The Superbowl Ups Their Game

While the best word to describe what I see when I look at a football game is "static," I, like many, sat down to watch the Superbowl last night. (Go Saints!) Granted, I only watch the Superbowl every year for the commercials and (sometimes) the half-time show. The hype surrounding the ads this year was already high due to the allowance of an anti-choice ad and the denial of an ad for a gay dating site. So, more intrigued than usual about the content of the commercials, I was prepared for some mild irritation (Tim Tebow), some laughs (Betty White!), and a whole lotta unnecessary sexuality (Danica Patrick and that other token hot girl from GoDaddy). 

The objectification of women is practically standard in commercials, so much so that it's now often exaggerated for comedic effect. But last night featured far fewer babes in bikinis than in previous years. (Where there any at all?) Perhaps the folks at CBS thought the hot-chicks-and-beer images weren't for the post-wardrobe malfunction eyes of the FCC. Instead, the ads took their anti-woman agenda to a whole different level. 

Is it too much for me to call it an "agenda?" Maybe. But when I think back to the Dodge Charger commercial titled "Man's Last Stand," I think... maybe not. In the ad, the inner voice of "Average Man" goes over everything he does not want to do during the course of his day, which includes doing his job, coming home from said job, and spending time with (presumably) his wife. Because he behaves the way a human adult should, he totally deserves a car that looks like a huge penis.

Two more ads - I forget what they were for, but then, does it matter? - were especially tactless. One featured Jim Nance announcing that any man who agrees to shop with his girlfriend has "had his spine removed" and obviously needs to get it back by buying something damn manly! The other ad simply listed what "real men" should do during their lifetimes, which include falling in love with woman (subtext: and only a woman!) and then proceed to do much of what the man in the Dodge commercial complained about.

What's interesting here is that, yes, these ads are obviously offensive to women, but they've managed to now include a whole other group of people to offend: men! If I were a man, I would be rightfully horrified at these ads' portrayal of the such a blatant stereotype of the male psyche. However, if I were a guy, I'd probably think they were speaking directly to me because I, too, would feel trapped and burdened by the annals of life. Guys, if you need a car or other product to assert your manhood, I have news for you - you're not a real man yet, and buying that car won't change that. This is a new brand of misogyny. Just because it offends everybody doesn't mean it counts for equality.

So, to sum up, I've learned that yes, I am one of those stereotypical women who are confused by football, but I also learned that women, football fans or otherwise, only exist to look pretty and emasculate men. Likewise, all men secretly hate their lives and resent their girlfriends, wives, children, and even jobs for making them forget their true nature... which is apparently "being fifteen."

Sort of makes one miss the days of "Open a Bud Light, Have a Stripper Land in Your Lap," doesn't it?

Inspiration & Motivation

To my fellow writers... 

Yes, I say "fellow" because I am in the process of reclaiming my roots in creative writing. I've been so busy thinking my MFA was useless and not worth the debt, that I haven't thought about actually using it. While my go-to style is personal essay, I've been trying my hand at (gulp!) fiction. It's pretty terrifying. Right now my idea is heavily based on a friendship I had in high school, and, as expected, the sections that come more naturally to me are scenes involving those two characters. I find I'm less motivated to write the straight-fiction parts, which will account for 75% of the novel. 

The easy solution is to make this a memoir, but then I'd be stuck with having to make it truthful, and frankly, this story would be very boring if I start and end it where it did in real life. I want to take it further and explore areas in that time period without having to worry about things like facts. The only problem is - I just can't make myself sit down and write it.

I'm curious about what happens after the inspiration. It's hard enough finding a muse and putting an idea down on paper. But, once you finally map out where you want to go, what makes you get in your car and drive there? I apologize for the weak metaphor, but you see what I mean. Any advice out there for me or to the other writers out there?

One last word on MFAs - despite my gripes, I don't regret getting one. I know being in the program made me a better writer and I definitely learned more in those two years than I did in the four years I studied creative writing before that. However, they are expensive!!! I do not suggest going for the MFA right after college unless you are 100% certain that the only career for you is "author." Even then, they're not super necessary, but you do meet some great professors (many of whom have connections) and form a decent writing circle that will be super necessary later in your writing life.

