Not Forgotten (short post)

FYI! I SOOOOOOOOOOO have NOT forgotten that this blog exists. Sorry for being so busy and seldom updating (not that I actually have any readers…) lol. To readers that I don’t have: sorry you can’t not read my posts. Finals are CRAZINESS! They’re not actually that bad; they’re just time consuming.

The very act of blogging makes one feel like they have an audience… then one looks at one’s stats… Well, at least I amuse myself. P.S. I’m thinking of adopting a new blogging style. Very “Are You There G-d? It’s me, Margaret” but much less a coming of age story and more of a random combination of stuff. Also…not written to G-d. I’ll elaborate later!

G2g

Archaeology study group!

My Sex in the City Moment©

How hard can it be to find the right man? I mean really, why are we so picky? Why do their little habits annoy us so much? Is it them, or is it us? “Self,”

My dating history has been…average.

Some Highlights (A.K.A. “low-lights”):

Boy #1) Great guy! We adored each other. We could talk on the phone for hours at a time, stopping only when the familiar refrain of “You’re running up the phone bill!” appeared (courtesy of parents). Deal-breaker: He couldn’t kiss to save his life. In fact, it was so bad we’re probably just lucky it hasn’t taken one by now.

Boy #2) Fun guy! I was his first girlfriend but he was hunky, tall, built, French AND English, and an Olympic fencer. He moved really slowly, which is just what I like. I like to build a friendship first. Deal-breaker: His other ladies and lax dental hygiene. He didn’t cheat on me, but he would talk about his mom, friends, sister, MY FRIENDS all the time. I was left with the constant urge to say, “remember me!?” Also, the fact that you have a girlfriend doesn’t mean that you get to forget to brush your teeth. Come on people!

Boy #3) Sweet guy! Sweet guy also had ZERO dating experience. He’d call me several times daily, yet when we were together he’d have nothing to say. Whenever he walked me back to my door he’d say his good-byes and continue to stand there. After he left, you could bet he’d knock on the door again within the next five minutes. I was always left with the feeling that he called his mom after our dates, and he asked if we could schedule our classes together…ON THE THIRD DATE. Deal-breaker: Everything about him. That boy had to go.

“Self,” I say to myself, “I’m sick of dating inexperienced dudes who expect me to do all the work in a relationship.” I pleaded with The Power(s) That Be for a decent guy, with some experience and dental hygiene. If he happened to like “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and other products of Joss Whedon, who was I to complain? I was sick of dating the safe guy, but I didn’t want a bad boy.

Then I get what I want. I get an experienced guy who’s been through his own dark times. He’s older and smart. He’s not a hunkity hunk, but he is pretty cute. He knows his way around both a kiss and a toothbrush. He wants to be with me, but not in a smothery way. He gets my jokes. He likes Joss Whedon. What in the name of high heaven could be the problem?

I don’t have an answer for that specifically. Welcome to my first, real-life dating dilemma. There doesn’t seem to be something wrong, at least nothing major, except for the fact that something’s wrong. I suppose it could be that we have no history.

The major vibe I’m getting right now is that, while it’s not his sole goal in life to get into my pants it’s definitely still on his to do list. This is the first time I’ve ever felt like I’m something a guy wants to conquer. Also, both he and guy #3 do this weird look that signifies that they’re about to do something romantic. I suppose Boy #1 did the same “I’m staring deeply into your eyes” thing, but that’s because he loved me. Or maybe I just bought it because I loved him back. I think it must have been some combination thereof. But with Boys #3 and #4 It’s like they’re imitation their concept of love.

Also, I’ve seen Boy #4 talk about previous girlfriends and I’m not a fan of how he talks about them. He’s not mean, but they have no names. They’re “my ex” or “my last girl” or some such thing. Never, “this girl I once dated” or (god(s) forbid) her name!

I feel this weird pressure to do things that I’m just not ready to do and that I frankly won’t be ready to do for a good long while.

I’m probably the only person I know who has chosen abstinence for reasons that aren’t religious. I’m just too highly motivated to deal with the downside of sex right now. I have goals and ambitions and a deep desire not to get pregnant or infected with HIV/AIDS right now. I know: “use a condom,” “take birth-control,” and “get tested.” But I’m still hearing, “only 98% percent effective,” “putting it on wrong,” “wrong results.”

