On Truth and Creative Nonfiction

I went to Pitt, allegedly the birthplace of creative nonfiction, for a semester for graduate school. Something that got paid a lot of lip-service was the role of truth in Creative Nonfiction. Here's where I've landed on the matter. Just today actually. First some back story:

I want to write a novel about my grandma. Baptized Florence, but Flossie, Flo, Sarge, or any other of a slew of nicknames to her friends and family. Florence Ella Leib died long about 2005, when my baby was just a wee baby. She was an ahead-of-her-time feminist pragmatist. At least that's the truth that matters to me.

Here are the other truths that matter to me: She served in WWII. She had a baby at age 17 to a guy who didn't marry her. She had 4 more babies with another guy who also didn't marry her, but who at least lived with her and pretended until he became a PTSD drunk and she worked 3 jobs to support her 4 kids, one of whom was my dad.

Recently, I was at some family thing--right, it was a family reunion with about 6 of the not-dead people from my grandma's generation, most of whom are now dying off. It was the other side of the family, but one of Flossie's cousins or something married one of my mom's mom's brothers or something. In any case, the two sides of my family are connected somehow via marriage (but not via blood thank the lucky constellations). Anyhow, all the folks in my mom's generation, who've started losing parents now, were all ruminating over how it's important to ask these questions we have about our parents' parents. Because before we know it, they'll be gone and there won't be any more asking.

Since then, I've been in minor panic mode trying to figure out how to get one-on-one with a couple of Flossie's living siblings who're cogent enough to converse. And it occurred to me today, as I read this disaster of a short story I wrote, that the important truth in fiction is the emotional truth. Whatever my grandma's youth was like, what I make up will be at least as cool and, as far as anybody who's alive can remember, as accurate!

Boy-oh was that a liberating epiphany. The stuff I know is enough. And unless there's some political or social or moral reason for the whole journalistic integrity thing, creative nonfiction can be fiction as far as I'm concerned. Arguably, all realist fiction is creative nonfiction. The only stuff that's really fiction would be dystopian sci fi and those sorts of things. But to a schizophrenic, even those things could seem real.

The notion that perception is reality has been hitting my home base pretty hard of late.

Counter Culture Dancing

Couple things happened in my head while I was dancing my hypothetical balls off at Club Z in Williamsport last night with some of my girlfriends and our DD/supervisor/agent, Tom.

First, I was missing a whole lot during my crippled-by-self-consciousness 20s. Dancing at a gay bar is awesome. I did go dancing at a gay bar once in my 20s, with some gay temporary roommates. I got felt up (and not in a nice way) by some straight dude.

Which is a total quandary. What are the straight people doing at the gay bar? I know, I know. It's a bar, a club, there's dancing and the air is thick with poorly mixed DJ beats and cigarette smoke. The energy is contagious and it's totally counter culture. I guess there're some straight folks (like myself) who get a kick out of being someplace where different is normal. In Williamsport, if you don't want to hang out with the 20-23 set at Cell Block, it's the only place to go dancing.

But what was with the posturing straight men trying to grab my (luscious) bootie, and feeling up Amber, this drag queen who danced with us, and trying to dance with the irrepressible Hillary? What were they posturing? Were they pretend gay or pretend straight? Were they trying to feel us up so as to discern our sex? I feel like mine is fairly obvious. And Amber's was, too, but her girl parts done comparatively well. And Hillary is a feminine, shimmering pixie. Do their weasely minds believe genitals grabbing is more acceptable at a gay bar?

That was what I told myself the first time. But I'm older now and wiser and angrier and more aware of the very real way in which women (and very similarly homosexuals) are second class citizens, even now--in the future! I sincerely believe that most straight men are utter pigs and not to be trusted. And I follow @MsMagazine on twitter, so I get all these news feeds about the high sex-discrimination crimes that happen the world over. Now. In the future!

And when I got home last night and I was a sweaty, vaguely drunk, cigarette stinking mess in bed with my lover, and my body still ticked with energy and glee, when I thought about way in which the fun was kind of marinated in this palpable cultural dischord; I almost wept.

