Counting Hours, or Making Hours Count?

Though I have kept journals since I was thirteen years old, I almost never used them to document the events of my life.  They were for what I considered to be more important things—story ideas, poetry, drawings and notes, the raw materials that I will someday shape into art.  My own life wasn’t as interesting to me as those that I saw in books.

When I did talk about myself in my journals, the tone was bleak and despairing.  Obviously I, an awkward teenager, couldn’t compare to the heroes I read about in books, or even to the ones I created myself.  “Every character I write,” says a passage from volume 4, “is essentially based on myself.  And every one grows and improves and becomes someone new and better.  I wish there was someone to write my story, to make me better.  But I don’t think anything like that will happen.”  I was seventeen at the time.

I remember so well what it felt like to think that way.  You never really forget.  But that hopelessness is just a shadow to me now.  My story isn’t dull; there’s just a very significant difference between writing an adventure and living one.  Perhaps these are the years of my life that will be waved away by my biographer in a single paragraph or even a sentence: “There she lived for several years, waiting tables to pay the bills and pass the time, while her nights and her days off were spent chipping out her greater works.”  Simple and brief, except for the one who is actually counting the hours.  My task, then, is to take the happiness and peace that come in these quiet hours.  After all, adventures are rarely all they’re cracked up to be, and no story, however complex, can encompass an entire life.

Why I Never Liked Martha Jones

I normally use this blog as a reflection of my own life, but today I’d like to shift the focus away from me.  Nothing much interesting has happened to me lately, anyway—I’ve spent a lot of time working, writing, and…well, and watching Doctor Who.  But even when I’m watching TV—or to make it appropriate to the subject matter, ‘telly’—I’m sitting here musing away, so I might as well share my thoughts here.

I’ve been a devoted Whovian for a few years now, ever since I started watching the new incarnation with Eccleston, Tennant, and Smith in the title spot.  (I’m also trying to get caught up with classic Who, so don’t scold me for hopping onto the show late.)  The Doctor is always a fascinating and absorbing character—funny, brilliant, loving, and cold as ice when crossed.  But just as interesting to me are the companions, those lucky souls who are invited into the TARDIS for a few wonderful journeys through time and space.  They are the objects of my deep envy, but more than that, they are the people who support the Doctor in his lonely life, the ones who guide him away from despair and inspire him to be the very best he can be.

Of all the companions I’ve seen—Amy and Rory, River Song, Donna and her disorderly grandfather Wilf, Captain Jack Harkness, and of course the unforgettable Rose—there is only one whom I do not love without reservation, and that is Martha Jones.  Played by Freema Agyeman, she was on the show beginning in 2007, after the departure of longtime companion Billie Piper.  From the beginning, there was something about her that I didn’t like, and for the longest time I couldn’t put my finger on it.  I wanted to like her—she was clever, independent, sassy, and like all the other companions, brave.  She was devoted to her family, as well as to the Doctor, and her strength appealed to me.  And yet, I hesitate to watch her episodes again, to look back over her era, because there is something about her that makes me uncomfortable.  In the past few days, however, I’ve figured out that it’s not Martha herself who bothers me, but the way she is treated.

When Martha crosses paths with the Doctor, our erstwhile hero is in very bad shape.  He’s recently lost his Rose, the love of two lifetimes, his companion who stayed with him through multiple disasters and put her life on the line for his sake.  Separated from her by impossible circumstances, the Doctor is grieving for her as if she were dead.  He has also just been rejected by another possible companion, Donna (though she does later return and joins him after all).  He needs someone to support him, but there is no one he can turn to.  So when Martha helps him with a difficult situation (something about an entire hospital abducted to the moon by rhino-headed aliens; see series 3, episode 1, “Smith and Jones”), the Doctor automatically lays some of his burden on her.  She bears up beautifully, and so he invites her to continue on with him.