I have no plans to be celibate for the rest of my life. I don’t even plan to wait until marriage. But is it really such a crime to want to wait until I’m both in love with a guy and have a degree? I think not. Are the only people who wait losers, geeks, and religious freaks? Again, I’m sensing misnomer. Is sex really so important that it has to occur within a certain time frame? Puberty and menopause are the only relevant time frames that come to mind. Most importantly, is a relationship only a relationship if there’s sex? If so, then why is it me who has to sacrifice my safety? If not, then what’s all the hubbub about? I’m just selective with my partners, and I’m putting my foot down. I’m responsible, not a future spinster. I’m motivated, not a ball basher. I’m a woman, not a blow-up doll. I want to have kids one day. I’d be a kick ass mom, but that day is not anywhere close to my near future.

I’m re-evaluating my image of the perfect guy (while noting that this is subject to change): All of the above requests are still valid. Also, a guy with a similar background (in terms of political views and personal values) is a must. A guy that cares about the people in his life, but wants to make room for me is preferred. Someone with siblings would be sweet. Someone older, but not in a creepy way. Someone who knows what he could have (sex, sex, and more sex) and has had it before, but is willing to wait for me to be ready, no matter how long it takes. I want a friend who’s my boyfriend, but different. It’s vague, but it’s true. Is it really that unattainable? I doubt it.

But I am really finally seeing why finding the right guy is so difficult. It’s the same reason that people want to have sex before they’re ready. It’s so hard to date anyone. And by that I mean that the majority of people you’ll date aren’t actually people; they’re manifestations of what people expect they should be: whores, players, good girls, bad boys, and the one’s your mom will love. When you finally do find someone who is willing to stop acting, there’s the whole matter of deciding if that’s what you want from a guy. It looks like I’ve got a whole lot of work ahead of me. When practicality becomes, a view that’s “so romantic that it’s unrealistic,” then I entreat society to re-evaluate its expectations and stop expecting me to change mine. All I’m expecting is good people behaving sensibly. It’s really not that romantic.

So my answer to the giant question mark that is the world of dating is: It’s not me, it’s you.

Moving On©

 

I wrote that last post hurriedly, because it has been something in my brain for a while, but is becoming less and less true. To put it bluntly, sorrow has not found a comfortable home in me. It just doesn’t take. It festers like a sore for a little while then gets bored and moves on.

I am a woman of action. If I’m dissatisfied there is only so long I can talk about it before I fix it. College is getting more bearable and I’m finding myself again. I’m learning not to take everything so seriously. Rather than worrying about whether or not my acting dreams will come true, I’ve returned to my original assumption that they will. That idea is much more comfortable to wear. For me, success is much easier to visualize than failure.

My writing and sense of humor have abounded in the college atmosphere. So I’m working on that. Everyone here is kind of a characature. Every interaction fodder for the digital, word-processed tomes. The awesome, multi-lingual, super-cultural roommate. The professor on pot. The girl in the dorm who lacks awareneess, hygene, and the ability to contribute to a conversation. The lecturer who’s name must be something like Mabel or Fanny or Beatrice. People that the school must have let in on accident, because they are  so very very dumb. A lecturer who emphasizes key points with volume rather than inflection. The TA who cares. The TA who doesn’t. The professor who thinks he’s the coolest guy in the world. The professor who is the coolest guy ever, but has no idea. The kids with bikes who wouldn’t hesitate for a second at the prospect of running over a pedestrian. The skateboarders who eat pavement daily. The couple of (what are obviously) freshman who thought it would be a really great idea to bring a Razor scooter to college. The tailgaters. The party dorm. The students who only speak Chinese. The Jesus-freaks and televangelists. The sorority girls. Oh the sorority girls… The frat boys who don’t drink (a new species of man!?). And a plethora of others that find themselves in the unedited novel that is the college experience.

