Eileen Maksym's Blog, page 25

A taste of Committed, book two of the Haunted series

Steven was staring at the paper in his hands, his brow furrowed.
Paul frowned, and leaned over the table to try to see the paper. “Dude, what is it?”
Steven looked up at Tara, eyes wide. “Tara…”
She nodded. “I know.”
He shook his head and held up the paper so Paul could see it. “This…”
“I know.”
“What?” Paul asked, grabbing the paper. “What is it?”
Steven let the paper go, and pointed at it. “This is not okay.”
“Steven, I know!” Tara said, raising her voice, leaning forward.
“Oh my god,” Paul said, taking his turn to stare at the obit. “Holy crap, Tara!”
“I KNOW!”
Now people from other tables were staring, and Tara ducked her head, staring at the table in silence until all the gawkers looked away.

Nailed it

Surreal sculpture by Seyo Cizmic. See more here!

When cultural icons collide

The Muppets meet Twin Peaks, by Justin DeVine. See more here!

Good thing curiosity killed the cat…

by casterapple

Bad to the Bone

Going camping!

 

So, you’re probably familiar with the National Novel Writing Month, known affectionately as Nanowrimo, that glorious program where millions of aspiring writers race to write a 50k word novel  in the month of November.  I’ve participated for years, and have crossed the finish line three times.  The first became my book Haunted, the second we shall never speak of again, and the third, Crisis, will be a book (probably book 3) in the Haunted series.

What you might not be aware of, though, is that the Nano folks also run a program called Camp Nanowrimo, two sessions (March and July) where you set your own word count of at least 5k words, on any kind of project (novel, play, collection of short stories, dissertation…), either pick or are assigned “cabin mates” to encourage and be encouraged by, and then race to finish your word count by the end of the month.

I’m signed up for July, with a goal of 50k words, to write book 2 in the Haunted series, tentatively titled Committed.  I’m excited – and a little scared – to be throwing myself completely into writing this novel.  I enjoy spending time with my characters, and enjoy writing their adventures.  That said, there’s a lot of pressure to be perfect, which is one thing I’m hoping to be able to leave behind by doing Camp Nano.  One of the philosophies of the Nanowrimo program is that you shut off your internal editor and just write.  Screw quality, you’re going for quantity.  You allow yourself to write crap if that’s what it takes to get to your daily 2k.  The secret is, of course, that writing fearlessly is how you get quality.  That sometimes you have to write through the crap to get the gold.  And Nano, in any form, allows you to do just that.

Of course, writing 2k words a day will leave me little time for things like, say, my thrice weekly essay-length blog posts.  So my plan is to post nifty pics on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  Things I find cool, or exciting, or weird.  Probably a lot of weird.  I like weird.  The usual posts will return in August.

Wish me luck!

Press Play

 

I love music.

All sorts.

I’ve talked here about growing up on the Beatles.  My musical obsession doesn’t stop with the Fab Four, though.  Not by a long shot.  I have nearly a thousand songs on my phone, enough that I bought an external SD card just to hold all my music. Sometimes my taste is shamefully pop (Taylor Swift, even the occasional Britney Spears, yes, I know).  Sometimes I go for idie (Imogen Heap) or folk (Crosby, Stills & Nash or Danny Schmidt).  I usually don’t go for rap, but love Tim Fite; Don’t go for country, but love Johnny Cash; Don’t go for classical, but good god, give me all the Chopin.  And although I’ve got some songs from John Lennon’s Double Fantasy and Paul McCartney’s “Maybe I’m Amazed,” none of that is Beatles music.  Mainly because I buy my music from Amazon, and I think the boys from Liverpool have an exclusive agreement with iTunes.

Yes, I pay for my music.  Yes, that means that over the last five or so years, I have spent over a thousand dollars on mp3s.  Yes, I know I could probably have gotten most or all of that for free.  As a creator myself, I believe in paying for what other people create.  Yes, I know that the artists probably see very little of that money. The principle still stands.

(I should note that as much as I love music, I would not call myself an audiophile, because I honestly don’t care whether or not the songs I love sound better on vinyl than digital, or on thousand dollar headphones than ten buck earbuds.  Purity of sound?  Screw that, I just want to have my music with me wherever I go, and mp3s and earbuds do that splendidly.)

