The other night our book club had its first meeting, and I was very happy to have chosen our first book. We all read “Lips Touch” by Laini Taylor, because I told everyone that I’d read it and it’s lovely and dreamy. YA fiction is the bulk of what I read, and also what I love to write. This came up in the club meeting, as several of the girls admitted that they found the book to be a little weird and stated that it wasn’t a book they normally would have chosen for themselves. One girl said that her favorite books are the literary classics, and another said that she’d just finished “The Great Gatsby”. I get that YA isn’t a genre for everyone, YA fantasy especially. But for me: it’s the bee’s knees.
Then, to my mortification, a few of the girls mentioned to the other girls that I’ve been writing something.
“Oh, well when you feel comfortable enough to share, you should bring it and let us read it!”
But because everyone had just said that YA fantasy isn’t their cup of tea, the idea of putting my stuff out there for “feedback” didn’t seem all that appealing. Cuz I’m not really writing The Great Gatsby II. And it was at this point that I heard myself say, “Well, I’m just writing YA fantasy stuff.”
Just YA fantasy stuff. Hearing that come out of my mouth, I kind of wanted to punch myself in the face. Suggesting that YA fantasy is somehow beneath other genres of writing is an insult to the fabulous YA fantasy writers everywhere. Because Laini Taylor? Can turn a kickass phrase like nobody’s business. Maggie Stiefvater, Scott Westerfeld, Neil Gaiman, M.T. Anderson… amazingly talented writers.
Feeling the need to justify why I love to read — and write — YA seems dumb. And yet as I sat there the other night (and here today…) I feel it… the need to tell you why.
It is not because I think that I am still 15 years old. It is because I find the age of 15 to be insanely complex, magical, horrible, scary, romantic, anxious, horny, dreamy… and in so many ways intensely more interesting than the age of 30. The teen years are interesting to me, even as I am well aware that I am no longer in them. What other decade in life is one thrust into such transformation? The change between 20 and 30?… m’eh. The change between 30 and 40?… yawn. But the change between 10 and 20 is intense and huge. Bodies become bigger, stronger, grown-up. Hormones threaten to take over one’s very existence. Teens have the same working bodies and the same range of emotions that adults have, but without the benefit of experience or perspective to balance and tame them. What teens feel is raw, not tempered or numbed. Which is why when experiencing the crushing pain of that first lost love, a teen feels like they will absolutely die. Like their heart may literally break. And why the first time a teen is betrayed by a best friend, they believe they’ll never trust anyone again…ever.
I have mad respect for teenagers. I don’t think teens are stupid or need to have things spoon fed to them like infants with rice cereal dribbling down their chins. They get it. They totally get it. They may even get it more than you do. Which is why I think teens need great writers writing things for them. Things that are honest… things they can read –nay! — devour before they grow up and become adults — tempered, balanced, numb-ish, socially adjusted, and (dare I say it?) boring adults.
This is why I love YA. I read it. I write it. I frickin love it.
Confession: I’ve never read a Nicholas Sparks novel. Not a one. I’ve seen a few of the movies based on his books… and, y’know, m’eh. I didn’t cry at The Notebook. That may make me a soulless robot, but it remains a fact.
Another confession: I’ve thought Nicholas Sparks is sort of an egotistical jerk for sometime now. I remember reading an interview he did a while back where he mentioned having a “formula” for cranking out the love stories. Sort of like, Yeah, I totally write a ton of awesome books… and it’s not even hard. Change a name here, plug in a crisis there, and viola!
Any mega-successful author who admits to using formulaic writing to rake in the dough loses respect points in my book.
But umm, this interview??? Is so revealing that it’s hilarious. I seriously laughed. Out loud. And I don’t know that that’s ever the reaction ‘ol Nick is going for. Because he takes himself very seriously. As a very serious author who writes very serious content that is NOT romance.
To me, Nicholas Sparks is to the writing world what Tom Cruise is to the religious one: rich, beyond annoying, and every time he opens his mouth something stupid comes out of it.
Number 1 (though not most importantly), it’s St. Patrick’s Day. So I made sure that the kids and I were wearing green this morning. (Jachin would not wear a green shirt, so he walked out the door this morning with a black t-shirt and a lime green Omniture scarf wrapped around his neck. It was equal parts hilarious and oddly stylish.)
