Whispers and Voices

and in the middle of september ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 22:05:00 +0000

I think as writers, we all experience different degrees of what has referred to as "bleeding" - when our characters who matter just so much to us end up influencing everything we feel during a particular time frame, be it a day or an hour, or even just the 4 minutes it takes to finish a song. I think we've all experienced that moment in time when we are not ourselves but our characters - a walk we take, a song we are singing along to. We have those moments of FLASH - when something that is going to happen to our characters is as clear as day or when something that did happen once to them is laid bare before us and we know why so and so does what it is they do. We have those while writing, we have those while dreaming, and while simply driving down the road, listening to the radio.

Today ... I was flipping through the stations on my way back from a home visit and caught the end of Daughtry's September. Now I love this song. I've always associated it with how Mike has moved on from losing Marc. But the images I had from him were so overwhelming I actually had to blink tears away. Not because the song is that powerful, but because the images were. As a writer, I so often run into this wall because I feel there is no way in the universe that I am able to translate what I see in my mind into mere words. And yet, to me, there is nothing more powerful than words.

Moments like this are almost daily occurrences for me. It's one reason I do blogs for my characters and one reason I don't care if anyone ever comments. But it was just a moving moment that I felt like sharing and I was wondering what kinds of experiences you've had recently that are like that. What's stopped you dead in your tracks as you watched a character you adore in your mind?

and for dinner ... rice and lentils ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 04:24:00 +0000

You are all in my novel. The question is, which one.

My life as a novel. My brain is always working.

The guy at the Old Navy counter and the girl at the Coffee Shop at the Pride Center ... they are in some kind of secret, twisted relationship that only they understand. The dog and the cat talk to each other. The world spins and turns and the sun sets in lavender and blue over the edge of the lake and I want to stop my car and write it because a young kid just got drafted to the team of his dreams and he is staring out at this lake in his new home and full of dreams all the while thinking of the father who died when he was 12 and how that father can't be here to celebrate this moment.

Marshall and Mary discussing Marshall's alien abduction. Dana and Fox discussing William. Alex and Olivia discussing children and marriage and love and joy and law and pain.

These stories all in my mind, all at once. Some make it to paper some dance through my subconscious, coming up in dreams. Others emerge into character blogs. The stories of others rest on my heart and I want to tell them, to write them into forever, to make sure that the stories are remembered. Forever.

So the question is ... which story will keep me up tonight?

Tonight was one of those nights that you hold close to your breast and never, ever let go.

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 04:25:00 +0000

I trudged down to the Pride Center, sinus headache and all, for the writing workshop for the Breast Dialogues. And in that room, eight women talked openly and honestly about the breast and the empowerment and the shame of the breast. The pain of having big boobs, the pain of having small ones. Women talked about binding because they equated breasts with shame. And we talked about the joy, the abject joy, of the breast. We were open and we were connected and we were women. Together we laughed and we cried and the evening ended on this note when Mekeda (I know I'm spelling her name wrong) burst into TEARS as she told us she was scared to read her piece because in it she talked about the joy of growing up unashamed of the breast or the body and in so many pieces, we had discussed our shame at becoming women. She was beautiful. She was honest. She cried. And then she read and we all laughed and cried and gods, I fell in love with her words as she performed.

She was what women should always aspire to be and I am honored to know I will be on the same stage as her.

I then scampered down State Street toward Coffee Connection to meet up with Bi Utah and one of the women in the performance is also in the coffee group and so we met up again and a bunch of us sat and chatted about abjectly nothing and it was wonderful.

There are nights when, as a writer, you are reminded to get outside and live. Just enough. So that you can go home and write about it. Don't get out too much. :) Just enough.

Tonight ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 00:19:00 +0000

I'll be reading from "Eve's Rib" my collection of short stories that discuss sex and sexuality from seemingly feminine perspectives.

Where?
When She Speaks, I Hear the Revolution

When Salt Lake City's "When She Speaks I Hear the Revolution" debuted in May of last month, something amazing happened. Women of a variety of different backgrounds, trans women, gender queer/gender rebel artists came to take their place behind the mic. They took the opportunity that they had to make their voice heard. The power of an open mic is in celebrating the VOICE.

When She Speaks I Hear the Revolution aims to celebrate the words/performances of local women from all walks of the creative paths. Musicians, poets, comedians--all creative women are welcome here.

In addition to being a space where women can share their work with one another, When She Speaks...will be a venue of support and encouragement. It will be a place where we can network with each other and make things happen.

This open mic is inclusive of transgendered identities--mtf, ftm, genderqueer among others. The purpose of this open mic is to shine a light on the voices that -don't- get a lot of attention and encourage them to share their words and their art.

The event will be largely women-centered, but men are encouraged to be a part of the audience and support the performers!

What I've Discovered in Writing Fanfiction

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 20:53:00 +0000

It's been a long time since I posted and I finally feel like I'm back on track here about my writing, which was what this blog was meant to be in the first place.

This latest project started simply.

I was dabbling in the world of Law and Order: SVU fanfiction. I'd explored different ideas - from Elliot and Olivia having a sexual relationship to a long-term partnership between Alex and Olivia. I'd brought in the fallout from Olivia's sexual assault, her PTSD, and even brought up the idea that as a kid, a teacher took advantage of her and she got pregnant as a result. Elliot's daughter, Lizzie, came out as a lesbian. I was happy with what I'd put together.

Over the last eleven years, SVU has taken on the role of educating the public about rape and sexual assault statistics for all populations. Just this season, the show has tackled biphobia and rape in the lesbian community, sexual assault against people with disabilities, the meat packing industry, alcoholism, and of course, the gut wrenching truth of life in the Congo. In previous seasons they have dared to give Olivia PTSD, they've focused on bi-polar issues, rape in the African American community, AIDS, and the life of the child soldiers in Africa. In a world full of white TV characters, they have bent (but not broken) the color line with characters like Monique Jefferies, Odafin Tutuola, George Huang, and of course the fierce Melinda Warner. They even had Detective Adam Lake, a Native American raised in the foster system. For a season, they had the chance to offer a different perspective and to tell stories through his eyes much the same way they use Finn to tell stories in the African American community. Instead, they wrote him out of the show and he's been forgotten, like that bad date we all hope never comes back again.

They had an opportunity to utilize the world at their command and instead, they walked away.

I didn't.

One recent morning I woke up and started writing a piece about Alex in witness protection. It took place post "Ghost" so I must have watched that ep before bed or something, or so I thought. But because I'm not one to ignore the muse for any reason, I just started writing. And I kept writing. And I kept at it.

What emerged was a series of stories that were more about Alex Cabot than the SVU world. It was witsec, from Alex's point of view, and for this relocation, they'd dropped her onto the Navajo reservation in Arizona, right at the New Mexico border. Initially, I wrote without a lot of research. I know the area, just enough, and the story wasn't about the reservation but about Alex. I didn't need desperate specifics.

The story introduced Ali Ramos, an artist whom Alex quickly falls for. The side note of her mixed race heritage (half-Mexican, half-Navajo) is only brought up to give background into the character. Alex doesn't discover her inner Indian in this story (which is always a trap when you put white characters into Indian country), but she does discover a part of herself she hadn't realized existed. She comes to realize she must be a part of a community and not isolated away as she was not only in witsec but in New York as well. She misses Olivia and the life they had together, but she also decides to live not just to survive.

Ali didn't go away as I thought she would when Alex returned to New York. Instead, she'd worked her way into my heart as a character and, I quickly learned, into the hearts of many of my readers as well. Only one negative comment about Ali sticks in my mind and no, Ali has not dropped dead. She is alive, but not so well.

