In Which Deb is High on Painkillers And Waxes Literary

I'll say it.  I don't like the Harry Potter movies.

I love the books, but really don't care for the film versions.  The last time I tried to watch Part V (Order of the Angst), Momz and I eventually just shut it off and referred to it as an "ordeal."  I don't want to watch a movie that makes me fight to stay awake through every moment unless it stars Charlton Heston and something is made out of people.

Here's my take: the people who have made the Harry Potter movies are afraid of backlash from the audience, who will criticize any detail that is not exactly like the book.  I used to be one of those people myself before I understood a basic truth: film and written fiction are two completely different art forms, therefore different techniques will be used to tell the same story in each.

(True story:  When whats-his-name was making the film version of Rosemary's Baby, he called the author (Ira Levin?) and asked him about a reference that was made in the book to a shirt Rosemary said she bought for her husband that was "in The New Yorker."  The director wanted to know what issue, what brand shirt it was, etc.  Levin said, "I don't know, I made it up.")

Take the Twilight series.  (You knew I was going there, don't judge me.)  The first movie was not great, as it tried very hard to include every hokey line of dialogue that might work in print but would never sound right to the ear if spoken aloud.  The second movie was a big improvement.  The third movie was actually pretty good as they focused more on telling a story and less on making every fanatic in the world happy about including their favorite line.  (I'll also say it: I think the film version of Eclipse had a lot of improvements over the book in terms of narrative flow and plot, but that is part of the limitation of writing a book with a first-person narrator, particularly one as self-centered and self-analytical as Bella.  I told you I was high at the beginning of this.)

For me, the best book-to-film adaptations are the ones that preserve the essential feel of the story while not being afraid to make changes that make the story work better for film.  Here, then, are some of my favorite book-to-film adaptations:

• Gone With the Wind: because Scarlett really only needed one child, right?
• Interview with the Vampire: Did you know Tom Cruise didn't even know he was in that movie until a year later?
• Carrie: I love a movie in which teenagers don't take themselves too seriously, except the one who slaughters the entire town with the force of her mind.
• The Princess Bride: If you've never read this book, you should.  It was written by the guy who also wrote the movie, but there's some great satire there that doesn't translate to film at all and, bless him, he didn't try.
• Rebecca/Jane Eyre: Aren't these really the same movie?  All I can say is, Joan Fontaine's nostrils are magnificent.

So, I hope that is a lesson to all of you aspiring screenwriters/directors out there.  If you're adapting existing material, don't be afraid to change it up a bit, make it your own.

And stay off the painkillers.  Makes it difficult to write a coherent weasel got in the corn.

In Which Deb Reassesses a Major Belief

I have always tried to be a polite person.  Not just by following the rules of etiquette; there are times when, in fact, it is actually less polite to stick to the rules.  (Don't question me, it just is.)  For me, being polite means that I know how to stand up for myself without being obnoxious, that I try to have empathy for other people and not take my frustrations with a systemic problem out on an individual, and that I choose my battles carefully; if it isn't my "hill to die on," so to speak, I let things go.

Today I experienced something that, for the first time, made me wish that I was a rude person.  Today I experienced a kidney stone.  (In fact, I am still experiencing it, as my pain medication is wearing off as I write this post, so I'd better hurry before I reach out through the internets and tear all of your faces off.)

When I woke up this morning, I had my usual vague lower back pain that always goes away after I move around a bit.  This morning, the pain didn't go away, it localized to the bottom left quadrant of my back and settled in.

"That's odd," I said.  "This back pain is kind of weird this morning."

"You're spending too much time on the computer," Sven grumbled.  "It's bad for your back."  (For the record, this is also why I have to wear glasses, have painful menstrual periods, suffer from itchy toes in the winter, and have experienced bouts of puff-knuckle, at least according to Sven.)

