Picky Readers: Or the Art of Tricking People Into Liking Books

I have an awkward confession to make: I am something of a book pimp. Or, to put it in a way that won’t make my father furrow his brow and shake his head,  I am a book matchmaker, adept in the art of finding just the right book for just the right person.

…This title being entirely self-appointed, of course, in that people rarely actually ask me to do this for them, and on the random occasions they do are inevitably frightened off by my over-zealousness. Friends, beware. If you make an offhanded comment that you’d like to read more, I will start carrying around five or six books in my purse for the next time we meet and give you short essays on why these particular pieces of writing will change your life. You have been warned.

But to be fair, no one is safe from my meddling, whether you express a desire for books or not. Even telling me you aren’t a reader won’t be an adequate deterrent to keep me from pushing you my particular drug of choice. You are merely throwing the gauntlet, my friend, issuing me a challenge. I will find you the perfect book, or I will die trying. And by ‘die trying’, I mean max out my credit card at Barnes & Noble. But oh, what a way to go.

In the course of becoming a (self-proclaimed) connoisseur of this particular art form, I’ve come across a few tricks of the trade that I will now impart to those amateurs beginning your book-peddling journey. I must warn you, though, that this is a thankless job, one that might result in doors slamming shut in your face, calls being avoided, party invitations getting “lost in the mail.” But, wait, who are we kidding? That was going to happen anyway. And at least the social pariah-ness allows us to spend more time with our “real” friends—a.k.a., book characters, the greatest friends of all (Lizzie Bennet’s never forgotten my birthday, y’all. Just sayin’).

 

But, I digress. Without further ado, here are some tips on how to get people high on reading:

 

 

Start with Gateway Books. Much like gateway drugs (of which I am something of an expert, having attended Agua Fria High School), gateway books are tools which can be used to start your reluctant reader off with something that seems light and harmless but slowly builds up an unshakable dependency over time. My suggestion would be a book that’s been adapted into a movie your would-be reader has seen and liked—something like The Hunger Games or The Help. That way, your reader won’t have to worry about getting lost on the plot details or characters, already know they like the story, and will therefore be more inclined to crack open those covers. You can even be extra sneaky and have similar books lined up as follow-up gifts. “So you liked The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants at Christmas, eh? Well, here’s I Capture the Castle for your birthday…” etc. etc. Suckers! They’ll never see it coming.

 

 

Think Thin. Yes, we all know that Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell is a delightful, witty, wonderful book (wait, was that a not-so-subtle promo? Consider yourself BookPIMP’D!) but if you plop down all 800+ pages in front of someone who still (foolishly!) thinks reading is a chore, you’re gonna scare that poor soul away from that sundae before they can even pick up the spoon. Start out with something a little less intimidating, which generally means smaller page count, bigger font. Which leads to…

 

Go Young (Adult!). Yes, I am fully aware that young adult novels can be great literature, that they can be deep and mind-twisty, that they can uplift the soul and tear it apart and paste it back together again. But, generally speaking, themes from young adult novels tend to be simpler and therefore much more universal, which translates to much more readable for any age group. And the best way to get people hooked on Phonics? Is to find them a book they just can’t put down.

 

Offer them sexy bookmarks as incentives.

Need I say more on the subject?

 

Judge a Book By Its Cover. Yes, we compulsive readers know that sometimes the most atrocious cover can house the most wonderful book. However, there are times when a book’s cover REALLY doesn’t do it any favors. For example, I think one of the greatest marketing strategies for the song of Ice and Fire series was to change from their old cartoony-fantasy covers to sleek, simple covers (that, and to turn it into a really popular TV show). ‘Cause even as someone who likes fantasy, I always feel like a huge dork lugging around covers featuring a woman with plunging cleavage or a dude with antlers growing out of his head. Imagine how much worse that must be for someone who’s already looking for excuses not to read! So if you have the option between a glossy mysterious awesome cover or one that features potentially off-putting cover art, be superficial. For the love of books, people! It’s a noble cause!

 

Gender Matters. I’ll probably get some flack on this one, but I maintain that gender plays an important part of what people like to read. And yes, we all know there are exceptions to the rules (that girl who loves Tom Clancy novels or that guy who couldn’t put down Twilight), but chances are if you hand a reluctant male reader a copy of Little Women and expect him to become a lover of books and all things Louisa May Alcott, you’re going to be disappointed.

I could (and might) write an entirely separate post about tricking people into liking “boy”/”girl” books, but remember, this is about baby steps. We’re weaning people off mashed peas (youtube videos about getting hit in the groin) and trying to get them to digest solids (the great American novel). GENERALLY SPEAKING, guys will be more interested reading about a male protagonist and gals about a female protagonist, at least to start out with. Again, baby steps. But don’t worry, we’ll get him to fall in love with those March sisters someday.

 

Think Outside the Box. Starting to get the hang of it? Good. Now, disregard everything I’ve said up until this point. ‘Cause sometimes (usually) people will surprise you with what they end up loving. For years, I tried to tempt my brothers with things like Neil Gaiman, Marcus Zusak, William Goldman, etc., only to learn that one actually prefers angsty YA and the other humorous memoirs. ?! Who knew. Not this girl. And I suppose it doesn’t really matter, in the end, that I didn’t personally help them discover their book “types”. I choose to believe that everything I did was prep work into helping them enjoy reading. Because everything is about me, obviously.

 

And if all else fails… Everybody likes Harry Potter. And if they don’t, you should probably stop being friends with them since they most likely don’t have a soul.

 

To sum up, when in doubt, just keep in mind my personal life mantra: Whenever someone says they don’t like to read, what they’re really saying is, “I haven’t found the right book . . . yet.”

