An additional and unrelated note on kitsch

I've been reading a lot of rubbish, kitschy period romance novels recently. Why? Because I got them for free and I feel like I should read them before I throw them in the trash.

(Well, technically the recycling bin...)

Anyhow.

I've come up with three pieces of advice, should you ever feel like becoming an author and delving into the ridiculously stupid and absurd world of heaving bosoms and ripped bodices:

1. Always send your characters to the ton.  

Despite being an Austen/Gaskell/Bronte fan and having seen almost every period piece film ever made, I had never heard this term before. Apparently it's pronounced "tone" and is used to refer to Britain's upper class during the Regency/Georgian era. At least, that's what Wikipedia says...

Either way, your characters must spend time talking about the ton and attending parties with the ton — and you'd better always italicize it, like a good little Chicago Manual of Style user.

2. Always, always, always make your characters idiotic. 

They should never behave like people at the time really did. (Although, let's face it, books where the characters are true to the time period can be MAJORLY boring... a la Fanny of "Mansfield Park"... Poor Fanny was the most dreary character ever written until Bella Swan came around...)

They should always be beautiful and exotic looking. (How can a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes look exotic? A real romance author can make it happen!) The main male character should act like a fop and be a complete skeeze while the woman is always innocent and pure. ALWAYS. And they should never have a conversation before falling in love. Instead, they should proclaim their love and pine away before finding out anything — anything — about the other person.

And finally... (This is my favorite, by far.)

3. Make sure your impossibly perfect main character has a loyal older servant with a 100% improbable name. 

I'm not making this up — the last two books I read had loyal older servants with the names "Crookshank" and "Wigglesworth." Because those are the sort of last names you encounter on a daily basis, right? Britain is just chock-full of Crookshanks and Wigglesworths.

There you go: three easy steps to getting a vulgar period piece romance novel published.

Or you could just write any old book and make your characters vampires. That also seems to work...

In which I slept through a big palaver

Disclaimer: I've been watching too much "Top Gear," so beware of random British slang...

Either there is something magical and amazing about the locks on my house, or those of us who live/visit the house are total idiots. I've locked myself out before (as noted in an earlier entry), which was embarrassing enough. However, I also managed to break in, which means I'm not a complete loss. Various other roommates haven't been so crafty and therefore resorted to calling for help, etc.

When it comes to getting locked out in style, though, my roommate's unnamed boyfriend, however, takes the cake.

(He's not unnamed because this is the Internet and I don't want to make fun of him — he's unnamed because I really don't know his name. Heck, I don't even know what he looks like. I just know that he stands on my porch and blows his cigarette smoke into my room, that he smokes weed in my roommate's room, and that he and my roommates often do things which I — a little Mormon innocent — don't want to know about. But I digress...)

(Here's another disclaimer: Although the house IS supposed to be LDS standards — no smoking, no boys, no alcohol, etc. — this roommate hasn't quite grasped the concept.)

So occasionally I work night shifts. They're not real night shifts where I get home at dawn, though — they're more like semi-night shifts. However, if I work more than two in a row, my bedtime gradually gets later... and later... and later... By the end of a long stretch of night shifts my internal clock is so screwed up that I'm convinced day is night and night is day.

So, as this story begins, early one Saturday morning I found myself coming home from a night shift feeling completely, totally awake. As I am wont to do, I therefore began wasting time.

2:00 a.m. - Ah-hah! Time for dinner!

2:30 a.m. - I'll just finish this episode of "Top Gear."

3:00 a.m. - Ice cream sounds super good right now...

3:30 a.m. - I should brush my teeth

4:00 a.m. - But I've only got two chapters left in this book...

You get the picture.

As I was brushing my teeth — around 4 a.m. — I heard someone come out of my roommate's room, walk out the front door, get into her car, and drive away. I found the early-morning drive a little odd, but I didn't dwell on it. Going to bed was more important, so that's what I did.

BUT

At 7 a.m. I was awakened by furious pounding on my front door.

"Girls! Wake up! Wake up right now!" someone shouted.

You know that moment of confusion where you can literally feel the individual brain cells firing up one by one? That's what I began to experience. I cracked opened my eyes and tried to orient myself as the room came into focus.

The pounding and shouting continued.

"We know you're home! Open the door! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

My poor, overtired brain began to function a little further, and I suddenly started to panic about my car. I had parked it in front of the neighbor's house (since boyfriend was in my normal spot, dang him) and I was suddenly hit with a wave of panic. What if they were towing my car!? Oh no!!!

But then — through my open window — I heard the pounding stop and a conversation begin.

"I know she's in there," someone said. "Her window is open."

 "Where is she?" a girl asked.

"In this front room. I know she's home." the first voice answered.

With those sentences, my concern about my car disintegrated and I began to feel far, far more concerned about my safety. Who were these yelling, pounding strangers standing on my front porch and talking about me?! AHHHHHH!!!

Even though I still didn't know what was going on, I climbed out of bed and peeked out the window to see police cars parked in front of my house. My brain did this: 

WHAT THE HECK!!?!!?!!! 