There is no minority for which I have greater sympathy than the transgendered/transvestites. I can't think of a worse affliction than looking in the mirror and seeing the wrong thing. Feeling like your skin got mis-sewn at the factory.

And Oh My God the Crockpot

I had this revelation. I mean, maybe it wasn't so revolutionary as I think, but, ahem, It occurred to me that maybe the wrong approach is making recipes in the crock pot. So far I have been displeased by my crock pot efforts. They have consisted of artichokes, mac & cheese and chili. The chili was the best thing so far. Not that the artichokes were bad, but I grilled them once, and I don't think I'll ever come up with a satisfactory alternative to the artichoke grilling. Grilled Artichokes is boss. Anyway--I've been thinking lately that the crock pot could make my life easier in some ways, and cheaper, too, so I should consider learning to use it more adequately.

So I invented a fall stew this morning that is crock potting on low as I type this.

It contains the following:
(more or less) 1 lb of left over steak, cubed
2/3 of a small peeled acorn squash, also cubed
1 small onion, chopped
1 small zucchini, sliced & halved
3 ribs of celery, chopped
1/3 c. frozen peas
small handful of wheat berries
2 giant garlic cloves chopped coarsely
bay leaf
cinnamon stick
salt, pepper
shake of cayenne pepper
bit of clove and nutmeg
2 T (+/-) tomato paste

I want it to be fragrant and wonderful. It looked like it would be. It was also quite pretty. I considered putting potatoes in it. I also considered carrots, but decided against b/c of the acorn squash. Anyway, I'm totally stoked. If it is tasty, I'm calling it "Election Stew" and going to make it every election year on Election day. This evening, Pearl and I are going to my folks' house for some nice Election Partying. We'll sit around being coy about our politics and bitching loudly about how partisan it all is.

November is Novel Writing Month

I toyed with what to call this post, since it'll undoubtedly be so totally manic since it's been like ever since I blogged. July 20? Sheeit!

Here were some of the titles in the running:

Election Selections: Mad Musings from a Frustrated Libertarian
BYOB--and other nifty slogans for breast cancer awareness bumper stickers.
Do you understand Facebook? I totally don't.
Blah Blah: Boring my friends one at a time

But I went with November is Novel Writing month since it has crested in my noggin today, since I have not done any of the 15 pages I promised myself I would have done by today. 5 pages a day x 30 days is 150 pages. So it's going to be catch up a bit, but I think I shall manage. I have good ideas and a depressed streak going for me. I'm often the most productive writer when I'm feeling a bit low.

I saw a Breast Cancer Awareness sticker this morning that had a pink ribbon in a little white oval (like the kind people get when they go to the Outer Banks) that said "ta-tas!" I loved it. I thought another fun one would be "Bring your Own Boobies!" and "Titillating." I mean, maybe these are totally trite. I mean, no maybe. They are totally trite. But such fun!!

I am deeply frustrated by this fine election we're having today. The failure of the two-party system is so deeply implicit in it, and everybody's talking about the wrong stuff. Or maybe they're talking about the right stuff, but not letting enough people talk about it. It's like the government thinks we're stoopid or something.

I'm on a crazy job search. I apply for like 2 every day. I'm so finished with my job. I am not adequately compensated. And that is most of it, but there are other things too. Since I'm boring all my friends with the play-by-play of my frustrating and burdensome quest for a new job, I'll keep it to what I've just said.

And there's facebook. Sometimes I forget that facebook is something most people check all day every day. Yesterday I changed my status to that I was weeping, and I was. That's not something that I find to be so earth-shattering. I weep fairly often. I think it is healthy. So everybody I know posted a concerned response to my staus and I was startled. It was sweet, so very sweet, but I felt all guilty and stuff for having caused so much worry. It was really nothing--just the obligatory pre-menstrual weeping. I've wept a bit today already and will likely continue to do so. Anyway--I am really confused about facebook. The people I know who are supposed to be confused by it seem to get it way, way better than I do.