As I started my work on another series within this fanon, I began typing something that made me ache in ways I haven't ached since writing the death of Marc Gadling in Crossing the Gate. As the scene of Ali's recovery played out before me, I realized I was looking at a storyline that had been in the making since I introduced Ali into the mix. Ali's rape at the hands of an agent of the US Government prompted me into research and what I found horrified me.

I was already very aware, as we all should be, of the lack of understanding and proper history given to the Indigenous people of this country. Students learn only briefly of the genocide plotted by the federal government against the Indian tribes and only some learn about the forced sterilization of women into the 1970's. The disease infected blankets and the forced relocation are almost romanticized while we talk of the glories of Andrew Jackson. Indian culture is homogenized into bear spirits and feathers and Kokopelli charms that are all worn without understanding the meaning behind them. Art galleries that specialize in Native art are owned by whites and the Indian jewelry sold in kitsch shops from Moab to Memphis is made in China. Living in a state with no less than five reservations, I understand (at least on the surface) about the poverty the reservations face. While people drive through the states toward the Grand Canyon or Zions or any of the Southwest Desert locales, they turn a blind eye to the poverty of the nations that surround the tourist destination. We feel sorry for the world we've helped to create, but we do little to actually change it. That would involve work and educating ourselves. I am the first to acknowledge my own guilt in that realm.

But then I began writing Ali. And I began doing my research on the area in which I'd placed her home. And then ... I began my research on the statistics of rape among Native American women. What I found still turns my stomach.

It isn't so much that Indigenous women are more likely than their white counterparts to be assaulted. Women of color in general are more likely to assaulted - regardless of race. But what horrifies me is the United States complicity in what happens on the reservations. Jurisdictional boundaries restrict the ability of Tribal Courts to prosecute and when evidence is turned over to the US attorney, it is often shuffled and ignored. There is no funding for training, for BIA agents, for crime solving in general, and women suffer. It is possible for this to change, but until today, the United States was one of the nations that had still not signed onto the Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous People. Only today did the Obama Administration opt to "Take another look" at the document. Until then, it had been ignored.

This passion did not develop due to my own ties to my Native heritage. I am white, I come from a white background, and while like many Americans, I can trace some of my roots back to the Cherokee Nation I was not taught about those roots as a child. I learned on my own about the Trail of Tears, but I cannot trace my own lines. I do not even know the name of my Indian ancestor. And while this story has awakened in me a desire to learn those roots, roots that have always spoken to me even while they were shouted down by others, the story itself is about the chance to present something that not many people are truly aware of. At least, in my world.

But I wondered how to present this story within the bounds of my SVU fanfiction. I'd taken the story almost as far as it could go. But then the show presented me with a gift: the departure of ADA Alex Cabot. While I, like many fans, hated to see her leave it opened up a whole new realm for the character and as a result, for writers like myself. To me, fanfiction isn't just about how fast we can get our favorite characters into bed together. It's about exploring the nature of these characters. For all the screaming and wailing of hands, the road they placed Alex on was perfect. Not only for the character but for me as a writer.

Why? Because now I have leave for her to research and prosecute rape as a war tactic not only in Africa and the Hague but right here in the United States.

You might ask why I am not writing this story in a novel format? Well, while it has inspired a novel idea, right now I can reach more people through fanfiction and to make this story work in a novel format, it will need editing, reworking, and research that lies before me. Not to mention a complete change of characters and venues. If even 30 people read what I've written right now, it's 30 people more than would if it were sitting in my notebook. And with fanfiction, I have a natural audience - one that would be expanded if people would shake off their "Shipper" attitudes and read something that isn't their primary ship. It isn't about who is sleeping together and to reduce storylines to that trivial of a concept is an insult to the producers and writers, the audience, and the characters in the story. (And I say that to both the fans and the producers.) Olivia's bed partner is much less important than the greater stories we get the chance to tell in fanfiction. Especially in a fandom like SVU.

Stories are told on network TV not just because they are engaging but we know they are engaging because they poll well and sit well with research groups. But I cannot help but wonder if they have ever bothered to float the idea of telling this story to the American public. While Manhattan does not have any reservations to speak of, that has not stopped SVU from telling stories about Africa or even flying to Bosnia to face off with the child porn rings of Eastern Europe. I am not saying this to belittle those very important stories. I am saying it because if SVU wants to remain relevant, they need to be willing to tell EVERY story. Not just the ones at the top of the headlines. SVU has told stories about gay athletes; they can tell one story about one of the untold crises in this country.

As for me, I continue to write and to research. I continue to expect the best of myself not only in my original work but in my fanfiction as well. It's my place as a writer to tell these stories. And this one has become important to me.

Important links:
A Warped World for Native American Women Seeking Justice
Violence Against American Indian and Alaska Native Women and the Criminal Justice Response: What is Known
Sexual Abuse of Native American Women
The American Bar Association Commission on Domestic Violence
Ask Amnesty
The Maze of Injustice Report (Amnesty International)
The stores this world inspired.

Less Than Human

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 03:53:00 +0000

Dear Utah Lawmakers:

Over the course of the past few months, as I have seen the legislature tear down the hopes of a Common Ground between Utah's Straight and Queer communities, as I have read the harsh words of Senator Buttars and Governor Herbert, and now watched the "trial" of DJ Bell, I have come to learn something, something that is a harsh, terrifying reality to me: In your eyes, I am less than human.

It's a funny thing, you see, that you consider me thus. I am a registered voter in South Salt Lake and since moving back to the state in 2005, have not missed an election - primary or general. I pay my taxes - state, federal, and sales. As I am a single adult, my taxes are no higher than a single adult who shares a similar situation. I attend Salt Lake Community College and in doing so, sit alongside many other students. I keep my car registered and insured, and when I am pulled over for failing to yield or when I receive a ticket for an expired meter, the cop does not ask if I am gay or straight. The ticket does not have a clause that instantly increases the cost if it were to be known that I am a member of the Queer community. I work, full time, thereby increasing my ability to contribute to the economy which I do by attending community events such as concerts and Jazz games. I am healthy, therefore the health insurance premiums my company so generously pays for me are lower. When I need care I seek it and I make sure to not miss my annual exams, no matter how much I may hate them. My dog is always walked on a leash and I do my best to clean up after the waste she leaves behind. I do admit to being a loyal University of Utah fan, but that fact alone cannot make me stand out as Queer.

Like most of the men and women who surround me, I do my best to pay my bills on time. Only once in the past year have I been faced with an overdraft in my checking account. On the income I pull in as a staff member for a local non-profit, I help to support my mother who, due to a disability, is on a fixed income and the hours she herself can work are limited due to health and Social Security requirements. As Medicare does not provide any transportation and Flextrans holds her to a conditional riding provision, I am her primary means of transportation and so I work her working and school schedule and doctor's appointments into my every day working schedule. I am lucky enough that she is willing to be flexible with my own schedule. Refusing to put my mother into a nursing home, I share her residence, providing care she needs on a daily basis. Most of it is minimal, but because I am in her life she does not need to rely solely on frozen dinners but together we can have fresh foods and as a result she is healthier. Around me, countless others make similar provisions for aging parents, and many of these fellow residents are also trying to raise children and make a marriage work.

In many ways, I am indistinguishable from my fellow Utahans. Even without being raised in the Mormon faith, living in Utah has granted me a respect and understanding of those around me who believe. Most Sundays I can be found waiting for my mother while she attends the Catholic Parish of her choice. I am "Aunt Shauna" to many of my friend's children. I donate time to a local non-profit. I am the organizer of a community group of writers. I am part of this community.

