If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.
- Emile Zola
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (soon enough).
I hope everyone had as memorable a December as I had this year. It was exciting, busy, relaxing, productive, calm, family-filled, friend-filled, and eventful - a whirlwind to say the least.
Since Christmas Day, we've spent much of our time occupied with Rock Band, the PlayStation game I got my sister that has brought me the closest to feeling the thrill of actually being in a band. Considering that we have an actual drum set, electric guitar, acoustic guitars, piano, and singing voices to match, we're hoping that the same enthusiasm we feel for video game controllers in the shape of instruments will translate to the real instruments one of these days. I'll let you know in a couple of weeks what progress we make in that direction...
I also just started reading Coraline, the Neil Gaiman bestseller that has captured everyone's attention, including my little sister, who gave it to me. It has received numerous awards and endless praise. Gaiman is an author that, among a host of other things, writes children's books that appeal to both children and adults, are creepy and enchanted, can delight while still causing you to recoil - perfect combinations. For the past few months, the name "Neil Gaiman" keeps popping up, when I least expect it, and I'm starting to think it's not just coincidence. First, my sister told me about this amazing book she had read (Coraline) and its author. Then, an e-mail from Neil Gaiman appeared in my inbox, thanks to his participation in NaNoWriMo's published author-e-mail mentor campaign. Yes, thousands of others also received the exact same e-mail from him, but the point is, his name and his e-mail were in my inbox. Then we went to go see Beowulf, and afterward, Alex commented to me, "I didn't know Neil Gaiman had co-wrote the script," to which I shook my fist and shouted, "Neil Gaiman!!" (it was probably more dramatic). Then a few weeks later, I found myself reading his blog, and before I knew it, I kept hearing the man's name everywhere, a name which had never really struck me before, but still, I did not buy Coraline.
Well, now I have it, and I have begun reading it. I got the hint, Neil Gaiman.
As for my own writing, I'm still plugging away. January might be a little calmer, which will give me more time to think and to plan and to write.
Stay tuned for upcoming news about VM.
Now the only thing missing in my life is the three-headed dragon finger puppet from Folkmanis Puppets I had been so looking forward to receiving... in case anyone is considering any belated presents for me =)
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
let the editing begin!!
It is perfectly okay to write garbage - as long as you edit brilliantly.
- C. J. Cherryh
Filling a blank page with words is hard, but changing words that are already there is even more difficult, not to mention having to delete words because of space constraints (i.e. writing an article about a fascinating subject with a word count that can't possibly accommodate all I have to say about aforementioned fascinating subject... without every single word that was there to begin with it, it might actually be reduced to something less than fascinating).
Then there are novels and stories and plot lines with muddy twists and gaping holes, and suddenly you find yourself being poked incessantly by that inner editor that you, the writer, for once in your life had been holding back for just enough time so that you could get something - anything - on paper.
So you did, and now here you sit, staring at a large quantity of words that at some odd hour of the night once seemed to all make sense. Half drunk on sleep, half invigorated with a burst of creative adrenaline, you did something all writers must learn to do at some point if they ever hope to be productive - you locked away the perfectionist, the cautious artist, the know-it-all procrastinator, the pouty second-guesser, the biting critic, the voice that won't shut up, the random-thought stifler, the self-proclaimed all-important, all-knowing editor.
Yes, you managed to do the near impossible, and you smile and pat yourself on the back, knowing that you let your creativity flow and your imagination run wherever it wanted to go, as long as there was a string, as flimsy as it may have been, tying it all together.
And then you begin to read, now alert and ready to finalize what is sure to be no less than genius... but of course, it is far from it.
You realize that names of rather important characters changed mid-story, and you are now at a loss to make a decision, as both sets of names have their merits.
Somewhere between Chapters 1 and 2, your protagonist was cured of his asthma and abandoned his inhaler, leaving him to spend much of his time sprinting long distances to get to each remaining chapter. Perhaps readers won't notice...
As you're reading, you have to remind yourself that there is only one of you, not eight, as the various styles of writing that come and go throughout the novel would lead other, more unsuspecting readers than yourself to believe.
You start to wonder if you subconsciously favor only ten out of the gazillion words in the English dictionary because, as you notice with a frown, they seem to be every other word in your story.
Yes, all these things and more become very apparent all too quickly after a first read-through.
So what's a writer to do? Well, bring back that pesky inner editor, of course, who will no doubt be mumbling, "I told you so," through the whole editing/revising/rewriting (and very long) ordeal.
But as a writer, who now has 100+ pages of text to call your own, you know it was worth it. Your novel may not be perfect, and a good portion of it might sound downright ridiculous, but it's only Round 1, with many, many nights to go before you sleep.
- C. J. Cherryh
Filling a blank page with words is hard, but changing words that are already there is even more difficult, not to mention having to delete words because of space constraints (i.e. writing an article about a fascinating subject with a word count that can't possibly accommodate all I have to say about aforementioned fascinating subject... without every single word that was there to begin with it, it might actually be reduced to something less than fascinating).
Then there are novels and stories and plot lines with muddy twists and gaping holes, and suddenly you find yourself being poked incessantly by that inner editor that you, the writer, for once in your life had been holding back for just enough time so that you could get something - anything - on paper.
So you did, and now here you sit, staring at a large quantity of words that at some odd hour of the night once seemed to all make sense. Half drunk on sleep, half invigorated with a burst of creative adrenaline, you did something all writers must learn to do at some point if they ever hope to be productive - you locked away the perfectionist, the cautious artist, the know-it-all procrastinator, the pouty second-guesser, the biting critic, the voice that won't shut up, the random-thought stifler, the self-proclaimed all-important, all-knowing editor.
Yes, you managed to do the near impossible, and you smile and pat yourself on the back, knowing that you let your creativity flow and your imagination run wherever it wanted to go, as long as there was a string, as flimsy as it may have been, tying it all together.
And then you begin to read, now alert and ready to finalize what is sure to be no less than genius... but of course, it is far from it.
You realize that names of rather important characters changed mid-story, and you are now at a loss to make a decision, as both sets of names have their merits.
Somewhere between Chapters 1 and 2, your protagonist was cured of his asthma and abandoned his inhaler, leaving him to spend much of his time sprinting long distances to get to each remaining chapter. Perhaps readers won't notice...
As you're reading, you have to remind yourself that there is only one of you, not eight, as the various styles of writing that come and go throughout the novel would lead other, more unsuspecting readers than yourself to believe.
You start to wonder if you subconsciously favor only ten out of the gazillion words in the English dictionary because, as you notice with a frown, they seem to be every other word in your story.
Yes, all these things and more become very apparent all too quickly after a first read-through.
So what's a writer to do? Well, bring back that pesky inner editor, of course, who will no doubt be mumbling, "I told you so," through the whole editing/revising/rewriting (and very long) ordeal.
But as a writer, who now has 100+ pages of text to call your own, you know it was worth it. Your novel may not be perfect, and a good portion of it might sound downright ridiculous, but it's only Round 1, with many, many nights to go before you sleep.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
remember, remember the month of november
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
- Lord Byron
So I finally did it - 50,000+ words written in November (National Novel Writing Month, for those of you that might not be aware), making me an official NaNoWriMo 2007 winner!!
Is my novel complete? Not even close. Is it further along than it was one month ago? Most definitely.
Now, alas, there is more writing to be done - research papers, essays, articles, online magazines, and, of course, blogging, to name just a few.
After this next week, I will be able to put the pen down and the typewriter away to make way instead for presents and trees and lights.
Who knows, maybe I'll have a few interesting things to write about Christmas when the time comes around =)
- Lord Byron
So I finally did it - 50,000+ words written in November (National Novel Writing Month, for those of you that might not be aware), making me an official NaNoWriMo 2007 winner!!
Is my novel complete? Not even close. Is it further along than it was one month ago? Most definitely.
Now, alas, there is more writing to be done - research papers, essays, articles, online magazines, and, of course, blogging, to name just a few.
After this next week, I will be able to put the pen down and the typewriter away to make way instead for presents and trees and lights.
Who knows, maybe I'll have a few interesting things to write about Christmas when the time comes around =)
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
words, words, and more words
The secret of becoming a writer is to write, write and keep on writing.
- Ken MacLeod
The challenge - 50,000 words in November
The status - 30,435 words to go
The goal - 175 pages worth of novel
With only 10 days left in the month, it's clear that I better start writing with some serious intensity if I intend to conquer that lofty word count.
Fortunately, a getaway to Newport, Rhode Island this past weekend gave me food for thought and all the historic inspiration I need at the moment, complete with the craziest mansions, the most beautiful harbor views, Wimbedon-quality grass courts, an abundance of museums, great food (no hotel is complete without free continental breakfasts and Belgian waffle makers), cool music, and a scenic town that we're already excited to go back and explore.
Pictures are sure to follow =)
With some imagination and a lot of determination, writing 50,000 words is the easy part. It's the editing where things always get interesting.
Did I mention I have several articles and a research paper to write, too?
Yeah, it's definitely going to be an interesting next few weeks =P
- Ken MacLeod
The challenge - 50,000 words in November
The status - 30,435 words to go
The goal - 175 pages worth of novel
With only 10 days left in the month, it's clear that I better start writing with some serious intensity if I intend to conquer that lofty word count.
Fortunately, a getaway to Newport, Rhode Island this past weekend gave me food for thought and all the historic inspiration I need at the moment, complete with the craziest mansions, the most beautiful harbor views, Wimbedon-quality grass courts, an abundance of museums, great food (no hotel is complete without free continental breakfasts and Belgian waffle makers), cool music, and a scenic town that we're already excited to go back and explore.
Pictures are sure to follow =)
With some imagination and a lot of determination, writing 50,000 words is the easy part. It's the editing where things always get interesting.
Did I mention I have several articles and a research paper to write, too?
Yeah, it's definitely going to be an interesting next few weeks =P
Thursday, November 8, 2007
if I think it. . .
Nothing splendid has ever been achieved except by those who dared believe that something inside them was superior to circumstance.