The Perks of No Longer Apologizing: Or Why I’m Sorry For Being Sorry

I’m an apologizer. I’m not sure what I’ve done in my life to make me feel like I should be in a constant state of seeking forgiveness, but I do. Even in situations that don’t warrant it—heck, ESPECIALLY in situations that don’t warrant it. I’ll apologize for the weather, or for my hard-to-pronounce last name, or if I run into an inanimate object. I even cried when I gave away my stuffed animals–because I was afraid I might hurt their feelings. I should probably also note that was during my senior year of high school, so probably much too old for that kind of behavior. Yep. I’m that girl.

. . . Sorry.

Usually I would chalk this up to being more of a character quirk than a character flaw, but the problem comes when that apologetic nature starts to bleed into other aspects of my life. Sure, if I pour pig blood on your prom dress, I should probably at least send you a quick text to say ‘my bad, *frown-y emoticon*’; but why do I feel this perpetual need to apologize for the things that I like? Or hate? Or the successes that I have in my life? Or the amount of time that I spend talking about Mr. Darcy as if he’s a real person?

Recent life experience has opened my eyes to the fact that the only time I should really be sorry for anything is if I’m hurting somebody or if I’m doing something wrong. And being myself? Doesn’t actually fall into either one of those categories. Turns out, there’s something really liberating about not only being okay with who I am, but being okay with letting other people know who I am, too.

So in the spirit of learning not to apologize for myself as a human being, here are a list of things that from this day forward, I will refuse to be sorry for:

I’m not sorry for hating football. It’s SOO boring. Watching it makes me want to bash my face through a wall. Hearing people talk about it makes me want to bash their face through a wall. And it doesn’t benefit you in any way if I watch it, so stop trying to convince me that I should. I’d rather do just about ANYTHING else, thank you very much.

I’m not sorry for refusing to eat mayonnaise. It’s pretty much just a glob of pure fat. And it’s gross. And I hate it. So if at a restaurant I specifically ask you not to put it on my sandwich and you do it anyway, I will no longer end up apologizing to you and trying to scrape it off with a fork. You’re gonna have to make me another sandwich.

I’m not sorry for being a nerd. A lot of you probably don’t know that I went to Comic Con last year, because I kept it a secret.  For most of you who DID know about it, I probably told you I went for the networking opportunities and whatnot. Which is kind of true, but mostly I really just wanted to be in the same room as Nathan Fillion, and shove people out of my way so I could sit in the third row for Joss Whedon’s panel, and wear my homemade ‘the Lannisters Ate My Baby’ t-shirt (which George R.R. Martin totally told me that he liked, thus transforming me into an incoherent, jabbering fool. Seriously, it wasn’t pretty).

Also, as long as we’re confessing things? I went to the Doctor Who Museum in Cardiff. As in, Wales. By myself. And was literally the only customer there, which meant I had to track down the teenager working at the cash register to take a picture of me with the TARDIS. And it was so totally worth it.

For some reason we’ve been made to feel that it’s embarrassing to be passionate about things—except, it isn’t. I’d be more embarrassed to be someone whose favorite show was some stupid procedural cop drama or low-brow laugh-track sitcom. Who didn’t tear up when Desmond’s phone call made it through to Penny on Christmas Day. Who thought The Avengers was “okay”. Those are the real weirdos of the world.

I’m not sorry for being single. Being in a relationship is in no way proof of being a superior human being. After all, Hitler had a girlfriend.

I’m not sorry for loving stuff just because it’s cliché or popular. I love chocolate. And Jane Austen. And Disneyland. And penguins. And for the record, claiming that the Beatles weren’t very good doesn’t make you deep or profound, it makes you pretentious. Or possibly tone deaf. The Beatles rule, man. YOU’RE overly simplistic (this may or may not be a sore point with me. Hard to say).

And as long as we’re sort of in that ballpark…

I’m not sorry for liking Twilight. I mean, it’s not the world’s greatest masterpiece, but it’s wildly entertaining, and you all know it. I may or may not have spent one late night in New York City, pounding on the windows of Barnes & Noble when they arbitrarily decided to cancel their midnight release of Breaking Dawn and demanding, along with a posse of 13-year-old girls, that they let us in or suffer Edward’s wrath.

Whatever. I got my book.

I’m not sorry for being bad at sports. I was not born with what some people call ‘hand-eye coordination’ or ‘grace’ or ‘the ability to walk in a straight line,’ but I have other skill sets. And just because you athletic folk happen to have immediately recognizable talents doesn’t mean that yours are better than mine, or that it’s any less jerk-y for you to throw a temper tantrum every time I can’t catch a ball than if I plugged my ears and moaned every time you sang a note off-key, or if I pointed at you and laughed when you used a semi-colon incorrectly. So just tone down the theatrics, okay? It’s a ball, not your child’s kidney.

I’m not sorry for having dreams. You know who has dreams? Awesome people, like Nebuchadnezzar and Martin Luther King, Jr. and the girl from Mamma Mia. Yet for some reason I’ve always been too afraid to admit what I want out of life, when really? Most people are super supportive and lovely, and there’s nothing they want more than to encourage you in your journey.

So with that being said, I’m no longer ashamed to admit that my dream of all dreams is. . . to marry Joseph Morgan!

Kidding! (Kind of… ) My actual dream is to write really awesome books and movies and tv shows and plays. And to have my own personal library someday. And get a PhD. And have Joss Whedon quoted as saying, “Elizabeth Gilliland is one of the greatest living talents, possibly of all time.” You know. Stuff like that.

As for those of you who aren’t all that lovely and supportive and like to ask people about their dreams so that you can make condescending faces and remark on how nice it is to have a “hobby”—and you know who you are—I can’t help but feel at times that you’re using my life much like I use Honey Boo Boo’s: to watch on in judgment so that you can feel better about yourself. But I’m done feeling bad that I don’t meet your approval. So all I gotta say to you is this:

Time to go live an unapologetically wonderful life.

