SATURDAY: Work, then getting hair cut, coming home and watching COPS and America’s Most Wanted. Early night, because:
SUNDAY: (Yesterday) Helped the Sullen One’s grandmama move out of her apartment. Well, mostly out–we got all the big stuff done and into the storage facility. Both His Sullenness and I were pooped afterward. I barely had the energy to come home and watch cartoons. Which the kids liked. I was so tired I actually fell into bed, read a little Orhan Pamuk, and crashed out before the DHM got back from dinner with D and H.
Somewhere in the space of this weekend, though, I finished Fatal Purity (that bio of Robespierre I was so excited to find in trade paper) and The Sun Over Breda, which is (gasp) an entirely new Captain Alatriste story! No swashbuckling in this one, just a dirty story of a dirty war in Holland and the history of Spain’s tercios And of course it’s Perez-Reverte, who I absolutely LOVE.
Next up: Sylvia Plath (probably a bad idea) and a collected Sherlock Holmes before I go on to the great Shakespeare Summer. And of course I am still knocking away at the forensics textbooks.
My week so far looks like this:
MONDAY: Going back over to the Sullen One’s granmama’s, to finish up the packing. Trying to get some writing in. In the morning, before I’m too tired to even blink.
TUESDAY: The Star Wars event at Beaverton Powell’s, with the 501st (Vader’s Fist,) Timothy Zahn, and Steve Perry. (I think, at least. Peter will correct me if I’m wrong.) Trying to get some writing in.
WEDNESDAY: The DHM has kendo. Writing will get done, I swear. For I will be home almost all day, and tearing me away from the computer will earn one black eyes and/or a bleeding stump where an arm used to be.
THURSDAY: I believe I’m visiting Jeff Davis and Janine. Will lay on their couch and drink wine. Precious little writing will get done after about three PM.
FRIDAY: The Andrew Bird concert with Candy. Wish we could get backstage passes. Candy would just DIE.
SATURDAY: Opening the bookstore, and the writer’s mixer that evening. Someone’s at a book sale, so I’m helming the Enterprise for a little while. Translation: I plan on having a long lunch with a glass of wine on this day.
SUNDAY: Die of sheer exhaustion. Perhaps start detox, because once I start I’m not leaving the house for five days except to get groceries and clear liquids. Next week belongs to detoxing and clearing out a few thousand words on the new Kismet novel that is Bugging Me.
Oh, Lord. I’m just looking at this schedule and reaching for the Motrin.
Next week, I swear, nothing other than detox and writing. Of course, the two might be similar…
I know you’re not supposed to write about anything personal in a weblog. Heaven knows, you could end up like this guy. But I’m in an introspective mood today, so you’re going to get a little peek behind the curtain.
I keep it pretty much above the surface here, dear Readers. You hear about the books and things I think, but not a lot of my personal life gets into the weblog. I do have kids to protect. You’ll never read someone’s for-real name here unless I know and am mentioning them professionally, or I have their explicit permission. And even then, sometimes, I use pseudonyms. It’s part courtesy and part defense.
I don’t show many scars here. In the first place, who wants to know? And in the second place, do I really want to give the general public that much ammunition? They’re scars because they hurt, sometimes even when healed over, and there’s no way you want to show everyone those parts.
But like I said, introspective today. It may be watching a lot of Looney Tunes; it reminds me of childhood.
Thus begins The Bell Jar, a novel whose film adaptation Julia Stiles will star in and produce. Sylvia Plath’s 1950s-era drama centers around Esther Greenwood, who - while spending a summer in Manhattan - grows troubled and eventually descends into mental illness, attempting suicide several times. She likens her depression to being trapped under a bell jar, struggling for breath…this is a dark novel, exploring the dark side of the human psyche. Yet according to Variety, Stiles wants to make the film…lighthearted, and keep focus on the more uplifting elements. Celine Rattray, of Plum Pictures (attached to produce the film with Stiles), says “Esther Greenwood has a strong outlook on life, and we’re really looking to bring out the humor in the character. We don’t want to do a depressing descent into the world of suicide.” (Gothamist)
Christ, pass the razor blades. How exactly is Julia-frocking-Stiles going to make electroshock “uplifting”? Call the Clue Police, because someone’s Clue Bag has gone missing.
I don’t mind movie adaptations of books. Really, I don’t. But egregious betrayal of the very core reason and theme of a book? That I mind. Like Reese Witherspoon trying to make Becky Sharp more sympathetic. Or Keira Knightley trying to make Elizabeth Bennet a 90s woman. (Maybe it was just her bee-stung, solo-zip-code lips.) And how about those bad comic-book adaptations? (I’m looking at YOU, Ben Affleck. Daredevil was an abomination of a character I loved.)
But then again, I’m a geek.