In reality, there were only three (THREE?!) squad cars, but to me, it looked like this:

And yes, in case you're curious, police cars really do park at odd angles. The movies are right.

Now feeling completely freaked out, I threw on some clothes and ran out the front door. Three cops were standing at the end of the driveway and chatting. They turned when I came outside.

"Are you (roommate's name)?" one of them asked.

 "No," I said. "Uh...what's going on?"

According to the police, my roommate's boyfriend had locked himself outside, and one of our neighbors had gotten suspicious and called the cops.

"Oh," I said.

"You are a REALLY sound sleeper," an officer said.

"Er, yeah," I said. "I got off of work late..."

Technically that wasn't true — I had gotten off late, but I had also wasted eons of time faffing around. However, the police didn't need to know that.

Then I went back inside and — naturally — updated my Facebook status before going back to sleep. It's the 21st century — that's what we do. I should've tweeted about it too, but that was too much of a leap for my overwrought mind.

(I also didn't take a picture of my house surrounded by cops, and I've been berated for that by a number of people. Next time YOUR morning is interrupted by three (THREE?!) squad cars and a lot of door-pounding, see how YOU react! Ha!)

In the wake of the whole adventure, I subsequently got to hear different versions of the story from a bunch of different roommates. None of them match up. Funny how that works. 

My version: Boyfriend left the house at 4 a.m., got in my roommate's car, and drove off. Later returned to the house, greeted the cops, pounded on the door, and eventually was allowed into the house, where he ran to his girlfriend's room with an incredibly frustrated, "Babe!"

My version is clearly the most boring, seeing as how I slept through the majority of the fun.

Roommate/Boyfriend's version: Boyfriend left the house to have a cigarette on the porch. He smoked his cigarette and then went to come back inside, but I had locked him out. (EH?! ME?! Uh, no. Our door locks automatically when you close it, thanks very much.) Boyfriend therefore decided he'd be stuck outside of a while, so he climbed into girlfriend's car to spend the rest of the night there. But then nosy neighbor called the police, who swooped down on him. Boyfriend tried to explain that he had locked himself out by using his bare feet and lighter as evidence, but the mean cops still searched and interrogated him. Finally they pounded on the door to try to get someone to come and identify him.

(I guess it's a good thing I didn't open the door first, since I don't know what he looks like.) 

Downstairs roommmate's version as related by other roommate: Boyfriend blew lots of smoke into downstair's roommate's room before discovering he had locked himself out. Then cops came and pounded on the door and shouted. Then downstairs roommate and visiting boyfriend went upstairs to see what they wanted. Cops asked them to identify boyfriend, which they did. Then they allowed boyfriend to go into the house. Cops said neighbors in the area had reported a theft, and boyfriend fit the profile of the criminal, which is why three (THREE?!) officers came to the scene.

All in all, it was a giant mess that could've been avoided had boyfriend not been struck by a sudden urge to smoke (or drive the car) at 4 a.m. Of course, it could've also been avoided had boyfriend not stayed the night at our house in the first place, but that's an outrageous suggestion, I'm sure.

On the upside, it did make for a fantastic Facebook status and it did make downstairs roommate angry enough to lay down the law with roommate and boyfriend. No more stinking up my room with his cigarette smoke, no more marijuana, no more sleepovers...

Yes, the whole mess was a good thing. You know what would've made it even better, though?

Not sleeping through most of it. Daggnabit.

The secret life of an American Jackie

I don't get embarrassed easily. In my four years of pageanting, judges would often ask, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" and I'd have to really struggle to come up with something.

There was that one time the clown at Lagoon proposed to me, and then clung to my leg and howled when I told him I was too young to get married.

"NOOOOOOOO! JACKIE, DON'T LEAVE ME!!!"

But that was more flattering than embarrassing, really.

Or there was that time when I somehow got a plastic bag stuck to my ballet slipper right before going onstage in "The Nutcracker." Having the bag stuck to my foot wasn't as embarrassing as having my ballet teacher ask me afterward if it was toilet paper, though, if I'm honest.

See, my philosophy is this: Embarrassing things happen, and then you move on.

But, in case you were wondering, there is one thing that can make me blush and — to use a young adult fiction phrase — writhe in embarrassment.

(Well, as two boys from high school may recall, if you grab me in a giant bear hug and then and jump up and down while singing happy birthday, I will also blush, but that's a bit of a tangent...)

No, the one way to actually embarrass me is to talk about my writing.

As you may be able to guess (from the size of these posts, for example) I like writing. I like it a lot. My mom once told me that I started out life writing. If my parents made me angry, I wrote them a note. If my brothers ticked me off, I wrote them a note. If I then felt guilty about being ticked off, I wrote yet another note. The written word has always been my friend; during my last finals week in college I wrote 26 essay pages in two class periods...and it was fantastic.

The thing is — my coworker and I were talking about this the other day (he gets his kicks out of analyzing my twisted mind) — I don't mind letting people read what I write EXCEPT when it comes to creative fiction.

