Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Columbia Journalism School: Thanksgiving Check-in
I am popping at the seams. I find myself listening to The Fame Monster by Lady Gaga on repeat, staring out dark subway windows on the 1. Half the time I'm just staring at myself in the window wondering whether I made the right choice to come, to be here, to pursue this profession.
I'm not the best in my class, in fact I'm far behind many of classmates in both reporting and writing. Whatever relative prowess or ability I thought I had with writing before has gotten mostly, if not almost entirely, swiped from my hands. Not to be a whiny pain in the ass, but my tail is in between my legs and for the last two weeks my self-esteem has been dragged through the muddy, sewage ridden New York gutters. A good analogy would be me as Peter Pan (circa Disney's 1953 animated release) and my self-esteem as his skittish, unattainable shadow running the hell away. I've attempted to re-attach my self-esteem but, like Peter, I've found that soap (or perky "you can do it!" chants in my case) just aren't cutting it to keep that sucker tacked to me. Who has a sewing kit I can borrow?
RW1 is the basic reporting class each of us has to go through before we can finish our Fall term. It is the largest, most demanding time and emotional suck of a class I have ever had. RW1 requires that you pick a beat to cover for the entirety of the semester -- a topic (food, money, health) or a physical neighborhood (Astoria, Harlem, LES, or in my case, Hell's Kitchen) and find stories for the duration of your time as a cub reporter there. This is how old-school daily print reporters have been trained for many, many years. You learn basic news writing style, how to structure a story, and get the shoe-leather reporting skills that generations before you have perfected. Ask the right questions. Find the leads. Get the story. Before we arrive, it's what we're all looking to learn at some level otherwise we wouldn't be here. We want that real world experience when so many of us have come from a reporting background of desk phone calls, press-releases or googling. Or, we have no experience at all.
The reality is you knock on doors and get rejected time and time and time again. You get laughed at when you tell people you're a student, you feel like an ass because you aren't publishing the work you're getting people to give their time up for, and everything you inevitably find out is about 50 percent less than you actually need. But really, these are all very good lessons that you learn. Every time you don't get what you want gives you a smack on the butt to get up and get it right the next time. Every failure feels terrible, but oh the successes, those sweet successes that come few and far between, are worth every terrible story idea or interview before it. The time you got that source to talk when no one else could, when you find the story that you've always known was there and everyone missed. It feels like you have been vindicated more, better, than you have been in years. Goddammit, you were right.
They tell you it's going to be hard when you get here. Actually, they tell you before you get here, when you get here, and while you're going through it. But lately that often doesn't seem like enough.
Almost all of the young journalists I've talked in the last few weeks, especially my classmates, have begun to voice questions, doubts, and concerns over whether we should be pursuing journalism. Are we built for this? Is our writing good enough? Is our reporting strong enough? Should we really be following this path? The industry is tough right now, tougher than before, and as the previous generation of journalists continues to get booted from newsrooms around the country, we're catching the trickle down of their messy company breakups. People are bitter, terrified, and often still cling to a model or ideal of journalism that doesn't match up with the world our class is seeing today.
We're being taught a standard of journalism that worked for more than a century, primarily based around daily newspaper production and writing. But we're also constantly confronted with these points: the industry is structurally changing, newspapers need to consider what content they're going to be good at cause, uh, people get most of that info elsewhere now (for free!), magazines no longer have ad pages coming in, and online journalism isn't yet generating enough revenue to be a feasible business model even with millions of followers. So, young reporters, what do we do?
There's no answer to that question right now. All I have are these curiosities sitting in the back of my head that need to be fleshed out, "unpacked" as so many professors here love to say. What I do know is that I feel like I've gotten smacked and kicked around a decent amount in the last four months. Speared, roasted, flambéed ... but I can't deny that I haven't learned a ton. I do feel infinitely better at reporting than when I entered (hmm, what does that say for how well I used to report if I'm still not good?), I'm reading more voraciously than before and I'm producing work I never thought I'd produce. I guess it's working the magic it's supposed to work, but goodness it's been a slog. I don't know if it was entirely worth it just yet.