Dear Anne Hathaway (Or A Long Overdue Apology)

 

 

Dear Annie,

 

I’ll be the first to admit it. When I found out that you were starring in two of the most highly anticipated films of the year (aside from The Oogieloves in the Big Balloon Adventure, that is), some pretty harsh words were thrown around. Things like “poo-poo head” and “silly billy.” I may or may not have even implied that you were ruining my life— because, yes, I am exactly the sort of person whose life would be ruined by a subpar Catwoman performance (just to give a little background, I have two younger brothers and watched a lot of “boy” shows growing up, so pretty much the only thing more potentially disappointing for me would be if you’d been cast as the Pink Ranger). Things got a little dramatic in the Gilliland household this year, and a lot of that was at your expense.

 

 

In my defense, may I present some evidence of why I was so wary. Exhibit A) The 2011 Oscars. Not your best moment, Annie. Not your best moment. Exhibit B) One Day, which was such a lovely, charming book, and such a stinker of a movie (though to be fair, that wasn’t entirely your fault. You tried your best, even I could see that, but they should’ve cast a Northern girl whose performance didn’t revolve around trying to get the accent right). Exhibit C) Bride Wars. Do I really need to go into further detail on this? Exhibit D) See above Poo-Poo head comment. I think I rest my case.

 

 

But when I’m wrong, I can admit I’m wrong. White really shouldn’t be worn after Labor Day (as some very unflattering vacation photos would testify). Harry and Hermione didn’t actually end up together, despite the many, MANY theoretical essays I wrote about J.K. Rowling’s romantic endgame (yep, still single, folks). And the only thing better than your femme fatale performance as Selina Kyle? Was the way you flat-out rocked Fantine.

 

 

So on behalf of all the fans who doubted and all the haters who hated, I would like to issue my formal and heartfelt apology. I’m sorry. I was wrong. You dreamed a dream, and it paid off big-time. Good luck at the 2012 Academy Awards—I’ll be rooting for you.  And in closing, to quote what I used to say to my college roommate before we went to bed every night, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

 

Yours Truly,

Elizabeth

XOXO

 

P.S. Now that we’re besties, can you introduce me to Hugh? For some reason he still won’t return my phone calls…

 

 

Say what? Who’s that hiding in my closet…?

 

 

 

Some Unsolicited Dating Advice From a Concerned Citizen: Or The One Question You Should Never, Ever, Ever Ask a Woman. Like, EVER.

 

 

Dear Males of the World,

 

You probably think you know where I’m going with this.  RomComs and Sitcoms and just plain common sense offer plenty of classic inquiries that you should just never ask a woman. I.e. How old she is, how much she weighs, and if she’s pregnant (coincidentally, I was once asked two out of three of these questions by a co-worker attempting to take me on a date. True—and unfortunate—story). And yes, asking the above questions will more likely than not end in tears and recriminations and a few missing teeth—if you’re very lucky. But I’m going to assert that there’s actually another question that is a real contender for this list:

 

Where’s your sister? (or best friend or co-worker or roommate, as the case may be)

 

On the surface, this may seem like an innocent enough question. You are merely expressing an interest in the well-being of my beloved sister/bff/roomie/co-worker; what’s the harm in that? The simple answer is this: you may think you’re being subtle, but you’re a man, so you’re not; and you may think that I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m a woman, and I do.

 

This is you when it comes to subtle.

 

I suppose there are a few exceptions to this rule, and they are as follows:

• If you are my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker’s boyfriend. Because to me, you already have the sex appeal of a fire hydrant, and I am already well aware that it goes both ways.
• The event we’re at is a surprise party for said sister/bff/roomie/co-worker, and she is three hours late.
• You have been injected with a fatal poison, and only my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker has the antidote (but again, ask me how my day is first. It’s common courtesy, people).
• I am happily married with a super-hot husband and lots of babies, and my one true joy in life is finding a soulmate for my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker (The exception to this being if you are my ex, in which case it doesn’t matter if I have ten children and am married to Hugh Jackman, you must still NEVER attempt to date my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker without fear of certain death and dismemberment).
• You are sort of adorably awkward and I have openly supported and encouraged you in pursuing my sort of adorably awkward sister/bff/roomie/co-worker. I.e. If you are Charles Bingley and my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker is Jane. If you aren’t Charles Bingley, don’t ask. Just don’t.

 

Charles Bingley from one of my favorite P&P adaptations.

 

The reason this question is so offensive is because the real subtext  is that you think that my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker is much hotter than me and that you wish she’d come in lieu of myself to whatever social gathering has placed us in each other’s path. You’ve made this abundantly clear by barely bothering to speak two words to me before jumping straight into this incredibly rude query. Couldn’t even warm a gal up, could ya? Couldn’t even pretend to be interested in my job or my interests or my life before finding a natural way to insert this blunder into the conversation? It’s fine, really, because chances are I’ve already determined that you’re a tool who isn’t worth my time, and I’m only talking to you to be polite (or to win a bet). But there are many reasons why asking me this question is counterintuitive to your dating happiness, and so as a concerned citizen, I feel it is my duty to set you straight.

 

Trust me, you want me on your side. Remember my hot sister/bff/roomie/co-worker? Well, that works both ways, my friend; just as she is my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker, I’m also her sister/bff/roomie/co-worker, which means that you really want me on your team. I’m the person who can put in a good word for you, who can explain away the weird hair or the teddy bear collection and convince her that underneath it all, you’re actually a really great guy. My services to you are invaluable– but they come at a price, and it’s this: You need to learn the art of actually talking to a girl, even if you’re not trying to hook up with her. Actually getting to know her as a person. Seeing her value as a human being. I know, it’s a bizarre concept, but trust me, this will get you places. The girl network is a very real, living, breathing thing, and you do not want to be blacklisted. Help me help you, my friend.

