So Long And Thanks for all the Lake!

Nearly three weeks ago, I gave notice of my resignation. Three weeks ago, Thursday still seemed like half an eternity away. Today, it feels... well... it feels like it's three shifts/four days away, but that's only because I wrote this part of the post yesterday.

Still, that hasn't stopped me from being all reminiscent-y about things. I remember my first "real" job. I was a cashier at a grocery store and I worked there 3 years. By the time I left, most of the people I'd started with (including the store manager) and got along best with had left, I'd developed pain in my arms from the repetitive motions, and Death by Sheer Boredom was a distinct possibility.

That said, on my last day, I sobbed in the car until a random lady knocked on the window and asked if I was all right.

Since then, I've left other jobs, sans tears, so I can't help but think the fact that my brain's bypassed all those jobs and brought me back to that particular memory can only be a sign of impeding emotional-ness. After all, this is the longest I've worked with one company since then, and ever. I've been working for this company since I graduated in 2006. I'm not counting the years. I did that a few days ago and it was scary. I then blocked the memory.

Strangely, the other memory that keeps floating back is when I graduated Grade 6. Not Grade 8. Not high school. Not university. But Grade 6. Pssst, Memory? You are weird.

Anyway, I would have been about 11, even though that number seems far too small to be accurate. I had moved to Toronto only 2 years before and those years were terrible. The kids at the school hated me before I even walked through the door. They made fun of everything about me. My mom used to tell me they didn't spend their time trying to figure out how to make my life impossible, but even now, I maintain it was a favourite past-time of theirs.

(Of course, I also maintained for the longest time that a mouse jumped out of the TV (from The Nutcracker) and that I chased it around the living room until it ran out the door, so you know, it is possible I'm wrong. It's not likely, but it is possible.)

In preparation for the graduation ceremony, the teacher traced the shadows created by the silhouettes of our heads. It sounds strange now, but somehow it made sense at the time. My hair (which deserves its own blog post) and I have had a tumultuous relationship since birth. In an effort to be like every other girl, I forced it into a pony tail because I liked that clean S-shaped hair-shadow effect they all had going on. My hair laughed in the face of S-shapes and repaid me with a blob-shaped shadow. No exaggeration needed. It was a blob. Possibly even The Blob.

The cardboard versions of these silhouette head-shadows were posted around the gym because it's always important to be surrounded with one's own mortification as one graduates, or in my case, as one delivers the Valedictorian speech.

Yes, I was Valedictorian for my Grade 6 class. It was an empowering experience, mostly. It was also hot. I was wearing a very uncool (in both senses of the word) long Laura Ashley dress. This seems important to mention, for some reason.

Mostly what I remember is writing the speech. And delivering it in a room full of people who made fun of me, their parents, my parents, and the cardboard version of my Hair's Evil Shadow of Doom watching from somewhere on the gym wall.

In my speech, I compared the graduating class to fish who'd outgrown their ponds. I said the ponds had nurtured us and been our homes for so long, but it was time to swim out into the large lake, to discover the world (of Grade 7). And I told everyone that, though this was scary, it was also exciting, because we had come so far, but we had so much farther to go (in Grade 7). It was a good, wise speech.

The strangest thing about 'seeing' this memory? Adult-me isn't the one giving the speech. I'm in the audience. I'm listening to a girl who didn't quite realize she was a child, a girl who'd eventually overcome more adversity than she knew existed (I mean, the hair alone...) give a speech about a school of fish taking chances.

If Grade 7 was a lake, I'm not sure what body of water I'll be standing in front of on Thursday, as I leave a job that's been my home (No, really, I've actually answered the question of where I live with: "The airport. Oh, wait, you mean, where I live... heh...) for far too long. A sea? An ocean? Another really big pool of water I can't think of a name for?

So, thanks for the speech, kid. And don't worry, when your graduation's over, you won't take that awful poster of your Hair's Evil Shadow of Doom with you, and eventually you and your hair will make peace. Mostly.

Anyway, time for this fish to swim out into deeper, scarier, and far, far more exciting waters.

Heh. I realize now that I haven't actually talked about the job I'm leaving, even though that's what this blog was supposed to be about. That's kind of funny. Can I pretend it was intentional?

Oh, I know! Here!

I Owe You:

One Blog Post about Working in the Lost and Found Before I Forget All About it

One Blog Post About my Hair, Possibly Including Embarrassing Photos of my Youth

One Blog Post Ensuring You Finally Know if You Are Indeed a Troll

Until next time, may we venture a little farther out to sea and learn the true strength of our fins!

