hi, internet. (are we still friends?)

Oh hai Internet. It's me, Amy. How have YOU been? I've been...okay. Hey, remember that last time I was here and I went off the handle (in genuinely real, sheer terror I will add in my defense) and said I was done blogging for awhile? And then I came back and deleted the blog post I wrote in response to it? And then I re-posted it because I decided it mattered enough? And then I deleted again because the problem kinda/sorta was resolved? And just now I re-posted it because whatever. It was where I was at at the time, and sometimes I like to review this blog to see where I was at at certain times. 

Yeah about that...I am no longer in sheer terror. What I am right now is hypervigilant, but no longer terrified. Things were straightened out (mostly), and I am moving forward. ONWARD. I have to write; if I'm not writing...SOMETHING...I am not okay. I am just not. I am not. And this blog helps me get a lot of my ick and strangeness out. 

I saw a great idea in my Facebook news feed I'm going to try here, just to give me something to talk about other than ick...at some point this week. Thirty Days of Writing. Don't even have to come up with the topic; they are already outlined for me. I'm going to try it. It may take me 60 or 90 days, depending on my free time issues, but I get to give my opinion 30 times (YAY!) and you get to read it, 30 times (or 300 times, if you want to come back and re-digest my incoherent rambles) (YAY AGAIN!). I bet you guys are very very excited and cannot WAIT for it.

I do love a good challenge. 

Yesterday, I got 2 Needs Developments on an 10 minute evaluation. My small group lesson was fine - I got 2 Proficients for that. But my darlings at centers were off task. And by off task, I don't just mean not really focusing. I mean: literally behaving like monkeys - throwing letter tiles at each other and playing, actually playing. As in not looking like they were hard at work. (Play? PLAY??? Who has time for THAT kinda learning nowadays, silly goose!) 

In their (and my) defense: we'd just finished the 2nd day (out of 5 days) of our 3rd standardized test in a row. So they were a little spunky coming down off the test stress high, and quite frankly I don't blame them. And I am too exhausted, after giving 3 standardized tests in a row, to really care to manage their pinging spunk right now. And plus also there might have been a full moon and NO Scientists I don't care if that's folklore or not. You come do what I do on a full moon day and try to tell me it's not real.

And all this data and negative feedback is making me feel like a really, really, really crappy teacher. Clearly, I have chosen the wrong profession. Ten years ago, I was in the right profession. Ten years later, I suck at it. No, no. I know you're protesting, and you're going to tell me I'm a great teacher...it's just the times. Well, the times are warranting data success, and children working busily at all times, and teachers keeping up with mounds of paperwork and data and deadlines and due dates and meetings and technology and materials and testing...and I suck at all of this. I like to read and write and tell stories. All that other crap? Pfffft.

So I'm going to give my opinion about this Needs Development thing, and I don't care whether I get fired or not for saying it out loud (Mom, clear some space in your basement, please): I don't mind getting Needs Development. When it's for something I need developing in. Because I'll just be honest and tell you that I simply don't understand how to do the Workshop Model of things. I get the overall concept; I don't understand how to manage it or what it looks like. I need someone to actually hold my hand and walk me through this. For one whole school year. Because this is what they want in Public Education nowadays: Workshopping. Everything. I understand how a Writer's Workshop works for adults; I do not understand how to make it work for little kids. I have asked for staff development on it; what I am told is to find an Instructional Coach and have them tell me, or someone from higher up comes in and, in a mere 45 minutes or so, attempts to throw at me an entire semester's worth of information. Meanwhile, I have 100,000 papers to grade or turn in to someone, and about 3,000 other things that are due. And 5 meetings to attend. And a bunch of data to enter somewhere. And my classroom's a mess.

In public education, we are taught to teach like this: I do, we do, you do. This is how most (normal) human beings learn - I do, we do, you do. In other words: I teach, then we practice it together, then I release and you have a go. Hands on practice. Sometimes your results are really bad, and so we go practice again. Other times, you fly. And the more you practice, the better you get. Teaching 101. 

I do not understand why or how people running schools these days don't get this concept and do it with the adults they are in charge of. I am in charge of children. They are in charge of me. And we are ALL learners. Life Classroom. How do they not understand how people, regardless of age, learn?? (Possibly because 90% have never actually taught. But that's just one theory I've got.)