Classics are classics because they have teeth. To pull those teeth in order to make a classic “more accessible” or “less harsh” is a violation of the very soul of the work. Can you imagine Tale of Two Cities without the threat of the guillotine? Or Count of Monte Cristo without the pathological hatred, class warfare, and opium? Can one imagine Pride and Prejudice without a stiff-necked Darcy and a stubborn 1800s Elizabeth? Or a Stephen King movie adaptation without rock music?
Hey. Shut up. I think King’s a modern classic, and you will not disabuse me of that notion.
The recent LOTR and Narnia movies kept some of the darkness of the books intact. They had bite–admittedly, in Narnia’s case, all provided by the glorious, incomparable Tilda Swinton. I remember going with my sisters to see Fellowship of the Ring and at the very end, letting out a pent breath. My sisters and I looked at each other, and in chorus we said, “At least it didn’t suck. Thank you, God.”
It’s hard to turn a book into a movie, Lord knows. But to compound the difficulty by trying to pull a classic book’s teeth in the process? That’s just stupid, and wrong, and will turn your movie into a flop faster than Uwe Boll can. It’s just ridiculous.
Part of the problem is, Hollywood is like the publishing industry. It is by default a more conservative beast, because the point is to make money and hence the things that made money in the past are trotted out again. Then you add in the process of making a movie or a book proposal by committee, and you have a piece of work that is seriously watered-down before you even begin.
Conservatism isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I tend to think it creates a counterweight to mad bounding forward that can run one straight into a wall. But too much ballast just makes constipation, and bloat ensues.
Really. *chuckles to self* Trying to make The Bell Jaruplifting. What next? Trying to make Oliver Twist an action flick? Or how about making The Scarlet Letter an HEA? Oooh, or turning Moby Dick into a stirringly-uplifting Gone With The Wind romance with a double-wedding ending and some Bollywood musical numbers?
Readers, meet Mike Daisey. Mike’s a live performer, a monologuist. He travels around, I guess, with his show, where he sits onstage and interacts with the audience. He does use the F-word. He does cover some racy subjects. He’s open about it, and so is the box office when you call to get your tickets.
So Mike is doing his show one night, when a group of people get up and start walking out. One of them comes onstage and dumps water all over his handwritten notes–the only set of notes for the show, things Mike has put his blood and love and guts into. His ART, for Chrissake.
And Mr. Mike Daisey reacts with grace under pressure. He invites the people to stay and talk about what they find offensive, to interact with him about the show, to explain why they’ve just assaulted him. None of them has the courage to do so. They slink away silently, like thieves in the night.
What does an artist do? Just what Mike does.
He goes on with the show. He just picks up, interacts with the remaining audience, and goes on creating–even though his breath is short and he’s visibly shaken. He goes on.
The follow-up to this? The “protesters” were a “Christian group” from a local high school. The audience members who stayed included a group from another high school. Both groups were told what type of show they were coming to see. The group that stayed obviously had no problem.
Afterward, Mike found the “protesters.” He virtually had to hunt them down so he could open up a dialogue with them. The administrator for the group kept repeating that they were a “Christian” group and had to “protect” their kids–apparently from the F-word. (Read the follow-up post here.) Mike also talked to the man who poured water on his work. Just wanted to talk to him, like a human being, and hear what the hell was up.
We have been talking for quite some time, making progress, when I mention offhandedly in response to something that I had been raised Catholic.
At this, he makes this little sound: “oh!” It’s a tiny exclamation, upward-inflected. I hear that sound, and my heart sinks.
It’s a sound of surprise he makes, and of recognition. Of fellowship. And immediately, everything he says is the same, but it is surrounded with a superstructure of scripture–there are supporting arguments from Jesus, the apostles, the whole nine yards. His cadence and language is entirely different, because now he is drawing on over two thousand years of religious writing to enfold and magnify his arguments.
For the first time in the conversation, in my heart, I am furious.
What was I before that moment? I thought we were trying to speak to one another and I was honest with you–but this is your real face, and I only earn the right to see it if I say the right password and get let into your club.
Who was I before? Was I nobody? Was I simply a *liberal*, the word with the hook on the end of it? A dirty, pornographic artist? A purveyor of filth?
No. It’s worse than that, worse than labels. I know the truth. I was no one. I was no one to you, not a real person at all–I wasn’t real when you destroyed my work, and until the moment I said the magic word I wasn’t real. When he made that sound, he betrayed his heart and finally spoke the truth, and I could see him fully. Now I know him, and now he has no power over me.
We keep talking, and now that I can see him completely he’s just an angry man, angry and impotent. He is sorry, though not so sorry that he sought me out–and when I ask what the people in his group are saying about what happened, he confesses that no one is talking about it.
I ask him to do one thing for me. I ask him to talk to everyone in the group together, parents and students alike, and talk to them about what happened. I do not even ask him to apologize, nor do I dictate what he should say–that’s his prerogative. I simply ask that he open the door for the conversation be allowed to happen. I believe in the truth, and I want him to let the group speak its mind to him and to itself. I do not know if he did this–I hope that he did, and I will continue to hope.
