What SHARKNADO Can Teach Us About Writing

Posted on July 19, 2013 by gretchenwing

SHARKNADO is a phenomena that is taking the world by storm. I mean, how can it get better? SHARKS AND TORNADOES! Tonight, SyFy is re-airing the show and we will be holding a #myWANA #Sharknado party on Twitter so we can all share in the goofy fun, because sometimes stories are so BAD they are AWESOME.

But what can writers learn from Sharknado?

Belief is Already Suspended

One mistake new writers make is they feel the need to EXPLAIN, to make an idea PLAUSIBLE. Here’s the thing. The second someone actually decides to give our stories a chance? Belief is already suspended. The Force was better before it was explained.Metachlorians ruined Star Wars. An entire generation had already fallen in love with Star Wars and accepted The Force. We didn’t need to know what it was or what caused it.

Really.

Don’t feel the need to break down your…

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The Importance of Names

Posted on July 18, 2013 by gretchenwing

I’m an old folkie from my deepest roots. I was raised on Peter, Paul & Mary, The Weavers, and Joan Baez. I consider Pete Seeger to be an honorary uncle. (Also Walter Cronkite, for what it’s worth–any Walter fans out there? “And that’s the way it is…” still chokes me up.)

So I can’t remember how long I’ve known the Woody Guthrie song that goes by the name, “Deportee.” It’s actually titled “Plane Wreck at Los Gatos,” but no one calls it that. Probably because of the haunting chorus, which goes like this:

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita

Adios, mis amigos Jesus y Maria

You won’t have a name when you ride the big airplane

All they will call you will be deportee.

Woody wrote the song after a 1948 plane crash in California, which killed 28 people. The passengers were all Mexican nationals being returned to Mexico. The crew were Americans. News accounts of the time named the dead crew members, but referred to the remaining men, women and children only as “deportees.”

But that’s all I knew about the story behind the song. No, I’m lying–I knew even less. I didn’t know the date of the crash, or the number of people who died, or even that the Los Gatos in the song isn’t the suburb near San Jose, but a desolate area in the Fresno County hills.

Then a music pal of mine, visiting LA, sent me this article from the front page of the LA Times, which not only filled in all the missing information I never knew about the crash and Woody Guthrie’s reaction to it, but the really important part: the NAMES of those poor people, lost to anonymity for 65 years.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-deportees-guthrie-20130710-dto,0,2642231.htmlstory

I really hope you click on this link and read the article; it will probably move you to tears as it moved me. But in case you’re in a hurry, I’ll cut to the chase. A descendant of some of the men killed, and a writer, both searching independently for records that would confirm exactly who was on that plane, found each other, and together they found that information. This September, those folks will be honored with a ceremony and a plaque dedicated to their memory…a memory that had been all but wiped out for 65 years.

Why does this matter? The families of those poor folks whose plane, witnesses said, exploded in mid-air, have long since known they were gone. They won’t get them back; they won’t get money, or even an apology from any authority figure.

But their loved ones can now be remembered as PEOPLE, not as a vague, pathetic lump. The naming of names is an honor in any human culture I can think of. The removal of names is a dehumanization. Think of any event in history where people’s names were converted to numbers, or to tribal groups. The removal of names makes people into the “other.” When that happens, empathy dies, human connection is broken, and all bets are off.

I, for one, am proud of, and thankful for, the people in this article who tracked down the names of those lost and brought them back to life. Now, whenever I sing Woody’s haunting song, I will remember that some kind of miniature resurrection occurred, and feel a little less haunted.

And, speaking of that song, here it is, as sung (many years ago) by Arlo Guthrie and Emmylou Harris:

What about you? When you think of the importance of names, what comes to mind? What other thoughts did this article or this song bring out in you? Please share!

Sibling Sweetery

Posted on July 14, 2013 by gretchenwing

We get a lot of summer visitors. Why wouldn’t we? Scenic island–check. Sunny, mid-sixties-to-seventies days–check. Kayaks, trails, farmers market–check. Terrific bakery (OK, I’m a little biased since I work there, but 99% of customers agree, “Holly’s Buns Are Best.”)–check.

https://gretchenkwing.wordpress.com/?s=In+my+professional+opinion&submit=Search

By the way, lest you think I am bragging–the rest of the year is largely clouds, rain of some form or other, wind, and temperatures in the 40-50s range. Not so many visitors then. But summers here in the San Juans are AWESOME.

So, lots of visitors: family, friends, friends-of-friends. Currently we’re being visited by the family of the sister of my best friend from high school. And she has the Best. Kids. Ever.