- Bruce Barton
Positive thinking works.
There's no need to buy a book about it or do extensive studying on the subject because it's pretty straightforward - positive thinking leads to positive actions which leads to positive outcomes.
If you see yourself succeeding, you will succeed. If you see yourself fulfilling your dreams, then you will fulfill your dreams.
Now, I know this might sound naive and overly optimistic, but that's okay.
Considering this is my first time at the age of 23, and next year will be my first time trying out the age of 24, and so on, I think I can go ahead and make the assumption that positive thinking really counts for something. I'm only 23 once, and I'll only be 24 once, and so why not keep telling myself that whatever I want to be, I will be?
Positive thinking. Optimism. Dreams.
Sounds good to me.
- Bruce Barton
Positive thinking works.
There's no need to buy a book about it or do extensive studying on the subject because it's pretty straightforward - positive thinking leads to positive actions which leads to positive outcomes.
If you see yourself succeeding, you will succeed. If you see yourself fulfilling your dreams, then you will fulfill your dreams.
Now, I know this might sound naive and overly optimistic, but that's okay.
Considering this is my first time at the age of 23, and next year will be my first time trying out the age of 24, and so on, I think I can go ahead and make the assumption that positive thinking really counts for something. I'm only 23 once, and I'll only be 24 once, and so why not keep telling myself that whatever I want to be, I will be?
Positive thinking. Optimism. Dreams.
Sounds good to me.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Halloween =)
Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen, Voices whisper in the trees, "Tonight is Halloween!"
- Dexter Kozen
An Indian princess, a Roman centurion, and a Tetris block walk into a bar. . .
What a month it has been!! Thank you to everyone who made it such a success =)
Here are some pictures of all the festivities:
- Dexter Kozen
An Indian princess, a Roman centurion, and a Tetris block walk into a bar. . .
What a month it has been!! Thank you to everyone who made it such a success =)
Here are some pictures of all the festivities:
Thursday, October 18, 2007
just breathe
I write for the same reason I breathe - because if I didn't, I would die.
- Isaac Asimov
Writing, writing, writing. So time consuming, and yet what else is there to do?
Right now I have two magazine articles, several essays, and a research paper to attend to, but all I want to do is write Chapter 3 of the book I started last week.
Not to mention that November 1 begins National Novel Writer's Month and the challenge to write 175 pages, 50,000 words of a completely new novel that I have 30 days to complete.
A lot of writing, and all the time in the world, but inspiration starts to run dry when not enough hours are spent sleeping and so many more are spent worrying.
There should be days set aside just for writing and dreaming and letting go of. . . everything.
- Isaac Asimov
Writing, writing, writing. So time consuming, and yet what else is there to do?
Right now I have two magazine articles, several essays, and a research paper to attend to, but all I want to do is write Chapter 3 of the book I started last week.
Not to mention that November 1 begins National Novel Writer's Month and the challenge to write 175 pages, 50,000 words of a completely new novel that I have 30 days to complete.
A lot of writing, and all the time in the world, but inspiration starts to run dry when not enough hours are spent sleeping and so many more are spent worrying.
There should be days set aside just for writing and dreaming and letting go of. . . everything.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
the voice in my head
Storytelling is healing. As we reveal ourselves in story, we become aware of the continuing core of our lives under the fragmented surface of our experience. We become aware of the multifaceted, multichaptered ' I ' who is the storyteller. We can trace out the paradoxical and even contradictory versions of ourselves that we create for different occasions, different audiences... Most important, as we become aware of ourselves as storytellers, we realize that what we understand and imagine about ourselves is a story. And when we know all this, we can use our stories to heal and make ourselves whole.
- Susan Wittig Albert
The past week has been kind of a blur, a haze of thoughts and crying and confusion and doubt. Without warning, my mind plunged me into this biased, self-deprecating look at things that have been and never were, things that I did and that I didn't do, things that I once thought and that I might have thought, things that hurt me and caused hurt.
It was sudden, and it hasn't let up. Even when I wake up, it feels like, for the few hours that I have been sleeping, my head has been itching to throw something new at me, something unexpected to jostle me out of bed and into a fit of exasperation.
And for what? Clearly just to hurt me. Suddenly I have found myself at the judgment table, and I am both the judge and defendant, and yet I cannot remember how I got here. The worst part is that despite my annoyingly amazing memory, I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm starting to make things up just to make myself look bad. . . in front of me.
Blessed with obsessive compulsions, it's not all that difficult for me to fall into this obviously useless spiral, but I can also very intelligently step back and look at the situation with a discerning, somewhat objective perspective - my mind is my worst, most feared enemy. It plays games and dances loud tangos so that I sit up when I thought I could finally lie down. It pinches and prods when I was about to relax. It makes me remember only because it knows I can distort what is actually there. It nudges me when all I want to be is left alone.
But the catch-22, the irritating dilemma, is that it is also my most trusted, closest friend. It inspires me when I'd rather not think. It reminds me to look when my eyes are closed. It pushes me into the spotlight when I'd rather sit in the corner. It shoves me when I get stuck in one place.
As a writer, I love it and hate it all at once, so much so that I kind of explode inside every now and again because the feelings, I'm sure, are mutual.
So for the past week, I have been trying to figure out what crazy stunt my head is trying to pull, and why it is trying to waltz its way into a nervous breakdown. Perhaps to wake me up to something I am not seeing or maybe to assure me that everything is OK despite how much I worry. Maybe it just got bored and is trying to prove to both of us that I am not quite right, and therefore should take everything I tell myself with a grain of salt. Even possibly, it's having fun and asking me to join along.
It's just that I don't think this is fun, being unable to walk through the mall without having a panic attack about that thing I said to that relative that day or that promise I didn't carry out or that look I exchanged or that time I didn't play in the snow.
What about the good things? They're there. I know they are because I remember everything, but I don't seem to dwell on them as much, even though I wish I could. I have found, as a writer and as Melissa, that I get my best ideas from all those things that aren't quite right during the day.
So maybe I'm asking to not have ideas anymore - to just be content with being something today and the same thing tomorrow and the next and so on. What worries me is that this week-long feeling of dreaded exasperation might come back, and I guess as a writer whose wheels are always frantically spinning, I shouldn't be surprised when just that happens.
On the plus side, I wrote the first chapter to an entirely new novel last night. I am about to start on the second one which, as per usual, is already... all in my head...
Damnit.
- Susan Wittig Albert
The past week has been kind of a blur, a haze of thoughts and crying and confusion and doubt. Without warning, my mind plunged me into this biased, self-deprecating look at things that have been and never were, things that I did and that I didn't do, things that I once thought and that I might have thought, things that hurt me and caused hurt.
It was sudden, and it hasn't let up. Even when I wake up, it feels like, for the few hours that I have been sleeping, my head has been itching to throw something new at me, something unexpected to jostle me out of bed and into a fit of exasperation.
And for what? Clearly just to hurt me. Suddenly I have found myself at the judgment table, and I am both the judge and defendant, and yet I cannot remember how I got here. The worst part is that despite my annoyingly amazing memory, I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm starting to make things up just to make myself look bad. . . in front of me.
Blessed with obsessive compulsions, it's not all that difficult for me to fall into this obviously useless spiral, but I can also very intelligently step back and look at the situation with a discerning, somewhat objective perspective - my mind is my worst, most feared enemy. It plays games and dances loud tangos so that I sit up when I thought I could finally lie down. It pinches and prods when I was about to relax. It makes me remember only because it knows I can distort what is actually there. It nudges me when all I want to be is left alone.
But the catch-22, the irritating dilemma, is that it is also my most trusted, closest friend. It inspires me when I'd rather not think. It reminds me to look when my eyes are closed. It pushes me into the spotlight when I'd rather sit in the corner. It shoves me when I get stuck in one place.
As a writer, I love it and hate it all at once, so much so that I kind of explode inside every now and again because the feelings, I'm sure, are mutual.
So for the past week, I have been trying to figure out what crazy stunt my head is trying to pull, and why it is trying to waltz its way into a nervous breakdown. Perhaps to wake me up to something I am not seeing or maybe to assure me that everything is OK despite how much I worry. Maybe it just got bored and is trying to prove to both of us that I am not quite right, and therefore should take everything I tell myself with a grain of salt. Even possibly, it's having fun and asking me to join along.
It's just that I don't think this is fun, being unable to walk through the mall without having a panic attack about that thing I said to that relative that day or that promise I didn't carry out or that look I exchanged or that time I didn't play in the snow.
What about the good things? They're there. I know they are because I remember everything, but I don't seem to dwell on them as much, even though I wish I could. I have found, as a writer and as Melissa, that I get my best ideas from all those things that aren't quite right during the day.
So maybe I'm asking to not have ideas anymore - to just be content with being something today and the same thing tomorrow and the next and so on. What worries me is that this week-long feeling of dreaded exasperation might come back, and I guess as a writer whose wheels are always frantically spinning, I shouldn't be surprised when just that happens.
On the plus side, I wrote the first chapter to an entirely new novel last night. I am about to start on the second one which, as per usual, is already... all in my head...
Damnit.
Monday, October 8, 2007
faster - plain and simple
B.A. Baracus [Mr. T]: I don't start no trouble. I mind my own business.
Amy [Melinda Culea]: B.A., going up to a traffic cop who's writing out a ticket for your van, and eating the citation right in front of his face, absolutely falls under "starting trouble."
- The A Team (A Nice Place to Visit - 1983)
We spent this past Sunday at the Americana Manhasset Concours d'Elegance, and while we were there, I found my car.
The Lotus Exige. The fastest, cutest, bestest - yes, bestest - car out there.
Two years, and watch, I will own a Lotus.
Only differences - it will be black, and I will be in it.
Am I dreaming? Oh yeah. Does that mean I won't get it? No, that's just exactly why I have to get it =)
Amy [Melinda Culea]: B.A., going up to a traffic cop who's writing out a ticket for your van, and eating the citation right in front of his face, absolutely falls under "starting trouble."