The problem is, there’s too much exchanged between the two of them, too soon.  While he has no interest in a romantic relationship with her, he does send her some very mixed messages—a kiss, close physical proximity, and a certain flirtatious behavior that’s integral to his character (or at least as played by David Tennant).  All of this would be natural to him in his interactions with Rose, and he doesn’t seem to realize that Martha is reading these signs differently.  He places heavy trust in her almost right away, expecting her to do difficult and dangerous things, to support him in his reckless charge through his dangerous life, and she never receives anything in return.  To put it quite baldly, he uses her.  There was never any malice intended.  By the end of her time with him, he realizes what he has done to her, and indeed she goes through the most change of all his companions, beginning as a medical student and ending as a quasi-warrior, a protector of the planet.  The Doctor understands that this is his doing, that the burdens he set on her have taken their toll.  But the fact remains that he was in pieces when he met her, and he expected her to put him back together for the simple and heartbreaking reason that there was no one else to do it.

Here’s the wonderful thing, though: she did.  Slowly but surely, Martha built him back up again, supported him through times of fear and doubt and pain.  Martha taught the Doctor how to stand on his own two feet again.  And what’s more impressive is that when it was done, when she gets to a place where she can see their relationship clearly, she ends it before it can decay.  On the heels of a triumph, she looks him the eye and she understands that he will never see her the way she wants him to.  She accepts that, and forgives him for it.  But she has suffered in helping him, and her family has suffered, too, and she knows when to say enough.  She leaves him behind, knowing that he will be all right, now, and more, that she will be all right.

It took me a long time to unravel that relationship, to realize why I didn’t admire Martha as I did the others.  It was never Martha herself, but the place she occupied, that relationship we have all been in where you give so much more than you will ever get in return.  The reason it made me so uncomfortable is because I’ve been there, and I don’t like to remember it.  No one would.  But that isn’t fair to the character.  That isn’t fair to this beautiful portrayal of a person who, finding an absolute wreck of a person, does whatever is necessary to make that person the hero he was always meant to be.  And it certainly isn’t fair to the writer who gave us an honest look into the cruel necessity of bitter, dead-end relationships.  So here’s to Martha, one of the strongest women I’ve ever seen in fiction or in real life.  Though hers isn’t a happy story, she made something out of it, and if that isn’t worth admiring, what is?

2014 in Retrospect

Super late on this post!  So without further ado...

January—I began the month without a computer, my laptop having crashed over the holidays.  The purchase of my very first desktop followed, which was all very exciting.  My new possession was promptly dubbed George III, affectionately called Saint George, as it is all very fancy and important.  It did take some getting used to, of course, not being able to pick up my computer and take it elsewhere.  But in no time I was enjoying my new tool immensely.

February—a huge snowstorm rolled through in the middle of the month, dumping a foot of snow over us and teaching me what most adults have to go through when there is snow.  It was quite an education, driving on snowy streets (terrifying!) and digging out the parking lot (quite a slog, especially without a shovel; we got creative with house cleaning tools instead).  The bad weather made for a quiet Valentine’s, despite my working in a restaurant.  Afterward, however, I had something of a social life, having friends over to supper and going over to visit with them.

March—during this time I was working on a piece of music for the Hollins choir, which was a great opportunity.  I had a chance to work with all stages of a piece of performance music, from the lyrics, which were provided by an admired professor of mine, to the practices with some very talented musicians.  As I was also working on a fourth-wall-destroying script with my filmmaker friend, it was a very creative and rewarding period.

April—what stands out here was the beautiful wedding of my best friend and her long-time sweetheart.  It was a gorgeous ceremony, performed at sunset in the open air, with the most adorable little flower girl ever being trundled down the aisle in a red wagon.  I was so glad and proud to be there, though I did have to leave rather too early—the very next day was the performance of my choral piece, Activist, at Hollins, which I wouldn’t have missed.  The close proximity of the two events made for a very hectic weekend, but the thrill of it all carried me through the next few weeks.

