Just a few words.

So, here's the thing. I've got a hurricane behind me and an election ahead of me that I desperately just want to be over and settled because it's giving me uncomfortable stress levels. And besides quietly endorsing Obama on facebook I've been trying to keep politics out of my internet presence too much, but I need to say something.

If you are, are friends with, or are related to women, and respect their rights, do not vote for Romney.

If  you are, are friends with, or are related to immigrants, and respect their rights, do not vote for Romney.

If you are, are friends with, or are related to members of religious minorities, and respect their rights, do not vote for Romney.

If you are, are friends with, or are related to the middle and working classes, and respect their rights, do not vote for Romney.

If you are, are friends with, or are related to persons of color, and respect their rights, do not vote for Romney. 

If you are, are friends with, or are related to members of the LGBTQ community, and respect their rights, for the love of all that is good in this world, DO NOT VOTE FOR ROMNEY.

I will not tell you who to vote for. You can vote for Obama or Jill Stein or Mickey Mouse or Ralph Nader or whoever you want. And this has been said a million times by people who are far more eloquent than me, but -

You cannot look a person in the eye, take a shit on their rights, and go home and laugh at Modern Family. That is not okay.

"In order to grow your audience, you must betray their expectations." Or, how The Dark Knight Rises should have ended.

SPOILERS AHOY. ABANDON SHIP, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

This movie is obsessed with symbolism. Lives shits eats breathes symbolism, and one of the biggest pieces of symbolism is the mask - who wears them and how, what they mean, what they protect. We are hit over the head with this symbolism, and most of all, that Bruce Wayne wears the mask because it doesn’t matter who Batman is, because Batman can be anyone. Batman is a symbol, not a person. And we get that, finally, at the very end of the movie when John Blake Dick GraysonRobin is bequeathed the cave. 

That should have happened sooner. And this is not just me being bitter that “Aw, nuts, I wanted to see Joe Gordon-Levitt in a superhero costume,” even if that is also part of it. This is the riskier storytelling choice. And it would have made the symbolism of the movie a lot stronger. 

Bruce Wayne is down in the bottom of the pit. Bruce Wayne has a goddamn death wish, has always had a death wish, is climbing the walls of the pit because he thinks the fact that he has a death wish makes him stronger because he’s not afraid of death. And it’s great that he learns you have to fear death if you want to live. But Bruce Wayne’s fatal flaw is that he doesn’t fear death. He doesn’t fear death, but at the same time, he has immortality granted to him by the story, because there’s still an hour left in the movie and he’s the goddamn Batman. So there’s no tension at all - you know he’ll make it out of that pit.

So, Bruce Wayne is climbing that goddamn pit. And he gets the clue that you have to climb without the rope in order to make it out. And he climbs without the rope, totally exposed. And he falls, because sometimes just wanting to get out of the pit is not enough to get you out of the pit. Sometimes a grown man can’t do what a five-year-old girl can.

Bruce Wayne falls, and he dies, and there is an hour left of the movie.

Back in Gotham City, Robin Blake confronts Gordon about the fact that he is a lying, useless fuck who let Batman take the fall for Harvey Dent. He loses faith in the man he looks up to, his hero, his boss, his father figure. He’s fiddling with some nondescript piece of black and blue fabric. 

Bane announces that Bruce Wayne, that Batman, is dead. It is the darkest hour. No one is going to save Gotham City now. 

And then we see Robin Blake and that nondescript piece of fabric again - it’s a batsuit! Robin Blake puts on a goddamn bat costume with that Nightwing logo he’s been drawing all over the city, and he’s Batman, because it doesn’t matter who Batman is as long as there is a Batman. Batman’s a symbol, not a character. And he hooks up with Fox and Catwoman and Alfred and they realize the autopilot is fixed and they storm the city and from there it’s pretty much the same but with less shitty pacing, and except Bruce Wayne is dead and stays dead because sometimes, heroes have fatal flaws. Sometimes the young guns have to stand up and take the lead.

