure their wonderful little personalities don't get squashed by a teenage social system that's all about conformity. I worry about the day they'll go off to college, without me to protect them. Basically, I worry about keeping them safe, all day, every day.
So, as if I didn't have enough to worry about, along comes feminist icon Naomi Wolf with an article in the New York Times Book Review about the new wave of young adult novels. Basically, Naomi Wolf is horrified by the current state of young adult fiction for girls, and I wanted to know why. So I read her "Wild Things" article online, and I promptly became horrified myself. Which horrified me on a whole other level, as I now suspect I am really, really, truly turning into my mother this time, or Tipper Gore.
In a nutshell, Wolf takes popular YA series like the Gossip Girls, A-List, and Clique books to task for providing poor role models for teenage girls.
But first, let's take a moment to swallow this statement by Wolf for a moment:
"Sex saturates the 'Gossip Girl' books, by Cecily von Ziegesar, which are about 17- and 18-year-old private school girls in Manhattan. This is not the frank sexual exploration found in a Judy Blume novel, but teenage sexuality via Juicy Couture, blasé and entirely commodified."
Wait, wait, wait. Since when did "blase and commodified" sex become part of not just one YA novel, but a whole subgenre? Color me naive, but I always thought most of today's YA novels were as innocent, smart, and celebratory of individuality over the herd as Meg Cabot's Princess Diaries series, or the pre-Forever Judy Blume books of old, or even the Sweet Valley High series.
But I guess we're reaching a turning point in young adult fiction. Of the three aforementioned YA series, Wolf says they "represent a new kind of young adult fiction, and feature a different kind of heroine."
In particular, Wolf says of the Clique novels, "the characters are 12 and 13 years old, but there are no girlish identity crises, no submissiveness to parents or anyone else. These girls are empowered. But they are empowered to hire party planners, humiliate the 'sluts' in their classes ... and draw up a petition calling for the cafeteria ladies serving their lunch to get manicures."
So, they're spoiled, they're mean, they travel and attack in packs--rather than forging their own identities--and they're imperious with people in service positions. And these aren't the anti-heroines, waiting to get their comeupances from a slightly-nerdy-by-virtue-of-her-individuality Princess Mia Thermopolis or Margaret Simon (remember Judy Blume?) or even the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. These ARE the protagonists of the story, according to Wolf. They are the ones readers are asked to identify with, to live vicariously through.
And that brings us back to the sexual content. Color me a prude, but I have always assumed that the books shelved in the young adult section--which I started reading when I was probably about eight or nine--would never earn an R rating if made into a movie. I expect first kisses, silly stories of changing bodies (like Margaret and her friends' attempts at busting (Heh.) out of their AA-cup training bras by doing pec flys in Judy Blume's Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.), or maybe a no-and-stop-that moment on a date. But instead, the books are "saturated" with "teenage sexuality" that's not only premature, but generally unsafe. In one Gossip Girls book, a tenth-grader gets it on in a Bergdorf's dressing room with a boy on stolen Viagra. In another A-List book, one high-school-aged girl vows, "No more stealing guys with wedding rings away from their wives just because she could. . . . No more getting wasted at parties and dirty dancing with handsome waiters . . . . No more taking E [ecstacy]."
I mean, GAH! This is the kind of thing my daughters could be reading at NINE? Shocking as it is, it's not necessarily the sexual content that bothers me most. The real problem, as Wolf writes, "is a value system in which meanness rules, parents check out, conformity is everything and stressed-out adult values are presumed to be meaningful to teenagers. The books have a kitsch quality — they package corruption with a cute overlay."
One teen reader on Amazon.com puts it more succinctly: "If you love fashion, celebrities, and all things girly and bitchy, you'll love these books."
Gee, because I WANT my daughters to behave like Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan.
Girls have enough pressure on them to conform when they're in school--to become or at least aspire to become "mean girls" who define others by their material possessions, looks, and ability to blend in with the crowd or to embrace a sexuality beyond their years. Do they really need that kind of pressure coming from their reading material, too? When both your peers AND your books are setting up these kinds of role models, does that make transforming into a Prada-wearing, venom-spitting sheep that much easier? Middle school is painful enough without the mean girls making fun of you from the pages of your favorite books, too. Why don't we all just go throw up our lunch, too, while we're at it?
Some responses to Wolf's essay basically told her to lighten up. I guess I need to lighten up, too, because as a feminist and a mother who wants to grow strong girls, brave girls, kind girls, anything-is-possible girls, I don't think this is the dominant model we want to be setting out for anyone--parents included. (This is, after all, the kind of thinking that leads to whacked out mothers trying to poison the head cheerleader to get their daughter a spot on the squad.) I don't believe in censorship, but I do believe in empowering my girls and teaching them to be kind, to stand up for what they believe in, to follow their hearts' desires and not what others tell them they should follow. If my girls want to be Mathletes, by God, they should feel empowered enough to be Mathletes regardless of what the dance squad thinks.
