Happily Ever ... Whatever

Some people love happy endings.

Not this girl, not so much.

It’s not that I prefer tragic endings, I don’t.

Really, I’m just not a big fan of endings.

When I was little, in elementary school, we went to my grandparents’ home virtually every weekend. My parents would pick us up at the end of the school day on Friday, and we were off. It was about an hour away, and we’d always stay through the weekend before heading home. Every Sunday, as we backed out of the driveway, Mama would stand in the dining room picture window and wave goodbye. And every Sunday, I’d have a painful lump in my throat and I’d fight back the tears, determined that no one else in the car would know I was crying at the end of the weekend. The fact that we would be back again on Friday made no difference. In that moment, the visit was over. And it made me cry.

I was in the sixth grade when I read Gone with the Wind for the first time. It immediately captured my imagination, and I can’t even say how many more times I’ve read it since. There’s a lot to love, but I have no doubt, what I love most of all is the ending… because it doesn’t really end, does it? “After all, tomorrow is another day.” What could be more open-ended than that? It’s perfect.

I’ve wondered sometimes what it means that I love torturous, incomplete endings. In literature, in life, the stories that I can’t turn away from are the ones that make me crazy. They are replete with “what ifs.” What if this moment were different? It changes everything. The challenge of that, of untangling the action, of changing the narrative, that’s what sucks me in. There’s no ending, because in my imagination, it lives on. It twists, it turns, it entertains.

I’m not really a fiction writer. After I read Gone with the Wind for the first time, I wrote a sequel. Why not? The story was begging for it. I still have it. Twenty-something pages of lined notebook paper in cursive… not bad for a 12-year-old. My next foray into fiction didn’t come until a couple of years ago. For more than a year, I wrote a soap opera fan fiction. It was great fun. I had a posse of loyal readers whose feedback fueled my writing. It’s also exactly why I can’t write fiction.

I always thought I was too much of a softie to really write imaginary characters. I knew I wouldn’t have the heart to torture people who I had created and loved to write it well enough. It would make me crazy to make them foolish, to have them do the wrong thing. At the same time, I have no interest in the pablum of happily ever after, of tying it all up with a pretty bow at the end, of not engaging someone’s imagination with something painfully, frustratingly, delightfully entertaining. So, I knew fiction wasn’t my thing.

It’s still not, but now I realize what the real problem is.

I don’t like endings.

The soap fan fic was the perfect thing for me. It’s a soap, a serial, endless. And so I wrote and wrote. I wrote more than 100,000 words. I reached a perfect ending point. For chapter 100, I wrote a beautiful happily ever after. It was great, I was really happy with it. But even wrapped up in that chapter was a promise of more, that it wouldn’t end at happily ever after, because really, what ever does? So I wrote on. It’s dangling now at something like chapter 127. I could write another four or five chapters and put a bow on it. It’s been more than a year now since I touched it. I’m not seeing that bow in its future.

At work, one of my favorite meetings is the post-mortem, the debrief. After an event, we all sit together and talk about what we did. We look back, but it’s really all about looking forward. It’s assessing what we did, so we can decide what to do next. It’s about pushing the bar higher. It’s about a new beginning just ahead. 

It’s continuing the story.

Even though people think they love happy endings, the best ending of all offers the promise of more… because that’s what we all really want most of all.

To be continued…

In Tragedy, Institutions Sustain Us

There was a shooting at Purdue University today.

My alma mater. My employer. My house.

The noon hour had just passed when a text message alert notified us of a shooting in a campus building and told students, faculty, staff, to “shelter in place.” We were in lockdown. Within 10 minutes I confirmed that my daughter, a Purdue sophomore, was in a locked building right next to mine.

Minutes later the calls, texts, emails, Facebook messages began pouring in from Michigan to Florida, DC to California and parts in between. They were more meaningful than I can say. A few were friends, most were members of my family… my Purdue family.

We talk about that a lot in my job. The Purdue family. Boilermaker for life. It has never felt as true as it did today.

Tonight, students will come together for a candlelight vigil across the Mall from the building where the shooting occurred. Tomorrow, there will be no classes, but counselors will be available. It’s a drill that, nationally, feels all too familiar.

I’m generally pretty calm in a crisis; I was conditioned to it at an early age. Today was no exception. But a moment always comes when the crisis is past and reality hits. There was a shooting at Purdue today—in my house, not sadly, tragically elsewhere. Here. My daughter wanted to know why no one was doing more to stop these things from happening. How many more would there be? If it hadn’t been before, today it was cemented as her house. And it had been violated.

