Fiction, Batman and Serial Killers

I've always dreamed of writing fiction. I've tried, but alas my characters all end up dead, or crazy, and therefore unreliable (or so I've been told in workshops). That's not so bad, though, is it?

Developing a character is an exciting exercise. But how do you really develop a fictional character? Is there such a thing as a completely fictional character or are they really elaborations of people we already know? What about redeveloping a character that already exists? Is that plagiarism?

I decided to review some of my old journals today. Most of it is ranting, but in between the pages of crap are a few poems and a couple snapshots of characters that I was attempting to create for fictitious purposes. Of course I never did anything with any of these characters, they just get squished between the pages and forgotten. The details are beautifully simple - a woman with dark curls who never wears her hair up, but would look gorgeous if she did; a tall middle-aged alcoholic losing his house; a little girl covered in chocolate. And what purpose do they serve? Was the creation of these characters just another form of ranting - a way for me to paint a picture of social frustrations?

And then there's the real catch with fiction - the violence. I learned that fiction revolves around conflict, but when I try to write it, I add plenty of conflict, but no resolutions. I don't want my characters to succeed. I want them to fail miserably, and generally die gruesomely. How morbid.

I can't help that I find inspiration in the darkest corners of creativity. Violence and betrayal are major conflicts in my creative writing. My ideal character would be the violent vigilante, driven by morals and chaos - somewhat of a combination of Batman, Dexter, and Sylar (Heroes). I love the idea of a corrupted, powerful vigilante.

Hollywood, Politics and the American Dream

I've been working on fixing my past in order to move forward with my future. The only problem is that no one wants to remember the past. I'm getting no answers, no responses and I've been left in the dark.

I wonder why people keep so many secrets. It must be for a good reason, so I'll leave it at that for now and let my speculations ease my mind. Our pasts may influence who we are today, but with enough energy, they should have no impact on our futures. I do not want to follow the path of secrecy and betrayal that has been so familiar to me all of my life.

I've fought the idea of permanence for years, but as I mature, I wonder if it would really be so bad to find a nice house in a nice town, with a nice picket fence. Actually, nix the fence. What is the essence of the American dream today? Is it the same notion of being part of a close-knit family and community, with a healthy bank fund, kids, a two-car garage and a white picket fence? I think not.

Instead we have transformed the idea of the American dream into something much more stressful than it should be. Financial success, long hours, fast cars, expensive gadgets, fancy clothes and "fame" have driven Americans to forget what the American dream really is. It shouldn't encompass our material possessions, but rather the idea of American freedom and enjoying American past times on American soil.

I think Hollywood has helped to develop and destroy this dream simultaneously. It depicts a life of glamour, riches and fame that everyone can't help but desire. Such a small percentage actually lives in this fantasy while the rest of us get our fill while cashing out at the grocery store, oogling over the newest scandalous headline produced by the tabloids. We revel in gossip and the misery of others, especially those who we've put on such a high pedastal. WHy is this our entertainment? What does that say about us as a culture?

I would like to meet someone from Hollywood and ask them if they had the chance, would they prefer to live as an anonymous American again? While many would probably say they love the glamour, fame and money, I wouldn't be surprised if a majority desire to switch roles so that they could just enjoy the simplicities of life.

If only some Americans could ignore the tabloids and use that curiosity toward their own families and communities, I think it would be shocking what they would find out. Secrets are more easily kept by those who are under the radar. It's in our nature to be nosy, but how far are we really going to take this?

I love journalism and I adore photography, but the idea of being a member of the "paparazzi" absolutely disgusts me. Of course, when you put yourself in the public eye, you are also offering yourself to public scrutiny. I am not sympathysing with the subjects, but pondering the market. The idea that people turn to tabloids before they flip through the pages of The New York Times is disheartening.

I am completely generalizing here, and I am not implying that every single American cares about celebrity gossip. But when I go to check my emails, I am reminded on a daily basis by Yahoo! that there must be a large market for this information. Let's leave Lindsey Lohan alone for a while and shift our energies to someone who actually has an influence on American lives - maybe see what U.S. Department of Education's Secretary Arne Duncan's been doing with his time. Let's use our inquisitive natures to monitor our own government-the people who influence our lives and our communities on a daily basis-and screw Hollywood drama.

On a personal note

This weekend I traveled to Delaware to visit my Mom as a surprise for Mother's Day. It tickles me how the simplest acts can receive the most gratitude.

