I just watched the Invention of Lying last night. While I find Ricky Gervais, Eloise Hawking, half the cast from the funniest canceled sitcom in America, Arrested Development, and Jennifer Garner (despite her unity with that devil, Ben Affleck) to be quite amusing; I must take issue with the use of the word lying. According to my old friends, Merriam and Webster - remind me to introduce you to them sometime, if you aren't yet besties with them - to lie is to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive. According to this movie not to lie is to say the first, and hopefully rudest, thing that pops into your mind, without weighing the merit of the statement or its necessity in the conversation.
This is, in fact, the same misconception employed by the average misanthrope who wishes to protect their cruelty toward others with the famous "I cannot tell a lie" defense. The implication given by both the movie and these honest to a fault folks is that propriety, kindness and measured silence (enjoy it) are dishonest and therefore not worthy of taking up the space they might occupy in the proverbial tool belt and as such are cast off and trampled under foot.
If someone doesn't ask you a question and the information is not germane to the discussion then, dear writer of The Invention of Lying, failing to publicize the details of YOUR constant inner monologue is not a lie. And should someone ask you a question that would elicit the outing of your thoughts, having a brain-to-mouth filter is not lying either. Just because you think it, doesn't make it true; and just because you don't say it doesn't make you deceitful.
I am a big fan of honesty, and by and large I do not espouse lying. But what about this one: Tell the truth in Love. You don't have to tell your friend their cooking sucks (well, it's the TRUTH), especially if they don't ask, just thank them for their generosity and hospitality - because that is both kind and true. You can remain silent during a disagreement rather than blurting out the hurtful (and TRUE) things that you want to say without compromising your integrity. And if and ONLY if, it is absolutely necessary to tell a person something that has the potential to hurt said person 1. Make sure you are the appropriate person to say it 2. Check your motivation 3. Use gentle words so that you stand a chance of being heard. Otherwise, let's just be honest with ourselves, we're just venting, and while it feels good and we all do it, let's not attempt to render our actions noble by saying not to do so would be lying. Cuz that just ain't true, y'all.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Bla Blah Blog About Writing...
I have, at long last, made it to the library and have managed to check out a couple of books that qualify as proper adult reading, previously unread by yours truly. I have not, however, made it past page ten of the first book. Now that I think of it, I never did finish "The Dome" by Stephen King, so maybe I should go back and finish that before taking on anything new. Regardless of the book I am reading, there is always a reason to put it down and do something more important: change a diaper, break up a fight, move the clothes from washer to the dryer, or (and this is my personal favorite) attempt (most futilely) to convince my four year old that writing upside down and backward is not going to fly when he gets to Kindergarten in August. By the time I find the book again, find the place I left off reading - because, no I do not believe in or own any bookmarks - and finally start reading, I am interrupted anew. This happens when I'm blogging, too. In order to avoid Einstein's definition of insanity, I inevitably quit trying to read, and as proved by the queue of yet unfinished blog entries (some of which are about quite interesting topics) saved on my dashboard, quit trying to write.
In my short return to reading (non-children's) books, a few things have occurred to me about writing. I am sure you'll recall my delusion of grandeur post and the fact that I'd like to write a book. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Maybe a novel about some profound truism of the human condition that evinces my more than passing interest in science. I could be 21st century Madeleine L'Engle (oooh my fascination with Maddy since childhood and my no longer secret desire to be her and belong to her family, and have interesting friends like hers-and oh the impossibility of it all...I could blog about that, maybe I will). I mentioned the LITTLE problem of what I would write about in the first place. This problem became even bigger as I was reading the prologue to "Straight Man" by Richard Russo (recommended to me by my brother-to whom I do not listen and therefore did not get the book at the time, and re-recommended to me by my sister-whom I copy in all things except liking tuna-fish sandwiches...INDIVIDUALITY VICTORY...and therefore I am now reading it). I realized that whatever story I think of that might make a good book is really only an anecdote that might be used within a larger story-line in a REAL book. Additionally, and even more depressingly, every subsequent story-line I drum up in response to this realization carries the same fatal flaw.
And then, in reading the several paragraphs used to describe the physical appearance of the protagonist's friend, I became overwhelmed by the amount of work that must go into developing each and every character. What does each character look like, what is he (or, she) wearing, what does that say about the person's personality and what are the things we cannot know about the person at the outset and what has to be conferred by writing between the lines...and who can just dream all of this up.
Lastly, because as it is with decorating and celebrity deaths my realizations come in threes, as I was transported to the very snow-covered hill William H. Devereaux, Jr. and his car were careening down, tail first, I couldn't even imagine how I would set the scenes in which my story would take place. Supposing the story takes place somewhere that actually exists, how would I remember all the sights, smells and subtleties of each endroit necessary to take the reader to my hometown, the "redrum" house of my teens or my college campus. My answer is that I would have to return to each place, experience it again, attempt to conjure the memories of how it was then, and then write about it there.
In that case, I have to conclude that for me writing a novel would mean years of character sketching and locational research. Then taking these muscles, organs, sinew, and skin and layering them one upon another in order for the story itself to take shape. Layered on what? On a skeleton, on the idea, the substantial well structured support system of the novel, protecting and guiding the characters along their way-and we've already established that is a rib or two at best.