I just want to be able to see what they want me to do in a real classroom setting. But with kids who come from backgrounds my kids come from. This is all I want. Hands on training. Can I get some hands on training? Teaching is a craft, and I need to learn from some masters who are actually in charge of real classrooms and real children, who are doing the craft of teaching every single day. This is all I want. I'm actually terrified to go to another school right now, because professionally I feel undeveloped and I don't know how the heck to develop myself without some support I feel safe asking for. 

But you know, whatever. It's cool. I'll take the Needs Development, and I'll revamp and find something that works for me - I always do. Plus, I'm going to have some help. Today I let my sweet loves know: Y'all got me a couple of Cs on my report card. They were bereft and sorry. And really impressed I prefer to get As and Bs (not all of them really care that much, and I don't blame them one bit...you don't HAVE to be an overachiever to be happy in life. In fact, most overachievers are utterly miserable). And so they promised me: the next time an adult walks in our room with a clipboard or a notebook, they are going to SNAP TO and look very very serious and busy. My little co-conspirators. I do love them so. 

Also, I told them if I get all As and Bs on my next evaluation, I'll bring them cupcakes.

This is what Life is all about, sweet Reader(s). Teamwork. Dodging The Man. Making amends. Being real. Having each other's back. (I've run out of cliches. If I think of more, I'll come back and add them.)

As a slightly related side note, today I got to have a pumpkin spice latte with two sweet, dear friends who get how crazy Life is, and I was reminded that what I REALLY need to do when I'm down and out is put on some Damien Rice music. My one friend observed that whenever I am sad, I seem to listen to Damien Rice. He's my sad jams. (I'm actually not listening to Damien Rice right now, though. I am listening to Ed Sheeran. Ed Sheeran must be my Fuck This Ridiculous Shit jams.)

See you in a couple of days (or so) with the first of 30 inane thoughts. (Possibly from my mom's basement.)

social media art publicity.

Art by Ian Bailey
Source:  The 7 Ways.

First, I have to mention DIG (on USA!). They've revealed more of the story and some of it got "Noooo!" out of me as I watched on Thursday. And also: "I KNEW that guy was going to end up dead! He knew too much." And: "Holy cow, that is SO effed up!" 

Second, never ever get into a cult. And I'm researching the Essenes. And somebody told me to also think about the Masons, for later. My grandfather and my dad were both Masons, in fact all the men on that side of my family for generations I think, so now I feel totally connected to the show. And also I wish my dad were still here, so I could ask him about the Masons...even though they're very secretive and he probably wouldn't tell me anything (we had a volume of Masonic encyclopedia-type books on our bookshelves when I grew up, and I would spend countless hours poring over many of these, trying to figure out (1) what the big deal was and (2) all their secrets) (the Masons are SO secretive, you can't even decode their secrets from their secret writings...I am certain they have underground lairs at both the North and South Poles, and they are completely responsible for this completely effed up weather we've been having in Georgia lately).

Third, I want to talk about artists having to do their own PR work. 

Jase (we're on nickname basis now--he can call me "Luv") and Anne, Alison, and Ori (we're all on first name basis now, but moving quickly to nickname basis...once I discover what their nicknames are) have to live tweet their show EVERY Thursday. For the next eight Thursdays. God bless them. The first time was exciting, the second time, too...but every Thursday?? Til MAY?? Lands. Well, I can't harass Jason and friends THAT much, so...I'm clearly going to have to pick my Thursdays. Or maybe just do an overall wrap up harassment tweet on Fridays. 

Maybe just Jason has been commanded to do this--he's actually very good at Twitter, and I'm sure Those In Charge are in love with that. So the other day, Jason asked, on Twitter, if his followers/DIG fans would like him to live tweet episode number two. I, being a total enabler and that one friend you can always count on to do all the stupid things with you, of course told him YES, YOU SILLY GOOSE. 

And then the next morning I woke up and saw that he was going to do it. And then I felt so guilty because I was one of the enablers. But also not guilty because he called us all bastards and I am NOT a bastard, simply kinda/sorta a floozy. Then later I saw where he told someone he has to do this, every Thursday, for the next 8 weeks. And then I didn't feel so bad or guilty, because obviously someone ELSE is the enabler and I can be happy in my slight harlotry, and feel fine with it.

