A Writer's Responsibilities, or, Cate Versus Twilight

Back in June, my friend Mike asked me about Twilight. It went like this:

Mike: Have you ever seen the Twilight?

Cate: Believe me, sweetheart, you do NOT want to hear my opinions on Twilight.

Mike: Dude, they sparkle in the sun. Pretty much the best thing to ever happen to the vampire community.

Cate: Please stop talking unless you're going to tell me you hate Twilight with at least half of the fibers of your being.

Mike: Sorry, I've only seen the first two movies and I think they're cute, like The Little Mermaid or The Lion King.

Cate: Well, speaking as someone who's read all of the books and seen the first movie, I can tell you three things. 1) Stephenie Meyer is a terrible, sloppy writer. 2) Bella Swan is the weakest character I've ever read and an abysmal role model for girls. 3) The entire series reinforces rape culture in a way I haven't seen from anyone/anything. No joke, Bella and Edward's relationship fits ALL the recognized criteria of domestic abuse, and the series has done more damage (in my opinion) than Barbie dolls and Disney princesses combined.

Mike: Yeah, I don't analyze them, I just watch them.

Although I disagree with Mike about sparkling being the best thing to happen to vampires, I do appreciate daywalkers. But the point here, as you may have gathered, is not the vampires themselves. Rather, it's the way Meyer treats Bella Swan--and, by extension, each of the young women who find her story irresistible.

Of course, I'm not the first person to point out how ridiculous the Twilight series is, either in its written or cinematic form, nor am I the first to criticize the writing, characterizations, or lack of good life lessons. And Meyer is far from the only writer whose work or views on women deserves scrutiny (I am looking in your direction, V.S. Naipaul). But the fact is that Meyer, being a young adult (YA) author, has a certain responsibility to her audience.

Some people think that this is up for debate. I am not one of those people.

When I was in graduate school, I was lucky enough to study under Chris Lynch, whose work isn't known for its cheerfulness. For example, Inexcusable, his powerhouse of a novel, tells the story of a rape and its aftermath from the point of view of the rapist. Working with Lynch and reading his work taught me that not only is no topic out of bounds, as many YA advocates will tell you, but also that there is a great tradition of writers reaching out to teens through their works. Jack Gantos, Chris Crutcher, Lois Lowry, and Laurie Halse Anderson are a few examples of authors who tackle dark subjects that are pressing and important. 

After a semester spent with Lynch while reading all sorts of social issues-related YA novels, I decided that I wanted to be the kind of writer who pays attention to the message I'm sending to my entirely hypothetical readers. In fact, I was so fired up over finding his name in a Wall Street Journal article decrying "dark" YA lit that I sent him a congratulatory e-mail, writing, "I like working with dudes who write the kind of stuff that gets talked about. So thanks for being awesome."

Sarah Alderson, whose work I have never read, says, "Teenage readers are influenced by our words, by our stories. Make them count." This is my general feeling about the subject. Some authors take a narrower view, asserting that they only worry about being truthful. Libba Bray feels that "it would be dishonest of me to write a character without [...] flaws." But Bray's characters (in my limited experience) don't have the same flaws we see in Meyer's work. Bella is one-dimensional, a girl incapable of sticking up for herself, the kind of person who would rather act out in a reckless manner than face the fact that she is in a bad relationship. 

Other commentators think that telling a good story is paramount, such as Fiona Snyckers, who writes, "Teenagers, and indeed most children, have an uncanny ability to detect when they are being preached at, and their reaction to such preaching is almost always resentment. Nothing kills a book faster for a teen than the awareness that some adult agenda lies behind it." Of course, I agree that it's important to deliver a well-constructed story; every writer should strive to do so. But my gut reaction is that if you are preaching, you're doing something wrong in your writing. There is nothing bad about trying to convey a message; it's just that if your message isn't delivered thoughtfully and respectfully, with an understanding that teenagers have different sensibilities than adults, you need to try again.

Maybe I should be grateful that Meyer has given me--and others--an opportunity to figure out how we feel and strive harder to be good role models. In general, though, I'm just frustrated that I live in a world where abusive vampires are worshiped and good writing with a heart beating below it (pun only sort of intended) is banned--including, to my unending amusement/chagrin, my onetime professor's work.

Mike didn't mean to set off a debate when he asked me about Twilight. Meyer probably didn't mean to be so divisive when she wrote the series. Unfortunately, that's how Bella, et al, function in this world.

-Cate-

PS When I asked Mike if he'd mind me quoting him in this post, he was totally game. Thanks for the support, Mikey!