There are great debates in this country about higher education, about cost, about value, about MOOCs and online education and cheaper ways of preparing students to be productive members of society. The death of one 20-something at the hands of another 20-something is not the appropriate occasion for a debate about such things.

But there’s something to be said for my house, for why doing what we do, how we do it, is the right thing for preparing students to lead.

Tragedy came into our house today, and tonight we came together as a community in shared sadness, shared horror, shared resolve. On campus or from every corner of the world, over 400,000 Boilermakers stand united in the face of a senseless crime. There are lessons in that no online course will ever replicate—lessons about being part of something bigger than yourself, lessons about shouldering a burden collectively, lessons about sharing sorrow that is not your personal sorrow, lessons about squaring your shoulders and moving forward.

For those who would lead, the lessons to be learned as part of an institution, a community, a family like Purdue are irreplaceable. They remind us of our shared humanity and our shared responsibility, and they will never happen when a student sits in a room alone watching a flickering lecture play out onscreen. I do not doubt that there is an expediency that makes online learning an important and viable option for some among us. That said, it will never supplant the value of being part of an institution that offers lessons around the clock, regardless of how painful they may sometimes be.

In the End, There Are Only Words

Not even a month into the New Year and absurdity hits the fan.

Words don’t matter.

That was the message I received. It was intended, I am aware, to fall into the classic sticks and stones refrain from the elementary school playground. But sometimes, a phrase gets in stuck in my brain and whispers incessantly in my ear until I respond to it. Often right here.

Words don’t matter.

Really. That’s funny.

In the whole of human history, has there been a more steadfast constant in our lives? Words, grunted then spoken, supplanted the pictures scrawled on the walls inside the cave. A picture can break your heart, but the truth of a story gets its depth and connects our humanity in the words that transmit it from one person to the next. Language evolved because in the cave we realized that mere pictures were not enough.

Words, I would argue, are indeed the bedrock of human interaction.

In a world that allows institutions, even civilizations, to fall by the wayside with barely a thought, the flexibility of language, of words, is without parallel. Shakespeare used the language with abandon, stretching beyond the standard usage of his audience and, when the situation demanded, adding to the lexicon to capture a thought, an action, a mood. 

And it seems there is a bit of Shakespeare in all of us. Don’t believe me? Spend a few minutes online with UrbanDictionary.com. You’ll laugh, you’ll cringe. Consider some of the new words added to the dictionary in 2013 alone. Crowdsourcing. Mouseover. E-reader. Redirect. Our willingness to allow language to grow and change makes words the most useful tool of human existence.

While the adaptable relevance of evolving language keeps it fresh and irreplaceable, its continuity may be its ultimate beauty. Throughout time the immutable and evocative nature of words is the unbreakable strand of our shared humanity. Love. Sorrow. Hope. Even the formation of the letters speaks meaning, the open, uplifted “love,” the full weight of “sorrow,” the steadfastness of “hope.” They can be seen, felt, heard just as they have been for centuries, just as they will be for centuries.

Action, memory, intent, failure, all are captured by words. What we do matters because we remember, we record, we guide, we inspire... with words. Well told or well written, words capture our achievements, foibles, aspirations, and move us forward from one generation to the next, informed, forewarned, when we choose to listen, about what came before.

All that we are, all that we do, finds immortality in words. They are the only place in which we can live forever. Because in the end, there are only words.

Technology’s Greatest Gift

A friend pointed me to an article this week, a post by Arianna Huffington detailing her planned holiday week Unplugging Challenge. She outlined a timeout from her “devices,” no TV, no social media, only two email check-ins per day, only when the office is open during the week of Christmas. There is, of course, no small irony in the blog post which also points to the #holidaysunplugged hashtag through which she and her compatriots will keep the conversation going, but of course only before and after the “blackout.”

All irony aside, while I appreciate the notion of being more present with those around us and the need for greater introspection, I replied with no hint of over-the-top drama that I would kill myself before I would do that. In fact, for myriad reasons, I would not kill myself. I also would not commit to turning off my devices for a week, soulless person that I am.

I recognize that the grand gesture makes for a better blog headline, and surely it lends itself to a better hashtag than #balance. But as with so many things in life, balance is the elusive goal for which we should, almost always fruitlessly, strive.

Still, the article and subsequent discussion made me think, and my hat’s off to anyone who does that.

So why would I (not really except in overly dramatic spirit) kill myself before I would turn off, tune out, log off?

In part, because I don’t give the Internet quite as much crap as a lot of people do. Sure, it’s awash in bad grammar, mind-bendingly bad spelling, even more mind-bendingly bad propaganda on every side of the aisle, and pages and pages and pages of pornography that would make even Hugh Hefner shout “enough!”