...Quite frankly, I don't think this is about enabling at all; I think this is all about marketing. And if I could get Jason Isaacs and the DIG cast into a room, but particularly Jason because I sense on a certain level he--like I--doesn't necessarily agree with what social media is doing to us as a species and yet also sees, on another level, its alluringly intrinsic value in creating connections both locally and globally--if I could get Jason into a room alone, I would NOT ask him to take his shirt off as I notice about 28,000 of his female followers would ask him to do were they in a room alone with him--no. He and I would have a thoughtful conversation about how making Art has always been a tricky, hard thing to do, and now with the way world economics have gone and social media marketing, society is just totally fucking its artists all to hell in ways Mozart, Picasso, and Virginia Woolf never could have anticipated. (And THEN I would ask him to take his shirt off.) (KID! I kid Jason. I am far too composed offline to do something of that nature.) (Unless I've had 4 chocolate martinis and I think you like me.) (and if THAT was the case, I'd take my shirt off with you.)

Because one day, if/when I am published for real, I too will need to get on Twitter and market me and the Art I'm peddling. And I hate that. Most writers I've talked to or have read talking about this in interviews--we all hate this part. I think it's because...well, for example: I work with a lady who once got told she was going to be our school's reading specialist the next year and she was all kinds of in despair about it: "Amy, I'm a general practitioner," she told me, "I am NOT a specialist." 

But I am. I am a specialist. Which may be why I'm sorta kinda miserable in classroom teaching--I don't enjoy generalities.  If I could JUST teach writing, that'd be good for me. Or if I could JUST teach reading. Or if I could JUST teach math...ha! No, just messing with you. You don't want me teaching  your kid math--at least not beyond the basics. 

And so this making artists be their own PR people: it feels fucked up to me. Does it to you? I mean, people can do it. And, right now, both a traditionally pubbed and a self-pubbed writer are on Twitter mass tweeting their XXXXX number of followers for the 100th time this week to read their book. Later, they'll tweet their followers with an interesting piece of writing advice so it doesn't look like they're tweeting about their book, or a really smarmy thought or quote so it doesn't look like they just want you to read their book, or they'll respond to one of their fans so it doesn't look like they just want you to read their book. (I'm being very jaded and cynical there--I actually would thoroughly enjoy the interacting with fans bit because my inner narcissist would be in orgasmic spasms of joy.) 

Aren't there schools in which people are specifically taught the Public Relations arts? Once upon a time, if/when you were published, the publisher gave you a specialist to market your Art. You were the specialist in your Art--you'd written your Art, so you knew all about it. You could give the interviews and do the book talks. That was your job. Your marketer's job was to go find you the interviews and the book talk locations. Now, they want you to go do that, too. And I think that's lazy. And the reason I think that's lazy is because I AM lazy. So I know it when I see it--never try to bullshit a bullshitter.

And yet. Because of the phenomenon of social media, in which we are all quickly connected to our most favorite of everythings--songs, singers, tv shows, movies, actors, politicians (do people have favorites of those? i don't. and also i'm questioning if i should have even included them on a list of artists...but then again, politicking is an art form to a certain extent--the art of creating something out of manure and getting people to vote for it), novels, writers, painters, poets--the artists involved in whatever art they produce kind of HAVE to touch base with their audiences now. There's no excuse to not do it, given all the social media platforms that are being widely used now. And they definitely are under pressure to pull in more audience. Because for artists, it's about the story. But for people holding the money bags, it's all about ROI. Oh, they like the art produced. But mostly, they like the ROI.

Therein lies the conflict of our age. Humans have revealed themselves for what they are: desperate to be loved and heard. 

Furthermore and also, I find this is happening not just in Artistic circles, but everywhere else, too: how many jobs do you do at work? I do about 15 but only get paid for one. And I have to spread myself out over a variety of jobs I've never officially been trained how to do. When I talk to friends who work in corporations, they echo that this is happening to them, too.

It's that top 1% tier's fault. And the growing class chasm's fault. And social media. And smart phones and video games and e-readers and Dick Cheney. And Vladmir Putin. Who else can I point my angry, puritanical, Scarlet Letter, red finger at? 