I finished Cider With Rosie and it was perfect. It was so wonderful. Please read this book. It is officially my favorite book of all time. The author, Laurie Lee (a man) somehow made murder a charming winter occurance and grandmothers the most vicious of creatures. He made a woman with an aversion to cleanliness, a propensity for lateness, and an assortment of profoundly deep personal losses the source of the same feeling that one gets from watching a two year old boy play with a new puppy. Cider With Rosie defies description and may be the best kept secret of modern literature. Imagine if Angela’s Ashes inspired you to cry with joy at every point without the novel without changing a single part of the plot. Imagine Joni Mitchell with the same impact but without the sorrow. Imagine The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn more exciting and without any of the adventures. Imagine wishing that you could eat sentences. Imagine a world without cynisism or optimism. Reading Cider With Rosie was like reading high tea, a French impressionist painting, or an independent film. Better yet, reading Cider With Rosie was akin to being five years old and eating a piece of candy made by the candyshop owner while you walk home alone down a trail within a field of wildflowers on the English countryside, alive yet drowsy in the late-afternoon of Springtime.

If and when you buy the novel, do your best to buy the version published by Random House as a one of the “Vintage Classics.” It has a picture of a curly-haired toddler superimposed of a field of golden wheat.

Here are some quotes from the book, to spark your interest.

Rather than an acknowlegment section or a a prologue, Lee writes the note, “The book is a recollection of early boyhood, and some of the facts may be distorted by time.” – This clues you into the fact that this may technically be an autobiography, but in reality is the voice of the countryside.

The opening sentence and first paragraph:

I was set down from the carrier’s cart at the age of three; and there with a sense of bewilderment and terror my life in the village began.

     The June grass, amongst which I stood, was taller than I was, and I wept. I had never been so close to grass before. It towered above me and all around me, each blade tattooed with tiger-skins of sunlight. It was a knife-edged, dark, and a wicked green, thick as a forest and alive with grasshoppers that chirped and chattered and leapt through the air like monkeys.

  Off page 19:

He talked something of battles and of flying in the air, and it was all wonderful to us…He was no man from these parts. He had appeared on the doorstep one early morning, asking for a cup of tea. Our Mother had brought him in and given him a whole breakfast. There had been blood on his face and he had seemed very weak. Now he was in the kitchen and with a woman and a lot of children, and his eyes shone brightly, and his whiskers smiled. He told us he was sleeping in the wood, which seemed to me a good idea. And he was a soldier, because Mother had said so.

READ THIS BOOK!

Follow Up©

So… Long time, no write. I know… But I’ve been busy. I’m still pretty busy, actually. So the last post was written solely so that any readers of this blog could fully understand and appreciate the specificity of the reference in the following statement:

Now is the school year of my discontent yet to be made glorious summer by the end of classes.

Anybody in the world who knows me is aware that I just might be the second happiest, most optimistic person in the entire world (the identity of the ACTUAL most optimistic person in the entire world belongs to one of my bestest besty bestiful best friends who shall remain nameless).

College should be where people go to shed the apathy and cynicism they cloaked themselves in while they were in high school. I waited four not-so-hellish high school years to get here. Now, much to my dismay, I’m becoming a cynic.

That’s not true. I’m not even becoming cynical. I’m just losing my optimism. I don’t want to hear any of that “it’s not pessimism; it’s realism” bull shit, because that’s stupid. I don’t think hope or happiness is unrealistic. I think that people who do think that way might be clinically depressed.

Why do I find this recognition of an unhappy worldview so disturbing to me?

First of all, it flies in the face of every thought I’ve had or action I’ve carried out in the history of my life. My entire outlook on life is founded upon the fact that human happiness in inevitable and natural (that might give you some insight into the depth of my optimism).

Second, I’m kind of an emotional miracle in my family. One of my great grandmothers, who I adored and love and admire, was probably an undiagnosed depressive. In retrospect, she probably felt very self-loathing about her cultural heritage. Her own mother had been very demanding and distant. Her two children definitely have mental issues fundamentally related to what I term a depressimistic mentality. My mother is wonderful. She is not a depressimist, but was raised around them and sometimes needs a little encouragement from the divine hand of happiness. Then there’s me: immutably, purely, infinitely happy. I was just born that way. That being said, I can credit the maintenence of this happiness to my bestyiest best friend who I mentioned earlier.

I have this strange anxious fear cracking inside of me about my future and where I’ll end up. I’ve heard some call this “angst.” Gross. This conjures up images of emo-gothic high schoolers watching Heathers (with Wynona Ryder), not because of its 1980s hilarity, but because they think it’s a profound statement on humanity.

