The Story on the Short Story

I used to inhale short stories growing up. Not the nice, chipper, fairy-tale kind, but the dark, warped stories written by depressed people who fixated on death. I'm not sure who I have to thank for this, although it probably has something to do with my mom's obsession with Edgar Allan Poe. Her favorite story of his was always The Tell-Tale Heart, and things kind of spiraled downward from there. No ten-year-old kid likes to read about hearts beating beneath the floorboards.

All damaging childhoods aside, I think there is something to be said for the short story. They aren't very lucrative these days, and people rarely wander into a bookstore looking for a collection of short stories. I do think, though, that the skill of a good short story writer is vastly underrated. Novels weave in and out of subplots, characters come and go, climaxes eventually happen somewhere towards the end. But short stories are short, sweet, and economical. Beginning, middle, end. Characters are rich, but not overdeveloped. It's easy, right? Just 10,000 words and you have yourself a dinky little story.

Well, no. I've read many of the famous quotes out there about the gift of brevity, which always serves a good short story. Less is more. Always. And yet the characters in short stories require the same depth that characters in novels do. Otherwise who cares. I won't read five sentences about a dull, simplified character. I'm not sure who would, but that's another topic for another day.

And so, here I have proclaimed my love and admiration for the short story. If you can do in 10,000 words or less what a novelist does in 80,000, then you've already mastered pacing, editing, and cutting unnecessary details. And that, I think, is quite a skill.

The Joy of the Rewrite

After my eighth revision, I'm still quite fond of my manuscript. I feel like this is a good thing. Rewrites, after all, have been known to drive even the most dedicated writers toward madness. Or something close to it. I absolutely know the feeling of looking at something you've seen 489 times, and thinking, wow, my brain feels nauseous. I get that feeling a lot in medical school. Then again, the only thing that seems to come up again and again and again in med school is this: smoking is bad for you. So is pregnancy.

In any case, I'm the type of person who savors criticism, not because I like getting burned, but because I simply don't see what other people see. I need someone to tell me what I'm doing wrong. I need a reader to step in and say, "Yeah, so...this doesn't make sense." I tend to overthink everything. I wrote one manuscript that made no sense at all. I finally saw the light when someone came right out and said it, and it was probably the best feedback I've ever received. Simplification is a good thing.

My favorite source of feedback/inspiration/confusion, though, is definitely my mother. She doesn't read manuscripts. I've tried. I've sent her every single one of them, hoping she'll read them and tell me how much she embraces her daughter's talent. But she's never read a single one, at least not beyond the first 30 pages. I used to feel slighted by this, but no more. My mom is always there to listen to my ideas, to tell me to keep a scene or throw it out (regardless of the fact she has no clue about the context), and she reminds me to limit the curse words and sex scenes. Note that my mom gets the PG-13 version of everything I've ever written. It was a relief for us both when I started writing YA.

Tonight I talked to my mom about a certain scene, an emotional climax of sorts when two characters finally make out. I dropped it from the final rewrite, and she told me to put it back in. "You write kisses well, Kathleen," she said. Huh?

So we'll see. I'm just happy Rewrite #8 is finished, and it's a thousand times better than Rewrite #2. At least I hope so. The kiss is back in, the curse words are gone, the sex scenes are non-existent. So according to my mom, at least, I've created a masterpiece.

The Thanksgiving Non-Existent Plan

Let me preface this post with a very generic, but very true, declaration of love for Thanksgiving. I know it's steeped in some kind of tradition that I learned about twenty years ago in the first grade, but I've forgotten the history. I just like the tradition of seeing family, of cooking a ridiculous dinner, of looking forward to the holidays. For twenty-five years, I spent every single Thanksgiving with the same group of fifteen people.

Then I moved to California.

It isn't easy living 3,000 miles away from your family, especially during the holidays. And I know 3,000 miles isn't even that much; I have several friends in school whose families live on other continents. But I don't even have so much as a distant cousin who lives out here. My entire family - mom, dad, sister, cousins, aunts, uncles - lives on the East Coast, mostly in Philadelphia. And at times like these, I realize just how far home really is.

I don't like traveling over the Thanksgiving holidays. I don't like it because I hate lines. I'm the type of person who avoids the zoo on the first day of spring, steers clear of ski slopes on Martin Luther King weekend, and prefers red-eyes over convenient morning flights. I don't mind crowds all that much. I just despise waiting in line. And airports at Thanksgiving are overflowing with disgruntled, impatient people who just want to get home and see their families. I really can't blame them.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm staying in San Francisco. I've had a few friends offer to take me back to their families for Thanksgiving, and for that I'm very grateful. Last year, I even attempted to cook something (note to self: bring wine this year). It's Tuesday, 48 hours until the big day, and I still don't have any concrete plans. Then again, that isn't unusual for me. I hate lines and therefore, I do everything at the very last minute.

But I will say, regardless of my plans for this week, one of my favorite Thanksgivings took place on an airplane. When I was seventeen, my mom and I traveled to San Diego for a high school soccer tournament, and we flew on Thanksgiving afternoon. We had airplane food on the flight, and spaghetti in the room.