Maybe I am a luddite deep in my soul. Tuff. I'm applying for a job with Apple, Inc. later today. That's right. I want to increase Steve Jobs' wealth so that Obama can spread it all around and McCain can be like, "I have more houses than he does."

Go Vote, People!!

And Look for more-frequent updates.

Should the blog have a particular topic?

I've been thinking. Maybe if I want my blog to serve a purpose, I should use it to do something that I HAVE THE TIME to do, instead of trying to think of it as writing practice and possible venue for the rougher draftings of the novel pages, short story tries, etc.

Wouldn't this blog be cool if it were devoted to reviewing movies? Kids' movies? Surf's Up was fantastic. It is satirizing this other movie that I didn't see. It's smart, funny and extremely well-casted.

I heard this thing on Fresh Air about Zooey Deschanel and how she's also a singer. If I'd seen Elf I would have already known that.

See how writing only about movies wouldn't work?

Then I thought I could spend a lot of time writing about Sales. But I don't know anything about Sales.

Food. But the Food network is already saying it. So is Epicurious.com, recipegoldmine.com, foodnetwork.com, marthastewart.com, et al.

So I will continue to write about whatever occurs to me.

And it will continue to be boring and vain sometimes.

And I will continue to feel conflict over the whole idea of blogging and whether or not I'm the kind of self-promoter who does it. I am. But I have guilt. Thanks Protestantism. I am so glad I was raised in your clutches.

I think I converted my brother to the Libertarian way of thinking this past week.

This boy I used to love asked me if I would vote for Obama. I said I would not. He said I should vote for Hillary because she is a girl (do you see why I no longer love him?).

Why doesn't Hillary have a last name? All the other candidates are known by their last names. Hillary is just Hillary. Is the notion that women will not always have the same last name so deeply ingrained? I don't have a last name at work. I only introduce myself as April, even though I love my last name.

the lovely hair salon

My friend from High School, Justin Kelly, owns this salon, Studio 3. It's this fabulous high-ceilinged space over near the Target Plaza in Carlisle. He's got his own line of products and tons of Ikea furniture.

He says he's living the American Dream. He has a house and two dogs and a partner and a Volvo and his own highly successful business. If I wanted him to do my hair, I'd have to book 2 years in advance.

And I LOVE giving him and his stylist Jeannean my money. And I LOVE the whole grown up hair salon experience. I had a cut and highlight, and it cost $80, which is probably more than I've spent on ALL the haircuts I've had in the past 10 years, but I swear--I got my head shampooed and conditioned not once but TWICE with this awesome Studio 3 Mint shampoo, and the most excellent moments of utter self-indulgence and femaleness and estrogen-laden energy.

I'm finding that indulging all of this womanhood, or maybe not womanhood because I am a woman every day and I'm mostly comfortable with that. Maybe I mean that I'm experiencing a new kind of comfort with my own femininity, my own interest in prettiness, in nice hairdos, in nice creams, lotions and skin treatments. I have started moisturizing my face and getting excited about eyeshadow, mascara, moisturizing conditioners. I'm finding all of this to be both an extension of my newly realized militant feminism and in reaction to the fact that my job puts me in the presence of almost exclusively men on an hour-to-hour basis. And the whole thing kind of freaks me out. I'm not comfortable in this comfort or in my level of involvement in the comfort.

I have to admit that it's also a bit about Pearl. How am I going to be a mom to a very feminine little girl who will eventually have very feminine little friends who will pressure her to get her eyebrows waxed? How will I negotiate? How will I navigate unless I learn myself?

I don't want Pearl to be 20 before she learns that people actually do wax their eyebrows. I also don't want her to be shocked. Perhaps I should like it if she found the whole thing to be an horribly barbaric expression of cultural vanity, but I'm not holding my breath. I think she might possess her father's disinterest in a critical inner life which is another thing I shall have to learn to negotiate.

Mazel Tov.

I am a greedy capitalist

It's painful and rhetorically complicated to admit that. But it's true. In a perfect world, I would be a raging liberal and be comfortable with that. "liberal," as a rhetorical tool is a heavy, effective, efficient one. It increases my credibility with people I love, admire & respect.