The Finish Line

During grad school, I was on the wrong end of a spectacularly brief but forceful lecture on the importance of finishing. The context: a short story was dragging on across the months without reaching a conclusion. The cause: I have a chronic inability to commit to short-term undertakings. I'm not a one-night stand kind of girl. I appreciate monogamy, novels, Quentin Tarantino films. Things that require a long-term investment (seriously, Jackie Brown clocks in at like two hours and forty minutes).

But my professor was right. It's important to finish what you start, be it a joke or just a jokey excuse of a story. So I've recently decided to make a commitment to my writing: if I start a piece (blog post, poem, story, essay), I have to see it through to the end. 

This doesn't mean that it ever has to see the light of day. It just means that I can't allow myself to stall out in the middle of something and give up on it. I may put it aside. I may revise what I've written and then proceed. But I may not throw it away. It has to end somewhere.

What kind of writing promises have you made to yourself? Are they more or less drastic than this?

-Cate-

Hurts so Good?

A couple of days ago, I cracked a nail while trying to bust open a stubborn pistachio. My nails break easily as it is, but the fact that I was trying to eat something healthy when this happened added insult to injury.

This is often how I feel about writing. When I try to sit down and produce something but nothing will come, or else whatever comes is sub-par, it's like breaking a nail: a little painful, a lot disheartening. My beautiful words, like my well-shaped nails, fall apart before me.

Because it's not difficult for me to get discouraged, I have to be very careful when I write. I cannot allow myself to give up over one bad page or even a few broken ones. There's no one fail-proof strategy except this: to keep going, even through the pain. That's how we get to the things we want, whether it's a little green nut or a finished story.

-Cate-

Adventures in Rejection: Seeing the End Result

From time to time, writers are required to pay a fee to submit their work to certain places. This usually occurs when one enters a competition. In return, the administrators will send the entrant something, such as the issue of a literary magazine featuring the winners of a contest, or a copy of the chapbook selected for publication. This is all fine and well; small presses get a bit of support and writers get to enjoy some new works by their contemporaries.

The problem comes in when you've not placed in the contest. You still end up with a book, but it doesn't have your name in it. This can be a depressing experience. How, then, to deal with the disappointment?

Sometimes when a lit mag comes in after I've failed to gain entree to their pages, I sneer at the cover and then check the table of contents to see if anyone I hate managed to sneak their way in. This is because I'm an incredibly poor loser as well as a spoiled brat and get cranky when I don't have things my way.

More often than not, though, I sigh and add the mag to the growing pile of things I need to read. Losing is part of life, and we all have to accept that fact. If we're lucky, losing will not bury us under a pile of depression but fire us up and push us to make ourselves better.

-Cate-

Dear Cate of the Past

As a follow-up to last week's post, I'd like to share a writing exercise I did a few months ago. The idea was to pen a letter to my younger self, and so much of what I focused on had to do with the aftermath of my anxiety attack. Here it is for you to read, and if you feel so inspired, try your hand a writing one for yourself; I found it incredibly therapeutic, and you might, too.

***

Dear Cate of the Past,

You are going to make so many mistakes. Your streak will start around the age of nine and keep going. As of this writing, at 27, it hasn’t ended. There will be dark days when you want to die because your heart is breaking, you’re convinced you screwed up that badly. But I promise you will pull through. A lesson accompanies each misstep; look for these guideposts, and they will lead you up the impossible, imperfect mountain we call life.

Know your roots. Don’t cut them off to be a flower in a vase, blooming for three days before losing your petals. Be a motherfucking tree. Keep Skuld in mind, because she is the embodiment of the thing you’ll have to tell yourself over and over: the future is an obligation. Ignore the thoughts telling you what a failure you are, and spit in their faces when you can’t make them stop. 

There are people in your world, however small it may be, who are misguided enough to consider you a role model. Stay strong for them when you can’t do it for you. Gird yourself against the banshee-howling nights, the wind-whipped days. Recognize that you’re hitting your limit before it hits you. When necessary, use this mantra: head up, shoulders back, walk tall.

Read all the books you want, and write your stories and poems--those are the things that allow you to breathe. Likewise, there is steel in your Motor City veins, so get yourself behind the wheel when things are overwhelming; the act of driving will center you, reinvigorate you. Go home when you can; dream of snow and hockey when you can’t.

Let those boys kiss you. Get your tattoos. Never leave the house without putting on a coat of mascara. And brush that dirt off your shoulder, girl, or you’ll miss the world rising up around you.

Your not-much-wiser-but-working-on-it older self,

-Cate-

In Which I Share Personal Information in a Misguided Attempt to Help Others

A couple of posts back, I discussed the fear of writing. What I didn't tell you then is that much more was going on in my life when I "froze up," as I described it. Below, I go into detail about what happened last summer. Though I tend to focus on writing on this blog, I hope you'll all bear with me for this (painfully personal) entry.