We engage in art for so many reasons–to transform the world, to share our experience, to process and make sense of our universe. All of it boils down to one thing: to communicate. To be an artist is to communicate, to find that middle ground, to share an experience with your fellow human being.
Fanatics don’t want to communicate. They merely want an Other to define themselves against. All too often that other is an artist, because we’re easy targets. We’re trying so hard to be inclusive that we’re easy marks for those who just want to hurt and exclude.
The “Christian group” didn’t want dialogue. They didn’t want a conversation, or even understanding, or a platform to share their views. By their fruits shall ye know them–they wished only to destroy. No wonder the man who poured the water feels so threatened, so isolated. The only way he can be forced to view someone else as a human being is if they’re from his same little cookie-cutter. He cannot communicate, because he has locked the world out, and his fury points itself toward those who have not.
The audience members who stayed were just as shocked and shaken as Mike. And then, when he got back on the horse–when he suggested restarting the show–they applauded.
They applauded. And well they should. We create art to communicate, and we view/read/listen to art to communicate as well. It is the deepest human hunger. You can have all the wealth in the world, but isolation will eventually drive you mad. Shunning is the most painful punishment, and startlingly effective in nonviolent societies–and sometimes, even in the violent ones.
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mike Daisey, artist. Few deserve the label more. Congratulations to him for staying clear and calm in the middle of an assault on his very right to be a human being, to communicate. Kudos to him for taking this experience, harsh and hurtful as it was, and transforming it into a moving meditation on the power of art to heal and transform.
Even when fanatics seek to shut it out, art crawls through the cracks. It changes the world. Fascist societies and groups fear art for this reason. Because it is stronger. Because it will eventually win. It might take a while, but art always wins in the end.
For it is the strongest medicine and greatest, highest calling of humanity. Art teaches us to listen, because that’s half of communicating. It teaches us to stay serene, because we can transform the world at our leisure. It teaches us there’s a better way of dealing with conflict than guns, knives, censorship, and violence.
We make art because we must communicate and share. We have no other choice.
I just found out that UK peeps can preorder Valentine 4, Saint City Sinners. It’s dated for January 08, but I think the American edition comes out more November-December ‘07. I haven’t even got ARCs yet!
Very exciting! I plan on celebrating with a chocolate-covered macadamia nut. Or two. Or three!
It feels really good to be back to writing again. Not just editing or revising previous works, but actually creating. The new Jill Kismet novel is about a thousand words along and doing well. It starts out with a shot to the groin–my version of opening with a bang, I suppose, especially since it starts out in a burning warehouse.
Heh. In other words, great fun.
It is a huge relief to be writing again. For a little while last night, the entire world fell away and I found, much to my relief, that Jill’s voice is just as strong as ever. I had been kind of worried, what with the recent stress, that I would have trouble falling back into imaginary worlds.
I should have known better.
In other news, I am now receiving entries for the Valentine Slogan Contest. If you sent entries before, somehow or another they didn’t get to me. Now they’re getting to me. And don’t worry–both the .com and the .net addresses work. One is forwarded to the other. It all gets to me in the end.
I should be announcing the winners of the Dead Man Rising Trivia Contest soon. You didn’t hear about it on the weblog because it was only for Dark Siders. (Sorry.) Question #2 was a bit of a tricksome one, but I’ve decided that “Corvin” is an acceptable answer, though I was looking more for the Chery Family etc. Still, the Corvins did try to have Danny assassinated, so they were “active” in Saint City at one time, I concede.
I’m thinking of finishing Jace’s short story and putting on the site for fans. More bulletins as events warrant.
OH! And this is SO COOL. The biography of Robespierre I’ve been longingly eye-ing every time I go to Borders? Is now out in trade paper. I SNATCHED IT UP and DID A LITTLE DANCE right in the aisle when I found it on the shelf. I actually HUGGED THE BOOK.
I received a grand total of zilch for responses to the Valentine Slogan Contest. Which just means I’m going to extend it, since I can’t abide seeing a good contest go bad.
Here’s how it works. Your mission is to come up with a pithy saying for our favorite Necromance, suitable for slapping on a coffee mug. Send your submissions here, making sure to put “Valentine Slogan Contest” in the subject line. On May 1st, the contest will end, and Dark Siders will vote on the best slogan. The person who sent in the winning slogan gets a free coffee mug and credit for the mug, which will then be available in two sizes through Japhrimel’s Corner. Note that to vote, you’ll have to be subscribed to the Dark Side.
Stay tuned for more contests coming in May, including a Watcher giveaway and a drawing for signed, new-cover WFTD and DMR editions. I’ll announce the Watcher giveaway here on the blog, but in order to have a chance at the drawing you’ll need to be a Dark Sider. I know, it’s mean of me. But we’re spam-free, we have cookies, and one day we’ll do like Pinky and the Brain and take over the world.
