Wondering

A couple weeks ago FoxyJ checked out The Prestige from the library. A very cool movie, but the first thing I thought when I saw the cover was "Hey! It's Batman versus Wolverine! And look, there's Alfred!"

Then shortly after that Ken Jennings posted about "superhero crossover" movies where actors who have starred in superhero movies show up together. Besides The Prestige, Ken alluded to Wonder Boys as the movie that made one of his blog readers proclaim, “Holy smokes, Spidey and Iron Man are doin’ it!” So of course I went right to the library website and put Wonder Boys on hold.

As it turns out, this movie has more than superhero sex that should have made me like it more than I did. Besides having some great performances by Tobey Maguire, Robert Downey Jr., and Katie Holmes (Batman's girlfriend, by the way), this film has the Mr. Fob advantage of being about writers and writing. Once I realized this, I was excited--I'm a writer, so maybe this movie would somehow speak to the depths of my soul and tell me something wonderful and profound about writing. Perhaps it was this high expectation that left me feeling most disappointed in the movie with the aspects that had anything to do with writing. I don't know what it was* specifically, but it felt to me like a movie about actors pretending to be writers, not a movie about writers.

I remember feeling similarly about Finding Forrester, which like this was a great movie but felt somewhat artificial to me as far as representing anything like the world of writers that I know. Is it just that these are particular representations of a larger topic that I have a particular experience with, and because the particulars don't match up it seems fake to me? Or is it that they just don't do a good job of being movies about writers? My friends who (like me) are pretentious enough to call yourselves writers, have you seen movies about writers that rang true to you? Have the rest of you had similar experiences with movies about some other subject in your personal domain?

And is this why I was also disappointed by Unbreakable, which everyone told me I'd love as a comic-book fan, but ultimately felt like the work of an outsider to the genre?**


*After writing this post but before publishing it, I've figured out what I don't like about the portrayal of writing in either of the films mentioned above. In both writing is made out to be this magical process that somehow transcends the experience of mere mortal non-writers, but I don't know any writer for whom this is the case. You come up with an idea, you force it onto paper (or onto the screen), it's crap, and then you work and work until it's less crap than it was at first. There's nothing magical about it.

**Notice how I nicely brought the post back to the theme of superheroes, which is what I'd started with but otherwise had nothing to do with anything? Isn't that wonderfully literary of me?

In the Mail

From the assistant to the literary agent I sent a query to a couple months ago:

Thank you for your query concerning your novel FOBS AND FOES. Your work sounds interesting and I would be happy to read some of it. Please send the first 50 pages of the novel, plus a brief synopsis...

This is still about twelve huge steps removed from actually getting the book published, mind you, but it's a step closer than I've ever gotten in the past.

If you're one of the people I've been ignoring this weekend, it's because I'm working on making those 50 pages and synopsis as pretty as they can be.

A Wannabe of All Trades

See if you can spot a pattern:

• When I had a good English teacher in ninth grade, I decided I wanted to teach English.
• When I had a good physics teacher in eleventh grade, I decided I wanted to teach physics.
• Whenever I read a good comic book I want more than anything to write (and/or draw) comics.
• When I read Maus and Persepolis and Fun Home I wanted more than anything to write a memoir in graphic novel form.
• After I saw Batman Forever I made plans to write and star (as Robin) in the next Batman sequel (and heaven knows it would have been better than Batman & Robin turned out).
• When I had great English professors in college I decided I wanted to be an English professor.
• When I've had great library and information science professors I've briefly considered getting a PhD in LIS--albeit very briefly before discarding the notion as foolishness.
  
• When I listen to hip hop I want to be a rapper.
• When I saw Scratch, a documentary about turntablism, I wanted to be a turntablist.
• When I see great movies I am overcome by a desire to be an actor.
• When I hear Barack Obama speak I want to be a politician.
• When I read blogs that get enough hits to support their authors off the ad income I want to write amazing blog posts that will gain me fame and fortune.
  