To be honest, it doesn't make any sense. I always wanted to be an author. The highlight of fourth grade was when my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Drake, told me she thought I had the talent to get published. One summer I wrote a piece about my hometown for the local newspaper and won tickets to Lagoon. I vaguely remember winning a short story contest in my town's summer festival, too. (Of course, that's something of a miracle, considering I can't write ANYTHING short nowadays. You should see me try to text...or use Twitter...ugh.)

Along that line, the best memory of my seventh grade year was winning the "On-Site Writing Competition" that was part of a region-wide arts competition between schools. They ushered us into a room, gave us three pictures to look at (a blackboard with writing on it, a covered bridge, and I think a spider) and told us to write a story. I remember being intimidated by the whole process. I was surrounded by eighth graders who were constantly praised for their writing, I was going through my awkward "gee, I don't think I'm pretty so I'll dress like a boy" phase, and my best friend (who I always competed with, especially in terms of writing) was sitting right next to me.

During the awards ceremony for the arts competition, to my utter, total, and complete surprise, my name was called as the 1st place winner and I got to stand up in front of the entire school to claim my prize. That was brilliant. I'm still proud of that, ten-odd years later.

Writing-wise, everything changed during my sophomore year of high school. After registering, I soon discovered that my "creative writing class" was actually a newspaper writing class. Even though I didn't want to take a newspaper class — at the time I was still too shy to talk, make phone calls, or converse with adults — I've never been the type of person to give up. My teacher probably made some comment about how hard the class would be, and all I need to get fired up and angry is that exact sort of a challenge. Before long I learned how to be a newspaper reporter. After two years as editor-in-chief, I decided to pursue journalism in college as well.

So what does this all have to do with embarrassment? Well, I'll tell you: I've written a book. Wait, scratch that. I've written three. Er, scratch that, too. I've finished three and I've got three more in the working stages... The problem is, only a few people have seen them, and unless I suddenly become significantly less embarrassed, it may stay that way forever.

See, when it comes to journalism, I don't mind if people read what I write. Here are some examples: here, here, here, here, here, or here. (That last one was particularly brilliant, because KSL stole my information and did a broadcast news segment on it the next day, leave me torn between annoyance and pure pride.) And obviously I don't care if people read what I blog. (But since nobody reads this anyway, I'm safe there. Whew.)

BUT when it comes to my creative writing...the thought of people reading that is embarrassing with a capital E. Of course, I've let a few people read my books, but each time I include a list of apologies. This is part of the actual email I sent my best friends along with a copy of my first book:

"Basically, the story is a retelling of the Cinderella story (as if there aren't enough of those in the world). It's mushy, and predictable, and kitschy (which means "content created to appeal to popular or undiscriminating taste." Poetic.) In other words, the "real authors" in my BYU creative writing class would hate it. I thought it was charming when I was writing it, but reading over it so many times has convinced me that it's mainstream mediocre fiction. But don't let that cloud your judgment...bwa-ha-ha-ha...

If you have time to read it someday, I would be really happy, even though I'm going against my better judgment by sending it to you in the first place. (Nobody reads my work - I like it better that way.) Let me know how you feel about it, and what I could maybe do to fix it...and all that..."

That's not even false modesty. That's really how I feel. After many days of soul-searching I've decided that I don't particularly like to talk about my writing mainly because EVERYONE thinks they're a writer, and I fear (deep down) that I'm just another face in the crowd. (Or would it be "pen on the page"? "Manuscript in the mail"? "Author in the bread line"? Hmm.)

Someday, though, I'll get over it. At least, I intend to get over it. Really. I'm serious...Yeah. 

I have to get over it for three main reasons.

One: I crave praise. Who doesn't? It's a human characteristic, and I'll admit that I'm infected. If Stephanie Meyer can get published (c'mon, folks..."Twilight"? Really?!) surely I can as well.

Two: Shan, I turn green when I remember that you're going to be a published author, and although green is one of my better colors (heh) it's not a color I enjoy being on a regular basis.

And three: My poor characters are rotting away with no one to appreciate them. I've got enough material in my head to write...how many books? Quick count...

1. Brianda. Royal. Jeremy.

2. Richard Jones and Cassie. Oh, and Owen!

3. Channer, Brian, Richens, and about 20 students who need renamed...what a chore.

4. Triad!

5. And the sequel to that...

6. London. David. C & S. Bugs!

7. Taylor and Jace. And Dutch, the coolest character ever.

8. Wait, going back with Kiff and company, too.

9. And their sequel as well.

See? It's getting outrageous.

Until I get brave enough to let lots of people read my creative stuff, though, I'll have to continue letting people read my books one individual at a time.

And then when other people ask me to tell them what my books are about, I'll hem and haw, and then change the subject... 

And then I'll crack jokes to distract them the next time it comes up... 

And then I'll invent flimsy excuses about how "it needs editing still" when they ask to read it... 

And then when Shan's mom starts gushing about my book in front of lots of people, I'll continue blushing and "writhing in embarrassment" while I secretly eat up every bit of praise she hands me.

And then in the end, I'll still wish for more.

Ah, the confused existence of an embarrassed writer.