The Hunger Games: What's Not to Love

Since I just did a knock-down-drag-out about Watchmen and adaptation, I'm going to take a more emotional turn in this exploration of The Hunger Games.  Yes, it's adapted from a book, but I came away from this action flick aimed at teenaged girls feeling so damn sad that I figured there was more gold in them thar hills than in the dry flats of critical analysis.

Is the Past Tense of "Snit" Snoot or Snot?

I caught the preview for The Hunger Games when it was in the second-run theater I frequent and was most intrigued. Then I missed it because I "frequent" the movies only in comparison to the dentist. I got in a snit about how I'd heard it was a rip-off of Battle Royale, which it isn't. Then I got in a bigger snit about Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. Then I had a lot of laundry to fold, so I checked it out on Netflix. Along the lines of Watchmen, the trailer had looked so good that I was dreading the disappointment, (in this case) of seeing the concept bloated to feature length. That is to say, despite the bunch I'd gotten my snooty panties in for no real reason, I was still invested enough to be concerned as to whether it would be good. So, props to that trailer editing; it truly is an art form in itself.

At the time I saw the film, I hadn't read the book, though I have since. I haven't read the other two, wanting to enjoy the forthcoming sequel in a situation as close to my viewing of the first as possible. To restate: I don't know what's going to happen in the rest of the series. Possibly, this will result in a number of my points being rendered irrelevant predictive, in which case, I win at stories. And by I, I mean we, since mega-kudos will be due to Suzanne Collins for being equally as perceptive about the potential of her own work. On the other hand, I may actually be exploring the material on another level, in which case there's a little more content in the world to spark conversation and I am again duly fulfilled. Also, snoot-snoot-I'm-smarter-than-the-author/no-you're-not-she-intended-to-do-something-else.

And for those of you to whom this will matter, though I think it should be obvious... Team Peeta.

Watchmen and Me

Some of you may recall that, in a long-ago era known as 2009, the movie Watchmen was released in theaters. At the time, I was a senior in college, hellbent on expressing my passion for adaptation, cinema and comics in an academically-fruitful manner. I still remember the first time I saw the trailer, with its wrenchingly atmospheric visuals and haunting Smashing Pumpkins whine, and I had just read the graphic novel for the first time the summer before (and probably at least twice in the interim). Something exquisitely anticipatory happened in my chest when I gorged on those few perfect minutes, like a giggle trying to escape through my tightly-closed lips and humiliate me in my desire like an erection in skinny jeans. But I didn't see the film when it was in theaters. I didn't see it until last week, in fact. Why not, what I saw when I watched it and what happened when I did are not a mere review, but tell a story that is as much a part of my life and personality as film, comics and this comic in particular are the influences on my creative work.

Inertia is a Property of Matter

After finishing my first book back in January, I had a disturbing thought that (naturally) turned into a burdensome worry: It had been more than a year since I'd started The Wide and Burning World, and I didn't remember how I'd done it! 138k words is the most I've ever written about any single thing, and while it flowed out fairly smoothly, I simply couldn't recall the way I'd actually set forth to make a story that long. What if I couldn't do it again? There are two books left in the trilogy, Salt Spray and Fine Things and Pulling Colors from the Sun. How would I write them, if I couldn't remember how I'd begun in the first place? Was this going to be like so many other projects, doomed to incompletion? It couldn't have just happened, with no method... or could it?

Recently, a feeling I know has started creeping in at the cracks. I'm starting to think plot again, to draft pages when inspiration comes, to repeat wording that I like to myself. This is it! A book is starting to happen. Which sounds dumb, I know, and which of course isn't all of it. I'm becoming increasingly practiced at crafting narrative, inventing characters, researching and editing, and without those skills, I wouldn't be writing. But the way it starts is in embracing the momentum. This book's like a boulder at the top of a hill: I could put my back into it and push it until it rolls or I can be glad the earth is shaking. Now what I've got to learn is to trust that it will happen when I need it to... and that I can put my shoulder to my project if I need to. Let's roll.

The Male POV

I used to worry a lot about writing things that I hadn't experienced. The "agony of release" that is the male orgasm, for example. That is until I received some mind-changing perspective on the matter (of writing, not orgasm): No one feels anything the exact same way. If a story/description/idea resonates with one person, it may not with another, no matter if I crib the whole thing word for word from life. This wisdom freed me to rethink the way I gauge my own inspiration, and I do a lot more work with my full conviction.

My fiction is my domain. If it resonates because I've managed to reveal and portray some sliver of genuine human experience, then it doesn't matter if I have a cock or not.

Cat Box

This morning, while making a dent in the post-holiday detritus, my husband discovered our cat, Lilu, hiding in a box. But, not just any box. It was a shoe box with an attached, hinged lid, lined with foam padding. The box says "ta-da!" on it, and was a snug fit for Lilu (a truly big-boned gal). This box was special. It's her box. She loved it to pieces when it was in the living room, got it so filthy with her fur-leavings that we tossed it in our recycling pile months ago. Now that we've collected enough other boxes to reach critical mass, it was one of many, at the bottom of a vast heap. She could have had any box she wanted. And, well, I guess this was the one.

This is a cat we're talking about, and this is more than the concept of territory or ownership. This is attachment, a deep and primal feeling. We long for what's absent, we hold on to what is dear, what we like, what makes us comfortable. There's nothing terribly extreme in it, no agressive defense. She just likes it best of all. Taking it away left her looking for it, and in the cat-to-human translation we didn't notice the signs. Talk about a priceless insight into character-building. So often, we focus on the key needs and objects that pertain to a character, Lasche's blades, for example. But it's equally important to comment on the fact that he's really attached to his boots, and for no better reason than that attachment is essential to the soul.

(We're letting Lilu keep her box, of course...)