We are a weird species. Have a happy Saturday.

the eve of christmas eve list.

1. I watched AFTER THE FALL last night. Because I'm a parent who can't afford a lot of babysitters and so I can't get to an actual theater, most of my movies for grown ups have to be viewed late at night, fervently, on pay per view or DVR'd or streamed via Netflix. This is no way to live. There's nothing I can really do about it at the moment, but this is no way to live.

At any rate, may I suggest you watch this beautiful movie? It is finely nuanced and thought-provoking, and I wish I had someone to talk with, to argue with, for hours about it. (This is why I need a cinema date with a movie professional. I'll buy dinner.) If you like super exciting scenes with blood and guts and stuff getting blown up, and very defined outcomes to your movies, this will not be for you. (There is, however, a gun shooting scene for all you crazy gun nuts.) However! If you are a cultured and nuanced and very very thoughtful human being who is able to think critically and maintain an open-mind, then go see this! Go see it. It's playing in an indie theater somewhere near you, I bet. (Or it's on pay per view and you can watch late at night when everyone is asleep and then we can compare notes on having to do that, too.)

The only thing I didn't like about this movie is the fact they changed its original title from THINGS PEOPLE DO to AFTER THE FALL. I wish they'd left the original title because there's (I thought) a pivotal scene that sort of just defines the whole movie, in which one of the characters tells the other character (I'm paraphrasing, because it's been 24 hours since seeing it) "There's no virtue and there's no sin, just things people do." 

There's a thing short story writers and novelists sometimes do within their stories that reflect the overarching theme of the whole story and if it has a term I've forgotten it but I know it when I see it: they'll write a sentence or a paragraph, a beautifully crafted and lovely sentence or paragraph, somewhere inside the story that sort of defines the entire piece. It's a sign of an artistic soul, and I've never ever been able to accomplish it in my own writing. 

Philip Roth's THE HUMAN STAIN had a really beautiful passage in it that does this:

“We leave a stain, we leave a trail, we leave our imprint. Impurity, cruelty, abuse, error, excrement, semen - there’s no other way to be here. Nothing to do with disobedience. Nothing to do with grace or salvation or redemption. It’s in everyone. Indwelling. Inherent. Defining. The stain that is there before its mark.” 

This movie's "things people do" scene does that, and that's quality writing and you know how I am about quality writing. Plus, I love when that happens. I feel like I'm in the hands of someone who's way better at this than I am. (Most everyone who's been published or produced is, I sense.)

So please see it if you have a chance. And if you do, and want to discuss it (the open-ended ending; why's and why not's; the themes of virtue vs. sin, man vs. self, man vs. God,etc and so forth), call or text or tweet or facebook or email me! My six year old is completely disinterested. She just wants to talk Santa right now.

2a-I finished my Christmas shopping today. Oh my god. Sweet Jesus on a parking lot popsicle stick. What a day. What a DAY! The mall was the most relaxing part, because I got there before all the other shopping humans awoke. The cashier at Justice (a diabolical store--not only is it set up to attract my daughter like a fly to honey, it is also set up to make me want to buy all the sparkly things and completely live out the childhood no one born in the 70s ever got to have...we only had polyester. These kids! They have SPANGLES. And freaking cute stuff with their initials on them. With soft feathers. THAT LIGHT UP) agreed with me: it's better to get to the store before all the other shopping humans.

2b-I came THISCLOSE to drop kicking another person in the grocery store parking lot. That's when last minute shopping day shit got real. Literally, there were NO spots. When I finally got one, 20 minutes later, I entered the store (on a tight schedule because I had to pick up Miss M from basketball camp so I was slightly stressed and pressured) and immediately found myself navigating a store full of oblivious people shopping for dinner in groups of 10. All standing in front of the condiments, spending hours debating which type of mustard to get: French's? The store brand? I hear Heinz makes a tasty one. Oh, but what about Dijon? Maybe we should go for a Dijon this year. OH MY FREAKING GOD, JUST EFFING PICK ONE!!!!!!

I had to grit my teeth, breathe in with the good, out with the bad, remind myself what Baby Jesus would want me to do in this situation, and use my nice words.

