A lot of time and analysis these days is spent on examining women in the media and rethinking how they are presented. We want—we need—to see more quality presentation of women and girls in movies and TV in particular (books are far better at presenting women who are not merely arm- or eye-candy, or there to be rescued).

But as much as we can bemoan the state of women in the media, when we see things like the following commercial, I have to wonder about men, and how we are presenting ourselves, and what we think of ourselves.

Labatt Blue Light is a repeat offender, and their latest offering is especially bad. Their new ad, called "Better Bus," (and not currently up on Youtube) features three 'men' who miss their bus on the way to the game. One opens a Blue Light and a bus magically appears before them. A bus full of women in skin-tight, two-piece cheerleader outfits, hanging out the windows, shaking what they've got. Driven by a woman who leans suggestively against the door and asks the boys if they're …coming.

I'm up for a joke, I'm up for humor, and yes, there's a certain degree of humor in these commercials. But guys, come on: aren't we a little better than this? As much as we can bemoan the messages we're sending to our daughters, what are we telling our sons?

More on this some other time. Have a great weekend!

Musical Monday: February 3, 1959

On this day in rock and roll history:

Which, of course, spawned this hit some thirteen years later:

Back in the Dark Ages, we had a record player, and we had American Pie on a 45. I know some of you know what that's all about. I remember the song would fade out after, I think the second verse, and you had to flip it over to hear the rest. The song fascinated me for some time, loved that catchy chorus, but seven- or eight-year-old me had no idea what the song was about.

On another note, it's going to be a pretty light week around here, posting-wise, so if anything gets posted at all, it will be pre-loaded, stuff, probably of a purely-musical variety, as I will be away from the home office for several days. So, keep an eye on this space, but don’t be surprised if you get nothing at all until a week from this Friday.

Meanwhile, thank you, Al Diaz, of Father Dragon Writes, for dropping the Liebster Award on me. I've received this one before (not that I'm not grateful, because I am. Thanks, Al!), and it seems to have changed a little bit from that first one (my Liebster went to 5, but this one goes to 11), but I'm going to hold off doing Liebstery things for right now.

I think that's going to be about it for me for now. Have a great week or so, see you!

Just Write It

There was a big brouhaha on Absolute Write a week or two ago over a piece of advice frequently handed out there. It's advice that is surely dispensed wherever writers gather, be it an internet forum, a conference, a book signing, or a café in Paris. The advice: Just Write It.

I've given this advice to people myself. Someone comes on the board and says they've been planning a project for months, and they had an idea for an opening scene, but now they're thinking it might be better to start somewhere else and that's throwing the whole thing off and I've been working on this plan for SO LONG and I really hate to start over what should I do?

Just Write It.

Another person has been writing a story in alternating points of view. They're at a critical scene and planned to write it from character A's point of view, but now they're thinking maybe it should be from character B's perspective, and they're not sure what to do.

Just Write It.

The brouhaha arose because someone felt that "Just Write It" is used too often as a panacea, and that, without knowing the real problems the person is having, it may not be helpful, and could even be harmful. They also object to the imperative nature of the advice. An inexperienced writer, they argue, may think it's the only solution, an absolute rule, and it could harm their development.

There may be some truth in this. Just Write It is not always the best solution. There are times when Just Write It is not the best option. It depends in part on what you're writing and what your process is. There are times when the best option is to walk away from the story for a little while. There are times when you really do need to no more about legal procedures, a particular medical condition, or the New York City sewer system before you can proceed with your writing. By all means do your research, make sure you're well-informed, but don't use the need for research as an excuse to come to a complete stop. Get it done and get back to writing. Far too often, when I read threads on AW from people who are spinning their wheels, I'm reminded of this bit from Monty Python's Life of Brian (40 seconds):

Substitute any and all of the following-- "outlining," "research," "character biographies,"—for the word "discussion" in the clip above, and you've got a group of writers, not pseudo-revolutionaries.

Just Write It is not always the right answer, but it's often the best one. If you find yourself saying, "I've got this great idea, but I don't know how to begin," Just Write It! Write what? Anything! Describe a character. Describe the room she's in. Write about what he's wearing, or what she sees from her window. Anything to get started. It doesn't have to be brilliant, it doesn't have to be perfect. Quite often, just writing something is enough to get the words flowing. In the case of the "which POV for this scene" question—Just Write It! Write them both. Sometimes that's the only way to figure out which one works best. Yes, it's extra work, but it's not wasted writing or wasted time.