• When I read young adult novels I want to be a YA novelist.
• When I read Harry Potter I decided to write a multi-part fantasy epic that would rival the Bible in all-time sales.

I just finished reading the complete run of Boondocks, a controversial syndicated comic strip about race and politics. Can you guess what my latest lofty aspiration is?

Nonfictional Novels

I've always been amused that just about every time I've seen a literary agent or editor give advice to aspiring authors, one of the things she or he says is, "Don't say on your query letter that you are submitting a 'fictional novel.' It's just a novel. All novels are fiction." It baffles me that this is such a widespread problem that agents and editors across the board feel the need to address it. I mean, seriously, are there people out there who really say 'fictional novel'?

I don't know, but apparently there are people whose definition of novel is broader than mine. The opening credits to the 1995 film The Basketball Diaries say, "Based on the novel by Jim Carroll." Um, novel? The Basketball Diaries is literally a collection of diary entries written by Carroll as a teenaged heroin addict. I don't think you can even call that an autobiographical novel.

Memo to the people of the future who will be adapting my blog into a major motion picture: Please do not put in the credits "Based on the novel by Mr. Fob."

My 2007 Report Card

I'll just come out and say it: 2007 was a shitty year. It's rare for me to admit such a thing, even to myself, because I tend to believe in the adage "All's well that ends well," and I tend to assume even in the midst of whatever's happening that it will eventually end well. But when I step back and objectively think about everything I've been through this year--emotionally, physically, and fiscally--and then add on top of that all the crap I've made my loved ones endure, I have to admit that as years go this one kind of sucked.

That said, this year really does look like it's going to end well. I'm at a happy place right now, at peace with myself as a husband, a father, a student, a writer, and a human being. Despite many setbacks throughout the year and the most recent news that FoxyJ will have to find a new job this quarter because her classes have been canceled, I think our family is doing well too. Foxy is a confident woman, I suspect even more aware now than she was a couple years ago of what she is capable of. S-Boogie loves preschool and seems to make friends everywhere she goes (and at the moment she wants me to write SUIIEL, which is apparently pronounced "cage-on"). Little Dude is bursting with cheer most of the time and communicates quite well with his two dozen signs and half-a-dozen words.

And through it all, I feel like I've done pretty well on the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the year. Which is why it's surprising to look objectively and see that I haven't. Here's the breakdown:

1. Cut down to 15% body fat. This is the one I'm most surprised by. I've worked out pretty consistently through the year and probably lost about ten pounds. I feel healthier and in better shape than I was a year ago. Nevertheless, the body fat scale I borrowed in January told me I was at 22%, and the body fat scale I bought with the gift card my dad sent last week has been telling me pretty consistently that I'm still at 22%. It may just be the difference in scales, so I'm going to go with my gut instinct and believe that I've made progress here, even if not all the way to 15%. I think I'll make this a goal again in 2008, except this time I'll have a better plan as to how I'm going to get there, taking into account not only exercise but also eating habits. And now that I own a scale I can better keep track of my progress.

2. Make five writing submissions, or one successful submission, whichever comes first. I haven't quite met this one, unless you count the fact that two of my pieces will be appearing in the forthcoming Fob Bible as a "successful submission." As excited as I am about this anthology of Fob literature, self-publication isn't quite what I had in mind. I did, just this very afternoon, finally submit my paper on lesbianism and homosexuality in the Library of Congress Subject Headings and Classification systems to a journal, as well as a query for my current novel to an agent. Cross your fingers for me!

3. Read at least twelve leisure books. Pshaw. I totally kicked this goal's butt. I think it's safe to say that I'm finally at a place where, despite all the reading I have to do for school, I've made enough of a habit of reading for fun that I don't need to make it a goal anymore. I've read two books just in the last three days.

