Yes All Women and Men Can

Most phenomenon have a tipping point. The current news stories about the o going cultural/political war against women all seemed tame and harmless until a nut job recently took out his immature frustration out on seven people-- especially women. It got men and women talking to each other about the rampant misogyny in our society and it's about time.

I expect the usual sound bites from the media when there is yet another mass shooting but this one got my attention with some rather astute observations from surprising voices. Men. A certified nerd zeros in on the myth pushed by Hollywood that nerdy guys will always get the hot chick. A persistent and irritating plot line that I always found offensive and wildly unrealistic.

Bishop Ken Robinson in his Daily Beast article put his finger on something known all too well by women:
" It is difficult for those who are not subject to discrimination and denigration to believe that it’s happening right under their noses, especially if they belong to the group that is perpetrating societal bullying. White people are shocked to learn that African-Americans are routinely followed around stores while they shop because of the color of their skin and their perceived likelihood of being thieves. Able-bodied people rarely notice the barriers that riddle the world which keep the disabled from participating in society. The threat of violence against women, because they are women, goes unnoticed by most men."

This conversation needs to happen everywhere, In India where the national sport of gang raping/ murdering of women occurs on a regular basis. In Afghanistan where young women  attempt suicide rather than  be forced to marry some shriveled up old man. In China where female infratricide is still the norm where males are more precious and if they can't find a women locally they buy them.

Women are fed up being treated as cattle, sex toys or prizes for the male ego. Men have to recognize the value of the other half of humanity if the species is to evolve. 

Let's keep talking.

The Wallflower and the Butterfly

One of the biggest hurdles for people with ASD ( Autism Spectrum Disorder) is social interactions. For me, its a especially hard as most of my life I have been around “normal” folk who have no trouble talking  to others. I am rather a good speaker and can be articulate but I’m not one who can easily approach others  and strike up a conversation.

I recently went to an aikido instructor’s class, where over 40 people were in attendence, most I knew for years, yet I still felt like an outsider. At lunch I sat in a corner alone at a table. While we waited for the afternoon session to start, I stood alone while everyone else chatted.

Mind you this is with people I know. I sat in the front seat on a recent car tripwith someone I’ve known for years, and we barely exchanged words. However, on the way back another person sat up front and the two chatted away. So does she prefer the other person’s company or I am a poor conversationalist? It’s hard for me to tell.

I try to improve my social skills but it’s a struggle. I fret awkwardly, trying to go beyond small talk--which I'm terrible at and wonder how dull or boring I sound. Every social encounter  is scrutinized, analyed and graded as a success or failure. Did I monologue? Did I stay on topic subject or dominate with one of my fixations? How well did I reciprocate ? Did I show interest in them or just wait impatiently until I could babble on.The stress is considerable.

I’m reminded of  what John Elder Robison commented in his memoir “Look Me in the Eye.”

“ Many descriptions of autism and Asperger’s  describe people like me as “not wanting contact with others” or “preferring to play alone.” I can’t speak for other kids, but I’d like to be very clear about my own feelings:  I did not ever want to to be alone . And all those child psychologists who said ”John prefers to play by himself” were dead wrong. I played by myself because I was a failure at playing with with others. I was alone as a result of my own limitations, and being alone was one of the bitterest disappointments of my young life.”

I understand that all too well. Just because  I’m not good at interacting doesn’t mean I don’t want to and the pain of loneliness is as powerful for me as it is for anyone. So should you see me --or someone you know  with ASD at a gathering, please come over and talk, I crave conversation too and will appreciate the kindness of your company.

I'm Dreaming of Pittsburgh

I've been thinking of Pittsburgh cause my novel takes place there. My favorite year was 1967.  Everyday we walked from our apartment on North Nagley Ave. to the Highland Park about a mile away to spend the day in the Children's zoo.

My memories  beyond that  idyllic summer are bits and pieces of confetti but mostly what I recall is the feeling of childhood innocence. The humid summers playing with friends and the thick layer of snow I walked through in winter. My whole existence was in walking distance of home: Roosevelt Elementary School, the drug store, the park. We kids wandered without fear of crime or our safety.