The daughter’s about to turn sixteen, the son’s not quite thirteen. I’ve known families with just this configuration of ages, and their parents usually end up apologizing for infecting our island paradise with their squabblesomeness, as though it were contagious. “Pshhh,” we say. “All sisters and brothers fight. That’s nothing. You should’ve seen me and my sister…”

(courtesy someecards, via Pinterest)

The thing is, this bro & sis DON’T fight. They LIKE each other. They’re affectionate. They tease, but in a sweet way, like besties. Even when they’re playing competitive games that my husband and I have learned not to engage in without marriage counseling. Crazy Eights and Hearts? No fights. Bananagrams? Nothin’. Washers? They try to beat their parents.

And of course they split the last piece of pie as a matter of course.

My husband and I are astounded…and delighted.

And I am CURIOUS. How did this come to be? Why is it so uncommon?

Is it parenting? These kids’ parents are certainly mellow, cool people. But I know lots of mellow, cool parents whose kids act like contestants in The Hunger Games.

(courtesy someecards, via Pinterest)

Is it birth order? Our own two boys always got along pretty well, but our younger son acknowledges that if he’d been the elder, there’d have been a new sheriff in town. Maybe our friends’ girl is just one of those sweeties like our son. (Where was she when I was undergoing mental waterboarding by MY older sister?)

Is it the fact that they’re on vacation? In my own experience, that makes the squabbles worse, not better. So much interesting new stuff to squabble over!

Is my sample skewed? Maybe there are tons of great sister-and-brother pairings out there, and I’ve somehow never met ’em.

So help me out here. What causes some sibling pairs to get along while others fight like cats and dogs? What variables are at play? How did your own experience with your siblings inform your thinking on this?

(someecards, courtesy Pinterest)

Disgruntled that Gruntled Isn’t a Word

Posted on July 10, 2013 by gretchenwing

…and I say it’s time we do something about this.

Say it with me: gruntled. It’s got that lovely piggy sound, mixed with that soft “l” that conjures images of nestling and cuddling. After a nice meal, cozy on a sofa with my sweetie and a glass of wine, am I “satisfied”? “Happy”? Heck no, those words don’t begin to cut it. I am gruntled. I am as gruntled as a pig in…in whatever makes pigs feel gruntled.

(courtesy trickfist.com)

But you know when I just said the word conjures up images? Actually that’s wrong…it conjures up sounds. Which brings up another missing word in our otherwise ridiculously repeatedly redundant language. We can “visualize” something even if we can’t see it. But what do we do if we want to imagine a sound? Shouldn’t we be able to “audiolize” it?

(Can’t take credit for that one, gotta admit. That one came from my colleague Laura, an impressively smart 21 year-old.)

(courtesy Pinterest)

When I think of all the missing words in our language, I can start to feel…well, not exactly overwhelmed. Definitely whelmed, though. And guess what: “whelmed” IS actually in the dictionary! It’s just not used. I say we bring it back. I mean, doesn’t that pretty much describe how you feel most Fridays? Save “overwhelmed” for when you really, really are…like when your mother-in-law and the landlord arrive on your doorstep at the same time.

(courtesy Pinterest)

In an earlier post, I gave you “Cutiful,” a word I definitely need to describe my dog Juniper: https://gretchenkwing.wordpress.com/2013/06/07/stephen-colbert-got-a-new-word-for-ya-cutiful/

Scritch my schnozz! I’m CUTIFUL.

Now it’s your turn: What word is missing from our lexicon? Nominate your favorite Noah Webster wannabe!

Dare I Say It? Dogs Off-Leash?

Posted on July 8, 2013 by gretchenwing

I try to stay away from controversy. Anyone who knows me knows I have my ~~correct~~ opinions and like to argue, but here in Wing’s World, I try to keep it sweetness & light.

But it’s summer. Tourists are flocking to my island. And since the chunk of federally-owned land adjacent to my house has been declared part of a National Monument, they seem to be flocking in, well…rather larger flocks.

With their dogs. Who may or may not be leashed.

See, here’s the thing. I hate leashing my dog, Juni. Off-season, when no one’s around, I used to set her free to romp with her buddies along the wind-swept shore.

Juni romping with her buddy Jess

“Oops, romped myself right off that trail! Meant to do that…”

Then I became a volunteer BLM Monitor. That’s Bureau of Land Management, a sub-agency of the Department of the Interior. As a Monitor, I get to do what I do every day anyway, only carrying a clipboard and noting things like birds, plants in bloom, numbers of people, and dogs on or off leash. Including me, and mine. And, oh yeah, if I see someone with an off-leash dog, I’m supposed to ask them to leash up.

