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Riker Walks Into the Holodeck
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Heathcliff on the Moors
Lord Byron (1788-1824)
I recently watched a video on Byronic Heroes. You'll note that Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan) from Black Panther (2018) is included--he's the only black male included on the list. Before I get into my gripe, let's first go over who/what the Byronic Hero is.
The Byronic Hero is a popular character in romantic and gothic literature, named after the famous British poet and author, Lord Byron (Don Juan), who was said to have embodied the very traits that defined these famous characters.
The Byronic Hero is a popular character in romantic and gothic literature, named after the famous British poet and author, Lord Byron (Don Juan), who was said to have embodied the very traits that defined these famous characters.
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In my previous post, I lamented the lack of nuance in everyday society.
Here I am blogging about microagressions--the everyday casualness of racism.
Recently, author Rena Barron on Twitter posted a review of her middle grade story in which the reviewer (clearly white) complimented her book as a good read "for children of African descent."
Imagine the following review--"Harry Potter is a great read for children of European descent." This would never occur. Those with power (people of European heritage) have occupied the position of normal and standard human being and have designated themselves race-less and universal. Their stories are for EVERYONE.
Here I am blogging about microagressions--the everyday casualness of racism.
Recently, author Rena Barron on Twitter posted a review of her middle grade story in which the reviewer (clearly white) complimented her book as a good read "for children of African descent."
Imagine the following review--"Harry Potter is a great read for children of European descent." This would never occur. Those with power (people of European heritage) have occupied the position of normal and standard human being and have designated themselves race-less and universal. Their stories are for EVERYONE.
- Published on
This post is a ramble. To quote Nina Simone, "this is a showtune, but the show hasn't been written for it yet."
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
- Published on
Critique groups. sigh. These are hard. Your writing/characters are your babies. Hearing others criticize them can be tough.
More than that. It's the type of the criticism that can hit hard. You can give feedback about prose, long, short, dense sentences, or weak verb usage, sure, but when you criticize the essence of the story or who the protagonist is/represents then that becomes a sore issue.
Lately, I have been dealing with criticism that a character from a story I will dub, P isn't likeable. The protagonist is an ailing woman suffering from an unknown illness who's being given the runaround, and who expresses her frustration with this frequently. I have been told she's not sympathetic. She has demonstrated no BAD behavior, with the exception of snapping at her landlady, a woman who says racially insensitive things--and apparently this makes her not likeable or bitchy.
First, let me say that writing black characters, especially black women, is hard. I don't want to write a *strong black woman, angry black woman, or victim. I also don't want to write a character deemed unworthy of sympathy/love. I have received criticism that this character is one, if not all of these.
I have been quite diplomatic about the criticism, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt about their objectivity, even while pushing to know what exactly about this character makes her unsympathetic and unlikeable.
The responses have been --a) she's snappy with the landlady/bitchy, b) we don't know who she is/she's not relatable, c)she's stupid/incompetent.
Part of me cannot help feel that the repeated criticism that this character isn't likeable has much to do with the difficulty society in general has with sympathizing with black women. That said, I am reluctant to make her a sad victim, since society, and the literary world in particular, thrive on black victimhood. I don't want her to be Patsey from 12 Years A Slave, which I often feel is the only type of black women character deemed sympathetic. I don't want to exploit black trauma.
I mainly write characters put upon by the world they live in (in other words, true to life black people). I write characters who grow into who they are and take what's thrust upon them and turn it into magic and strength.
Another bizarre criticism I received was that I have dehumanized my lead character, making her into a magical non-human--a magic negro. The Magic Negro is a character used in fiction to help alleviate the conflicts and elevate the status of the white protagonist, going so far as to die for the white leads.
This character is set up that way but the moral of the story is that she won't any longer die for anyone's causes. My goal for this particular character is to have her turn her would-be victimhood/magical status into strength and power to help herself. In other words, subvert the plot.
More than that. It's the type of the criticism that can hit hard. You can give feedback about prose, long, short, dense sentences, or weak verb usage, sure, but when you criticize the essence of the story or who the protagonist is/represents then that becomes a sore issue.
Lately, I have been dealing with criticism that a character from a story I will dub, P isn't likeable. The protagonist is an ailing woman suffering from an unknown illness who's being given the runaround, and who expresses her frustration with this frequently. I have been told she's not sympathetic. She has demonstrated no BAD behavior, with the exception of snapping at her landlady, a woman who says racially insensitive things--and apparently this makes her not likeable or bitchy.
First, let me say that writing black characters, especially black women, is hard. I don't want to write a *strong black woman, angry black woman, or victim. I also don't want to write a character deemed unworthy of sympathy/love. I have received criticism that this character is one, if not all of these.
