caryattwell | Recent Entries

Hello, my lovelies! Did we all do our civic duty and save our share of endangered daylight yesterday?

I recently attended a conference, during which the participants were invited to share some of their greatest grammatical pet peeves. Very cathartic. I didn't share mine because speaking in front of a room of people makes me sick and sweaty. Also it would have been a long, tedious list, as many things irk me. This is not to say I don't make grammatical mistakes; I do, regularly. There are likely several littering this post. And as persnickety as I can get about it, I do understand that some grammatical rules are fusty and out of date, and language is an ever-evolving being. But there are some things that are just so wrong that the soul has no choice but to shrivel in horror.

In written language, the whole your/you're, than/then, their/they're/there, to/too confusion irritates me to no end, and improper dialogue punctuation stirs an entire swarm of bees all up in my bonnet -- last year, I read a bestseller in which it appeared the editor had taken an extended leave of absence halfway through the book, leaving giant swathes of dialogue punctuation errors in his wake: "Blah blah blah." He said. GOOD LORD, NO. NO NO NO. I mean, I try not to wish ill on others too often, but I hope someone got publicly shamed for that, Hester Prynne-stylez.

The one that's most recently been giving me minor coronary episodes is when people use the term hone in when they really mean to say home in. Colloquially, it's gained too much traction for me to ever hope the tide will turn back and we all use the term in the proper fashion, but I still can't help the spasms when I hear others hone in on something. To hone something means to whet or sharpen it; one may hone or sharpen a skill, par example. But just as one does not sharpen in on something, neither does one hone in on it. One might, however, home in on a target, just as a missile or homing pigeon would.

And that, friends, is my current grammatical pet peeve. I have a dozen more waiting in the wings, but let's hear some of yours. What grammatical errors have you encountered that crush your dreams and suck joy from your soul?

With many pardons begged for the intense navel-gazing about to follow. I swear I have a point.

Eleven days into the new year, I came home exhausted, having driven all over creation for meeting after meeting after meeting, on top of my regularly scheduled work, clocking a ten-hour work day I wouldn't get paid overtime for. My job duties had just changed, and my stress levels were snowballing. I slouched into the shower and spent most of that time slumped against the wall, scarce of the will to move, thinking Gob Bluth thoughts, spiraling. Hello darkness my old friend. The thing is, I'm unhappy. The thing is, I've been unhappy for years.

When the economy tanked several years ago, I went unemployed for well over a year, exponentially more convinced of my worthlessness as a human being with each passing day. I wrote fanfiction to fill the time; it was something I was decent at, and it gave me a purpose, small as it was, other than wishing really hard I could magically disappear into an alternate universe where I didn't suck at life. Quite by accident, I stumbled upon the idea for my current profession -- it was relatively interesting and, more importantly, seemed doable. I didn't have the right credentials for it yet, though. I'd have to go back to school. First, a year of post-baccalaureate courses to fulfill all the prerequisites, and two years of graduate school after that. Doable. Less horrifying a prospect than being permanently unemployed.

I finished my first novel just a few days before grad school was to start. Writing a novel had always been something of a pipe dream, something for other people with scads more talent than I to do. But I wrote it and I finished it, and it felt amazing. For the first time in my life, I thought, maybe this can be my job, maybe I can actually have a job I love. My foray into graduate school, the thing I was spending so much time and effort and money on, it was a means to an end; it was to get a job that I could work at until I could afford not to do it anymore. I hated the idea of it, as much as I was tantalized by the idea of the opposite. My best friend had to talk me off the ledge and make me be responsible and go to school.

A lot is said about reaching for one's dreams, living one's passions, doing what the heart wants. I get that. I want that. But I also get the need to be financially stable. And have medical benefits. Short of winning the lottery or being the surprise benefactor of a heretofore unknown, eccentric billionaire great-uncle's will, that's not going to change. The lights have to stay on somehow.

Twelve days into the new year, I called in sick. I was tired to my very bones. I wanted to go back to a time when I didn't dread waking up in the morning -- and actually, I didn't have to reach far to find it. It had happened only a couple of weeks ago during the holiday break, it had happened over a summer three years ago when I was writing The Other Guy, and it had happened in the long interim as I continued to contribute little stories here and there to fandom. It had happened while I was writing. I'd bound out of bed at seven, make a cup of coffee, forget to eat breakfast, let the coffee go cold, and write. I'd shovel lunch into my mouth only because I got lightheaded, and write. I'd write and write until it was time to go to sleep, and I'd head to bed, excited that I'd get to do it all over again the next day.

