My Son Turned 14

Earlier this week, my son turned 14 and it felt curiously momentous. Thirteen would have been a more likely birthday to have thought, with disbelief, "My child is a teenager?" But, 13 is kind of the training wheels year of being a teen. It's as if everyone's getting used to the idea of it, but it somehow doesn't really count.

On his birthday, a friend took us out to lunch with her boys, the oldest being about a year younger than mine. While we were waiting to be seated, she turned to me and whispered, "Why is that table full of young girls staring at us?"

I glanced over and realized that the group of tweenish girls were staring--and smiling-- at our sons. When I pointed that out, my friend looked startled, confused, and proud all at the same time. I have a feeling that combination will be my primary emotion for the next few years.

I was never a baby-crazed, over-flowingly maternal type. Which may be partially why I didn't become a mother when I was younger. But, since I'd had years of travel and singlehood and couplehood beforehand, once I became a mother, I was ready. I was patient. I enjoyed sitting in the quiet of the nursery, wondering what images could run through an infant's mind as he dreams. As my mother had done with me, I'd hold his feet in my hands and imagine where those feet may one day take him.

But, then, everything seemed to go in fast motion. I know we had video tapes of The Wiggles that were soon replaced with Thomas the Tank Engine. Wooden train tracks seemed to sprawl all over the house for some time and then, suddenly, we'd entered the Star Wars stage. It seemed like there should have been more of a bridge between the franchises, but there wasn't. Star Wars has never been left behind. It was a gateway to all kinds of wondrous sci-fi and fantasy geekiness. And I suspect that's an aspect of my son that will continue to flourish, live long, and prosper.

I keep hearing the next four years will be important ones. I want to say that all "four years" are important, but I understand what they mean. At the end of these four years, my son will be a man and no longer a boy. Just writing that makes the Rudyard Kipling poem, "If", echo annoyingly in my mind. And that makes me all teary. Because, when all is said and done, I couldn't be more proud of the soon-to-be-man I see before me.

The Revisionists

I don't quite remember much about last November, other than writing. Writing late at night, writing early in the morning, writing at any time during the day that wasn't taken up with "regular life". Determined to meet the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge of beginning and completing a novel in one month, I kept at it. And, a few days before deadline, I had my 176 page, 56,500 word manuscript written.

My goal was to enjoy the holidays and begin revisions in January. Looking back, January found me busy sidestepping other resolutions (i.e. an organized den, five-days-a-week minimum at the gym, avoiding carbs as if they were toxic...). But now, the idea of some cut and slash editing is more and more inviting. I have some big changes in mind (focus on one generation of characters, drop the parallel, contemporary plotline) and smaller ones (expand the interior dialogue of some male characters, add more suspense). In my mind, it's almost like a different novel, and yet not. Just better. More focused.

It's also made me wonder about some older or deceased relatives who actually revised their own lives. Sometimes as innocently as using the prefix "Dr." for better perks when travelling. Other times, slightly changing the spelling of their names or their birth dates. And, intriguingly, some used full-blown aliases, fake addresses, and fictional occupations. (As one cousin commented, "Did they just keep 'Change of Name' forms on a table by the front door?") For those wondering why it's still taking so long to unravel my mother's adoption narrative, I could show you a list of aliases as Exhibit A.

Taking it a step further, would I revise my own life? I mean, if I could. Probably not. Most storytellers at heart know that to get from one point to another, a variety of experiences have to occur. There were some experiences I wish never happened, but I suspect they play their parts in a deeper way than I can now fathom. Only sociopaths and saints have no regrets. There's something satisfying in knowing I'd use my red pen sparingly on my life. My manuscript is not as lucky.

When All Things Are Possible

It struck me the other day that my son, caught in the awkward border between childhood and adulthood, still has the capacity to believe everything is possible. Things that are clearly outside the realm of reality can't be entirely dismissed by him. When he was very young, he spoke for some time about wanting to create a "showing up machine", which later became abbreviated to SUM. The concept was for fictional characters, through the SUM, to become real. I explained that this was pretty much what movies and television were about, but my imagination was clearly too limited. He was talking about something closer to teleportation, but from a fictional universe to our own. I, too, wish such a thing could be created, but for me, the notion is flattened by pragmatism.