 

One of the coolest guys around.

 

Learn to play it cool, man. You know how part of what attracts you to my super-hot sister/bff/roomie/co-worker is that she isn’t super desperate and throwing herself at you all the time? Well, that’s what she’s looking for, too. I know we women can be a fickle bunch and that sometimes it’s hard to know what we want. I admit, sometimes it’s a very fine line. We want you to be manly, but sensitive. We want you to inspire us to be better, but also love us for who we are. And we want you to pursue us, but pursue us with confidence. Take some pride in yourself, dude. A little boy pulls pigtails and writes notes and goes around a playground asking a girl’s friends about her instead of talking to her himself. A man doesn’t need to play those games. And what virtually every woman has in common? We want a man, pure and simple. Because until you become one of those…

 

She’s Just Not That Into You. Did you ever stop to think that there’s a reason why my sister/bff/roomie/co-worker isn’t at this social function that you’ve been lurking around, waiting for her to show up at? Because she’s seen what you’re selling and she’s not buying. She’s out with her musician/fireman boyfriend from Spain named Raul who loves Pablo Neruda’s poems and who volunteers at animal shelters on the weekends. Aside from some of the obvious glaring differences, do you know what Raul has over you? He took the time to get to know her as a human being, not just someone’s sister/bff/roomie/co-worker. Also, he can cook. Just sayin’.

 

 

So next time you find this question forming at the tip of your lips, stop and think. I know, I novel concept, but one that I am confident will take you far. Doubtless there will be other glaring blunders that you make along the way, but at least you will have learned to treat women—even the un-hot ones— like human beings. And who knows, eventually you may just become one, yourself.

 

 

Sincerely,

 

A Concerned Citizen

 

 

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia: Or Why Thanksgiving Always Gets the Short End of the Stick

 

 

Did you ever get the feeling that as far as holidays go, Thanksgiving is sort of the awkward middle sister? Think about it. Halloween is the fun baby of the fam that maybe doesn’t pull its weight but you can help loving all the same, and Christmas is the perfect older one that does everything right and makes all the youngin’s pale in comparison no matter how hard they try. And Thanksgiving is just kinda… there. In the middle. The day you think about as an afterthought after you’ve figured out your Halloween costume and before you crack down on the Christmas shopping.

Poor Thanksgiving. It sucks being in the middle. Unless you happen to be sitting in a movie theater with Hugh Jackman on one side and Johnny Depp on the other, in which case– Win! But otherwise? You’re an afterthought. No matter what you do, you can’t compete with those flashy siblings. You get called the “smart” one, when everyone knows smart is really just code for “not the pretty one.” You get all the hand-me-down clothes, and left behind at gas-station bathrooms on family trips. Maybe your parents even mistake a picture that you post on facebook during celebrity-doppleganger week as actually being you, because they genuinely can’t tell their child from a total stranger. Just throwing out some hypothetical situations, here (*cough* Mom and Dad guilt trip *cough*).

But though I can totally relate to Thanksgiving, truth be told? Even I kinda wanna get it over with so we can get on with Christmas already. Don’t get me wrong, I love me a day that’s all about eating as much as humanly possible (only I usually just call that Tuesday), and family togetherness is great and everything (bla bla bla), but Thanksgiving really drew the short end of the stick, activities-wise. I mean, no trick or treating, no candy, no costumes, no caroling, no cheesy Lifetime movies, no presents– there’s just no buildup! Maybe that’s because it has somehow miraculously escaped from being over-commercialized, but guess what? I’m a consumer! I’m that person who buys those stupid gadgets they lay out by the check-out counter that no one actually needs or even uses, but it’s only a dollar! and for some reason I desperately need it for those two seconds that I’m standing in line, even though I usually just forget it in the car afterward!

Also, it should be noted, Christmas really plays dirty. By mid-November, 99.9 is already playing Christmas music, ABC Family has already started running its 25 Days ‘Til Christmas countdown (though if you look at the title, that’s just logistically way off), and the other day at Blockbuster I saw a sequel to Mrs. Miracle starring Kaylee from Firefly. How can I NOT watch that? How can I not???? Plus, they’re premiering a new Santa movie on ABC Family (not sure what it’s even about, but it’s already TiVOed) and Holiday in Handcuffs is just sitting in my DVD case, waiting to be viewed. What shameless bid for attention, Christmas. But… well played, Navidad. Well played.

 

However, no matter how flashy and tempting early Christmas celebration may be, as a middle child myself, I have to stand in solidarity with my fellow middle siblings. Jan, I got your back. Thanksgiving, we cool. I WILL switch 99.9 to a different station, even if they are playing “All I Want For Christmas is You” (low blow, Delilah). I WILL NOT rent Mrs. Miracle 2 until the turkey has officially been eaten. I WILL NOT start my Christmas shopping until every piece of the pumpkin pie has been consumed. And I WILL NOT force my brother to watch Holiday in Handcuffs with me until Black Friday has officially begun– but then you better believe A.C. Slater and Sabrina the Teenage Witch are gonna hook up!

And furthermore, I’m going to try to remember all of my fondest memories of Thanksgiving and not be in a rush to have it over with. Like watching a marathon of Parental Control with the sibs– ’cause nothing makes you more grateful for your own parents than watching that show (even if they can’t tell you apart from Kirsten Dunst). Or spending two wonderful Thanksgivings in England and trying to explain to Brits why it’s essential to have a day where we do nothing but eat and “fat dog it” (try saying that with a British accent. It’s awesome). Or the year that I went to the Macy’s Parade with Sarah and Jeni and got haunted by a ghost (true story. Kind of…) So I guess what I’m trying to say is– Thanksgiving? I love you. Even if you are just the smart one.