Number 2: I’m sort of a frickin wreck. I’m going on nearly zero sleep, because Jon was re-admitted to the U of U hospital last night. He’s still sick. I don’t know what else to say. ~327 sweet, caring people ask me every day how he’s doing, and I have nothing to tell them. Nothing. Nothing new. Nothing different. I finally broke down and flipped out in the car last night as I left the hospital. I was bawling as I squealed out of the parking garage, nearly taking out a family who were having a calm smoke break together on the curb. I suspect they reported me to the front desk, assuming that I had just escaped from the mental ward.
Number 3: I am so, so dang proud of my little brother, Paul. Today he entered the Missionary Training Center (that’s MTC to all of you hepcat Mormons), marking the official start of his LDS mission. He’s being sent to Orlando, Florida. In a few weeks he’ll be walking the streets, sporting the little black “Elder Brandenburg” name tag. If you see him there, please be kind. Feed him a meal, if you can. And if you utterly do not want to hear about the Book of Mormon, at least don’t swear at him and slam the door in his face. (Thank you in advance for that.)
Here he is (green tie and all) with Jachin, in front of the MTC, giving a manly fist bump.
And here is the most awesome picture of both me and my brother… taken by Jachin.
I know, right? I can only assume that the flattering photography is retribution for making him do a manly fist bump with his uncle.
No, I didn’t look at the picture directly after Jachin took it.
Yes, I should have.
So that’s kind of today: sleepy, weary, worried, proud, blurry… and green. Happy St. Patty’s Day.
I’m awake. Again. Bored. Feeling like I’ve reached the end of the internets… read everything there is to read and seen everything there is to see.
Ahh, but lame movies. There are always new lame movies coming out. And feeling sleepy and snarky at the same time equals… something.
The new Wall Street movie?? Looks AWESOME! Where awesome = possibly the cheesiest movie to hit theaters this calendar year.
Oh, Shia, Shia, Shia… you know I love you. For reals, I do. I’ve loved ya since your Even Stevens days on the Disney Channel (sorta comedy genius… for ‘tweens… or grown up women who kind of miss being ‘tweens). But if you keep cranking out the stinker movies, I’m going to start losing confidence and respect for you.
Here is the AWESOME!, ACTION-FILLED!, CATCH-PHRASE-BLEEDING!, MOTORCYCLE DRIVING! trailer for Wall Street:Money Never Sleeps. Pay attention now, because you have to listen very carefully to figure out exactly what the movie is about…
It’s not about the money, it’s about you and me. Oh no, wait, it’s about doing the right thing. No, no, no, wait, it’s about the game… I don’t know… it’s about something. And it has MOTORCYCLES! so whatever.
Watch and figure it out for yourself… if you can make it through the whole 2:28 of cheeseball glory.
Shia… next time around, maybe think romantic comedy.
I found a fortune cookie paper while sweeping the kitchen floor tonight (which is weird because we haven’t had Chinese food for approximately 6 months). I closed my eyes in a superstitious manner and secretly told myself that whatever the paper said would be true for me. I exhaled, opened my eyes and read it:
“Good luck will be with you this month.”
Even when adding “in bed” at the end, it’s a big fat liar of a fortune.
I punched the fortune cookie paper in the mouth and threw it away.
Undiagnosed abdominal pain in November: $2,800
One hospital stay in December: $4,700
Moving to a different hospital: $14,500
Unnecessary appendectomy: $18,200
Most recent hospital stay: still calculating…
Finally getting my husband to a hospital where he’s surrounded by specialized doctors who know what the crap they’re doing:
Imagine that I am a professional juggler. (I can be wearing a brightly colored court jester outfit, if that helps you establish a solid mental image.) Got it? Good. Now I am no spectacular juggler by any means. But I’m adequate. I’m good enough to keep entertaining the King’s court without being beheaded… or whatever they did to really sucky jugglers back in the day.
Each of my balls are smallish in size. Nothing too tricky. I don’t necessarily do any frickin awesome tricks with them, I just manage to keep them all in the air.