My mother and I have a complicated relationship, but the older I get, the stronger our love is. But there are other emotions that I don't know how to handle, like guilt. I felt guilty driving home and leaving her to her own life. The minute I left her, watching her awkwardly make her way up the concrete front steps and back into her house, I wanted to turn around. I've never felt what it was like to be homesick, but I would think it is this combination of love and guilt and loneliness that makes tears run down my cheeks.

I left as late as I possibly could and faced my five-hour drive in complete darkness. Everything seemed black to me, even the few lone stars seemed to flicker less brilliantly than usual. And I dredged forward, my stomach sank deeper with every passing mile marker. I was looking forward to getting back to my own bed, and the arms of my fiance, but I couldn't help but wish I could stay just a little bit longer.

Then I realized that all of my dreams of running away, moving out west or out of the country are now undesirable. I love to travel and I've always lived as if I could pick up and go at any moment. The concept of permanence, or settling down always left a disgusting aftertaste. I feel something holding to the east coast now. It's not so easy to pick up and go when you allow yourself to connect with loved ones. I never considered family to be a constant before now and I wouldn't let go of the relationship I've developed with my mother for anything in the world.

I always wondered what it would be like to live that American dream - two loving parents and a stable household. I think that dream is more of a fantasy now. Even though it was difficult to accept my family situation as a child, I now respect my past, even though I am still struggling to fully confront my suppressed memories. The difficulties of my family life taught me to be strong for myself, and I am grateful for all of those challenging experiences.

Back in New York everything seems less connected to me. Hundreds of miles from my mother, but so close to the love of my life, I feel torn. All of the dependency that I lacked as a child is now swarming over me. I want to be close to my mother, but my life has placed me in Elmira, nearly 400 miles away. For now, I will just have to deal with my sporadic trips south to appease my desire to be with biological family.

Despite our past, my mother deserves a sonnet. A bouquet of flowers. Diamonds. A brand new house in Florida, a mansion, or a cruise around the world. What really gets me is that she would take a hug from me over all of that, over being anywhere with anyone else, and for that, I couldn't say I love you to her more clearly.

Down with the terrorists, down with self-doubt

I think I let my last post get to me. I've been horrified to return to the realm of instant publishing. So many things have happened in the past few days, how can I even begin to approach them?

First of all, I'd like to say thank you, America. Thank you, seriously. When I heard the news of Osama bin Laden's death, I automatically thought it was a hoax. How could it be true - we just removed him and placed him in a watery grave? (Of course, the logistics were much more complicated.) But after 10 years of wondering where he was, why we haven't captured him, and how he still has a head, I found it difficult to accept that justice finally found him.

However, what all does that change for America? Can we feel safer?

I answered with a resounding no, peering out my bathroom window, anticipating sirens and explosions in the sky. Once I convinced myself to believe everything I read, I thought of imminent disaster. The terrorists were going to bomb us, and they were going to start in Elmira, NY. Not so much. (And hopefully it will stay that way.)

We are no less at danger now than we were when he was alive. How many plans have been concocted in the last 10 years? What about his pupils and the men who have been loyally following him? And then there's the rest of the terrorists that operate on their own twisted schemes. I was enraged when we launched "The War on Terror" because a battle with an ideal is never ending. One terrorist is dead, but others remain, and more are born and trained every day. This is a lose-lose situation.

But unless we try to do something, nothing will ever be done and justice will never be served. The same goes for writing (and any other craft). If I don't at least try to write something for someone to read, I will never have an audience. I've trained myself to first turn to my journal, random pieces of paper that will be tucked away and never found, or that sub-folder in that sub-folder in that secret writing folder on my desktop. There, my thoughts have sat and gathered dust for years. I've been scared of my own shadow when it comes to publishing and I'm ready to stop hiding. Beyond my career as a journalist, editor, photographer and copywriter, I am beginning to embrace myself as a creative writer.

I was reading an interview in last year's Writers Market, which outlined the life of a published writer. Toward the end, the interviewer asked if the writers had overcome the feeling that everything they write is brilliant, something that beginning writers often do (...apparently). I wonder how you overcome the feeling that everything you write is awful, even though everyone else says it's perfectly fine (or wonderful or great or one of those other descriptive adjectives).

I must now admit that, as a writer, every day will be filled with brilliance and crap, I just have to hone my sifting skills that much more.

Once again, thank you to the navy seals who served our country so valiantly - you deserve all the rest and relaxation that America has to offer. And thank you to all of my moral supporters, while I bury the terrorism of self-doubt.