May—I spent a good half of this month on my own, with my roommate off on an extended trip to Japan with a friend.  I was very jealous, but it did mean I got a few adventures of my own when I brought her to the airport, and then fetched her back again a few weeks later.  At first we stayed with a dear friend of hers, a fellow alumna of Hollins.  The second time we caught a hotel—after I had spent a few hours in the airport in the middle of the night, waiting for a delayed plane.  That was less fun.  The month ended well, though, with my attendance of my second-year reunion at Hollins University.  So many familiar faces and new friends—it was a good time all around.

June—the beginning of the summer also marked the beginning of a long struggle at work.  A new manager arrived at Ruby Tuesday, a man about whom the less said the better, most likely.  His coming made a significant change in the atmosphere of the place, and I began to dread going to work.  My only escape from the drudgery this month was a brief interlude into the fantastic, when I modeled—me! modeling!—for a friend’s photo shoot, which was remarkable for the simple fact that good pictures of me were the result.  (I tend to avoid cameras on principle.)  At any rate, her photo shoots have continued, and I’ve been privileged to attend a few since then.

July—my birthday month was rather unexciting, though I did have a few opportunities to get sunburned.  My main accomplishment was completing my sci-fi novel, which has been at the forefront of my mind ever since.

August—the primary attraction of this month was the weekend I took off to North Carolina with a large group of very fun girls from my bible study group.  I admit, however, there wasn’t much studying of the bible going on that weekend—we spent a great deal of our time playing games, shopping, and exploring.  The food was excellent, thanks to the culinary talents of a mother-daughter tag team, and we were spoiled and silly and tons of fun.  I very nearly came home with a cat who had a mustache, but that’s another story.

September—we got a pair of new neighbors in this month, two very dear friends from our college days.  They took the apartment in the next building from ours, much to our joy.  It’s been lovely to be able to walk over to see them anytime we like, and they to see us, which I admit happens more often.  And why not?  This is where the tea is.  I also began editing my novel this month, having let it rest to make it fresh for the tearing-out-of-pages stage of work.  And at the end of the month, after much waiting and a couple of not-very-pleasant emails to the computer company, George IV or Georgiana arrived, a brand-new laptop which I've taken to calling Gigi.  It was almost worth all the trouble, though not quite what I was expecting.  I don't think I will go with a Chromebook again--fun and convenient it may be, but I miss Microsoft.

October—the month of spontaneity!  I was tugged hither and yon by friends all month long.  My almost-mother and her friend found a giant gourmet mushroom while hiking, and they decided the obvious solution was to make a vat of soup and share it with a large group of friends.  It was one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.  Not long after that, I carted Katie and Kathryn home with me to go on a trail ride, which was a bit more complicated than we’d expected.  A demonic attack (or a curious goat, depending on whether you ask horse or rider), much shuffling of horses and riders, and three sore tailbones occurred that weekend.  It was delightful, and we will most likely repeat the exercise.

November—I took the easy way out for NaNoWriMo, instead choosing to use the month to work all the way through my novel, in the hopes of completing its editing by Christmas.  That goal, however, was not met, and the month was otherwise characterized by stress, as I dealt with trouble at work and tried not to worry too much about how useless a job search was turning out to be.

December—by the first week of this month I was already sick of Christmas music, but I did warm up to the holidays as the day came closer.  I had a good long time to be at home, and an unexpected present came in the departure of the aforementioned unpleasant manager, making my work environment that much nicer.  I will say, however, that it is very difficult to get five siblings together for a family portrait when three of them live out of town and two of those in a separate state.  Somehow we managed it, and my plotting paid off with a good photo to remember the year by. 

It was a long one, but thankfully my calendar remembers the good and forgets the bad.  May we all do the same in the year ahead.  