2c-But not in the parking lot, when leaving! I put my bags in my trunk, got in my car, and answered a text message before driving. Because answering texts while driving is dangerous and illegal. But I wasn't fast enough for a woman who wanted my spot. There were two other spots in the row, but she wanted MINE. And so she repeatedly honked her horn at me. And I could feel my tightly wound rage beginning to unwind. So I casually finished my text message and slowly turned the car on and sloooooooooooowly backed out of the spot (because remember? I'm totally passive aggressive). And then I passed her and she gave me an unfriendly wave. I wiped at the corner of my eye in return. With my middle finger.

I'm not proud of it. I mean, I know it's Christmas and that was the opposite of what Baby Jesus (and Ghandi and Dr. King and Mother Teresa) would do. But I felt that response was a lot better than jumping out of my car and bashing in her passenger window with my bare hands like I actually wanted to. I bet she went inside and stood in the baking goods aisle in front of the cake mixes debating between Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines for an hour. 

3-Phew. Thanks so much for letting me get that out of me! I really needed to rant to someone.

4-I'm not religious. I believe in Something, which I call God for convenience and to not get strange stares and threats from the Bible Belt Christians. But I'm Christian culturally, and so this is one of my favorite holidays. I love all the tacky lights people put up in their yards, particularly the ones that spell out JESUS IS THE REASON. People in the South get so frickin' defensive; they act like everyone's out to get them at this time of year. I disagree--this is clearly the time of year Christians own the entire world. All the marketers bow down to them. Stop being so paranoid. Jesus wasn't, and he totally should have been.

One time I drove by this house that had spelled out SINNERS REPENT on its roof, a very elaborate and lit up Nativity scene in the yard, and there was an entire series of lit up crucifixes outlining the entire place, and one had a crucified Christ on it. It was delightful. In a really creepy, CARRIE by Stephen King kind of way. 

5-But I love the story of the Nativity. I think it's a nice story. I think it's a metaphor for possibilities and rebirth and innocence and hope. I think there may have been a real Mary and a real Joseph and a real Jesus, but I remain skeptical about the magical bits. And this is coming from someone who really, really, really wants there to be magical bits to life. I don't always read The Bible, but when I do, I read it metaphorically. I think a lot of our planet's problems could be solved quickly if everyone read their religious texts metaphorically.

6-My favorite holiday movies of all time go in this order: LOVE ACTUALLY (which feeds all my anglophiliac needs), A CHRISTMAS STORY (because you'll shoot your eye out), A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS (because, hello! Charlie Brown). There are no other holiday shows worth watching. Maybe Baryshnikov in THE NUTCRACKER. When he was young and luscious, back in the 70s. 

7-Melissa got her picture taken with Santa. We always go to Bass Pro Shop's Santa. First, he's free. Second and most importantly, he's such an awesome Santa! Full, real beard, really really blue eyes. Very kind. There's a wait--you go in, get a Get In Line ticket, and come back in 2 hours for your picture. And when you get back, there's always a huge line to wait in...you don't get in right away. But this Santa, he doesn't even care about that--if a kid wants to give him a list, he takes it and puts it in his pocket. If a kid wants to sit and talk to him for a bit, he sits and listens. He says to the children things like, "Come on up here, baby." and "Here you go, darlin'" as he hands them a little candy cane.

My grand scheme, for the last 5 years, has been to have M's picture taken with this guy every year so that when she starts doubting Santa's existence, I can whip out all these pictures and show her: See? Same guy. Every year! 

Damn you, Bass Pro Shop 2014. You messed up my entire scheme. Now I have an out of sync Santa.

This year, when we went in, we got our 2 hour ticket. We walked around the mall, had lunch, rode the carousel, yada yada. Then we went back to Santa's Bass Pro Shop. And there was no line (this was the giant red flag something was amiss). One of the elves goes, "Do you guys want to go ahead? There's no line." And I was all, Yes please! And so we went. And my heart fell.

He was a nice Santa. He was kind and sweet. His beard was real. But he was very, very old. He wasn't the youngish-old Santa. And he was too skinny. And he was out of little candy canes, damnit. And now we have an out of sync Santa. Dagnabit.