Here's what I'm hoping: first semester presents you with all of the background, all of the questions that are being asked, and all of the situations that you might shy away from if you didn't have an organization shoving them in your face. I'm praying that second term will bring some solutions, some answers and a clearer path. I still find journalism titillating and engaging in a way no other industry really strikes me. But working in a daily newsroom seems like drudgery and frustration to me right now. I like reporting, but I struggle when I'm not interested in the story I'm telling. Maybe that's normal, though, and I'm just being an epically big cry baby. I can't decide if the pull I feel to radio broadcasting and photography is something worth pursuing, or just another path that will lead to the depressing realization that I'm not cut out for this.
Get broke down before you get built up. Right? ... Right. If I have a fit of tourettes when you next see me, please know it's not meant to offend in any way. I'm just a little imbalanced right now. Happy Thanksgiving, peeps!
I'm not the best in my class, in fact I'm far behind many of classmates in both reporting and writing. Whatever relative prowess or ability I thought I had with writing before has gotten mostly, if not almost entirely, swiped from my hands. Not to be a whiny pain in the ass, but my tail is in between my legs and for the last two weeks my self-esteem has been dragged through the muddy, sewage ridden New York gutters. A good analogy would be me as Peter Pan (circa Disney's 1953 animated release) and my self-esteem as his skittish, unattainable shadow running the hell away. I've attempted to re-attach my self-esteem but, like Peter, I've found that soap (or perky "you can do it!" chants in my case) just aren't cutting it to keep that sucker tacked to me. Who has a sewing kit I can borrow?
RW1 is the basic reporting class each of us has to go through before we can finish our Fall term. It is the largest, most demanding time and emotional suck of a class I have ever had. RW1 requires that you pick a beat to cover for the entirety of the semester -- a topic (food, money, health) or a physical neighborhood (Astoria, Harlem, LES, or in my case, Hell's Kitchen) and find stories for the duration of your time as a cub reporter there. This is how old-school daily print reporters have been trained for many, many years. You learn basic news writing style, how to structure a story, and get the shoe-leather reporting skills that generations before you have perfected. Ask the right questions. Find the leads. Get the story. Before we arrive, it's what we're all looking to learn at some level otherwise we wouldn't be here. We want that real world experience when so many of us have come from a reporting background of desk phone calls, press-releases or googling. Or, we have no experience at all.
The reality is you knock on doors and get rejected time and time and time again. You get laughed at when you tell people you're a student, you feel like an ass because you aren't publishing the work you're getting people to give their time up for, and everything you inevitably find out is about 50 percent less than you actually need. But really, these are all very good lessons that you learn. Every time you don't get what you want gives you a smack on the butt to get up and get it right the next time. Every failure feels terrible, but oh the successes, those sweet successes that come few and far between, are worth every terrible story idea or interview before it. The time you got that source to talk when no one else could, when you find the story that you've always known was there and everyone missed. It feels like you have been vindicated more, better, than you have been in years. Goddammit, you were right.
They tell you it's going to be hard when you get here. Actually, they tell you before you get here, when you get here, and while you're going through it. But lately that often doesn't seem like enough.
Almost all of the young journalists I've talked in the last few weeks, especially my classmates, have begun to voice questions, doubts, and concerns over whether we should be pursuing journalism. Are we built for this? Is our writing good enough? Is our reporting strong enough? Should we really be following this path? The industry is tough right now, tougher than before, and as the previous generation of journalists continues to get booted from newsrooms around the country, we're catching the trickle down of their messy company breakups. People are bitter, terrified, and often still cling to a model or ideal of journalism that doesn't match up with the world our class is seeing today.
We're being taught a standard of journalism that worked for more than a century, primarily based around daily newspaper production and writing. But we're also constantly confronted with these points: the industry is structurally changing, newspapers need to consider what content they're going to be good at cause, uh, people get most of that info elsewhere now (for free!), magazines no longer have ad pages coming in, and online journalism isn't yet generating enough revenue to be a feasible business model even with millions of followers. So, young reporters, what do we do?
There's no answer to that question right now. All I have are these curiosities sitting in the back of my head that need to be fleshed out, "unpacked" as so many professors here love to say. What I do know is that I feel like I've gotten smacked and kicked around a decent amount in the last four months. Speared, roasted, flambéed ... but I can't deny that I haven't learned a ton. I do feel infinitely better at reporting than when I entered (hmm, what does that say for how well I used to report if I'm still not good?), I'm reading more voraciously than before and I'm producing work I never thought I'd produce. I guess it's working the magic it's supposed to work, but goodness it's been a slog. I don't know if it was entirely worth it just yet.