Daily, I stare at the three, stubborn gray hairs on my head and wonder if it is time to begin dying again. I work out - but not enough. I pass out in front of the television.

Yet you, my lawmakers, would chose to set me aside. You would chose to label me as deviant, different, dangerous. My membership in a community of people for some reason scares you. Because I do not base my choices in love on gender alone, I must be ostracized. Because my friends love one of the same sex or gender we are told we are less than you. We can be spit upon, beaten, and ignored by police and you will do nothing but nod with deaf ears while our few friends who sit among you plead for change.

I will not bring the argument to your level by reminding you that once, you were treated as different, deviant, and dangerous by a government you now accept stimulus money from all the while decrying expanded spending on the federal level. To reduce the argument to that level takes the humanity from all of us. To say, "you have to be nice to me because you were once bullied" is as useless as a newspaper in a desert downpour. All I can do is continue to vote. All I can do is continue to spend my money wisely - at local businesses and on causes that I believe in. All I can do is continue to write, to reveal the insanity of your argument.

I am human. By the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America, I am even considered equal. While law upon law passed in the name of preserving the family (at both the federal and state level) reminds me that I am not allowed to marry should I fall in love with a woman, that at any moment I can be fired or evicted for being out about my sexuality, and states that if I am the victim of a hate crime the same laws that apply to others do not apply to me, I am as human as you are. I have family I love, a faith I am devoted to, dogs that I walk, cats I care for, and fish I love to watch swim in their tank. I fall in love with TV shows and read glorious books and work too hard for too little pay.

In the end, there is no difference between us. If it is your religion you follow, may I remind you that God, any God, is a God of love. That we, as human animals, are destined for love and joy and pain and sorrows. And that we, members of the Queer community, are your daughters, your sons, and your grandchildren.

Remember that as DJ Bell sits on trial.

Sincerely,
A member of your population.

venting ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 14:44:00 +0000

I've been holding back a lot of what I've wanted to say recently. I don't know why. Maybe because I haven't wanted to get into it with the world at large, but it's definitely contributing to my case of the blahs this week.

But I turned on Queensryche's Tribe album today and of course it got me thinking. One of the many, many post 9/11 albums that dealt with the problems in American society, I think it is also one of the most powerful. Say what you want, I know I'm biased, but there's no pulling punches. And much of the blame is leveled on society. The US needs to get it's collective head out of it's very large, french-fry eating ass.

For example ...

Not everyone who disagrees with Obama is racist, no. Hell, I disagree with him more than I agree with him and I support the guy. But it cannot be denied that in the opposition to anything he says, there is a very vocal, minority, subculture undercurrent that is fueled by racism. Even latent racism. They are older, they are white, they were born into segregation and while they always liked that "nice black family" down the street they were never threatened because that family wasn't in power. I think the media is completely overblowing Carter's comments and what people have said. I also think to ignore the reality means we do not move forward. Much of the opposition has used blatant, Jim Crowe era visuals to represent Obama, the White House, etc. (Think watermelons, monkeys, etc.) Remember that before you think that some people aren't fighting him with racist tactics.

Speaking of the president, It doesn't matter that Obama called Kayne a jackass. It was off the record, and if we had a nickle for every time Bush said something stupid off the record, we'd have never had a crash in the economy. And before you talk about the Joe Wilson thing - it's Congress making hay out of that. The President accepted his apology and he moved on.

What drives me crazy is not the lazy, someone-else-can-do-it attitude that permeates this culture. What drives me crazy is that no one bothers to actually think critically anymore. We are all, myself included, reactionary. We do not study our history. We take what is said to us on face value. We refuse to allow ourselves to go through the transformations that will change our lives. We are held back by fear, by the idea that we will not conform to the world, that someone *gasp* will look at us.

We are sheep. Every last one of us. We follow along with our celebrity culture, with our reactionary politics, and as a result, have lost the art of conversation. As a loner, as someone who keeps a few close friends and shuns too much public interaction, I am hardly advocating that everyone step out their door and hug each other ...

... But we have to do something.

there will never be others like them

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 01:06:00 +0000

Winning Was the Only Thing that Mattered to John Stockton

I could go on and on and on.

I CRIED during Stockton's acceptance speech. Poor Sloan looked SO uncomfortable up on that stage, reading his speech from a folded piece of paper ...

Thank you both, for EVERYTHING. Thank you for teaching me the love of the game, the fundamentals of the game, and that sports is about more than championships. It's about team work. Though winning is nice ... :)

something isn't sitting right ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:50:00 +0000

I've finally figured out what it is.

A couple of days ago, I posted some rambling thoughts at my livejournal about my Decade of the 60's class and where my own brain was going. Per usual, they were mostly scrambled thoughts, meant to spark other ideas that I would blog about when I had the time. I'm always terrified of forgetting what I meant to say.

A couple of people commented, opposite ends of the spectrum really, and both sets of comments got me thinking. That's the point. That's why I do this sometimes. Your thoughts help me put mine into words. But I realized this morning that I'm not ... I'm not giving myself enough credit. I post and then forget I did and then something will bring my thoughts back and I realize that I never did expand on those thoughts.

My biggest problem is not my short, staccato thought processes that never get finished. It's that I have SO many ideas racing through my head and not enough time to write all of them down. There are some moments when I realize exactly why it is that writers can go crazy. The thoughts spiral and spiral and want to be shared but we as writers are only human. I love the comments that DO get posted to my short bursts of energy because they either give me a whole new perspective or they reinforce what I was going to write. But I want more. Finding balance is so hard sometimes and I know that even if I was making a living as a writer, I still wouldn't have time to write it all down.

Maybe I worry that for all my writing, be it long or short, no one will read. No one will comment. No one will care. Maybe I worry that I don't express myself the way I want to. Maybe I just want there to be more time in the day. Maybe all of the above.

Maybe the problem is the word Maybe.

It's all business!

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 05:57:00 +0000

The webzine I write for has been undergoing major overhaul over the last year. Determined to not let it die, our tireless editor has made change upon change until she opted to switch to a blog format. This means making sure that a) we don't lose our old posts and b) we find a way to get our readership back. Oh the joy of copy and paste and upload.

Soon I will have links up to my entire portfolio, which is exciting. In addition, pageantzine.tumblr.com will soon be rolling. Be on the lookout. :)

On Aspirations

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 04:22:00 +0000

Like most self-described authors and writers, I read. I have my favorite authors, my inspirations, those who walk me down roads into new adventures with strange characters - real or imagined. But there are very few whom I say when I read their work, "I want to do that. I want to be that. I want to move my readers like that." My list is short, really. Michael Cunningham - especially his writing in The Hours. Virginia Woolf. Margaret Atwood - especially in works like Cat's Eye. And Sherman Alexie.

White. Indian. Black. Martian. It doesn't matter. Alexie's words reach across all races and boundaries and leave us with a view of ourselves as tortured, haunted, honest, failed, scared, beings. It is not a sentimental view of the world, but one that is plain and honest and demands as much thought to read it as it feels he put into writing it. When he puts pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) and blesses us mere mortals with something to read, he is inviting us into his world, his universe, his center, and to appreciate the truly awesome gift he has given us, we must do more than detach ourselves from the multi-tasking life that surrounds in ever spirling intensity and give our selves over to the written word. Even a short passage, a twitter-length sentence if you will, is an entire world in and of itself.

