Crap and Friggin': The Real Obscenities

I had a professor once who was an extremely controversial writer in his day. His debut was a reportedly autobiographical novel about a young male prostitute, so that gives you some idea of his milieu. It came out in the early sixties, a time when the drag queens and transsexuals he wrote about weren’t pop culture staples like they are now, but super edgy glimpses of subversive fringe culture.

We used to have class in his dining room in LA, even though it was a course offered through a prestigious (and somewhat stuffy) university. That was where he wanted to be, so that’s where we went—he was just like that.

Whenever someone became uncomfortable because of his liberal use of obscenities, my professor used to say in his flamboyant, ecstatic way, “People, language is meant to be free! That’s why I use all of it! Don’t be afraid!” I love this attitude. I know lots of readers are offended when they see certain words on the page, though, which I guess I can understand. If you come from a religious background, especially, it can go against everything you’ve been taught. Still, I long to be as free and unapologetic about language as my professor.

In Young Adult fiction it’s particularly confusing, because the under-twenty lexicon practically revolves around swearing, yet it’s still slightly taboo in print. I guess in part this is because parents flipping through the pages might find it inappropriate and hesitate to fork over bucks for their thirteen-year-old to read language they’re discouraged from ever uttering.

Hence, substitutions like crap and friggin’ now abound, not just in YA but in the majority of commercial fiction, which I find deeply fuddy-duddy and offensive. I mean, if your characters don’t swear, then they don’t swear, but do they have to use those horrible little placeholders?

How do you feel about crap and friggin’? Do they make you want to retch, or am I just totally alone in my abhorrence?

Sunglas Hickeys?

About a week ago, I got the following message:

“jody, i've thought of something that needs a word, and for some reason i just can't think of anything that would fit. have you ever taken off your sunglasses only to find those little red indented lines underneath? horrifying, i know, but i think it's just about time that somebody came up with a word for them...and i know your the only woman for the job.
Signed,
i believe in you. we all do. don't let us down.”

I feel so honored to be trusted with this charge. I have to admit, though, I’m stumped. I mean she’s totally right; we really do need a word for this phenomenon. It’s like discovering I’m a superhero, then failing miserably on my first mission.

So far I’ve come up with the following candidates:

Prong punctures
Shade marks
Sunglass hickeys

I don’t know, though. Somehow none of the above quite satisfies my yen for the perfect neologism. Help me! We all know what she’s talking about, we all know there should be a word, but what is it?

Before I say anything, I just have to point out that Stephenie Meyer held me captive for 754 pages with her latest book in the Twilight saga, so criticizing her storytelling seems a bit petty. I mean when you can’t put a book down, it means something, and I have to recognize Meyer for her gifts as a writer. Getting sucked in doesn’t mean every sentence is exquisitely rendered, but it does mean that the book itself has seized your imagination, and we readers of fiction value that above almost anything, right?

Okay, from here on out don’t read if you haven’t finished it and intend to, because this will be full of spoilers. All of my disclaimers aside, Breaking Dawn left me mildly bummed. Renesmee the super-baby didn’t do much for me, and the thought of Jacob imprinting with her of all people seemed…kind of creepy. I mean I guess the wolf-imprinting thing is supposed to be vaguely romantic in a love-at-first-sight sense, but when you’ve got a super hot, virile young guy trailing after a baby who is locked into being his mate someday, that just smacks of pedophilia-crossed-with-arranged-marriage, no? Like I know Jake wasn’t looking at Renesmee in a sexual way, but still…. Giving up the exquisite (though torturous) tension of the Bella-Edward-Jacob love triangle in favor of Jacob-imprints-on-her-baby really drained Jacob of his appeal for me.

Also, as someone pointed out to me on myspace in her comments, Bella really didn’t feel like Bella through much of the book. To me she seemed almost…middle-aged. Obviously she went through two major changes that altered her radically: she had a kid and became a vampire. After that, I just couldn’t even connect her with the Bella of earlier books very easily. Her face changed in my mind—her whole vibe changed. Obviously character transformation is part of what keeps the plot moving, but I found this leap a little too extreme, and they became separate characters in my mind (old Bella vs. new Bella).