4. Read the New Testament. Meh. Making the transition from reluctant Mormon to confused Christian to comfortable agnostic this year has sort of killed this goal. I read some at the beginning of the year with Foxy, then a bit more when I was attending the United Church of Christ, but then I lost interest. I have been reading a lot of Bible stories and poems written by my fellow fobs, though. I'm sure that counts for something.

So I guess that all adds up to about a C-. I'll do better next year. And of course there's still tomorrow left for 2007.

2008 goals to come.

Things That Have Made Me Happy in the Last 24 Hours

• Last night I wrote a short story that I'd been wanting to write for a couple weeks. I like it. The title is "The Changing of the God," a pun that according to Google only eight people have thought of before, ever, and even several of those seem more like coincidences of syntax than intentional puns. I hereby declare myself clever. Given my co-editors' approval, it'll be in the forthcoming Fob Bible, about which you will hear more in the near future.
• A very intelligent friend asked for help with a cataloging question this morning. I was quite flattered.
• I registered this morning to take advanced cataloging next quarter from one of the leading researchers in the field of cataloging and knowledge organization.
  
• I watched parts of a very funny movie this morning while cataloging it.
• This afternoon S-Boogie and Little Dude went to a friend's house while Foxy and I went on a date.
• We saw some very cool exhibits at the Bellevue Arts Museum, which has free admission on the first Friday of every month.
• We ate some very yummy avocado eggrolls and Thai chicken pasta at the Cheesecake Factory.
• We are now going to eat the very yummy cheesecake that we brought home with us.
  

The Muse Speaketh...

...And her name is Jo. I haven't been around here too much this week not because I'm scrambling to get all my end-of-the-quarter assignments done before we leave for Utah next week, though I should be, but because I read the Harry finale last week and it's inspired me to write. As in real writing. Blog posts, you see, are sort of like bastard children--I love them, but I'm not particularly proud of them. Writing not intended for immediate electronic consumption, on the other hand, is my true pride and joy. If I've been prolific here over the past few months, it's because I wasn't writing elsewhere. Harry VII has reignited the flames of inspiration, though, and I've spent the last few days with a long-discarded story idea, fleshing out the plot and the back story and the characters. I'm more excited about this story than I have been about any story in a long time.

And for the record, my multi-volume masterpiece has nothing to do with wizards. See, it's about this boy, um, Barry Cotter. And he finds out he has these amazing abilities that he inherited from his dead parents, and so he goes to a school for... wait for it... superheroes. And they have these wacky superhero teachers and they play wacky superhero sports and eat wacky superhero foods. See, it's not derivative at all. Watch out, Rowling, your successor is coming!

I wonder whether I'll make more on the millions of copies sold worldwide or the movie rights, which will be sold only after a long and heated bidding war?

Flashing Into the Present

For eight years during the nineties--the years when I was most immersed in the world of superheroes--the monthly adventures of the Flash were written by Mark Waid. Waid had taken over the title in 1992, six years after the previous Flash had died and then been replaced by his teenage protege, Wally West. Since donning the Flash identity, Wally West had been portrayed mostly as a womanizing, junk food-eating, cocky twenty-year-old kid. Six years later fans still clamored for the return of his predecessor, who was generally considered the One True Flash. In Waid's eight years on the character, Wally grew up, settled into a responsible adult relationship, and accepted his role as the Flash. Not coincidentally, fans also began to accept him in the role.

One of Waid's running motifs during his run on The Flash was the opening line of each issue, which was always some variation of "My name is Wally West. I'm the Flash, the fastest man alive." Each issue was then narrated by Wally, with caption boxes revealing his thoughts as he battled supervillains and rescued innocents at superspeed. The concept was that Wally's thoughts moved at such speeds that he could have a two-page interior monologue in the two milliseconds it took him to run across town. I don't know how that concept works scientifically, but as a character and story concept, it worked quite well. So well, in fact, that this narrative device became associated with the character and Waid's successors continued to use it until Wally disappeared in 2006 and was replaced by his teenage protege, Bart Allen.