Fin!

(No, I mean, that's the end. Or rather, the beginning. Of the end. I'm just kidding. I only mean you can stop reading now. And... start commenting! See? It really is a beginning!)

Friends with the Ex (or The End of the World)

This is a real conversation. Names (IE. Victoria, who made me draw/post this) have been excluded to protect the not-so-innocent. The car ride is also real, though mostly irrelevant, except for the fact that it was a favour that allowed me to purchase and take home a very cool new litter box shaped like an igloo with steps. (Thanks again!)

The Conversation:

"Can you believe I'm friends with my ex and the world didn't end?!" asks my friend, not for the first time.

I grin. "You realize, of course, I'm envisioning this in comic form."

She's driving, but she looks at me sideways for a moment. "What's the comic?"

I describe the image in my mind's eye -- an image that should probably have remained where it was born, or at least been drawn by someone who has some concept of how to portray depth/perspective.

"Hee hee hee," she exclaims afterwards, "You must draw it!"

"Ha," I reply, too quickly, "I can't draw."

"Yes, you can," she says, "And your comics are funny so it doesn't matter anyway."

"Only you think it's funny because you're involved in it."

She instantly replies:"My ex will think it's funny!"

"He's involved in it, too!" I protest.

"You never made me a troll questionnaire so you have to draw the comic."

"I can't draw!" *

"Yes, you can!"**

"No, I can't. Stop being mean to me."

"Saying you can draw is being mean to you?" she asks.

"Yes!" I cross my arms.

"This conversation is like a comic."***

At this point, in real life, she repeats the conversation in panel-form, but, in the interest of avoiding the inevitable time-space continuum never-ending loop of conversation, I'll skip right to the part where I expose you to the comic.

So -- depending on who you are -- sorry and/or you're welcome.

*I may have said this more times than represented here. Heh.
**She may have said this more times than I said the opposite, hence the post.
***Look, three stars! Also, the conversation was like a comic, but I'm not drawing it, damnit!

Friends With The Ex (or The End of the World):

P.S. The part you can't make out is supposed to read: "No, it [the flooding] doesn't put out the fire."

P.P.S. Stop making me draw things!

P.P.P.S. Hope you liked it anyway!

Cryptic is as Cryptic Does

“That hombre could make a laundry list sound cryptic”. This is a line from “Fables: The Great Fables Crossover” (Written by Bill Willingham and Matthew Sturges), and it amused and perplexed me when I read it.

A cryptic laundry list? I’m not even sure what a laundry list is, much less how it could be made cryptic. Is it a list of things one needs in order to launder? Laundry soap, a stupid amount of quarters and loonies (yes, loonies. It’s a Canadian thing), dirty clothes. Or is it a list of the dirty clothes themselves? No, I’m not going to list (or air) my dirty laundry. (Ha... get it? Unseen shooting stars, I’m tired.) Really, I think “a laundry list” is cryptic to begin with.

As I traveled home, this line and thoughts remotely connected to it echoed in my mind. Perhaps I should note here that in addition to songs, I sometimes get lines and titles stuck in my head. One particularly annoying time, I had Mordecai Richler’s name on repeat in my brain for what I remember now as days. Out of desperation, I read “The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz”. I’m not sure why, but it actually worked; my mind was cleared.

So traumatized was I by this strange wordsworm (for lack of a better term), that I decided to apply this same theory to the cryptic laundry list. Also, I was curious. I wanted to know if I had the writing chomps to create a list of laundry so obscure and clue-full, one might only describe it as cryptic.

Here’s where I should definitely mention, I’ve been up since four in the morning. Actually, that’s not true. I woke up at five twenty, due to a particularly odd dream about my roommate asking me how to get “dead things” out of the sofa I was sitting on. Incidentally, I’m sitting on that very sofa right now... Anyway, in the dream, she very earnestly said, “Chicken soup!”, and I have no idea if it was the “dead things” in question, or the preferred method of removal, or perhaps just a craving of hers. Wait... Why am I telling you this again?

In any case, after work, I met a friend in a cafe to be exceedingly distracted by a man making eyebrows at his laptop (trust me, there’s really no other way to describe it) and also to write. Not that I’m upset about the eyebrow-watching to writing ratio, but I think I should insist that mostly I met her to write.

