Self Help for the Rest of Us: "The Nerdist Way"

First, an apology for the long absence. I don't want to be all "life's been crazy!" but, well, life's been crazy. I'm now writing reviews for Chicago Theater Beat as well as blogging for RedEye and I just started a new full-time job. Also I'm taking the NaNoWriMo plunge again (maybeimamazed02 on the NaNo site if you want to be writing buddies) because I'm just that much of a nerd. 


And speaking of nerds, I'm jumping back into the Unpro with a review of The Nerdist Way! This ain't your momma's self-help book, I tell you what. Read on:


I was never the biggest fan of Singled Out, mainly because of Jenny McCarthy's never-closing mouth. I always wondered how many flies she swallowed during her tenure on MTV's finest dating show. Meaning I didn't remember her co-host Chris Hardwick was until I heard he interviewed Joel McHale for his podcast, The Nerdist. As I love all things McHale, I tuned in and was hooked on Hardwick's geeky enthusiasm for movies, video games, the celebrities he was interviewing and...a lot of other things.

I recognized that obsessive need to know every detail about something you like. There's a name for us folks. That name is nerd. And in his very first book The Nerdist Way, Hardwick turns self-help on its awkwardly focused little head, outlining everything from healthier eating to positive-r thinking for everyone out there who got beat up in junior high for singing show tunes (me) or playing D&D (so many of the men in my life) or knowing just a bit more than everyone else.

Chris Hardwick's a study in reinvention. A bowling champion's offspring, a Catholic school alum (represent!) and the former roommate of Wil Wheaton, Hardwick fell into an MTV career in his early twenties. By his late twenties, however, Hardwick had hit bottom: he worked only sporadically, drank very heavily and became a borderline recluse. Since then he's turned things around. He cut back on the beer, started working out and lost a lot of weight. He's got a happening stand-up and writing career, and in 2008 launched the blog Nerdist.com, which has since grown into a podcast and television show (cohosted by cohorts Jonah Ray and Matt Mira), and now a pretty decent self-help book that doesn't ask you anything about parachutes.

When I heard on the Nerdist podcast (oh yeah, he's also interviewed Tom Lennon and Ben Garant - download it! Tom's hilarious and Ben gets all riled up like the good ole Southern boy he is) that Hardwick was penning a tome, I used my super blogger powers (aka Google) to request a review copy. I came, I saw, I read.

I like!

Though I'm a big advocate of self-help actions (e.g. therapy, physical activity, healthy eating), I'm not a fan of the books. (Yes, I read a poem from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul in my valedictory speech. I was seventeen. I didn't know any better.) I felt differently about The Nerdist Way. Chris Hardwick reminds me of the dudes I was friends with in high school, like my artist classmate who gave me movie trivia books, my speech team and dance partner who shared my penchant for broad humor and double pirouettes and my Star Trek-obsessed buddy who taped South Park for me when I asked nicely. He's accessible. He's funny. He not only owns his nerdiness but has turned it into a career. He hit bottom - as we all do at certain points in our lives - and turned it around all by himself. And now he instructs readers on everything from decision-making to cleaning up credit scores to bench-pressing.

Regarding the latter, I could have done without the pages and pages of detailed workout tips. Then again, I have an established fitness routine already (burlesque, yoga, walking) and I realize those pages could be extremely useful to someone else. Just like people who didn't grow up Catholic might not recognize how hard it can be to enjoy when good things happen - rather than forever waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know this feeling. God, do I know it. I just didn't realize I wasn't alone in this thought process and I appreciated not only Hardwick's empathy but his tips on how to combat it.

Also, the chapters on creative productivity are excellent. As a full-time employee and part-time arteeste, I regularly beat my schedule into submission - but it's hard not to get tempted by cat videos and Reno 911 DVDs. Or that issue of Cosmo taunting me from the other side of the library. When I read Hardwick's tips on maximizing one's free time, I felt relieved I was doing something right - and I learned the difference between "good busy" and "bad busy."