"Maybe you're right," I said automatically, and got dressed for work.  That nagging pain would not go away!  By the time I got to work, I knew things weren't right.  I was dizzy and sweaty and felt like I was about to vomit.  I called Sven ("No, I'll be fine, you stay at work,") left work and went to the emergency room, where being polite gets you nowhere.

"Excuse me," I said, gasping in pain, "I'm in a great deal of pain and need to see someone."

"Fill out the top form and have a seat," the nurse said mechanically.  It was at this point that my logical, polite mind said Don't get mad at her, she's following procedure, and yelling at people never solved anything.  There was another, louder part of my mind, however, that was screaming Tell that stupid so-and-so that you're not filling out a damn thing until you get some Demerol!  Fortunately, I listened to my polite self and filled out the form and hunched my way over to the chairs.  It took seventeen hours in my time (but only about fifteen minutes in real time, I suppose) to get back to a room.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" a perky intern asked.  Again, polite Deb is thinking Bless her heart, she's just taking my history, no need to get upset, while the raving lunatic unleashed by unspeakable pain is screaming Tell her to shove that clipboard somewhere dark and get me some morphine! NOW!  I again managed to leash the beast and answered her questions as best I could, though I will tell you now I have no recollection of what she asked me.  I was in so much pain at that point that my hearing was affected.  I wanted to call Sven and tell him to come and hold my hand, but I was in too much pain to even ask for my phone.  Then the lady from the business office came in to ask me about how I was going to pay.  I don't even remember what happened next.

Fortunately, drawing on nearly seventeen years' worth of couples' telepathy, Sven walked in at that point and I could just start crying while he answered the questions.

Pain medication was introduced then, and I felt much better.  Just about normal, in fact.  One CAT scan later, it was confirmed that a tiny, 3mm ball of yuck had lodged in my left kidney and I have to evict him.  Hopefully said eviction will be accomplished today by means of my enormous Bass Pro Shop mug and amazing willpower, but I could be here for a while.  Sven is out now getting my prescriptions filled.

And he'd better get back soon, because Angry Deb is lurking.  Watch out.

Deb's Favorite Things

Hey, y'all.  I bet you're wondering why the topic of today's show was kept such a big secret.  Is it a big star?  Maybe George Clooney or Brad Pitt?

(Excited murmurings from audience)

No, it's not a big star.  It's even better.  Everyone welcome to DEB'S FAVORITE THINGS!!

(Audience screams.  Close up on one woman sobbing.)

Okay, y'all.  Let's begin with one of my absolute favorite things in.  The.  World.  This has saved me more than anything when I'm trying to cool down from those long workouts.  Everyone in the audience is getting a case of Isopure Protein Clear Beverage!!

(Audience screams.  One woman tears off another's head.)

All right, let's all settle down.  Next on my favorite things list is something I found at a local drugstore, and who would expect to find something so gourmet and satisfying there?  BLUE DIAMOND DRY ROASTED ALMONDS!

(Audience screams.  Paramedics enter the room and begin carrying out unconscious audience members.)

Okay, everybody.  I know the holiday season is here and we're all looking for that perfect gift.  Well, look no further.  I got one of these for Sven last year and he.  Loved.  It.  Who would not love this AUTHENTIC TAUN-TAUN SLEEPING BAG?

(Audience screams.  A wedding between audience members spontaneously takes place in the back three rows.)

And for today's final gift, for that person who has everything: I love comedy, and I love podcasts, so everyone today in the audience will receive a genuine COMEDY DEATH RAY RADIO T-SHIRT!!

(Audience screams.  In the front row, a woman spontaneously conceives, carries, and gives birth to a child out of sheer joy.)

Thanks, y'all.  I hope you all know that I received no promotional money or goods for today's show, though I wouldn't turn them down if they were offered.  Enjoy the spirit of the season, everybody.

Tooting My Own Horn

You all know, who have read me for a while, that I love having imaginary interviews.  In my mind, I have sat on the couch of Oprah, matched wits with Jon Stewart, and answered James Lipton's list of questions.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to have a real interview.  With a real journalist.  It really happened.  And it was everything I hoped it would be!