A few years later Mom and my younger siblings lived in the darker Oakland neighborhood where we would walk to Schenley Park, another refuge from the city, or a few blocks to Isley's for a Klondike bar.

The novel has me nostalgic for those sweet days. The city had a funky lived in feel like an old couch: the upholstery was smudged and reeking of smoke. It sagged in a few places but was comfortable and familiar.

When the steel industry collapsed, the city had to reinvent itself like a divorcee suddenly in need of a career. Pittsburgh became bright and livable again once the polluting grime was washed away and it discovered hi-tech greenery. The downtown buildings sparkle in the clean air, the neighborhoods are gentrified. 

All I remember is a seven year old kid walking happily to the zoo.

What Do You Like to Write?

Since the beginning of time  I have heard the advice "Write what you know"  and like most writers have tried to figure out how to translate that into something readable. 

Until today.

I came across a rough draft of a story I wrote after seeing the dismal Tim Burton movie of the old TV series  "Dark Shadows'".  While every remake of the series has been a rehash of the same material, mine had the characters wander into new territory. I looked at the material and had an epiphany.

Forget that old advice- fellow writers. Write what you like. That's where inspiration comes from because, let's face it, most of us know nothing. My life and experiences don't mean beans to me but my flights of fancy are much richer. I like science that's why I did well at it in school and still enthralled by new discoveries. I never liked politics so I wrote fantasy and sci-fi for years not political thrillers. 

I write what I like. I like wondering what would happen if I were plunked down in an alien world or what it's like to battle a dragon or, in my recent novel, what is it like to be a firefighter with superpowers. Some people lead interesting lives, that's why I read biographies. Some of us imagine interesting lives. that's what I write.

Likewise is the advice show don't tell. Excuse me? We have story tellers. " Tell me a story" is the classic request. You don't show a joke, you tell one. Writing a novel is like telling a joke.

A dragon walks into a bar ( the set up) and orders a boiler maker. The bartender gives him one and says " That will be ten bucks." The dragon pays ( main theme). The bartender says 

" We don't get many dragons in here."  ( the climax) The dragon replies, " At these prices I'm not surprised." ( the resolution).

There's showing but there's also telling, remember that kiddies.

Screw the rules and the traditional advice . Write what you like-- with passion. Make sure it's something you enjoy and others will enjoy it too because it's real and honest.

Um. . . Let me Deal with These 300 Other Things Before Writing.

This is why I haven't posted any writing for a while. Like many other writers, I have put it off with excuses. Anyone who says they have no trouble writing, that it just pours out is either a liar or should be shot out of professional jealousy.

Even the prolific Stephen King had trouble and became alcoholic. Most writers suffer from the fear their work is just no good. Other artists suffer this too but not to the degree of writers for some reason. We pour out our souls just as much as the actor, singer or slam poet but we tend to be more inhibited. Having acted I know that everything up to the moment you step on stage is an abstraction but once you are before an audience, there is no turning back.

The parallel to writing seems easy but it's closer to doing stand up comedy. The audience expects, no- demands you be funny and they will let you know immediately if you're not. But when you are writing, the only audience is the interior critic. The voice that levels scathing disbelief that you have any talent what so ever. It's just words on paper, what's the big deal? Why do I listen to it when I have no trouble expressing my thoughts out loud in front of people, in fact I revel in the image, but I'm reduced to a whimpering coward at the idea of putting them down in writing?

The interior critic is present at the silent, solitary work of writing and so it has your undivided attention. No glimpsed smile from a friend in a sea of faces to encourage you or the interplay with fellow thespians to distract you from it's attempt to sabotage your efforts oh no, It's just you and your ego. Normally the ego loves to be in charge but this time it always back away from the challenge as if stung. Why?

When I do a painting I'm sure someone will like it even if I'm doing it for my own pleasure. If I'm on stage I'm sure my performance will appeal to someone in the darkness sitting and watching. After all, it's not acting without an audience.

So why do I think my writing is any different? If a therapist knew how to get rid of such a self defeating block they would be filthy rich and people would be a lot happier.

Meanwhile I managed to avoid writing for another half an hour. Whew.