But the masterpiece of Alexie's style is not that he is able to create such magic and mystery with mere words on a screen (or page) but that he is able to make you laugh, even while you cry. He has captured the truest of all human emotions. And even while you are laughing, you are crying, and he is twisting that knife in, deeper and deeper and when you least expect it, he pulls and you bleed - laughing then at yourself and your own imperfections as a mere, bleeding human.

I dream of that skill. I work for it daily, but still feel I have yet to master the pure humanism I am reaching for, that unsentimental connection between us and our universe, that world that is far more emotional than any Hallmark movie or flash in the pan publicity concept would ever allow for. Emotion does not lie in Lifetime Network heartbreak but in how we, every day, look at our world and chose to live in it.

And so I write. And read. And aspire ...

When Music Touches Me ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 22:26:00 +0000

Daughtry's done it. They've accomplished their goal. I've had the album on almost non-stop repeat since I first put it in my CD player 24 hours ago. All music should catch the listener on a completely personal level, but there's one song that just seems to grab me ... for reasons that I know they never intended.

September touches me deeply. Not because of my own past memories, but because of the images that come to my mind while I listen. They are so thick, I have to ... to borrow the cliche ... brush them away with my hands. The slide show in my mind is of a young Marc Gadling, dancing out in the rain, living out his world with such innocence. He never dreamed he'd face the end of his days when he did. He thought he'd lived through hell as it was. Perhaps he is our lesson. Never dare the universe to make it worse. Oh, it will. Never dare the universe. It's listening.

It's interesting for me. As with all writers, I'm passionately, devoted to my characters. And as with many writers, these characters have saved my life. So when I hear music that moves me for them, it feels almost even more important. Almost more magical. Is it fair for me to have recently submitted a review to Pageant given the way this music touched me? I think so. The point is ... Daughtry got it right, at least for me. They found that part of my soul that music is supposed to connect to. And for me, while I'm closing my eyes and envisioning Marc's life, someone else is closing their eyes and seeing something completely different. Isn't that the point?

But why September? Why of all the touching, nearly cliche songs on this album, is it September that catches my heart? Because Marc died in September. Almost two years to the day after he learned he had AIDS, he passed through time and to a different realm. Perhaps I live too much in this world in my head. Perhaps if I lived more in this one I'd have a different life ...

... but (to glean the meaning of September) would it be worth it in the end?

I don't think so.

Random, perhaps. But I think it was supposed to be.

Me vs. the Agenda ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 20:57:00 +0000

I'm having one of those days when I could listen to Operation: Mindcrime over and over and over again and not even get tired of it. It's usually a good thing but today it's to keep me upright.

Why, do you ask, if I haven't updated in a month would I need to be kept upright?

I've started my second novel. With Crossing the Gate out in the ether, hopefully being looked at by agents (so far no one seems to love Marc as much as I do) I have turned my attention to Jared. Jared, the sweet, gentle muse whom I know better than I know myself. The sweet, tender boy who loves his man and his music and isn't nearly as much of an activist as the people around him. But, like I get when I am just starting a creative project, my brain is just not with it. I'm up way too late and when you have a day job (curse those day jobs) you end up with no sleep and even less energy.

I love it. I'll sleep when I'm dead. But damn if it doesn't make a writer tired. I like to blame my characters. Gotta love rock stars. They never sleep either. Of course at this point in the writing, Jared is hardly a rock star. Or is he.

It's strange to write a memoir about a fictional person when it takes place in a clearly non-fiction universe. Dropping this character into a world of Metallica and Queensryche and Megadeth and Bon Jovi all the while keeping to this slightly alternate world is difficult. Especially when you're writing about a past and a history that a lot of people either don't understand or don't remember. What is nothing for me - the PMRC debacle, the attitudes toward gay people, the feelings people had are different for others. We all bring our own biases to everything we read and write and when the author touches a nerve we are no longer engaged with the characters but reading from a perspective that can be uncomfortable at best.

In my writer's group recently, the "agenda" with which I write was brought up and laid on the table. While I hadn't given conscious thought to the agenda in my work, when I sat back and really listened to what they were saying, I realized how much of what I write does in fact lay out an agenda. I don't think about it. I don't sit down to write and say, "I am going to drive this point home today." I sit down and often I turn off and my characters turn on and it isn't until two hours later that I look back and see what I've written. I've always felt they have the agenda but not me. But as a (want-to-be) professional writer, I need to remember how to step back and separate myself from that character. If I am going to write in the style that I do, I need to approach it as a third party, an outsider, and catch language that might be better served in a different way. I don't need to change my style. It's my style. But I need to double check what I really mean to say. Or, what THEY really mean to say.

Anyway, I need to write about this stuff more. It helps my brain function in different ways. It slows me down. I'm usually running so fast that I forget to stop ...

Review: Sound of the Beast

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 02:38:00 +0000

Sound of the Beast: The Complete Headbanging History of Heavy Metal
Author: Ian Christie
Re-Released: 2004/Harper Entertainment

This book is for anyone who ever loved music, for anyone who ever turned on the radio and sang along at the top of their lungs. As for anyone who ever traded a tape or downloaded an mp3 off Napster or who remembers MTV when Adam Curry was the heart throb and Bret Michaels was all the rage (the first time around) they should consider this book required reading for life and they cannot die until they have committed the lyricism of this text not only to memory, but to heart and soul.

From the opening paragraph: In the beginning there was just a shadowy expanse of night sky and unknown. There in disquieting oblivion whirled the unanswered secrets of history, animated by forces as ancient as civilization itself - everything smoking, silvery, religious, and dark. These strong currents often lay forgotten and docile, until the opportunities of war, crisis, and anguish called forth their awful powers. They had no sound or definition of their own until trapped and subjugated by the epiphany of Black Sabbath - the wise innocents, the originators of heavy metal. To the last, As of 2003, the term "headbanger" has even been awarded its place in the English lexicon, introduced and defined in the eleventh edition of Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary as a noun arising in 1979 to mean: "a musician who performs hard rock" or "a fan of hard rock." For the record, the missing term here - "heavy metal" - was introduced previously, defined rather loosely as: "Energetic and highly amplified electronic rock music having a hard beat." Thus, imperfectly defined, heavy metal remains mysterious and very much alive, a search for truth in a storm of folly.. This history of possibly the most important musical movement of all time is alive with vivid details and does not shirk on defining, maligning, or praising any and all sub-genres of the misunderstood art form.

Unabashed and unashamed of the genre of which it is clear Christie is a fan (note: he is also a musician), the book is an encyclopedia of knowledge, giving definitions of each sub-genre and the albums and artists that most defined it. While the casual metal fan might feel that Christie's focus on Metallica's rise and fall in the eyes of the metal culture leaves out other defining bands of the time, it is important for that casual fan to remember that without Metallica, it is quite possible that metal would have stayed across the sea and never truly gained a following in the United States. As the history reaches the present, he too is critical of their rush to side with Napster despite the tape trading and bootleg base the Metallica structure is built upon.

Aside from the history that Metallica wrote on the fabric of American society, Christie's lengthy coverage of everything from why Heavy Metal could begin nowhere but England to the truth behind the Norwegian Black Metal violence to why it is that hip-hop and metal are the best of all marriages, clearly shows a love and respect for the culture that is still too easily maligned in mainstream society. How many have been followed by cops simply for wearing black band t-shirts? How many have looked up at concerts to see the police gang patrols not where they should be but instead watching the mosh pit? He is unforgiving in his criticism of mainstream society's treatment of metal culture - from the PMRC debacle of the 1980's to the sentencing to death of the "West Memphis 3" he dares society to look beyond it's fear of the shadows.