Out of sheer embarrassment at the hypocrisy of the situation, I began leashing Juni, even when there was no one around. It did feel better not to have her crushing all the pretty flowers in the spring.

“Look OUT! Here comes another DOG!”

It’s called Common Camas. But it’s really not all that common.

Later, at a BLM monitors picnic, I learned about the sparrows who nested near the trails, and got reminded about some of the endangered plants that could easily get trampled.

The extremely rare Spotted Coralroot Orchid

So okay. I want to be a good role model. I got religion on leashing my dog…in this space, at least. But I’m still torn. Dogs have SO MUCH FUN off-leash! And when I meet friends with free-romping pooches who just shake me off when I give ’em my BLM spiel, I have a hard time feeling too upset with them.

So…here goes the controversy. Does LEASH YOUR DOG really mean what it says, or does it mean “We really wish you would keep your dog under control, and if you can do this without a leash, that’s cool”? What’s been your dog off-leash experience? Any horror stories you need to tell?

I got my clipboard handy. Fire away.

"OK...can you let me off the leash NOW?"

“OK…tourists are gone. Can you let me off the leash NOW?”

Happy Independence Day! Boom! Crash! Hold Me…

Posted on July 3, 2013 by gretchenwing

(courtesy Melissa Bowersock, WANA Creative Commons)

July 4 is the one day of the year our little island suffers from traffic jams. For some reason, even with a year-round population of under 2,500, we boast a fireworks display that rivals that of Seattle. Seriously. It lasts for 30 minutes, with a finale that sucks the breath out of you. An extra ferry runs on the 4th, just to accommodate all the onlookers…who then get stuck in traffic trying to negotiate our single road along the bay.

Me? All that traffic gives me the perfect excuse to stay away. I’ll be watching from a distance of about six miles, as the raven flies. From our roof, we can see the fireworks just fine.

They’ll still be gorgeous. And even better…they’ll be QUIET.

I am one of those people who hates loud noises. Let me give you some examples:

As a kid, running track races, I used to plug my ears at the starting line. If I were in the lead heading for the “gun lap,” I used to dread speeding by the starter who would obligingly shoot that gun one more time, just for me.

Invited to birthday parties, I would do a quick surveillance. Any balloons? Hmmm, a few. Any rowdy boys who looked like they’d consider stomping on those balloons to be fun times? Uh-oh…stomach-knots.

(original image courtesy Lynn Kelley Author, WANA creative commons)

Holding a board for my dad to hammer, I’d wince at each blow.

1812 Overture? Getoutahere!

And don’t even talk to me about thunderstorms. Please. Even now, my stomach clenches a little, remembering how I’d do a little pre-bedtime sky-check. Stars out? Phew–dreamland, here I come. Cloudy? Uh-oh. Can I fall asleep before the storm and maybe sleep through it? Too late…best turn the fan up to its loudest setting, fight with my sister about closing the window, and get ready to suffocate beneath my blanket, eyes squeezed shut against the lightning which only ratcheted up the dread. Oh man. How old is too old to crawl into bed with Mom and Dad?

(original photo courtesy Melissa Bowersock, WANA creative commons)

(Did I mention that I grew up in North Carolina? Where summer thunderstorms are as common as beer cans on roadsides?)

So you might have figured out by now why Independence Day wasn’t my favorite holiday as a kid.

Over the years, I’ve learned to adjust. When people invite me to fireworks-viewings, I counter-invite them to MY place, where I know in advance just how loud–or NOT loud–those beautiful, scary explosions will be.

I don’t run races very often any more, but when I do, I clench my fists on the starting line and don’t let my fingers anywhere near my ears, much as they want to go there. Who’s a big girl now?

I’m proud to say hammers don’t make me wince any more. Baby steps!

Oh, and since I moved to the Pacific Northwest 23 years ago, thunderstorms are a distant ~~nightmare~~ memory.

You might wonder why I’m so willing to share this humiliating weakness of mine. It’s because, somewhere along the way, I decided that I suffer from a PHOBIA.

I’m not “scared” of loud noises: I’m PHOBIC! In fact, I’m PHONOPHOBIC.

Phobias are cool. I have a lot of company being phobic. I can even be proud of all the common phobias I DON’T happen to suffer from, like spiders and heights, all while proudly maintaining my spot in the phobic sisterhood.

Why does this make me feel better? I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with that nice, big word. PHONOPHOBIC. Yup. THAT I will proudly own. I will celebrate! I will have a party.

Just please don’t bring balloons.

YOU’RE INVITED…not only to my phonophobia party, but to share some phobias of your own. Or are they just fears? Is there a difference? What do you think? What’s the weirdest phobia you will admit to? I love hearing from you, and I promise I won’t make fun. No fingers crossed.