"Niche"

This morning I had a conversation with a friend of a friend in the publishing business.  (May I just say, I can’t wait to edge out that middle “friend” and have my own direct contacts for these things.)  She was giving me some advice to help me get my book published, and there was a refreshing realism to what she told me.  A few years ago, if I had been told that much of the burden of marketing and selling my books would fall on me, I would have felt sick to my stomach.  I would have expected the news that it would take another few years at least before I could see my book in print would depress me for days.  Instead, it’s given me a new determination.  I don’t want people to tell me how easy it will be, that it will just happen and all my dreams will come true at once.  I know the world better now, and I understand that it’s going to take some hard work.  I find myself excited as well as nervous at the thought of reaching out with my book, offering what I have to the world. 

There is one thing that bothered me, however, while we were talking.  As soon as I told this contact what my book was about, she introduced me to a new phrase that I was unfamiliar with, but which rather defines itself: “niche genre.”  In this case it refers to science fiction, though I imagine fantasy would be considered the same.  I don’t like this phrase.  To me, it implies readers who sit at home alone with this book, unwilling to bring it out with them for fear of another’s critique.  It implies genres which are not “widely accepted”, which most people don’t read.  Niche genres are the nerds of the written world, watching by the sidelines while the cool kids—“literary” works.  What does that even mean?—stride by.

I’ve faced this struggle for years.  I have a deep and abiding love for my alma mater, Hollins, but it was there that I first faced this prejudice, as I consider it.  I was attending a summer camp at Hollins when I met with negative feedback for the first time.  I remember mentioning my interest in writing fantasy, and I can see even now the old professor’s eyes angling downward, hear his sigh.  “I don’t consider fantasy and science fiction to be literature,” he said.

It broke my little thirteen-year-old-heart, scarred me so that for years I couldn’t bring myself to turn in my “real” work to workshops.  Oh, I etched out a few short stories set in this world, but to say truth I found them boring.  My heart was in the explorations I made into other worlds, in magic and wizards and unicorns, in spaceships and other planets and the endless possibilities of the future.  Somehow this fascination made me a fringe member of my writerly community, even though I could see dozens of others who were just as interested as I was.  Our numbers, however, didn’t seem to matter—we were still the niche, not the main stage.

Now I ask you: why is it this way?  Why, when I tell people that I write science fiction and fantasy, do I feel a sinking in my stomach, thinking that any interest they show after that revelation will be mere politeness?  Why do I feel that the vast majority of my acquaintance will not be interested in my work?  Why did my contact this morning automatically dismiss my novel as “entertainment”?  (She didn’t mean to offend, of course, and would most likely be horrified to hear I took it that way, but even so.)  She told me that niche genre work doesn’t have to be artistic, that artistry is not what these publishers look for.  I ask you, why is that so, when fantasy and science fiction are not concerned with the world as it is, but as it could be?  There is so much opportunity in these genres, chances to make real what could never be in our lifetimes.  My novel explores the very nature of what it means to be human, from the point of view of a character who is not human.  Where will you find that in a “literary” novel?  And for heaven’s sake, why can’t my sci fi book be literature? 

I think it’s past time that I put my foot down on this matter.  My book is beautiful—I say that with modesty, feeling as I do that the story didn’t come from me but through me, emerging from the very fabric of human experience.  I say again that my book is beautiful, as are many science fiction and fantasy books that I have spent my life devouring, and they do not deserve to be dismissed out of hand.  They are entertaining, yes, but they are also poetic and insightful and carefully, lovingly crafted.  They provide an opportunity for readers to broaden their minds beyond the confines of this world, to see the possibilities of humankind, and that is something that’s sorely needed.  And if that is not enough to make it “literature”, then I think it’s about time for that word to be redefined.

Digging Through the Button Jar

“Don’t worry,” she said, peering through the glass.  “If you die, we’ll just get new ones.”

I was there when my friend said this.  It was a cold comment, worthy of a femme fatale from one of my stories.  But I wasn’t concerned; I only laughed.  Because I am just as cold-hearted?  No, because my friend was talking to fish, and as cute as they are, it’s hard to love fish.  Besides, she bought them on a whim for less than a dollar each.