8-I've been sick. My mom is sick. So no Christmas Eve service tomorrow night. It's the only time I go to church. I like the very end of the whole thing, the part where they turn off all the lights, and we stand around lighting one another's candles, and sing SILENT NIGHT a capella. It's the whole point of Christmas, I feel. That moment completely negates the rude shoppers, the impatient parking lot drivers, the disappointing Santas, the entire craziness of the year before. It's like the moment in a story or a movie where the narrator or a character sums up the entire reason for, the overriding theme to, the story: this is about light, shining through darkness. And redemption. And hope. In spite of what people in parking lots do under duress.

And then the next day? You get to open a crap load of presents! (That's the Three Wise Men part.)

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwaanza (nobody celebrates that), Season's Greetings. May the rest of your 2014 nights be filled with quiet moments of light.

adventures in extreme people pleasing.

One Christmas when I was not quite a child but not yet a teenager, my mother gave me a little wall plaque that said EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION. I opened it and thought: my mom is soooo weird. I think I must have even said this out loud because I remember her going, "I know you think it's weird now, but one day you'll understand why I gave this to you." 

And my mother still does this kind of crap, all the time: gives weird gifts and then goes, "I know you think it's weird now, but one day you'll understand." And then I do not. I do not understand. And sometimes, I think about one of her gifts and silently ask: Why?? 

But the little plaque about opinions I do actually understand now. I still don't understand why I couldn't have gotten the make up kit with 250 different lipsticks and eye shadows like I asked for, but I now understand the plaque. For the record, that plaque was the only weird gift she's ever given me that I do understand now. Because Mom, I know you're reading this and Christmas is coming so listen to me: that plaque was the ONLY one. This year, just get me some wine glasses.

I don't want to blame anyone for who and how I am, because I am who and how I am because this is who I am and how. I challenge you to say that ten times fast while drinking. Having said that, I will also say in a really not-finger-pointing-at-all-just-sayin' kind of way that my father, raised by people who expected children to be seen and not heard and not even think about getting up from the dinner table until my grandfather said to, could often be a bit...steamroller-like with his own children. What I'm trying to say is: I have a hard time giving my own opinions now. And my mother saw this when I was a young, and gave me a small plaque to hang on my wall so that when I grew up I'd become bold and fierce and jump out of airplanes whilst screaming all of my opinions at the world. Which did not happen, of course. I bring Tylenol PM with me on long plane flights so I can be passed out if the plane crashes into the ocean. There will be no screaming of opinions from this girl, unless it's to scream my opinion about being terrified of death by fiery plane crashes.

I know, I know! I hear you saying: But Amy, you give lots of opinions here; this whole piece you're writing is one big opinion. Yes. However. Here I can be very bold because I know no one really reads any of this except my mom and some very sweet, dedicated friends (hi mom! hi friends!). So I'm not giving out any opinions that could make anyone mad at me (though, knowing my mom, now one of my Christmas presents will be a plaque with something really weird written on it). Or that, if I do, these people will most likely still love me and continue to take my calls after maybe a brief, stony period of silent treatment. 

But strangers don't have to do that. Do they? And strangers can be such a-holes. Seriously. I mean, have you read the Internet lately? 

Last year, during a writing class/writers workshop I was in, one of my writer friends read a piece I wrote and remarked: "Don't be afraid to give your opinion, is what we're saying. It's okay to rock the boat, Amy." I think about that every time I start typing here, every time I tweet something, every post I throw up on Facebook. I can rock the boat. It's okay to rock the boat, Amy. But I'm scared, Internet! I'm always scared I'm going to end up capsizing the whole thing.

I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings; I don't want to offend anyone. I hate getting my feelings hurt and being offended. It sometimes takes several days for my feelings to recover, and whole decades for me to stop being offended. I am working hard to develop thick skin, but I can tell this will be a lifelong process. And I think about that, too, when I give opinions. I don't want anyone nursing emotional wounds I've created or being offended by me for decades because I carelessly took a knife to their thin skin. I try to walk gently on the planet,and I spend hours berating myself and beating me up whenever I know I've hurt someone.

This is a real problem when it comes to creativity, by the way. I'm not hurt or offended if someone criticizes my writing, as long as it's done in a constructive manner. But I am loathe to hurt or offend others. It becomes a problem in that I look for only the most positive, helpful things to say about others' works of art. Which is important, because there is good in every piece of art someone produces; art comes from that Divine spark within, and that is always good. However, if you're truly serious about making art, there's always room for growth and improvement, and you should have someone or several someones around you who aren't afraid to point those areas out to you so you can consider them and then work to make it better. (In my opinion.)