So, what to do? For me, I'll be sure to carefully watch what Maggie and Marin read at eight and nine, since apparently, this is now an issue. And when they're old enough to think more critically about what they're reading, perhaps instead of snatching the books away and making them that much more attractive, I'll simply read along with them and see if we can't have some interesting discussions about why the girls on the A-List secretly suck.
I might even have to advocate for a labeling system. I think I've officially turned tragically unhip, no "am I?" about it.
Currently listening to: Pink's "Stupid Girls"
--------------------------------------------------------------
OK, I've calmed down, and I'm not really going to advocate for a labeling system. Anything that dissuades Wal-Mart from stocking a certain kind of book is pretty much censorship, given the retail giant's stranglehold on just about every kind of market there is. It's just something else to worry about as my daughters get older....
So, as if I didn't have enough to worry about, along comes feminist icon Naomi Wolf with an article in the New York Times Book Review about the new wave of young adult novels. Basically, Naomi Wolf is horrified by the current state of young adult fiction for girls, and I wanted to know why. So I read her "Wild Things" article online, and I promptly became horrified myself. Which horrified me on a whole other level, as I now suspect I am really, really, truly turning into my mother this time, or Tipper Gore.
In a nutshell, Wolf takes popular YA series like the Gossip Girls, A-List, and Clique books to task for providing poor role models for teenage girls.
But first, let's take a moment to swallow this statement by Wolf for a moment:
"Sex saturates the 'Gossip Girl' books, by Cecily von Ziegesar, which are about 17- and 18-year-old private school girls in Manhattan. This is not the frank sexual exploration found in a Judy Blume novel, but teenage sexuality via Juicy Couture, blasé and entirely commodified."
Wait, wait, wait. Since when did "blase and commodified" sex become part of not just one YA novel, but a whole subgenre? Color me naive, but I always thought most of today's YA novels were as innocent, smart, and celebratory of individuality over the herd as Meg Cabot's Princess Diaries series, or the pre-Forever Judy Blume books of old, or even the Sweet Valley High series.
But I guess we're reaching a turning point in young adult fiction. Of the three aforementioned YA series, Wolf says they "represent a new kind of young adult fiction, and feature a different kind of heroine."
In particular, Wolf says of the Clique novels, "the characters are 12 and 13 years old, but there are no girlish identity crises, no submissiveness to parents or anyone else. These girls are empowered. But they are empowered to hire party planners, humiliate the 'sluts' in their classes ... and draw up a petition calling for the cafeteria ladies serving their lunch to get manicures."
So, they're spoiled, they're mean, they travel and attack in packs--rather than forging their own identities--and they're imperious with people in service positions. And these aren't the anti-heroines, waiting to get their comeupances from a slightly-nerdy-by-virtue-of-her-individuality Princess Mia Thermopolis or Margaret Simon (remember Judy Blume?) or even the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. These ARE the protagonists of the story, according to Wolf. They are the ones readers are asked to identify with, to live vicariously through.
And that brings us back to the sexual content. Color me a prude, but I have always assumed that the books shelved in the young adult section--which I started reading when I was probably about eight or nine--would never earn an R rating if made into a movie. I expect first kisses, silly stories of changing bodies (like Margaret and her friends' attempts at busting (Heh.) out of their AA-cup training bras by doing pec flys in Judy Blume's Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.), or maybe a no-and-stop-that moment on a date. But instead, the books are "saturated" with "teenage sexuality" that's not only premature, but generally unsafe. In one Gossip Girls book, a tenth-grader gets it on in a Bergdorf's dressing room with a boy on stolen Viagra. In another A-List book, one high-school-aged girl vows, "No more stealing guys with wedding rings away from their wives just because she could. . . . No more getting wasted at parties and dirty dancing with handsome waiters . . . . No more taking E [ecstacy]."
I mean, GAH! This is the kind of thing my daughters could be reading at NINE? Shocking as it is, it's not necessarily the sexual content that bothers me most. The real problem, as Wolf writes, "is a value system in which meanness rules, parents check out, conformity is everything and stressed-out adult values are presumed to be meaningful to teenagers. The books have a kitsch quality — they package corruption with a cute overlay."
One teen reader on Amazon.com puts it more succinctly: "If you love fashion, celebrities, and all things girly and bitchy, you'll love these books."
Gee, because I WANT my daughters to behave like Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan.