No, I wasn't on television, it was a phone interview, but it has been published.  Read it here:

Galveston Daily News

And if you are here from that article, welcome!  There will be a quiz over all past entries next week.  Begin.

Overachieving

It is, of course, November, which means one thing: the thirty day orgy of creativity known as NaNoWriMo.  Of course, I know all of my faithful readers have the entire month marked in red on their calendars, but to those who might be new, I will explain.

The goal of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writer's Month) is to produce a 50,000 word novel in thirty days.  Beginning at midnight on November 1 and ending on November 30, those who choose to participate in this activity forswear friends, family, and proper nutrition for the duration.  In order to complete your book on time, a daily goal of 1,667 words is the minimum to be completed.  Editing is discouraged; NaNoWriMo is not about quality, it is about quantity.  (December, however, is NaNoFiMo, or National Novel Finishing Month, in which one's NaNoWriMo work can, hopefully, be edited into something semi-coherent.)

Last year I began participating in NaNoWriMo early in November, as soon as I heard about it.  I had no plot, no ideas, and had to start over more than once.  I got my 50,000 words, though, meaning I "won" the contest.  Unfortunately, that book was terrible.  Seriously, completely terrible.  Easily the worst thing I have ever written, and I include the companion book to "The Outsiders" I wrote in eighth grade in that statement.  We will never speak of it again.

This year I started thinking about NaNoWriMo in August.  I knew what I wanted to write: an account of the 1900 Galveston Hurricane, told from the perspective of a young woman who lived through it.  The twist?  Those who have been reading my blog for a while have probably guessed: she lives through it by becoming a vampire.  Yes, another vampire tome has fallen from my pen like drifting autumn leaves, and I couldn't be happier.  I began researching with enthusiasm.  (Just a note: I never research anything beyond a quick Google search, so this is very uncharacteristic behavior for me.)  I drove to Galveston several times and looked at buildings that had survived the storm.  I went to the Rosenberg Library and visited the archives, where original documents from that time period are stored.  I read books, including the superb "Isaac's Storm" by Erik Larson.  I knew who my heroine was and what she was doing, I knew how she was going to get caught in the storm and where she was going to shelter.  I even knew who the vampire who attacked her was and his back story.  (He's a Karankawa Indian, by the way, another bit of obscure coastal Texas lore I was happy to include.)

The problem?  When November 1 hit, I wrote almost 10,000 words in the first 24 hours.  By the end of the first week I was at 25,000.  I hit 50,000 words on November 15.  I finished the book, at 56,000 words, on November 15.  Now what?

Start a second one.

Here's my reasoning: if I finished a 50,000 word book in the first 15 days, I could do another one in the second 15 days, right?  I neglected to think about the two months of research and thought that had gone into the first one (for the record, "Immortal Isle").  What was I thinking?

This new one, tentatively titled "Magic Number," is awful.  Truly, tremendously awful.  It may, in fact, be worse in many respects than last year's.  If I had any artistic integrity, I would junk it and start over and really challenge myself (as I write this, it's November 21, so 9 days to go) but no matter how bad this one is, I'm 37,000 words into it and have an actual shot at finishing the thing.

I love young adult literature.  "Magic Number" was intended as an homage to one of my favorite YA authors, Norma Johnston, the queen (in my opinion) of teenage angst.  Unfortunately, I seem to be incapable of writing a simple, biographical novel.  Halfway through this one, we discover that one corner of our love triangle is the child of secret agents who is being recruited to join the agency herself, and adventure ensues.

Really?  Really, Deb?  A teenage love story drama turns into a suspense thing about secret agents?  Nice.  I just hope I can finish the thing in time to go back and fix some things.  Like take out the whole "secret agent" thing.  I wish I could do it now, but I can't go back and erase 100 pages with only nine days to go.

Or can I?  More later...

Blast from the Past

Recently, I was privileged to attend my 4th grade class reunion.

