Alien Like You

I just finished watching the latest episode of Being Erica. I HAD to write about it before going to sleep tonight so I could tell everyone about it! It is my new favourite show in the world (I'm sure when all my other shows come back in the fall my favourite will change again).

About the show:
Erica starts therapy because her life is going nowhere and she has too many regrets. It turns out her therapy involves going back in time, reliving her experiences over again, and hopefully ridding herself of regrets. The first season has her going back to high school to fix boyfriend problems or stop herself from getting someone fired (it's pretty funny to see the different styles she went through in the 90's).

At first I kept watching because it was interesting but I didn't get super into it until the second season. Here's why:

Kai

Spoiler alert!

Kai is a rock star from nine years in the future. He's in therapy like Erica and has come back to her time to redo a part of his past. It is impossible to have a relationship because every time he completes the goal of his therapy the Kai that she knows disappears and turns into the 22 year old kid who doesn't know who she is. (what a brilliant concept)

I love this character. He's a vulnerable player with an amazing voice. Mysterious and fun. I so wish I could use him to inspire a character for my own book - maybe for the next story.

Actually all of the characters in the show are sympathetic, complicated, and flawed. Now I remember why I initially wanted to be a screenwriter (I just love a good series).

The actor is one of the Pigott Brothers and wrote the songs that he performed on the show.

Here is the song that I LOVE.

Are there characters out there that you can't get enough of? How are you inspired to create interesting, multidimensional characters?

Rules, who follows them anyway?

So like Amy, I'm also not a writer...technically. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE writing, but only when it comes to writing about my everyday life. I'm just not creative enough to come up with an actual story - so I take my reality and liven it up a tad (honestly, just a little). But the point is: by denying myself the title of "writer" I am no longer constrained by punctuation or other literary rules. And I truly believe life is more fun when you can write how you want. I like to make sentences that aren't sentences. I like to use lots of "dot dot dots." Plenty of sentences end with words that shouldn't be hanging around anywhere near a period. I also start sentences with "and" all the time and I LOVE to lengthen a sentence with a beautiful little "-". And the use of run-on sentences gets me excited...because what could be more fun then a never ending sentence? Almost nothing.

My only rule when it come to writing is that the reader has to be able to read it...AND that they have to read it in the tone and manner in which I was thinking it in my crazy mind. So when I do write, I may....or may not call my mom up and ask her to read my words aloud back to me to test it out. And sometimes that's not good enough...because honestly, she's my mom. That lady raised me (and therefore, knows exactly how I talk and think and write). So in certain circumstances, I ask my poor husband to read my writing....and then we don't talk for the rest of the day cause we're so mad at each other. I mean really, how could he get my intended tone so wrong? We've been married for EVER! You think he'd know that I really didn't mean to share in detail the story about his nose hairs. Really....it could have been a metaphor. And besides who would read it anyway? It's not like EVERYONE reads my blog.

Anyway, I hope you get what I'm saying. I like to write about life. I don't dream up stories...I just re-create them. I like to write in my own style and form - i.e. I follow no rules. And most importantly, I like to have someone else proofread what I've written (preferably not the person who I've just written about though because that can get a bit hairy).

So, what are your rules when it comes to writing? Are you part of the grammar police or do you make your own rules? What do you write about? And do you share with others?

Write About Reading??

When my sister Emily asked me to join “Write About Nothing”, my first thought was that I'm not really a writer.  This will become evident as more posts follow, however, I am absolutely an avid reader.  A fact to which the odd day of neglect toward my family may attest.

I love discussing every book I read, whether I enjoyed them or not. I also feel as though I can really get to know those around me when we discuss literature: similar likes and dislikes, ideas, experiences, strong opinions or quiet indifference.  A sincere bonding takes place when these thoughts and feelings are shared between readers, and of course friends.  My book club meeting is the highlight of my month, where I have formed lasting relationships with each of these dear friends.

Due to my love for my own book club, I was able to find an immediate appreciation for my latest read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society written by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows.  What a wonderful novel!!!

The story takes place as England is recovering from World War II and is written as a series of letters between a popular author Juliet, her best friend, and her publisher. When she receives a letter from a stranger, Dawsey Adams, from the island of German occupied Guernsey, a new friendship develops.  A friendship with not only Dawsey, but also every member of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.  As Juliet learns more about the courage of their founding member Elizabeth, and how the sharing of literature helped the members find friendship and moments of happiness during such a trying time, she decides to travel to Guernsey herself.  

Reading this story was a true delight.  The format being in letters allowed the character’s personalities to shine through and I found myself connecting easily with each of them, along with their little eccentricities. 

Here are a few quotes to give a glimpse into the charm of the book:

“My name is Dawsy Adams, and I live on my farm in St. Martin’s Parish on Guernsey.  I know of you because I have an old book that once belonged to you – the “Selected Essays of Elia”, by an author whose name in real life was Charles Lamb. Your name and address were written inside the front cover.”(9)

“That’s what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It’s geometrically progressive -  all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment”. (11, 12)

“None of us had any experience with literary societies, so we made our own rules: we took turns speaking about the books we’d read. At the start, we tried to be calm and objective, but that soon fell away, and the purpose of the speakers was to goad the listeners into wanting to read the book themselves. Once two members had read the same book, they could argue, which was our great delight. We read books, talked books, argued over books, and became dearer and dearer to one another….we could almost forget now, now and then, then darkness outside.” (51)

“My guides are as various as the sights. Isola tells me about cursed pirated chests bound with bleached bones washing up on the beaches…Eben describes how things used to look…Dawsey says the least, but takes me to see wonders…Then he stands back and lets me enjoy them as long as I want. He’s the most un-hurrying person I’ve ever met.” (165)

 

A Guernsey coastal path. Photograph: Corbis

Excuse - Poetry Schmoetry #3

Another poem for the blogfest!
The poem today is from before I "met" my husband and got married. Maybe around a year before. I didn't think of myself as a writer back then.

I have a vague idea of what I was thinking at the time I wrote that but reading it now I get something completely different from it.

Excuse

Why do I sense tears building behind my eyes?
I see the screen and wish to turn away,
But I can not;
I write.

I chase the images, abstract tastes and sounds,
Passing through associations,
Too swift for consciousness to grasp.
Then fit them into one space,
One time,
One dimension.

I must pursue and write that which I can not face;
Confronting opaque fears with hopes for peace,
Yet satisfaction denies me again as language translates
With words too sweet for truth,
Empty on the page.

And the feeling returns . . .

First swelling,
And now hollow.
I want to sleep,
But how can I attempt?

A vague memory stirs with protective arms and kind eyes.
I hold fast to the sight, to the warmth,
And try to clarify the source
of why I cry with no excuse.