Girls have enough pressure on them to conform when they're in school--to become or at least aspire to become "mean girls" who define others by their material possessions, looks, and ability to blend in with the crowd or to embrace a sexuality beyond their years. Do they really need that kind of pressure coming from their reading material, too? When both your peers AND your books are setting up these kinds of role models, does that make transforming into a Prada-wearing, venom-spitting sheep that much easier? Middle school is painful enough without the mean girls making fun of you from the pages of your favorite books, too. Why don't we all just go throw up our lunch, too, while we're at it?
Some responses to Wolf's essay basically told her to lighten up. I guess I need to lighten up, too, because as a feminist and a mother who wants to grow strong girls, brave girls, kind girls, anything-is-possible girls, I don't think this is the dominant model we want to be setting out for anyone--parents included. (This is, after all, the kind of thinking that leads to whacked out mothers trying to poison the head cheerleader to get their daughter a spot on the squad.) I don't believe in censorship, but I do believe in empowering my girls and teaching them to be kind, to stand up for what they believe in, to follow their hearts' desires and not what others tell them they should follow. If my girls want to be Mathletes, by God, they should feel empowered enough to be Mathletes regardless of what the dance squad thinks.
So, what to do? For me, I'll be sure to carefully watch what Maggie and Marin read at eight and nine, since apparently, this is now an issue. And when they're old enough to think more critically about what they're reading, perhaps instead of snatching the books away and making them that much more attractive, I'll simply read along with them and see if we can't have some interesting discussions about why the girls on the A-List secretly suck.
I might even have to advocate for a labeling system. I think I've officially turned tragically unhip, no "am I?" about it.
Currently listening to: Pink's "Stupid Girls"
--------------------------------------------------------------
OK, I've calmed down, and I'm not really going to advocate for a labeling system. Anything that dissuades Wal-Mart from stocking a certain kind of book is pretty much censorship, given the retail giant's stranglehold on just about every kind of market there is. It's just something else to worry about as my daughters get older....
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Pyramids Are Oh, So Fine. Egypt. Egypt.*
So we just made the fastest across-the-state trip ever to see the King Tut exhibit in Ft. Lauderdale. Maggie was still getting over the plague and Marin started showing signs of being the next in our family to succumb, so Jose freaked out about being so far from home and their pediatrician. Therefore, we went to the exhibit and then left for home a mere 12 hours after arriving in the city. However, I'm happy to report that Marin and her immune system of steel have already quashed the plague germs for the most part, and we did have a good time at the exhibit.
First of all, my cheapass husband, God bless his cute, cheap self, talked me out of buying the audio tour of the exhibit, narrated by Omar Sharif. If you go, get the audio tour. For one thing, this is a once-in-a-lifetime event, seeing objects from King Tut's tomb and others, and therefore you should enjoy it to the hilt. I was kicking myself the entire time for succumbing to Jose's cheapass peer pressure. For another, there will be plenty of annoying people with headphones hovering interminably next to the display cases with numbers indicating they are audio tour stops and preventing you from seeing what's inside. So when you finally do worm your way to one of the numbered cases, you might as well annoy the people behind you by hovering and listening to Omar's pearls of wisdom yourself.
Second, the objects that were in Tut's tomb look incredibly new, having been sealed away in a dry climate for three-thousand years. Ergo, they look shockingly like reproductions, not 3000-year-old antiquities. Ergo, I had a really hard time wrapping my head around the fact that these things were REALLY 3,000 years old and REALLY from King Tut's tomb and that I was REALLY not in the Museum Store looking at stuff I could buy. But honestly, despite my mental block, it was still an amazing experience to see this exhibit. The unique faces on each shabti figurine, the detailed semi-precious stone inlay work, the delicate hammered gold covering Tut's aunt's giant sarcophagus--it was all mind-blowingly amazing. I could have stared at just about every display for hours. Except that I had herds of audio-tourists glaring holes into my back when I lingered too long.
If you've watched too many Egyptian documentaries on the Discovery channel like I have, you know that Akhenaten was Tut's father and the one pharoah (that I know of, anyway) who tried to convert Egypt to a monotheistic religion. Akhenaten has one of the most singular and recognizable faces that I've seen on said documentaries--whether in paintings or reliefs or statues. And to see that face staring down at me in the form of a giant stone head from Karnuk was pretty amazing.
Common wisdom has always held that Tuthankamun was murdered by a blow to the head--most likely by his advisor, Eye, according to the last Discovery Channel documentary I've seen. Well, one of the big shockers of the exhibit was that researchers took thousands of CT scans of Tut's mummy in 2005 and have concluded that he was not murdered but probably died in an accident, such as a fall from a chariot.