I have mixed feelings about the final showdown. I loved seeing Vamp Bella channeling her rage and being powerful, so that totally worked for me, even though (as I said) it was such a different Bella that it hardly seemed like a victory for the Bella of old. Alice providing a loophole at the eleventh hour (ala Merchant of Venice) was kind of satisfying, but also a touch anti-climactic. I mean I’m not a habitually violent person, but let’s face it: we’d spent so many pages building up to this, it was almost impossible not to feel cheated when there wasn’t a full on battle. I know, I know, give peace a chance, but I guarantee that if they make Breaking Dawn into a movie it won’t end the way the book did. Film producers know better. Once you’ve stacked up the protagonist-antagonist tension like that, a frenzied battle (at least a quick one) is the only way to have a real catharsis. That might be pandering to our more base instincts, but I can’t see any way around it when you set it up in that way.

I could go on, but as I said, I hate to be petty and pick away at the loose threads. Meyer has a crazy gift for creating a world you just want to burrow into. Her skill at developing characters that feel so real and vivid is astounding. It’s precisely because of this gift that readers like me get so attached to characters like Jake; his fate really mattered to me, so when his happy ending wasn’t what I imagined for him, it bummed me out. That’s a testimony to Meyer’s storytelling, and for that I have to thank her.

I'll Take Jake

So Breaking Dawn, the fourth book in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, hits stores Saturday, right? Although I know I’m in the minority here, I’ve got to add my vote to the fever-pitch riot of opinions popping up all over the internet about Edward and Jacob.

For those who haven’t read it, the series features a love triangle of sorts. We’ve got Bella, the main character, choosing between the stately, traditional, impeccably polite vampire, Edward, and this grease monkey kid from the rez, Jacob who, through no fault of his own, happens to be a werewolf. I know, it all sounds insipid to outsiders, but somehow Meyers makes it work.

The point to all of this is that I love Jacob, man. He’s funny, hot blooded, sweet and raw. He’s torn, faded Levi’s to Edward’s tuxedo. And let’s face it: I’m a sucker for a bad boy.

Although I’ve had mixed feelings about the series and about Bella as a protagonist, I’ve got to say I found it all compulsively readable. I never read a single word of the Harry Potter books, thus effectively missing out on a major cultural movement, so it’s been kind of cool to accidentally get swept up in this one.

My central theory about why the Twilight saga works so well is this: girls want to be worshipped. I know I do. Whenever I feel the slightest complacency from my boyfriend I’m like, “Listen, babe, I’m just not feeling the worship.” Bella’s insecure and clumsy, she’s totally human, yet she’s got two incredible, supernatural hotties worshipping her no matter what she does. Who can resist that fantasy?

I know I’m in the minority when it comes to loving Jake. Come on Cullen-heads, bring it on!

Writer Wanted: Must be Chronically Irresponsible

There are many things to adore about being a writer. One of the chief delights is the license it gives you to do just about anything and call it research. Have the yen to travel erratically, indulge in unhealthy vices, fall in and out of love? Do this as a regular Joe and you’ll be labeled frivolous; do it in the name of art and you’re just…well, a writer. It’s the perfect excuse to stay immature and impulsive forever.

In particular, novelists and playwrights get off scot-free on this score. Nobody expects you to be logical or methodical when your job description reads “must tell colorful lies.” An acquaintance of mine writes for the New York Times and several prestigious science publications. She obviously has to be a bit more grown up, since people count on her to deliver hard facts. I, on the other hand, am only expected to deliver entertainment. It’s the difference between a nutritionist and an inventor of ice cream flavors.

I just got back from a business trip that included visiting the American Library Association conference in Anaheim. I dedicated all of three hours to the conference, most of which I spent eating ice cream with my editor. The rest of the time I was at the beach. Well, why not? A crowded beach in the summertime is a writer’s dream laboratory; it’s overflowing with opportunities for clinical observation. There are so many conversations to overhear, fashion disasters to note, smells to smell, not to mention the wealth of memories any one of these stimuli can unleash. Really, it’s research of the highest sort—participant observation. Just call me the Jane Goodall of Huntington Beach.

On the way home, my boyfriend Dave and I got distracted by a seedy little surf town. We ended up staying several days in Pismo Beach, which charmed us with its incredible waves and offbeat characters. As a California native, I found it astounding that I’d never even been to this funky surfers’ enclave. It was totally stuck in the eighties with its arcades, saltwater taffy, and astounding lack of Starbucks. It was the perfect place for a couple dreamy-eyed hipsters to spend two totally unplanned days frolicking in the surf and eating cheap, decadent foods only people on vacation can justify.