But because we are so enamored with decrying the evils of contemporary society (a fascinatingly consistent cry regardless of what point in history marks a person’s particular relationship to what is contemporary), we forget what the Internet does. It opens a world of ideas to us with an ease that is so remarkable we already take it for granted. It opens a world of people to us as well. At the end of the day, it’s the people that always will keep me from pushing my devices aside.

I joined Twitter just over a year ago for a single silly reason but with no thought that I would enjoy it. Me? Expressing myself in 140 characters… it seemed beyond the pale of what might be possible. But I did enjoy it. I consume the articles that no longer escape my notice because @parisreview, @TIME, @Variety, @nytimes, and a host of others are in my newsfeed. In fact, they are from time to time a catalyst for the introspection some would say only a break from technology allows.

But the opportunity to connect with people in far flung corners of the globe with whom I share an interest or two is why I delight in my Twitter account.

There’s a brilliant, funny, broken, fierce girl in Canada with an honesty of spirit that is quite simply beautiful and whose path would never cross mine in the “real world.” There’s a lady in Atlanta with a courage and serenity that left me speechless for much of this year as she cheerfully faced one unbelievably absurd obstacle after another. I adore them both and look forward to the day when our real worlds collide.

At times, while using my devices, I am encouraged to “talk to real people,” but it is the very real people in my life--but unfortunately not often enough in my eyesight--who make my devices essential to me. There are dear friends whose presence in my life is quite simply greater by virtue of the ease with which we can connect in today’s plugged-in world. There are relationships, some stretching back decades, which are profoundly enhanced by the ability to communicate daily about things of great import and those of almost no consequence at all.

Because, at the end of the day, when we share our thoughts with others, whether it is in person or electronically, we enrich our lives. Connections with people who matter to us broaden our humanity, illuminate our hearts and minds, and feed our souls. The people who make us laugh, cry, think, and dream need not only sit with us in the room. It is the people who are a delight to me. The people. And the manner in which we are able to connect is only background noise. Embracing absent friends, as well as those in the room, is a gift enabled by our technological age.

And that’s not something I’m willing to turn off.

What Price Loyalty?

I'm cheap, at times painfully, absurdly cheap. It's all my dad's fault. I am not besmirching his memory in saying that. He's was notably, colossally, heralded-in-song-and-story cheap.

But this is about me.

I love my tech. I do. I sat on the couch the other night with two laptops, an iPad, and an iPhone all going. I was using them all.

So when Apple announced the new iPhone. I looked. I coveted. I looked a lot. Cause it's so pretty. Sooooo pretty. Space grey is the new black.

But I love my iPhone. I loved my Blackberry before it and was slow to part with it. But I would marry my iPhone. I would adopt my iPad, but I would marry my IPhone. I know we could live happily ever after.

And so the notion of divorcing my iPhone 4S to run away with a space grey 5S feels frivolous and disloyal. Plus, kids in college... I know I shouldn't spend money on a new pretty phone to replace a perfectly functioning and almost (but not quite! Shh!) equally pretty iPhone.

Of course, I do qualify for an upgrade. (Thanks Verizon!) That means the new phone is only $199. Not bad.

And my 4S, should I choose to part with it, is worth $200 in trade-in.

Now you're thinking, that's a no-brainer, right?

Well maybe that's how your brain works, not mine.

To be honest, there is a $30 activation fee that I didn't mention. Plus, the connector is different. At minimum, I'd need to buy one extra cord. $29. And a case. The case is important. A phone is an accessory and the outfitting of said accessory matters. A lot.

Which brings to mind my iPhone 4S with its snappy and oh-so-appropriate "The Great Gatsby" cover. One of my five favorite books. Original cover art (not some vaguely tacky art from the largely bad movie adaptation.) And now, the case is out of print.

Houston, we have a problem.

Despite the exceptional beauty of the 5S, it does require a case. Clearly, not just any case will do.

But. I found one. It's delightful. It's literate. It's a case I'd be proud to have you read and admire for the beauty of its language. I bought it. It's sitting on the kitchen table.

Empty.

The iPhone 5S is currently sold out.

Life on Deadline

"Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."

 --Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky

Thank god for deadlines.

Seriously. Where would we be without them?

A looming deadline may have been the final push to prompt our elected representatives (Am I the only one finding that word uncomfortable of late? Representative? Um, whatever. Just saying.) to pull their collective heads out of whatever dark place in which they have shoved them. It’s hours before the literal 11^th hour as I write, so it does remain to be seen, I suppose.