 

This picture is both hilarious and disturbing. Just how I like my Thanksgivings.

 

 

 

In Defense Of Steve Rogers: Or Why I Love, Love, Love Captain America

The other day a good, generally intelligent friend of mine was watching The Avengers for the first time. Via a text-message session, I asked her how she was enjoying it, and she said something to the effect that it was good and all the boys in it were really yummy, except for “grumpy old grandpa Captain America.” Granted, the rest of this text-message convo soon devolved into her writing some obviously wine-fueled, slurred, incoherent texts that I still can’t quite make out if they’re hilarious or vaguely offensive to monkeys, but the fact of the matter is, she thought Captain America was the worst. Steve Rogers. Star-Spangled Sweetie Pie. My Cap’n.

It ain’t just about the muscles. I love him like this, too…

…but this doesn’t hurt, either.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard the good name of Steve Rogers slandered. When people find out that he’s my favorite Avenger, the look I generally get is a mixture of horror and confusion—much like when I attempt to get my flirt on (just kidding, of course! That look is pure revulsion). How could I possibly love high-waisted-pants-wearing Captain America when there are three other mega-hotties well-rounded, intelligent, and interesting superheroes from which to choose?

Let me break it down for you.

Captain America has the best stand-alone film.  Yep, I’m saying it. Captain America: The First Avenger is the best of the stand-alone films for each Avenger (thus far), even though for some reason no one seems to have seen it. I actually think this is the root of why most people don’t like Captain America—they have no idea where he’s coming from. So before you start arguing with me, go out and rent it; even my wine-slugging friend (re: above) was converted within the first 20 minutes of watching, and now she’s Team America. Why? Because it’s a genuinely awesome back-story that sets up a genuinely awesome character.

Though I’m looking forward to seeing the Ruffalo take his shot at a Hulk movie, the Eric Bana version was horrific (haven’t seen the Edward Norton version, so I guess I can’t say this unequivocally, but I’m pretty confident that my mind would not be changed). And Iron Man is a pretty entertaining film, don’t get me wrong; but take RDJ out of the equation and you lose 90% of the magic of that franchise (this was proven during the second film, when pretty much any time Mr. Stark wasn’t onscreen proved to be a total snooze fest). The same goes for Thor, which rides 95% on the sheer muscular blonde hunkiness of Chris Hemsworth. This is not to say that Chris Evans doesn’t do an awesome job capturing the Cap’n, ‘cause he does. But even without him as the heart and soul, the film stands on its own. The cinematography is sooo pretty. It is genuinely funny and romantic and sad. The supporting cast is awesome as well, including the always-fabulous Tommy Lee Jones, my not-so-secret love Stanley Tucci (aka the “Tucc-meister”), and my girl-crush, Haley Atwell. Which brings me to my next point…

Captain America has the best love interest. Isn’t the Hulk in love with some chick named Betty? I honestly can’t remember. Jane and Thor have okay chemistry but spend barely two seconds together, and then we’re supposed to buy that he’s all torn up about being trapped in a separate universe? Umm, I’ve watched Doctor Who; you can’t trick me with a lackluster stuck-in-an-alternate-universe love conflict when I’ve already seen the ultimate tragedy that is Ten and Rose (plus, Natalie Portman is so… Natalie Portman). I actually like Pepper Pots, but it really annoys me that Iron Man is set in the 21^st Century and she’s still written as his long-suffering secretary/assistant. Couldn’t she have been a business partner or a member of his board of advisors or something? It wouldn’t have changed the plot that much and then she wouldn’t have had to be pining all the time.

Then you have Agent Carter, who not only knows how to rock a red dress and shoot in heels, but has a soft and tender side that only Steve’s big-old puppy heart can access—when she isn’t too busy shooting at him for being a big dumb bag of hormones. And to top it all off, she is actually the Cap’s superior. She is part of the war effort long before Steve Rogers gets involved, and her backstory doesn’t include any kind of dead brother or dog or fiancé (going on film canon here, not comic books)—she does it because she’s awesome and it’s the right thing to do and she can. She is woman, hear her roar. So it turns out that even though Captain America is supposed to be the old-fashioned one of the Avenger bunch, he’s the one who has a thing for a smart, independent woman whose entire life doesn’t revolve around him. Hmm. Who’s the grumpy old grandpa now?

And really, the ending? You must not have a heart if you weren’t rooting for Steve and Peggy to somehow, through some miracle, get their dance. And if you didn’t tear up a little during the Avenger’s deleted scenes when Steve realizes Peggy is still alive but can’t bring himself to call her? You monster. Why are you like this??? I heart these two so much. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m still hoping for a miracle—thank goodness for fan fiction.

(Don’t believe me? Watch this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dehn8RqOt7U)

Captain America has the best heart. Like, seriously. Sometimes he may seem like a crotchety, do-goody old grandpa, but inside he’s a puppy. A wide-eyed, golly-geeing, adorkable puppy.