The one disappointment was that although Tut's gold funerary mask (see the entry below)--which is probably THE most famous relic in all of Egyptology and immediately recognizable even to people who aren't as nerdy as I am--was not part of the exhibit, despite being shown in ALL of the advertisements and on the cover of the exhibit guide. Nor were any of his sarcophagi, though his aunt's was on display. Apparently, Cairo won't let these items leave the city. NOT that I can blame them, but I was still disappointed not to have seen them. Oh, well. I'll simply have to go to Egypt someday.
All in all, the exhibit was too short, a little disappointing due to some missing objects that advertisements seemed to hint would be there, but still a fascinating experience.
Coolest item: Akhenaten's giant stone head from Karnuk, as well as one of Tut's crowns.
Item I'd most want in my house: The only extant example of a trunk with carrying poles. The jewel inlay was pretty without being garish, and it'd make a great coffee table.
Jose's favorite item: Tut's solid gold dagger
Grossest item: There were no mummies on display, so the exhibit was surprisingly lacking a gross-out factor. Maybe the canopic jar that once held Tut's aunt's intestines would be the best fit here. They also had a coffinette that had held some of Tut's internal organs, but for some reason, the fact that the jar had the word "intestines" in the display overview makes it grosser.
Weirdest souvenier in the souvenier shop: The King Tut Tissue Box Cover.
* Jose came up with the title for this blog, having sung it pretty much all throughout our trip to Ft. Lauderdale. We aren't sure where it's from but suspect it's a line from Steve Martin's song, "King Tut."
First of all, my cheapass husband, God bless his cute, cheap self, talked me out of buying the audio tour of the exhibit, narrated by Omar Sharif. If you go, get the audio tour. For one thing, this is a once-in-a-lifetime event, seeing objects from King Tut's tomb and others, and therefore you should enjoy it to the hilt. I was kicking myself the entire time for succumbing to Jose's cheapass peer pressure. For another, there will be plenty of annoying people with headphones hovering interminably next to the display cases with numbers indicating they are audio tour stops and preventing you from seeing what's inside. So when you finally do worm your way to one of the numbered cases, you might as well annoy the people behind you by hovering and listening to Omar's pearls of wisdom yourself.
Second, the objects that were in Tut's tomb look incredibly new, having been sealed away in a dry climate for three-thousand years. Ergo, they look shockingly like reproductions, not 3000-year-old antiquities. Ergo, I had a really hard time wrapping my head around the fact that these things were REALLY 3,000 years old and REALLY from King Tut's tomb and that I was REALLY not in the Museum Store looking at stuff I could buy. But honestly, despite my mental block, it was still an amazing experience to see this exhibit. The unique faces on each shabti figurine, the detailed semi-precious stone inlay work, the delicate hammered gold covering Tut's aunt's giant sarcophagus--it was all mind-blowingly amazing. I could have stared at just about every display for hours. Except that I had herds of audio-tourists glaring holes into my back when I lingered too long.
If you've watched too many Egyptian documentaries on the Discovery channel like I have, you know that Akhenaten was Tut's father and the one pharoah (that I know of, anyway) who tried to convert Egypt to a monotheistic religion. Akhenaten has one of the most singular and recognizable faces that I've seen on said documentaries--whether in paintings or reliefs or statues. And to see that face staring down at me in the form of a giant stone head from Karnuk was pretty amazing.
Common wisdom has always held that Tuthankamun was murdered by a blow to the head--most likely by his advisor, Eye, according to the last Discovery Channel documentary I've seen. Well, one of the big shockers of the exhibit was that researchers took thousands of CT scans of Tut's mummy in 2005 and have concluded that he was not murdered but probably died in an accident, such as a fall from a chariot.
The one disappointment was that although Tut's gold funerary mask (see the entry below)--which is probably THE most famous relic in all of Egyptology and immediately recognizable even to people who aren't as nerdy as I am--was not part of the exhibit, despite being shown in ALL of the advertisements and on the cover of the exhibit guide. Nor were any of his sarcophagi, though his aunt's was on display. Apparently, Cairo won't let these items leave the city. NOT that I can blame them, but I was still disappointed not to have seen them. Oh, well. I'll simply have to go to Egypt someday.
All in all, the exhibit was too short, a little disappointing due to some missing objects that advertisements seemed to hint would be there, but still a fascinating experience.
Coolest item: Akhenaten's giant stone head from Karnuk, as well as one of Tut's crowns.
Item I'd most want in my house: The only extant example of a trunk with carrying poles. The jewel inlay was pretty without being garish, and it'd make a great coffee table.