Paragon: Chapter 2

It always makes me happy when we get repeat offenders here on Glass Cases. Back in September '09, Bob Young shared with us the first chapter of his novel, The Paragon of Animals, in which his main character, Somerset realized he needed to "take a giant leap forward" in his life after meeting the heroic Hadrian. Enjoy this continuation of Somerset's story!

The Paragon of Animals

By Bob Young

Chapter Two
Hadrian Falconer got out of the cab on a busy Manhattan avenue. Buying a newspaper before he entered the office building, he was approached by several excited people. Despite his fierce reputation, Hadrian always gave off the vibe that he was approachable. People liked him. He didn’t mind strangers coming up to him. On the contrary, regardless of his privileged upbringing, he fancied himself a man of the people.

Entering the building where his office was located, he bantered with the doormen and talked to some people in the lobby while he waited for the elevator. He was glad people weren’t too intimidated by him to start conversations. Even though he could kill someone in six seconds with one hand in the dark, he was still a magnet for people. And he had a sharp—albeit often merciless—sense of humor. He didn’t know anyone in the US who disliked him. No one except people he’d captured, like that nut who tried to shoot Eddie the environmentalist. Certainly those people weren’t thrilled with him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Arriving at his office, which said ‘HADRIAN FALCONER: PROFESSIONAL ADVENTURER’ on the door, he greeted his only two employees. One was Anne the receptionist and the other was Benny, a teenager who ran errands. Anne was sixty years old and saw Hadrian as a frivolous rich kid with too much time on his hands. (This was somewhat accurate.) Sometimes her impatience with him showed. Young Benny, on the other hand, was a big fan.

“Please keep your seats, you crazy kids!” Hadrian said in his usual jovial voice. “Anything exciting hereabouts?”

“No sir,” Anne said officiously. “We just work in the office. You do all the exciting stuff.”

“Did I forget your birthday, Annie?” He asked jokingly. He always enjoyed Anne’s little fits of pique. None of his servants at home would ever have spoken to him like she does. It was refreshing.

Annie held out a handful of ‘While You Were Out’ slips. “You have twelve messages and a bunch more on voice mail.”

“Och, you’re glad to see me,” Hadrian said, taking the slips. “Messages! I love getting messages!”

“You’re a very strange young man,” she answered.

“You’re only just catching on to that, are you?” He said, and sat at his desk, reading his messages.

Ben rushed over with some coffee. “Morning Hadrian. Heard you had some excitement yesterday.”

“That?” Hadrian asked, “You call that excitement, do you? Tackling one sad, incompetent berk? Hardly exciting. As thrilling as eating cereal without milk.”

He read his messages and was disappointed. None of them promised any adventure. Just tedious stuff, like yesterday’s bodyguard job. No man-hunting, no invitations to a fight club. Nothing to test the prodigious talents of someone who was trained by the mysterious and legendary Candymen.

‘Dull, dull, dull,’ he lamented.

The most interesting one came from a movie studio. They needed his combat tutorial expertise, for the sake of realism. True it was a waste of his formidable talents, but it was something to do. He liked the chaotic atmosphere at a movie studio. It wasn’t particularly challenging but it was fun. He dialed the number, and the secretary at the other end of the line transferred him to Morgan Hogarth, production head.

“Your Grace, thanks for getting back to me so quickly,” Morgan said.

“Call me Hadrian,” the Scotsman said. “I’m only ‘Your Grace’ back home. Here, I’m just your average handsome hero. At any roads, I’m considering the offer. I quite enjoy cinema work. No biz like show biz.”

“Excellent,” Morgan said. “You’ll love this one. It’s right up your street. We’re doing a film version of Hamlet.”

“Another one? What happens when you get to 100? Is there a trophy?”

“It’s timeless!” Morgan said. “Why so surprised? Aren’t you from the land of Shakespeare?”

“England is the land of Shakespeare, brainiac,” Hadrian said. “I’m a Scot.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Not to you, apparently.”