The scene with Bruce and Selena at the cafe just seemed like such a total cop-out and it made the emotional bottom drop right out. If this is a movie about masks and Batman being a symbol and how anyone can be Batman, let it be that movie. If this is a movie deconstructing the personal sacrifices required to be a superhero, let it be that movie. If this is a movie where Batman and Catwoman get a tacked-on happy ending because early test audience didn’t like him staying dead, then you will never make filmgoers expand their horizons. It’s a tame ending. It’s a safe ending. Bane promised revolution - bring it.

Please, Mr. Pseudo-Feminist Film Critic, Enlighten Me as to Your Unvalidated Opinions About Female Characters.

This article by a certain Joe Williams of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch was reprinted in the Florida Times-Union this morning. Never mind that it's two weeks old as of this writing, there's bigger stuff going on here. For example, the title it was printed with in the FL T-U syndication: "Women are bringing the action in today's thriller movies: tough breed of female action heroes take over roles that used to be male." Which sort of implied that this article was going to make a point, right?

Hahaha no.

What Mr. Williams does instead is list female characters, drawing vague connections between them without ever really touching on what makes these roles iconic, culturally significant, or important, all the while infusing his article with a weird brand of faux-feminism that is actually, frankly misogynist in places. The implication that all of these characters come from the same basic stock (Ellen Ripley, of Alien and its many sequels) is interesting, but it oversimplifies the roles these characters play entirely, as well as any sort of historical precedence prior to Alien (1979) for a woman to be (gasp) competent - for example, both Anna and Giulia in The Conformist (Bertolucci, 1970), who both manipulate the protagonist by weaponizing the femininity, and especially Anna, who sees right through Marcello's efforts at subterfuge. (And,  due to Marcello's ambiguous sexuality crisis, may present an even more masculine archetype than the protagonist himself)

Yes, Noomi Rapace's character in Prometheus is a deliberate reference to Ripley's role in the earlier series, but you could also say that Dr. Grace Augustine from Avatar has more in common with Ripley than just sharing an actress (Sigourney Weaver). Thesis papers have been written about themes of motherhood and creation in the Alien series. Prometheus plays with some of those same themes, though makes it more about parenting in general - the ability (or lack thereof) to create, and then responsibility towards those creations, whether you will see them come to fruition or whether they will destroy you. Williams seems more obsessed with violence in this article than concerned with the motivations behind these characters, and while he alludes to Ripley's connection to Newt, and the alien's role as a mother, he never really seems to get the parallels between the characters and instead gets bogged down in a moment of faux-feminism over the line "Get away from her, you bitch!"

....Which is actually a perfectly acceptable use of the descriptor "bitch." As is Molly Weasley's similar line in her showdown with Bellatrix Lestrange, "Not my daughter, you bitch!" The problem with the word "bitch" is when it is misapplied to mean "a woman in a position of power who makes men feel threatened on account of her competence and influence and the fact that she does not conform to traditional ideas about gender roles." For example, Hilary Clinton. Or Tina Fey. In fact, this fictional sort of application of the word bitch is probably the only appropriate application - excepting the possibility that you actually know someone as emotionally abusive and manipulative as Tangled's Mother Gothel in real life.

Moving on, we encounter a weird and problematic section where he glances over the fact that Aeon Flux was a horrible flop and Karyn Kusama also directed Jennifer's Body, (which is incredible in theory and horrible in execution and I've already written a term paper about and isn't really the point of this post, so I'm not going to go into it in detail and needless to say it has embraced and subverted thriller and horror tropes all over the place, and I love it for what it wants to be and hate it for what it is), and moves into some bizarre statement about how The Hunger Games "turned archery into a hip sport in which women can compete with men."