I have been quite diplomatic about the criticism, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt about their objectivity, even while pushing to know what exactly about this character makes her unsympathetic and unlikeable.
The responses have been --a) she's snappy with the landlady/bitchy, b) we don't know who she is/she's not relatable, c)she's stupid/incompetent.
Part of me cannot help feel that the repeated criticism that this character isn't likeable has much to do with the difficulty society in general has with sympathizing with black women. That said, I am reluctant to make her a sad victim, since society, and the literary world in particular, thrive on black victimhood. I don't want her to be Patsey from 12 Years A Slave, which I often feel is the only type of black women character deemed sympathetic. I don't want to exploit black trauma.
I mainly write characters put upon by the world they live in (in other words, true to life black people). I write characters who grow into who they are and take what's thrust upon them and turn it into magic and strength.
Another bizarre criticism I received was that I have dehumanized my lead character, making her into a magical non-human--a magic negro. The Magic Negro is a character used in fiction to help alleviate the conflicts and elevate the status of the white protagonist, going so far as to die for the white leads.
This character is set up that way but the moral of the story is that she won't any longer die for anyone's causes. My goal for this particular character is to have her turn her would-be victimhood/magical status into strength and power to help herself. In other words, subvert the plot.
- Published on
The painful irony of "having time. Remember when you would say, if only I had time, I'd do this and that? Looks like it's not time that keeps us back, after all.
Lethargy, tiredness from little or no physical exertion, or just plain fatigue.
My brain's active--ideas are constantly forming, and I am forever excited by them, and yet, now stuck at home, with more of my day to myself, I am unable to do a thing about all these ideas driving me insane.
How about them apples?
I haven't read a book since January. That hasn't stopped me from making booklists, and borrowing digitally from the public library, even putting physical books on loan; but I never get around to reading them. The most I can suffice these days is browsing reference books and encyclopedias, and even those are barely explored.
Once upon a time, I had this plan that should I get more of my days to myself, I'd become a kitchen witch--I even bought all the herbal and plant books, all the books about health juices and growing a witch's garden. And two months of working from home, I have yet to lift a finger toward doing what I have always wanted to do.
Do I get an A for thinking and planning all the same?
I still have plans for that backyard garden and with warmer weather hopefully comes more physical efforts.
Maybe my problem has always been overthinking and worrying. The period between end of April and end of May represents a strange month for me. My birthday brings life worries, mother's day and my mother's birthday brings even more worries and sad reflections. Covid-19 hasn't helped. Like many people I am worried about employment, a job I need but don't want.
I worry about paying bills, and with a new home, I have lots of them.
That might ultimately be the problem. Yes, I have more time but I still have worries that stalk my waking hours and night. I suffer from anxiety and all these things weigh on me, draining my energy.
So it's not time, or the absence of that is the culprit of why I cannot live a personally fulfilling life, but rather, worries that lead to wasted energy. And it's a cycle.
Lethargy, tiredness from little or no physical exertion, or just plain fatigue.
My brain's active--ideas are constantly forming, and I am forever excited by them, and yet, now stuck at home, with more of my day to myself, I am unable to do a thing about all these ideas driving me insane.
How about them apples?
I haven't read a book since January. That hasn't stopped me from making booklists, and borrowing digitally from the public library, even putting physical books on loan; but I never get around to reading them. The most I can suffice these days is browsing reference books and encyclopedias, and even those are barely explored.
Once upon a time, I had this plan that should I get more of my days to myself, I'd become a kitchen witch--I even bought all the herbal and plant books, all the books about health juices and growing a witch's garden. And two months of working from home, I have yet to lift a finger toward doing what I have always wanted to do.
Do I get an A for thinking and planning all the same?
I still have plans for that backyard garden and with warmer weather hopefully comes more physical efforts.
Maybe my problem has always been overthinking and worrying. The period between end of April and end of May represents a strange month for me. My birthday brings life worries, mother's day and my mother's birthday brings even more worries and sad reflections. Covid-19 hasn't helped. Like many people I am worried about employment, a job I need but don't want.
I worry about paying bills, and with a new home, I have lots of them.
That might ultimately be the problem. Yes, I have more time but I still have worries that stalk my waking hours and night. I suffer from anxiety and all these things weigh on me, draining my energy.
So it's not time, or the absence of that is the culprit of why I cannot live a personally fulfilling life, but rather, worries that lead to wasted energy. And it's a cycle.
- Published on
What's worse than writer's block?
To quote Bob Dylan--"I have a head full of ideas that are driving me insane."
I know that saying --"if there's a story you want told, then write it," and I have been trying to live by this rule. I like to think of concepts/ideas for stories before I attempt to write them. What's been driving me mad is that I can generate so many "fascinating" storytelling ideas and then draw blank when I sit down to write them.