What?  4th grade class reunions aren't that common?  Well, my 4th grade class was never common to begin  with.

Here's a picture of me with my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Awesome-O.

(Note that I was the only member of Awesome-O Class of '85 to attend.  I'm looking in your direction, everyone else.)

In elementary school, I participated in something called GATE: Gifted And Talented Education.  Those of us in GATE fell under many categories:

• Brilliant but quiet
• Brilliant but loud
• Too hyperactive to be in a regular classroom
• Too weird to be in a regular classroom
• Smart but socially clueless
• Several of the above

GATE students were identified by a complicated series of tests, including IQ tests.  We were together all day, every day, from third through fifth grade.  Thinking about it now, I realize how extraordinary that was.  Most kids get shuffled from class to class between grades, and switch between different teachers during the day.  We didn't.  Our teacher was OUR TEACHER, who taught us reading, language, math, social studies, and science every day.

At the reunion, I realized I remembered the people who were there better than I remembered people in my graduating class at high school.  It was amazing!  What was even more amazing was how, in a room full of our peers, we all immediately reverted to our Inner Nerd.  The quiet ones were still quiet, the loud ones unbelievably loud, but you could almost see guards dropping as we realized we were among our peers.  The class clowns began entertaining, the sarcastic ones were dripping with well-placed stings, and the nice ones were just exuding good nature.

There were a wide variety of careers represented.  Several of us are in education.  There was a neurosurgeon and stay-at-home moms, small business owners and IT experts.  Above all, we were still GATE kids: smart, kind of goofy, and not traditional at all.

At the reunion, I was given the honor of witnessing what has to be one of the greatest "You're busted!" moments of all time.  Allow me to set the scene:  Sven and I were sitting there with Siegfried, a friend of ours who happens to be Awesome-O class of '84.  We were discussing how we ended up with different 5th grade teachers, because Siegfried's teacher left in the summer between his fifth grade year and mine.

Not to drag the story out, but I told Siegfried about my 5th grade teacher, who had never taught elementary school or GATE before, and how inappropriate her reading assignments were.  We read Johnny Tremain and Island of the Blue Dolphins, which were great, and then The Hobbit, which was okay but a little dense for 10-year-olds, then Animal Farm, which I did not understand at all.  I thought it was about talking animals until I was 18.

"What came next?" asked Siegfried.

"Lord of the Flies," I said.  After the laughter subsided, I recalled how my mother, along with several others, protested, which resulted in an "opt-out" assignment: Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh.  Siegfried and I then imagined how we would teach a class in which half of the kids were discussing the pig-hunting scene from LOTF while the rest were debating whether or not Farmer Fitzsimmon's rose bush was really the best place for those darned rats.

"Why stop there?" Siegfried asked, and we began suggesting increasingly inappropriate reading material for 10-year-olds.

"How about The World According to Garp?" I suggested.  Siegfried got that wicked twinkle in his eye and began to intone, in a teacherly voice:

"Class, please regard the [expletive descriptive word] scene and-"

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?" intoned Mrs. Awesome-O, descending upon us.

Busted.  We had to explain it all to her, which fortunately, she found hilarious, though whether it was because we were funny or she was on her second glass of wine, I can't say.  What I can say is that Mrs. Awesome-O is still awesome.  As we were leaving, she gave me a hug and said to Sven, "Take care of her, she's one of my good ones."

Right back at you, Mrs. Awesome-O.

Battle for the Bed

At the Folksy house, we are currently at war.  At stake in this war is the most valuable piece of real estate around: Deb and Sven's king-sized bed.

It began almost five years ago, when Princess was born.  From the very beginning, she would not be alone quietly.  When I think of the money we spent before she arrived on things like cribs and bassinets, I can't help but laugh bitterly.  The crib wasn't a total loss; it converted to the full-size bed she now refuses to sleep in, but the $200 convertible bassinet was a total waste of money unless you consider having an extra place for our late cat (Hambone) to pee is a wise investment.