What’s Your Cooler Self Up To?

Posted on July 1, 2013 by gretchenwing

What if the person you might have been, given a few different choices in school, job, partner or lifestyle, is out there right now, living your once-potential life?

What if s/he is WAY COOLER than you are?

That’s the question posed by Eric Puchner in this thought-provoking article from, of all places, GQ. (What’s even weirder is that the friend who sent me this article is the kind of guy who doesn’t even know what GQ stands for.)

http://www.gq.com/news-politics/mens-lives/201205/cooler-me-eric-puchner-gq-may-2012-doppelganger

After polling all his friends to see what line of work they think his cooler self might be in, the author ends up tracking down a musician named Kyle Field. They meet. Eric is rather hoping Kyle will be something of a jerk, a loser, a washout.

He’s not. He is–darn it all–really cool. Here he is, singing a duet with Feist, which is what drew Eric to him. (Eric’s a daddy, and his little daughter adores Feist’s “1234” song on Sesame Street.)

Even as this song got stuck in my head, the article got me thinking. What might my doppelganger be up to, if I had one? And…am I okay thinking about this?

I didn’t use to be. I can distinctly remember times in years past when I slammed that door in my imagination, the one that showed me a more fulfilling career, a more admirable lifestyle, photo albums filled with more thrilling adventures than I was destined for.

Wow–she MUST be cool. Wow--she MUST be cool.

After all, if my doppelganger’s so cool–what am I? If she’s off working in Haiti with Partners in Health and all I’m doing is teaching public school in the U.S., well, doesn’t that make me kind of…safe? Conventional? Boring?

Paul Farmer, founder of Partners in Health

What if I start second-guessing the choices that brought me to this life? What if I start questioning if what I do is really as much as I could be doing? Sounds like a whole lot of self-doubt rattling around behind that door. So–nope. Not gonna open that one.

So I was delighted, after finishing this article and discussing it with my friend, to find myself flinging that door wide open without even thinking about it. Because, that woman working in Haiti? That’s who I saw, right off. And she didn’t threaten my sense of self one little bit. I was happy for her, working her hard job without the comforts of family, but she was happy for me right back, including my choice to walk away from my 20-year teaching career to write and bake. My cool, admirable, brave doppelganger smiled at me.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a clearer signal that I’ve arrived at a good, healthy stage in my life. Who knew GQ could have reassured me so?

What about you? Ever think about who your cooler self might be and what s/he might be up to? Or do you not like to think about it? Why or why not? Let us hear!

Please DON’T Draw Me a Sheep

Posted on June 28, 2013 by gretchenwing

Little Prince, anyone? Le Petit Prince? I admit, I only read it because my 9th grade French teacher made me…but like a lot of folks, I learned to love that story with a sweet, painful nostalgia.

My favorite line: “Please, draw me a sheep.” (“S’il vous plait, dessine-moi un mouton.”)

The Little Prince wants the narrator’s help in doing something he cannot do himself. The narrator complies. The sheep is drawn and the story moves forward.

But the Little Prince has not learned how to draw his own sheep. Good thing he only needed the one.

Technology these days feels to me like a whole herd of sheep, each one of which needs to be drawn in some detail. And that, for me, is the problem. Here’s an example.

Me: I want to make my blog look cooler.

Friend: Oh, I just use ***app-of-the-month supplied by new company with a name that sounds like it was coined by four year-olds****. You should try it!

Me: Uh, sure, if it works for you…

Friend: Oh, it DOES. Get it.Try it. Use it. ***other assorted verbs that make technology seem as effortless and graceful as Fred Astaire tap-dancing***

Me [three hours later, after struggling to figure out how to download said app, walk my way through its steps, realize that the cool stuff isn’t free, give app-people my VISA number, then get welcomed to a home page telling me all the AMAZING stuff I can now do but not giving me the slightest bit of tutorial on HOW to do it so I have to figure it out for myself..].: Next time, can you just come over and do it for me?

Once more, technology has disempowered me, in the ironic guise of making it seem as though the world is at my fingertips.

Sometimes I think my friends are tired of my techno-stupidity… (courtesy someecards)

Problem is, my fingertips don’t know what to DO with all that possibility. I want someone to TEACH me.

Teaching–THAT I know. After 20 years in the classroom, I understand about step-by-step, repetition, guided practice, the sequence of I do it/we do it/you do it/you teach someone else.

Here’s a radical idea: why can’t website tutorials be more like teachers?