Here's what I'm hoping: first semester presents you with all of the background, all of the questions that are being asked, and all of the situations that you might shy away from if you didn't have an organization shoving them in your face. I'm praying that second term will bring some solutions, some answers and a clearer path. I still find journalism titillating and engaging in a way no other industry really strikes me. But working in a daily newsroom seems like drudgery and frustration to me right now. I like reporting, but I struggle when I'm not interested in the story I'm telling. Maybe that's normal, though, and I'm just being an epically big cry baby. I can't decide if the pull I feel to radio broadcasting and photography is something worth pursuing, or just another path that will lead to the depressing realization that I'm not cut out for this.
Get broke down before you get built up. Right? ... Right. If I have a fit of tourettes when you next see me, please know it's not meant to offend in any way. I'm just a little imbalanced right now. Happy Thanksgiving, peeps!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Central Park in October
Fall finally started to hit New York City this weekend. The leaves are changing now and the air snaps you awake in the morning with its vibrant crispness. I've only felt that energy on the East Coast in the Fall, which is one of the reasons I'm always excited to experience it again.
J was here visiting for the weekend, so the usual suspects including Rysiebops and Shwow popped out of their respective work hiding places and took her about town for a couple of nights.
The next day, D convinced me away from one of my finals for a quick walk in Central Park. Seeing that many families together, couples strolling the park, or kids frolicking, is strangely invigorating. I'll be sad to see it go when winter hits.
It's funny, the more photos I take, the less I feel I have any concept of it. Hopefully the next few months of staring at photos, and watching serious editors discuss them, will help me out. Till next post.
xoxo,
See
J was here visiting for the weekend, so the usual suspects including Rysiebops and Shwow popped out of their respective work hiding places and took her about town for a couple of nights.
The next day, D convinced me away from one of my finals for a quick walk in Central Park. Seeing that many families together, couples strolling the park, or kids frolicking, is strangely invigorating. I'll be sad to see it go when winter hits.
It's funny, the more photos I take, the less I feel I have any concept of it. Hopefully the next few months of staring at photos, and watching serious editors discuss them, will help me out. Till next post.
xoxo,
See
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Riverside Park + Puppy Encounters
In an attempt to avoid my third 700 word story yesterday, I took a quick spin to Riverside Park to snap some shots. I spent a lot of time taking pictures of, uh, scenery and landscapes. Primarily because I don't really have the gumption just yet to go up and take pictures of random people.
For example:
However, this gentleman saw me taking photos of that shoe stuck to a fence -- it's practice! -- and asked if I would take some photographs of him with his dogs. His two viszlas Lucky and Coby will departing in the near future, along with his soon to be ex-wife. Sadness!
But hopefully the few pictures I took will be a reminder of all the love between them. Keep on keeping on, sir.
Till tomorrow!
xoxo,
See
For example:
However, this gentleman saw me taking photos of that shoe stuck to a fence -- it's practice! -- and asked if I would take some photographs of him with his dogs. His two viszlas Lucky and Coby will departing in the near future, along with his soon to be ex-wife. Sadness!
But hopefully the few pictures I took will be a reminder of all the love between them. Keep on keeping on, sir.
Till tomorrow!
xoxo,
See
Monday, October 5, 2009
Photo of the Day
I don't really have a ton of time to be writing here, so I'm just going to start posting a few photos that I've been taking for school. (I stole this idea from D since he started posting pics on his blog.) But, I figure it'll be a nice way to track what's changing as I'm doing more at school. Hopefully these photos get better over time. Or rather, they BEST be getting better.
<3 D90.
Monday, September 21, 2009
J-School and All Its Terrors
6 weeks in. And, as such, I am on deadline for my (can't remember how many-eth) 700 word story. It's my second story in my "beat," or in non-school slang, the neighborhood I'm covering for the entirety of first semester. One story per week, every week till Christmas. My writing better improve, or I will be one sorely upset cub journalist.