What's wrong with me and how to fix it?
I have expressed on this blog before that I have little confidence in my execution of ideas (storytelling). I recently tweeted that storytelling is more important than writing; in actuality, an author should aim for both--the best writers know how to do both. Storytelling is more about big ideas-- mindbogglingly reveals, twists, and truths that leave the reader in awe, thinking about the story long after they've finished the book. Writing/being a writer is about structuring and presenting those intricacies of storytelling.
I am a "big ideas" writer, but I drive myself mad trying to figure out how to present those ideas in a logical, compelling and utter engrossing way. Plotting is hard. Timing is hard. Lately, I have been drawn to the free indirect discourse style--the literary narrative. I think of this style as a ramble inside a person's head.
Perhaps my attachment to this style is that it feels authentic--my head is a messy place of ideas and rambles.
But, here comes all the doubts of whether I can do this properly for my next manuscript, which I shall hereby dub, Anac.
Cheers to the new year 2020,
and something me and my mommy can be proud of.
- Published on
Do you remember,
The one you used to know?
I'm not the same one
See what the time's done
Is that why you have let me go?
The one you used to know?
I'm not the same one
See what the time's done
Is that why you have let me go?
- Published on
It's a state I long for--all my life I wanted it. Stability of mind, body, soul and place.
I hate moving. I hate changing. I lust and long for comfort.
I gave my self anxiety attacks over my fear of being forced to leave.
So I have a new place and I'm hesitating to fill it with things. My fear hasn't left me. I might be forced to leave. What if I am expected to leave tomorrow, next week, next month, six months from now, next year, or so forth.
My logic works like that ... minimalism in a world of uncertainty. I fantasize about not having too many things, about being able to walk away confidently from everything.
I like things, but don't like acquiring them. Why am I accumulating things? I need to get rid of things. Things equal permanence, attachment, stability. I want fewer things but keep acquiring more. I wake up and think, I should get rid of stuff, but then I wake up and think, I should get this. I am restless. I return things to stores and I feel good, but then I buy more things and I feel guilty.
Permanence is a fantasy and a dream I fear might be too costly to invest in.
The old adage is that as you get older you need stability and permanence. I feel more restless, and do not want a bond to the world and its machinations. I don't know if I'll ever not have these feelings.
Funnily, until a month ago I had nothing except clothes, shoes and some minor household items. Now, I have far more. A bed, televisions, furniture and a townhouse. I have complicated my life more than I needed to.
I keep thinking about that abandoned house on the web. It has all its furniture and even a car in the garage. The theory is that the couple that once owned it died suddenly. And no one claimed it, after. It exists, trapped in its 1970s decor, slowly succumbing to the entropy that decays all things in time.
The arguments for and against permanence are strong, either way. I could die today or live for the next sixty years. So, I guess I am forever restless.
I hate moving. I hate changing. I lust and long for comfort.
I gave my self anxiety attacks over my fear of being forced to leave.
So I have a new place and I'm hesitating to fill it with things. My fear hasn't left me. I might be forced to leave. What if I am expected to leave tomorrow, next week, next month, six months from now, next year, or so forth.
My logic works like that ... minimalism in a world of uncertainty. I fantasize about not having too many things, about being able to walk away confidently from everything.
I like things, but don't like acquiring them. Why am I accumulating things? I need to get rid of things. Things equal permanence, attachment, stability. I want fewer things but keep acquiring more. I wake up and think, I should get rid of stuff, but then I wake up and think, I should get this. I am restless. I return things to stores and I feel good, but then I buy more things and I feel guilty.
Permanence is a fantasy and a dream I fear might be too costly to invest in.
The old adage is that as you get older you need stability and permanence. I feel more restless, and do not want a bond to the world and its machinations. I don't know if I'll ever not have these feelings.
Funnily, until a month ago I had nothing except clothes, shoes and some minor household items. Now, I have far more. A bed, televisions, furniture and a townhouse. I have complicated my life more than I needed to.
I keep thinking about that abandoned house on the web. It has all its furniture and even a car in the garage. The theory is that the couple that once owned it died suddenly. And no one claimed it, after. It exists, trapped in its 1970s decor, slowly succumbing to the entropy that decays all things in time.
The arguments for and against permanence are strong, either way. I could die today or live for the next sixty years. So, I guess I am forever restless.
- Published on
Not sure I like it. Screwed. In the renovations process--drawn out and expensive.
Haven't gotten any writing done. I am existing not living. I am tired.
Been budgeting --stuff adults do, I guess.
Been dealing with things like utilities, mortgage and renovations.
Overwhelmed.
Where has all my free time gone?
Spam mail and all kinds of nonsense.
I am ready to go off the grid.