Jose's favorite item: Tut's solid gold dagger
Grossest item: There were no mummies on display, so the exhibit was surprisingly lacking a gross-out factor. Maybe the canopic jar that once held Tut's aunt's intestines would be the best fit here. They also had a coffinette that had held some of Tut's internal organs, but for some reason, the fact that the jar had the word "intestines" in the display overview makes it grosser.
Weirdest souvenier in the souvenier shop: The King Tut Tissue Box Cover.
* Jose came up with the title for this blog, having sung it pretty much all throughout our trip to Ft. Lauderdale. We aren't sure where it's from but suspect it's a line from Steve Martin's song, "King Tut."
Friday, April 07, 2006
Nerd Alert
We're all nearly plague-free and so we're off to Ft. Lauderdale this weekend to catch the Tuthankhamen and the Golden Age of the Pharoahs exhibit. I'll blog all about it in excruciating detail when we get back!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
The Tragically Unhip
So today, a sale circular sent me into a close-to-midlife crisis. Note exhibit A, above, which is from said sale circular.
I don't mean to judge anyone on her clothing, but what the heck IS this? This is in fashion now? Who would wear this? It looks like someone with a head injury did a quick whipstitch at the bottom and pulled until the whole lumpy mess gathered in. Actually, it looks like an emergency hem I did with duct tape and dental floss on a theater costume once. The truly horrifying part is that between them, the jacket (which isn't bad) and the ... "skirt" (most hideous thing I've ever seen in my life) cost roughly $2,000.
I remember bubble skirts, which is what I assume that thing the clearly ticked off model above is wearing is. My mom is a great seamstress and made a prom dress for my friend Mel that had a fitted black top and an Irish green bubble skirt at the bottom. It was cute, fun, and totally 80s, but in a good way. The difference between that skirt and this is twofold: 1) it was the 80s, so everyone looked heinous (Though seriously, Mel looked cute. I, on the other hand, wore a giant black satin bell-skirted horror and had permed hair so big, it looked like I'd taken styling lessons from the lead singer from REO Speedwagon.), and 2) it looked like someone competent sewed it, because it was perfectly bubbled and even. This dress is a complete horror show.
So, what's the deal here? Does someone out there think this is a great look? Will people actually go to this store and shell out a paycheck or two for this outfit or a reasonable facsimile thereof? Will they wear it? Will people tell them the Jackie-O jacket and homeless-person's-blanket skirt pairing looks hot? Or will passersby point and laugh?
And here's the big question: Has turning 35 forced me to cross a threshold where I am suddenly tragically unhip? Is the fact that I have no love for this skirt a SIGN? Am I doomed to scratch my head in bewildered uncertainty over the new, "loud and weird" music; the latest fashions that are just too-too revealing or bizarre; and the general state of "kids today?" Am I doomed to suddenly think pleated, tapered, up-to-my-armpits Mom jeans are the best thing ever? ("Because you're not a woman; you're a MOM!")
35 means I'm supposed to not shop at Wet Seal and shop instead at J.Jill, which actually says in its marketing materials that it caters to the "35-and-older crowd." (I shop at both, though I have to be more judicious about my purchases at Wet Seal. Thirty-five-year-olds look kind of ridiculous wearing T-shirts that say "Brad's Girl.")
35 means my music tastes are supposed to start declining. I always said it would never happen, but sadly enough, I have no idea what songs are playing on the radio right now, and what has become passe'. Once in awhile, something by the Killers or Kanye West or Coldplay will leak into my consciousness and onto my iPod, but for the most part, they're nestled in between modern folk singers (Dido, Sinead Lohan), new age/trance/classical music-to-write-by (Loreena McKennitt, Moby, OperaBabes), and stuff no one has heard of that I love (Res, Alana Davis).
I love Sting. I'll never be embarrassed to admit that. The Police rocked the free world, and though Sting by himself lost a little of that Police edge, he's still awesome. But is he going to be my daughter's version of Barry Manilow or Neal Diamond--the old white guy who sings to screaming, fainting old ladies? ("God, Mom went to a Sting concert last night. Two hours of music you could hear in an elevator!") (And seriously, I actually like old-school Neil Diamond, like "Cherry, Cherry" or "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show.")
35 means my night life is supposed to get boring. Well, OK, it's a little boring by college party girl standards, but I'd rather hang out with my so-cute-and-goofy-I-could-squeeze-them daughters than go on a bender anyday. So there.
I have no real conclusion here, other than to say that aging is weird.
Current State of Being:
* Jeans: embroidered Lucky Brand loose fit. No acid wash, pleats, or tapered ankles (though I have observed that some doofus is trying to bring tapered jeans back. Back! Back, spawn of the devil!)