It's too bad that only historians and metal heads will get the message.

The point Christie is making throughout the entire book is that Heavy Metal, more than any other genre, demands attention from its audience. It demands conscious thought. The songs are ripped from philosophy and literature. They force us to face not only our corrupt politicians and religious leaders, but our own corrupt selves. It is meant to be intense, heart wrenching, and yet also fun. It is experimental and it is ever changing. And it is not over yet. With the music banned in many countries and the possession of metal albums punishable by death the underground grows and grows. Girls in headscarves in Afghanistan take to the mosh pits while boys in Cairo dare to wear their band shirts in public. In Russia, China, Korea, the Middle East, the Pacific Rim, in places where we often do not think that Metal has a foothold, the movement is strong and means more to these kids who risk their lives for it than we in America will ever know. Christie demands we respect all musicians who risk their lives to simply shred a guitar whether they are here in the States or in the underground clubs overseas.

Seeking intimacy born of creative, shared passion?

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 05:16:00 +0000

Sometimes I wonder ...

I watch a bunch of different communities that are devoted to love and passion between characters - real or imagined. From the world of ontd_startrek to the fic communities on live journal devoted to countless pairings and conversations about countless pairings ... there are times when I wonder if what we're not really seeking is an intimacy born of a creative passion that can bind us together as a people.

We are isolated. Locked in our little worlds with our little glowing boxes, more and more we seek out connections. Meet ups and gatherings and bashes and parties - all of them devoted to giving us that shared intimacy. We seek comfort with the known and stare at the unknown with fear, terror, and desire. We seek to pull away shadows of our souls but scared that we will be labeled geek, nerd, dork, or nuts allows us to seek out the goofy, silly side of ourselves and never truly touch the other side of the human soul.

I do not speak of our connections to others. Our connections to others have always been and will always be mostly superficial. As humans we keep a small group of people we love and trust around us those that even if they are not blood, they are considered family. Most of us have those we call friends but who are at best acquaintances. We can love them, but if we were to lose them in our lives we would not be affected that deeply.

But how can we lose people? What with twitter and facebook and myspace and blog after blog after networking site and blog we find old loves and old hates and meet up again, ships passing on a crowded channel. At the touch of a button we know how everyone is doing. Everyone I think but ourselves. The internet has been our new religion, our new way to feel important, to feel loved in the eyes of the universe. We have a purpose on the internet - even if it is to post the latest updates on our new Prada shoes, important happenings of democratic struggles around the world, or a blog about the importance of exploring our own personal psyche. As I write this, I do not pretend to be immune or above the words I am spewing. Without the internet, I would not have made some of my closest friends, my family. Without the internet I would not have found my way to so many new worlds of exploration. I would not have found the courage to start posting my fan fiction and then move on to publishing my own works. I would not be the person I am today.

But I find myself more and more at odds with where we are as an internet culture. On fandom after fandom community, I see posts that we as fans should have no place in caring about. I do not need to see picture post after picture post of Actor A or Actress B as they walk to get morning coffee. Yet, for the worlds that I care deeply about, I check. Did Musician A appear at Band B's show? So perhaps for me then it is not topic but frequency? I don't know.

But I wonder. Is this frequency of posting good for us? As we wait with baited breath for the next hilarious post on twitter from a favorite, and perhaps interesting actress, are we instead waiting for a justification of our own existence? An escape from the mundane is one thing, but permanent exile from who we are as a person is something completely different.

The most terrifying journey any human being can take is into their own soul. To face the good and bad about themselves and to learn to own it and decide when and how those things are meant to be displayed. The human soul is a dark, dark place. It is filled with insecurities, with the memory of how we were tortured relentlessly by our peers and the disappointed voice of a parent who wonders why we can't be just that little bit better. It is a place hidden from the topical monsters and what makes the brush of the wind remind us of terrifying school stairwells or what makes us take solace in the comforting face of an actor or musician who we will never have but because we know they are unattainable, we can lust and crush and it is harmless and we will never be hurt. We fear those dark places because we are there with them all the time. We run from them, terrified that by facing them, by stepping into the room and realizing there are no lights on we will be unable to find our way to the other side.

But that is what we are most seeking - understanding that dark room. Collectively, we are afraid of the dark. If we read enough books or write enough stories or post enough twitter messages or play enough games on facebook no one will notice that we are not hiding from that dark, shadowed place. No, we are in fact lost in it, wandering, not realizing that all it takes is a few steps forward and we will come out the other side.

Perhaps I am too harsh on all of us, including myself. Following the completion of my first novel, I found myself staring obsessively at photographs and articles of the musicians who had been my primary "muses" for the story. I posted song lyrics and photographs and found a part of my soul actively hurt when people didn't respond enthusiastically. It lasted about two, two and a half weeks. I realized what I was doing, and started to look deep inside. I started to look inside. I started to realize what I had not allowed myself to face: my fear that if I was finished with my novel, would my muse then leave me? Would the friends I had made over the course of the years I had been writing leave me? Would I wake up one day and Marc and Jared be gone, leaving behind only the stories I had been lucky enough to be a part of and a legacy of music I had discovered while writing their story? Terrified, I forced myself to look inward. Deeper and deeper.

They aren't going anywhere.

This journey is nothing new for me. A loner who somehow manages to have friends of some sort around her, I spend a majority of my time alone and in my head. My head, a dark, shadowed place full of memories I am still unraveling and fears that continue to hold me back in some form or fashion. My obsessive nature is cyclical and can track my mood swings. Like a pattern and a drug addict, I find something and need more and more and more ... nothing rivals that first high. Will this day spend searching the internet provide something more for me to know? But I have learned something in my ramblings - that they are only satisfying if I look inward as well. Not with everything, of course. But do I REALLY need to look daily at what feels to be the same pictures of Actor A or Musician B? Yes, probably. But in doing that, I need to not use it as an escape. Everything is a learning experience and to linger in one place only produces self pity and frustration.

And that is what I fear I see in the world around me. We no longer turn to massive churches - we are massively connected. When was the last time I turned off my computer and just enjoyed a book without wondering if my messenger had pinged? When was the last time I found myself discovering intimacy born of a shared, creative passion? (I can tell you the answer to that, actually.) When was the last time others found the same thing? Is social networking important? OF COURSE.

Is it something we are addicted to? Even more so.

In an interview about the album I am currently listening to, Chris Degarmo spoke of how when they wrote Promised Land,it was like they stepped into the room and there were no lights on. I think that is how we are in today's world. Despite massive change, despite massive hope that again permeates the culture, we are refusing to face ourselves.

Or, the greater question is ...

Is all of this social networking actually our way of exorcising those soul-deep demons? Will we truly be better off for it?

I think as a people, collectively, we will adapt and yes be better.

As individuals ... I am still not sure.

But isn't that the great question we still face? Why we were put on this world? To create, to seek, to search deeper and as a result climb higher?

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go post this update to twitter and facebook. ;-)

----------------
Now playing: Queensrÿche - Dis Con Nec Ted
via FoxyTunes

Something I've Been Dreaming About For a Long, Long Time

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 01:01:00 +0000

News came across my twitter account today that has literally kept me bouncing since I read about it. I willingly DUSTED my apartment when I got home. That’s how happy it made me. The news that Adam Pascal (from Rent) wants to bring an album that literally shaped how I am as a human being, that has literally kept me alive, to Broadway.