- The A Team (A Nice Place to Visit - 1983)
We spent this past Sunday at the Americana Manhasset Concours d'Elegance, and while we were there, I found my car.
The Lotus Exige. The fastest, cutest, bestest - yes, bestest - car out there.
Two years, and watch, I will own a Lotus.
Only differences - it will be black, and I will be in it.
Am I dreaming? Oh yeah. Does that mean I won't get it? No, that's just exactly why I have to get it =)
Saturday, September 29, 2007
going the distance
Thank God, it's over.
- Neil Cusack, 1974 marathon winner
Yesterday, Alex and I competed in the 2007 Men's Health Urbanathalon.
What is an Urbanathlon, you ask? It's a race in the city that includes urban obstacles - jersey barricades, culvert crawls, marine hurdles, scaffolding mazes, rope walls, and taxi hurdles - and a 52-flight stair climb up and back down 7 World Trade Center.
For two people who aren't crazy about running and whose knees had been pleading for months not to do this, we took the plunge anyway because we were not about to miss the opportunity to run an obstacle course through the city. It was probably the most entertaining marathon we could have picked to be our first, and you can be sure we're going to be there again next year.
We stuck together - for the most part - got quite a few pictures taken of us (not only were we the cutest couple there, but there were also some tourists who wanted to send pictures back home of New York's finest *ahem* marathon runners), and we had a blast. Considering I couldn't even run three miles the day before without coughing up a lung, I was perhaps the giddiest person at the finish line.
A lesson learned? Of course!! When you have a goal, a finish line, and free drinks waiting for you miles and miles away, in both vertical and horizontal directions, you'll find a way to get there.
Now if only we could find a giant obstacle course with a lot less running =P
- Neil Cusack, 1974 marathon winner
Yesterday, Alex and I competed in the 2007 Men's Health Urbanathalon.
What is an Urbanathlon, you ask? It's a race in the city that includes urban obstacles - jersey barricades, culvert crawls, marine hurdles, scaffolding mazes, rope walls, and taxi hurdles - and a 52-flight stair climb up and back down 7 World Trade Center.
For two people who aren't crazy about running and whose knees had been pleading for months not to do this, we took the plunge anyway because we were not about to miss the opportunity to run an obstacle course through the city. It was probably the most entertaining marathon we could have picked to be our first, and you can be sure we're going to be there again next year.
We stuck together - for the most part - got quite a few pictures taken of us (not only were we the cutest couple there, but there were also some tourists who wanted to send pictures back home of New York's finest *ahem* marathon runners), and we had a blast. Considering I couldn't even run three miles the day before without coughing up a lung, I was perhaps the giddiest person at the finish line.
A lesson learned? Of course!! When you have a goal, a finish line, and free drinks waiting for you miles and miles away, in both vertical and horizontal directions, you'll find a way to get there.
Now if only we could find a giant obstacle course with a lot less running =P
Friday, September 28, 2007
confined to a life more than extraordinary
Perhaps it would be better not to be a writer, but if you must, then write. If all feels hopeless, if that famous 'inspiration' will not come, write. If you are a genius, you'll make your own rules, but if not - and the odds are against it - go to your desk no matter what your mood, face the icy challenge of the paper - write.
- J. B. Priestly
"Oh, so then you don't know what you want to do?"
No. I know exactly what I want to do. I just told you.
"Yeah, but there's no job that you can do that all in. . . right?"
Oh my god. There isn't? Really? I had no idea. I was really hoping I could be a one-woman travelling act. Guess not. Thanks. No, really, thanks for that.
Unless of course, I just named too many things. Was that it? Did I confuse you? Do I sound like a hopeless dreamer with too many interests and who can't possibly pursue them all? Is that it?
Well, if that's it, then how about this: I am a filmmaker.
Does that work? That's one word you can wrap your head around.
I like to say I am a writer, though, if that's okay with you. Don't forget that I am also a performer. I live for the stage. Is that too much?
Not yet?
Okay, then, I'll tell you what - none of these things matter.
I want to be something more and every day is another step in reaching that something more. It is not that I am uneasy, it is only that I am eager and hungry and ready and thrilled to be here.
I will be amazing.
No, wait, I am amazing.
How's that for a one-word answer?
- J. B. Priestly
What is it with people who need to categorize everything? What is it with the need to jam everything into a corner, box it up, label it, and file it away where it won't try to roll away when no one is looking?
I've said it before, but I feel it needs to be said again - everyone wants a definition and a name, one purpose and one goal, and if your job description wavers, well then there is a serious problem.
Lately, I have been finding it increasingly difficult to simply answer the questions, "What do you do? What is it that you want to do? Why are you going to graduate school? Why are you studying film?" Now, it's not that it's difficult for me. I am a writer, editor, actor, performer, and future director. It just seems to be straining on the person asking the questions."Oh, so then you don't know what you want to do?"
No. I know exactly what I want to do. I just told you.
"Yeah, but there's no job that you can do that all in. . . right?"
Oh my god. There isn't? Really? I had no idea. I was really hoping I could be a one-woman travelling act. Guess not. Thanks. No, really, thanks for that.
Unless of course, I just named too many things. Was that it? Did I confuse you? Do I sound like a hopeless dreamer with too many interests and who can't possibly pursue them all? Is that it?
Well, if that's it, then how about this: I am a filmmaker.
Does that work? That's one word you can wrap your head around.
I like to say I am a writer, though, if that's okay with you. Don't forget that I am also a performer. I live for the stage. Is that too much?
Not yet?
Okay, then, I'll tell you what - none of these things matter.
I want to be something more and every day is another step in reaching that something more. It is not that I am uneasy, it is only that I am eager and hungry and ready and thrilled to be here.
I will be amazing.
No, wait, I am amazing.
How's that for a one-word answer?
Monday, September 24, 2007
the urge to write
Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
- E.L. Doctorow
I didn't choose to become a writer. Belive me - the writing chased after me.
When I was younger, not sure how old * I began narrating my life. I don't know how old I was or what grade I was in, but I remember I was in Hofstra University's indoor swimming pool with my mom, and I was walking through the hallway to the locker room. Right then and therem I decided my life would be like a book, and I would have to narrate it.
Strange, huh?
But in essence, that's what happened, to the point where I even started narrating stories that had nothing to do with me, but could have something to do with me. It was a child's imagination dictated with an author's intent.
Everywhere I turned I wanted to write about something, create something, and especially in my head, where the possibilities were great and many.
Unless you are a writer, it's hard to understand what it's like to be flooded with ideas, plot lines, characters, phrases, titles, themes, symbols, names, places, and the like on a constant basis AND want to put it all on paper. The struggle between creative inspiration and physical output is never ending because just as soon you've written down one opening sentence, two more have emerged and for completely different, unrelated stoies.
How do you put just one book on paper when you have 10 semi-completed ones in your head?
The answer is carefully. . . very, very carefully
* Contrary to all those people who claim they can tell you the exact moment, place, date, year, and weather forecast when they "did something" or realized something, it's not always realistically possible. How many nine-year-olds remember what they did when they were six? Yet every adult with a boring story to tell remembers that they were exactly six years old when they first knew they wanted to work on, say, Wall Street. Not happening, people, just not happening.
- E.L. Doctorow
I didn't choose to become a writer. Belive me - the writing chased after me.
When I was younger, not sure how old * I began narrating my life. I don't know how old I was or what grade I was in, but I remember I was in Hofstra University's indoor swimming pool with my mom, and I was walking through the hallway to the locker room. Right then and therem I decided my life would be like a book, and I would have to narrate it.
Strange, huh?
But in essence, that's what happened, to the point where I even started narrating stories that had nothing to do with me, but could have something to do with me. It was a child's imagination dictated with an author's intent.
Everywhere I turned I wanted to write about something, create something, and especially in my head, where the possibilities were great and many.
Unless you are a writer, it's hard to understand what it's like to be flooded with ideas, plot lines, characters, phrases, titles, themes, symbols, names, places, and the like on a constant basis AND want to put it all on paper. The struggle between creative inspiration and physical output is never ending because just as soon you've written down one opening sentence, two more have emerged and for completely different, unrelated stoies.
How do you put just one book on paper when you have 10 semi-completed ones in your head?
The answer is carefully. . . very, very carefully
* Contrary to all those people who claim they can tell you the exact moment, place, date, year, and weather forecast when they "did something" or realized something, it's not always realistically possible. How many nine-year-olds remember what they did when they were six? Yet every adult with a boring story to tell remembers that they were exactly six years old when they first knew they wanted to work on, say, Wall Street. Not happening, people, just not happening.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
a character emerges
It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does.
- William Faulkner
For me, stories come to life. It's never just one, but a handful of dark and twisted, sweet and comical, strange and ironic tales that only have taglines, but no exposition. . . not yet anyway.
Characters take shape. Not the characters sitting there on the train, but completely new ones edged into existence by the images in front of me. Shy personalities with secret motives and young faces with old souls, unseen destinies and forgotten pasts.
A girl, her family, and the countryside. Two dwarves and a grandfather clock. Murder and a caretaker, kidnapping and a secret passageway.
It all begins to make sense. . . starting with page one.
Monday, September 17, 2007
an even cooler blog
A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.
- Marion C. Garretty
Drum roll please. . .
The littlest Navia now has a blog of her own -
http://theyayster.blogspot.com
Enjoy =)
- Marion C. Garretty
Drum roll please. . .
The littlest Navia now has a blog of her own -
http://theyayster.blogspot.com
Enjoy =)
Friday, September 14, 2007
take that, martha stewart
Behold, the monkey cake. . . absolutely nothing to do with writing whatsoever.
Just pretty damn cool.
And tasty.
Friday, August 31, 2007
game, set, match, life
I let my racket do the talking. That's what I am all about, really. I just go out and win tennis matches.
- Pete Sampras
- Pete Sampras
At 23 years old, I still plan on making it to the US Open one day. Not just like in section Y, seat 18, but in center court, Arthur Ashe.