“If I’ve given offense…” Morgan began.

“Och no, it’s an annoyingly common mistake,” Hadrian interrupted. “I tolerate it, much as I tolerate yourself. So, you’ll be wanting me to coach your actors in some dueling and fencing?”

“That’s the ticket,” Morgan said. “And maybe help us with some fight choreography. You excel at that.”

“Stop your stroking,” he said. “My ego’s nay my weak point. Boredom is. When do I start?”

“Next Thursday, if possible. Name your price.”

Often, Hadrian didn’t charge a fee. He didn’t need to. If the client were not wealthy, or seemed in legitimate danger, or if the cause was a good one, Hadrian would waive his fee completely. Also, if the mission promised to be an adventure, Hadrian would eagerly take the job without asking a cent. But in a case like this, when a big movie studio was asking him to do something tedious like teaching actors how to fence, he charged a very high fee. He knew he was worth it. Not that he needed the money, but they don’t respect you if you give it away for free. And Hadrian would have respect!

Colorado
The old car made noises that no human being had ever heard before but Somerset didn’t care. Just so long as it managed to make the entire trip home before it broke down, it could make whatever noises it liked. As Somerset drove along the hilly and increasingly familiar road in Colorado, the smell in the air started to ignite his often-inaccurate memory. Inaccurate, because he tended to remember things as being much worse then they really were. For example, the clown that had performed at his 7th birthday party didn’t really have fangs and try to swallow him whole. Somerset tended to exaggerate, even to himself. He had remembered this area as being sort of gray and smelling like chalk. But now he had to amend that memory. It was green and fragrant. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, butterflies were fluttering by, and everything was just as nice as a person could possibly ask for. It wasn’t the way he remembered.

Then he saw the sign. The sign that, as a boy, had been like a marker for the edge of the world. Much like the ships in pre-Columbus days feared to sail past a certain point because they’d fall off the edge of the earth, so too, a young Somerset had never passed this sign because he feared what he would find after he left the only world he knew.

The sign read: You Are Now Entering the Town of Woeful. Population 300.

The population was still 300. Some things never change. Nothing ever changed in Woeful. That was why Somerset had wanted to leave. And possibly why he now needed to come back. He needed the comfort of the unchanging town of his birth. ‘The town that time forgot’, as he used to call it. It was like a museum, preserved perfectly.

It was dull. Maybe that was why he remembered it as being gray. It was as exciting as a gray room. Living there was like watching a banana speckle. But at the moment, Somerset needed that lack of excitement and danger. There was no danger in Woeful. The town motto was ‘Don’t expect the unexpected.’

The town came into view. The little, Norman Rockwell-ish hamlet that made Mayberry seem like Las Vegas. The same little houses. The same little stores. The same little…everything! It was all the same.

“If you lived here, you’d be bored by now,” Somerset paraphrased.

The car rolled into the town of Woeful, obeying the 10-mph speed rule. There weren’t too many people on the streets this morning. There never was, except for Sunday morning, when they got up to head for the church. The few people who were out walking looked curiously into the car to see who was driving. When they recognized the prodigal Somerset, they smiled and waved. Somerset waved back. They were good people. He liked them all. They were just boring.

Somerset drove along the main road, waving to people who waved to him. He was glad to see these faces that he had grown up with. Familiarity may often breed contempt, but in this case, it bred comfort. All the comforts of home. He needed that now.

Somerset pulled over and parked in front of the general store. He got out, stretched his legs and looked around. “Feels like I never left,” he said.

Somerset walked into the three-isle store. This was where Somerset had gotten his very first job. There were no customers. That was no surprise. No business in this town was ever swamped with patrons. What struck Somerset as being unusual, and unique to small town living, was that the proprietor was not here. Only in a town like this would someone walk away and leave their store unattended.

Everything was exactly where he remembered it to be. Canned tomatoes, isle three. Paper towels, isle one. Nothing had changed. It was like a time capsule. As he perused the unaltered aisles, the owner returned.