Operation: Mindcrime is the 1988 breakthrough concept album brought to you by the letters Q and R. Queensryche, a progressive metal band from the Seattle area, has always had a way of looking at the world that defies the metal stereotype yet it is hardly inaccessible. Operation: Mindcrime, the story of a young junkie (Nikki) who is trapped in a world of his own making (or is he?) fights against a corrupt political system in the name of revolution. One of the best concept albums in history, and arguably in place right behind Pink Floyd’s The Wall, the tales of overrun wealth, corrupt religious and political leaders, and lovelorn, star-crossed lovers are as relevant today as they were twenty years ago. Set to screaming guitars and thudding bass lines the music pumps through my blood, as vital to my very life as breath and water.

And today, I discover that Adam Pascal, musician and Broadway hero, wants to bring the story that inspired my first novel, that kept me alive, that shaped how I look at the world, to the stage where it can be accessible to even more people.

Forgive the fangirl in me while I squeal, scream, cry, and gnash my teeth in abject joy.

Queensryche is not a band that is part of the mainstream, let alone the metal mainstream. The two most commercial albums in their library – Mindcrime and the 1991 explosion Empire – are where most people stop. Often, brilliant opuses such as Rage for Order and Promised Land are completely overlooked. Since the runaway success of “Grunge Rock” in Seattle in 1991, Queensryche has often seemed irrelevant in today’s world. Geoff Tate’s once glass shattering voice has nowhere near the strength it used to have. The departure of key songwriter and business-minded guy Chris DeGarmo in 1997 offered a blow to the band from which they have still not recovered. The sequel to Mindcrime, boringly titled Operation: Mindcrime II, helped bring the spotlight back to the band but even with a renewed energy in their writing, they still linger outside of the scope of most radio play and over the years, many fans have simply given up the ghost rather than struggle through what has been a rollercoaster of emotion and quality since DeGarmo’s departure. Those that have stayed have discovered that Tate is a more than capable song-writer and that the band’s last five studio albums have in fact not completely sucked and have evolved as the band itself has grown and changed. What we have also learned is that Tate seems happiest when he can create a character to sing through.

Which is what makes Mindcrime a perfect option for the stage. In this post-Bush era, people are starved for intelligence in their entertainment. We seek things that make us think. In this tough economic time, we flock to stage shows and movies, seeking hope and change and reflections of the world we live in – any kind of escape. Mindcrime will allow audiences the chance to step into a world so like our own but one so narrowly avoided. What would four more years of “compassionate conservatism” done to us? As we see real life Nikki’s emerging from the woodwork, shooting up abortion clinics and the Holocaust museum, we are in a place, a perfect place, for this terrifying reflection of society. After all, if it’s this bad now, where would we be with a different government in place? I can’t help but wonder if the Dr. X character will look a lot like Mr. Limbaugh.

There are some problems, of course. The album is vague and the storyline needs to be tightened up to bring it to a Broadway stage. All players and former players must be on board, especially if Queensryche is to help with composing future material. To keep the music consistent, it means that once again, Chris DeGarmo must come back into the fold in some form or fashion. It means bringing true heavy metal to a Broadway stage. True metal – not the fun and joyful hair metal that is a part of Rock of Ages. (And yes, I want to see that one too.) But those problems are not insurmountable.

So yes, Adam. Yes. Bring this brilliance to Broadway. Bring it once again to the world.

I’ll be there, watching.

Link: Rent Star Wants to Bring Mindcrime to Broadway

Defining the Muse

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 15:03:00 +0000

A lot of lip service is given to the term muse. We know them as the beings from Greek mythology and in today's world, they are often defined as one person who is the inspiration for works of art. Models for designers, for example.

I interact with my muses on a lot of different levels. I do in fact, wholeheartedly, believe in the idea that they are Gods come to speak to me, to guide me, to show me the treacherous path that is a world of creativity. I light candles in their honor and know that they are one of the primary forces in my world. They are, truly, my guardian angels.

But the other night, while releasing a torrent of emotion over my fears that the book isn't what it should be, that no matter what I write, no one will ever understand how important these people are and how they should be honored, Jared put his arms around me and held me.

"Did you hear us bitching about it when you sent it off?" He asked me. "Don't let your insecurities get in the way."

It might seem odd to explain, but these characters I write ... I more than write them. I interact with them. I play with them. They hold me and I hold them. We cry together. We laugh together. And in the cases of men like Jared and Marc, I honor their birthdays and the anniversary of each of their deaths. Next year, it will have been 20 years since Jared passed away. Yet he is as vibrant and alive hanging out with me as if he had never been sick. Captured in time, a moment, he should be in his mid fifties but lost forever at thirty-five - an immortal angel. A fairy who wears boots.

I think one of my biggest fears as I worked to finish the novel was that I would lose touch with these men after their story was told. It was the other night, while Jared held me, that I realized it wasn't possible. They've been around since long before I realized who they were (that flash of someone at the corner of my vision, that support I didn't realize I had) and they'll be around until I take my own last breath.

Okay, so yes. A muse is a character, but more than that. I have plenty of characters. As much as I love fic characters like CJ and my original ones like Sasha, they aren't muses to me. They're friends and companions and we play together in much the same way as I do with Jared and Marc, but they aren't muses. So what about those real life muses? What about the rush I feel when I curl up and listen to a Queensryche song? What about how just looking at pictures of the guys in the band inspires story after story after story. Not of any kind of RPF, but of this world that is built in my mind about a band so similar but yet not to the band that exists on this plane.

So what defines a muse? Is it a feeling? Is it knowing that there are infinite stories that come from just looking at the person? Is it all in our heads or is it truly a blessing of the Gods, come down and pointing us the right direction? Is it all of the above and none of the above? Is it questions or is it answers? What defines a muse? What drives us to be creative? What speaks to us and demands that we do not sleep until story after story is told or the painting is finished? How is it that to someone like me, Chris Degarmo and Geoff Tate are truly muses who open doors to another plane of existence where stories are infinite whereas for someone else, they are hacks of musicians?

Or, honestly, is it possible to define the term at all?

All I know is what my heart, soul, and creative drive tell me. I have to follow my instincts and the rest is up to ... them.

I plan to write more on this later, but it NEEDS to be talked about now

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 15:25:00 +0000

2/4/2009--Introduced.
Performance Rights Act - Amends federal copyright law to:
(1) grant performers of sound recordings equal rights to compensation from terrestrial broadcasters;
(2) establish a flat annual fee in lieu of payment of royalties for individual terrestrial broadcast stations with gross revenues of less than $1.25 million and for noncommercial, public broadcast stations;
(3) grant an exemption from royalty payments for broadcasts of religious services and for incidental uses of musical sound recordings; and
(4) grant terrestrial broadcast stations that make limited feature uses of sound recordings a per program license option. Prohibits taking into account license fees payable for public performance via digital audio transmission of sound recordings in any proceeding to set or adjust the license fees for the purpose of reducing or adversely affecting such license fees. (Current law prohibits taking those fees into account in such a proceeding without referencing the purpose.) Prohibits anything in this Act from adversely affecting the public performance rights or royalties payable to songwriters or copyright owners of musical works. Prohibits taking into account the rates established by the Copyright Royalty Judges in any proceeding to reduce or adversely affect the license fees payable for public performances by terrestrial broadcast stations. Requires that such license fees for the public performance of musical works be independent of license fees paid for the public performance of sound recordings. Revises provisions relating to proceeds from the licensing of transmissions.