Have you ever found a time where Just Write It wasn't the best solution for your problem? Tell me about it, and have a great weekend.

Inside a Wingman's Brain

When it comes to writing, I am a wingman. My completed novels were started on the basis of simple ideas and written without the benefit of any outlines. I started one with a character in mind, and the other based on a situation. While I thought about both stories in advance, when I sat down to write I had no real clue as to what would happen, how either would end, or even who was in it. There's just some opening image (which doesn't necessarily turn out to be page 1 in the completed work), and the story is revealed as I go.

Once a week I get together with a group of folks for a writer's group. We use a prompt and do about forty-five minutes of freewriting, which we share at the end. Commentary is pretty light, we aim for encouragement, and I'm fine with that. It's fun, it's good practice, and I've come up with some usable material for short stories. Parts of both novels were written there (Barton's Women, in fact was actually started there).

Two weeks ago we read "La Recoleta," a poem by Jorge Luis Borges, as our prompt. It was a funny day; I was 'in charge' that day and was distracted by the unexpected arrival of three teens and a young adult from a different writing group who showed up wanting to 'sit in' (though the leader said, "We'll just watch." Huh? Why would you go to a writer's group and just watch? But I digress.). I also had the pressure of trying to end on time (for once), so I had to watch the clock. The prompt didn't quite grab me, and I stared out the window, trying to find something to write. A curtain of icicles hung outside the window, and as I watched the drip drip drip of droplets off the end of one of the icicles, and it started. What I'm going to do is mix what I wrote that day with commentary on what I was thinking (when I was thinking at all, that is). This piece is not edited beyond what I did at the time. Maybe because I was so distracted, I was able to remember the shifts and turns in my thinking. Anyway, here it is.

'Water drops bulged at the end of the icicle, fell with the same steady rhythm of the a saline drip pumped into Frank's arm. He watched it—the ice, not the saline drip, he got faint light-headed every time he thought about stuff getting pumped into his arm—and decided he'd officially bottomed out.'

Three things. First, I noticed how steady the drip off the end of an icicle is, and that put me in mind of IVs, so I worked that in. Also, less conscious, those were pretty damn sharp icicles hanging off the roof, which perhaps put me in mind of needles in veins. Frank is a definite reference to a a character in a lengthy piece one of my writer's group colleagues has been working on. And, in hindsight, I'd say that 'bottomed out' may be a reference to how I was feeling at the moment. When I resort to writing about things I see and hear at the writer's group, it's a sure sign things aren't working too well that day. Though writing about icicles isn't as bad as writing about pens, though. When I write about pens, that's bottoming out.

I still had no idea where this was going, by the way, but I kept up with the idea of bottoming out in the next paragraph.

'This is what my life has come to, he thought, as a drop grew fat at the end of the razor needle*-sharp ice. I'm watching water fall off an icicle and it's the most interesting thing that's happened all day.'

*I initially used razor, but razor is the wrong word for icicles, isn't it? Icicles are needles, not razors, and the hospital setting and the IV meant 'needle' was the right word. This was a conscious cross-out made before I went any further.

Now, at this point, questions came up. Who is Frank? What's he doing in the hospital? I didn't know. What's more, Frank didn't know. I suddenly had an idea that Frank in this place with no idea why, and no memory of anything, really. I was writing myself into something. It's great fun when it happens. On I went.

'And it was, too, that was the sad thing. He couldn't remember how long he'd been here. He couldn't remember why he was here. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a familiar face, besides the dark-eyed nurse stern-faced nurses and orderlies who took his pulse, checked his temperature, and asked him how he was feeling, that is. Once today the they switched the bag of saline had hung from its hook like a deflated balloon. Frank had seen caught sight of it and nearlythe room had gone gotten grey and spinny. Later, the curly-haired nurse in the Snoopy smock had entered with a full bag. Frank looked away and discovered the icicles out the window, and that had occupied his mind for some time.'

So, at this point I tried to tap into the hospital experience a bit. I've never been a long-term patient myself, but have seen enough of hospitals in the last ten years for a lifetime. In this and the next paragraph, indeed, in all of Frank's interactions with the nurse, I tried to bring in the feeling of being in a hospital, so any potential reader might nod their heads and think, "yeah, that's it."