More descriptions to follow about j-school life and all the tumult that it entails, but since I'm on deadline and I only JUST figured out the angle for my story that's due at 9am AND I'd like to get a fair amount of sleep tonight, I'm just going to leave you with my pump up song for the entire week.
It's a rediscovered fav, a song I haven't heard in months but caught in a bar somewhere recently. It touched a nerve. Holler at your girl.
xoxo,
See
More descriptions to follow about j-school life and all the tumult that it entails, but since I'm on deadline and I only JUST figured out the angle for my story that's due at 9am AND I'd like to get a fair amount of sleep tonight, I'm just going to leave you with my pump up song for the entire week.
It's a rediscovered fav, a song I haven't heard in months but caught in a bar somewhere recently. It touched a nerve. Holler at your girl.
xoxo,
See
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
High School: Round 2
What's painful about a past is usually nothing to do with what actually happened then. There were things you did, things you wish you'd done, things you really really wish you hadn't done. But any decisive action you took, or heart breaking decision you made then has disappeared into the ether never to be seen again. The hard part is figuring out how to bring it all forward, how to meld all of that junk and debris from before with the palpably vibrant present day -- while you try to prevent it all from exploding.
Memories are often so potent they can overpower your vision of a situation at hand. In my case, that means this entire post-work pre-school period since March has been a strange re-telling of my senior year in high school. (It hasn't helped to watch a show about the lavish, hyper-aggrandized high school experience on the Upper East Side of New York. Or that they just aired their big prom episode tonight). I hated and loved my senior year in high school -- and college at that. Nothing went how I wanted it. I didn't get to go to the school I wanted, my boyfriend was suddenly my ex-boyfriend before the pinnacle of our relationship could be reached by attending prom together, and I basically almost flunked out of school. Every piece of the puzzle I'd perfected and excruciatingly carved for myself, kept falling to the floor and dispersing into innumerable molecules of shittiness. I promised myself I would never come back to San Francisco for more than a short stint at my parents' house, and even further, I would never allow it to suck me into its sick, twisted plot where I would love this place and want to bring my eventual family here.
Flash forward to college graduation, and suddenly I'm relegated to a few months on a couch. I am quickly sensing that all of my worst fears are going to be played out in the HD version of California Real Life: This Sucks and have decided that in protest I will do absolutely nothing but review and re-live (but only in my head) the year I experienced prior to it. This, of course, will ensure that nothing in my actual reality can play itself out. Six months later, I find that this brings only greater heartache, a fat dollop of delusion, and a seriously bad case of "holy-crap-I-have-no-money-since-I-just-spent-everything-I-have-and-I-live-with-my-parents"-itis.
Flash forward again. Suddenly I find myself here for a year, moving into an apartment in San Francisco proper with two high school friends, and falling into the trappings of a relationship that supposedly came with a self-imposed expiration date. (Foiled yet again, brain.) Another year later, I'm just home from a whirlwind Eurotrip, planning for the last type of Grad School I expected to attend but whole-heartedly want to partake in, and moving to a city of curiosity which I've been ambivalent about since I left college. Somehow, while I tried my damnedest to disentangle myself from a city I was terrified of, I managed to unfold the exact existence I'd hoped for years ago. All out of a situation which, at the time, seemed abysmally unfavorable.
There's no picture perfect prom this time, there's no high school boyfriend to ask me in just the right way, or a beautiful backlit stairway to walk down. Not that those existed the first time around. In fact, none of them did -- maybe the perfect dress, but everything else was light years away. Which was almost the reason I was angry in the first place. However, there's also none of the unfortunate realities of the time that left me bitter, heartbroken and determined to leave behind anything remotely related in the first place. Or if there were, I think somewhere along the way I forgave them, accepted my responsibility there, and decided to watch my life actually happen the way it was going to -- not the way I wanted it to.
Which means that suddenly the memories don't matter as much, and the everyday now matters a lot more. All there is, is a wonderful family, these amazing irreplaceable friends, and an incredible unexpected love. Though this may be one of the happiest times of my life, I can feel that it's also the end of a wonderful (but difficult) era. But even so, I couldn't be more grateful for the people and the place that has taught me so much.
Did it really only happen because I opened myself to it? Or was it all bound to happen in the first place? Even more, did it happen because I expected absolutely nothing, so have been caught off guard?