Because this isn't about how women can compete with men. This is about how we need to stop comparing female characters to male ones and judge them on their own merits and recognize that writing female characters presents its own tragedies and triumphs and the issues that are important to a male character are not the same as the issues that are important to a female character, and the whole reason the arc of Alien works so well is because Ripley is a woman, and having a male character do battle against an angry mother extraterrestrial from beyond the stars would be a completely different film with a completely different emotional center. And I could spend a really long time talking about menstruation and reproduction and why these are abject topics for men vs for women and where the horror derives in each, but that's not the point. Let's just leave it as "Prometheus and Alien are scary for women because they are about losing control of your reproductive ability, whereas they are scary for men because vaginas and uteruses are scary in general for men." (Which would bring us back around into a conversation about the concept of the abject and the uncanny, and menstruation and pregnancy in the horror genre, but again - not the point.)


Moving on to Mr. Williams's misguided statements about Kill Bill and female assassins, he again seems to miss the entire point of the duology, or of Quentin Tarrantino's body of work in general. Yes, The Bride goes on a bloody rampage in which she takes down a bunch of other ladies, all of whom are still employed by or willingly aided her former employer, Bill, in the brutal slaughter of her fiance and unborn child (this turns out not to be exactly the case, but I will refrain from spoilers). Somehow, Mr. Williams seems to ignore the series's title - Kill Bill, as well as the fact that there are some really repulsive male characters in the films (for example, "Chuck who is here to fuck"), and the fact that these various female characters have been complicit or accomplice in the various crimes committed against the protagonist makes them just as guilty, and all of the men get what they had coming as well? Somehow, the fact that the series is a feminist revenge fantasy completely escapes Mr. Williams's grasp.

I don't really understand Mr. Williams's decision to group Black Widow (The Avengers) and Catwoman (The Dark Knight Rises), when Black Widow would be more at home in the company of La Femme Nikita, Wanted, and Salt's heroines (or that Mr. Williams seems to omit Hanna or The Professional/Leon from this discussion entirely, despite their heroines most certainly being part of this trend). Perhaps it is because both characters wear black, leather catsuits? However, this is an oversimplification - Catwoman is a thief and historical love-interest of Batman. Black Widow is a former Soviet assassin who earns her keep at SHIELD by infiltrating Fortune 500 companies and tracking down fugitive scientists. As The Dark Knight Rises hasn't been released yet, I can hardly draw conclusions about Catwoman's motivations, but his description of Black Widow as "Although she's a bare-knuckle ninja, her super power emanates from her pout and posture" sort of makes me wonder if we were watching the same movie.


Yes, okay, Black Widow is pretty. However, she's also got the clearest motivations of pretty much any character in the Avengers - she has debts to repay. While the boys club behind her spends the first half of the movie bickering, angsting, trying to defend the actions of the villain, or being otherwise incapacitated, she is the only character to obtain useful intel from Loki, pilots a jet, brings Bruce Banner in from India, beats up some Russian mobsters (while tied to a chair), and turns Hawkeye from Brainwashed and Crazy into a useful member of the team once more. The femininity that Black Widow possesses is weaponized. She recognizes what people expect of her and uses it to advance her own goals.


In concluding his discussion of Catwoman (who he demeans by calling "kittenish" - pun or not, this adjective does not empower a character) and Black Widow, Mr. Williams states "A counter-balance to the sexy superheroine is the feminist ideal of self-sufficiency." What is problematic about this statement is that it implies a character cannot be both beautiful and self-sufficient. Catwoman is a world-class thief who I anticipate will seduce Bruce Wayne for some nefarious purpose and not because she needs a man in her life. Black Widow is a super-spy and master assassin, and she's nobody's love interest. I think that these characters are both demonstrably self-sufficient.