In a game I've been playing since I was seven, and where the pros are all 18, I think I have a definite chance of raising a ruckus. But until then, I will have to be content with section Y, seat 18, and various other seats around the USTA grounds.
Two days this year - whoooo!! - and we got to see Henin, Williams, Haas, Safin, Roddick, and a host of something-or-other-ova's that make me think the Russians are staging an invasion via tennis courts (they're all 18, too, did I mention?).
As much fun as I have every year at the Open, there is still always this pestering sensation that I should have tried a long time ago to make it out there. Maybe strange that I should think that, considering that my profession and intended career paths are all in the arts.
Not so strange, I say, considering that of all the sports I've ever attempted, tennis has been the only one to really have an impact. For one, it's a solo event. If I win, I win. If I lose, I lose. I don't have to answer to anybody but myself. Secondly, well, it's a fun rush that I'm actually good at, somewhat, and that I've played my whole life.
So is it crazy to stand at the top of Arthur Ashe stadium, at 23 years old, never having played in a pro tournament, and envision myself playing in the court below?
Probably... but not impossible.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
a birthday luau
Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.
- Albert Camus
- Albert Camus
One luau. Two birthdays. Six tiki torches. Lots of friends and family.
Happy Birthday to my sister and me!! Well, not officially, but almost =)
* Picasa Web Album - Birthday Luau 2007 *
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
short hair, anyone??
We must become the change we want to see.
- Mahatma Ghandi
So finally, after months and months of waiting, I've gotten my haircut.
Short, indeed. Not nearly as short as I had originally intended, but short, nontheless.
I know there are some women who would gasp at the thought of cutting their locks of curls, but I was elated. I felt like a kid again, sitting in the salon, waiting to get a haircut that most people thought was a silly idea because *gasp* why would any female want short hair?
Funny enough, despite the fact that I sported short hair for much of my childhood up until the age of 12 or so, I've had "long" hair just about the rest of time since then - "long" because recently I came to the realization that what I consider to be long hair, most women still think is short.
So yes, even though I've yearned to spike my curliness or jump out of bed and run outside without any mirror fretting or swim in a pool without eating my unruly hair that was always sure to come undone from a hairband, I've still struggled through long hair.
A struggle because my hair is curly. Like ridiculously curly. Like unnecessarily, annoyingly curly. About two years ago I found the perfect salon that specializes in curls of all sorts (they have such a place!!) which has helped a great deal, but still, for someone who is content meandering to work in jeans, flip flops, and a t-shirt, one hour of hair styling can become a trying ordeal.
Yet for all these years, I have dealt with it. Partly because long hair can, I admit, be fun sometimes, but moreso because there is a part of me that is still afraid of being pointed out as the tomboy, a fear which is what originally forced me to grow out my hair in the first place (you should've seen the look on my face when I first realized I had curls). At 23 years of age, it's silly to think that short hair will transport me back to a corner in the playground, but still, somewhere, that thought still lurks there.
But whatever. When I left high school early to start college, people cried that I would miss prom (a milestone I missed, oh woe is me). When I said I was going to cut my hair, people cried that short hair would lack the same aesthetic charm of long hair.
Well, I did it.
And I'm sooo0 damn happy =P
Now if only if I could stop listening to people and get back to all that writing...
- Mahatma Ghandi
So finally, after months and months of waiting, I've gotten my haircut.
Short, indeed. Not nearly as short as I had originally intended, but short, nontheless.
I know there are some women who would gasp at the thought of cutting their locks of curls, but I was elated. I felt like a kid again, sitting in the salon, waiting to get a haircut that most people thought was a silly idea because *gasp* why would any female want short hair?
Funny enough, despite the fact that I sported short hair for much of my childhood up until the age of 12 or so, I've had "long" hair just about the rest of time since then - "long" because recently I came to the realization that what I consider to be long hair, most women still think is short.
So yes, even though I've yearned to spike my curliness or jump out of bed and run outside without any mirror fretting or swim in a pool without eating my unruly hair that was always sure to come undone from a hairband, I've still struggled through long hair.
A struggle because my hair is curly. Like ridiculously curly. Like unnecessarily, annoyingly curly. About two years ago I found the perfect salon that specializes in curls of all sorts (they have such a place!!) which has helped a great deal, but still, for someone who is content meandering to work in jeans, flip flops, and a t-shirt, one hour of hair styling can become a trying ordeal.
Yet for all these years, I have dealt with it. Partly because long hair can, I admit, be fun sometimes, but moreso because there is a part of me that is still afraid of being pointed out as the tomboy, a fear which is what originally forced me to grow out my hair in the first place (you should've seen the look on my face when I first realized I had curls). At 23 years of age, it's silly to think that short hair will transport me back to a corner in the playground, but still, somewhere, that thought still lurks there.
But whatever. When I left high school early to start college, people cried that I would miss prom (a milestone I missed, oh woe is me). When I said I was going to cut my hair, people cried that short hair would lack the same aesthetic charm of long hair.
Well, I did it.
And I'm sooo0 damn happy =P
Now if only if I could stop listening to people and get back to all that writing...
Saturday, August 4, 2007
the police in town
Every little thing she does is magic...
- The Police
For the past several months, I've been thinking about The Police, and this past week, I finally got to meet them. Well, in a, "I see you over there" kind of way.
With monumental ticket prices that were scaring my wallet into hiding every time it heard my ticket guy utter them, I waited almost until the last day to buy them. It was Monday, and I secured tickets for Wednesday, opening night at Madison Square Garden. How much were tickets? Let's just say they were priceless and worth every penny.
I went with Alex, of course. What better than a belated birthday gift that puts you in the same arena with Sting & Co.? Dinner at Stout's - the bar 10 feet away from MSG where everyone was gearing up for the show with The Police on flat screen TVs - and we were ready.
Sitting in front of the stage, lower 300 section, it was amazing how many people were practically stuck to the ceiling, behind the stage. I'm pretty sure some people might have gotten tickets as far back as the bathrooms. So of course I was especially thrilled with our seats =) The crowd, for the most part, was older than us. In fact, so much younger must I have looked that when I offered to get another beer, I was carded and then denied a drink because I could not show ID. Not to mention I turn 23 in three weeks, so I was amused and slightly annoyed. The answer - I went and got Alex, and together we stared down the man and bought a beer... and a Sprite for me =P Note to self - always bring ID, even if you don't drink.
The show was amazing, and how it could not be, when they opened up with Message in a Bottle? Everyone was singing along, and I mean eeeeveryone. Just seeing everyone there was quite a sight, and considering how long we had waited for this show, it was almost surreal - like we weren't really there, and The Police really weren't playing... but they were, and after two hours of great music and two encores that rounded up all the other hits, it was over.
It was well worth the wait, and officially the first concert Alex and I have gone to that was for a band he actually really wanted to see.
Exciting. Memorable. Awesome.
Best show ever =)
- The Police
For the past several months, I've been thinking about The Police, and this past week, I finally got to meet them. Well, in a, "I see you over there" kind of way.
With monumental ticket prices that were scaring my wallet into hiding every time it heard my ticket guy utter them, I waited almost until the last day to buy them. It was Monday, and I secured tickets for Wednesday, opening night at Madison Square Garden. How much were tickets? Let's just say they were priceless and worth every penny.
I went with Alex, of course. What better than a belated birthday gift that puts you in the same arena with Sting & Co.? Dinner at Stout's - the bar 10 feet away from MSG where everyone was gearing up for the show with The Police on flat screen TVs - and we were ready.
Sitting in front of the stage, lower 300 section, it was amazing how many people were practically stuck to the ceiling, behind the stage. I'm pretty sure some people might have gotten tickets as far back as the bathrooms. So of course I was especially thrilled with our seats =) The crowd, for the most part, was older than us. In fact, so much younger must I have looked that when I offered to get another beer, I was carded and then denied a drink because I could not show ID. Not to mention I turn 23 in three weeks, so I was amused and slightly annoyed. The answer - I went and got Alex, and together we stared down the man and bought a beer... and a Sprite for me =P Note to self - always bring ID, even if you don't drink.
The show was amazing, and how it could not be, when they opened up with Message in a Bottle? Everyone was singing along, and I mean eeeeveryone. Just seeing everyone there was quite a sight, and considering how long we had waited for this show, it was almost surreal - like we weren't really there, and The Police really weren't playing... but they were, and after two hours of great music and two encores that rounded up all the other hits, it was over.
It was well worth the wait, and officially the first concert Alex and I have gone to that was for a band he actually really wanted to see.
Exciting. Memorable. Awesome.
Best show ever =)
Sunday, July 29, 2007
the moment an idea materializes
You can't try to do things; you simply must do them.
- Ray Bradbury
Starting a project is a strange thing.
A thought forms in your head, and day after day, it emerges anew, taking more and more shape, cleverly slipping itself on to your unending To Do list.
No longer just a fleeting thought, it has become an idea of some weight. And as you sit there, with your idea, you feel mischievous and secretive, pestered by this idea that no one else knows about. It's silly, you think, and they don't want to know about it. They won't understand, you insist, and they don't have the time.
But then you see them sitting there with nothing better to do, twiddling their fingers through another day, and you wonder, should I tell them? Will they care? What will I say? Is it worth it?
Then suddenly, before you've reached a decision, the idea spills out. I've been thinking... Quietly, maybe, but without a doubt, it has been spoken. Right before your very eyes, it has begun to materialize. Just as quickly as it left, you want to take it back. It's not safe out there. Who knows what they'll think? Who knows what they'll do? No, your idea does not belong out there where it can turn on you and become something you never -
Tell me more... What's that? That sounds interesting... Excuse me? I could probably help... Well... I don't see why not.
Wheels have been set in motion, yet only words have been exchanged. Perhaps it will turn out to be nothing. Perhaps you'll forget about it before tomorrow. Perhaps it just isn't time.
Regardless, in that moment, you are smiling. It wasn't all that bad, you think. The idea will be safe, better off, you realize. Out there, where they can see it, hear it, touch it. That's where your idea wants to be, where there is no safety, no certainty, no promises. You can only be sure that no matter where it goes and how great it becomes, it is your idea, and in that moment of daring, you breathed life into it and made it a reality.
