Are all writers liberal?

 Jodi Picoult's newest novel, Sing You Home, is a gripping and complex journey through a rainbow of controversial subjects. Gay marriage and parenting, infertility, alcoholism, divorce, adultery, and  the Christian right--topics offensive to some yet close to others' hearts are flayed open for readers explore. 

Her tale revolves around Zoe, a music therapist who has endured years of infertility treatments in her quest for a child.  She is left reeling after her husband, unable to cope with a recent tragic stillbirth, walks out on their marriage.  Zoe is as surprised as everyone else in her life when she suddenly falls in love...with a another woman.  After a wedding across state lines, the same-sex couple decides to have a child using Zoe's last frozen embryo, but her ex-husband and his newfound born-again Christian compatriots turn the couple's desire to have a family into a sensational and very public morality play. 

In a Chicago Tribune review of Picoult's novel Susan Salter Reynolds writes, "The fact is, literature, when pressed, is always liberal, always progressive, always democratic. The very act of trying to understand the other side (much less create sympathetic characters) is a liberal act."

Does that mean all fiction writers are liberal?

lib·er·al /ˈlɪbərəl, ˈlɪbrəl/ Show Spell 

–adjective 

1.  favorable to progress or reform, as in political or religious affairs. 

2. favorable to or in accord with concepts of maximum individual freedom possible, especially as guaranteed by law and secured by governmental protection of civil liberties.   

3.  favoring or permitting freedom of action, especially with respect to matters of personal belief or expression: a liberal policy toward dissident artists and writers. 

4. free from prejudice or bigotry; tolerant. 

5. open-minded or tolerant, especially free of or not bound by traditional or conventional ideas, values, etc. 

6. characterized by generosity and willingness to give in large amounts.  

7. not strict or rigorous; free; not literal.

All writers, in some sense or manner, share their personal values and beliefs with us as they scribble down their stories.  Picoult's stand on the issues in her novel were crystal clear and would be considered extremely liberal in the political and social definitions.  How much of our personal beliefs are ingratiated into our characters' thoughts and actions?

Are we liberal because we force ourselves inside the minds of characters, whether they are serial killers or saints, in an attempt to create a well-rounded individual readers believe could exist outside the pages of the story?   Or because we so often push the established boundaries of current and familiar society, subliminally spoon-feeding ideas and dogmas to the reader while they are vulnerable in our carefully concocted realm of suspended disbelief?


What do you think?

The Mother's Prayer for Its Daughter by the Brilliant Tina Fey

When I grow up I want to be Tina Fey.

This excerpt from her new book, Bossypants, shines and speaks for all Mothers in this brave new world...even if we happen to have a son...

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. 

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty. 

When the Crystal Meth is offered, 

May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half 

And stick with Beer. 

Guide her, protect her 

When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. 

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. 

Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes 

And not have to wear high heels. 
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. 

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. 

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. 

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, 

For Childhood is short -- a Tiger Flower blooming 

Magenta for one day -- 

And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait. 

O Lord, break the Internet forever, 

That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers 

And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. 

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, 

Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, 

For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. 

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, 

That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. 
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. 

“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget. 

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. 

Amen.

Utter and Pure Brilliance from Tina Fey’s new book Bossypants.  Read it.

When I Grow Up I Want To Be...

"Adults are always asking little kids what they want to be when they grow up because they are looking for ideas."   Paula Poundstone

Kiddo, at ripe old age of seven,  knows exactly what he wants to be when he grows up.  He wants to build roads.   Or build a real R2D2 and C3PO.  I try to explain that he doesn't want to be the guy on the asphalt truck at three in the morning sucking fumes for minimum wage, he wants to be an engineer and design the roads.  Building robots (engineering again) is another fabulous choice and I prey he did not inherit my utter ineptitude for math and science.   He can be anything he wants to be (so long as it's legal and preferably doesn't involve exotic dancing).  As a parent, I just want him to be happy in life.  All he has to do is work hard, get good grades, go to college and his possibilities will be limitless.

I was always told the same thing growing up.  And I believed every word of  it.  I followed the directions to a "T".  So why does it seem as if my possibilities more limited than the wild game selection on a vegan menu?

I wonder how many people actually wake each day thrilled to be spending another day at their place of employment, knowing they are fulfilling a lifelong dream, a passion, and truly enjoying what they do.  They don't just have a job--their job is an extension of who they are.  Is it  dumb luck or a chance of a lifetime that falls into their self-satisfied laps?  More likely they actually know what they want and they have the drive, talent, and tenacity to go after it.   

Jobs I have dreamed of over the years:
Archeologist
Photographer (National Geographic)
Magazine Editor (Vogue or Rolling Stone)
Marine Biologist/Killer Whale trainer (until I discovered I was terrified of sharks)
Actress (must be nominated for Oscar)
Fashion Buyer
Magazine writer
Journalist
Advertising art director/copywriter
Art gallery owner
Frances Mayes
Tina Fey
Novelist


Jobs I have actually held:
Babysitter
Sales Girl/Ear Piercer
Charitable Giving Solicitor
Disney Intern/Indentured Servant/Pirate
Custom Framer/Art Sales Associate
Department Store Department Manager
Bridal Gown Salon Manager
Social Services Worker
Stay At Home Mom/Jane of All Trades

I think it may have more to do with courage.   So many of the things I have wanted to do in my life are creative and involve spilling my heart and soul onto a piece of paper for others to read, critique, and most likely reject.   To make it you need a tough skin, yet as I grow older I find that my skin is thinner and  less resilient, far more prone to injury, and takes longer to heal.  It has been damaged by sunshine and time. I find it far easier to hide in the shade to prevent more wounds than to slather on layers of protection, a virtual suit of armor, and face the chance of gaining more scars.