Finally, Hardwick instructs readers how to use the "evil genius" method to achieve goals. I won't spoil it for you, but let's just say having a celebrity crush can be totally helpful. Hardwick's theory revolves around channeling sexual energy into motivation. Did you hear that? I AM VALIDATED, Y'ALL! Little did I know that my dorky fixations on Garant, McHale and various other high-profile gentlemen with snarky barbs and cute butts can actually serve a purpose! Hardwick's so getting a hug for that, should I ever meet him.

So yeah, I recommend The Nerdist Way. Jocks be damned. Like evil geniuses who stop at nothing to get what they want, nerds are doing it for themselves - in a nicer way, of course.

New Year, New Unpro: Reso-ma-lutions

Happy New Year, Unpro-ites!

Normally, I'm not a big fan of New Year's resolutions.  Mainly because for two weeks, the dance and yoga studios will be chock-full with rude heavy breathers who take no heed of people who, you know, actually work out regularly.  (Note: by "heavy breather," I'm not judging people who are overweight and out of shape.  I'm just saying if you really DO want to get healthy, pace yourself and pay attention to the etiquette and habits of people who attend class in months other than January.  You might learn something!)

That said, this is an interesting new start.  I'm 30 now.  I'll be looking for a new apartment in a couple of months.  I want to make some other changes and advances as well, while still retaining my own life, which is fabulous and I adore it.

So without further ado, here are my New Year's Resolutions, pop culture and otherwise:

1.  Go to the movies.  All the time.  Even if it's a busy period at work and I don't want to get my ass off the couch.  I always feel better when I go to the movies.  Case in point: the week between Christmas and New Year's was a film-o-palooza for me.  And it was awesome.

2.  Write about said movies!

3.   When someone says I absolutely need to watch/read some fantastic new Oscar-bait movie/super-intense TV series/New York Times bestseller, consider watching/reading it rather than saying in my head, "if this many people are telling me to do it, I don't wanna."

4.  Get some kind of paid writing gig.  Not that I don't love getting "paid" in free DVD's and books, but I've been told I'm not too bad at this writing thing, so I might as well seek a little compensation.

5.  Keep a Moleskine and pen by my bed so when I wake up from some really cool/weird dream that would be a good idea for a story, I don't forget it in my insane apply contacts/get dressed/lift cat off of stuff pre-work apartment race.

6.  Get in touch with Dan Savage, whether it's a message for the Savage Love podcast or a fan-girly email.  Because I love him.

7.  Sign up for another burlesque class.  It's fun as hell, combats stress and makes me happy.  Come to think of it, just dance as much as freaking possible.

8.  Be open-minded when it comes to music, movies, TV shows, books, anything culture-y.  Specific tastes are fun, but discovering cool new stuff is even better.

9.  Work on creative writing.  A LOT.  This includes:
a) Getting my current draft of my 2009 NaNo all shipshape and perfect, so I can start sending it out to agents again,
b) Working on my 2010 NaNo, which may never ever sell but was still a story I loved telling and want to work on more,
c) Think of tons of new ideas and pick the best one for NaNo 2011.
d) Take classes: one-offs and hopefully longer-term if I can afford it.
e) This summer, apply for another writing residency.

10.  And finally: try to post here more.  I LOVE all of my readers and am so grateful you listen to me natter on every week, and I want to give you more of what you want.

What are YOUR New Year's resolutions, pop culture and non?

Caution, Navel Gazing Ahead: NaNoWriMo Reflections

So I won.

For the second November in a row, I got achy muscles from dragging my laptop everywhere, spent way too much money at Starbucks and Borders (the latter's spinach omelet sandwiches are like crack.  Delicious, eggy crack), listened to sixties and seventies rock almost exclusively, and cranked out prose that was, more often than not, total and utter shit.

And 65,000 words later, I emerged with a first draft.