But my “angst” is more legit., because it’s collegiate, right?

Shakespeare Lesson

This post serves as a prologue to my next post. Also, I think this is one of the most beautiful set of words ever compiled, and if you’d like to be more cultured you should read this post.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York; and all the clouds that lour’d upon our house: in the deep bosom of the ocean buried…But I, — that am not shap’d for sportive trick, nor made to court an amorous looking glass; I, that am stamped, and want love’s majesty to strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time, into this breathing scarce half made up, and that so lamely unfashionable that dogs bark at me as I halt by them; — Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, have no delight to pass away the time, unless to spy my shadow in the sun, and descant on mine own deformity: and therefore, –since I cannot prove a lover, – to entertain these fair, well-spoken days — I am determined to prove a villain and hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots I have laid, inductions dangerous, by drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams…dive, thoughts, down to my soul!

– William Shakespeare, Richard III, Act I, Scene I

This is, without question, my favorite Shakespeare quote. Richard himself speaks this monologue as the first lines of the play. For those of you who “don’t do Shakespeare,” I shall explain the majestic beauty of this line by telling you what the heck it means. The first line (“Now is the winter…sun of York”) has many meanings, and I don’t know if any other Shakespeare line has more. This is my favorite literary quote of all time.

1) The dreadful winter is ending and summer is beginning her in this town named York

2) The long, bitter war in which our nation has been engaged has finally ended and we members of the city of York have brave soldiers that have brought us glorious victory.

3) The long, bitter war in which our nation has been engaged has ended and we are free to live in peacetime thanks to this man, my brother, leader of England, titan of the battlefield, King Edward, a member of the House of York  (aka the York Family), who has helped us defeat our enemies.

4) King Edward has contracted a fever from the battlefield and has been suffering on his deathbed for several months. At last his suffering is coming to a close and a new King, a relative of mine from the House of York will rise, like the sun, to power.

4) We, the members of the royal family, have spent our winter taking care of our poor, wick King Edward who we love dearly. It has been difficult, but now that his death is imminent another of us Yorks has come to lead us back to joy.

5) Soon, King Edward’s long suffering will end and one of his two sons (a son of York) will become ruler of this nation. But, being aged only 12 and 9, they are both unfit to rule alone. As such, I get to rule on  behalf of the oldest child until he comes of age. I, a son of York, get to enjoy all the powers of being king!

6) All winter I have been discontented as King Edward takes babysteps towards death each day. Alone I sat all season, scheming and plotting. Now, after a lifetime of being the forgotten child, I this son York (son of our father who was also a member of the House of York) can carry out the evil and mischivous plot to kill my nephews and become the sole heir to the throne, as I will be the only surviving member of the York family. Yippee!

He goes on to detail that he is different from the rest of his family as he was born deformed (usually depicted as a hunchback). No woman will have him and mirrors crack for his ugliness is so great. While everyone else celebrates the coming “summer” he shuns the sun for it gives him nothing but the shadow of his deformed self. There is no creature in the world who will be his lover, and he may not even be physically able to have sex, so he has spent his summer fashioning a master evil plan to kill his brother and two young nephews and become the sole heir to the throne.

As he hears someone walking by, Richard uses his final line (“Plots I have laid…my soul.”) to command all of his evil, murderous thoughts and plans to leave the forefront of his mind and to hide themselves within the recesses of his subconcious. This reveals to the audience that he never said anything at all. He has merely thought his above monologue with such vigor that we (the audience) were able to hear them aloud and, should his thoughts remain so intensley present in his mind, the person walking by will no doubt take one look at Richard and understand not only the purpose of his plan but also his absolutely immutable intent on seeing it through.

How powerful is that!?

Consent to Succeed, Breakthrough Apparent, Coming Full Circle©

I take stock of myself for a moment, alone. I hear the schoolroom’s beehive hum. Of course I don’t really belong to that lot at all; I know I’m something special, a young king perhaps placed secretly here in order to mix with the commoners. There is clearly a mystery about my birth, I feel so unique and majestic. One day, I know, the secret will be told. A coach with footmen will appear suddenly at our cottage, and Mother (my mother?) will weep. The family will stand very solemn and respectful, and I shall drive off to take up my throne. I’ll be generous, of course, not proud at all; for my brothers there shall be no dungeons. Rather will I feed them on cakes and jellies, and I’ll provide all my sisters with princes. Sovereign mercy shall be their portion, little though they deserve it…

Thus wrote Laurie Lee in his exceptional boyhood memoir, Cider with Rosie (the book, insanely, is only available for purchase within the UK. Buy it). 