Monday, July 23, 2007
my dad's book signing
Thanks you to all who attended my dad's book signing last week!!
It was a major success in every way, and we were thrilled to see so many friends, family members, colleagues, avid readers, and fellow philosophers there.
Even though I have yet to officially write my first book, I can imagine what it must feel like to be able to share your words and thoughts as an author to all those who have read your book or are going to read it. I know that this was truly a special event for my father.
We look forward to seeing everyone at the next book signing, and if you are interested in purchasing the book, Socrates: A Life Examined, it is available at Amazon.com and major bookstores.
Oh, how I yearn to be able to say that about my book one day. . . =)
Friday, July 6, 2007
Socrates: A Life Examined - Luis E. Navia's Book Signing at Book Revue!!
Check out Dr. Luis E. Navia's book signing at Huntington's Book Revue for his latest book - Socrates: A Life Examined.
Less than one week away!!!!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
8 PM
Book Revue
313 New York Avenue
Huntington, NY 11743
phone: 631.271.1442
Please visit Book Revue's website for more information -
http://www.bookrevue.com/events.html
Invite your friends, family, and colleagues!!
Check out the front-page news story about Dr. Navia that appeared in the June 15, 2007 edition of The Westbury Times -
http://www.antonnews.com/westburytimes/2007/06/15/
Also, check out the book's review in LI Pulse:
http://www.lipulse.com/Articles.asp?id=965
Thank you to all who have expressed so much interest already in attending, and we look forward to seeing everyone there!!
Let me know if you plan on making it =)
Less than one week away!!!!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
8 PM
Book Revue
313 New York Avenue
Huntington, NY 11743
phone: 631.271.1442
Please visit Book Revue's website for more information -
http://www.bookrevue.com/events.html
Invite your friends, family, and colleagues!!
Check out the front-page news story about Dr. Navia that appeared in the June 15, 2007 edition of The Westbury Times -
http://www.antonnews.com/westburytimes/2007/06/15/
Also, check out the book's review in LI Pulse:
http://www.lipulse.com/Articles.asp?id=965
Thank you to all who have expressed so much interest already in attending, and we look forward to seeing everyone there!!
Let me know if you plan on making it =)
Sunday, July 1, 2007
The Vigilant Monkey
THE VIGILANT MONKEY
We think outside the box. We ask the questions. We break the rules. We cross that line.
It's a crazy world, from the mundane to the monumental, from the small towns to the urban cities. Bombarded every day with news, images, stories, ideas, music, politics, noise, religion, love, violence, hate, peace, and war, our culture is caught up in a whirlwind of change. Every day more barriers, more red tape, more political correctness, more fear, and more silence make it harder for anyone to speak without being shouted down.
There is no standard, never a given. We've fallen off the spectrum. Left to our own devices, we are ever watchful of what goes on around us, realizing that everything is connected, everything is meaningful, and everything has room for improvement.
The Vigilant Monkey is a forum for people to voice their opinions and their stories, their thoughts and their discontent. We report on the strange, rant about the everyday, question what we see, talk about our passions and interests, and strive to make a positive change.
When everyone seems to be talking, we seek to speak, listen, and respond.
The Vigilant Monkey . . .
Watch closely. You might learn something.
So what are we looking for?
You!! We're looking for people interested in being part of a start-up online magazine with a lot of creativity and potential, but a lot of work ahead of us.
Nothing is set in stone, so now is the time to tell us, based on what you've read, where you see the magazine going, what content you'd like to see, and how you'd like to contribute.
Most of all, we want interaction!! We want people who come to the site to find out something new every time. We’d love to post local events, news, comments, suggestions, and ideas. The more focused we start out, the faster we can branch out.
Right now, we are especially interested in columnists, bloggers, contributing writers, photographers, and artists.
Some of the departments we are looking to cover are as follows:
- Entertainment (Film/Radio/TV/Theatre)
- Politics (National/International)
- Art
- Mind, Body, Soul
- Fashion
- Technology (Gadgets/Cars/Internet/Latest Inventions)
- Adventure (Travel, Extreme, Local)
- Health, Environment, Culture, Human Rights
- Absurd News Stories/Legislation/Celebrities/Etc.
And the list goes on . . .
Also, website development, graphic design, researching content, advertising, marketing and promotions, and photography. hehe - so really, we're interested in everyone.
While The Vigilant Monkey is still in the process of taking shape, our current goal is to have monthly features, blogs, columns, and an active ongoing message board.
More than anything, we want to be a place where the interesting, the informative, the funny, the absurd, the scary, the unbelievable, and the everyday converge.
Do you get paid?
As soon as we get paid, we'll pay you =P We love you all - which is why you are receiving this - but right now there is no monetary compensation. There is, however, the always important exposure and recognition. This is a great way to get clips and get your name out there. We will also feature contributor, columnist, and blogger bios.
Last, but not least. . . . get on our mailing list!! Reply to this posting to let us know that you have read it and thoroughly care to find out more. Please send all submissions, ideas, and queries to vigilantmonkeymag@gmail.com.
Looking forward to hearing from all of you!!
Saturday, June 23, 2007
my partner in crime
He's cute, smart, funny, witty, and Greek. . . and now he even has his own blog, aptly titled, "Blog is a silly word."Check out Alex's brand spankin' new blog -
http://alexanderkblog.blogspot.com
Read! Comment!
Enjoy =)
Thursday, June 21, 2007
e-mails and my health
The act of writing is an act of optimism. You would not take the trouble to do it if you felt it didn't matter.
- Edward Albee
Contrary to what some people might think, I don’t write e-mails for my own enjoyment, I don’t write them because I am bored, and I most certainly do not write them because they make me feel better.
Rather, I write e-mails because there is something that I am trying to convey to another person, and in that respect, I expect to get e-mails in response.
Does it happen? Sometimes – but considering the simplicity of sending e-mails, that’s not often enough.
The worst is when you send someone an e-mail for work-related matters, for instance, and you don’t get a response. So maybe you’ll give it a few days, factor in that they’re probably busy with other pressing matters, but by the third day, you need to call to find out what happened.
Sure enough, not only did the person read the e-mail, but they also knew the answer to your question, answered it, and took the e-mail off their to-do list… only problem is they never told you!!
Or let’s see you e-mail a friend, and two – three weeks go by without a response. Maybe something happened, maybe they don’t want to talk, maybe your e-mail insulted their mother.
All these things go through your head, and then one day, you see them, and you mention The E-mail.
What does said person say? “Oh yeah, I read it… that’s sounds like a good idea.”
Oh my god!!
E-mails aren’t phone calls, people. I admit, my phone etiquette is not winning any awards, but I've never, ever enjoyed talking on the phone. When I was in middle school, I remember my best friend calling me one day after school "to talk" - a concept that baffled me considering I had seen him only a few hours earlier and would see him the next day. Unless friends were calling me with specific questions, plans, agendas, answers, I didn't see the point.
Many years later, I've learn to adapt somewhat socially, and now I can talk on the phone with relatively feigned ease. I've been known to return phone calls now and then. Imagine that.
Just about the only people I call back on a consistent basis are Alex, my sisters, and my parents.
Those also happen to be the same people that I don’t usually send pressing e-mails, too.
Conclusion – if you don’t e-mail me back within an acceptable timeframe (one week is generous, but I’ll give you two weeks at most), you’re going on my list.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
pirates of the caribbean – at world’s end. . . if only we could forget
* spoiler alert - kind of *
Of all the people that would have tried the hardest to really like Pirates III, I would have been top on the list.
Of all the people that would have tried the hardest to really like Pirates III, I would have been top on the list.
When people tried to step on Pirates II, I stood up for it, explaining that much of what we didn’t get would be explained in Pirates III.
I, of all people, who scoff at critics and shun film-going pessimists, was fully expecting to have a ridiculously, inexplicably, undeniably good time at Pirates III.
That, my friends, even such a simple expectation, was a stretch.
Besides the fact that my allergies decided to wage full-scale war on my sinuses from the moment I sat down in the theater, I thought I would be okay. If my health had to suffer through a great movie, so be it – the pain would be worth it.
Or so I thought.
Thirty minutes into the movie, I was confused. One hour into the movie, I was bewildered. And when the only steady female in the movie was named a captain because of no logical reason whatsoever, I threw my hands up in desperation.
Not to mention that she was named captain by the pirate captain played by Chow Yun-Fat. You know, the guy on the movie poster. The newcomer. The added star power. Yeah – he didn’t even survive to see any major battles. His death scene wasn’t even memorable. In a movie where everybody escapes near-death moments about twenty times before getting even nicked, it was downright ridiculous.
So yeah, then there were the plot lines that everyone laughed at in Pirates II. Remember all those unexplained explanations and semi-completed trains-of-thought that we were so sure would be neatly wrapped up in Pirates III?
They kind of explained 1/3 of them, further complicated the rest of them, and added on about 50 more!! Just to prove to you how much of a letdown it was – remember the whole Davy Jones love affair that was hinted at with the voodoo jungle lady? That never, ever reached any sort of closure, except for the fact that now we know that the voodoo jungle lady – who, despite the fact that I couldn’t catch half of her lines, I thought was a nice touch – was actually the goddess Calypso. That’s it!!
Then there was Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow. The man whose image I have immortalized on one wall of my room. The guy who reawakened the love for pirates that I had when I was a child and used to watch Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance over and over and over again. I used to listen to the soundtrack a lot, too. (Yes, I was a dork, but at least I was a dork well-versed in operettas.)
No doubt about it, Captain Jack Sparrow was in the movie. And so was Jack Sparrow. And Jack Sparrow. And Jack Sparrow again. And again.
At several points in the movie there were 15 Jack Sparrows onscreen at once. And when it first happened, I went along with it – but when Jack Sparrow popped out of Jack Sparrow’s dreadlocks, that’s when my amusement started to wane.