To succeed that must change. 

When I grow up I want to be brave.

"We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face... we must do that which we think we cannot. "
Eleanor Roosevelt

The Slippery Slope of the SAHM Resume

This afternoon I finally did it.  I dug my decrepit resume from the bowels of my computer hard drive.  Thank God I remembered to transfer it from the floppy disc it once nearly filled several generations of computers ago.   But I think it belongs in those long ago days.  It is ugly.  It is barren.  It has a great big seven year hole glaring out for all to see.

How do I escape from the SAHM black hole?

With half of Hubby's office about to get the ax and the survivors hoping to cope with pay and benefit cuts, I decided it might be time to test out the waters.  I don't know if anyone will think I am qualified to hold any position.  I keep reading horror stories of how college-educated SAHMs can't even score an interview yet kids with the ink still wet on their high school diplomas get the job.  And  I suck at rejection.

After I nearly cried in desperation, I edited some of the job description/accomplishments/bragging passages. Honestly, they were written so long ago I have no idea what "increased sales by 70%" even means.  Was it $20,000?  $100,000?  $1,000,000?  "I cannot recall,"  would not be a suitable answer in an interview.

I am also a career changer.  I do not want to go back to the retail 60-hour workweeks and insane customers unless my house is on the line.  My last employer, the wonderful State of Florida, is currently laying off a significant portion of its dedicated and experienced staff (a.k.a. possibly the Hubby) so there are no opportunities there.   What's a girl to do?

My main concern now is the black hole.  Do I fill it with one of the snarky "SAHM & Domestic Goddess Engineer" job descriptions?   It's not as if I have spent the last seven years on the couch eating Thin Mint cookies while watching HGTV  (just a teeny tiny bit when Kiddo was just an infant and napping).  I've raised an intelligent, independent, well-adjusted kid.  I've budgeted obsessively and kept us afloat on a single, pitiful government employee salary.   I taught myself new skills as I remodeled my house, doing most of the labor myself. I helped run a popular Moms' Group, been paid to eat popcorn and have interesting Japanese product engineers take samples of my hair.  I write and take photos for a blog (although I never made any money from it) and I'm so close to finishing the first draft of my novel (which I may now never finish).

But does any of that count on a resume?

To anyone out there in the real world I'm just a simple Stay At Home Mom.

The (In)Significance of Signs

I always say I don't believe in signs, just as I don't believe in streaks of bad luck, miracles, or divine intervention.   Yet despite my doubts, I discover strange little omens sneaking up on me, curious coincidences, often startling and even a bit creepy on occasion.

We headed to the beach last Sunday for a day of relaxation and reading, in no way influenced by the fortune which fell out of my Hubby's cookie earlier in the week (see above).  The day was gorgeous with cloudless blue skies, cool breezes, and plenty of kids scampering along the shore for Kiddo to befriend.  I sat back in my lounge chair to catch some rays and read.

A few pages into my selected reading I started shifting nervously, clenching my teeth, and sweating as if it was the middle of July.

The novel felt a bit too familiar, and I could hear faint echos of my own work in progress  (a.k.a. the novel I have been driving myself slightly crazy over for the last year or so writing).   A wave of panic rushed over me.  But I had never heard of this book until a few months ago...I certainly couldn't have taken any of the ideas from it...

The protagonist was in a situation similar to mine.  Her children were the same ages.  Her marital situation, her escape to a new life, so many of the emotions she was rolling through were so similar to my main character.

The sea breeze and sunshine could not halt the alarm bells echoing in my head.

My story wasn't original.  It was trite and tired.  I should just give up now, erase my work with a few simple key strokes and be done with it.

I looked over to where Kiddo was building an enormous sand bunker with a  friend he had picked up on the beach.  The girl, perhaps six or seven, was a spitting image of my heroine at that age--the same coppery long hair, skinny legs, button nose.  My young Eve appeared before me, an apparition of what could be if only I kept going. 

A few minutes later she was joined by her slightly older brother, and yes, he was a dead ringer for my young hero/love interest as a boy.    The book pressed to my chest, I sat staring at the pair imaging them as my characters twenty-five years older and meeting for the first time on the beach as in my story.

A cherubic toddler ran past on a quest to reach the gently rolling waves.  "Come back Evie G. Wait for me!" her harried father laughed as he chased after her.   I felt as if someone had smacked me upside the head with an six-inch-thick dictionary.   The ghosts of writing were coming after me full force, shouting my heroine's nickname for all to hear.  Honestly, I was getting a bit creeped out.

Maybe it wasn't time to give up.   There are only so many themes in literature, but each tale of love, hero(ine)'s epic  journey, or fall from grace is told in it's own way.   I sat back and focused on the differences and discovered the stories were not even nearly the same.  My story is as unique as each freckle on MY Evie's nose.

 Perhaps there is some significance to those signs after all...