Look, if this makes little to no sense, know that that only furthers my case. After all, I’m writing this at 1 am, and I’m squinting in order to do so. Words look a little funny when you squint. Kind of slanty. And blurry.

So, please, keep my utter exhaustion and general squintyness in mind when I tell you that when I sat down to write a cryptic laundry list, I somehow ended up with a cryptic grocery list.

And because I enjoy revealing things that should be otherwise embarrassing, especially when I’m squinty and giggly as I am right now, I’ve decided to share that list. Even though nobody asked me to. You’re welcome.

Here it is:

A Straightforward and Yet Unnecessary Title for a Cryptic Grocery List

An animal, a meal, and a taunt.

A fruit, described by its colour.

How can something decreed as perfect also be in such disputation of order?

A letter so useful it both begins its own title and is its own word.

Ever predictably, that which you call one thing I call another.

The truth is, we know but the tip of the iceberg. Therefore, let us not worry our heads about which is better, and which is best.

This is to hair as salivating is to Pavlov’s dogs, only shinier.

On any other, this would make one blue, especially if you hate waste.

A house of this could be blown away; a bowlful devoured.

To do nuts or not to do nuts: that is the question.

A game to crush or a plant to eat?

Don’t cry. It’s actually pretty funny.

Whether it’s a secret or water, don’t wait for someone to spill it. It’s probably already on the internet.

We need room to grow and room to write, of course. They say it’s fun, but I really hate this guy.

If one killed as often as some eat this, and one was caught and judged as guilty, I would hope the sentence would be as long as this one or longer, only with years instead of words.

Can you figure out the items on the grocery list and/or do you have any to add? Can you write a cryptic laundry list that doesn't somehow morph into a cryptic grocery list? Can you tell me what a laundry list (cryptic or not) is?

Good night...

...and good news! The line's out of my head! For now...

Toy Story 3: A Conspiracy

The Inciting Incident:

I watched Toy Story 3 last night. Some might call it fiction. Some might say the screenplay was written by this Michael Arndt guy, who has allegedly written such things as "Little Miss Sunshine", but hear me out: all is not as it appears to be.

Prior Cases:

I haven't even told you what the conspiracy is, and already you want proof? Okay. Here's proof: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbrL7N3tVrM&feature=related


Right. I couldn't find the scene that *actually* provides the theory , but if you watch the episode of Angel (and you should most definitely watch it), you'll see that toys -- and people -- aren't always what they appear to be.

Don't worry. I won't turn this into a "... and that's why Joss Whedon is a genius!" sermon. I'll just mention that he was one of the writers of the original Toy Story as well as that he is unequivocally brilliant and let you draw your own conclusions.

Anyway, I'm not entirely sure how Joss Whedon hijacked this blog, because this is a serious post. This isn't just about "toys". This is a serious blog of conspiracy.

Now I'm not generally a believer of conspiracy theories. But this one -- and yes, maybe it's because I just invented it -- strikes me as completely, undeniably logical and true.


The Conspiracy:

I'm just going to go right out and say it. Toy Story 3 was written by toys under the guise of being created by a human in order to prove their influence.

Think about it. Most, if not all, of us have had toys in our youths. I suspect many of us have kept some of these toys. They're in our boxes, in our closets, on our shelves, forgotten and ignored. Toy Story 3 makes us remember them and the stories of our childhoods that accompany them -- this movie will make us bring them out. Who, I ask you, benefits from this? The toys.

The Toys: An Inside Job

Allow me to introduce you to Lambie.
I've had Lambie for as long as I can remember, and then some. I've had Lambie for so long, and got him when I was so little, that I don't think I ever had to wrangle with the decision of whether to spell his name an "ie" or a "y". This toy has stuck with me for longer than most of my family. He's, uh, lived in five cities and been through more moves than that. So, however it's spelled, I love you, Lambie, not-so-fluffy fur, half-worn pink nose, and all. Even if you are part of the conspiracy.

The Barbie in Toy Story 3 made me remember my first two Barbies. While I have no accompanying photo and their names escape me, their story does not. They were sisters, and in that tragic way of things, one was Good and the other was Evil. They shared an affinity for mountain climbing, where kitchen cabinets equal mountains. The Evil Sister always tried to kill the Good Sister, but inevitably endangered her own life in the course of things. And while she hung precariously from a curiously knob-like part of a mountain, the Good Sister would risk life and limb to rescue her. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the Evil Sister would once again betray the Good one, but such is the eternal struggle. One thing they'd finally agree on? Yes. That's right. Toy Story 3 and this toy conspiracy.



