Steve Rogers is so not cool. On the outside he’s this ridiculously handsome, buff dude, but on the inside he’s still that scrawny little geek who wears his heart on his sleeve and got his trash kicked pretty much every single day of his life. He’s the guy who doesn’t know how to talk to girls and will stick up for what he believes is right, even when he has to risk his own life—or worse, look like a total tool. To paraphrase Chris Evans himself (I may or may not have accidentally stumbled across a few youtube interviews. Accidentally. By total and complete chance): “Captain America may not be the coolest or the handsomest, and he may not even have the best powers, but he’s the guy who will show up to help you move or drive you to the airport.” Yeah, he’s that guy, the one you take for granted until he’s gone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucb3Ck8YVWo

To put things in Jane Austen terms (because, who wouldn’t compare the Avengers to Jane Austen novels??), Steve Rogers may not be Darcy or Wentworth or even Bingley, but he’s Colonel Brandon. And we could all use a few more Colonel Brandons in our life. (For the record, Iron Man is Frank Churchill, the Hulk is Knightley with a twist of Wentworth, and Thor is a male Emma.  … I’ve thought a lot about this. Perhaps too much… )

So, yes, Captain America may not be super suave and charming like Iron Man, or super brilliant and green-ish like the Hulk, or super handsome and Fabio-haired like Thor, but I’ll take that star-spangled, ma’am-saying, inner-geek Steve Rogers any day. By the way, Cap, can you water my plants and get my mail while I’m out of town? You will—and you’ll even vacuum the floor and wash my sheets while I’m gone? What a guy.

Boo: Or, a Not-So-Scary Story In Honor of Halloween

So, yeah. It’s been well over a month. I keep intending to write new blog posts, and then I get distracted by pesky little things like making a living and spending time with my family and friends. I know, lame, right?

 

But Halloween is one of my absolute favorite holidays, so in honor of that, here is an excerpt from a book about ghosts I wrote a few years ago. I was going for scary/romantic with this, but looking over it now, I realize the only scary thing about it is how cheesy it is. I would still like to write a really good ghost book someday, but because I’m 100% positive that this will never make it into the final cut, here is the first chapter of the now-abandoned (and badly titled) Remember Me Not.

 

 

 

This story begins as many ghost stories do– with a dark and stormy night. On this particular gloomy and tempestuous evening, Susan McNally has the unfortunate task of wheeling her cello through a darkened parking lot. The pelting rain is incredibly unhelpful as the wheels on her cello case skid this way and that, nearly causing her to slip and be crushed under the instrument’s weight at least twice in her journey across the parking lot. The lightning is a bit more beneficial, occasionally brightening the darkened sky with a burst of white light that allows her to navigate across the pavement, although it does little to soothe her already jumpy nerves.

 

Because someone is watching her.

 

Susan is a person often prone to flights of fancy that convince her there’s someone in the closet, the backseat, under the bed, etcetera, but even though she can often work herself up into quite a panic, she usually is aware that there is really nothing to fear, that the only thing hiding in the night is the shadows, and that just a flick of the light switch will assure her that she is safe.

 

That feeling of security is gone now. She knows someone is watching her like she knows the sun rises in the morning and that Johnny Depp should be the father of her children. There is someone in the shadows of the night, lurking behind the dumpster, perhaps, or in one of the alleyways, or watching from the window of a nearby building.

 

The truly strange thing is that Susan has felt this impression of someone watching her for the past three months, accompanied by other unsettling sensations: the lights flickering on and off unexpectedly, the radio turning onto white fuzz or changing stations at random, the feeling of waking with someone’s arms around her, even though she’s alone.

 

What is most strange about these occurrences, however, is how little they worry her. Her mind was startled at first, but there was very little reaction in her body– no prickling of goose bumps or hairs rising on the back of her neck. It’s almost as though Susan’s body is remembering something that her mind cannot, and though logically she knows she should be worried, her nerves refuse to comply.

 

So Susan continues on through the parking lot as though oblivious to the eyes following her progress, though every movement she makes is aware of being watched. Ever since she became aware of the presence keeping tabs on her, Susan’s mannerisms have been careful, as though there is a surveillance camera in her home. She hasn’t picked a wedgie, talked to herself out loud, or licked the last bit of sauce from the bowl in ages. Every time she showers and changes, she is careful to stand behind something or turn toward the wall for privacy’s sake. It is a strange way of living, but one to which she has grown accustomed.

 

The ludicrousness of the situation is not lost on Susan, and she almost smiles at her own ridiculousness when something makes itself suddenly apparent.

 

Someone is watching her– the same someone who has been watching her for about three months now.

 

And tonight, someone else is watching her, too.

 

There is no benevolent feeling in this second voyeur. Susan can feel the bad intent radiating from him like tangible black waves. Without thinking, she starts running to her car, no longer worrying about slipping, cursing herself for parking so far away.

 

Thunder booms in the sky. Lightning flashes, sending another electric jolt to light up the horizon. It is at this moment that Susan sees him, etched against the lightning, a mammoth monster of a man, his skin so pale that he almost blends into the white light, except for the shock of his dark eyes.

 

Every visible part of his rock-like body is completely hairless—no eyebrows, no eyelashes. There is a mottled scar across his left cheekbone, up over the eye and through his brow. He stands between Susan and her car, causing her to stop in her tracks, uncertain.

 

This man is the bad one, the one with cruel intentions, Susan can tell just by the look in his eyes. He hasn’t moved yet; he just stands there, long after the lightning has passed, just a shadow now in the once-again black night.

 

Instinctively, Susan steps in between him and her cello. This is, perhaps, an incredibly stupid decision, but there is sentimental value in this instrument. It was a gift, one for which her mother scrimped and saved. Susan’s blood and tears are stained on the strings, the wood. So even though it is foolish, she has to stand between it and this man who means her harm.

 

He remains unmoving, a giant black shadow, so still Susan might have convinced herself that he was just a figment of her imagination if it wasn’t for the fact that she can still feel his eyes on her.

 

Another crack of thunder, another burst of white light.

 

Suddenly there is second man standing in the parking lot, so shockingly beautiful in the white lightning that Susan gives an involuntary gasp. His hair is dark, his eyes deep set and gray, sad, sloping, haunted. He positions himself between the hairless man and Susan, the muscles in his cheek flinching and unflinching, though otherwise he is as still as a statue.

 

It is him, Susan knows in an instant. The one who’s been watching over her. Her guardian angel.