I buy some music based on recommendations from friends (like K’s Choice’s “Not An Addict,” a recommendation from my friend MJ) and critics like the guys on Sound Opinions (a radio show/podcast I thoroughly enjoy and recommend, and which turned me on to artists like The National and Tim Fite).  But for the most part, the music I buy are songs I’m familiar with, that I hear on the radio or that get into my head, and I am struck by a serious need to own that song, put it on repeat and play it for HOURS.  (That’s an exaggeration.  Usually.)  Recently such songs have included “Cherish” by The Association, “Alejandro” by Lady Gaga, and “Odds Are” by The Barenaked Ladies.

I listen to music pretty much anytime.  Even when I’m writing.  My theory is that the music keeps the restless part of my brain happy so that the rest can concentrate on the words.  I’m even listening to music right now.  A “Build Me Up Buttercup” cover by frantic (Best.  Cover.  EVER.)  When I pay attention to the music, I bop around in my chair and mouth the lyrics.  In the middle of Starbucks.  Are people staring?  Probably.  Do I care?  Nope!

Now, excuse me while I rock out to “Gone Away” by The Offspring…

The uncanny valley between the peaks

 

My husband and I just finished watching Twin Peaks via Netflix.  Although I had never seen it before, I was of course familiar with the basic idea and iconic images, both having been firmly entrenched in pop culture for most of my life.

I knew it would be weird.  Really weird.  And it was.  What struck me, though, was how it was weird.

Sure, there were tons of things that were overtly out there.  The dancing, backward-talking dwarf.  The giant.  (One and the same.)  The log lady.  Bob.

What was more unsettling, though, and what I was unprepared for, was the normal stuff.  Or, rather, the stuff that was just barely not normal.

The term “uncanny valley” refers to a hypothesis that when something looks almost but not quite human, we are disturbed and repulsed by it.

Certainly Twin Peaks has plenty of instances of the not-quite-human, the most notable being the Black Lodge, where even characters we’re familiar with move and speak strangely and stare off with wide unseeing eyes.  But I would argue that in the case of Twin Peaks, the idea of the uncanny valley can be applied with a broader brush.  The way the characters act and interact, the way the plot progresses, even the way the sets are constructed and the scenes are filmed, all of it seems intentionally designed to approach reality and not quite get there.  It’s not always successful, sometimes falling into obvious absurdity (what my brother-in-law called “slapstick”) and sometimes hitting the mark of normality too well.  But when the show gets it right?  It’s awesome to watch.  I spent a lot of time staring at the screen with my mouth open, wondering what in the ever living hell was going on, deeply unsettled yet unable to look away.  Like watching a train wreck where you don’t realize until the moment of impact that both trains are made out of jello.

I’m trying to think of other shows or movies that manage to hit that nerve, and I’m drawing a blank.  I imagine David Lynch’s other work might (I’ve only ever seen The Elephant Man, and that a long time ago).  What do you think, dear reader?  Any recommendations?

Growing old gracefully? Yeah, harder than I thought…

��

I’m going grey. ��

Yes, I’m using the British spelling. ��Pretentious? ��Probably. ��I’ve always liked that spelling better than the American “gray.” ��It strikes me as more refined, more graceful. ��And that’s the important part, isn’t it? ��It’s��graceful.

When my maternal grandmother died, she had a full head of lovely chestnut hair. ��I remember standing by her casket with my mother and my Aunt J��n, and my mother tenderly petting her mother’s hair.

“She never went gray,” she said. ��My aunt nodded in agreement.

I raised my eyebrows. ��“Sorry to tell you this, but she probably dyed it.”

My aunt shook her head firmly. ��“No. ��Never. ��Her hair is totally natural.”

I’m not sure I entirely believe her, then or now, but I��want to, more than I’d like to admit. ��I want to think that if my grandmother��never went gray, then maybe I won’t. ��My Aunt��J��n went gray early, but my mother’s hair is still mostly brown with the occasional thread of silver. ��And I know hers is completely natural. ��The only thing she does is comb lemon juice through her hair and sit out in the Florida sun to give herself blonde highlights. ��I’m going to have to try that.