Clearly though, the deadline is something in which we place our faith. A government shutdown. A looming debt crisis. And yet, the markets continue to function with no significant indication of impending catastrophe. Most of the commentators acknowledge that things will get done “at the deadline.” “They always do.”

America is indeed a deadline-based culture. “What’s your deadline?” “Tell me your absolute latest…” “When do you gotta have it?” Because… you’re sure as hell not getting it five minutes before then. The deadline. For even the most cautious among us, it’s the edge we live on.

I remember a job interview from my younger days. The old guy in the room was asking about deadlines, and how I would deal with the staff in that regard. Certainly there would be special accommodations, he seemed to suggest. I smiled and talked about the difference between “deadlines” and “drop deadlines.” One I could control, one I could not. It must have been a good enough answer. I got the job, and we were pals my three years there.

At times, I can’t imagine what we would get done without deadlines. I’ve laughed and called myself a deadline girl for years. As far back as college, the deadline needed to be in my face before it had much effect. It’s not for two days, and you’re asking me about it now? The hell? On occasion I’ll open a file and find that I’ve taken care of something way in advance, far, far from the deadline. It always surprises me.

Looking at the productivity that bursts forth at the deadline, I wonder what we might do if life had a deadline.

It does of course. Death is always looming. As the economist John Maynard Keynes said, “In the long run, we are all dead.” But we sure don’t live that way. There’s a lot more Scarlett O’Hara in us. “I’ll think of it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

I’ve never had the urge to jump on the DNA testing bandwagon. Surprise me, I thought. I don’t need to know what’s next. It always seemed there was something about knowing what was looming in the distance that might sully the blissfully ignorant present.

But what if we lived life with that deadline clearly articulated before us? The randomness of life might catch a few by surprise, but what of the rest? Some would try to cheat fate. Note to those few. Hubris fails. Don’t believe me? Read Oedipus. Some would never pay attention, perhaps never really believe the truth in front of them. But what of the rest?

How much better would we live our truly brief lives if the deadline were before us? You have two birthdays left. Two summers. One fall. Would our lives be more full? Would our procrastination be less? Or would the final, epic, spectacular burst come right before the deadline?

Because, of course, that’s what we live for.

10 Things I Learned From Fan Fiction

Over the past couple of years, I took a creative leap into the world of fan fiction. (To be honest, it was a second leap, but the first for an audience. In the sixth grade, I embarked upon a sequel to Gone With The Wind. I made it to about 24 pages before putting it aside. That said, I still have it.) Still never pegging myself as creative enough for fiction writing, fan fiction provided the perfect opportunity to toe-dip into the kiddie pool. 

Characters. Check.

Backstory. Check.

The delightful crutch of a built-in audience intimately engaged with both items above… check.

With that, on Jan. 1, 2012, into the shallow water I went. With two years only a short distance on the horizon, the original project continues, complemented by some one-shot stories along the way. More than 100,000 words in, I’m astounded to be 100,000 words in. Seriously, 100,000 words, strung together and still making sense… with people out there who want to read them… Blows. My. Mind.

During these past two years, I’ve learned some things about myself, some about writing, some about reading in my fan fic world that I had never anticipated on Jan. 1, 2012.

1. Fanfic.net will not accept stories written in screenplay format. Seriously, Fanfic.net, what the hell? Are you snobbishly rejecting all of the writing on television, in movies, on theatrical stages because it’s incompatible with your site? Really? Fail. 
2.  Fanfic.net notwithstanding, if you write about characters people love and are invested in, your audience is guaranteed, you need only find the right fan board.
3.  If you write well, readers will come. There are some amazingly good writers out there with day jobs far from the world of writing.
4. If you write poorly, readers will come. Never underestimate the hunger of readers for ever more stories revolving around the characters they love. Subject/verb agreement… it’s your friend, I swear. Try it.
5. There are some fairly bad writers out there with interesting and creative story ideas. In collaboration with a better writer, they might make magic.
6.  If you write smut, your audience will increase exponentially. I haven’t yet dipped my toes into that much deeper pool. Sometimes I wonder how the water is though. Seems like it must be warm, right?
7.  I’m a view whore. Seriously, the number of times I’ll check to see who is reading after I’ve posted a new chapter is borderline embarrassing. I have to almost physically restrain myself from playing games that I know will make that number increase. (Restraining oneself physically is an all but impossible task. Just saying.)
8. See number 6. My view whorishness has not yet overcome some latent Puritan sensibility that keeps me and my writing out of the Smut Hut.
9. I will never, ever cease to be delighted in the fact that someone might choose to read something I’ve written, and even better, to ask for more. Again. Blows. My. Mind.
10. That you’ve made it to number 10 on this list delights me as well. Thank you.