 

For an agonizingly long moment, the two men stare each other down. And then the hairless man turns, slowly, and steps away from Susan’s car, his skin silvery in the moonlight.

 

Casting one last glance at Susan, he turns and disappears into the shadows.

 

Susan releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, feeling the sudden inexplicable urge to laugh. Her limbs are trembling. “Who was he?” she asks.

 

Her beautiful stranger doesn’t return her gaze, keeping his eyes on the shadows. When he reaches for her cello, Susan automatically tenses, and it is only then that he looks up, eyes boring into her. She feels suddenly ten degrees colder looking into his gaze, but not in a bad way.

 

“I’m not going to steal it,” he says flatly, unsmiling, though somehow Susan is instantly comforted by the sound of his voice. Maybe because it makes him seem somehow more human. Maybe because it sounds inexplicably familiar, although that is impossible, because she can’t remember ever meeting him and is certain this is a man she could never forget.

 

Seeing that Susan is at least somewhat reassured, the stranger swiftly takes the cello from her and pulls it the rest of the distance to her car, curtly asking her to pop the trunk. She does, babbling as he stows the cello because it’s better than the uncomfortable, almost angry silence stretching between

 

“I can’t believe someone would go to all that trouble just to steal a cello,” Susan says. Some part of her knows that the hairless man was not after her cello, but it’s a comforting lie to tell herself that he is just some petty thief instead of something darker, scarier, and so she wallows in it. “It’s such an impractical thing to take. I mean, it would make such a difficult getaway. You can’t exactly throw it over your shoulder and start running, you know?”

 

The stranger gives her a look like she’s an idiot, so Susan closes her mouth. Once the cello is safely stowed, he guides her toward the driver’s side of her car, not touching her, his gaze still out on the night. He doesn’t look at her again until she is seated in the car, seatbelt on, and his gray gaze is more intense than she would have expected, even having experienced it once before.

 

Susan wants to thank him, to somehow explain that she knows he’s the one who’s been following her, keeping her safe. But it seems a little too preposterous to say out loud, especially since there’s absolutely nothing to back her assertions, save be an instinctive feeling in her heart that her mind hasn’t been able to catch up with yet.

 

“Thank you,” she says finally to break the silence. “You’re my hero now.”

 

It’s meant as a joke, but she sees a flash of hurt in those gray eyes. He gazes at her a long moment, searching her face but clearly not finding what he’s looking for, then abruptly turns and walks away.

 

Susan watches him cross the parking lot, his shoulders curiously un-hunched against the rain, walking like it doesn’t affect him. As a crack of thunder booms overhead, she sees him glance back and notice that she’s still watching him. She raises a hand to wave, but he must not have seen her because he doesn’t wave back. He moves toward the elevator at the back entrance of the music building, his pace brisk, like he’s trying not to run.

 

Suddenly Susan realizes that she didn’t even ask him his name. They barely spoke; she’ll probably never see him again, but she wants to know his name—she has to know his name.

 

Her sneakers squeak across the wet pavement as she races toward the building. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her throat. She reaches the maintenance elevator door just as it’s about to close and forces it open. The stranger looks at her with surprise and what can only be described as fear in his eyes. Susan suddenly feels very foolish for running after him, but it’s too late to turn back now.

 

“What’s your name?” she asks him, barely able to get out the words, she’s struggling so much to regain her breath.

 

“I’m nobody,” he says, and there’s something terrified in his eyes, begging her not to press the issue.

 

But Susan didn’t run all this way in the rain just to walk away. “I just want to know who you are.”

 

The stranger stares at her for a long moment, his intensity unmistakable, but the emotion difficult to name. Embarrassed under his scrutiny, Susan opens her mouth to retract her request when suddenly he grabs her and pulls her flush against him, kissing her with such force that she has to hold onto him to keep from being knocked over. “Susan,” he breathes into her ear like her name is a prayer, his voice ragged with emotion.

 

And then abruptly, he pushes her away, his gray eyes turbulent as the thunder booms overhead. “Forget me,” he pleads, and she can see the fear on his face, hear it in his voice. “I’m sorry. Please, forget me.”

 

And the elevator doors close before Susan can think of a single thing to say.

 

***

 

Happy Halloween!

 

Bad Boys, Bad Boys: Or How I Plan to Tame The Beast

I would like to preface this blog with the disclaimer that, much like Princess Leia, I happen to like nice men. In fact, in “real life” (aka the life that exists outside of books and movies and TV shows and is therefore theoretically more important) I sincerely do prefer nice guys. Real-life jerks lose their appeal pretty much the moment they’re rude to the waitress or tell that awkward story about how they once humiliated the handicapped kid at their school, insisting on how “hilarious” it was (an unfortunately true story).

 

Fiction, however, blurs the lines on this a little. Also much like Princess Leia, I sincerely want to like nice men, not scruffy-looking nerfherders like that irascible Han Solo. But while there are definitely those all-around nice characters that I absolutely love (Atticus Finch, Steve Rogers, Wesley Wyndham-Price, to name a few) there is just something about the bad boy.

I’ve had a few real-life nice guys ask me about this elusive appeal. To be honest, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is. I think the closest that I’ve ever seen it explained was in an episode of the Simpsons, in which Lisa swoons over the town bad-boy, “Oh, if only someone could tame him.”

 

As much as I try to fight it, fiction has programmed me to believe that underneath every tough-guy exterior is a heart of gold just waiting to be unleashed. And while when I see this spelled out to me I can laugh at how pathetic/masochistic/stupid that idea is, there’s a part of me that will always get just a little bit giddy when Hank picks a bar fight at his saloon, or Klaus offers to show Caroline the world (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_29_la0jCA&feature=related).