More and more, I've found the ability to have that childhood openess to possibility never entirely leaves. Outside of a toy store in Downtown Disney in Orlando, a couple in their 20's was walking by. The woman said, "Look! Did you know you can build your own lightsaber in there?" The man, clearly showing his Star Wars devotion, stopped suddenly, widened his eyes, and asked, "What?!?! A real one?" Soon after my husband had moved to Philadelphia, he'd been listening to the radio on Christmas Eve. He was startled by what he'd heard. "Did you know a reindeer was hit on the expressway? And on Christmas Eve! How weird is that?" It took me a moment before I had the heart to say, "No, it was just a joke. We don't have reindeer in Philadelphia--it's not THAT far north!"

Always the extreme optimist, I like to say that I'm only at the halfway point in my life. And it seems each year, some of my adult-adopted cynicism erodes and things I'd thought absurd seem within reach. Skepticism has occasionally been defeated by events that could be classified as miraculous. And, at this point, I've never looked more forward to what wonderfully unexpected, unlikely thing might happen next.

Pandora and Beckoning Worlds

As a child, I had a picture book with a particularly intriguing illustration. It showed a ring of fairies in the moonlight, each one with a different expression. Beneath a sky of brilliant violet and indigo, the ground looked coated with soft, green moss. There was something about it that looked so wonderful and magical that I was certain it was mysteriously real. Several times, I'd secretly stay awake until midnight. Suddenly opening the bookmarked page, I was convinced I'd catch at least one of the fairies moving or looking startled at my discovery of their world. I'm sure I won't ruin any suspense by saying that I was unsuccessful every time.

But that feeling, that hope of being able to experience another world felt very real when watching James Cameron's Avatar in 3D. I may be one of the few people who could have been satisfied if the film had eliminated the spectacular battle scenes in favor of a deeper exploration into the Na'Vi culture and a kind of travelogue across the planet. There were times when Pandora's color palette was so much like that old illustration that I had to smile. I loved that the Na'Vi shared the Native American tradition of offering a prayer of gratitude for the animal they'd just killed for their own sustenance. And there was a continued theme of connectivity of the people to the land, to the animals. This was literally played out when the Na'Vi would attach the end of their long braids to the end of an animal's tail and the two would move as one. So much begged further detail...the Tree of Life, the Hanging Islands, the many unnamed elements that kept my eyes on the screen at all times.

I realize that this sounds, especially to those who haven't seen the film, all very cliche in a kind of hippy-chic way. Honestly, I don't wear patchouli and I do shave my legs. I suppose since the film's setting is literally on a different planet, the ideas of harmony with nature and mutual respect seemed fresh and interesting. That in itself is an intruguing accomplishment.

If James Cameron's only goal had been to create a film that was a masterpiece of storytelling, I think he fell short. But, his goal of offering audiences an invitation to another planet that was unlike anything they'd experienced before, I have to applaud his success. And, thank the incredible artists who worked on the project, bringing me to the very edge of a new world.

NaNoWriMo aka Where I've Been Lately

During the last week of October, a friend of mine--whom I'll call "Donna", since that's her name---reminded me that on November 1st, the annual NaNoWriMo event would begin. She told me about it last year as well, when I handily brushed it off as insanity. This year, the challenge seemed intriguing.

What NaNoWriMo stands for is National Novel Writing Month. Since it's global, I'm not sure why it's not called International Novel Writing Month, but that's not up to me. Beginning at 12:00 a.m. on November 1st, registered participants may begin writing a novel. By 11:59 p.m. on November 30th, the (minimum) 50,000 word, 175 pages novel must be complete. How daunting is that? Of course, they try to reassure you that you need only produce the first draft and they encourage you to save all revisions and editing until after the first draft is finished. That makes the goal seem a tiny bit more reachable.

It seems the people behind NaNoWriMo, aka The Office of Letters and Light, know the Achilles' heel of most writers: procrastination. We all have fascinating plots, colorful characters, and witty dialogue in our minds. The problem is sitting down and writing it out. And that's a big problem if you want to get any traction as an author. So, NaNoWriMo, like an imagined stern headmaster, accepts no excuses. There are no deadline extensions available. The rules of the challenge are clear and few and even as I registered on their site, I wondered what in the world I'd gotten myself into.

Then, I upped the ante. Not only had I become an "Official Participant", but I actually went around telling people about it. I tweeted it on Twitter. I made updates about it on Facebook. I tried to make it as humiliating as possible for myself if I backed down from the challenge. Characteristically, I begin projects full of enthusiasm and productivity. And, at about the halfway point, I meander off in some vague other direction. This time, I gave myself daily goals that had to be met. The scenario that gave me cold sweats in the middle of the night was an image of myself at 11:30 p.m. on Nov. 30th with three chapters left to go. I promised myself, if nothing else, I would not play that role.