Maybe it totally pays to have nothing expected, to smash all pre-conceptions and just fly totally blind. And maybe it pays to read more books, see more art, go to more parties, and listen to more music. Cause even if you don't want to, you're still trying to take it all in.
Memories are often so potent they can overpower your vision of a situation at hand. In my case, that means this entire post-work pre-school period since March has been a strange re-telling of my senior year in high school. (It hasn't helped to watch a show about the lavish, hyper-aggrandized high school experience on the Upper East Side of New York. Or that they just aired their big prom episode tonight). I hated and loved my senior year in high school -- and college at that. Nothing went how I wanted it. I didn't get to go to the school I wanted, my boyfriend was suddenly my ex-boyfriend before the pinnacle of our relationship could be reached by attending prom together, and I basically almost flunked out of school. Every piece of the puzzle I'd perfected and excruciatingly carved for myself, kept falling to the floor and dispersing into innumerable molecules of shittiness. I promised myself I would never come back to San Francisco for more than a short stint at my parents' house, and even further, I would never allow it to suck me into its sick, twisted plot where I would love this place and want to bring my eventual family here.
Flash forward to college graduation, and suddenly I'm relegated to a few months on a couch. I am quickly sensing that all of my worst fears are going to be played out in the HD version of California Real Life: This Sucks and have decided that in protest I will do absolutely nothing but review and re-live (but only in my head) the year I experienced prior to it. This, of course, will ensure that nothing in my actual reality can play itself out. Six months later, I find that this brings only greater heartache, a fat dollop of delusion, and a seriously bad case of "holy-crap-I-have-no-money-since-I-just-spent-everything-I-have-and-I-live-with-my-parents"-itis.
Flash forward again. Suddenly I find myself here for a year, moving into an apartment in San Francisco proper with two high school friends, and falling into the trappings of a relationship that supposedly came with a self-imposed expiration date. (Foiled yet again, brain.) Another year later, I'm just home from a whirlwind Eurotrip, planning for the last type of Grad School I expected to attend but whole-heartedly want to partake in, and moving to a city of curiosity which I've been ambivalent about since I left college. Somehow, while I tried my damnedest to disentangle myself from a city I was terrified of, I managed to unfold the exact existence I'd hoped for years ago. All out of a situation which, at the time, seemed abysmally unfavorable.
There's no picture perfect prom this time, there's no high school boyfriend to ask me in just the right way, or a beautiful backlit stairway to walk down. Not that those existed the first time around. In fact, none of them did -- maybe the perfect dress, but everything else was light years away. Which was almost the reason I was angry in the first place. However, there's also none of the unfortunate realities of the time that left me bitter, heartbroken and determined to leave behind anything remotely related in the first place. Or if there were, I think somewhere along the way I forgave them, accepted my responsibility there, and decided to watch my life actually happen the way it was going to -- not the way I wanted it to.
Which means that suddenly the memories don't matter as much, and the everyday now matters a lot more. All there is, is a wonderful family, these amazing irreplaceable friends, and an incredible unexpected love. Though this may be one of the happiest times of my life, I can feel that it's also the end of a wonderful (but difficult) era. But even so, I couldn't be more grateful for the people and the place that has taught me so much.
Did it really only happen because I opened myself to it? Or was it all bound to happen in the first place? Even more, did it happen because I expected absolutely nothing, so have been caught off guard?
Maybe it totally pays to have nothing expected, to smash all pre-conceptions and just fly totally blind. And maybe it pays to read more books, see more art, go to more parties, and listen to more music. Cause even if you don't want to, you're still trying to take it all in.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Keri Hilson Gonna Knock You Down
Tis the awesomes. Her new single Knock You Down (featuring none other than Kanye and Ne-Yo) is absolutely delicious to the ear. Even if it takes a couple tries before you take to it. See below for unadulterated musical yummy:
Friday, February 13, 2009
Cosmo: Making Girls Everywhere Dumber -- Especially Me
I love jezebel.com. If you want to see what I think when I pick up an issue of Cosmo (consciously or unconsciously) please refer to the following diagram from Jezebel's post about Cosmo's March issue.