I don’t know if everyone feels some secret power within themselves, but I most certainly identify with Mr. Lee. Given that information, I experienced something remarkable last night.

I found an old article online, out of boredom, from the New York Times.  Said article contained a ten question interview with Joss Whedon. In response to some question, Mr. Whedon basically said that its better to let the ideas for a TV series flow than try to plan them seasons in advance. A light went on in my brain. In fact, thousands of light bulbs and alarm bells and an audience applauded and a chorus began to sing and some hidden part of me, tucked deep within the this abandoned auditorium in my brain, started mocking me.

Here’s the background: I began writing a TV series six years ago (no way I’m ever going to write about its content on this blog!). It has always been a dream of mine (one of many, but no less important) to bring this series to TV. Real TV. Not cable channel 23093842. Then I discovered Buffy the Vampire Slayer and (consequently) Joss Whedon.

At first, I was simply enthralled by the way he layered comedy and wit over a serious, substantive topic. He made TV relevant in a way I’d never seen. Then I realized that the reason I was so drawn to his work was that we share the same style and goal in our work. When I realized I was comparing my work and brain to the work and brain of what I consider the Zeus of scripted television I immediately decided it was inappropriate. How could I ever come close to that!?

I spent a lot of time over the next few years trying to get inside his head, trying to figure out where his ideas came from. I yearned to understand what I needed to share his creative power. I once read something that said that he’d thought of a certain storyline seasons before he actually wrote it. I stared at my scripts. How is that possible? I was so enjoying the way the characters wrote themselves. I found it so surprising when they’d advance the plot in ways I never expected. How far in advance was I supposed to think? Was I supposed to take a more hands-on role in the architecture of the piece? Is that what it takes to match Joss’s brilliance? It must have been, right? I tried to construct storylines and plan ahead. Every avenue dead-ended. Writer’s Berlin Wall went up. I had so many ideas, but I had no idea where they were going. Each time I’d try to construct a plot element, the series would lose the gravity it needed, becoming more than a fluffy adventure. If I concentrated on the serious bit, the show dragged and disintegrated to philosophy which is no fun for me or the viewers at home. I knew this was silly of me, that TV execs change a lot of what’s written anyway. But I don’t settle for being anything other than my best. I had, and still have a writing partner. But I’ve always been the optimist, and when I lost  hope then motivation was also lost for us both. The most darkly defeatist attitude I’ve ever had. The series was eventually shelved.

Discontentedly, I resigned myself to pondering with amazement at the Awesomeness of Joss. That, I thought, must be what separates the men from the naïve schoolgirls. Occassionally, I would cast a wistful glance at the scripts. Recently, I found a friend, who shall not identify his/herself ( ;) ), who inspired me to give it another go. Long story short, he/she read the script and loved it. He/she joined the creative fold and the series had new life. Still, ideas remained mostly on the brainstorming section of my notebook. I felt so invigorated when I was able to finish the last, unfinished episode and begin the next one. But then I started to stagnate again, as the specter of Buffy the Vampire Slayercame back to haunt me, shape-shifting into such amazingness as Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-long Blog and Firefly. The series redoubled its path to stagnation.

Then I read that simple sentence in The New York Times. It was all I really needed to hear (or, more accurately, read). I’ve been told this before, but when I heard it from friends, family, teachers, (etc.) they lose power. In a way, I needed to hear this from someone who didn’t know me. Someone who wasn’t trying to excuse my actions or sooth my bruised ego, but also someone who I respect. I would not be comforted by someone successful if I did not believe their work was worthwhile. Then, straight from the horse’s interview…Its OK to be unsure of what happens next. Its OK to have ideas for things you have no idea how to fit into the story. Its okay to keep these thoughts at the back of your brain until you need them. It wasn’t just anyone who said it. It was Joss. It was the source of all my inferiority-anxiety now floating into the stratosphere where it will burst like a balloon. And now I can hardly wait to write. There is absolutely no reason that I can’t be as great as Joss. There is no reason that my style can’t be better than his. I’m not a schoolgirl anymore. I can feel great about what I write. Now that I know this, I can write what I want (rather than what I should).

