Tragedy is the core of literature

The post title is borrowed from a quote by Cormac McCarthy: "The core of literature is the idea of tragedy...you don't really learn much from the good things that happen to you."

It's a common sentiment at this time of year, but I'll say it anyway: 2013 was nothing like I thought it would be. And not in a good way.

In just 12 months, I nearly lost my father to cancer, took some brave steps in confronting old demons, and became physically ill from depression and anxiety, resulting in withdrawing completely from grad school and facing a quarter-life crisis. Or, more to the point, a quarter-life faith crisis.

At least the good news is that I went through all of this with my boyfriend only an hour away, as opposed to 3,000 miles. He may have a clearer picture of the "real me" than I do.

And, like every year before this one, 2013 has been a year of acquiring new and awesome books. I have no doubts that 2014 will bring more of the same.

However, new books also bring sadness, as I realize more and more that few people treat the act of reading as I do. Reading, for many, is a hobby; something they do at the end of the day to relax, to escape on a vacation, to pass time in the waiting room at the doctor's office. It should come at no surprise at this point, but reading for me is, well, my life. I live in books. I breathe books. Every experience of my life that shaped me, positively or negatively, is chronicled somewhere in a book I wish I wrote, by an author I view as a kindred spirit. It's safe to assume that without books, I wouldn't be a person of any significant substance. I'd be more lost, confused, and directionless than a typical twenty-something is expected to be. So a piece of my heart always shatters when I hear a person say "I don't read." Good for them, I guess; they're just missing out on a deeper realm of human experience, is all. No big.

I think this is the reason I do alone time so well: because books are where my friends are found. From the literary heroes who shaped my childhood, and rocky descent to adolescence -- Matilda Wormwood, Harriet M. Welsch, Anne Shirley, Sara Crewe, Jane Eyre, Katniss Everdeen, the March sisters (especially Jo) -- to the brave women who mentor me with their memoirs -- Lauren Winner, Rachel Held Evans, Sarah Bessey, Addie Zierman, Jonalyn Fincher -- I am never really alone. Then again, I am aware that people in books are frozen in time, while the authors behind them are living, breathing entities who are in a constant state of character evolution, as I am. There's comfort in knowing that people in books can never disappoint. But it's the real-life disappointments, inflicted by people who often mean well, but don't always show it, that challenge me to grow. So while there's safety in books, there's no real growth if I am reading in a vacuum.

I don't intend to create a laundry list of improvements for 2014. That almost never works. To be blunt, a lot of shit happened in 2013. And as much as that sucks, my love of reading has shown me that stories don't really progress without varying degrees of tragedy. Adversity is just a fancy name for plot twists. And that is what will, I hope, one day make me a kindred spirit on someone else's book shelf.

If a man opened Pandora's box

What if the gender roles were reversed, and suddenly,
the world was no longer a safe place

for men?

What if a male stranger should fear me

on the streets at night,

the New Female Predator,

and his gut instinct
was to gird his balls

like women do with their attractiveness,

so as not to make himself
a target?

What if men were taught

that Fear is the new Sexy,

that involuntary arousal

is code for "Yes Please,"

and his gender alone

is his own personal Armageddon?

What if it had been
a man

who opened Pandora's box?

After being hit on at Barnes & Noble

I received a compliment

(or something resembling one)

between the aisles of Poetry and Fiction

at Barnes & Noble, from a wannabe representative of Smooth Talkers Anonymous:

Far too pretty to be reading books.

I wonder how many tragic young women,

digging through Plath and Dickinson

in search of validation, would allow themselves to be flattered by this drivel?

How many would allow this blatant chauvinism

to infiltrate their hard-won rooms of their own?

I think of my teenage self,

curve-less and wiry-haired,

unpopular, yet proud to admit
that the love of my life is named Gilbert,
and you may not have heard of him
because he lives in a book.

Therein was the real reason I was single
for so long, but nonetheless satisfied

with who I was. I saw the world through fiction,

allowing me to avoid the real-life villains

with the hope that,

if characters are created by humans,

surely they can be embodied by
real humans, too.

"Too pretty" to be reading books,
you say?

Too bad.

The most attractive man (I think)

is a man well-read.