But it is perhaps in bringing the article around to arguably more "real world" heroines that Mr. Williams makes his most subversive point. No, Thelma and Louise does not have a happy ending. That doesn't make it any less of an iconic film - if anything, it should have been involved in the discussion of Kill Bill and not shuffled all the way to the end like some kind of sloppy segue. What are we supposed to take from the penultimate example in this list being two women who hit a "literal dead end" ? That female characters shouldn't take risks? Whether or not a story is a tragedy or a comedy in the Shakespearean sense doesn't determine whether or not it has merit as a story. If it were,  Measure for Measure and All's Well that Ends Well would be the Bard's greatest masterpieces while Hamlet and King Lear would be regarded as slop.


Are Thelma and Louise good role models? No, probably not, but the fact that their revenge adventure ends badly doesn't mean that little girls should be discouraged from looking up to characters who aren't afraid to kick ass and take names. Suggesting that we should settle for Norma Rae, who comes from a film in an entirely different genre, ultimately subverts the entire exercise of listing these characters. There wasn't a point to your article, Mr. Williams, except to vaguely imply that while the presence of female characters in action movies is an interesting trend, women should stick to tamer, more realistic fare.


The important thing to take away from most of these women (maybe not Laura Croft, who is basically Indiana Jones with tits and ass) is that although they take center stage (or something close to it) in a genre with traditionally male protagonists, they're still women. The idea that for a female character to be strong and powerful, she basically has to be a dude is erroneous and ultimately, movies that adhere to this notion wind up feeling patently false. These are characters whose strength comes from, in part, their femininity and the issues therein, whether it is the host of uniquely female reproductive fears, the responsibility of being a caretaker, or the ability to take society's expectations of you and defy them - or weaponize them. They are role models, and they are a fascinating trend in cinema, but to simply list them and draw superficial comparisons between them and pass these pedestrian observations off as genuine feminism distracts from their actual significance. You can't just take a script and change James into Janine and find-and-replace all the pronouns and have a good female protagonist - the best female characters embrace their inherent femininity and exist in story worlds that are built to showcase why these traits are strengths, and that's what these characters have in common, not superficial details like black catsuits or bows and arrows or revenge plots.

Eleventh hour realizations

The central relationship in this play is not Sloane and Father, it is Sloane and Jason and their realization that they're not as different as they might think, and that they may, in fact, need each other.

Strange dreams

I've been having dreams about being forgotten lately. Which I guess is a welcome reprieve from dreams about my teeth falling out, but they're no less disconcerting. Dreams where I walk into a room and someone who should know me doesn't acknowledge me. If I smile and wave, they look right through me. If I try to remind them, they say, "No, sorry."

Dreams where I wander around an office full of people I know I know, who I know know me, and they don't even notice I'm there. Which is maybe a function more of being invisible than being forgotten. I don't know.

At least I understood what the teeth dreams were about, more or less.

Things I am really tired of, thank you very much. (Or, first world problems)

1. People who hit "Reply All" to messages sent by listserves. I do not need to know your pithy opinion about an email that was sent to the entire university, please stop.

2. Writing professors who give patently bad advice. Like, this is not me being an upstart youngin' who should learn their place and respect their elders - this is me being genuinely annoyed for reasons I have been told are completely legitimate.

for example:

• The professor who told the class that any time a director suggests a change, you must do it, because you don't want to acquire a reputation of being "difficult to work with." No, fuck you. When a director tells you to make a change, it is completely at your discretion to do it or not to do it, and they cannot coerce you. And if the director makes the change without your permission, then they have violated the rights of the playwright and fuck them. 
• The professor who complains about actors improvising lines and then, when you get muscled into having them read a part in your pages, improvises the fucking lines. THERE IS NOT A "WELL" THERE. THERE IS NOT A MENTION OF THE ADRESSED PERSON'S NAME THERE. IF I HAD WANTED IT READ THAT WAY,  I WOULD HAVE WRITTEN IT THAT WAY. It does not help me to hear what is wrong with my lines if you are changing my lines. 

Thoughts on 'Lifetime Achievement'

This play comes from two conversations I had, and a few other places.