I will share with you that one of the things I often speak with the Universe about is finding a safe tribe of fellow creatives--they don't all have to be writers, just creatives--in which to share our works of (he)Art. And to be able to feel safe enough, in that tribe, to receive feedback but also GIVE feedback openly, knowing I will still be loved.

Side story: A decade ago, when I first started writing seriously, I went to a couple of critique group sessions at a local writers' club. One of the people in it was a man in his mid-fifties who wrote mysteries. In these mysteries, the man would never reveal: who his main character was or even the main character's name...the setting...who the antagonist was, or even the antagonist's name...what the mystery was. You can only imagine my distress after reading and realizing: there is nothing positive I can say about this piece. Horrors! You guys, I can't even tell you how horrific that was for me--not a single, positive thing to say, except something like: Well done, you, with that comma placement! (except no! I think there were a lot of comma splices). Thank god someone in the group didn't worry about being too offensive, and they just said it like it was: Hey, what the hell is going on in this?! I didn't understand your story at all. What was the point? Where was the plot? Who were the characters? What IS this? WHY?!  

Mr. Mystery's feelings were totally hurt and he got all defensive. He was a mystery writer, and this was a mystery (he said). So everything in his story was a mystery; the readers were supposed to figure out the mystery that was in his brain. Put on our Psychic Hats and have at it, mystery readers, go go daddy-o! (Even the plot? asked the person. Especially the plot! said the mystery man all angry-like, It's not my job to tell you my mystery plot. Read Romance if you want plot, is what I think he also said.) And then they had sort of an awkward, passive aggressive argument and after that Mr. Mystery didn't come back to the next group. And I didn't go back to the group either, and not because Mr. Mystery didn't come back, but because I could tell they just weren't my tribe--there was a woman who only wrote children's stories about reindeer in it and when someone suggested she try other animals her next piece was about a deer, and another woman who wrote chaste romantic pieces with lines like She trembled softly as he kissed her smooth brow lovingly and chastely held her womanly hands and then looked in her eyes which shone like an angel's. I don't even know what to do with writing like that. My only suggestion for her would have been to make her characters stop being so chaste, go out! have some fun! enjoy some filthy sex! it'll be good for them! Except I think the characters were supposed to be Puritans in the 1600s. Or 1930s housewives. I can't remember now. (I'm sorry--I'm being ludicrously judgmental and harsh right now, I know. But honestly. He chastely held her womanly hands. What does that even mean?)

So I have a problem with piping up. And when I do, I always wait for moments when I know others will high five me so we can create a formidable army against those who disagree with my/our opinion. And if someone I admire a lot gives an opinion that is different from mine, I'm highly susceptible to changing my own thinking quickly--if I admire you, I want to be like you and I want you to like me, and if you think that, then okay! Me too. Because I'm wishy washy. And a Pisces sun/Cancer moon. And I have a desperate need to be liked. Adventures in extreme people-pleasing, I like to call it. I try to be the antidote to Mean Girl.

I'm telling you all of this because on Thursday, I watched Peter Pan Live. It was not good. But yet it was! Apparently social media has cultivated a phenomenon called hate-watching, in which snarky people tweet or blog pure snark while watching an awards ceremony, a tv show, or a classic children's production which is being aired live. I think NBC is one of the more exciting networks these days, because they seem to be taking risks on all kinds of things: trying to revive the miniseries format, live musicals, and staying with a series until it completes at least one season's story arc. I sense they see television is in a massive upheaval of change, and they're trying mightily to stay relevant and compete but also innovate. I can appreciate innovative. But it's also inviting Opinion (which is okay when constructive) and snark (which is okay too as long as it's not directed at me).