Politics is not a defining factor for people I enjoy, admire, respect or love. The world is too gray for me to believe that a label, "liberal" or "conservative" actually means anything terribly important. But I might be alone in that assessment.

I do not define myself as "conservative." But I think the reason for my avoidance of that particular label is the rhetorical weight it has. "Conservative" means everything associated with evil: anti-humanist, hateful, narrow. But I am a registered libertarian which means that I am so completely involved with peoples' right to choose their thoughts, persuasions, loves, medical care, use of money, use of firearms--really, everything involved with living--unconditionally.

The underlying principle, besides freedom (which ain't a state like Maine or Virginia, instead a state of mind) is trust in humankind: the notion that people are inherently good, or if they aren't, they'll behave themselves because of their inherent notions of right and wrong.

Unfortunately, following unconditional freedom to its logical end means making few laws. Means allowing all free speech, gun rights, homosexual marriage, prostitution, drug and abortion rights and other things that "liberals" and "conservatives" view as offensive or wrong.

My girl knows right from wrong. She hides things behind her back. She apologizes and gives sweet hugs when I express anger, disappointment or sadness. And she does not even know how to go pee in the potty on a regular basis yet. She has a vocabulary of 20 words. She does not pronounce all the names of the grownups who're involved daily in her life. To me, that is powerful evidence of an inherent moral compass.

Aside from sociopathy, how can we fear absolute freedom? And even in our present state of governance, sociopaths are to be feared. But they are the exception not the rule.

I am afraid of laws. Laws could limit my ability to work myself into a work-from-home life. Laws could limit my free access to the internet. Laws could insist that I make reproductive choices I might not otherwise make. What good are these things?

The most annoying thing about Blogging is

That I formulate these marvey ideas when I'm away from this face-color-sucking screen.

The places I often come up with these brilliantly conceived mind candies are:

1. On Test Drives
2. When my hands are immersed in soapy water
3. While Driving

Why don't I get a voice-activated dictaphone implanted in my shoulder? Good question. My answer: I am not Bill Gates.

And Speaking of Bill Gates--I am most-aggravated that none of my particularly acerbic political rants have wound up here. They always seem to get wasted on my dad. Not that my dad's a waste. It's just, well, my dad is not the whole world wide web. He's just this one guy who always tells me "[I'm] tough" when I start to follow the logic of my politics of choice (libertarianism) to its nether regions. Being a libertarian is distressing and frustrating in today's political schema because it'd be like what happened if we got Hillary all dressed up in R. Limbaugh's suit and made him wear her panties.

I had this lovely little sauna-of-mind the other day about Marcy Playground. You remember them, right? That weirdo band from the early 90s that had their little pagan/wiccan/fantasy-readers'/trendily-retro songs. I mean, that's some complicated music! It's a little self-indulgent and overdone in spots. I think it came up at the wrong time. I mean, Radiohead hadn't reached its peak of pop-saturation yet, and I bet MP got accused of riding band wagons (man-oh! I'm a pun-ishing machine).

So I was sort of involved in one of those cult-like events of football fandom recently. As you probably know, Cathy Day is publishing this book Comeback Season, and not that I've been actively setting out to get into football or something, but I guess the notion that it might be kind of cool to be a girl who likes football seems a bit less offensive to me in my old age. I mean, I am softening. My ideals are getting all squiggley around the edges. Anyway. So I went to this restaurant with some of my colleagues who were watching the big Green Bay and Seattle game on Saturday night. And I wore green. On purpose. Because they were rooting for Greenbay. ?! I know. Who's eaten my sense of self respect and irony? Is this what happens to a gal who finds herself in a part of the country that baffles her? Am I so bored? Am I so desperate for peers?

Anyway, Cathy's MySpace made me remember the only good joke I've ever heard this blockhead I work with tell:

Q: Whats the difference between a BMW and a Porcupine?


A: With a Porcupine, the Prick's on the outside.

So I'm going to be updating my little linkeys over yonder. ------->

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