1. A discussion with my sister, ages and ages ago, that because we are almost ten years apart our early childhoods were completely different, despite us having the same parents. In the ten years between when Ellen was born and when Max and I were born, our parents financial situation changed drastically, they moved to a new city, built a house, etc. E. was born to parents who were still finishing their educations, whereas M. and I were born into a family where our parents were already established professionals. Same parents, completely different childhoods, because we encountered them at different points in their lives.

2. A discussion with my mother about different children need different kinds of parents, and parents adapt their parenting style to what works best for their specific child. Siblings might remember their parents in very different ways, even if they lived with them at the same time.

The way you describe a play when put on the spot by your anthropology advisor is probably as close to the essence as you're ever going to get. In that case:

"Five siblings gather after their father's death to write his eulogy, but realize they can't and that because of their large age differences they all knew different versions of their father."

Alternate Continuities

Sometimes I indulge myself and imagine an alternate continuity where Valeri Gridenko meets Fyodor Alkaev, the whiz kid from Omsk, and things really are as they seem. Fyedya is completely human. His nervousness comes from being surrounded by scientific minds he sees as being so much more brilliant than himself, not from being terrified of not being able to keep his imaginary history in order. In this world, Valya can mentor Fyedya, and tease him as his boyish good looks fade (and they do fade, because he ages, and won't be twenty-six forever), and they are witnesses to history together as mankind advances into space. Their friendship is the kind of deep connection that you only find in scientists who recognize a likeminded thirst for knowledge in each other, and it lasts their entire lives.

But that's not the story I wrote, and it is far less interesting than the story I wrote, so it will only merit one paragraph while the story I wrote is 83 pages.

Complicated thoughts about Ender's Game

Okay, so, I have come to terms with the fact that Orson Scott Card is a complete bag of dicks and I'm just going to let him be what he's going to be - it doesn't change the fact that Ender's Game was a massive part of my childhood. Even if I've struck the rest of the series from my own personal continuity (yes, even Ender's Shadow, because let's be honest with ourselves - it's not that good, and Bean is a Sue if you take the Shadow series to be true, and I liked him so much better when he was just the runt of the litter on Ender's team of ragged misfits and not the goddamn Messiah-slash-chessmaster, because the EG universe already has three Christ Archetypes too many without Bean adding to the clusterfuck. Also? Bean/Petra is the worst 'ship ever, it makes me barf in my mouth. Dink/Petra forever).


So, clearly, I've got a lot invested in this fandom, even if I don't actively participate in it, because honestly there's not much of a fandom to participate in. The book came out in the 80s, the author is alienating of his fanbase, the sequels all undermine the original, and the older I get the more I recognize that the universe I thought was so wonderfully diverse when I first encountered it (Alai remains the most sympathetic Arab character in all of science fiction, thank you and good night) is actually pretty sinister in ways I can't quite put my finger on. But I love the book, I've read it something like fifteen times, and that's why I get so mad at Orson Scott Card - because he's one of the people who first inspired me to write, and he's not a worthy role model. He's a misogynistic, homophobic, evangelical bag of dicks and I don't understand how a book that reads as having a really liberal worldview came from his mind. 


I'm really excited that the long-rumored film is finally in production and has what looks like a fantastic cast (Harrison Ford! Asa Butterfield!), but I do worry about what kind of reflection of this world is going to finally turn up on screen. I've been attending Battle School in my head since I was about nine years old and while I recognize that all the detail from the books isn't possibly going to make it to film, I'm more worried about the essence of the world.


What would ruin this film for me is if the author's personal politics were to be jarringly present in it. Because I don't think his worldview is overtly present in the book. I do think that the film could benefit from updating the world to match modern terminology - but even that's not a huge stretch, because OSC basically predicted the internet and iPads. But if the world of Ender's Game were to change from one where characters are presented with moralities independent of their ethnic and religious backgrounds to one where OSC's xenophobic rationale is the norm I would be sorely disappointed, because the message of Ender's Game is one of acceptance - just because you don't understand how someone thinks doesn't make them evil, which is Ender's ultimate conclusion about the Buggers/Formics (dear fandom, what are we calling them?)