I went on strike last year, swearing off Cosmo due the explosively bad effect it had on my body image and biological clock issues. But somehow a subscription found its way to my door -- thank you Blockbuster free magazine deal at sign up. So, I read it every now and then. It has some good shopping tips, up to date make-up stuff, celebrity gossip and then I'm just flipping through a little... and Kate Hudson is giggling about being divorced and her shoes are so glam! And, ooh I wanna know How to Be Just Bitchy Enough so I keep flipping, and suddenly -- shame spiral. Then one day I walk into my living room and S goes, "Hey! That new issue of Cosmo is crazy! Some really interesting articles." Apparently, placing the magazine in tantalizing, easy to reach places (read: bathroom), led S, D and R to have some needed to be heard guys' perspectives on the articles in the issue. What ensued over the course of the next couple hours was hilariously honest discourse about the truthiness of the magazine, and since then, every new issue will usually spring up another similar discussion.
S thinks the articles are fascinating studies of the female psyche. D and R think they're absolute horse crap and the magazine should be burned, but that it still provides some insight into general girl-thought strangeness. I always ended up understanding the most when I acknowledged the disjunct between thinking logically (them), and thinking so hard that you're trying to think logically but end up thinking stupidly (me + Cosmo). They've taught me to read the magazine with a skeptical, yet non-chalant, eye. Everything is a joke, and while there may be a hint of truth buried in the articles, sort the facts from the extrapolated and suggestive theories. Better yet, pretend Maxim made a spoof of itself and the spoof now has a circulation of 2.9 million readers. Simple enough as a concept, yes. But comprehending the idea fully that the "woman's sex bible" was total horse crap after reading it throughout my formative years, was like prying my hands off the world's last bowl of Udon.
Our most gratifying moments usually revolve around debating the "what he really means when he crosses his arms, scratches his armpit, blinks, sneezes, or breathes" section. The gist is usually:
See: These are kind of right! C'mon. (Reading) He's Oddly Distracted -- it means he's so embarassed about something, or maybe totally hungover, or maybe told a friend of yours a secret, or maybe he lost your cat, or maybe...uh...
R: He killed your sister and forgot to tell you that he did that and then he ate your dog. This is ridiculous.
See: So it's a little out there. But I've seen a lot of guys do that stuff. I mean a LOT. D used to do that stuff when we first started dating!
D: Yeah, remember how well that worked out. "You blinked hard! What are you hiding that you don't feel you can be honest with me?!" Now, we talk.
See: Hm...
S: It's just a quick and flawed way to simplify guys. These are just insecurities from the early months of dating played way up. It's all so individual. Once you get to know your partner, you can discuss what's going on.
See: But... that's not the fun part! You guys have officially made being psychotic and over-analytical totally lame.
I take it back, mostly reading Cosmo with my roommates and D is like the embarassing wake up call all of my girlfriends and I never wanted during round robin discussions of "the undecipherable boy codes." There's significant value in understanding real men. But what's the fun in it if you can't idealize, sexualize and demonize them for at least a little bit? Right, right, balance between the two parts. Fun and logic -- like Battleship or Monopoly! So there you have it, four years at a women's college + one year of living with guys = objective perspective on men. Until I read a Cosmo. Or see a guy talking to a girl while raising his eyebrows and scratching his nose because did you know that means he's totally lying to you about like, everything?
I went on strike last year, swearing off Cosmo due the explosively bad effect it had on my body image and biological clock issues. But somehow a subscription found its way to my door -- thank you Blockbuster free magazine deal at sign up. So, I read it every now and then. It has some good shopping tips, up to date make-up stuff, celebrity gossip and then I'm just flipping through a little... and Kate Hudson is giggling about being divorced and her shoes are so glam! And, ooh I wanna know How to Be Just Bitchy Enough so I keep flipping, and suddenly -- shame spiral. Then one day I walk into my living room and S goes, "Hey! That new issue of Cosmo is crazy! Some really interesting articles." Apparently, placing the magazine in tantalizing, easy to reach places (read: bathroom), led S, D and R to have some needed to be heard guys' perspectives on the articles in the issue. What ensued over the course of the next couple hours was hilariously honest discourse about the truthiness of the magazine, and since then, every new issue will usually spring up another similar discussion.