* Currently listening to: The Killers, "Somebody Told Me" (that you had a boyfriend, that looked like a girlfriend, that I had in Feb! Ru! Ary! of last year....) Next in queue is Melissa Etheridge's cover of "Refugee," which I forgot to put on my favorite cover list....
* Plans for the evening: Watch someone get kicked off American Idol. Cuddle Maggie, who has the plague we caught from Jose. Cuddle Marin, who isn't getting as much attention because she's not sick. Read When You Give A Moose A Muffin and Princess Smarty Pants for the thousandth time. Pick another book from my nightstand because I'm officially Between Books!
* Opinion of Latest Fashion Above: Horrified fascination.
* State of mind: Fairly Zen, though still plague-ridden.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Feeling Better
Wow, that was a long rant. Sorry, y'all. Anyway, House of Secrets finaled in the Beacon contest for Best Romantic Suspense, so I'm a little less crabby now. (Despite the fact that my husband brought home some sort of horrible plague and we are all disgustingly sick....)
Misanthrope
Romancing the Blog did an entry awhile back about authors who try to market themselves in annoying ways, like hijacking email discussions to yammer on at length about their books or sending out blanket pleas to people to PLEASE buy their books because they have received news from their publishers that the book hasn't been doing all that well and are afraid for their careers (an email that seems to be going out with all the frequency and truthfulness of those annoying Nigerian bank scams).
I'd like to add that a few authors do this kind of crap in person, too, and I'm tempted to go all Edvard Munch on the next person I meet who displays such insensitive, verbal marketing incontinence, and put my hands to my head and shriek until I run out of air--regardless of how many people I'd freak out.
Let me just preface this by saying that I like talking to people. I'm interested in what people are working on, what they're passionate about, what they do for a living, who they're voting for on American Idol, etc., and as a reporter, I can always keep a conversation going because I'm not only not afraid to ask people questions about themselves, but I genuinely enjoy hearing the answers. However, there's one thing I do not enjoy when meeting new people....
I try to treat everyone I meet like a unique person who is worth getting to know. If you are going to talk to me, I would appreciate the same courtesy. But people who not only don't ask what my name is but don't give a rat's ass? WHY are you talking to me?
I'll tell you why. Because some idiots think that if they just vomit all of the details about their books over someone as fast as they can, that person is going to be so thrilled to meet a Real Live Published Author Who Deigned to Come Down Out of the Rarified Published Air and Talk to Them, that they will go running for the nearest bookstore and snap up every copy of said Real Live Author's book for herself and all of her friends and acquaintances.
Let me tell you now--it's not going to happen. Last year, I met an author who was writing the EXACT type of book I love: dark, gritty suspense. Did I buy her book? No, I did not. Will I ever buy her books? No, I will not. Why will I not buy her book when it's exactly what I like to read? Because while she approached and talked to me on several occasions at a conference, I might as well have had a bag over my head during all of our conversations that read "Marketing Opportunity," because it was obvious that that's all she saw me as--someone who could buy her upcoming books, and that's all.
I know, I know--maybe she's shy. Maybe she was nervous and didn't know what else to talk about. Maybe I intimidated her (because at 5'3", I can be wicked intimidating).
I've thought through all of those things, and I do try to give people the benefit of the doubt the first time or two. But you know, sometimes a person's complete and utter disinterest in you as a person just smacks you in the face like a clammy, wet towel. You can always tell when they see you as a potential book sale and nothing more--the flat, emotionless shark eyes; the buzzing drone their voice takes on as they go through a well-rehearsed speech about how they just wrote the Best Book, Just the Best Book Ever, It's So Good (yes, someone actually used that phrase to describe her book to me once); the utter refusal to even pretend to care about you as a person; the speed-of-sound monologues about their publisher, their BOOK TITLE, their agent, their BOOK TITLE, their covers, their BOOK TITLE, and lest we forget, their BOOK TITLE, which comes out from their publisher for $6.99 at a bookstore near you in AUGUST! AUGUST! AUGUST! Here, have a bookmark. Don't you just love my bookmarks? I have the best cover. Did I tell you my book was coming out in August? Gotta go. It was nice seeing you again, Stacy. Oh, were you saying something? Don't have time; gotta run. Bye!
And if that weren't enough, there's the way their eyes glaze over if you happen to utter a declarative sentence in the middle of such a "conversation" with a couple more words than "Oh, that's great" or "Wow."
I love celebrating other people's success. I compete with myself and no one else--publishers always have room for a great book, and if I write one, I'll get what I deserve to get. Your writing a great book and getting a great contract does not lessen my chances of writing a great book and getting a great contract. If I have the talent and marketing savvy to do it, I'll do it. And if I don't, it's my own fault and no one else's (but I'll always be happy writing category, because it's fun).