Context is everything.  This rings especially true for a writer.  As a writing project I’ve assigned myself, I’m going through all my old journals (I’m currently on volume fourteen) to see if any of the ideas inside inspire me.  And I am finding a great deal of inspiration.  These journals are riddled with half-ideas—newspaper headlines, quotes that caught my eye or my ear, pictures that intrigue me, recorded dreams.  But they’re only half-ideas because I don’t know where they fit yet.  A line of dialogue doesn’t mean anything unless you know who said it and why; a character doesn’t matter until you know where they come from and why they are the way they are.  Indeed, the reason I am a writer is I have a need to know the whole story.

My journals are like button jars.  The only reason to have a button jar is so that someday, when you need a replacement for that one lost button, you might find something that fits.  But until you do have the need, that empty space, those buttons are just decoration.  I have a wonderful character, Genevieve, that very villainess I mentioned a moment ago.  Her mother killed her fiancé, because she thought that he made Genevieve weak.  In retaliation, Genevieve killed her mother, but she continues to follow her mother’s belief that women define their own moral code and wield power through control over men.  All this is fascinating, but a stagnant picture of a person is only interesting to me for a short time.  (Maybe that’s why I was always so quick to get bored in museums.)  To hold my interest, the character needs to move, grow, change, evolve or devolve.  What happens to Genevieve?  How does she use her ill-gotten power—for good or for evil?  Does she ever meet a man she can’t control?  Who would he turn out to be?  All of these questions remain unanswered, and as long as they do, Genevieve is just a black and white button in a jar.

I write stories so that I can find out the whole.  Characters, ideas, lines and phrases—all these things only matter to me when a story gives them their true place.  That is when they come alive.

Sincerity?

I’ve never considered myself beautiful.  I’m close, maybe, but just a shade too round-faced, with my skin not enough like porcelain and my eyes a smidgeon too squinty.  This is not self-pity talking, I promise—I’m quite pretty enough for my own esteem, and beauty will only fade as time goes by.  Still, it’s been a long time since anyone aside from my mother called me beautiful.  Or it had been, before I walked into the laundromat this week and attracted someone’s attention.

He straightened up as I came in, an older gentleman in a white t-shirt and jeans, and his eyes widened.  “Wow,” he said.  “You are so sweet and beautiful.”

Now, I was probably overdressed for this errand.  I’d put on my new white shirt with the black lace down the arms, my bright blue pants, and my high boots.  My face was made up and my hair was fixed, because sometimes I don’t like to feel like a slob.  I was looking pretty good, and I knew it.  But it was still nice to hear it.  At first.

I thanked him, and the compliment did warm me.  People don’t usually say such things with such fervent honesty.  Most of them are honest only when it will not put them into any vulnerable place, or when it will benefit them.

“Really,” he told me as I moved past him to put my clothes in the dryer.  “You must be married.  Beautiful girls like you are always married.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Really?  Then you must have a group of boyfriends.”

“No,” I said, laughing with a little more trepidation.  I focused on my clothes as they flopped into the dryer.  “Haven’t found anyone worth it yet.”

“Really?  That’s a shame,” he said.  He was still looking at me.

Suddenly the admiration wasn’t so welcome.  I found myself wondering if there was anyone else in the building, though I didn’t want to look and find out. 

He offered to take me to dinner, said he would love to do it.  “I own my own house,” he told me, smiling.  I laughed as if he were joking.  I couldn’t meet his eyes, and I moved away as soon as I could.  And still his eyes followed me.  He didn’t look away even as he was leaving, not until the last minute.

Now, I don’t want to be unfair.  The poor man may very well have been joking.  He was significantly older than me, and he didn’t look at all as if he could harm me, much less have wanted to.  His compliment may very well have been sincere.  But the way he said it made me very uncomfortable, even frightened.

I think it’s a shame that we have as much trouble reading one another as we do.  Did he know how unwelcome I found his advances, however gentle?  Was he even aware of my discomfort?  Too often, I think, men don’t even realize how disturbing their admiration can be.  This man’s compliment, after all, was immediately followed by an expectation of something in return, and I think it’s a shame that he felt the need to press himself forward.