Princess slept with us for the first year on purpose.  We called it co-sleeping.  Everyone else kept silent, but I knew what they were thinking: how will you ever stop?  Answer: I don't know.  I'll tell you when it happens.  When we decided to have her sleep with us, it was from necessity: I hadn't planned on having a C-section, Sven's brother died the day after we brought her home from the hospital, so we had to find a way I could feed her without getting out of bed every 2-3 hours.  We did what we had to do.

When we found out we were pregnant with Dexy, I said, "We need to get his room all ready."  Sven replied, "I just thought he'd sleep with us the way Princess did."  Bear in mind that, at this point, Princess was almost two years old and it was a nightly struggle to get her to sleep in her room.  I goggled at Sven, but, muddled by the hormones of pregnancy, I shrugged and just went along with it and ate another wedge of cheese the size of a mature hamster.  (That was a strange pregnancy.)

So now, here we are: Dexy, nearly three, who cannot go to sleep without a thumb in his mouth and a hank of my hair in his hand, and Princess, nearly five, who lays down in her bed for thirty seconds before proclaiming, "I had a bad dream, I can't sleep by myself tonight."  My nights are spent curled up in the fetal position on the edge of my once-luxurious bed, waking up every half hour to dislodge a child-sized foot from some part of my person.

We are trying.  This week I've been up every night until 2:00 or 3:00 with Princess, insisting that she sleep in her own bed.  I'm on to her tricks: she will wait until I'm asleep, then creep in and sneak into my room and fall asleep next to her daddy.  (Usually because Dexy is already asleep next to me.)  Some nights, Dexy actually stays in his bed when we carry him down, but Princess is like The Terminator.  She doesn't sleep.  She can go days on two hours of sleep a night with almost no signs of ill effects.

She's ruthless, I tell you.  But she hadn't reckoned on dealing with me.  I'll beat her yet.

The Wrath of Mom

On Monday, I got home and I was so tired, I just couldn't wait to sit down, put my feet up, open up the computer, and write for a while.  When I got home, I was confronted by a grave reality: the dishes had piled up in the sink, there were loads of clothes waiting to be washed, dried, and folded, and the garbage can was full to the point that Sven and I were actively competing to see who would be the sucker that had to actually change the bag, meaning we were precariously balancing mountains of garbage on top of the already full can.

I looked around my house and got mad.  No, not mad.  I was furious.  I put my things down and began to attack the garbage, then the dishes.  I rattled and banged and generally let everyone know that I. Was. Not. Happy.

"I love you, Mommy," Princess said, patting me.

"I love you, too," I snarled.

"I can take care of supper," Sven offered from the recliner.

"Great," I snapped.  "You do that."

"I want chicken nuggets, Daddy," said Dexy.

"Chick-Fil-A!  Chick-Fil-A!" chanted Princess.

"Okay, I'll be right back," said Sven.  When I turned around, they were all gone.  I ran out and caught them, hearing that Sven was taking the children with him.  I knew then that I would not be seeing them for a long time.  "I'm just going through the drive-thru," Sven said.  I cackled bitterly, wiping dish soap from my eyebrows.

Two hours later, when they returned home, I got the scoop.  Here's what happened:

Sven: Now, kids, we're just going through the drive-thru and going home.

Princess: Well, Daddy, since Mommy's not eating, we don't really need to bring the food home.

Sven: I suppose we can see how crowded it is, and if it isn't too crowded we might be able to eat there.

Princess: I think Mommy wants to be alone.  We should eat there to help Mommy.

Sven: We'll see.

Princess: And then we can play on the playground for just a minute.

Sven: All right, we'll see.

Princess: Thank you, Daddy.

They came home after the dishwasher had been run and I had all of the laundry folded, and I was much, much calmer.  Sven had that wry expression that told me he knew he had been suckered by a tiny little girl with dimples and pigtails.

Maybe I need to "Hulk out" on the housework more often...