By contrast, the first thing out of my mouth when the alarm clock goes off during a regular work week? Fuuuck. Or on less dreary days, nooo.

I had been here countless times before, knowing perfectly well I didn't particularly enjoy what I was doing, knowing there was something else I'd much rather devote my time and energy to, and could, but I was terrified of it. What if the thing I loved to do didn't love me back? What if everyone did have a novel in them, and I'd already met my quota and had nothing left? What if everything I'd ever written was actually pure garbage dressed up as prose? But also... what if I never got off my ass to find out?

Normally, when beset with these thoughts, I'd journal them, wait for the worst of the feelings to pass, and trudge on as usual. But I was getting sick of writing down the same old crap; my journals have literally at least five years of the same damn thing, pages and pages of how I wished my life could be different. And I'd reached a saturation point. Instead of journalling, I went to YouTube and searched for motivational speeches. I needed someone to yell at me and slap me in the face and tell me I could do better. I don't know if I can even find those videos again; I went through four or five of them largely indiscriminately. It didn't matter, because boiled down, they all said the same thing: it takes work.

I'm not disciplined. That's why I don't go on diets or make resolutions. Failure is foreseeable from the start. What I am good at is throwing confetti showers of excuses at myself. I'm too tired. I don't have time. I don't have ideas. I'm stuck. But as it turns out, I'm also a tadl full of shit. My life won't change unless I change.

Which is not to say I'm going to run out and quit my job right now. Like I said, I have to keep the lights on. But I can also make time to get happy. That means working at it every single day, whether it's doing research or writing ten words or a thousand. That means not waiting for the stars to align with my muse's schedule as she flits in and out at will (mostly out). If I want to reach a point in my life where I can wake up on a daily basis and not groan like a dying beast at the thought of the next twelve hours, I have to put in the work.

It's possible I'll never reach that point. My fears may all be true and I may not be good enough a writer to ever get there. But the difference between trying and clinging to the status quo is that the latter is iron-clad insurance that I will never be happy with myself. If I try, at least I have a fighting chance.

So this is an open invitation. You are all invited to hold me accountable. Demand daily word counts from me, tweet me in all caps, remind me Tumblr will still be there tomorrow, send me pictures of squishy baby animals. (The last one probably won't help with motivation all that much, but who doesn't like pictures of baby animals? Give them to me! They are so cute.) Be my cheerleader, be my drill sergeant, be my motivational speaker. If you want it, I will do the very same for you.

Three hundred and sixty-five days into the new year, I want to look back and see a difference, if not in my life, then at least in me.

Cary, in real life: Did I ever tell you guys about my shapeshifting superpowers? It's only specific to certain situations, but happens without fail in scenarios like, oh say, job interviews. That's when I turn from a reasonably well-adjusted individual into a panicked, rambling mess, splattering word-vomit all over the floor. As usefulness goes, it probably ranks somewhere between Aquaman and the Wonder Twins. So that's where I am in my life right now; how are you all doing? Good?

Writing is hard: The good news is that I have about 80K written of a new story, and I don't excessively hate all of it. The bad news is that half of it doesn't quite work, and needs major reconstruction, and the thought of going through all those words makes me want to swandive into a vat of boiling grease. Okay, fine, it's not that bad. But it's still a damn lot of work. Unnnggghhh.

Nerd alert: Everybody should play the board game Pandemic (with expansions). It's a cooperative game where everyone strategizes together to save the world from disease, and I promise it's a lot more fun than I make it sound. Wil Wheaton and friends will tell you:

"Pandemic: Morgan Webb, Ed Brubaker, and Robert Gifford Join Wil on TableTop, episode 14" (Watch on YouTube)

"A game where the players are the only thing that stands between life and horrible, shivering, puking, bleeding, miserable death" about sums it up

A darling friend of mine has been recommending Bill Bryson's books to me for ages and ages. I finally managed to pick up a copy of Notes from a Small Island at a used book sale (tread lightly, friends; it's a dark, dangerous place that saps your willpower and replaces it with fifteen books you don't need), and what do you know -- she's right and he's hysterical.