I'm not 100% sure why I opted out of 'dark-eyed nurse' in favor of a more generic person. In hindsight, it works better. The bag of saline was something where I started to write a simple "they switched it" but thought I could use more description, so I went for the deflated balloon thing. I was going to write 'had nearly passed out' but went for the slightly more showy 'grey and spinny.' That whole section needs more cleanup, but I was on a roll. No time for revising!

Something began to work into my head about this story, and I started to see both a possibly sinister reason for Frank's hospitalization and a way to end the story. I saw a man who knows something, or almost remembers something (I still didn't know what), but can't quite get to it, and I wanted the IV to be why he couldn't remember, and tie it all to the imagery of the dripping icicles. There was a little more interaction between Frank and the nurse that I'll skip.

'Cold fingers pressed against the inside of his wrist. His pulse beat hard against them. There was something he was supposed to ask. It dangled there in his mind, not quite seen.The idea of it grew bigger and bigger, but he didn't know.

The thermometer beeped. The nurse pulled it out of his mouth and ejected the plastic sheath. Another note on his chart.

"I'll be back in a little while," she said. "If you need anything, just hit that button."

She was halfway out the door when Frank called her. "Nurse." His voice was rusty in his ears.

She stopped and regarded watched him, her eyebrows up.

The idea, the question, grew in his mind, bigger and bigger, but he couldn't form the right words. Then it fell away. He looked out the window as if the words would be there, floating in the air, but there was nothing but a curtain of icicles and blue sky beyond. As he watched, a drop of water glistened and fell.

Frank looked back at the nurse.

"Nothing," he said, and went back to watch the icicle.'

In the end, it didn't quite work the way I wanted. Like Frank, I couldn't quite grab the right words, the right ideas, to wrap it up quite right, and I didn't have time to go back and craft it. Still, I wasn't unhappy with it then, and I'm not unhappy with it now. This is one of those pieces I can see myself polishing. So that's a glimpse into the brain of a wingman. Writing on the fly like I do for my writer's group is different than what I do with novels, and I'll probably do another post somewhere along the line talking about that (no promises on when, though; I know better than to do that). How does this compare to your process?

Oops

You ever have one of those weeks, where your sense of timing is just kind of...off? Where you're constantly either a day ahead or a day behind? Sure you have. Maybe it's because the Catbird had no school on Monday, and we took the Magpie back to school. Maybe it's because the Catbird told us she had a school function Wednesday night to attend, but it turned out it was actually Thursday (she told us this on Tuesday, not Wednesday, so no plans were broken, no one drove to school Wednesday night, only to learn we were there on the wrong day). Maybe it's because it's because yesterday's temperature bottomed out around -15 F, and barely cracked the positive single digit and we were just sluggish and slow.

Whatever the cause, I was just about to leave the house for work. I thought about coming home and whipping up tomorrow's post (which was actually mostly planned, shock and awe), when I realized: Today is Friday. Which means I goofed, and the purpose of this post is to tell you that there is no post today. Have a great weekend!

Musical Monday: Somebody That I Used to Know

Funny how things can be. Some  time ago, I kept seeing references to 'Gotye' around the web, and I had no idea what anyone was talking about. The name--or whatever it was--would get tossed around. It would catch my eye and fade away, and I'd vaguely wonder what it was or who it was, but never enough to find out.

Flash forward a few months. I've been doing a lot of driving in the last month, and as we have all of three radio stations that come in consistently, and one of them is 'Today's Best Hits,' I've been hearing this song quite a bit. It's catchy to the point where I had to look it up and find out who did it. Gotye? Who? What? Ah, now I get it. Anyway, the song has a great vibe to it, very moody, with what I think of as a Late Night Sound. And I like having Kimbra singing the third verse. She's got a great voice, and it gives the song an interesting slant. It would have worked fine having it just sung from one point of view; instead, we get two parties, both of whom feel wronged. And it's another video that just looks so cool.



On another note, thank you all for your comments on Friday's post. A lot of you went somewhere I almost went: sexism. I hesitate to play any -ism cards, but, like a number of you, I can't help but see sexism in it as well. Would there be the same brouhaha in Oxnard had Ms. Halas been a Mister Halas? Not, perhaps, had it been 'straight' porn (however, had it been a Mister Halas doing gay porn, I'm sure the result would have been the same).

That's about all I've got for today. I doubt that I'm done with Friday's subject, but I'm not prepared to do more with it today. Have a great week, all, see you on the other end of it.

The Doper, the Dope, and the Disgraced

Three interesting stories in the news this week, all involving fiction of one kind or another.