If you've read this blog in the past month, you know about my involvement in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and my NaNoWriRant against certain Salon.com writers who think people such as I are deluded chumps.

However, when I started writing, I WAS, in fact, somewhat of a deluded chump.  I really, really wondered why the manuscript I rewrote TWO WHOLE TIMES wasn't, in fact, getting me an agent.  I totally thought I was better than most YA writers out there, more original, funnier.

Then I started taking classes and going to workshops and applying for residencies.  In doing all this, I learned that not only are there a plethora of highly gifted folks out there, most of them worked way harder than I to perfect their craft.

I learned to identify my own issues with plotting, character development, just plain ideas.  I learned to listen to critiques--even if I didn't always agree, there was usually something in there that was helpful.  I learned that in classroom exercises, I should stop trying to impress everyone and just. freaking. WRITE.

It was during one of these freewriting prompts that I got an idea.  An idea that became last year's NaNo.  My third full manuscript, and the first one that I honestly believe has potential (and before you call me "deluded chump," I've had other non-family members say it too).  One year, one writing residency, and a gazillion revisions later, I'm STILL working on the damn thing.  My inner editor is a total bitch now.  And she's not letting me send it out till it shines like the top of the Chrysler building.

But a few months ago, things shifted.

I went through a dark period.  I was constantly sad, angry and stressed.  Things I used to really enjoy--like dance class--started losing their meaning to me, and consequently I stopped going as often.  My writing slipped by the wayside, too.  I felt like I had no capacity for creativity left, not to mention I was bereft of energy.  And when I wasn't writing, I was beating myself up for not writing.

In fact, despite the fact that I had a story I'd been jotting notes for since February (when I wasn't revising my latest project), I almost didn't do NaNo this year.

Then I thought about it.  I needed to get back in the habit of just sitting down and writing.  And this story was calling to me.  Even if I never, ever visited the project again, I had two protagonists talking to me and I wanted to get all of it down on paper.

And I did.

Mind you, November was a big month.  I signed up for another burlesque class, started going to yoga more often.  I have a full-time-plus job.  Mid-month, my best friend Bob moved back from L.A.--a wonderful, emotional experience for me--and crashed on my couch for a couple of weeks while getting his Chicago life together.  I even found time to blog and write film reviews once in a while.

But every day (almost, I think I took a break on Thanksgiving), I sat down and wrote.  And most of it's awful.  There are plot holes, characters who disappear, and inconsistencies galore.  In fact, if and when I revise this thing, I already have a list of stuff that needs to be fixed, which I'm positive is just scratching the surface.

I sat down and wrote.  I got back in the habit, refreshing me for the long process of edits ahead as I rewrite my work in progress for the umpteenth time.

I remembered that writing makes me happy.  Yes, I want to get published.  It scares me how much I want it.  But it's not about that.  It can't be.  I have friends who are published authors struggling to sell their next book.  And brilliant agented YA writers like Natalie Whipple struggle with submission as well.  I can't write to publish.  If it happens, great.  But most of all, writing makes me happy and that's why I do it.  Simplistic?  Yeah.  But totally true.

Now I have two stories I believe in.  And the two manuscripts I wrote before--though I'll never show them to anyone probably--are special to me, because they helped teach me how to write.

My astute and tough-lovey pal Xander Bennett of Screenwriting Tips . . . You Hack said once that the point of a first draft is to exist.  And now my first draft of Satellite exists.  Yay.  Awesome.

But while I'm celebrating, I'm thinking about how to tweak my work in progress, The Kids Don't Stand a Chance, so it's infinitely more readable and doesn't suck.  After spending November telling a completely different story, I'm refreshed and psyched to revise, revise, revise.

Hi, writing!

It's good to be back in the saddle again.

NaNo: Oh No? Oh YES!

"So you have creative aspirations, huh?  Well, DON'T."

At least, that's what Laura Miller of Salon.com would like you to believe.