Articles on it that I've been able to find:
http://www.tennessean.com/article/20090513/NEWS02/90513060/1002/SPORTS/Bill+to+force+radio+to+pay+royalties+to+performers+wins+committee+approval

http://www.paradisepost.com/ci_12396121

I know there are more. I missed information about this one. Now it's my passion for the day. :)

Look at #3 - an exemption for religious broadcast. Does that mean Christian music stations would be exempt?

Fucking bite me, people.

Yes, more research needs to be done.

Man can climb the highest summits, but he cannot dwell there long (Shaw)

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sun, 31 May 2009 22:32:00 +0000

Sometimes, the most freeing thing in life is accomplishing your first big goal.

Yesterday, I did something that I often wondered would ever happen – I sent out m very first copy of Crossing the Gate for consideration. 303 pages. Over 98,000 words. How amazing. Something I started almost seven years ago coming to fruition now. I’ve never been so excited but so calm in my life.

I’ve been avoiding writing about this for the last few days. It’s so much easier to just bounce around in my head. After all, I did what I thought at times was undoable. I submitted a manuscript. It still feels unreal to say. I am so calm and yet, so excited. It’s like … I’ve stepped onto a path and I can see the rocky, snow-covered mountains before me and I know that I still have to climb them, but what’s come home for me is the understanding that I’m going to be climbing those mountains the rest of my life. Whether it’s through writing or love or life, those mountains aren’t going away and every time I take the challenge to climb one of them, I am only going to find new ones along the path. There are places to take refuge, of course, and people along the path to help me. Some people who will be here forever and others I have not yet met.

I think it’s easy to fall into a sense of contentment. We achieve one thing, that ONE BIG THING and think then that it’s easy from that point on. And, to a point, that’s correct. See, once we’ve crawled over that huge rock and survived the harsh conditions, we know how to get over that rock and are more sure of our footing. Yet, from that first goal, there’s only more hard work in the way. It’s so easy to find contentment and find a comfortable place to curl up and be happy with what we have.

It’s a mindset I no longer understand. At one time, I did. I understood the need for a life that was full of joy and laughter and truest joy in what was before me. But now, I have climbed over that first mountain. I have finished my first manuscript and not only finished it but submitted it. It is no longer in my possession but the possession of the universe. And now, looking forward, seeing the future, seeing those mountains, I want to explore. I want to see what lies on the other side. What rewards will come with scaling those frightening peaks. Peaks not only of professional joys, but personal ones as well. Peaks that taunt me. That will not let me go to bed content. Oh, I can embrace what I have and I do, I do. But more than that, my dreams are full of the next mountain.

And perhaps, then, that’s the meaning of life. Silly in its simplicity, perhaps, but that man in our mindset – the guru on the mountaintop with the answers – what he is telling us is to understand the mountains before us. We won’t scale every one. Some we will turn back. Some will harm us. Some will leave us with scars. Some will possibly even break us. But the point is to never stop looking to the top of the mountain … or the next one.

Prop 8

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Tue, 26 May 2009 18:41:00 +0000

You know something, I would rather live in a place like Utah, a place that makes no pretense of it's hatred for the Queer community than a place like California that takes away rights given to its citizens.

News flash, America. We are NOT a true Democracy. We are a Republic. We elect leaders to listen to us and make decisions. We do NOT rule by citizen majority. Can you imagine what would have happened if after the Civil Rights Act was passed, the states had held a VOTE and decided that no, all of these rights we've given to black people are going to go away? That is essentially what just happened in California. It was ruled by a Governing body that the Queer Community was to be granted equal status under the law and then the people of California TOOK THAT AWAY. What do we have government then for anyway? Are we to become a country that is ruled not by the rule of law but by the laws of fear.

What has been said about the Queer Community during this fight has cut us, all of us, to the core and made every single person in this country LESS than we are. Any time we speak less of people who are in fact citizens of this country, we become less as a people. Anytime we refuse citizens of this country rights that are granted to everyone else, we lose a piece of our souls.

So today, we as a nation lost some of ourselves. Today, we allowed majority fear to stomp out the rights of the minority in the most populous state in this country. Today, we are all a little smaller.

wow

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Fri, 22 May 2009 01:08:00 +0000

It's been forever since I posted here. Has it really been 11 days since I had a logical thought? Possibly. ;-)

I've honestly been in "finishing-the-book" hell. If this is a marathon, and all long-length writing is, I am in the last mile or two. I'm gasping for breath, reaching for Gatorade, and cramping up but dammit ... I am almost there.

It's been almost seven years since I actually started this book. Longer since I got to know these characters. There was a time of a couple of years when I didn't even touch the manuscript and wondered if my dreams for this novel were only meant to be dreams. Tonight, I sit here, seeing a deadline and my heart leaps with joy and fear.

I hear that starting off on a dream is all about taking that first step. No, it's about taking the last one. It's about actually letting ourselves realize that dream and know and understand that as we take that LAST step toward the first step of the next level, there could be heart break. We might have to start over again. We might, one day, possibly, have to look at our dream and realize that it is only a dream.

The first time that happened to me, I was in high school. Never the best dancer in the room, I still wanted to spend my high school days dancing away in sparkly outfits. Flat feet denied me the joy of ballet. Lack of money, and perhaps interest, from my family, always sullied my enjoyment of the process. When I became a cheerleader my Sophomore year in high school, I am surprised my family didn't disown me right then and there. After all, in their mind, the only dream I needed to have was to BE a basketball player, not to cheer them on. It's amusing, to me at least, that I remain the loudest, most informed fan in my family. Injuries sidelined my dreams in high school. And it was later, in college, when I went to an audition that I blew, I realized that even dancing on stage in musicals wasn't going to happen.

The second time I realized that some dreams are meant to just be dreams, I was in my early 20's, and it hit me that no, I wasn't meant to be an actor. No. No, not an actor or a singer. It wasn't my path. And giving up those dreams was hard on me. I'd crafted my entire world around this dream. I drifted then. Lawyer. Teacher. Anything to just be focused. To paraphrase the song - any dream would do. And it was during this time that I found my constant - writing. Yes, writing.

So, I sit here today, with Rachel Maddow playing on the TV machine, seeing the last step in this first step. I am about to, for the first time, truly step to the next level in a dream. And it's scary. Stepping to the next level means rejection. It means people laughing at what I know is talented writing. It means staring into evil, evil monsters who will tell me how terrible and horrible I am. But there's a difference between dancing and acting and singing ... this time, I know my constant. I know my footing. And even if I have, at times, walked blindly down the path, I have always been here.

And so ... right now, with less than ten days to my deadline, I format. I fight with word and I format. I edit conversations between characters. I cast the characters in my head (Zachary Quinto as Tony ... seriously. Michael Trucco as Jared.) And I enjoy the butterflies in my head. Bring on the bullshit, bring on the rejections, bring on the mocking.

For the first time in my life, I truly understand the path I am on.

For more information on Crossing the Gate, please check out crossingthegate.livejournal.com

On dreams ... and what I think the meaning of life might be ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Mon, 11 May 2009 05:19:00 +0000

I know it’s been a while since I updated here. Not really like people are reading much right now anyway. I don’t expect anyone to be wandering by my little home in cyberspace right now. It’s new, brand new, and if I’m not exactly sure what I want it to be how can I expect other people to understand it either? Is it a place for me to write my essays about Utah sports and what it’s like to be a starving writer or would people come here because they want to know my personal rantings and ravings? I don’t know. I know that I have a journal over at livejournal that people read, but what I have there isn’t what I want this to be. But what, then, do I want this to me.