Now, a year later, Bart has been killed and Wally is back. Wally's return to the role of the Flash corresponds with Mark Waid's return, after seven years away, to the writing credits of The Flash. As Waid's Flash was consistently one of my favorite comics when I was growing up, I was happy to hear of his return. The news was, in fact, one of the motivations behind my recent return to weekly trips to the comic book shop. Alongside the excitement of seeing one of my favorite writers writing one of his favorite characters again, though, was a bit of fear, an acknowledgment that as fun as nostalgia is, you can't go back in time. If Waid is going to attempt to recreate his glory days and bring us back to the Flash of the nineties, I'm afraid it would feel too much like running backwards.

So I picked up All-Flash #1 last month with this mix of excitement and fear. The issue started out with the familiar "My name is Wally West. I'm the Flash, the fastest man alive," and I was brought back immediately to the nineties. Wally sped through the issue, tracking down the villain responsible for his successor's death, narrating the journey along the way, and I was a fifteen-year-old again, lost in a fantasy world of superpowers, tights, and creative rewriting of the laws of physics. Then towards the end of the story, Wally is talking to his aunt, his thoughts running parallel to their conversation, and she says, "Stop it. Stop with the interior monologue, Wally. I know you're thinking of a million other things while you're talking to me. If you're going to be the husband and father your wife and children need, you're going to have to learn to be present with the people you're talking to."* And with that, the interior monologue stops.

I love that Waid did this. Assuming he follows through in future issues, this is a bold move: removing one of the most recognizable characteristics of his previous stint as writer of The Flash, arguably one of the things that made the series great. It needs to happen, though, if he's going to move forward and not simply relive the nineties. I also think it's a great moment in terms of character development. As his aunt points out, Wally is now a husband and father. Such relationships require, above all, presence and mindfulness.

Now, if only Mark Waid would write the interior monologues out of my life, I'd be set.



*Dialogue liberally paraphrased because I don't have the comic with me at the moment.

Fun Home: A Tragicomic

by Alison Bechdel

This graphic novel, a memoir of growing up as the daughter of a closeted gay funeral home director and later coming out as a lesbian, is one of the best-crafted stories I've read in a while. Bechdel jumps between her father's life and her own, from her childhood to her early adulthood, weaving allusions to James Joyce and Oscar Wilde in seamlessly. She portrays her father as an eccentric, cold, unlikeable man, and indeed much of the story seems to be justifying her anger toward him, but somehow she manages to use this harsh portrayal of her father to make her love for him convincingly apparent.

As is my tendency, I read myself into this book, wondering how S-Boogie will see me, her semi-closeted gay father, twenty or thirty years from now. I think it's safe to say, though, that I am not quite as neurotic as Bechdel's father, who seems to have seen his children as little more than assistants in his neverending quest to remake his antique home into a masterpiece of architecture and interior decoration.

What stands out to me most in Fun Home is Bechdel's literariness. She takes her life from the personal to the universal by tying it to literary giants from Homer to Virginia Woolf. In recreating and reviewing her life, Bechdel applies the lens of classic literature, and she does so naturally because these great books were such a part of her growing up, they become characters in her story. I look at my current attempt to write something approaching a memoir, and I'm incredibly jealous of Bechdel's superior craft. Tolkien Boy once praised the allusiveness of my writing, but my allusions to pop musicians and superheroes pale in comparison to Bechdel's ability to casually throw in a reference to Fitzgerald and make it work. I could try, but the truth is that high culture is not naturally a part of me as much as it is for Bechdel. This may have something to do with the intellectual envy I have for geniuses like Tolkien Boy, FoxyJ, and pretty much everyone else I surround myself with.

At any rate, read Fun Home. Even if you're a low-brow brute like myself, you'll enjoy it. I give it only four and a half fobs simply because it has a couple somewhat graphic lesbian sex scenes, and I find lesbian sex utterly uninteresting.