Friends are busy; I understand they don’t have the time to walk someone like me through every step of every new “thing” you can do with your computer. But if tech websites offered a page or two of practice sessions, I could quit bugging my friends.

I wonder if anyone else out there shares this frustration when someone airily tells them, “Oh, just get this. Try this. Use this.” I wonder if anyone else wants to LEARN to draw the damn sheep, rather than needing to ask each time for someone to draw it for us.

Anyone?

Coming of Age in the Land of What-everrr

Posted on June 23, 2013 by gretchenwing

Without a deliberate approach to adulthood, we’re kinda stuck learning the hard way.

The other day I made a birthday cake for a fictional character.

Well, it was an important one! The heroine of my novel was turning 21. On the 21st. Her Golden Birthday.

Only as I was mixing the batter did I realize I had very nearly made my character into my son’s twin. His 21st birthday was the day before. The age was NOT intentional; my character began her life a couple of years younger. I only aged her, using my ~~godlike powers~~ critical judgement, after realizing the plot worked better that way.

The DAY of her birth, however, was no accident. I chose Summer Solstice on purpose for its symbolic value to the story.

And that got me thinking. Because here on the island where I live, a small part of the community offers teenagers–16, 17, 18–the chance to have a real coming-of-age ceremony on the Summer Solstice. I don’t know much about it yet, since I moved here after my kids left for college, but from what I’ve heard, it’s serious stuff. The kids choose a mentor for themselves, a sort of sponsor, who spends time throughout the year having conversations about what it means to be a man or a woman. Then the teen writes his or her own part of the ceremony, and shares it with a group of 100 community members on the longest night of the year. (The number is strictly limited to 100.) The whole ceremony takes place on a smaller, remote island over the course of a few days, and involves community cooking, music-making, and soaking-up of nature.

To me that sounds WONDERFUL. More than that, it sounds like what so many kids in our society need.

If you’re Jewish, you can have a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. If you’re Catholic, you can be Confirmed. If you’re a girl of Mexican heritage, there’s the Quinceanera. Most Native American tribes and bands have important rites, and I’m pretty sure Amish kids have something. But these ceremonies are limited by faith and/or ethnic membership–we can’t all participate. And we all know the faith-based ones are often (sorry, God) less meaningful to the kid than the community would hope. PLUS…they can be pretty darn EXPENSIVE.

Life requires important benchmarks.

What coming-of-age ceremony is there for that American kid who wasn’t raised in a religious or ethnic tradition, or doesn’t find that tradition meaningful?

Here’s what that kid is left with: Getting a drivers license. And…getting legally drunk.

When my husband called my son to wish him a Happy 21st Birthday, he jokingly said into the phone, “How many fingers am I holding up?” Of COURSE you go out drinking when you turn 21 in America, right? What other benchmarks of adulthood do we have?

(courtesy someecards)

So am I missing something? Graduation? First hunting trip? What do you think of when you think of Coming of Age in America? Do you think our society suffers as a result of not moving kids more deliberately into adulthood? What kind of ceremony might we adopt?

I love hearing from y’all!

Move Over, Avatar: The Reality of SlugSex

Posted on June 18, 2013 by gretchenwing

Get this: when Leopard Slugs mate, their organs unite to create a huge, bright blue…well, flower. A slime flower. David Cameron’s creations, thrilling as they were–and I saw Avatar in IMAX 3-D, ok?–got nothing on the Leopard Slug.

Squeamish? You still won’t be able to stop watching this. Even better: turn your volume up. SlugSex has its own deliciously creepy sound.

So why am I posting Slug Porn? Not out of parental pride because my younger son, who sent me this link, is a UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug. (But yeah, while I’m at it, Go Fighting Slugs!)

I’m posting this because it is REAL. Gross, mind-blowing, beautiful–and REAL. In this world of virtual wonders, it is so refreshing to find something so humble that, all by itself, can blow my little mind.

Sometimes I think if one more person tells me, “Hey, guess what you can do with your [fill in the name of any expensive and teeny electronic product here]!” I’m going to scream, or hurt somebody. I’m just trying to get through my day. Do I really NEED to know how to make all the photographs in my collection look like they were taken by professionals before I instantaneously woosh them off to friends in the far corners of the globe? Do I NEED to be able to mate my phone with someone else’s to acquire their photos too, or their music, or ~~the bar coded embedded in their forehead~~ their website?

Nope. What I do need is my daily dose of natural wonder. And thanks to the Leopard Slug and its…umm…interesting sex life, I now have enough doses to last me well into next weekend.

How ’bout y’all? What is your favorite natural wonder that goes unnoticed? Or tell us about a new one we need to know us! Post a video if you’d like! Just try not to make it grosser than mine.