It was kind of like the following (quoting Alex): You just saw a really great boxing match. You go back for another one, promised that it will be just as great. What do you find? A boxing match – with more boxers, fighting with bigger boxing gloves.
It doesn’t work.
One also couldn’t help but notice that a lot of characters were a lot of things. If you were a British soldier in the first one, you were a soldier-turned-pirate now. If you were a pirate then, you could be one of the barnacle pirates from Davey Jones’ ship now. If you were a bad guy then, you were a good guy now. If you were a damsel in distress then, you were suddenly this amazingly skilled pirate warrior – with no real explanation as to how that happened.
Did I mention Keira Knightley was made a pirate captain?
The worst part about it all was that it could have been great. It could have been excellent. The opening scene, for example, was awesome. I’ll watch that again. There were many scenes that were just brilliant – everything we loved about the first film and then some. Exciting. Creepy. Funny. Dark. Strange. Visually stunning. Everything you look for in a good pirate movie.
The rest of the movie did not live up to the opening scene. It wasn’t, silly as it sounds, believable. Even if I didn’t understand it, they could have at least made me care about it. Were there funny scenes? Yes. Were some scenes very enjoyable? Yes. Did the special effects work? Yes. Will Jack Sparrow remain on my wall? Yes.
Regardless, you can’t build a movie on good scenes. It really felt like 25 writers wrote the movie, then threw all their scripts into a big, fat
Will I pretend that Pirates III was worth it? No.
So for that reason I am petitioning that we forget II and III ever happened. As far as I’m concerned, Captain Barbossa is dead, Elizabeth and Will Turner are off getting married and retaining all the respect I had for them as pirates-in-training, and Captain Jack is sailing off into movie history.
Remember when it was all so simple – the search for cursed gold, undead pirate crews, epic battle scenes, and one adventurous, entertaining, and memorable Jack Sparrow?
Yeah, I remember. . .
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
a writer's irony
Every writer I know has trouble writing.
- Joseph Heller (author of Catch-22)
In the past several months, I have done a lot of writing.
Articles, letters, research papers, press releases, e-mails (yes, when done well, those count), proposals, and so on - the list continues.
I work best when I have deadlines, pressure, and the assurance that when the assignment has been completed, it will have been worth the effort.
That book? That screenplay? I haven't seriously looked at either in a while, even though every, 100 ideas come to mind, and when possible, I'll jot them down on slips of paper, but nothing more.
Why is it that so often we find ourselves unable to find time to do what we would most like to be doing?
The hardest part of writing is getting to the moment when you can firmly decide to just sit down and write. Even then, there is no guarantee that you will be able to produce anything of value - each attempt has you starting from scratch.
If only I had been given some other passion, like a strong desire to calculate numbers at an accounting firm, or some other talent, like being a studious and diligent violinist. Then I could just do it, without question or hesitation, not a chance that people might have come to watch a great performance in vain.
I would at least have liked a profession that held the possibility of being celebrated and turned into a reality tv show, hehe, ala Project Runway, Top Chef, Top Design, and other such Bravo gems.
Top Writer.
Boringest show ever.
P.S. I just wrote this twice. Why? Well, because autosave purposefully chose not to save my work. To extend the metaphor - violinists don't have to worry about autosave. Their violins aren't going to just disappear.
- Joseph Heller (author of Catch-22)
In the past several months, I have done a lot of writing.
Articles, letters, research papers, press releases, e-mails (yes, when done well, those count), proposals, and so on - the list continues.
I work best when I have deadlines, pressure, and the assurance that when the assignment has been completed, it will have been worth the effort.
That book? That screenplay? I haven't seriously looked at either in a while, even though every, 100 ideas come to mind, and when possible, I'll jot them down on slips of paper, but nothing more.
Why is it that so often we find ourselves unable to find time to do what we would most like to be doing?
The hardest part of writing is getting to the moment when you can firmly decide to just sit down and write. Even then, there is no guarantee that you will be able to produce anything of value - each attempt has you starting from scratch.
If only I had been given some other passion, like a strong desire to calculate numbers at an accounting firm, or some other talent, like being a studious and diligent violinist. Then I could just do it, without question or hesitation, not a chance that people might have come to watch a great performance in vain.
I would at least have liked a profession that held the possibility of being celebrated and turned into a reality tv show, hehe, ala Project Runway, Top Chef, Top Design, and other such Bravo gems.
Top Writer.
Boringest show ever.
P.S. I just wrote this twice. Why? Well, because autosave purposefully chose not to save my work. To extend the metaphor - violinists don't have to worry about autosave. Their violins aren't going to just disappear.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Five Boro Bike Tour
Two years in a row and counting, I participated in the Five Boro Bike Tour this past Sunday, and I think we all came to the conclusion that 32,000 cyclists is about 10,000 cyclists too many.
hehe - crowded, you ask? Just a bit.
I am very happy to say that we all made it over the entire length of the Verrazano Bridge without any stops, collapses, or breakdowns. Not surprisingly, that was one place where you had ample room to bike without any other cyclists in the way. It was like some crazy somber march where everyone was just trudging along very quietly and very intently. Nothing says fun like biking 4,000+ miles over a suspension bridge to none other than Staten Island - I don't care what anyonr says =P
Intense physical events to come - scuba diving in the Keys, surfing at Robert Moses, and the Urbanathlon in the fall.
Spelunking, anyone?
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Congratulations to Monica and Sal!!
So yes, it’s been some time since I last wrote, but with good reason.
I haven’t had a moment’s rest!!
Back in March, I attended my first graduate-level conference (“Humor & Laughter in Literature & Film” at SUNY Binghamton) and presented a paper on the comedy of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.
The Spring ’07 issue of Elements also came out in March – still time to pick it up on newsstands =)
Then April came around, and that’s when things got crazy. Articles were coming out, birthdays were being celebrated left and right, end-of-the-season snowboarding was done (12” of unexpected snow on Stratton – awesome), dance recitals were scheduled (that is, my little sister’s recitals), SAT classes needed to be taught, and scuba diving classes started.
Oh yeah, and there was Monica and Sal’s wedding =) We celebrated, we ate, we danced, we laughed, we danced some more, we posed for pictures, and we kept on dancing until the wee hours of the morning.
Pictures to come shortly. . .
The point is, things have been busy, so it might take a little time, but I’m going to ease back into blogging on a more regular basis.
I know, you’ve missed me =P
Monday, March 26, 2007
so true, 300, so true
- Penny Arcade!! Exile from Guyville The results are in - either you loved 300 or kind of liked it. As far as I've heard, no one has hated it, except for smelly Rotten Tomatoes critics, and for that, we will also disregard the majority of their TMNT reviews.
For my part - it was awesome. . . and so was Mr. Butler =)
Monday, March 12, 2007
Friday, March 2, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
the monkey bread saga
I felt this post deserved a picture.
There sits the monkey bread. Last week. 12:45 AM. Tired and hungry, we started eating it before it was even cool enough to touch.
To start at the beginning, as promised in my last post, the idea to bake monkey bread struck me back in November while I was happily perusing through a Williams-Sonoma catalog. First, I found it amusing that it was called monkey bread. People have a strange fascination with all things surrounding monkeys, and I am no different. It seemed simple enough to make, provided you had a Williams-Sonoma monkey bread bundt pan and the Williams-Sonoma monkey bread mix.
So, in my infinite wisdom, I thought perhaps I could make the monkey bread for Thanksgiving. I ordered both items online two weeks in advance and proceeded to patiently wait. . . until it dawned on me that the items might not arrive in time for Thanksgiving. Panicked, I called customer service, and they assured me I would receive the shipments - at some point surrounding Thanksgiving day. Ugh.
I actually can't remember if both pan and mix made it to me before Thanksgiving, but either way, I decided that I didn't have enough time on Thanksgiving to get the extra ingredients and make it before heading out to see our aunts, uncles, and cousins. I'd make it at Christmas.
So Chrismas rolled around, and it got busier and busier, especially with food preparations. Since I like arranging cheese far more than I enjoy cooking meals, I was in charge of the hors d'oeuvres. In addition, I thought, I'm sure I would have enough time for the monkey bread. As Christmas Eve got closer and closer, I kept looking at the recipe instructions and thinking, this requires a lot of time - I won't have enough time on Christmas Eve, and I won't have enough time Christmas day because I'll be far too busy with Guitar Hero II (and I was).
Finally, it was decided, by me, that the monkey bread would wait. My little sister was none too pleased, but nonetheless, I had cheese, hummus, and crackers to concentrate on - far easier, and at the time, more important.
Then New Year's Eve was around the corner, and I thought about monkey bread, and then I thought some more, and then New Year's Eve skipped on by, and I had placed the monkey bread pan in my closet so as not to clutter my room (the kitchen was out of the question because I knew if I did that, then when I did finally go to make monkey bread, I would find that the pan had been taken to the garage to sit with any other excess baking items).
My Dad's birthday came at the end of January, and I thought about making the monkey bread for him, but when my mom mentioned he wanted crumb cake, I thought that was a safer, already-proven yummy bet. I'll admit, I was quick to dismiss the monkey bread idea.
This all brings us to the month of February, when my little sister's winter break arrived. We have to make the monkey bread, she said. I have to write a lot of poems for class, and I want to write one about monkey bread. Fair enough, little one, I replied.
The date was set for Wednesday, which would now be last Wednesday. We enlisted the help of everyone's favorite, soon-to-be-married cousin, who would be at our house at 8, and it was settled. At 6:00 PM, we went to buy ingredients, came home, laid everything out, and began.
We had already searched for our electric mixer - in the garage, of course - but it was not to be found, so after placing all the ingredients in a bowl, mixing it a little, we got ready to knead the dough.
Never knead ridiculously sticky dough without first greasing your hands. . . is one bit of information I would've added to the instructions. When our cousin arrived at 8, we were all in a fine mess of sticky dough. Half of it was stuck to our hands, some of it was on a shifty piece of wax paper, and a small portion of it was actually back in the bowl we had designated as the where-we-put-the-dough-back-into bowl. With dough stuck to his hands, I could tell my dad wasn't crazy about the bread so far, and my mom was already asking me if I could use the monkey bread bundt pan for anything else. . . you know, er - in case this doesn't work.
