In Celebration of John Fowles

November 5, 2003

She watched Nadya, sitting there across the aisle of the airplane, this woman in a black silk Anne Taylor skirt and accompanying blue pinstriped blouse, her high-heeled Mary Janes peeking out from underneath her hem. She had rather the air of a college student or high-school teacher, and she observed the woman across the aisle with great attentiveness. But why uphold pretenses?

What am I to do with you? You are so much stronger than I planned you to be.

I drummed my fingers on my knee, trying to figure her out. Nadya was supposed to have fallen in love, like any young woman of her imagination and dignity, but, instead, she started working at a publishing house and living on her own in a bayside split-level studio. She is made of stronger mettle than I thought. She was supposed to fall for a charming Welshman with an aquiline nose and smirking mouth, but she had instead become his ‘minder’ and a sister figure. I watched her sit there, legs crossed, head back against the broken-in upholstery. A copy of Fowles’ The French Lieutenant's Woman lay facedown in her lap, open to about chapter 13. I wonder if she knows how pertinent that novel—indeed, that chapter—really is at this moment? Of course she doesn't; she's asleep, as she always is on airplane rides. It is a beautiful hardbound copy, obviously from her publishing house. Leather cover, golden-edged pages, a taste of history amidst modernity.

But I digress.

I had planned everything out for Nadya. She and that Roman-nosed darling of a man would become enamored with their relationship mortared by complementing personalities and shared passions for literature, life, and each other amongst other things.

I do not know what to do with you. Apparently, you--and other characters of my imagination—do not like to be lorded over, made to go here or there. You are unpredictable, balking at perfectly chalked out plans.

Then I realized what Fowles himself said was true. One cannot tell characters where to go and what to do, they decide how it will be done, regardless of the author's ends.

No One Prepared Me

February 23, 2005

I am 5’1 and weigh somewhere between 107 and 110 lbs. (I say between because I haven’t seen a scale since early January). And I don’t say that to brag; I say it to give you an idea of who’s speaking here. I walk just about everywhere I need to go on campus. I eat Healthy Choice meals for no other reason than they taste good (though I get the feeling that some people don’t believe me). I like tank tops and jeans, skirts, and shorts that sit on my hips; they’re comfortable for me. I like the way I look. Is it wrong of me to want to keep it that way? Is there something wrong with my being a thin black girl?

Over the centuries, the ‘standard’ of beauty has changed over and over, always switching sides to where either being fat or being skinny ends up being demonized. Yes, I think that you should be proud of and happy in your body and not merely conform to what pop culture says is beautiful. But that then begs the question: is it then the right of those who love you to discourage you from that if they believe that you are buying into the stereotype? I mean I love the way I look, honestly. I have enough bust and hips and enough slope in my waist to be ‘curvy’; perhaps I’m not happy with my thighs but it’s hereditary and not much I can do about that. I think that if there’s something about your body that you want to improve, that is completely your prerogative. But your body is yours and no one else’s. You have to live in it; you have to be happy with it.

I personally don’t think the body stereotypes perpetuated by society today are healthy, emotionally or physically. Granted some women can look like that but they are not for everyone. I mean, really. Contrary to popular belief, the average woman is not 5’10 with legs up to her armpits, perfectly flawless skin, and a 22” waist.

I didn’t mean to get up on a soapbox; I’ve just been thinking a lot lately, on account of a book I’ve been reading called The Black Female Body: Self-representations of the African American Women, particularly an essay by Margaret K. Bass called “On Being a Fat Black Girl in a Fat-Hating Culture”. Within the first few pages, she repeats the sentence, “No one prepared me for living life as a fat person,” several times. No one prepared me for life as a skinny person when I was little. I was called “skeleton”, “skin ‘n bones”, those kinds of things. Not that I could help it much; it rather came with being small. I went from skinny to rather chubby as I grew, back down to what I thought I was happy with. Gained weight when I came to college, lost weight again. Gained weight when I went to Russia, lost weight student teaching. But this past Christmas, I got a lot of the same comments about being skinny when I went home. I have indeed lost about seventeen pounds in the past year and I’m happy with the way I look now. I don’t want to lose any more weight; no, it wouldn’t be healthy for someone of my size.

OK, I’m getting down off the soapbox. I’m done. Just needed to siphon off some thoughts that ran through my head on the way to and from class this morning. You may return to your daily lives now.

Descriptions – April 2, '03

1.

She smells like sweet musk and cigarette smoke, pungent and lovely with a tint of ashy rot. She is the epitome of artsy, wrapped in the aroma of white chocolate caramel cappuccino. Her clothes are unassuming, random pieces pulled together in a style that fits only her.

Her voice is soft velvet, always pondering, brooding. A pen is poised between her fingers like a cigarette of ink and plastic as she voices her opinions, clearly aloud. The sound of her voice is intelligently soothing, her pursuit of knowledge beautifully calming.

2.

He looked like Irish mist and sunshine, a body slender like a kendo stick, with strength to make you weep.

A man of many voices, yet what fits is the springy lilt of the Emerald Isle, comforting and sweet. Like your favorite storyteller reading your favorite book while you are cuddled in bed beneath your favorite blanket.

His stature is comfortable, somewhat approachable; his voice warm, laced with laughter.

3.

Eyes like thunder and feathers, hands like brick mortar and lamb’s wool. He speaks of freedom, not flippantly like most of this world, but seriously. Serious as death. But this freedom means slavery. No, not slavery. Servanthood. Enslaved to love by my own choice. Not a doormat but a wash-cloth. Not a spine of jelly but a basic of water. Not slavery but servanthood.

4.

She is brutally honest but awfully kind, the strongest woman that I know. If not the strongest, then the wisest, If not the wisest, the cleverest. If not the cleverest, the most devoted. If not the most devoted, the kindest…for she cared for me. She is a child of nature with a flair for the dramatic. Not gorgeous but the most beautiful woman I know. Her huge are like being submerged too deep in the ocean, and I love them. Her kisses speak words language never knew, and no one ever defended her little freshmen so valiantly and stalwartly.

She begs of me not to put her on a pedestal yet my love fashions a small one against my will. One where I can still reach my arms up and wrap them around her tight. More of a footstool.

5.

She’s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; kind of spicy along the edges. She’s secretly creative and, at times, creatively secretive. She can bite your head off one second and smooth away your troubles the next. She’s better than a diary because she doesn’t only listen; she talks back, too. She has strength beyond imaginings, yet goes weak at the sight of her daughter. She’s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; but just a tad spicy along the edges.

6.

The ghost of Tolkien, Beowulf, and Sigurd walks around in daylight. A laugh incomparable by dwarvish jests and love of books long enduring. He is like a wizard summoned for the Fifth Age, to lead and teach until his task is done. He has all the time in the world and a heart to outlast it all. A Maiar in tweed.

7.

A soul of fire, a mind of sharpened edge. A secret world held in her mind, of detail and depth incomparable. A hand gentle yet strong to grasp the sword and skillful with pen.

I love her presence, her laugh like a Highland song. An old soul full of memory of beauty. A bard of myth. She searches for voices from the past, listening to the tales they tell. She learns from the previous generation to pass it on to the next. A scholar and warrior, comforter and commander. Her heart speaks with a voice beyond her years, with a voice beyond time.

Quote of the Day

"I'll be back in four weeks, stop hugging me." -- Grissom, CSI:

Happy New Year!


Welcome to what I hope to be my Writing Blog. Here I will post my fiction that I write for fun. A good deal of it is fan-fiction, which is lots of fun to write. :)

So I hope you enjoy it and leave me lots of comments.