This doll is named Deanna. Here's the story of how I came to be acquainted with her. I was maybe 10ish. My grandparents had promised to buy me a doll, and they took me to this small store. There was something mystic about it. I felt it from the moment I stepped inside, and the door closed behind me, the bell on the door eerily jingling its alert. Shelves lined every wall, from floor to ceiling, and there were dolls on every one, even behind the counter.

And all these dolls save one were evil.

EVIL, I tell you.

The lady working at the counter seemed nice at first. She asked me which doll I liked best. Without hesitation, I pointed to Deanna. I was sure she wanted me to rescue her from this hellish prison where she was trapped by the evil dolls. The lady cooed, "Oooh, good choice!".

Her hand moved towards Deanna, but at the last moment she started to pull one of the evil ones from the shelf instead.

"Noooo!" I said, in horror,"Not that one!"

She laughed, but I'm sure it was out of nerves. I had discovered the truth about her little "store".
Deanna was more expensive than the one the lady had tried to turn loose onto me, but my grandparents bought her for me anyway. (And then the lady tried to put her in a box! Egad! Hadn't she been through enough already?!)

Anyway, Deanna's totally involved in the conspiracy. And if she has a part to play, we are safe from no toy.


Except this guy. He's a Mountie. And a oh-so-Canadian beaver. He's pretty much just in this blog because it was Canada Day yesterday. You don't have to worry about him being up to anything. Despite those too-white teeth, I'm pretty sure he's not part of the conspiracy. Mostly because I hate when police are brought into conspiracy theories, and this evidentally extends to police of the inanimate stuffed animal variety. Yet, note the angle of the picture, and what could only be a jail cell behind him. Truly, he's a noble officer.

It's the horse you've got to look out for. The horse has total Crazy Eye.

In fact, I can't help but wonder if he's related to Bad Horse.

Yes, that's another Joss Whedon mention. Go watch Dr. Horrible Sing-Along Blog if you don't know what I'm talking about.

Conspiracy's Conclusions:
I could tell you more stories. I could tell you about the Balloon Man Toy who used the slightest gust of errant wind from a vent or window to wander the apartment, gathering intel. I could discuss Lambie's sheep companion, Blackie, who had softest velvet paws imaginable. Or the lionness and her cub that stood guard in my room for many a year. But I won't.

I think I've proved my point that Michael Arndt was merely a human figurehead for the toy-written Toy Story 3, that this was a movie created by toys for toys, in order to make us laugh, cry, write a blog, take long-unplayed-with toys out of the closet to take pictures of them for said blog, to take our toys, be it from shelves or memory, and remember what they meant to us once upon a time.

And, so, I beg of you: Never underestimate the toys. They get in with you when you're young and vulnerable and set up shop in your heart. Then, years later, no matter where they end up, all it takes is a fantastic movie for you to realize the truth of the matter: they've got you for life.

If you don't believe me, go watch Toy Story 3. After all, conspiracy theories usually aren't true...

So... I have these goats

So... I have these goats.

It's worth saying a second time, because the first time was just a title and doesn't really count and also because they're kind of driving me crazy. See, there's three of them and... and... I really shouldn't talk about them. They are the Current Object(s) of my Irritation and part of a story I hope one day you'll read, if ever they stop being COI.

Okay, that was a bad play on words, but still, you get the point.

I know where they are, and I know where they have to get, and I don't think the two are so very far off from each other. It's just a small complete transformation in terms of... Oh, I've said too much already. And now I feel like Hagrid.

So... I have these goats.... And... Whoa! Wait! You're not going to believe this, but I just saw what happened-- and will happen -- in the story. FINALLY. Inspiration, how I've missed you! Oh, and, goats? I have you now.

Apparently, if you write about not being able to write about something that you can't really describe because then everyone will know the story, something, somehow, miraculously may reveal itself to you.

And, there's my advice. Which I came up with right now. Out of desperation.

I mean... wise wisdom. Oh, that's over redundant, isn't it, right?

Don't mind me. I'm just happy about the goats.

Writers: No Strings Attached

Here's the thing.