There's a passage in Notes about W.J.C. Scott-Bentinck, an eccentric recluse who has since become my role model. He communicated with his servants entirely by written notes, had food delivered to his room using a miniature railway system, and, if a servant saw him by accident, froze like a statue until they passed. After his death, his heirs found a room stuffed to the gills with "hundreds of green boxes, each of which contained a single dark brown wig." He sounds amazing, and I want to be him when I grow up. Failing that, the Simpsons version of Thomas Pynchon.

In other news, I hope you're all having a brilliant holiday season! If that is not your thing, I hope you are enjoying a regular week of the month! Whatever you're celebrating or not, I wish you all light and love and no end of good books to keep you company. ♥

"IT'S TIME - NO MORE MARRIAGE DISCRIMINATION !" (Watch on YouTube)

And I would like to be his best friend. Barring that, purveyor of things he writes, so I guess that's where we are today. Mostly this post is an excuse to link you to things I have recently enjoyed on the Internet.

Eisenberg's McSweeney's column Bream Gives Me Hiccups: Restaurant Reviews From a Privileged Nine-Year-Old is pretty much exactly what it says on the tin, and yet so much more. Simultaneously amusing, honest and heartbreaking. Seriously, I teared up reading the most recent one. (Caveat: I also tear up sometimes at Hallmark card commercials, so use that as your gauge for how emotionally unstable I am.)

You've probably seen Ryan Gosling Won't Eat His Cereal, but just in case this managed to give your attention the slip, here is, um, Ryan Gosling refusing to eat his cereal. I can't explain why it's so funny. It just is, okay?

I tweeted about this some time back, but it's still pretty much my favorite thing ever: Epic 23-Year Game of Tag. Totally insane and so inspired.

As mentioned in a previous post, Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett is only the best book ever on the face of the earth. (You think I suffer from hyperbole, but I do love that book something fierce.) Here, a comprehensive reference guide to Good Omens. Most excellent.

Joss Whedon was the commencement speaker at his alma mater Wesleyan this year. His speech is, quite simply, beautiful. Let's all aspire to be like him when we grow up, yes?

And we finish off with more Eisenberg. He's also a regular contributer to The New Yorker; recently he did a short script entitled Marv Albert is My Therapist. And then they got him and Marv Albert to perform it, to a nation's delight.

If I had a quarter for every time I could quite clearly hear someone's music even though their earbuds were jammed into their earholes, I'd never have to scrounge for laundry money ever again. Ever! And while having unlimited laundry funds would be awesome for me, irreversible hearing loss is awesome for nobody. With the risk of hearing loss increasing in recent years, especially in younger populations (TIME), education and prevention is key. It's never too early to start, as with this video-book aimed at the littluns:

And the next time you see a loved one making their inner hair cells sad, perhaps some gentle accosting wouldn't go amiss. They'll thank you for it later. (Probably. I mean, I totally would.)

Whoops, haven't posted in a good long while. Who knew grad school would be so stressful and time-consuming? Oh, everybody ever? Okay then.

Having zero brain power at the end of the day means most of my bedtime reading is limited to large-print, children's books. Not that I say this in a particularly plaintive way, because children's books are awesome. I've been dipping into my well-loved, aged collection of Enid Blytons recently, which are not only greatly imaginative but also come with the delightful memory of my older sister reading from The Banana Robber to me.

There's just something so comforting about going back to books from childhood, for the same reasons so many of us have a favorite fuzzy old sweater or a tatty stuffed animal that Goodwill probably won't even accept. (Not that I would ever give my Cheer Bear away.) It's a reminder that there's a place where life can be simple for a little while, where fairies exist, happy endings are guaranteed, tears always dry up, and everyone gets what they deserve.

What are some of your favorite things to fall back on when you need time away from the nonsense life throws at you?

In which I back up the wild claims Emory and Nate make in TOG. With science! And some other stuff.

1. Where the popcorn comes into play is that the properties of its questionable flavoring in some of the microwaveable varieties may actually have a hand in causing dementia. -- Chapter One

Afraid some enthusiastic microwaveable popcorn lobbyist might read my book and accuse me of besmirching popcorn's good name, I did consider taking this part out -- or at least sprinkling the word allegedly throughout the sentence with a liberal hand, but I really like little bits of throwaway trivia. And at the time of writing, I had just learned about it so I was itching to share (and ruin everyone's quintessential film-watching experiences, naturally. You're welcome.)