So, if you're not a jerk, I will be happy that you've succeeded. If you've succeeded more than I have, go you. I'd love to ooh and ahh over the story of how you sold or over the foil and step-back on your book cover. I'd love to hear all about your upcoming book and how the market is treating you and the prospects for your future. All I ask is that if you decide to talk to me at length, talk to ME, not to the marketing opportunity you think I represent.
I don't think this is too much to ask. So, why, WHY do some people still have to waste my time (and others'--I KNOW I'm not alone here) yammering on and on without truly engaging? (At least I know it's not something wrong with me, because this type of person can barely SEE me, much less register who I am as a person, so they wouldn't even notice if I did something annoying or socially unacceptable.)
Therefore, I have decided that I'm going to literally run away screaming the next time some whackjob hijacks a perfectly nice conversation I'm having with someone else to blah all over us all glassy-eyed about her book. No, it's not a figure of speech--I will literally scream and run away. Life is too short to be held hostage by some guerrilla marketer with poor social skills. My new rules for having a conversation without being interrupted by my personal version of The Scream are:
1) If you want to talk to me, at least ask me what my name is. This is a very basic social practice that indicates that you give a rat's ass about who I am.
2) If you want to talk to me, be interested in talking WITH me, not at me. If you're looking over my shoulder, I'll be pretty sure you're talking at me.
3) Here's the important one: You DO NOT have to ask what I write, care about what I write, or pretend that you're going to buy my books. Not everyone likes gritty category romantic suspense, and that's fine--I'm certainly not going to force the issue. But if you are going to talk to me (or to anyone, for that matter), let's have a conversation. Take a breath once in awhile and let me say something back to you. Listen when I talk. Notice that I am listening to you and am interested in what you have to say. (And on the off chance that I'm not, you have my permission to start pelting me with small promotional items or to run away screaming. Chances are, I will run after you to apologize.)
4) Do not waste my time and yours by blahhing all over me about your book at length, while making it obvious that you don't care at all who I am. When annoyed, I not only get overtly aggressive, I get passive aggressive, and I will not only NOT buy your book, I will tell my friends what a wanker you are and why THEY should not buy your book. The odds are about 99% in your favor that if you are nice to me and to my friends, I will ASK you about your book. Might even buy it.
5) If you ever catch yourself thinking of anyone as one of the "little people" who is probably delighted that someone like you would talk to someone like her, don't talk to me. Just don't. Ever.
6) And finally, don't tell me that my husband is undoubtedly going back to Iraq and will probably get shot (He won't, and he won't! Dammit.) and that everyone who goes there is getting shot and you know someone who lost an eye and a hand. At that point, you will have crossed the boundary from merely annoying and slightly rude to just being an ass.
Done now. (I'll try to be more cheerful tomorrow, because really, the majority of the authors that I know are really cool people to whom none of the above applies.)
I'd like to add that a few authors do this kind of crap in person, too, and I'm tempted to go all Edvard Munch on the next person I meet who displays such insensitive, verbal marketing incontinence, and put my hands to my head and shriek until I run out of air--regardless of how many people I'd freak out.
Let me just preface this by saying that I like talking to people. I'm interested in what people are working on, what they're passionate about, what they do for a living, who they're voting for on American Idol, etc., and as a reporter, I can always keep a conversation going because I'm not only not afraid to ask people questions about themselves, but I genuinely enjoy hearing the answers. However, there's one thing I do not enjoy when meeting new people....
I try to treat everyone I meet like a unique person who is worth getting to know. If you are going to talk to me, I would appreciate the same courtesy. But people who not only don't ask what my name is but don't give a rat's ass? WHY are you talking to me?
I'll tell you why. Because some idiots think that if they just vomit all of the details about their books over someone as fast as they can, that person is going to be so thrilled to meet a Real Live Published Author Who Deigned to Come Down Out of the Rarified Published Air and Talk to Them, that they will go running for the nearest bookstore and snap up every copy of said Real Live Author's book for herself and all of her friends and acquaintances.
Let me tell you now--it's not going to happen. Last year, I met an author who was writing the EXACT type of book I love: dark, gritty suspense. Did I buy her book? No, I did not. Will I ever buy her books? No, I will not. Why will I not buy her book when it's exactly what I like to read? Because while she approached and talked to me on several occasions at a conference, I might as well have had a bag over my head during all of our conversations that read "Marketing Opportunity," because it was obvious that that's all she saw me as--someone who could buy her upcoming books, and that's all.