S thinks the articles are fascinating studies of the female psyche. D and R think they're absolute horse crap and the magazine should be burned, but that it still provides some insight into general girl-thought strangeness. I always ended up understanding the most when I acknowledged the disjunct between thinking logically (them), and thinking so hard that you're trying to think logically but end up thinking stupidly (me + Cosmo). They've taught me to read the magazine with a skeptical, yet non-chalant, eye. Everything is a joke, and while there may be a hint of truth buried in the articles, sort the facts from the extrapolated and suggestive theories. Better yet, pretend Maxim made a spoof of itself and the spoof now has a circulation of 2.9 million readers. Simple enough as a concept, yes. But comprehending the idea fully that the "woman's sex bible" was total horse crap after reading it throughout my formative years, was like prying my hands off the world's last bowl of Udon.
Our most gratifying moments usually revolve around debating the "what he really means when he crosses his arms, scratches his armpit, blinks, sneezes, or breathes" section. The gist is usually:
See: These are kind of right! C'mon. (Reading) He's Oddly Distracted -- it means he's so embarassed about something, or maybe totally hungover, or maybe told a friend of yours a secret, or maybe he lost your cat, or maybe...uh...
R: He killed your sister and forgot to tell you that he did that and then he ate your dog. This is ridiculous.
See: So it's a little out there. But I've seen a lot of guys do that stuff. I mean a LOT. D used to do that stuff when we first started dating!
D: Yeah, remember how well that worked out. "You blinked hard! What are you hiding that you don't feel you can be honest with me?!" Now, we talk.
See: Hm...
S: It's just a quick and flawed way to simplify guys. These are just insecurities from the early months of dating played way up. It's all so individual. Once you get to know your partner, you can discuss what's going on.
See: But... that's not the fun part! You guys have officially made being psychotic and over-analytical totally lame.
I take it back, mostly reading Cosmo with my roommates and D is like the embarassing wake up call all of my girlfriends and I never wanted during round robin discussions of "the undecipherable boy codes." There's significant value in understanding real men. But what's the fun in it if you can't idealize, sexualize and demonize them for at least a little bit? Right, right, balance between the two parts. Fun and logic -- like Battleship or Monopoly! So there you have it, four years at a women's college + one year of living with guys = objective perspective on men. Until I read a Cosmo. Or see a guy talking to a girl while raising his eyebrows and scratching his nose because did you know that means he's totally lying to you about like, everything?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Elizabeth Gilbert and Creativity
Elizabeth Gilbert wrote Eat, Pray, Love. The epic woman's tale of finding yourself in foreign lands after a torturous divorce and rebound relationship gone wrong. Ostensibly, this book is everything that I, and any woman familiar with self-loathing and flagellation after being steamrolled by "man," could hope to read. It should appeal very particularly to women with firm groundings in feminist and independent female thought. Yet, I got maybe forty pages in before I dropped it on my bookshelf in disgust. (The first twenty-five pages is morose and self-pitying, with overly perverse depictions of her balled up on bathroom floors sobbing into tile. Really, uplifting. Try reading it.) I should go back and muscle through the pity since her trips to Italy and India are apparently transcendent vicarious experiences. Especially given my upcoming "walkabout" in Europe. But in the meantime, I'll just post the talk she gave at TED in Long Beach a couple days ago.
She talks about being a writer to some extent, but mostly she discusses the origins of creativity, and why it's often thought of as a torturous and soul depleting process in recent years as opposed to -- wait for it -- the blessing of an unknown being, inspiration from on high, or simply being in the right place at the right time.
I live in San Francisco, so mind you I am big on understanding. (Momma See last night actually said, "You're so tolerant with people. Maybe you shouldn't always be so tolerant, because until you demand, people won't perform.") Since moving home from Boston, I've become a little too "oh, you're such a special little snowflake" for my own tastes. But what Gilbert is suggesting -- the Daemon, deity, or whatever you want to call it, who visits you as you're working and imbues your work with creative genius -- is both the best and most ludicrous presentation of the creative process I've heard in awhile. I believe in the concept of divine inspiration. It's been around for millenia, and if anything I think talent and ability are gifts given before we're aware of their existence. But mostly, and I am a bit biased, I think Gilbert is a bit of a gas bag. My guess is she gave the speech as some disclaimer to how potentially bad her next book is going to be. Then again, if I were in her shoes (and really, who am I to critique since I'm not a New York Times bestselling author, now am I?) I would probably feel the same way.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is, she brings up an interesting idea about how we find inspiration. Or, rather, how we pursue inspiration by writing endlessly in spite of the long bouts of uninspiration between one good piece and another. But I hate that she presents it as this idea unique to her and a very select few. Many writers and artists, with the exception of the ultra narcissistic ones, feel that there is an ebb and flow to their talent. When there's an ebb, they usually start praying to God or bartering with the devil to get the slightest hint of creative ability. While I was at Robert Mckee's seminar last march, one of the best pieces of wisdom he offered us (and one which will stick with me probably for the rest of my life) is that 90% of what you write is going to be absolute shit. But you keep writing so you can get the 10% that is absolute gold.