In the end, it was a harmless experience, but a sobering one.  I hope that if I ever have sons of my own, I can teach them to be sincere and selfless in their praise.  It is possible—or at least I very much hope so—to tell a girl she is beautiful without phrasing it as a favor she should return.  Maybe if more men did this, we would have more women believing themselves to be beautiful. 

How to Find The Circumference of An Idea

Higher education in America is a mess.  I don’t think anyone would disagree with me on that score.  Just look at the statistics of student debt, or the comparisons between the American system and some of those abroad.  I have been out of college for two and a half years now, and I can reasonably expect to be making loan payments for the next eight years.  That’s if I keep on schedule—it will be longer if at any point I have to defer.  And I’m one of the lucky ones.  I remember the panicked expressions on my classmates’ faces at the end of senior year when we attended those mandatory loan meetings.  Some of them faced twenty thousand dollars of debt or more.  In the current economy, where a college degree doesn’t guarantee you a well-paying job (I’m still working in a restaurant), that’s a huge number.  And tuition prices are only getting higher.  Now, there might be any number of reasons for this, and I’m no economist to speculate on what those might be.  But even I can read the alarming line graphs I see online and in the papers. 

The government is trying to deal with this, inasmuch as the government can.  President Obama has instituted a debt forgiveness program that allows students who enroll this year to pay only ten percent of their income on student loans, and after twenty years all debts are forgiven.  As for the universities themselves, a new program is expected in time for the 2015-16 school year that will rate universities all over America and assign them financial aid according to those ratings.  Universities are up in arms about this, saying that there is no way of quantifying an education, and that deserving universities will slip through the net cast by the government rating tests, having a terrible impact on the quality of higher education.

I agree that it is next to impossible to measure the value of an education.  I wouldn’t give up my liberal arts degree for the world—if I could do it over again, I’d do it exactly the same way.  But I do admit that it doesn’t make me employable at first glance.  The problem is that federal programs like this require a homogeneous standard that can be measured, and education simply isn’t homogeneous.  Every student wants something different and needs different things from the school and its professors.  This is true at the lower levels, too—standardized tests may give the government the numbers and statistics it wants, but it doesn’t help those students who are dyslexic, or have learning disabilities, or who are kinesthetic learners.  All of these students may be brilliant in ways that don’t come up on the tests, and a good college education can give them the tools to hone that brilliance.  What happens if those good colleges are missed by the tests that only measure graduation rates and graduate income levels?

On the other hand, something has to be done.  A system that bankrupts its students for an education that they need to survive in the world is a system that needs to be changed.  Perhaps other factors could be added to the ratings list—range of options offered to each student, or number of awards received by professors, or even student happiness rankings.  Though these things are harder to measure, they are vital to the value of an education, and they have as much to say about the quality of a university as dollar signs and percentages.

The glory and the downfall of mankind, in my opinion, is how different we are.  Every human being on the planet has a little bit of a different idea as to what’s important and what needs to be known.  Our education is what teaches us those different ideas, and I would hope the government would remember that it’s not what our schools teach us that’s important, or at least that that’s not the only important thing.  What is the most vital thing a student has to learn is how to think for him- or herself, and I learned that in college.  I'd hate for younger generations to never have the chance to learn it at all.  

Some of the websites I looked at for this post: http://www.whitehouse.gov/issues/education/higher-education/ensuring-that-student-loans-are-affordable

https://studentaid.ed.gov/repay-loans/forgiveness-cancellation/charts/public-service

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Learning_styles#Neil_Fleming.27s_VAK.2FVARK_model

Also an article in Time, the April 28, 2014 issue, entitled "Should US Colleges Be Graded by the Government?" written by Haley Sweetland Edwards

Photo credit: https://searchingeyes.wordpress.com/tag/education-assessment-comic/