My husband has been going gray for some time now, his short hair peppered with silver, but he’s also been going bald for much longer, so it counts less, doesn’t it? ��The progression of time has been apparent in his hair, or lack thereof,��for years. ��The gray��is just the next step. ��

But me? ��I’ve always said that I am determined to age gracefully. ��That I will love my wrinkles and my grey hair. ��And that is still my goal. ��And yet part of me wants to object, insist that it’s not supposed to��happen to me. ��My grandmother never went gray. ��My mother barely has gray hair. ��My hair is supposed to stay��brown, dammit. ��If not forever, then at least until I am some unspecified age that is always older than what age I am now.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? ��Saying I will grow old gracefully is easy to do, because deep down I believe��I will never grow old.

My hair is exposing that belief as the lie it is, one silver strand at a time.

I may dye my hair at some point … I��look��great with red hair��… but it won’t be to hide the gray. ��I refuse to play that game, the same way I refuse to lie when people ask my age (I’m 35, I’ll be 36 on Monday. ��Never ask a lady her age? ��That’s sexist bullshit that assumes that my worth is in my perceived youth and not my hard-won years). ��I am determined to go��grey, with grace.

It’s just a lot harder than I thought it would be.

The public library here in Tuscaloosa has a summer readi...

The public library here in Tuscaloosa has a summer reading program that includes special events on Tuesday afternoons. ��This week a few firefighters from the local fire department came to talk to the kids about fire safety and show them their equipment, culminating in a tour of the fire engine. ��My kids have always adored firefighters (my daughter wanted to be one for a while before deciding she’d rather be an artist and art teacher instead) so they were very enthusiastic about all this. ��They sat up front with the other kids while Pete and I sat in the back, Pete analyzing x-ray data on his laptop, me idly checking email and Twitter on my phone.

It was when they started dressing one of the firefighters up in all the gear that I started paying attention. ��They went piece by piece: pants, jacket, boots, gloves, helmet. ��When they put the face shield and oxygen mask on the guy, they made a point of showing that the firefighter��was still the same nice, fun, fatherly guy, only with something over his face that protected him and helped him breathe. ��It was a good thing, because the kids were, of course, likely to be scared, and it could be deadly if a kid ran in terror from a firefighter that was trying to save them from a burning building. ��Heck, I’d probably freak out if I saw someone in one of those things coming at me through the smoke.

Then they handed the guy an ax, kidding around that “this is the key to��EVERY DOOR.” ��Again, good thing, because a guy with an ax is freaking terrifying.

I speak from experience.

When I was a junior in college, I lived off-campus in a tiny little studio apartment, just me and my cat Jane. ��I was reading one day, minding my own business, when the building’s fire alarm went off. ��My first instinct was to ignore it, since surely it was a malfunction or something, and not��actually a fire. ��No fire alarm I had ever heard had ever had anything to do with an actual fire. ��So I went on reading.

The fire alarm continued. ��But it was the sirens that made me rethink my assessment. ��When the sirens seemed to stop outside the front of my building (my windows faced the back, so I had to guess) I figured I should probably get out of the building. ��I dug out the cat carrier, hunted down the cat, and headed for the door. ��I felt the door and the doorknob to see if either were hot (thank you, firefighters in my hometown who came to talk when I was a kid). ��Neither were, but I looked out the peephole just to make sure the hallway wasn’t on fire.

A firefighter was climbing up the stairs.

Carrying an ax.

There was no��way I was going out that door.

I turned to my windows, which lead out to an ancient black wrought iron fire escape. ��I was just about to take that way out when the fire alarm stopped.

I stood for a moment, listening closely, wondering if it would start again, and��smelling the air for any hint��of smoke. ��Nothing on both counts. ��

I went back to the door and looked out the peephole again. ��The firefighter with the ax was in the hallway, but he had been joined by a second firefighter, and they were calmly talking. ��Figuring that the chances of two��deranged homicidal firefighters were pretty low, I opened the door a little and looked out.

“Hey,” I said. ��“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” the guy with the ax said. ��“Everything’s good. ��No need to worry.”

“Great. ��Um. ��Thanks!”

It’s a good, important thing for the firefighters to show the kids that the firefighter with an ax and breathing apparatus who comes to rescue you from a fire is a good and trustworthy guy that you should not be afraid of. ��It’s a good thing for the parents to remember, too. ��Although, if I were to be in that situation again? ��There’s��still no way in hell I’d go out that door.