One of my balls represents the kids. Their general health and well being. My ability to remember and successfully transport them to their various activities is represented by another ball. There’s a ball for Jon, a ball for keeping the house in semi-functional order, a ball for my church work, a ball for school volunteering, a ball for social time (lately that’s been a very, very small ball), a few more balls for whatever. I’ve really tried to focus more on my writing for the last year or so. That ball got a little bigger, a little brighter and shinier… but it fit into the rotation okay. All of my balls were still in the air.
Last year Jon got sick with a weird heart thing — which, luckily, turned out to be nothing horrible — and for a while I was juggling that. Only that wasn’t represented by a ball. A ball is something that any competent juggler can handle. ER trips and medical bills and uber-anxiety weren’t things that I was used to handling. So Jon’s heart thing was something more of a bowling pin.
So I had a bunch of balls and a bowling pin. But still, everything was still in the air. It wasn’t super pretty, but I was keeping it all up there.
Then Deacon had his hospital stay. Deacon’s thing was way beyond the scope of my normal juggling abilities. Deacon’s hospital stay — and all that whole ordeal encompassed — was represented by a large frickin dining room chair. It was hard, and foreign, and — if not handled properly — could have poked out my brain via my eye socket. When one gets a dining room chair into the juggling mix, one is bound to have some balls fall. And some did. I started fumbling, balls started dropping, and I imagined hearing the people of the King’s court booing me. Threatening to behead me… or whatever. But as flustered as I felt about dropped balls, my main concern was just keeping the damn dining room chair in the air. Just the chair, baby.
But the chair passed. I got to toss it out of the rotation. Got a short reprieve. I was back to my usual balls.. even though I couldn’t quite get back into the rhythm of my simplistic juggling routine. The chair really threw me.
Then Jon got sick. And we couldn’t figure out what it was. And he stayed sick. And we still couldn’t figure out what it was. And he got sicker. And they only sorta figured out what it was. And he’s still sick. Jon’s poor health is a long and drawn out situation. It can only be represented by something heavy, weighty, and fatiguing. Watching him in constant pain and frustration feels not so much like something impossible to handle, so much as something that is mentally, emotionally, and spiritually draining. Sort of less like having your legs torn off by a shark, and more like having them sucked dry by leaches.
So picture me again: bright jester suit, pointy shoes. Balls in the air, accompanied now by a bowling ball. A real heavy sucker. And the bowling ball has precedence over everything else, because it just has to. The bowling ball’s not going away. And dude, if you could see me trying to keep everything up in the air… wow. I’d be beheaded for sure. I’m fumbling, faltering. Balls are falling and rolling away. And kindly people are stepping down from the King’s court to help me with my dropped balls. They are picking them up for me, tossing them back. Some people are keeping my dropped balls altogether, pocketing them until I seem able to handle them again.
People are kind.
My juggling act is a joke. But not a haha joke… just a sad-ish joke.
I miss my simple, adequate routine. I miss seeming plain, yet competent. I miss sleeping well. I miss being completely awake. I miss my husband being happy.
And I so very much look forward to the day when I can drop the bowling ball out of the rotation, when all of my balls are back up in the air.
Zoe is home from school today. Sick. Again. (Zoe is one of the few kids on the planet who actually LOVES school… so much so that she will fake wellness to go. Like, if her arm was half severed, she would try to tape it up and put on a heavy sweater and attempt to get out the door before I spotted the blood.)
Anyway, I made her stay home again today. She is bored beyond words. I am about to go print her out some math sheets so she can pretend that she is at school.
In the meantime, though, check out the sweet fort she built this morning in the piano room. She built it especially for spying on the neighbors and people delivering things to our door. (Our flat screen is scheduled to be delivered this afternoon… yeah, you heard me. Flat screen. The family who hasn’t had cable — not even local channels — for a year and a half is getting a flat screen. Sometimes we actually like to flush our money directly down the toilet.)
Behold: the “Sick Fort”
Did you see her wallet? Did you catch it? If not, go back and see if you can spot the 86 seconds its on screen again.
And here she shows you the peephole for spying:
And now I’m off to print math sheets and stealthily administer medicine.
(Post script… I realized after watching the videos that the video of her wallet was so long that flickr actually cut it off. You don’t get to see the other objects contained in her “adventure bag” or the sweet Exit sign. Darn.)