“Well, well, it’s Somerset, back in town,” Mr. Moss, the storekeeper said. “Welcome home, son.”

Somerset thanked the friendly old man and got into a brief discussion which reminded him that he was in the boredom capital of the universe. He excused himself and quickly exited the store.

He decided to leave the car where it was and walk across town. He headed for home, slowly, taking in the sights like a tourist. He knew every inch and was comforted by that fact. The bowling alley. The TV repair shop. The hotel, where no one ever stayed except traveling salesmen and people just ‘passing through’. Woeful was like a still-life painting in his mind, forever unchanging.

“Nothing changes,” he mumbled to himself. “Not even me.”

Somerset almost passed his house. But that all-too-familiar peach-colored mailbox, with the name ‘Ross’ in white letters, caught his eye. He looked over the house he had grown up in. It seemed smaller than he remembered. But otherwise, it was totally unchanged. Even the little garden in the front lawn seemed to have the same flowers. Somerset walked down the cobblestone path to the front door. No key. Should he ring the bell? Nah, this is Woeful. He tried the door handle. It was unlocked. Of course it was.

He walked inside and observed, with no surprise at all, that not a thing had been moved. The same “Brady Bunch”-like furniture. The pictures of himself and his sister as children still adorned the wall.

“Mom?” He called out. “I’m home.”

He heard footsteps moving quickly upstairs. He saw a shadow coming around the bend at the top of the stairs. The person who had cast the shadow appeared. But it wasn’t his mother. It was someone that he was more anxious to see. It was his sister Heather.

Heather was two years younger than Somerset. She had just started college. Heather was a pretty, petite girl with an infectious smile. Like Somerset, she had green eyes and brown hair. Hers was shoulder length. Heather and Somerset had always been very close. She was the only one who Somerset had really missed.

“Somerset!” She yelled, as she leaped from the bottom step and bounded into Somerset’s arms. They hugged affectionately.

“Hi sis.”

Heather kissed him on the cheek. “It is so good to see you again,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed you too. How are you?”

“I’m doing OK,” she said. “Everything’s quiet on the western front. And you?”

“Doing great,” he said, trying to hard to be cheerful. “Where’s mom?”

“She’s at work,” Heather answered. “She tried to get out early, but she had some sort of teachers meeting after class today. She’ll be here soon.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine. But I can tell something’s bothering you,” Heather said. “I know you too well.”

“I’ll be all right. I just need a little downtime. A little rest,” he said convincingly.

“Well, your old room is still yours,” Heather said, gesturing grandly toward the stairs. “Feel free to rest your weary bones, and I’ll call you when mom gets home.”

“Thanks Heather. We’ll catch up later.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I want to hear all about everything you’ve done while you’ve been away.”

“Sure, sis,” Somerset started to walk up the stairs. He stopped and looked back at Heather. “It really is good to see you again.”

“You too, sweetie.”

Somerset climbed the stairs and went into his old room. There is no need to point out that nothing had been changed. Somerset didn’t even bother to look around. He just collapsed onto the bed. He had left his luggage in the car. But that didn’t matter. This was Woeful. No one broke into cars. There were no robberies. There were no surprises.

He found one of his old books. ‘The Complete Works of Shakespeare.’ He loved Shakespeare. He always had. This was the kind of hobby that used to get him beaten up in high school. But he always found solace in literature. He didn’t care if no one else he knew shared this love. He never fit in with the crowd anyway.

Analysis of a Query

When a truly horrible query letter comes in (written in crayon, vampire erotica for toddlers, etc.), publishing assistants usually just mock it until it cries. Sorry to be so blunt, but it's true. But what about a poorly written query letter that still shows a hint of potential? This is treated with more care, meaning the "mocking" is then called "judging" and instead of making it cry, we, instead, force it to question its decisions with equal parts shame and understanding.

(It should be noted that when I say "it," I really am talking about the inanimate query letter, and am in no way suggesting that we come up with horrifying rejections for its author. Breathe easy, writers!)