So, I kept at it. And friends and family, both in my physical world and my online world, encouraged me and cheered me on. My husband, always my staunchest supporter and advisor, became my writing coach. My son allowed me blocks of time to be alone with my laptop and never complained. My editor/cousin/soul sister in California insisted that I email her a new chapter every day. Most of my writing got done between 11:00 p.m. and 1:30 a.m., but I met each daily goal. No excuses. And, somewhere along the way, I realized I'd gone too far to turn back. I no longer had a choice in the matter.

And on Friday, November 27th, at just about 8:00 p.m., I wrote the last line of my novel, Blood Relations. I'd made the goal, met the challenge. And, as I suppose is the benefit of any project like NaNoWriMo, I learned something about myself. I can see a project through to completion. And that knowledge is a very valuable reward.

Twitter: Follow You, Follow Me

To begin, all Twitter users know the difficulty in converting others. We usually get interrupted by the inevitable question, "But, why would I want to do that?" Our response is often an ineffectual, "No, but it's fun." Not a ringing endorsement. What I mean to tell others is that it's not about what you had for breakfast (well, sometimes) or keeping to the 140 character limit. It's about developing a group of friends or connections who happen to--usually--share interests and opinions.

One trait I think most twitterers share is curiosity. Curiosity about the arts, the news, the world at large. Other cultures, other ways of thinking. Twitter is a natural magnet for those people. In the same way that those with a more parochial outlook may truly find the social network useless.

Sometimes, a friend will ask, "So, who's in your followers and following lists?" I'm never sure where to begin or where to end. I think I have the most eclectic and fascinating group of people in the twitter universe. But, I always hesitate before replying because I'm well aware that I could sound delusional. "Let's see, " I might begin, "along with friends I hang out with here--one very cool friend in particular, there's a really talented, crazy-busy film editor in New York City, a notably impressive photographer, a wonderful Apple expert, a Venezuelan rocker, a gourmet Libertarian, a composer who always makes me laugh, several solid filmmakers and writers (talk about crazy-busy!) --including one who's got a lovely French film project in the works, an encouraging fellow writer in Chicago, a whole TRIBE of terrific geek friends, an outstanding-in-many-ways artist at The Ranch, impressive English writers, two great people in Australia, a creative woman in Michigan who shares my insomnia and humor, ..." as they glaze over, I may add, "Oh, and an astronaut." It all sounds just a bit deranged.

The next question is even harder. "But, are they friends?" Hmm. On one hand, that would be dependent on the way each individual would answer the same question. Yet, we check in whenever we have the time, often throughout the day. We share joy, dismay, anger, humor, and elation. Often, when everyone else is fast asleep, we're at our keyboards, wondering why we're so sleep deprived. We encourage each other, we challenge each other.

I'm really not sure what else would be needed to define "friend".

District 9

The first thing I'd say about District 9 is that it is not a film solely for sci-fi fans. It is, however, a welcome return to intelligent sci-fi for those who have been waiting and waiting. It's about ideas and ethics and I don't seem to remember weighty issues going through my mind after Transformers 2.

Most people who did their homework know that this is Neil Blomkamp's directorial debut (after a film adaptation of the Halo franchise, partnered with Peter Jackson, fell through). It's frequently mentioned that Blomkamp was born in South Africa. The kind of horrific settlement actually used for South African racial segregation, prior to apartheid's 1994 end, was used as the set for District 9. It's sobering when you realize the indignation you feel about aliens being so cruelly housed was a human reality for so long. Blomkamp has said the comparisions are inevitable, but he didn't want to hit the audience over the head with it. It's still an unavoidable link.

The movie begins as a documentary and immediately introduces the main character, Wikus van de Merwe, a debut performance by Sharito Copley. For two decades, an alien mothership has stalled over Johannesburg, South Africa and over a million aliens have been rescued and settled in District 9. The small, filthy shacks, with piles of trash everywhere, make up their new homeland. But, humans have become tired of the aliens, who have become scapegoats for any number of problems. Wikus' high profile assignment is to relocate the aliens to a new settlement, District 10, which will be worse than their current environment.

The transformation, both literal and figurative, of Wikus is simply mesmerizing. By the end, we're left wondering if one needs to lose their human nature to become humane. And to wonder what "humane" really means. At the end of a summer so full of empty spectacles, District 9 is a film of weight and meaning. Go there.