Oh, the way my mind works. Really, don’t worry. It doesn’t make sense to me either.

It’s so strange now. I mean, we’ve got twitter and facebook and myspace and livejournal and all these places out in cyberspace where we can go to express ourselves and connect. We connect with faceless entities and make connections that dare to be even more real than the connections we have face to face with people. Introvert, extrovert, we flock to this world here because it makes more since than the insanity we see every single day around us. Here we can bond much more easily over our fandoms and the worlds that do connect us and it’s so much easier to push away the things that divide us. For all you might not like someone, they love the same ship you do. It’s just easier to connect. To find the numerous similarities.

Am I even making sense? I don’t know right now.

I know that I come here under the guise of a writer. I come here because it’s what I know to do. I come here because I know that no matter who else is out there, no matter what publishers tell me I can’t or I suck or that it isn’t worth it, that here, someone might read what I write. I know that I can connect to my muse here – just as I connect to her in my paper journal. You know, those things that bookstores still sell so obviously people are still buying them in droves? I know that when I write, the world makes sense and when that happens, I don’t need anyone else to read it. Does it make sense? Not really. But in my mind it does.

Hell I don’t even know what I’m saying right now.

This has a point. Believe it or not.

I went to see the Star Trek movie today. I sat in a theater full of people, just enthralled with this reboot of the series. I loved everything and even the things I didn’t like, I learned to like. I came home after that and watched more of my re-watch of Battlestar Galactica. And it’s in moments like this that I want to curl up and cry. Why? Why when I am able to experience such glorious talent do I want to curl up and cry? Because I want to know that I have that kind of talent. I want to know that I will someday touch someone as these writers have touched me. I dream of someone closing a book of mine someday and wanting more, wanting to feel more, to find more, to know more just because my words moved them. I know that people read what I write and that they like it. But I’m in this limbo, a limbo that I hope leads to much better things. A limbo that includes a mostly finished novel, and a job with a zine that I love but that doesn’t pay me. A limbo that means that in just under 9 hours, I will be at my day job. Gotta pay the bills somehow right now.

Maybe … I just don’t know how.

Maybe my dreams are so big that there are moments when I can’t bring them down to the smaller levels. Those moments happen less and less anymore, but they happen. I have moments when all I can do is imagine sitting in a room with Ron Moore and telling him my ideas and he smiles at me and says that he will help me see them done. When I am told by Aaron Sorkin that he likes the way my characters play off each other. When Chris Carter is excited about the mythology I create. Some would say I should feel silly, but it is these moments that make me even more devoted to my dreams. Even if these moments never happen, there’s something more to live for. It isn’t fame. It isn’t even success as defined by American culture. It’s about seeing your dreams come true. And that’s healthy. Even for someone with an imagination like mine.

So yeah. I really don’t know what this page is supposed to be right now. I just hope … I hope as I continue to find my way down this road and I figure it out, that it becomes clear to other people as well. Until then, keep reading. Keep reading what I write and what others write. Remember – reading … it’s sexy.

Novel Writing Frustrations ...

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Tue, 05 May 2009 04:54:00 +0000

I must, must, must learn to take it all in stride - especially when I'm the one who put off getting some work done. Yes, I got other things done but it's my fault that it's 10:47 and I am in no place to write at the moment. Deadline looming and I freak.

Pluses: I know what is wrong with the scenes I know that I need to fix.

Minuses: See above attitudes right now.

It isn't anyone's fault but mine.

The Mind of a Metalhead

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 20:12:00 +0000

No one gets it, really. No one, unless you are a part of it, understands the pulsing passion that is as much pubescent anger as it is a violent coming of age understanding that the happy, joyful world of a time before we faced off with nuclear bombs and bombs in coffee shops and turning planes into bombs is over. There is a sense, a mocking, laughter as heroes from all walks of a genre that everyone at one time has listened to collapses and rebuilds itself again and again.

We are now the children and grandchildren of the devil’s children. To us, the tri-tone is as important to our genetic makeup as what color eyes or skin we have. To us, lyrics about girls and beer and sex are as important as fighting corrupt power while thanking our soldiers for volunteering for jobs most of us would run from. We are the children of the children of the sixties. We are colder, angrier, tied into our computers and our cell phones, hiding from a world that at one time mocked and still mocks us mercilessly.

We are the child who sits alone in a room with a candle burning. Where once our parents got high to Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, we stare into flames and listen to Metallica and Queensryche and wonder if it’s wrong that we like the new Linkin Park album or that we think Nickleback has a place in this world. We fear becoming our parents, lost adrift in a culture of “me” and “I” and yet thrive on myspace and facebook and twitter – searching for a companionship that we find only on the floor of a show as we crash into each other, bloody, angry, our ear drums ringing, tribal initiation, a circle of life, a reminder that we are still human despite what outside influences would have us feel.

We are many. Drunk and sober, uneducated and Ivy League. We identify each other with simple, subtle messages. A second look at someone’s t-shirt, a necklace, a leather rope around a wrist, an Army jacket. A wilder look in our eyes that demands more from entertainment than simply floating away into nothingness. Songs are not about love but sex. Not about politics but corruption. Not about pain but death.

Yet we can all appreciate the simplest song about beer.

We accept the pain in our legs after a concert. We accept the ringing in our ears and the highs and lows and the knowledge that the hangover the next day is not as much from booze but from the power and magic of the music that still lingers in our soul even the next day when we are struggling through jobs that often leave us wondering what our place is in it all. We are disillusioned with a purpose. We want to reshape the world but understand that the world will reshape itself. We are folk music with a violent ending. We are protest songs that tear down the system completely.

We are the mass and anger forgotten in the guilt of generations who do not still have a comprehension of what the bomb did to shape us all. We shout and would say that we are not heard but there are masses of us, teeming, rebuilding your streets and your houses and your lives. You have handed us the future and we took our anger and from it created understanding and knowledge and even, possibly hope. We know there is no stopping the blackness, we know it will find us. So we enter the pit day after day after day.

You Had to Love it, Baby

noreply@blogger.com (Whispers and Voices) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 00:54:00 +0000

Today at 7:00 PM (EST) The Utah Jazz announced that long-time play-by-play announcer Hot Rod Huntley will call his last game at the end of the Utah Jazz post season. "Hots" has been calling the Jazz since the team was in New Orleans and is the only remaining member of the original team that came over from New Orleans. In a near-hour long interview today that can be heard on podcast later tonight on The Fan Sports, Hot Rod talked to David Locke about life as a part of the Jazz.

Hot Rod was the number one draft pick in 1957. For the last 42 years, his signature style has floated over the radio - a style he developed in homage to his mentor Chick Hearn. 35 years ago, he moved to New Orleans and then with the team to Utah. This year, he called his 3,000th game with the Jazz and his number was retired by his Alma mater, West Virginia.

For fans like me, whose only memories of Jazz basketball as a kid involve Hot Rod, today is a day that sits heavy on our hearts. With the passing of legendary owner Larry Miller this year, losing Hot Rod to retirement is truly the end of an era. Few teams, if any, in the NBA have seen the kind of stability that the Jazz have seen. And Hot Rod was a part of that legacy.

The 2009-2010 season will truly be a dawn of a new era for the Utah Jazz. With Jerry Sloan's career nearing its own inevitable end, those of us who have literally been raised with a love and a passion for the only major league franchise in this state, with a love and a passion for Jazz Basketball - those of us who truly know what that phrase means, we look with uncertainty toward the end of this year and next year.

Go with a light heart, Hots. There will never be another like you.