Today, a query letter arrived in a sister-assistant's inbox and, from it, a request for a partial was born. But, she severely questioned this decision and enlisted the help of the other sister-assistants to figure out why she had instantly regretted her request. While keeping the identity and dignity of the author safe, here is what we came up with (so that you do not fall victim to these potentially fatal mistakes):

Get a real email address. Generally, .edu or @aol.com are red flags that a query probably will be less than stellar. Also, avoid things like FlrtyGrrl69 or MetsRule86 (unless you are a sportswriter). By all means express your personality, but do it tastefully and in the right context.

Be controversial without being out of touch. If you're writing YA, it's common to put your main characters in adult situations. Just make sure your characters handle these situations the way teenagers would. Making them act too old, or too young, puts you at risk of seeming clueless to the teenage experience, and your target audience will see right through you.

Delete irrelevant personal details. Really young writers and more, shall we say, seasoned writers tend to put their ages in their query letters. To the twelve-year-olds and ninety-three-year-olds: if you can write, you can write. If you can't, you can't. Knowing how old you are is rarely, if ever, put into consideration.

Avoid vague plot summary. Call it the "yada, yada, yada" of synopses. When key elements to the plot (and therefore, our level of interest in that plot) are glossed over, it makes it seem as if they are not good enough to be mentioned. We want specifics! We want to be dazzled! We do not want "after various events take place, Character A and Character B realize their destiny and fall in love."

DO NOT compare yourself to Twilight. I repeat: Do. Not. Do. This. EVER. See also: The Da Vinci Code, Harry Potter, anything by John Grisham, or using the phrase "Oprah-appeal." Confidence in your work is good. Calling yourself the next major trend in literature, pop culture, and the world... kind of a turn-off. Also, it's up to your agent and/or publisher to decide where you fall on this spectrum of popularity, not you.

So, you may be asking yourself why I'm telling you to avoid all of these things when the person who did do them still got a request. It's because as a writer you never, ever, ever (ever!) want to give an agent or publisher more of an incentive to reject you. It's a harsh reality to face, but the odds are already against you. What works for some will most likely not work for you. Don't let your brilliant manuscript see the inside of your SASE just because you insisted on using the words "great for film."

Voices of Your Generation

I'm still reeling from the death of J.D. Salinger, and have wondered if 2010 is going to be for writers what 2009 was for actors (it's still January and we have already lost Robert Parker, Louis Auchincloss, Howard Zinn, and J.D.). The term "literary lions" has been popping up in various articles, as it had when Mailer and Updike died last year. It got me thinking about what this phrase even means, and if there are modern-day, or future, lions out there. 

I had a conversation with my sister yesterday and she told me with sad resignation there were no more Salingers writing today, as in, there are no more "voices of a generation" whose work has the same cultural impact. I disagreed by saying it's impossible to name of voice of the current generation because it's not over yet. We need time to determine what's been said and how it reflects that time. Our judgment of our own generation is automatically, and involuntarily, biased. 

I'm not really sure which generation I'm in. I know I'm the "one after Generation X," but whether that's Gen Y, Millennial, or The Twitter Generation (which I read once and cringed), I don't know. I guess it doesn't matter. I was born on one of those weird "on the cusp of either generation" years anyway, so I'll just go where they tell me. But, for the purposes of finding someone who speaks for me, I'll make "me" be anyone between the ages twenty-four and thirty-four.

I suggested to my same-generation sister that Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney, could have been the-post Salinger novel of that time (again, that one "right before" our own), but as for our generation, I wasn't sure. I think Cormac McCarthy is #1 on the current "literary lion" list, and Michael Chabon will probably win "Most Likely to be Studied in High School English" among his generation (sorry, Franzen). But, do either authors speak for me, child of the Clinton-era, pre-Internet 1990s and adult of the post-911, iTech new millennium? Not really.

Despite having declared finding a voice to my own generation a futile attempt, I'm still curious about your thoughts. Who do you think has the best appeal right now to the young, modern-day experience? There are several characters to whom we can relate our personal triumphs or tragedies, but what about those who represent our place in the world? If other generations can claim them for their collective lives, then there must be at least one out there for "me."