I've also got some bizarre but smaller concerns that aren't really relevant to my worries about the overall tone of the world being changed / OSC being a bag of dicks. 


ie - Ben Kingsley, who is a fantastic actor, has been cast as Mazer Rackham. In the books, Mazer is described as being "half-Maori." Ben Kingsley is of Indian and English descent. Does this reflect a tendency in Hollywood casting towards considering minority ethnicities to be interchangeable? (Other complaints I could lodge under this same heading - Taylor Lautner is even less Native American than Johnny Depp; The entirety of The Last Airbender.)


Is it "whitewashing" when you're substituting one minority for another instead of substituting a white actor?

Melting.

In the last few years, I've started to think of my writing process as "tempering the weirdness," which is all well and good by itself. My work does tend to start out very strange and boil down to much more straightforward stories by the end and it's stronger for that. But as of late I think I've been clamping down too much, not embracing the stage for what it is - a stage. Setting scenes in concrete places, in living rooms and lobbies - making it feel solid.

Solid.

Too solid.

No. No.

My theater is liquid.

I was happy with where my writing was two years ago, when I told a story on a bare stare with lights and sound and dialogue - poetry, if that's not too pretentious of me. Two and three years ago, when my protagonist told the world she didn't call the shots and yet exhibited masterful control over lighting cues. Self-aware. Theater as theater.

There is a time and place for realism, but I miss creating magic.

Time to peel back the restraints. Time to let the weirdness back in. Time to dig down and find the poetry again.

Okay.

Here goes.

If I ever write a Hipster Rom-Com

I will string together all of the false starts from my life into something that panders to a very specific demographic that can't be bothered to give a damn. (These all happened but they were not all with the same person and they are certainly not in order)

Boy and girl will meet at the zoo. It will be winter, and freezing, and you'd have to be stupid to actually be at the zoo that day. They will walk around all day without encountering a single other living person and lament that the geladas are indoors for winter and watch seals swim around in the courtyard. They'll buy bagels at a sketchy grocery store in the Bronx and take the train all the way back into the city together, talking the whole way about what kinds of quirky hipster literature they like and then something will happen. (Unlike real life, where nothing happened.)

She'll post ambiguous song lyric Facebook statuses that he'll respond with coded confessions of love and she'll have something witty to say back, and not something asinine, and they'll realize that the feeling's mutual instead of just one person lying awake all night wondering if they really deserve to have good things happen to them.

They'll watch a terrible movie together. Maybe it's The Room. It's not even worth paying attention. He feels her up, and she lets him, instead of repeatedly moving his hands to some part of her body she's more comfortable with him touching, because that sends all the wrong signals, and later that night he'll kiss her instead of muttering, "Sorry, I made that awkward."

In this stupid Hipster Rom-Com, I'm actually played by Zooey Deschanel, or someone who looks like her, instead of just hopelessly copying her hairstyle, even though I'm too tall and too curvy and my eyes are too dark. And the critics will call it contrived and stupid and I will say, "No, no, this is my life, you don't understand, this is my life, only edited. All I did was make it better."

Mountains and Snow

"I would love to live in a little New England town," I say, gazing up the picturesque main street of Andover, MA. My older sister is less convinced.

"No you wouldn't," she says, and she knows me better than most, so it must be true. Still, I find a mystique in these little towns that dot the Northeast that my childhood was decidedly lacking. I grew up in an oppressively flat part of the country that was also, perhaps paradoxically, subject to extremely short horizons. There are some parts of the United States that I have visited that I characterize as having "wide skies." Nebraska, for example. Jacksonville, not so much. It is an expanse of low buildings that give the whole landscape a sense of claustrophobia. The road that runs through the center of my neighborhood, a broad six-lane monster, flows through an endless stretch of suburbia. If I were not familiar with the landmarks from a lifetime of traversing it, I would think it was composed entirely of recycled scenery.