At 8:30 began the first of like a million "now put it in a warm place for 1 1/2 hours" steps in the recipe. It didn't look promising. When I checked up on it 1 hour later, it didn't look like it had moved an inch.
The story continues, but the jist of it is that the bread had to do a lot of rising sessions, and each time we doubted it would happen. Fortunately, we did grease our hands (there were a lot of "regrease!!" commands shouted) before we made each individual dough ball - amounting to a grand total of 48 - and dunked each one into butter and then sugar and then the bundt pan.
By the time we put the bread in the oven, we had already come to the realization that there was no way I could have pulled it off on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, or my dad's birthday. We also understood why people always rave about how much their kids love making monkey bread - because they get to play with dough for a whole day. . . literally.
When we finally pulled it out of the oven, we were impressed at just how much it looked like the picture on the box. We also knew that a photo session to capture the moment in time was needed.
Like I said, we started eating it when it was still very, very hot.
My sister's astute conclusion: We made a giant Cinnabon in a $36 bundt pan.
A monkey Cinnabon, of course.
So there's the story, for all of you who asked =P
Monday, February 26, 2007
lions, vikings, and extraterrestrials. . . oh dear
Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.
- Henry David Thoreau
The last two weeks have been busy, to say the least.
Last weekend kicked off with a very fine, very funny production of Robin Hood, with my little sister playing the part of Lady Mariam. Yes, she takes after me on the stage =P
Then there was some lion dancing going on Saturday night, only to be followed by more lion dancing during all of last week. For those of you who haven't read the latest issue of LI Pulse (yes, shameless plug), every Chinese New Year, which kicked off this past Sunday, February 18th, my kung fu academy does a month-long schedule of lion dance performances at restaurants, schools, parties, etc.
It's a blast to watch, and it is to perform as well, but after four years at it, my crazed attempt to be at every show, every night, in rain or snow, day or night, starts to push me just a tad over the edge. So last week, with the magazine I work at in the middle of long days and nights of production (when 11 PM hits, my type-A personality, perfectionist proofreading skills start to lag in the efficiency department), my loyalties and amazing ability to multi-task without sleep were definitely put to the test.
Then there was the History Channel. Even if you’re not a history fanatic like me, there’s always something worth watching. Last weekend it was aliens, USOs (unidentified submerged objects, as opposed to the “unidentified swimming objects” that I once attributed to it), conspiracies, biblical UFO sightings, and encounters in ancient times. Last night on History International, it was the Vikings, Mongols, Goths, Huns. In between, you have your modern marvels, empires, lost worlds, man and machine, dragons, conquerors, discoveries, and your, ugh, pesky dogfights. Next weekend – The Dark Ages. Oh yeah.
Am I dork? Yes. . . to a point.
Of course, there were also four-hour classes consisting of John Ford and Luis Buñuel movies, the ever-disturbing look at Triumph of the Will, silent documentaries about the Spanish Civil War, drama-ridden railroads, and unnecessarily long conversations about falling goats and Buñuel's creative take on falling goats.
Then there was my own teaching to look at which began with teacher observations last week, a follow-up meeting on Friday, and more teaching on Sunday.
Did my week get busier? Of course!! Think along the lines of pole dancing and monkey bread. . . a 1950's American classic with appeal that I'm starting to think Williams-Sonoma might have tad exaggerated in their sales pitch. Seven hours is not a recipe - it's a job at a bakery.
Stay tuned. . .
- Henry David Thoreau
The last two weeks have been busy, to say the least.
Last weekend kicked off with a very fine, very funny production of Robin Hood, with my little sister playing the part of Lady Mariam. Yes, she takes after me on the stage =P
Then there was some lion dancing going on Saturday night, only to be followed by more lion dancing during all of last week. For those of you who haven't read the latest issue of LI Pulse (yes, shameless plug), every Chinese New Year, which kicked off this past Sunday, February 18th, my kung fu academy does a month-long schedule of lion dance performances at restaurants, schools, parties, etc.
It's a blast to watch, and it is to perform as well, but after four years at it, my crazed attempt to be at every show, every night, in rain or snow, day or night, starts to push me just a tad over the edge. So last week, with the magazine I work at in the middle of long days and nights of production (when 11 PM hits, my type-A personality, perfectionist proofreading skills start to lag in the efficiency department), my loyalties and amazing ability to multi-task without sleep were definitely put to the test.
Then there was the History Channel. Even if you’re not a history fanatic like me, there’s always something worth watching. Last weekend it was aliens, USOs (unidentified submerged objects, as opposed to the “unidentified swimming objects” that I once attributed to it), conspiracies, biblical UFO sightings, and encounters in ancient times. Last night on History International, it was the Vikings, Mongols, Goths, Huns. In between, you have your modern marvels, empires, lost worlds, man and machine, dragons, conquerors, discoveries, and your, ugh, pesky dogfights. Next weekend – The Dark Ages. Oh yeah.
Am I dork? Yes. . . to a point.
Of course, there were also four-hour classes consisting of John Ford and Luis Buñuel movies, the ever-disturbing look at Triumph of the Will, silent documentaries about the Spanish Civil War, drama-ridden railroads, and unnecessarily long conversations about falling goats and Buñuel's creative take on falling goats.
Then there was my own teaching to look at which began with teacher observations last week, a follow-up meeting on Friday, and more teaching on Sunday.
Did my week get busier? Of course!! Think along the lines of pole dancing and monkey bread. . . a 1950's American classic with appeal that I'm starting to think Williams-Sonoma might have tad exaggerated in their sales pitch. Seven hours is not a recipe - it's a job at a bakery.
Stay tuned. . .
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
come again??
The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof shit detector.
- Ernst Hemingway
Communication skills are taken for granted. I think people just assume that if they can be heard, they can be understood. . . and I don’t mean understood in any sort of intellectual or spiritual or deep-in-thought way, I’m talking about understood like I-can-make-out-the-words-that-just-came-out-of-your mouth way.
Which brings me to my main point: It is my firm belief that if a person works at a place of business, where they were hired at some point for any number of reasons and are receiving payment for their services, and that person is charged with the responsibility of picking up a telephone and holding it to their face in order to reach out to customers, that said person should be able to say with little difficulty the following things – a greeting, name of business, name of person, company motto, etc. – without me wanting to drive over in my pajamas, glasses, and pillow hair to beat them silly with their own phone.
You ask, why so angry, Melissa?
Well, for many reasons, but in this specific case because I don’t understand why it’s hard for people who claim to be professionals to vocalize, enunciate, slow down, take interest in the needs of others, pretend to be even remotely intelligent. Even if you aren’t, fake it.
While this has been a growing concern of mine, it was an incident a few days ago that really got to me. It’s rather lengthy, so as to make it as annoying as it felt – and to reprimand you for not yet subscribing to my blog =P
My phone wasn’t working the other day. I probably need a new phone soon. Great, will do. My phone happens to have Verizon service. Great reception. Nice phones. Somewhat humorous commercials. However, the thought of actually going to my local Verizon store fills me with rage, anxiety, and deep-seated hatred. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I didn’t know better, and I thought stores were stores, salespeople were salespeople, everyone has a job to do, and they do it well. Then life hit me, I worked in retail for a year and-a-half when I was in high school, I realized how horrible customers could be, I found another job a world away from retail, resumed the role of simply the customer, realized how horrible retail people could be – ended up feeling sorry for both parties involved.
Yet, whenever I went to a Verizon store, I never ever felt sorry for the salespeople, and my last meeting with the store made it very clear why I feel that way.
So, my dad is nice enough to take the phone for me to the store to see if they can fix it. He comes back an hour later, no doubt having received the best customer service one could ask for, with the news that they are giving me a new phone, and they took my old phone. What about all my contacts? They said they can’t transfer them. So they’ll give me a new phone.
Okay, so let me get this straight, they took it upon themselves to decide that they would fix my problem, throw my very extensive phone book into the trash and grace me with a new phone that I’ll have to pay for anyway? They thought this was a good idea?
Perhaps they weren’t thinking clearly. It’s early in the morning. I’ll call them and tell them I’m going to pick up my phone. Here is my phone call (note: the symbols are not curse words, just a lot of mumbling):
Them: Hi. Thisis Robdjfdfl. Thankyouforcalling Verzxofjjdg. *&#*&*!&#help*&$*!#! you?
Me: Yes, my father just dropped off my phone, and they said it couldn’t be fixed, so they took it and said they would be issuing me a new phone. However, I really need the numbers on my phone book, and they told my father that they cannot retrieve those numbers.
Them: Ugghh . . . (that’s always nice and clear)
Me: When I last had my phone, I could still very much see and retrieve my phone numbers, so I’d like to pick up the phone so I can do that. I don’t want anybody to erase those numbers or throw the phone away.
Them: Ugghh. . . hold on. . .
Me: Thank you. (awaiting customer service)
Them II: sdfhn;vwuern;va uiawel;iu vker vjklwejrvlkjkljklwej kjwe kjaewrklj vkjlwel;k
Me: Hey. . . . (I go on to repeat every word, in even greater detail, that I already did to the fellow Robdjfdfl before.
Them II: jdsfakldjf kj youcant do that dfadj jasdkfj kjsdfklj ksdjf kjsdf lksd
Me: I’m sorry, what? I didn’t understand you.
Them II: You &*&$#@$!^cantdo #$@&*$*!that.
Me: I don’t understand. I just want to pick up my old phone and forget that I brought it in. I want to cancel the request for a new phone.
Them II: Youcanthavetwophonesatonce. (he actually said this)
Me: (agitated, giving my phone a nasty look) I don’t want two phones. . . I want my phone. I would like to take my phone back and get my numbers from it before I put in the request for a new phone.
Them II: {snorts} (yes, snorts) Well. . . . you can getour ^%!#^$%^$! otherphone then.