This has especially been on my mind lately because for the first time, I’m tackling an honest to goodness bad-boy main character (or “MC” in writer speak). All of my MCs are a bit crusty around the edges—‘cause that’s how I like ‘em—but so far they’ve pretty much adhered to that whole heart-of-gold, diamond-in-the-rough idea.

This new guy is different. He’s not a nice guy. He manipulates and uses people. He destroys the people around him for his own selfish gains. He leaves the toilet seat up. But he’s also kind of charming and has a British accent and a pet tiger, which makes him sort of awesome, too. My dilemma is that as a responsible human being, I don’t want to perpetuate the idea of a monster turning into a puppy thanks to true love. But as a writer of fiction and a reluctant enjoyer of bad-boy characters, I kinda wanna tell that responsible voice to just shut up and write a really juicy story.

So who wins out in the end? Only time will tell, I suppose. I’m still in the pretty early stages of this project, and nothing is written in stone. I’m going to really try and find a balance here—to make this genuinely bad character really EARN any moments of redemption. Redemption stories are my favorite kinds to tell, anyway, because in my sappy, sentimental heart, I like to believe that people can change and that we all deserve at least the chance at happily-ever-afters. But I’m also going to attempt to show that beauty can’t save the beast—he has to do that on his own if it’s really going to stick.

And if I have to watch video clips of Joseph Morgan in the meantime for “research,” that’s just a sacrifice I’ll have to make. For my art, or something like that. Yeah, that sounds legit, I’ll go with that.

 

Oh, if only someone could tame him.

 

Girl Power: Or Why the Spice Girls (mostly) Got it Right

 

I’m a big fan of stories. I absolutely love good books and television and films, and luckily I’m in a profession where I can write off time spent doing all of these things as ‘research.’ Naturally as an avid consumer of stories, there is little I enjoy more than discussing (in sometimes what is frighteningly too much depth) what I enjoy about a particular novel or series, which characters I fall in love with (Caroline Forbes, Vampire Barbie!!), which plot points seem a little loose, etc. And lately I’ve been noticing an interesting trend when it comes to the discussion of female characters.

 

No doubt it is due to series like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Hunger Games that when we now refer to a female character, she is either ‘strong’ or ‘weak.’ In a way, this is really great; our lives are saturated with kick-butt female role models who aren’t just designed to be sexual icons for men.  But in a way I wonder if this hasn’t also skewed our perception of what it actually means to be strong—that a woman can be independent and empowered without whipping out tae kwon do or putting an arrow through someone’s heart.

To be fair, most of the discussions I’ve had on the topic usually stem from TV shows and books where the main female character’s sole purpose seems to be acting as the acute angle for a love triangle (see my previous blog post Love Triangles: Or The Art of Leading People On for my feelings on that), and where the two main male characters are so in love with said angle that they don’t seem to realize she doesn’t actually have much of a personality. To that, I say—writers, write responsibly. If your protagonist isn’t very interesting when you take the men out of the equation, then she isn’t very interesting, period.

 

A good example of one of my favorite strong female characters who doesn’t use any weapons aside from her wit and rhetoric and who isn’t solely defined by her love story? Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Pride and Prejudice (did you really think I could make it through a blog post without mentioning P&P at some point?). Now granted, yes, part of why I love her story so much is because of that snobbishly dashing Darcy, but Elizabeth more than holds her own. She’s clever, she’s sharp-tongued, she’s loyal, (even when Charlotte marries that awful Mr. Collins and Lydia is… well, Lydia), she subtly defies convention (like muddying her skirts and walking by herself to get to her sick sister at Netherfield Park), she makes rash judgments (even though, as we quickly learn, her first impressions of people are not always correct—I’m looking at you here, Wickham), and she can be a bit of a snob (though she’s much quicker to find that fault in others than in herself). In short, she is a fully rounded human being who is both weak and strong, with or without a crossbow.

Which brings me back to the Spice Girls. Now, love ‘em or hate ‘em, part of what makes them so iconic is that each has a distinct personality. Baby is cute, Ginger is ballsy, Posh is savvy, Sporty is energetic, and Scary is… well, scary. Unlike certain girl bands of today where costumes and personalities blur together in a mass of stilettos and spray tans, the Spice Girls are individuals equally awesome because of their differences. We all know that Sporty is probably the one most likely to win an Olympic medal and that Scary could probably take them all in a fight, but that doesn’t make these two any stronger or better, just different.

 

This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy me some action. There is a time and a place for a girl beating the trash out of somebody who’s supposed to be bigger and tougher than she is, and a time and a place when that is flat-out awesome. But maybe it’s time to broaden our minds a little bit. Let’s not trick ourselves into thinking that the only way for a woman to be strong is to bench press 200 pounds and know the difference between a glock and a Beretta. For every Sidney Bristow, we need a Lorelai Gilmore. For every Buffy, we need a Willow. For every Sarah Connor, we need a Dr. Quinn. There’s room for all of us at the table.  As the Spice Girls so aptly put, If you wanna be my lover/you gotta get with my friends… or something like that. Girl power!

 

Sound of Music Deleted Scenes: Or Further Proof Of My Insanity

Isn’t she so frickin’ classy?

 

 

So. . . it’s been a while since I posted. Not to make excuses, but I’ve been in the Bahamas– wait, who am I kidding, I just wanted to rub in the fact that I just got back from the freakin’ Bahamas!

 

Anywho, in lieu of writing some incredibly beautiful meaningful post that would no doubt leave you all in tears and vowing to do good for mankind, here is a heretofore unseen deleted scene from one of my favorite films of all time, the Sound of Music.

 

(On behalf of the production company, I would like to make a disclaimer for this scene that it was put together very hastily, that this was performed on very little sleep, and that I believe Julie was procrastinating packing for a trip. Possibly to the Bahamas.)

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWQjyjzAFZU

 

Enjoy. Or be afraid. Or potentially both.