To be fair, eating butter-flavored popcorn probably isn't going to give you dementia. The study referenced regards food industry workers' chronic exposure to the flavoring ingredient, diacetyl, during the manufacturing process. Researchers found that the ingredient increased the risk of toxic damage to brain cells similar to the way proteins clump together in Alzheimer's disease. Which is still not to say that diacetyl definitely does link to dementia, but that it's a possibility.

Source: Science Daily

2. "Maybe," I said smoothly. "But Aristotle once said that people with curly hair can't be trusted, so..." -- Chapter Two

I first heard about this on QI, a wonderfully funny and informative British comedy panel quiz show, on their Fingers and Fumbs episode (S6E7). Apparently Aristotle was super into physiognomy, which reads a person's character or personality from facial features. He wrote a whole book on it, The Secrets of Nature Relating to Physiognomy, in which pretty much every facial feature signifies something horrible. Of the curly-haired: "He is by nature proud and bold, dull of apprehension, soon angry, and a lover of venery, and given to lying, malicious and ready to do any mischief."

So my characterization of Emory? Nailed it.

Source: Project Gutenberg

3. "Hi, Mithter J," said Abby, smiling the untroubled smile of five-year-olds everywhere. -- Chapter Five

This one isn't really a wild claim by either Emory or Nate; I just wanted to talk about it. Abby has a frontal lisp here, doing a 'th' for an 's'. Though this has no relevant impact on the storyline at all, in my mind she actually has a lateral lisp. However, dialogue with a lateral lisp is very difficult to spell. I'll let this lovely little girl from Horrible Histories demonstrate what that sounds like:

Incidentally, Horrible Histories is a brilliant, award-winning historical sketch show for children, and everyone should watch it.

The difference between frontal and lateral lisps, other than, obviously, tongue placement, is that the former is a typical developmental error that could potentially resolve on its own with maturity, while the latter is not a typical developmental error and almost always requires speech therapy, regardless of age.

Source: My school learnin's. (If you really want, I'm sure I can scare up some actual references for you.)

4. "No one can resist the face of a Lhasa Apso; it's been scientifically proven." -- Nate, Chapter Seven

Okay, this one Nate pulled right out of his shapely bum. But I mean, come on. Have you seen a Lhasa Apso? They're adorable.

I hate writing porn.

Porn and kissing scenes. They fill me with dread. Don't get me wrong -- porn is great; who doesn't like a nice little rough-and-tumble scene every now and then? I'm perpetually in awe of writers who can do it easily and do it well because I am very, very much not in those ranks. As it is, I'm already an excruciatingly slow writer; I agonize over every sentence and reread and edit as I go (I hear this is one of the mortal sins in novel writing; oops) and when it gets to body parts touching other body parts, it's about ten times worse. I find it one of the most difficult things to write, in the history of ever.

What if it comes out like an instruction manual for a shelf? Insert screw A into slot B. Gross.

But Cary, you say, you didn't even write porn in The Other Guy. What the crap are you whining about? Yes, true, I weaseled out of that one; I didn't think the story absolutely needed it. (Also, does it weird anyone else out to read sexytimes in the first person?)

I'm writing porn now, though, in my next story. After all the above whinging, I'm writing it, and the reason for that is simple: because my characters want to do it. When they come knocking on my brain and tell me stuff like that, I have to give in. Not without some kicking and screaming on my end, but when it comes right down to it, the characters always win. And they should; it's their story, after all.

A couple years ago, my BFF M and I co-wrote a story. It was to be a real epic. You know: Romance! Betrayal! Swordfights! Sex! (I made her write all the sex scenes.) We planned it meticulously over hours of phone calls and capslock emails, chapter to chapter, scene by scene, outlines bleeding from our eyes. As we got going, though, one of the peripheral characters started poking his head in and messing things up a bit. He was barely even a peripheral character to begin with; we knew he existed as part of the landscape and we weren't going to give him any lines.

"Go away," we said. "Go and guard that door or something. We have important things to do."

So he went and stood guard. Then he started talking to the girl on the other side of the door. And worse, she started talking back.