No. I am not a freak who spent six full years primarily focused on the thought-process of a man who I don’t know. I acted, which (if I absolutely had to choose) is what I prefer anyway. But I’m an actress and a writer. Actors act. Writers write. I wrote other things: short stories, poems, bits of novels, other scripts. I won awards for these pursuits and I kicked some serious scholastic tush, but that script always haunted me. It was my best creative endeavor, rotting somewhere inside my closet. I discovered other authors to admire (Laurie Lee, Virginia Woolf, others). Now, as my own worst critic, I have a new realization: if I think my work is just as good, then it probably is. Suck on that! (I needed a dramatic ending there…hmm….that was an interesting choice.)

True Original©

So I suppose the days where some famous dreammaker scrolls through blogs, notices your brilliance, and gives you a crack at the big leagues have been exhausted following Juno and Julie and Julia. Still, I can’t help but hope that some how, some way it’ll happen to me too. Its that persistant optimism again…

While I have become dangerously addicted to the whole blogging concept, I am seeing some pitfalls.

1) Its really annoying how this is my only font option. I’d totally dig Calibri instead…

On a more serious note:

2) There’s an unsolved problem of voice presented by the blog-o-sphere. Writing in first person is the mark of an extremely inexperienced writer (“look how cool I am. I can totally write about myself. Aren’t I deep? Don’t you totally care?”) but to write a blog from the third person perspective reeks of teenage angst (“She sat at her computer writing a story. She knew she was really awesome because her idea was so creative…”). The most well-known blogs all have the same snarky, cynical-yet optimistic tone that inevitably results in witty wordplay that delights and amuses. But I want more than that. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for the snarky/cynical/optimism, but I want something more uniquely me. I’m not prepared to surrender to the idea  all human beings are essentially the same with regards to voice. The biggest obstacle to achieving this voice is the medium in which blogs are presented. You, you, whoever spends any time reading this blog (which could just be an imaginary nobody as of right now) approach this as if you get to peek into my diary. How cool for you. Here’s this opportunity for you to view the deepest darkest innerworkings of the brain of someone who’s not you. That is such a rare opportunity. Face it, you don’t even understand yourself that well.

But that’s a falsity, isn’t it? Yes it is. Unfortunately, you might get to peek into every thought I have, but there’s no way that I’m just gonna tell you everything about myself. Most likey, I don’t even know you (Well, maybe I do…because this is my 2nd day of blogging). Oddly, the internet removes some part of the human element that prevents us from revealing our wierdest habits to someone on a first date or telling someone our most painful memory upon first meeting. This is a liberating experience, but there’s still that reserved, socially concious aspect of (most) of us that will prevent airing all our dirt laundry on the world wide web.

This leaves me stuck in this queer in-between-place that has me stradling ideas. I’m on the shore of bearing my soul while I cling to the island of literary technique. Where am I in all this mess? Not the I I I I I that forces me to use this stupid term that I learned was unsophisticated, but the true I from which emenates a mature literary voice? From whence does my inspiration come? Not from those I admire. They just ignite something within me. Something that already exists. Why can’t I pinpoint it? Why must I resort to the most base of all conventions. First person; inexact terms (something, someone, stuff, etc…); questions-in-text…Gross.

I know this isn’t a novel or an essay, but there should really be a better way to lyrical poetry that each person, myself included, feels within themselves. The part of our minds that makes our thoughts so profound and important to us. That, in my opinion, is what blogs in general was created to address in the first place, but there was a flaw somewhere in execution.

3) How to sound insightful without sounding pretensious? Annoyed without being accused of angst? Earnest without being an endless flow of babble? There is no protocol for these things. No grammar, no syntax. Nothing to separate the hopelessly self-absorbed from those truly seeking answers, the men from the boys.

This doesn’t mean this blog has no hope. To the contrary, I must blog to answer these questions.

4) There’s also a void in subject matter. It seems that my options consist primarily of recitations of the menial occurences in the life of me, my philosophies, my rants/raves, references to communal pop culture references, or (if I really wanted) I could post unfiltered fiction (of the fan genre or otherwise).