Me (pause, compose, breathe): I don’t want another phone. I would like my phone. I only want one phone.
Them II: Whatver. Comeinthenadn%^!#^#!@&*
So, I drove to the store, got on line, waited there for 15 minutes as I glared at the two people at customer service, one of them the lady who had taken it upon herself to take my old phone and disregard my phone book or even attempt to get my numbers, and the other illustrious man, the epitome of intelligence who I spoke to on the phone. 15 minutes go by, they stare at me, I stare at them, they stare at me, “Linda,” I stare at them, “Jack,” they stare at me.
A good crowd of people are there, and one of them answers the telephone. OMG!! I realize you’re customer service, and perhaps it is bad management or you’re understaffed (but believe me, they weren’t), but why the crap are the two people who are catering to 15 people in the store also required and even allowed to pick up a friggin’ telephone?
Finally, still waking up, thinking about the cereal I ran out on, I realize that Jack and Jill behind the counter know something I don’t. Fully awake, I turn around, to find a service representative staring into space. So I ask her, “Was I supposed to sign in?” She laughs, “Oh dear!! Have you been standing here all this time?”
“Look, please, I just want my phone back,” I tell her, and explain the back story. “Here is the receipt for the new phone. I don’t want it. I just want my phone back.”
She’s nice enough, takes my receipt, goes to save my phone. 5 minutes. She returns with my phone. Sans receipt.
“Thank you so much. Oh, can I have my receipt back? I want to make sure I don’t get a call in two hours telling me to pick up a phone and a bill.
“Right. . . I’ll be right back.” 5 minutes. She’s looking for it. 10 minutes. She must have lost it. 15 minutes. She’s reprinting me a new one and baking me cookies. She returns with the exact same receipt I gave her.
“When you come back,” she says, “you’ll have to do the whole process again for the new phone.”
“Yes, I know. They explained to me I can’t have two phones at once. I won’t be back any time soon.” With that I left – me, my broken phone, and my sanity.
Look, I know customers can suck sometimes, but I know that people in retail can as well. Yeah, it might not be the greatest job, but it is a job, and just as everyone else has a job to do, at least try to do it well. Picking up a phone and driving the person on the other line insane is not professional. Oh, and this has nothing to do with a language barrier because we were all speaking English. It’s a matter of opening your mouth with at least an inkling of pride in your work and some care for the people you’re helping. It’s about not mumbling. It’s about not snorting. It’s about not holding long, dramatic pauses so that you can be obnoxious. It’s about not watching someone stand in line for 15 minutes without at least giving them a hint she forgot to do something when you know perfectly well that a new sign-in system was recently implemented that most people who haven’t been to the store in three months don’t know about.
Communication, people. You can flip my computer around, twirl it on your head, make it dance, send a rocket to space with it, but if I get a migraine trying to figure out what your mouth is saying, it really doesn’t matter.
With all this mumbling apathy going around, I’m afraid to even think about what people’s penmanship looks like these days.
- Ernst Hemingway
Communication skills are taken for granted. I think people just assume that if they can be heard, they can be understood. . . and I don’t mean understood in any sort of intellectual or spiritual or deep-in-thought way, I’m talking about understood like I-can-make-out-the-words-that-just-came-out-of-your mouth way.
Which brings me to my main point: It is my firm belief that if a person works at a place of business, where they were hired at some point for any number of reasons and are receiving payment for their services, and that person is charged with the responsibility of picking up a telephone and holding it to their face in order to reach out to customers, that said person should be able to say with little difficulty the following things – a greeting, name of business, name of person, company motto, etc. – without me wanting to drive over in my pajamas, glasses, and pillow hair to beat them silly with their own phone.
You ask, why so angry, Melissa?
Well, for many reasons, but in this specific case because I don’t understand why it’s hard for people who claim to be professionals to vocalize, enunciate, slow down, take interest in the needs of others, pretend to be even remotely intelligent. Even if you aren’t, fake it.
While this has been a growing concern of mine, it was an incident a few days ago that really got to me. It’s rather lengthy, so as to make it as annoying as it felt – and to reprimand you for not yet subscribing to my blog =P
My phone wasn’t working the other day. I probably need a new phone soon. Great, will do. My phone happens to have Verizon service. Great reception. Nice phones. Somewhat humorous commercials. However, the thought of actually going to my local Verizon store fills me with rage, anxiety, and deep-seated hatred. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I didn’t know better, and I thought stores were stores, salespeople were salespeople, everyone has a job to do, and they do it well. Then life hit me, I worked in retail for a year and-a-half when I was in high school, I realized how horrible customers could be, I found another job a world away from retail, resumed the role of simply the customer, realized how horrible retail people could be – ended up feeling sorry for both parties involved.
Yet, whenever I went to a Verizon store, I never ever felt sorry for the salespeople, and my last meeting with the store made it very clear why I feel that way.
So, my dad is nice enough to take the phone for me to the store to see if they can fix it. He comes back an hour later, no doubt having received the best customer service one could ask for, with the news that they are giving me a new phone, and they took my old phone. What about all my contacts? They said they can’t transfer them. So they’ll give me a new phone.
Okay, so let me get this straight, they took it upon themselves to decide that they would fix my problem, throw my very extensive phone book into the trash and grace me with a new phone that I’ll have to pay for anyway? They thought this was a good idea?
Perhaps they weren’t thinking clearly. It’s early in the morning. I’ll call them and tell them I’m going to pick up my phone. Here is my phone call (note: the symbols are not curse words, just a lot of mumbling):
Them: Hi. Thisis Robdjfdfl. Thankyouforcalling Verzxofjjdg. *&#*&*!&#help*&$*!#! you?
Me: Yes, my father just dropped off my phone, and they said it couldn’t be fixed, so they took it and said they would be issuing me a new phone. However, I really need the numbers on my phone book, and they told my father that they cannot retrieve those numbers.
Them: Ugghh . . . (that’s always nice and clear)
Me: When I last had my phone, I could still very much see and retrieve my phone numbers, so I’d like to pick up the phone so I can do that. I don’t want anybody to erase those numbers or throw the phone away.
Them: Ugghh. . . hold on. . .
Me: Thank you. (awaiting customer service)
Them II: sdfhn;vwuern;va uiawel;iu vker vjklwejrvlkjkljklwej kjwe kjaewrklj vkjlwel;k
Me: Hey. . . . (I go on to repeat every word, in even greater detail, that I already did to the fellow Robdjfdfl before.
Them II: jdsfakldjf kj youcant do that dfadj jasdkfj kjsdfklj ksdjf kjsdf lksd
Me: I’m sorry, what? I didn’t understand you.
Them II: You &*&$#@$!^cantdo #$@&*$*!that.
Me: I don’t understand. I just want to pick up my old phone and forget that I brought it in. I want to cancel the request for a new phone.
Them II: Youcanthavetwophonesatonce. (he actually said this)
Me: (agitated, giving my phone a nasty look) I don’t want two phones. . . I want my phone. I would like to take my phone back and get my numbers from it before I put in the request for a new phone.
Them II: {snorts} (yes, snorts) Well. . . . you can getour ^%!#^$%^$! otherphone then.
Me (pause, compose, breathe): I don’t want another phone. I would like my phone. I only want one phone.
Them II: Whatver. Comeinthenadn%^!#^#!@&*
So, I drove to the store, got on line, waited there for 15 minutes as I glared at the two people at customer service, one of them the lady who had taken it upon herself to take my old phone and disregard my phone book or even attempt to get my numbers, and the other illustrious man, the epitome of intelligence who I spoke to on the phone. 15 minutes go by, they stare at me, I stare at them, they stare at me, “Linda,” I stare at them, “Jack,” they stare at me.
A good crowd of people are there, and one of them answers the telephone. OMG!! I realize you’re customer service, and perhaps it is bad management or you’re understaffed (but believe me, they weren’t), but why the crap are the two people who are catering to 15 people in the store also required and even allowed to pick up a friggin’ telephone?
Finally, still waking up, thinking about the cereal I ran out on, I realize that Jack and Jill behind the counter know something I don’t. Fully awake, I turn around, to find a service representative staring into space. So I ask her, “Was I supposed to sign in?” She laughs, “Oh dear!! Have you been standing here all this time?”
“Look, please, I just want my phone back,” I tell her, and explain the back story. “Here is the receipt for the new phone. I don’t want it. I just want my phone back.”
She’s nice enough, takes my receipt, goes to save my phone. 5 minutes. She returns with my phone. Sans receipt.
“Thank you so much. Oh, can I have my receipt back? I want to make sure I don’t get a call in two hours telling me to pick up a phone and a bill.
“Right. . . I’ll be right back.” 5 minutes. She’s looking for it. 10 minutes. She must have lost it. 15 minutes. She’s reprinting me a new one and baking me cookies. She returns with the exact same receipt I gave her.
“When you come back,” she says, “you’ll have to do the whole process again for the new phone.”
“Yes, I know. They explained to me I can’t have two phones at once. I won’t be back any time soon.” With that I left – me, my broken phone, and my sanity.
Look, I know customers can suck sometimes, but I know that people in retail can as well. Yeah, it might not be the greatest job, but it is a job, and just as everyone else has a job to do, at least try to do it well. Picking up a phone and driving the person on the other line insane is not professional. Oh, and this has nothing to do with a language barrier because we were all speaking English. It’s a matter of opening your mouth with at least an inkling of pride in your work and some care for the people you’re helping. It’s about not mumbling. It’s about not snorting. It’s about not holding long, dramatic pauses so that you can be obnoxious. It’s about not watching someone stand in line for 15 minutes without at least giving them a hint she forgot to do something when you know perfectly well that a new sign-in system was recently implemented that most people who haven’t been to the store in three months don’t know about.
Communication, people. You can flip my computer around, twirl it on your head, make it dance, send a rocket to space with it, but if I get a migraine trying to figure out what your mouth is saying, it really doesn’t matter.
With all this mumbling apathy going around, I’m afraid to even think about what people’s penmanship looks like these days.
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