Hopefully my diatribe hasn't swayed you from watching the twenty minutes of her talk. If you've never thought about the creative process in this way before, it's worth hearing just so you can turn it over in your head a few times. I'll give Gilbert credit for that. You're not the only one who thought that up, but keep spreading the gospel, sister, apparently that's what you're best at.
P.S. Does anyone else think she seems kind of like she's trying to look like Steve Jobs at MacWorld?
She talks about being a writer to some extent, but mostly she discusses the origins of creativity, and why it's often thought of as a torturous and soul depleting process in recent years as opposed to -- wait for it -- the blessing of an unknown being, inspiration from on high, or simply being in the right place at the right time.
I live in San Francisco, so mind you I am big on understanding. (Momma See last night actually said, "You're so tolerant with people. Maybe you shouldn't always be so tolerant, because until you demand, people won't perform.") Since moving home from Boston, I've become a little too "oh, you're such a special little snowflake" for my own tastes. But what Gilbert is suggesting -- the Daemon, deity, or whatever you want to call it, who visits you as you're working and imbues your work with creative genius -- is both the best and most ludicrous presentation of the creative process I've heard in awhile. I believe in the concept of divine inspiration. It's been around for millenia, and if anything I think talent and ability are gifts given before we're aware of their existence. But mostly, and I am a bit biased, I think Gilbert is a bit of a gas bag. My guess is she gave the speech as some disclaimer to how potentially bad her next book is going to be. Then again, if I were in her shoes (and really, who am I to critique since I'm not a New York Times bestselling author, now am I?) I would probably feel the same way.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is, she brings up an interesting idea about how we find inspiration. Or, rather, how we pursue inspiration by writing endlessly in spite of the long bouts of uninspiration between one good piece and another. But I hate that she presents it as this idea unique to her and a very select few. Many writers and artists, with the exception of the ultra narcissistic ones, feel that there is an ebb and flow to their talent. When there's an ebb, they usually start praying to God or bartering with the devil to get the slightest hint of creative ability. While I was at Robert Mckee's seminar last march, one of the best pieces of wisdom he offered us (and one which will stick with me probably for the rest of my life) is that 90% of what you write is going to be absolute shit. But you keep writing so you can get the 10% that is absolute gold.
Hopefully my diatribe hasn't swayed you from watching the twenty minutes of her talk. If you've never thought about the creative process in this way before, it's worth hearing just so you can turn it over in your head a few times. I'll give Gilbert credit for that. You're not the only one who thought that up, but keep spreading the gospel, sister, apparently that's what you're best at.
P.S. Does anyone else think she seems kind of like she's trying to look like Steve Jobs at MacWorld?
Monday, February 9, 2009
Grammys zOMG Moment
To be replaced with a real post later:
M.I.A. started having contractions at the beginning of the Grammys broadcast last night. She was so ridiculously pregnant, and yet totally not going to bail out on the performance.
Impressive commitment? Or terrifying disregard for the safety and health of your, at that particular time, unborn child?
It's like Sarah Palin re: Trig. Except this time M.I.A. isn't evil the way Palin is. She's just crazy.
M.I.A. started having contractions at the beginning of the Grammys broadcast last night. She was so ridiculously pregnant, and yet totally not going to bail out on the performance.
Impressive commitment? Or terrifying disregard for the safety and health of your, at that particular time, unborn child?
It's like Sarah Palin re: Trig. Except this time M.I.A. isn't evil the way Palin is. She's just crazy.
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