"Washed is the ground with so many tears."
Yesterday, I wrote 1,092 words on Chapter Three of Fay Grimmer. I think the most remarkable thing about the Siobhan Quinn books so far is the almost utter absence of sex and/or romance. Of course, when one sets out to lampoon PR, an absence of both is essentially required. I'm pretty sure that Quinn is the female Hank Moody of werepires. Okay. No. She's not one third that cool. And the no sex. Anyway, I'm speaking of Blood Oranges, Fay Grimmer, and Puppy Love, the contracted trilogy. Trilogies are contracted like plagues. And no, that doesn't include Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings is a single book that was divided into the parts at the behest of his publisher, but it's still a single book.
Somehow, Kid Night turned into a House M. D. marathon. We'd never seen the show, and when we dropped by Acme Video, on impulse we rented part of the first season. We watched the first seven episodes last night. My feelings are mixed. Obviously, I must have been enjoying it, as I kept wanting more. However, without Hugh Laurie and the title character, written with such wit and panache and irascible charm, all you have is a schmaltzy hospital TV melodrama. Rarely could he be offscreen for more than five minutes without me beginning to grow bored and questioning my taste in entertainment. Then he'd return, and I'd be astounded at this biting, updated take on Sherlock Holmes. Of course, a significant factor working against the show is that it can only bite just so hard and only be just so smart and witty because it was made for Fox, and, on network TV, even now, you can only go so far when risking offending people by truthfully mocking them. It was a lot like watching Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Whenever Vincent D'Onofrio stepped off the stage for more than five minutes, there was a serious threat of everything going mushy and dull. Oh, and the fact that House actually teaches how scientists think (and how doctors rarely do), how understanding arises from the trial and error of reasoning, another plus to help offset the schmaltz. Oh, and Vicodin! Lots and lots of my patron saint, Vicodin!
Oh, and while getting our weekly pizza at Fellini's, some touron fucktard (who was there with his incredibly loud extended family of about fifty-five fucktards) first commented on how much he liked Spooky's hair. Then immediately said to me, "So, she's your daughter? Or your...friend?"
Now, yeah, I should have punched the douchebag in the ear. I was in no mood for breathtaking breaches of etiquette, much less having a tourist think I was in my sixties. See, Spooky's only six years my junior, which means I'd have had to be six...though actually five at the time of conception, so...but I'm the one with grey hair, I guess. Anyway, I just turned away from him, laughed a tired laugh, and muttered "She's my girlfriend." I glanced back at the douchebag, and he looked as confused as I think his tiny Stegosaurus brain was capable of looking.
---
I am so FUCKING sick of this business about "trigger warnings." I'm so weary of the absence of critical thought that prevents people from understanding how the inherent subjectivity renders them utterly and completely impractical and unreliable, even if I were willing to censor myself (Hint: I'm not.). And I've been getting these people who say, "Oh, but we just mean for the most obvious stuff! You know, rape and incest and child abuse." But I've been told there should be warnings if there's lesbian sex. Or any sex. No, really.
"Oh, it's stupid if you go too far, but, sometimes it truly is reasonable."
Okay, yeah. Whatever. Here's the way I see it. Writers are liars. All of us. Well, all people are liars, but writers get paid to do it (barely). Writers who are so deluded as to think they might be good writers try to write with honesty. Which means not pulling punches. But the readers only came for the lies. Because I can be slow on the uptake, the elegant simplicity of this just now occurred to me, this Catch-22, this hideous circle, and it may or may not have anything to do with "trigger warnings."
But here's where I stand, and here's where I will likely still be standing years from now: No, you will not find "trigger warnings" here. It is solely your responsibility as the reader to police what you will and will not read online. My only responsibility is to write, whatever I want. Period. Your psyche is neither my responsibility nor my concern. The end. So, please, no more silly attempts to make this shit sound even remotely reasonable.
Or stay and read and risk occasionally being unnerved or pissed off or suffering a flashback...or whatever. You are free. It's your call. I am free, and I can say I think this stuff is bunk (and provide logical arguments to support my claim). You are free to disagree. But somewhere else. I'm tired of this. Recently, this fashionable hysteria (and related ones) has led to my being called a racist, a sexist, an ableist, ordered never again to speak of parenting, declared insensitive because I hate Kindles, called an...okay, no, forget all that. Doesn't matter. I'm not going to waste my time defending myself from fools. I'm only going to write, and - I admit - often write viciously and with an absolute disregard for anyone else's feelings. Trauma is my stock and trade, wicked though it may be. I pick scabs, mine and yours. I scrutinize scars, mine and yours. I worm into the folds of the cerebellum, mine and yours.*
And on the day I need to explain to anyone why I am free to do that...