Creating "bad" characters, and relating to them

Lately I've been fascinated by the idea of writing a story with a very unlikeable main character. Author Gillian Flynn is a pro at this, in her books Gone Girl, Dark Places, and Sharp Objects (creepy, horrifically disturbing books, but nonetheless interesting because they are different from what I normally read).

But "unlikeable" doesn't necessarily mean unable to relate to. I don't like villains that are evil just for evil's sake. The best "bad characters" are multidimensional. They have history. They also have a handful of good qualities.

While working on my book of poems, I can't shake this idea that keeps coming back to me, usually when I'm trying to sleep. It was originally going to be a redemption story about a pastor who is a saint to his community, but has a terrible secret. Now I may be shifting my focus toward a teenage girl, who may or may not be related to him in some way, but is known at school for being a not-so-nice person. She may be the type to use bullying as a way to build up her own confidence. She'll do this because she herself is weak, even if her victims don't see that.

I believe in this idea because I don't believe in truly "good" people. I don't even think of myself as a "good person" (though in retrospect, I'm hesitant to call myself a "bad person." Most people wouldn't say that about themselves, would they?).

I think about my personal prejudices...feeling disdain for large families with loud children coming in to coffee shops while I'm studying, letting their kids run all over the place and try to talk to me while I'm taking a timed online quiz (yeah, that happened once).

Mass-generalizing people who can't put sentences together and use the proper forms of "your/you're" as stupid, even if it's a proven fact that our education system doesn't adequately prepare students for the business world, and "business skills" may include proficiency in written communication.

Having a those people mindset regarding those who grew up in one place, in one culture, for most of their lives, and have had little interaction with people who are different from them. Never mind that I too can be one of those people. I am embarrassed by this fact.

So what makes a character truly unlikeable? What distinguishes an average person from the Hitlers and Mother Theresas of this world? In one last gesture of good faith, I'd argue that many people are simply not aware of how "bad" they can be. My goal then, if I choose to write this next story, is to develop a character who is aware of her personal badness, and has no desire to change.

At least, not yet.

The male privilege poem

Another excerpt from the upcoming book. One of my favorites so far!

"Why don't you smile?"
the man at Starbucks said.
"I bet you have such a pretty smile."

This, from a complete stranger,
who knows not my circumstances,
my private battles,
my very life.

I gape at him and his broad shoulders,
and his condescending "Because I can" veneer.
Please, I think, Contain your male privilege,
its crumby texture already snowflaking
on my table. Let me enjoy my coffee.

Also! Here's a preview of my snazzy new cover (the back cover text may change 50 more times before I declare it finished. Hard to accurately summarize a collection of poems when the subject matter is all over the place). My new designer, Amy Queau, did this for FREE and she is a special kind of wonderful.

The Jewish Girl Who Dreamed of Saints

The following poem is an excerpt from my upcoming book (more like a chapbook, since I anticipate it being less than 100 pages) of poetry, currently titled Sorting Myself. The title isn't set in stone, though. I had a really catchy title that came to me in the middle of the night, and I stupidly thought I'd remember it by morning...I didn't. So until it's recovered from my mental oblivion, or unless I come with something new, Sorting Myself stands. Reader suggestions welcome!

Most of the poems are already written, just scattered in various journals, and several years old. This one is pretty recent. Not sure when I'll release it, but definitely next year. Before the snow melts.

The Jewish Girl Who Dreamed of Saints (potentially autobiographical):

Don’t let the quietness fool you –

she’s a heroine in her own right.

Her life is defined by choice:

The right to fight for her own identity,

because the one she was born with didn’t fit.

She and convention were destined to be enemies.

It started with the storybooks about saints

wedged between Doctor Seuss and There’s No Such Thing as a Hanukkah Bush,

Sandy Goldstein.

Other girls played MASH at recess,

while she day-dreamed about Joan of Arc.

She wondered what it must have felt like,

about to be burned for her beliefs,

and if it ever crossed the future saint’s mind

that 20^th-century Jewish girls

would hope to be half as brave as she was someday.

As she grew older,

the girl lost her verve for sainthood.

She struggled with ordinary temptations.

Couldn’t decide if she was still a virgin.

Couldn’t allow herself the simple courtesy of being human.

The best books often get bent.

Even Saint Joan had to be vulnerable and lonely.