I. I Pay a Visit to the Hospital

In the course of my twenty*cough*mumble* years, I've made eight separate trips to three different emergency rooms (twice for myself, six times for others). On my most recent foray into the strange epicenter of a hospital, I learned a few things.

1) My first doctor could totally have been David Bell's younger brother, in looks but not sense of humor; he didn't seem to appreciate my attempted jokes, but at least he was competent.

2) Not all ERs are made equal. This one was nicer than the others I've seen.

3) The floor there was exceptionally unattractive, and I say that as someone who lives in an apartment tiled with bland linoleum over concrete.

4) The scent of the soap in their bathrooms was reminiscent of backyard fireworks--the kind you buy in a 24-pack at Meijer's in the summer. This was perhaps the strangest discovery I made.

5) According to the male nurse that night, the cartoon character is Kung Fu Hooey, not Hong Kong Fooey, though I suspect that would have been a different show altogether.

6) There was an incredible amount of lag time between when nurses left the ER dispensary and when the door closed behind them. If my night had taken place in an Angelina Jolie flick, she'd have had no trouble sneaking in and gathering medical supplies for her next Super Secret Spy Mission (TM). 

You're wondering where I'm going with these tidbits, right? And also why I was in the emergency room in the first place? All right, well, here are are some things you should know about me:

1) I hold two degrees in creative writing. The fact that I collected this information (and, in fact, composed a significant chunk of this post while waiting for a meeting with the doctor that night) is indicative of how I live: constantly observing and reporting, or else stowing things away for future reference.

2) By the time I made it to the hospital, I was deep into my second day of a severe, extended anxiety attack.

II. I Tell You Things You Don't Need to Know

I don't spend much time discussing my personal life online. That's not my M.O. However, after feeling alone in my anxiety for many weeks and reading a post over at The Blogess in which Jenny Lawson was frank in her description of the onset of a depressive episode, I decided I wanted to reach out to my own readers and, just maybe, help them the way Lawson helped me. 

So. Here is that post, almost a year after I should have made it.

I suppose I should start at the beginning. If you were a faithful reader of my now-defunct first blog, What We Covet, or know me personally, some of this information will be familiar.

1) I work multiple jobs.

2) I live in North Carolina; most of my family lives in Michigan.

3) I recently completed a graduate degree.

4) I'm kind of uptight. (Many people can vouch for me on this one.)

Without offering too many gory details, let me say that for the past three years, my life has been busy and crazy and other words ending in y. Anyone would be stressed out by the situations I face, and for months, I believed myself to be that--stressed, and nothing more.

Until June 2012 rolled around and I broke down so badly my mother insisted on taking me to the local emergency room at 2:30 in the morning.

It started on a Friday afternoon when I had a mini-crisis around lunchtime and cried so hard I had to curl up in the fetal position to comfort myself. After awhile, I felt better and was able to eat dinner with my parents, then watch a movie.

The movie ended. I burst into tears again. I was afraid of myself and my emotions to the point where I told my mother I thought I was going crazy. We discussed it, I calmed down, and everyone went to bed.

On Saturday, I was still leery but my hysterics didn't reach their Friday night levels. I was able to do some work and chat with a friend. That night, I tried to sleep but couldn't. I cried and shook again. That's when Mom made an executive decision: we were going to the hospital.

III. The Professionals Are Surprisingly Chill

To their credit, no one in the ER flinched when they asked what was wrong and I replied, "I think I might be crazy." In fact, when I voiced that fear to a therapist, he assured me that no one has ever entered a psychotic state due to anxiety. However, there are some clear symptoms of anxiety:

- the fear of going crazy

- a feeling of losing control

- tachycardia

- trembling and twitching

- chills or sweats

- nausea

- difficulty concentrating

And those are just the ones I exhibited in the days leading up to or following my medical treatment. But through the skilled intervention of medical personnel, I started down the path to treatment. Except for one social worker, no one recommended institutionalization. Everyone was sure to explain medications and symptoms. My therapist, in particular, was good about reminding me that anxiety is in no way a death sentence, and that it was a perfectly normal reaction to the issues at hand. The internist I saw as a teenager was kind enough to fit me into her schedule, and when I saw her, the even-keeled way she spoke to me was so comforting I almost hugged her. (FYI: I do not hug people under most circumstances.)

These people have my everlasting gratitude, because I was anxious enough for an entire city and they lessened that feeling by approaching me with unfaltering wisdom and unfailing grace.

IV. Things I Learned During This Ordeal

1) Jenny Lawson wrote, in the aforementioned post, that depression lies. She's correct about that, and I think it's equally true of anxiety. Anxiety will tell you terrible things are about to go down. This is not accurate.