"Stop it, this isn't part of the plan," we said, though we eyed them with great curiosity. How interesting.

By the end of the story, he was the second lead in a romance never intended to happen. It didn't capsize our original plot, the bones of it were still very much there. Would it still have been a decent story if we didn't let him elbow his way in? Sure. M is a fab storyteller and the process of writing with her was in itself a joy. Would we still be as proud of it if we'd stuck, point by point, to our outline? Doubt it.

Characters fight back. Try to shove them in a direction they don't want to go, and it ruins everyone's day. I learned it writing that story with my BFF, and I'm learning it still. Sometimes I try to push through with my authorial power. "La la la not listening," I say, and then I end up having to axe entire scenes because I didn't listen. The other day, one of them yelled at me, "But it doesn't make any fiscal sense!" Yes, thank you, nerd. Scene scrapped.

Speaking of wielding authorial power, I'm currently wading around in that wasteland known as Writer's Block (0 out of 5 stars; not recommended) because I had an idea to make my characters go and have a nice hometown visit with their family. It would be all kinds of sweet and homey. Turns out, they don't want to. Why, I don't know; I still think it's a fantastic idea, so we're stalemating. I'm willing to wait this one out. Sometimes you just have to put your foot down.

I think we all know who's going to win in the end. (Hint: it's not me. Ugh.)

As it turns out, no. No, I can't.

Publishing my first novel and starting my second at the same time as my first year of graduate school? Only my best idea ever! (she said, laughing hysterically, and had to be confined to two weeks of bedrest.) It's like juggling cinder blocks. I've already managed to drop the Cinder Block of Other Life Things, like being clean. If this is the last you hear from me, it's safe to assume the dust bunnies have staged a victorious, asthma-based revolution.

Obviously the book isn't something I have to do, but I want to do it because it makes me happy and because I might otherwise go crazy. So I guess in that sense I do have to do it! And the writers of you out there know how thrilling and satisfying it is, in the midst of the whirlwind of everything else your life entails, to just sit down and get the words out sometimes. (Especially when all your other words have to center around brain and body parts and the great many things that can go wrong inside a human person. SO MANY THINGS, YOU GUYS.)

Thankfully, once I get through this week -- barring death by final exam (entirely possible) or any of the household mess becoming sentient (less likely, but let's not rule it out) -- I'll get an all-access pass to the glorious Winter Break of Doing Nothing 2012. Hurrah! Well, not entirely nothing. I have a lovely, teetering pile of TBRs on my nightstand to amuse myself with, and I am so excited to be able to read for fun again. Check it:

Some of those are for research for the next book; some others are because I'm a nostalgic dork. Invisible prizes for guessing which!

Oh, and also, of course, some of the break will be dedicated to epic swordfights with the dust bunnies. As you do.

Ever wished you could lovingly cradle a copy of The Other Guy in your arms, or drop it in the bath, or accidentally get marinara sauce on it because your lunch leaked inside your backpack? Well, now you can!

Introducing: The Other Guy, in paperback!

I'll just wait for the trumpets and fanfare to die down, though should you feel like kicking off a celebration in the streets later on, I certainly won't put a stop to it.

This essentially came about because my mother got it in her head that it would be hilarious if she could pass an autographed paperback copy to my auntie who doesn't know I wrote this thing or that Cary Attwell is a person she is related to*, and make her read it and then drop some kind of gigantic surprise announcement that it was actually me all along. (I think this plan was a lot more fun in my mother's head.)

So, enjoy the papery goodness!

*Cary Attwell is my pen name, as you may have guessed. I stole it off one of my old Barbie dolls. She lives in a box somewhere in storage; we'll just make sure she never hears of this. Be cool, everyone.

It is one of my great disappointments in life that I will never be able to even come close to approximating the artistry Michael Chabon effortlessly executes in all of his books. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay is one of my favorites (which I once lent out to someone in quivering glee at being able to share his words but then never got back, to my eternal dismay); it was the first book I'd ever read of his and I was awestruck by the way he crafts words so beautifully together.

As he's one of my literary heroes, I approached his essay about fanfiction in Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands with trepidation, half expecting the same censure you hear from the plethora of high-profile authors out there who very publicly rail against fanfiction as a kind of theft, as a lazy practice, as being inherently subpar.