I know, I know--maybe she's shy. Maybe she was nervous and didn't know what else to talk about. Maybe I intimidated her (because at 5'3", I can be wicked intimidating).
I've thought through all of those things, and I do try to give people the benefit of the doubt the first time or two. But you know, sometimes a person's complete and utter disinterest in you as a person just smacks you in the face like a clammy, wet towel. You can always tell when they see you as a potential book sale and nothing more--the flat, emotionless shark eyes; the buzzing drone their voice takes on as they go through a well-rehearsed speech about how they just wrote the Best Book, Just the Best Book Ever, It's So Good (yes, someone actually used that phrase to describe her book to me once); the utter refusal to even pretend to care about you as a person; the speed-of-sound monologues about their publisher, their BOOK TITLE, their agent, their BOOK TITLE, their covers, their BOOK TITLE, and lest we forget, their BOOK TITLE, which comes out from their publisher for $6.99 at a bookstore near you in AUGUST! AUGUST! AUGUST! Here, have a bookmark. Don't you just love my bookmarks? I have the best cover. Did I tell you my book was coming out in August? Gotta go. It was nice seeing you again, Stacy. Oh, were you saying something? Don't have time; gotta run. Bye!
And if that weren't enough, there's the way their eyes glaze over if you happen to utter a declarative sentence in the middle of such a "conversation" with a couple more words than "Oh, that's great" or "Wow."
I love celebrating other people's success. I compete with myself and no one else--publishers always have room for a great book, and if I write one, I'll get what I deserve to get. Your writing a great book and getting a great contract does not lessen my chances of writing a great book and getting a great contract. If I have the talent and marketing savvy to do it, I'll do it. And if I don't, it's my own fault and no one else's (but I'll always be happy writing category, because it's fun).
So, if you're not a jerk, I will be happy that you've succeeded. If you've succeeded more than I have, go you. I'd love to ooh and ahh over the story of how you sold or over the foil and step-back on your book cover. I'd love to hear all about your upcoming book and how the market is treating you and the prospects for your future. All I ask is that if you decide to talk to me at length, talk to ME, not to the marketing opportunity you think I represent.
I don't think this is too much to ask. So, why, WHY do some people still have to waste my time (and others'--I KNOW I'm not alone here) yammering on and on without truly engaging? (At least I know it's not something wrong with me, because this type of person can barely SEE me, much less register who I am as a person, so they wouldn't even notice if I did something annoying or socially unacceptable.)
Therefore, I have decided that I'm going to literally run away screaming the next time some whackjob hijacks a perfectly nice conversation I'm having with someone else to blah all over us all glassy-eyed about her book. No, it's not a figure of speech--I will literally scream and run away. Life is too short to be held hostage by some guerrilla marketer with poor social skills. My new rules for having a conversation without being interrupted by my personal version of The Scream are:
1) If you want to talk to me, at least ask me what my name is. This is a very basic social practice that indicates that you give a rat's ass about who I am.
2) If you want to talk to me, be interested in talking WITH me, not at me. If you're looking over my shoulder, I'll be pretty sure you're talking at me.
3) Here's the important one: You DO NOT have to ask what I write, care about what I write, or pretend that you're going to buy my books. Not everyone likes gritty category romantic suspense, and that's fine--I'm certainly not going to force the issue. But if you are going to talk to me (or to anyone, for that matter), let's have a conversation. Take a breath once in awhile and let me say something back to you. Listen when I talk. Notice that I am listening to you and am interested in what you have to say. (And on the off chance that I'm not, you have my permission to start pelting me with small promotional items or to run away screaming. Chances are, I will run after you to apologize.)
4) Do not waste my time and yours by blahhing all over me about your book at length, while making it obvious that you don't care at all who I am. When annoyed, I not only get overtly aggressive, I get passive aggressive, and I will not only NOT buy your book, I will tell my friends what a wanker you are and why THEY should not buy your book. The odds are about 99% in your favor that if you are nice to me and to my friends, I will ASK you about your book. Might even buy it.
5) If you ever catch yourself thinking of anyone as one of the "little people" who is probably delighted that someone like you would talk to someone like her, don't talk to me. Just don't. Ever.
6) And finally, don't tell me that my husband is undoubtedly going back to Iraq and will probably get shot (He won't, and he won't! Dammit.) and that everyone who goes there is getting shot and you know someone who lost an eye and a hand. At that point, you will have crossed the boundary from merely annoying and slightly rude to just being an ass.
Done now. (I'll try to be more cheerful tomorrow, because really, the majority of the authors that I know are really cool people to whom none of the above applies.)
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About Me
- Tracy Montoya
- Tracy Montoya writes romantic suspense for Harlequin Intrigue.