Mountains long posed a fascination for me. I saw them for the first time on my first trip north, around the age of four. Somehow they left such a powerful impression that on the two later trips north that we made when I was young, I eagerly stared out the car window as we left Boston and drove north into the granite state. "Dad, are we in the mountains yet?"

"No, Aliza, that's a landfill."

In my seven years spent at camp in rural Georgia, I never grew tired of the novelty of topography. I liked land that had character, that had shapes and forms because of ancient geological processes. A world with bedrock, not the glorified sandbar of a state where I'd grown up. I'd return from every summer with clay-stained socks and bulging calves only to face the unrelenting flatness of Jacksonville, Florida, the land that plate tectonics forgot.

Snow, too, has never lost its novelty. This is my third winter north and the sight of white flakes swirling or tumbling past my window still fills me with the kind of wonder usually reserved for small children. It always feels warmer when it snows than when it doesn't, which I know doesn't make sense. Winter weather is another thing that bypasses Jacksonville entirely - as if my very presence on this earth repels powder, there has not been significant snowfall in my hometown since 1989.

So, obviously, the sight of a snowy New England hamlet is utterly irresistible.

I live in a city with artificial topography. I have taken an archeology class that taught me that this island used to roll with hillsides and valleys where Lenape tribespeople hunted and gathered, but the city has since been flattened into submission by advancing construction. On top of it rises a landscape of artificial mountains, Himalayas in the financial district and midtown bordered by foothill tenements on either side. From the window of my twelfth-floor apartment, the sky seems infinitely wide. The towers go on forever. It's not a thing like Jacksonville.

I have my mountains. They were just constructed by a different force of nature than I anticipated as a child.

My big sister takes good care of me.

She kept apologizing when we went dress shopping that none of the sample dresses fit (because they were sample sizes made for people who are not weird shaped like me) in defense of my ego. Then she took me into a salon to get my bangs trimmed so that I would not be so shaggy shaggy sheepdog and would be able to see. Then we got froyo and pedicures. And this morning she willingly got up at 8 AM on a sunday to make me eggs and coffee and send me back to the bus station.

Just saying that she is the best and you all should be jealous.

I shouldn't have to defend my art to you - but I will.

The following was actually said to me:

"Aliza, you're so smart, why are you wasting your time writing plays? You should be going to law school." 

There are a lot of things wrong with this statement, and I am going to go through it one piece at a time and JUSTIFY THE HELL OUT OF WHAT I AM DOING WITH MY LIFE.

"...you're so smart..."

Why thank you. It takes a lot of intelligence to create work that is creative, original, thoughtful, and clever - all things I aim to be in my writing.

"...Why are you wasting your time writing plays?..." 

Because to me, time spent writing isn't time wasted. My art is not a waste of time, or else, if it is, then I have been wasting my time since I could talk, considering that's how long I've been telling stories. Perhaps to the person who said this to me, a person who transferred out of Dramatic Writing, writing resolved itself into a waste of time - because this major is not one you study out of desire to make money, have job security, etc. It is first and foremost about craft. It is about learning every facet of your work and honing your talent and working until you have a voice that is capable of saying pretty much anything you want to say and telling any story that you want to tell and able to tell it well.

I have been a storyteller for my whole life, and perhaps other writers know what I'm talking about when I say there is a compulsion to create narrative. There is a catharsis in getting elbow-deep into character and plot and structure that I've yet to find anywhere else.

If you've never felt the moment when everything clicks into place and you know exactly how the story ends, then there's no point in trying to describe it to you. It's the closest I've ever come to real magic.

"...You should be going to law school."