At any rate, I find the hate-watching entertaining to the extreme, and so I was more entertained by that than by the actual show. Besides which, I had to DVR it because it went from like 8:00 PM til 11:00 PM on a school night (what up with that, NBC? This was for kids....or wait! Maybe not...maybe NBC is developing a niche in which they air stuff seemingly for kids, but in reality it's so grown ups can play drinking games while watching TV and participating in real time schadenfreude on social media). After we watched Peter Pan (Live!) last night at a more reasonable time, Melissa announced that she loved it. She would like to dance and sing like them, and also can we get some wires in our house so we can fly around too? (NO.) (Okay, yes. That would actually be delightful fun. But only if we get a bigger house.)

Thursday night, most of Twitter agreed: Christopher Walken's Hook was fairly hilarious, but that's because most of Twitter agreed that Walken is fairly hilarious. Yesterday, Melissa was confused, because the only live Peter Pan/Hook she knows is Jeremy Sumpter as Pan and Jason Isaacs as Hook in the PJ Hogan 2003 version (which I've written about here before--how was that movie not a runaway hit of Harry Potter-like proportions? I think it's magical). Her major concerns from a child's perspective were: Why was Peter Pan a girl? Where was the real Captain Hook, and why is this one is too happy? Other than those two things, she was captivated--as she should be, since this stuff is so much better for her development than Barbie Goes to Princess School. Live hater-watch THAT, Twitter.

At any rate, I desperately wanted to join in on the hater-watching tweets and make new hater-watcher friends, but I was worried about Christopher Walken's or even Peter Pan Live's producers' feelings being hurt if they saw any of my tweets. And I feel like there's a fine line between creating humor and just being hurtful. Plus also, I genuinely like Christopher Walken; his FatBoy Slim dancing is magical, just magical. And his casual, nonchalant mumbling when he couldn't remember all the words on Thursday evening? Delightful! God bless him, I'd have completely frozen in horror at myself (I'm being very open and honest here: once, I played piano in a talent show, messed up three notes and then froze for about an eternity until I was able to find my spot again; then I just rushed through the whole thing all crazy-like so I could get off the stage). 

Walken just plowed through it all. I don't know. He may have been drunk. Really, I think that may be the only way to do these live television show productions. 

Plus, they worked so hard on this. I hate it when someone creative has poured their very all into a production only to watch it be attacked. Is there a way to constructively critique the less-than creations in ways that won't drive anyone to drink away what's left of their careers in a depressed funk? And yet I do appreciate some of funnier snark when it's clearly deserved--I am thinking specifically of people who produce things JUST to make money. Books and songs and movies that are horrible, not a single artsy thing about them, just: give us your money/time/attention. On those, please sarcastically opine away. The makers of those creations won't end up drinking themselves to death, I promise you--they'll take the attention as a sign they're doing something right, and be happy people are talking about them and their egos will soar. 

When that kind of societal snarky ridicule happens, and it's done well, I feel inadequate trying to hang out with people who excel in it--that kind of snark is an Art in and of itself. (Wine. I needed wine, is what I'm saying. Wine always leads me to believe I'm smarter and funnier and cleverer than I actually am. But it also makes the keyboard hard to see after a bit and also I'm less inhibited about what I'll agree to, and so tweeting and blogging drunk may not be for me.)

I think the whole point of this post is that I often have crises in confidence, briefly, after seeing how clever and popular some other people are. I would like 1.9K people to re-tweet some inanity I've put up. And that's because I would like to make lots of friends on and offline, and not have to have passive aggressive pissing contests with strangers in the process. Because I'm an extreme people pleaser, which makes giving my opinion hard sometimes, because I become paralyzed with fear I'm not good enough or someone will dislike me for saying what I think.

Which is why I'm going to end this with an strongly worded opinion. Have you been listening to Serial on NPR? There is now a lot of opinion out there about whether or not podcasts and other programs like Serial are okay--are they undue influences on the justice system? Or are they checks and balances? Do they just appeal to people's raw emotions? Or do they seek justice in ways the current system doesn't? Are they perpetuating bias in America? Or exposing it? 

Here's my strong opinion: who flippin' cares? It's fascinating listening, and also I am certain Adnan is innocent. Arrest Jay for god's sake. And also: this better not end with a "this was just a psychological experiment in podcast torture" or anything. I expect some firm conclusion, Sarah K. (Either way, I will still love you and give Season 2 a chance, so don't be mad at me for giving my opinion about that, okay?)

Oh, and before I go, here's my opinion-slash-philosophy on romance and love:

What Momus said (is that okay?).