2) My aunt taught me a useful acronym: fear is f(alse) e(vidence) a(ppearing) r(eal). 

3) I have some supremely awesome friends. Of course, I knew this before I had a terrible summer. But my belief was renewed starting in June. Kate, Maria, Melissa, and Candice were fabulous throughout this process. Maureen was supportive in her own way, sending me a superb drawing of a beaver and wishing me well.

4) Eddie Izzard said in a documentary about his life, "You've got to believe." The things I have to believe are that I will be better and I will be successful. It's difficult to remember those on some days, but I have to keep doing it.

V. Unintended Side Effects of the Recovery Process

Awhile back, I realized that a few great things have happened to me as a result of my anxiety. Yes, I had a shitty summer last year and yes, I am still working through my issues. But then these things went down, too:

1) I decided to live my life the way I want to live it. Sure, I try to set a good example, but because I want to. There are certain things I will always do. But now I'm living for me.

2) No one is going to push me around anymore, at least not in my personal life. Allowing others to do so contributed to my anxiety, and I don't want to go back to that.

3) I'm closer with my parents now than I was before the Great Anxiety Attack of 2012. They were ridiculously great, sitting up with me nights, accompanying me to appointments, and letting me know that I'm going to be okay.

VI. I Thank People

The following medical staff were instrumental in helping me through my anxiety attack:

- Joanne

- Julie

- Teresa

- Rachel

- Mario

- Meredith

- Peter (RIP)

- Dr. H

- Carol

- Charles

- Dr. W

- Dr. F

- Carole

- and three ER doctors whose names I can't remember

I appreciate the efforts of everyone named in this post. They may never know how essential their support was to me. 

***

I've taken a certain risk in posting this information. Now the cat is out of the bag and people will know all about the crazy girl they are acquainted with/work with/try to avoid anyway. After much soul-searching (there's a reason it took me over a year to finish this post), I decided that the risk is worth it. I can only hope that no one will hold it against me, or at the very least that I can help someone out there with my words here. If you or someone you know is dealing with anxiety--or depression, or anything else--don't hesitate to reach out to me, because the best thing I can think to do is help others like a group of people once helped me.

-Cate-

Review: The Bees Are Waiting

Karina Borowicz

The Bees Are Waiting

Marick Press, 2012

90 pp./69 poems

$14.95

From the very title of The Bees Are Waiting, the reader knows that Ms. Borowicz will have a certain natural bent in her work. Individual poem titles such as “Feathers,” “Beetle,” and “Cut Flowers” further this notion. There is an abundance of imagery such as water, birds, deer, and bees to pull the reader into a sort of homemade preserve. These moments often prove lovely, as in “Visitors,” in which foreign exchange students experience snow for the first time. The poem serves as a reminder to the reader to find wonder in the things around us, even when they seem commonplace--in other words, to see the world through new eyes.

Rather than focusing only on the physical world, however, Borowicz also concerns herself with human nature. She compares the human experience with that of animals in “All Hallows’ Eve” to illuminate the ways in which we have lost touch with our more primal side: “[…] our eyes got used to looking / at fire, you say, and we were tamed.” This tendency to reflect on our bridled existence crops up a few times throughout the collection, often in ways that read as specific but feel universal. A shining example is “Closer,” in which a good description, however brief, of the preparations one must make for impending disasters has the potential to speak to those facing cancer, divorce, job loss, or any other roadblock.

Some of the best moments in The Bees Are Waiting have less to do with humans on the whole and more with that subspecies known as Writer. “Black Earth” is perfect insomuch as it gives voice to every writer’s wish: to take the world and rearrange it as he or she sees fit and “A Small Notebook” discusses the loneliness and solitary nature of a writer’s life. Tangentially related is “Paradise Farms,” a fine example of obsession. This is a poem that could stand in for any infatuation: the urge to create (by writing, painting, and so on), the need to nurture, et cetera. Similarly, “The Noodle Maker’s Shop” is a one-track mind showcased in thirteen lines: the way we can bury ourselves in something so completely that no one else can see into our lives, an idea everyone can appreciate whether they make noodles or not. This, then, is a great strength of Borowicz’s: tuning her instrument finely but not so much that each reader is unable to connect to the words on the page.

If Borowicz fails at all, it is in her choices to eschew punctuation in certain poems. Although this strategy works well in “The Weather Is Still Here,” where the speaker is rushing to say something she does not want to say and is eager to change the subject, on the whole, it is an unwelcome poetic tic for this reader. Of course, it is an old-fashioned preference, but in some cases, I believe the work suffers when thoughts are not fully separated.

Otherwise, The Bees Are Waiting is an admirable collection. Consider reading these poems when you rise from bed, because, as Borowicz writes,” “In the cool morning air / they could afford to be fierce.”