I read this article this morning, post-very-little-sleep and pre-finishing-my-morning-coffee, and found myself mid-writer/feminist uproar. Please know I am not angered by the article itself. In fact, I think it takes an appropriate stance on the alleged trend that women writers are writing darker material in an attempt to get away from being dismissed as writing "chick lit"/"fluff" and to prove that they are "serious" writers, which is what actually got me worked up. Now, considering my sleep and coffee situation, I probably should be concentrating on merely staying awake, but...

(Read more: http://www.psychologies.co.uk/news/lets-have-more-grim-lit/)

Seriously...?

Argh. Okay. My reply shall come in two parts:

Part 1: Writer

Part 2: Woman/Feminist

***

Part 1:

First, I have to reply to this as a writer because, in the end, I think this suggestion is harmful to all writers. I believe writing is all about reaching outward, twisting, blending, bending, and experimenting with readers' expectations and our own capabilities. Limiting that, saying we have to choose a box and cram all our stories into that one box to make some kind of statement strikes me as going against everything a writer is, or should be.

Someone told me recently that I should narrow my focus. I should decide whether I want to write for TV/movies, comics or novels, and so on. Also, I should pick a genre.

Why?

The way I see it, many of us have multiple stories in us, and they won't always fit neatly into the same genre or even the same medium. Cramming isn't fun. I've taken public transit long enough to know that. And why should we have to take the same crammed bus? I love learning ways to improve my writing, challenging myself to write in new ways. I don't want to ride that same crammed bus forever. How boring would that be?

Of course, there are writers who naturally write a certain genre/medium, and I'm not criticizing that at all. As long as they are writing the stories they want/need to write, that's fantastic. For the record, that's a niche, not a box. All I'm saying is if Stephen King suddenly wanted to write a romantic comedy, I sure hope no one tells him he shouldn't try his hand at it.

It's bad enough when someone else tries to box us in. We don't need to do it to ourselves, too.

Part 2:

As a woman, I find the suggestion that female writers need to prove themselves by writing a certain genre or style simply ludicrous. Male and female writers should prove themselves as writers by the quality of their writing, by the strength of their stories, the contours of their characters. Of course, male and female writers may veer towards certain genres more than others, but we shouldn't be corralled into them. And we certainly shouldn't corral ourselves into them.

I understand the temptation to say "Whaddya mean I can't write horror?" and to write it just to prove 'em wrong. But what is this "serious writer" business? If you write a good story, whatever the genre, if you capture someone's heart and imagination, that is what makes you a serious writer. Not the genre. Not your gender.

I think writing darker stuff because you're a woman is just as wrong as writing "chick lit" just because you're a woman.

I consider myself a feminist because I believe there's not much a man can do that a woman can't also do, and vice versa. I look forward to the day when a woman can win an award without it being stressed that she's female, and when recognizing that women can harm others (men, women, and children) doesn't count as a strike against the feminist agenda.

We're capable not only of opening doors and walking through them, but also of letting them slam into other people trying to walk through, too. It's really not equality until we can accept both sides of that. But, by all means, let's not slam the door on ourselves!


***

So... as a writer and as a woman, I implore you...


Let us not be judged, or judge ourselves, by gender alone. We are individuals, not part of some Borg collective (Heh. Part 3: Geek?).


Be who you want to be, and write what you want to write. Let all your stories bask in your imagination and emerge without being unnecessarily stunted. Experiment with style, genre, and medium, because one enriches another, and because writing is fluid and we must swim along with it, even if it is upstream.

We are writers and our kites are the kind that come without strings.

Soar.

And swim. And switch buses once in a while.

And, you know, mix metaphors with relish. Just not literally.

A Hiatus... of Sorts

So... as you may have noticed, I've missed a couple weeks of Flash Fiction Friday. No, I'm not out of story ideas, but I am taking a break from writing Flash Fiction. These days, I'm concentrating on rewriting/writing/editing a couple comic books and a Script Frenzy screenplay script.

I'm working towards finishing them all (in a perfect world in which there are both unicorns and holodecks) before I start school in September.

Of course, if inspiration strikes in the form of a Flash Fiction story, I'll write and post it, but other than that, I'm pretty much on a Flash Fiction hiatus.

I may post some actual blogs though. Possibly about my random thoughts/experiences as I write/rewrite/edit because then it doesn't count as cheating on the projects I'm supposed to be devoting myself to. Right? Right? Facepalm.

Anyway, consider yourselves updated.

Update'd, you are.

And now that I've resorted to Yoda-channelling with a touch of Zaboo (from "The Guild
: http://www.watchtheguild.com/ ), I'm going to sign off.

Till next time! ; )