What means the most to me in life may not mean a damn thing to you, reader. This goes for philosophy or experiences. There’s the pressure for my cyber-journal to be not only honest, but compelling and entertaining. No longer do my thoughts belong only to me, nor can I derive enjoyment from them without a third-party monitor. This, reader, I find troublesome.

If I go the pop culture route, then my blog loses purpose entirely. It loses every essence of me. If I start talking about So You Think You Can Dance – which I love by the way – (In fact, I think I’ll add it to my Television page…) then my cyber-journal has become entirely for the benefit of others. While the shared experience across distance is very cool indeed, this is an advantage that has long ruled the Cyber Era. Its nothing new and has no relevence to my blog.

Finally, I have no desire to put unfiltered fiction out onto the inter-web (as everyone’s great grandpa Carl always says…). Sorry FanFictors… The majority of fan fiction is utter shit. It always will be utter shit. It has redeaming social value in that it gives fans a venue to portray opinions, but the problem is two fold. Sub problem 1) You ALL need an editor. The people who write the real show have an editor. Novelists have editors. It is important for you guys to have unchallenged ways to present your ideas, but the editor’s job is to find the voice into the pile of rubble we authors make with our words and to carve it out. While your idea may be super-duper genius, its almost always obscured by irrelivancies. And anyway, it’s hard enough to write a blog without an editor. I’m sure I have errors all over already and I’m just on post #2! Sub-problem 2) Your idea may be the most brilliant of brilliant ideas but, unfortunately, its not really your idea. In writing for another show your voice either becomes hopelessly entangled in the voice of the actual staff-writers making the tone mismatched and thus unreadable to the majority of fans, or (on the off chance that what you write is well-written and well-editted) you still can’t stake an sort of claim over the material. You didn’t come up with the premise. Someone gave you an idea that spoke to you, and you ran with it. Kudos to you guys. Don’t stop writing, ever. But this just isn’t compatible with the goals of this blog that I outlined in Post #1. I’m going for the Holy Grail of entertainment and innovation. I’m going for the heavyweight title. I’m going for the gold-freaking metal. I want to earn it. I want to be a true original.

Hello Penname!©

So why “Eden Phoenix”? And why the hell would I start with a question? How lame is that!?

Well, first off, Eden Phoenix is a bitchin’ name. Eden (you know…that garden…) is a pretty great place to be, in my personal opinion. When you think of Eden I bet yu think of someting awesome (unless you’re a downer, because then you think about that part where man gets kicked out…)! But I’m an eternal optimist and I see the world as it should be (i.e. Eden). As for Phoenix, if you have the link to read this first blog post one of the reasons should be pretty obvious. If you simply stumbled upon this wonderful ramble, then another reason for the “Phoenix” is that its so enigmatic and harmonious in and of itself. Think about it. (I said “Think about it” dammit!) Its a bird of fire that upon reaching its end combusts and rises again from its own ashes. A phoenix is a master of all four elements. The creature’s claim to fire should really be self explanatory. As a bird it possesses domain of the air. It turns to ash, which is part of earth. All with remarkable fluidity (think water). Not only that, it has mastered the cycle of life and death! What’s not to love?

Second, I’m considering this blog a self guided tour through my psyche. The goal: to develop my voice. I love Joss Whedon and all of his wonderfulness, but I can’t be him. There’s this problem: he’s him already. I know, it is a bummer! I love the way he plays with words in an Oscar Wilde-y way; the way he comments on society at large is Dickensian; the way he layers humor over gravity is enviable; the way he layers plotlines is unparalleled. But those are qualities, and those don’t describe the entirety of what I want to achieve. There’s also a Joni Mitchell element, a musicality within the lyric itself. I don’t want to be just another blogger, passionate without an outlet, witty without a voice. I want to paint a picture of the ocean with my words and for you to understand that I’m talking about history class. That’s what Joni can do. But that’s still not me. I know I admire these qualities in others because they exist somewhere in me, and when I find them I will also be able to fuel myself creatively. No longer will I look up to the Titan that is Joss Whedon or the Goddess that is Joni Mitchell. I’ll be content in what I am (and it sure as hell wouldn’t hurt if they gave me a little recognition)! I just…need to get there first. So…here I am… See Eden. See Eden write…