A friend linked this article on her Facebook page this morning.  Basically, Ms. Miller takes it upon herself to deride all participants in National Novel Writing Month as delusional time-wasters who believe that penning a first draft makes them J.K. Rowling.

You know what, Laura?

Kiss my NaNoWriMo'ing ass.

Below is the (very polite, for me) devil's advocate comment I posted on my friend's page:

Wow. That's a lot of vitriol. Just to play devil's advocate, I did do NaNo last year, and am doing it again. I'm stil rewriting my project from last year, and will keep doing so until I feel it's good enough to submit to agents (which, initially, I did earlier this year, but not without editing and rewriting first). Like I did last year, I outlined this year's project, did character sketches and plot summaries, and spent months thinking about my plot and characters (all of which are allowed within NaNo guidelines).


Before NaNo, I had written two novel-length manuscripts. I have a blog and write for a film website. I've also spent time at an arts colony, an opportunity that was very competitive to get. I read constantly, and I've never understood so called "writers" who say they don't read. Writers read, that's that.


However, I also have a full-time-plus job, and before I did NaNo, my last manuscript's first draft took eight months to complete. As it happens, November is also when things slow down a bit at my workplace, so it gives me more time and energy into getting out a first draft, which I will subsequently rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite.


The point of a first draft is to exist. It should never be submitted to someone for representation or publication as is. There will always be people who don't understand that. However, there are plenty of us who do, and who will keep working on our novels for months to come.


The author of this column has a right to her opinion, of course, and it's true that this writing approach is not for everyone. I just feel it generalized a bit, as not everyone has all the time in the world to write, and it CAN be productive to churn something out in a month and work from there.


Plus, if someone's going to plunk out a crappy novel instead of watching a million hours of TV, why not let them?

Now, here's where I let shit get real:

Really, Laura Miller?  Really?  You're going to take a ton of people the world over--serious writers with our eye on publishing, folks who want to give writing a shot, lit lovers all--and tell us NOT to take part in an activity we choose to do on our own, that no one's forcing YOUR uppity ass into?  Really?

Because it's soooo bad for someone to think outside the box.  God forbid they like to read and want to take a stab at making something of their own.  No way should anyone who feels a little bored or unfulfilled or depressed channel their negative energy into something positive.  Never should someone use their typing fingers for anything other than operating a remote control.

Three and a half years ago, I distinctly remember saying to my mother: "I'm a 27-year-old temp.  Who cares what I think about anything?"

Then I went with a friend to our alma mater's production of Cinderella.  It wasn't great.  But it made me remember an idea I'd had years ago.  About the backstage drama at a community theatre production of that very show. 

The next morning, I woke up and reached for my laptop.  I wrote a seven-page story, that eventually became a 120-page novel.  Several months later I showed it to Bob, aka The Friend Who Doesn't Tell You What You Want to Hear, But What You Need to Hear.

He said, "It's good.  You should keep writing."

A year and a half later, I took my first long-term fiction writing class.  Maybe two or three of us wanted to publish eventually.  The rest were there because (cover your ears, Laura), they liked reading and writing.  They thought it was FUN.  And you know what?  We all read and wrote and listened and gave feedback and laughed and made friends and generally had an awesome time.  And we learned stuff. 

I know, I know: such a waste of time!  Think of all the shitty TV I DIDN'T watch!

In between 2007 and now, I've written three manuscripts.  I started a blog.  I've been an artist in residence.  I've also made a ton of friends, real and virtual, that have made me laugh and made me learn.

I'm still trying to get published.  I don't have an agent yet.  My NaNo from last year is still a work in progress.  Will I ever get that elusive book deal?  I don't know.

Will I ever regret writing?

NEVER.

To get the bad taste of Ms. Miller's article out of your mouth, I offer you a quote from the filmmakers of Up, which won big at the Oscars earlier this year:

"You want to be creative?  Get out there and do it!  It's not a waste of time."