With no offense meant to the lawyers in my life, particularly my mom, and my "favorite" uncle, I don't understand how attending law school somehow justifies my continued existence as a human being in ways that creating art that makes me happy fails to do.  I have no doubts that I'm intelligent enough for law school - but I've got no desire to go there. Not because I don't want to do the work, but because there is no way that studying for the boards would make me happier than working in the entertainment industry and continuing to tell stories.

What it comes down to is, I have to justify my art to you because you are not an artist. And I don't mean you're not an artist in that you don't draw or paint or act, because there are plenty of artists whose art is computer programming or engineering or architecture or cooking. You're not an artist, because you don't understand that this is a thing that makes me happier to be doing this thing than all the job security in the world.

And if law school is your thing? Well, good for you, but I doubt it - because if it was, if you were an artist of law, you would understand why I have to do my art and wouldn't try to tear me down for wanting to do it.

I do not have to justify my art to you. I do not have to justify my intelligence, or my drive, or my value as a member of society, to someone like you.

I'll just keep writing.

Happy Tired

I am morbidly curious to know how many miles I've walked in the last three days, but then, I sort of don't want to know. I know it's a lot. I know I've got unique but equally painful shin splints in each leg. My right arch is still hurting, which it probably wouldn't if I hadn't been on my feet for three days straight but I haven't had much of a choice. Thursday and Friday I'll have off to try and recover, but it's no big deal. One of my hips was bugging me pretty badly today and my core and ribcage are both sore for some unfathomable reason. QED, festival is hard, even on super-intern, and I've only been in town for half of it. I can only imagine that I'd feel exponentially worse if I'd been here for the whole week like the rest of the team.

Not that I'm complaining. The physical discomfort doesn't detract from the immense satisfaction I take in being exceptionally competent at an exceptional number of things. I was trained on the light board today and will be running the show lights all by myself tomorrow which I am tremendously excited about, even if it's just up and down cues forty minutes apart. I had an adventure at the post office, argued with incompetent copy clerks at Staples, and made a good impression at a literary agency while making a delivery. All of which are things that I feel good about. I've learned a bit about Front-of-House and ushering, ate really good soup, and drank essentially a sippy-cup full of coffee and life was just awesome. And for three days I have not counted calories because I'm pretty sure I walked about seven miles each of those days.

Satisfaction.

I'll write more later - I've got a lot of irons in a lot of fires right now, and I'll be updating on various projects as they get worked on. This week so far I've scarcely had a spare minute to think, let alone work on things like Like a Dog in Space or the guide. But Thursday, Friday, and this weekend are my days.

And for now?

I'm happy-tired. :)

"A long time ago, in the magical, far-off land of Soviet Russia"

I just found an unpublished blog post in my drafts bin. The sole line is now the title of this post.

It was July. 

I wonder what I was thinking then? I look at old posts, my no-love letters, where I refer passive-aggressively to people who have aggravated me. Some of them, I recall who incensed me. Some of them I don't. Some of them I took down tonight, because they were petty and mean and some bridges, once burnt, do not need to be left to smolder. (Or perhaps ought to be rebuilt?) 

Things are coming together, slowly but surely. The draft is working but I need to put in some serious work on it. Tomorrow, then. These characters come easily now (and why shouldn't they? I've lived with them inside my head for a year and a half). 

A year ago, I was on my way to the Young Playwrights Inc national conference. I go back to NYC on Saturday, and I'll be helping with the conference - but I'm not a "young playwright" anymore, and I need to make my own path. That's what this EJAF fellowship thing is, though. Learning how to put things together, how to make my own deadlines and force things to happen. 

I had a long conversation earlier about the difference between friendship and pity - I need to spend more time and energy on people whose friendship I truly value, and less time and energy on people who I hang out with because they have made themselves out to be so pathetic that no one else will pay them any mind. Perhaps it's a resolution. But then, so is no longer using question marks for anything other than actual questions. 

It is January of my twenty-first year, and I am growing up.

(Do we ever stop feeling like children, just a little bit, deep down in quiet spaces and the recesses of our hearts?)