---
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in a war
For a lead role in a cage? ~ Pink Floyd
How I Wish You Were Here,
Aunt Beast
* My actual readers know this. It's mostly the trolls who've never read me, but heard somewhere or another that I'm dissing their shit that are the problem. Those who think they are privileged and above criticism to whom I am, in the main, speaking. I love the way they threaten never again to buy my books, when it's obvious they never have. Now, I'm tired of talking about this, and my bona-fide audience are tired of hearing about it.
Somehow, Kid Night turned into a House M. D. marathon. We'd never seen the show, and when we dropped by Acme Video, on impulse we rented part of the first season. We watched the first seven episodes last night. My feelings are mixed. Obviously, I must have been enjoying it, as I kept wanting more. However, without Hugh Laurie and the title character, written with such wit and panache and irascible charm, all you have is a schmaltzy hospital TV melodrama. Rarely could he be offscreen for more than five minutes without me beginning to grow bored and questioning my taste in entertainment. Then he'd return, and I'd be astounded at this biting, updated take on Sherlock Holmes. Of course, a significant factor working against the show is that it can only bite just so hard and only be just so smart and witty because it was made for Fox, and, on network TV, even now, you can only go so far when risking offending people by truthfully mocking them. It was a lot like watching Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Whenever Vincent D'Onofrio stepped off the stage for more than five minutes, there was a serious threat of everything going mushy and dull. Oh, and the fact that House actually teaches how scientists think (and how doctors rarely do), how understanding arises from the trial and error of reasoning, another plus to help offset the schmaltz. Oh, and Vicodin! Lots and lots of my patron saint, Vicodin!
Oh, and while getting our weekly pizza at Fellini's, some touron fucktard (who was there with his incredibly loud extended family of about fifty-five fucktards) first commented on how much he liked Spooky's hair. Then immediately said to me, "So, she's your daughter? Or your...friend?"
Now, yeah, I should have punched the douchebag in the ear. I was in no mood for breathtaking breaches of etiquette, much less having a tourist think I was in my sixties. See, Spooky's only six years my junior, which means I'd have had to be six...though actually five at the time of conception, so...but I'm the one with grey hair, I guess. Anyway, I just turned away from him, laughed a tired laugh, and muttered "She's my girlfriend." I glanced back at the douchebag, and he looked as confused as I think his tiny Stegosaurus brain was capable of looking.
---
I am so FUCKING sick of this business about "trigger warnings." I'm so weary of the absence of critical thought that prevents people from understanding how the inherent subjectivity renders them utterly and completely impractical and unreliable, even if I were willing to censor myself (Hint: I'm not.). And I've been getting these people who say, "Oh, but we just mean for the most obvious stuff! You know, rape and incest and child abuse." But I've been told there should be warnings if there's lesbian sex. Or any sex. No, really.
"Oh, it's stupid if you go too far, but, sometimes it truly is reasonable."
Okay, yeah. Whatever. Here's the way I see it. Writers are liars. All of us. Well, all people are liars, but writers get paid to do it (barely). Writers who are so deluded as to think they might be good writers try to write with honesty. Which means not pulling punches. But the readers only came for the lies. Because I can be slow on the uptake, the elegant simplicity of this just now occurred to me, this Catch-22, this hideous circle, and it may or may not have anything to do with "trigger warnings."
But here's where I stand, and here's where I will likely still be standing years from now: No, you will not find "trigger warnings" here. It is solely your responsibility as the reader to police what you will and will not read online. My only responsibility is to write, whatever I want. Period. Your psyche is neither my responsibility nor my concern. The end. So, please, no more silly attempts to make this shit sound even remotely reasonable.
Or stay and read and risk occasionally being unnerved or pissed off or suffering a flashback...or whatever. You are free. It's your call. I am free, and I can say I think this stuff is bunk (and provide logical arguments to support my claim). You are free to disagree. But somewhere else. I'm tired of this. Recently, this fashionable hysteria (and related ones) has led to my being called a racist, a sexist, an ableist, ordered never again to speak of parenting, declared insensitive because I hate Kindles, called an...okay, no, forget all that. Doesn't matter. I'm not going to waste my time defending myself from fools. I'm only going to write, and - I admit - often write viciously and with an absolute disregard for anyone else's feelings. Trauma is my stock and trade, wicked though it may be. I pick scabs, mine and yours. I scrutinize scars, mine and yours. I worm into the folds of the cerebellum, mine and yours.*
And on the day I need to explain to anyone why I am free to do that...
---
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in a war
For a lead role in a cage? ~ Pink Floyd
How I Wish You Were Here,
Aunt Beast
* My actual readers know this. It's mostly the trolls who've never read me, but heard somewhere or another that I'm dissing their shit that are the problem. Those who think they are privileged and above criticism to whom I am, in the main, speaking. I love the way they threaten never again to buy my books, when it's obvious they never have. Now, I'm tired of talking about this, and my bona-fide audience are tired of hearing about it.