That's what I'm talking about.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have two angsty 70's music-loving teenagers in my head, who need my attention.

NaNo forever!

I Ain't the Worst That You Seen (Hopefully): My Fiction

First things first: my ever-so-fashionable and witty lil sis (whose thoughts were featured in this post), has started her own blog.  She loves reality TV and is quite awesome, so follow her, please!

So in addition to ripping on pop culture, dissecting movies, and befriending Jeremy Sisto, I also write YA fiction that doesn't involve vampires.  No agent yet, but I'm working on it.  I started this blog as a way to indulge my love of pop culture and create another writing channel--one with feedback more positive and detailed than "thanks, this isn't for us."

Though apparently I don't totally suck, as this place is going to pay me to work on my novel for two weeks in February.

I've had readers ask if they could read some of my fiction.  As it happens, two weeks ago I wrote a short piece for this contest.  I didn't win, but I was pretty happy with what I came up with.  It's a self-contained story, and it's already online (therefore I'm not paranoid someone will steal it) so I thought I'd share it.

NOTE: this is a highly atypical post. Regular snarkage will continue next week.

A little background: the prompt for the contest was 500 words or less from a teenager's secret diary or a letter they never sent.

Enjoy.

If only Levon hadn't worn that red grandpa cardigan.


Now I'm stressing whether Taylor will flay me with their recently-expelled fetus.


I need to write this down, even though circumstantial evidence probably isn't a good idea. Like what just happened.


I wish I could say "he's like my brother." We were together in the nursery, grew up singing the Elton John songs we were named for, alongside parents who'd been the oldest in Lamaze class, shot up from faithful story hour-goers to high school employees at the library.


But I was convinced that we were meant to be. Who else sounded as retro compatible as Levon and Harmony?


Then came Taylor, who preferred Cosmo to Tolkien. Taylor, who we liked anyway. Taylor, who found herself knocked up and didn't need Maury to prove that Levon was the father.


I went along for the nine-month ride. What else could a virginal third wheel do? And Taylor was grateful to confide in me when her boobs hurt.


That night was the first time Levon and I were trusted to close the library alone. Taylor was home, about to pop.


While I picked up discarded hardcovers, I listened to him heave up the ancient stereo hidden behind the circulation desk. Crap. Why did he have to pick that song? Out of all the Beach Boys, he had to choose the prayer of unrequited lovelust.


"Wouldn't it be nice if we were older, and we wouldn't have to wait so long/
and wouldn't it be nice to live together, in the kinda world where we belong?"


"I wish that every kiss was neeeeeeeverending," Levon crooned along. In the fluorescent light, I could see lines on his forehead that weren't there last year.


"Harmony!" I turned around. "Why ya running away?"


I held up the book.


He told me to put it down. "We always wanted to be all alone in the library." Levon spread his arms wide, banging his elbow on the newspaper carrel.


I rushed over, gingerly rolling up his sleeve, not even sure what I was supposed to be looking for.


His hand covering mine should have set off the security alarms.


What happened next was like flipping crisp new pages of text: stumbling to the windowless genealogy section, the tight space, the big gap in experience.


The swirl of "this is exactly how it's supposed to be" blending into "this is the worst thing we could possibly be doing." I wasn't sure which one was right, if there was a right feeling at all.


By the time Levon's cell beeped, the Beach Boys had moved on to "Barbara Ann" and we weren't looking at each other.


Taylor's water broke.


He started pulling on his clothes. He left the cardigan spread out on the floor facedown, and caught my eye with a glance I couldn't read. Asked if I'd be okay.


I swallowed. Nodded.


The heavy door slammed. Goosebumps broke out on my bare skin.


The closest thing was the red cardigan, but I didn't touch it.

NOTE2: HEY LITERARY AGENTS! Like what you see?  There's more where that came from!  Email me at maybeimamazed02[at]yahoo[dot]com.