Except we weren’t on vacation, remember? We were working.

When we got there, the surfers were taking to the water en masse. It was going off, as Dave would say, and barefoot boys with ratty blonde hair were steering bikes with one hand, gripping boards with the other as they pedaled toward the sand. We’d been stuck in the car most of the day, battling LA traffic to meet with my agent in Beverly Hills, then battling smug Malibu locals in search of just the right break. At last, with the sun melting like a messy yolk into the hills, we’d found our Nirvana. The only thing left was to score a cheap room.

“Do you offer corporate rates?” I asked the woman at the desk. I’d just stumbled on this concept that day by accident; apparently, people traveling on business under the blessing of a corporation can get rooms for about half what the tourists pay. Since my writing business just went corporate, I figured it was worth a shot.

The desk clerk peered over her spectacles at me. “You’re here on business?” she asked, a sour note creeping into her voice.

Her skepticism was hardly surprising. I was wearing a stained tank-top, flip flops, and my hair was so windblown I looked like a troll doll after too many twirls; Dave was already halfway into his wetsuit, impatiently craning his neck, looking past her to the glorious swell. We hardly fit the corporate profile.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m here on business.”

“What company do you work for, exactly?” Her eyebrow was so cocked it had mostly disappeared beneath her bangs.

“Myself.” I added, a little sheepishly, “I’m a writer.”

And that was that. We got our half-price room, which had a postage stamp-sized balcony and a screen door that never worked. I bought a used beater board with a couple dings—from close encounters with sharks, I like to think. We held our corporate meetings in the frothy waves or conked out on the sand or drinking pitchers of beer at the greasy pizzeria on the corner.

And it was totally legit. In fact, corporate America never felt so good.

Finally, I'm getting to the Werewolves and Mermaids

I read this really interesting article once in the New York Times about how every decade has a monster du jour—like a mythical creature that rears its ugly head in pop culture, then dies down so a new one can take its place. If memory serves, the article said the 70s favored mummies, 80s were all about werewolves, the 90s were vampires, and the new millennium thus far has been wild for zombies.

The author presented various theories about why this is, the details of which escape me now, but basically he implied that certain eras favor certain monsters because the creature speaks to us right then—it becomes the mascot for our unconscious thoughts and desires. For example, he argued that zombies are hot now because brain-dead consumerism and mind-numbing jobs make us feel like zombies, so we gravitate toward books and movies that speak to that.

Of course, some monsters just won’t die. I heard from a publishing insider that five or six years ago most editors were convinced that vampires were dead; Anne Rice had milked that trend to its limit, and the bloodsucking icon no longer had any selling power. Then Stephanie Myer came along with the Twilight saga and they had to admit they were dead wrong (ouch! Those dead/undead puns are just so bad! Forgive me…)

Lately I’m flirting with the idea of writing fantasy, or at least incorporating more magic into my realism. I’ve developed a certain yen for whimsical monsters of all sorts—werewolves, zombies, vampires, you name it—but my real love is mermaids. I wrote a story once in graduate school that featured a mermaid, and though one pretty out there girl totally dug it, most of my workshop classmates were like, “Jesus, what were you thinking?” Alarmed by their disdain, I backed off the mermaid thing. Now I’m reconsidering.

What do you think? Do you buy the hot-monster-of-the-decade theory, or is that just some New York Times reporter filling space in the Sunday paper? If you do think it’s plausible, any predictions about the decade ahead? Who will be the next Monster of the Moment?

Neologism #3: Fanny Packery

Fanny Packery: noun (fan΄ē pak er ē) 1. Hideous lack of style, epitomized by wearing a fanny pack, though not limited to FP display. Other examples of fanny packery include commenting during movies on the characters’ emotions or motivations, wearing socks with sandals, and cutting one’s hair into any variation on a mullet. 2. Attitudes that express or embody said lack of style. 3. Philosophical stance characterized by caution, practicality and/or fear of the unknown. i.e. Did you hear that dude going off about how a skate park would bring drugs to the neighborhood? Man, that was some serious fanny packery!