First up is disgraced cycling hero and cancer surivor, Lance Armstrong. For years, Armstrong crafted the story of a tough-minded, dedicated man who beat cancer and went on to reach the pinnacle of his sport, and achieved something that seemed impossible: seven straight wins in cycling's biggest race, the Tour de France. He created a foundation that helped cancer patients, and inspired millions the world over. And when rumors surfaced that Lance cheated, he defended himself aggressively, and with such vehemence, that the story he told us had to be true. Who would have the nerve to sue someone for telling the truth?

Turns out the answer is: Lance Armstrong. Though no smoking gun (or bloody syringe) was ever found, enough evidence piled up and Armstrong was stripped of his titles, his Olympic bronze medal, and was banned from competition. He's lost millions in endorsements, faces lawsuits, potential prison time, stepped down as head of his foundation, and disappointed millions.

Next up is the story of Heisman Trophy candidate, Manti Te'o, a linebacker from Notre Dame University. Early this season, Te'o was hit by a double whammy when he learned his grandmother, then his girlfriend, died six hours apart. Girlfriend Lennay Kekua's last message to him was to play football. On the day of her funeral, Te'o had a monster game, recording 12 tackles and leading the Irish to victory. Shortly thereafter he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and the story of his tragic loss was repeated all over sports media. Throughout the season, Te'o talked of Kekua and how she inspired him, how much she meant to him, and the legend grew. Te'o led the Irish to the national title game, finished second in the Heisman race, and is a likely first-round pick in the NFL draft.

TMZ

This week, Notre Dame officials announced Lennay Kekua never died. She never died because she never existed. Te'o, they said, was the victim of a cruel hoax, one that had him falling in love via the internet with a girl that never existed. But new reports are suggesting that Te'o may well have beenin on the hoax. Now, Te'o is facing public ridicule, and that may cause him to fall lower than expected in the upcoming NFL draft.

Finally, there's Stacie Halas. Her fiction involved lying to officials in Oxnard, California, about her past. She made the mistake of not telling them during her job interview that she 'acted' in a number of porn films. Given that she was fired when they found out, it seems like a good decision. Students found film clips of her apparently hardcore adventures; school officials studied the evidence for several weeks before firing her. Partly for the films, partly for lying about her past. Halas fought to keep her job, but lost the appeal this week. A three judge panel ruled, "Although her pornography career has concluded, the ongoing availability of her pornographic materials on the Internet will continue to impede her from being an effective teacher and respected colleague."

Of the three people who's fiction crashed and burned around them, Stacie Halas has the hardest road ahead. Armstrong has been vilified publicly for years, and it's not going to stop. Even now, his admission of guilt is being debated and parsed, his motives dissected, and his sincerity debated. Te'o will be seen as either the world's stupidest football player, or as a lying scum. He'll be either a joke or a jerk, depending on whether he not he was a perp or a patsy in the Captain Tuttle Lennay Kekua hoax.

But Armstrong and Te'o have something that Halas doesn't: opportunity. Armstrong is a fallen hero; America loves fallen heroes. At some point, someone will give Armstrong another chance. Even in disgrace, he's got start power. He may not get reinstated to cycling, but he'll be seen as sufficiently rehabilitated and will end up as a well-paid spokesman, a public figure. He may never be adored the world over as he once was, but he'll find a way to earn respect. Nike CEO Phil Knight already said, "Never say never" when asked if he could see Armstrong back in the Nike fold.

Te'o, meanwhile, hasn't broken any laws. This time next year he'll be finished with his rookie season in the NFL, where he'll receive a minimum salary of $405,000. Currently, he's projected as a mid-first round draft pick, which means he'll land with a mediocre team. Slipping down further in the draft may cost him money up front, but it could actually land him on a better team. Regardless, with signing and performance bonuses, the guy is looking easily at a million dollar contract. He'll have the opportunity to prove to NFL coaches that he can do his job and do it well, regardless of whether or not he was in on the scam or not.

And what can Stacie Halas look forward to? You can bet it won't involve teaching children, that's for sure. I'm guessing Ms. Halas's most lucrative job opportunity in the near future is going to involve nudity, real sex, and simulated acting. Maybe the folks at her school district are right. Maybe Halas can't command a classroom, not when her students can whip up a clip of her doing it doggie-style, or call her by her film name. But unlike Armstrong and Te'o, I doubt she'll ever get the chance to prove she can do it again. And that, I have to say, bothers me. Seems we like redemption stories better when the people are already famous when they fall.