Even as I think, OK-I can do this. Write it down bit by bit. When I think of the un-showering Professor Doofenschmirtz-esque man sporting wide wale, high-water, corduroy pants in the heat of Indian summer as if he hadn't recognized fall's temporary retreat and a peed on poodle color fisherman's cableknit sweater...and how the sweater is nearly the same color as his wild mane of would-be white if not for the aforementioned distaste for daily ablutions crowning glory...and how all of this was announced moments before he entered the room by a cacophonous orchestra of smells-coffee, oil, greasiness not to be confused with oil and a hint of wet dog (whence we know not, as it has been years since we had a dog), write it down. Put it away. Save it for another day, to edit, to weave into a larger tapestry that could become a character to place on a wall of the greater story that will one day become my novel. Even as I think this, the sneaking suspicion that writing is supposed to be an organic, ex-nihilo (well almost) sort of process and all of these contrivances are further proof that I am not at all a writer assails me and I feel like giving up before I've even started.
And such has been my constant inner monologue since starting this foray into literacy...and as such it is yet another reason not to read ever again. Well played, Jessica, truly well played.
Editor's Note: Since the editor sees fit to do NO editing, she thinks it only fair that once in a while she makes herself useful by writing a note. To those of you who take exception to the description herein because you imagine you know who is described thereby, my sincerest apologies. But fear not! You, too, will be featured, in no more glorious terms, in my novel, should my novel ever be written.
In my short return to reading (non-children's) books, a few things have occurred to me about writing. I am sure you'll recall my delusion of grandeur post and the fact that I'd like to write a book. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Maybe a novel about some profound truism of the human condition that evinces my more than passing interest in science. I could be 21st century Madeleine L'Engle (oooh my fascination with Maddy since childhood and my no longer secret desire to be her and belong to her family, and have interesting friends like hers-and oh the impossibility of it all...I could blog about that, maybe I will). I mentioned the LITTLE problem of what I would write about in the first place. This problem became even bigger as I was reading the prologue to "Straight Man" by Richard Russo (recommended to me by my brother-to whom I do not listen and therefore did not get the book at the time, and re-recommended to me by my sister-whom I copy in all things except liking tuna-fish sandwiches...INDIVIDUALITY VICTORY...and therefore I am now reading it). I realized that whatever story I think of that might make a good book is really only an anecdote that might be used within a larger story-line in a REAL book. Additionally, and even more depressingly, every subsequent story-line I drum up in response to this realization carries the same fatal flaw.
And then, in reading the several paragraphs used to describe the physical appearance of the protagonist's friend, I became overwhelmed by the amount of work that must go into developing each and every character. What does each character look like, what is he (or, she) wearing, what does that say about the person's personality and what are the things we cannot know about the person at the outset and what has to be conferred by writing between the lines...and who can just dream all of this up.
Lastly, because as it is with decorating and celebrity deaths my realizations come in threes, as I was transported to the very snow-covered hill William H. Devereaux, Jr. and his car were careening down, tail first, I couldn't even imagine how I would set the scenes in which my story would take place. Supposing the story takes place somewhere that actually exists, how would I remember all the sights, smells and subtleties of each endroit necessary to take the reader to my hometown, the "redrum" house of my teens or my college campus. My answer is that I would have to return to each place, experience it again, attempt to conjure the memories of how it was then, and then write about it there.
In that case, I have to conclude that for me writing a novel would mean years of character sketching and locational research. Then taking these muscles, organs, sinew, and skin and layering them one upon another in order for the story itself to take shape. Layered on what? On a skeleton, on the idea, the substantial well structured support system of the novel, protecting and guiding the characters along their way-and we've already established that is a rib or two at best.
Even as I think, OK-I can do this. Write it down bit by bit. When I think of the un-showering Professor Doofenschmirtz-esque man sporting wide wale, high-water, corduroy pants in the heat of Indian summer as if he hadn't recognized fall's temporary retreat and a peed on poodle color fisherman's cableknit sweater...and how the sweater is nearly the same color as his wild mane of would-be white if not for the aforementioned distaste for daily ablutions crowning glory...and how all of this was announced moments before he entered the room by a cacophonous orchestra of smells-coffee, oil, greasiness not to be confused with oil and a hint of wet dog (whence we know not, as it has been years since we had a dog), write it down. Put it away. Save it for another day, to edit, to weave into a larger tapestry that could become a character to place on a wall of the greater story that will one day become my novel. Even as I think this, the sneaking suspicion that writing is supposed to be an organic, ex-nihilo (well almost) sort of process and all of these contrivances are further proof that I am not at all a writer assails me and I feel like giving up before I've even started.
And such has been my constant inner monologue since starting this foray into literacy...and as such it is yet another reason not to read ever again. Well played, Jessica, truly well played.
Editor's Note: Since the editor sees fit to do NO editing, she thinks it only fair that once in a while she makes herself useful by writing a note. To those of you who take exception to the description herein because you imagine you know who is described thereby, my sincerest apologies. But fear not! You, too, will be featured, in no more glorious terms, in my novel, should my novel ever be written.
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