But here's what Chabon had to say about it: "Through parody and pastiche, allusion and homage, retelling and reimagining the stories that were told before us and that we have come of age loving, we proceed, seeking out the blank places in the map that our favorite writers, in their greatness and negligence, have left for us, hoping to pass on to our own readers some of the pleasure that we ourselves have taken in the stuff we love. All novels are sequels; influence is bliss."

If I actually used Facebook, I'd break the Like button on that quote.

The rest of this post will not be able to say it any better than he did but, gosh darn it, I'm going to give it the old college try anyway.

Full disclosure, if you haven't already guessed: I read and write and love fanfiction.

No matter the source material, there is always something more to mine from that universe. Life doesn't end when a few select problems are resolved, conversations don't fade to black and any number of things can and do happen in the background outside of the protagonists' knowing and sphere of influence. Unsaid things happen in and out of the story we're told, and sometimes those incidents deserve (or demand!) their own story too. I don't think I'm alone in saying that there have been countless times in my life when I've gone, "Nooo!" when I realize it's the end of the book and there's to be no more (and sometimes go straight back to the beginning so I won't have to put the story away).

In that sense, I see fanfiction as the ultimate form of flattery. It means my imagination has been sparked in ways it's never been before your book/show/movie came along; it means I love your universe, story and characters so much that I can't bear to let them go; it means I want to go on a dozen more adventures with them and revel in the light of their brilliance, shake them when they're being stupid, hurt when they hurt and hold them close to my heart.

Though less so than in years past, fanfiction still carries quite a heavy stigma, full of Mary Sues and self-inserts and ungrammatical nonsense enough to make your head explode. True, there is a lot of dreck out there, just like there is a lot of dreck in traditionally published works. But I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, that there are fanfic writers across the world who are downright outstanding, who ought to have publishers crowding outside their door with a battering ram to get them signed to a multi-book deal, who don't need an established universe to tell their stories, but use those universes out of reverence and love.

It's not a lack of respect from which fanfiction stems, nor delusion or lackluster enterprise. Fanfiction, as I have encountered it throughout the years, is an expression of appreciation -- for words, for worlds, for characters, for the creators themselves who have, knowingly or not, gifted an endless sandbox to their fans to build something new from whatever wonderful things have been afforded them.

I've always felt bad for The Other Guy in romantic comedies. I'm not talking about your asshole Glenn Guglia types, who totally deserve a nice clout round the ear (or an airline beverage cart shoved into their elbow), but the ones who are perfectly reasonable, genial fellows with a single, defining flaw ("flaw") that automatically disqualifies them from being The One. See: Bill Pullman -- allergies; Greg Kinnear -- obsessed with typewriters; Kevin McKidd -- inability to share cake; Patrick Dempsey -- not from a Confederate state.

(I have watched a lot of romcoms in my life. I apologize for nothing.)

It was while watching said Dempsey wear the shoe on the other foot and McKidd hoard chocolate cake that it really struck me, though -- poor other guy. We're supposed to be stoked about Girl and Boy getting together at last but, man, what a bummer for the guy left behind. He hasn't done anything wrong, he loves the girl just as much and is even respectful enough to let her go with best wishes on his lips, but how in the world does he go on? Who helps him pick up the pieces?

I suppose, because he's such a decent human being, we can relax knowing that he'll someday find happiness too, but that doesn't make his heartbreak any less real. And just because the camera cuts away forever from him to the leads being deliriously happy with each other doesn't mean that's the end of his side of the story.

So I decided to write the rest of it, and that's how The Other Guy was born. :)

Today, I woke up to a) dreary skies (booo) and b) a notification that somebody purchased a copy of my book (!!!).

I've successfully sold my first copy! Bless you, Internet Person! :D

Why, hello there!

If you're on my LJ, that probably means you've read my novel The Other Guy or at least have heard of it, and I hope you a) have thoroughly enjoyed it, or b) are about to thoroughly enjoy it. (There is no alternative to thorough enjoyment; I'm sorry.)

( About the novel )

( Where to buy )

I'm not really sure what I'm going to be doing with this journal yet, but it's here, and you're here, and that makes me happy. :) Feel free to hang around, say hi, ask questions, etc., and I'll do my best to be outrageously interesting.