The food, while incredible, is always second. Family is first. I'll miss them this year.

The Screening

Let me start with a disclaimer: last year, I went to the Twilight midnight screening alone. As in, just me. And screaming teenagers. And a guy with his girlfriend who assumed the seat next to me was occupied, then muttered something incomprehensible when I told him it was free. I have friends, don't worry. I just didn't think a single person in my med school class of 150 people (okay, 75, since we can eliminate the guys), would want to go. So I went alone, sat between two fourteen-year-olds, and had a lovely time.

This year, at the urging of my roommate, I decided to send an email out. Nothing too fancy (okay, actually it was a great email). See below:

Hi vampire-lovers! Sorry, you knew it was coming.

Anyway, for those of you living under a rock, the next installment in the Twilight franchise, officially titled THE TWILIGHT SAGA: NEW MOON, is coming out on Friday, November 20th. This means a midnight screening on Thursday, November 19th.

I are going to buy advance tickets to the 12:10 screening at Daly City, and we want to get a group together to go. You may say this is premature, but MILLIONS OF THEATERS across the US have already sold out!!!!!11!!

In all seriousness, please let me know if you're interested in going. We are also thinking of having something beforehand (maybe a potluck, blood, fangs...too much?), so this will be a worthwhile endeavor. Plus you can witness the somewhat inappropriate Twilight-themed shirt I won for something...never mind.

So, the bottom-line: e-mail me if you want to get in on this. Here are the details:

What: New Moon, the 2nd movie in the Twilight series. Starring RPattz. If you don't know who he is, enlighten yourself here: Hotness
When: Thursday, November 19th. Screening at midnight (there is class the next day at 10 am, last year it was at 8 am. Don't complain). Twilight screening/party/potluck at my house beforehand.
Where: My house, then Daly City, Century 21 theater (if you can drive, let me know. If not, I will use my connections.)
Who: You. This may seem like a girly movie, but it's not. ACTION, TONS OF ACTION.
Why: I know I forced at least eight people to watch Twilight. If you want to watch the sequel under the influence again (you know who you are), that's fine. No one will judge you here.

Please email me by Sunday at 5 pm if you want to go. I'll send out multiple reminders. Tickets are probably like $10.50. Thanks!!

I didn't expect 20 people to go, not to mention the many compliments I received about the email ("I love your fangurrl personality, Kathleen!! ahhh!!"). I had quite a few of those. Then there was the roommate and friend who, last year, were smoking something when I came home with my brand new Twilight DVD. They thought the movie was hilarious. It kind of was, high or sober or drunk or whatever.

In any case, I had fun this year, even though I ended sitting up alone because there were hardly any seats free by the time we got there. Well, not alone. I talked to another teenage couple, who made me wonder where I can find a guy willing to go to a midnight screening of a vampire love story. I want that guy.

And as for my assessment of the movie, well, yeah. I only go for RPattz. Is that such a bad thing?

Gossip Girls...and Guys...and the Fallout

There's a group on Facebook called, "Hey Med School, High School Wants Its Drama Back!" I ended up not joining this group because that sentiment is frighteningly true. Med school is exactly like high school, except everyone's over 21 (hello, booze!), people have all forgotten what second base is (if you don't score, then it doesn't count), and everyone knows way too much about everyone else. In some ways, that camaraderie is a very special thing. In other ways, your privacy just committed suicide. Forget about it. It vanished the second you put that stethoscope around your neck for the very first time.

I can feel a rant coming on, so I'll restrain myself. I should tell you that I try to avoid gossip; I really, truly do. Rumors are dangerous, shallow, and usually false. But people flock to those juicy tidbits about other people's lives. There is an obsession with covert knowledge, with being privy to something that really doesn't concern you at all. I know this because it's happened to me, and I'm sure I'm not alone. But sooner or later, you hear a rumor about yourself, and the fun is gone.

I usually don't mind rumors/gossip/talk about my life, maybe because I don't care, or maybe because I tend to shake things off within a day or two. But I'm human, too. I get hurt. Doesn't everyone, at some time or another?

I didn't want to come on here and preach about gossip, as I'm certainly not one to talk. I'm surrounded by the same 150 people every single day, and some things reach my ears and leave my mouth. I'll admit that. But the next time you feel tempted to spread some juicy info about someone else, ask yourself this:

Who cares?

City Jumping

This morning I talked to my cousin, a very recent college grad, about the joys of relocating to a new city. I remember the day I decided to move 1,000 miles out of my comfort zone to the heart of the Midwest. I didn't know a soul in Chicago when I moved there. Looking back, it was one of the best decisions I ever made.

I've known people who started life in a certain place, spent the next eighty years there, and died never knowing anything else. My grandmother was like this. She flew out to Chicago for a wedding (her brother's), and flew back to Philly the same day. That day-trip satisfied her for life. She had no regrets. Philadelphia, for 92 years, was her home. How could anyone argue with that?

Most of my family, in fact, followed a similar trajectory of real-life experience. Born and bred in one place, lived there forever, never had a desire to move. I always thought I'd do the same thing. When I went away to college (a traumatic 45 minutes from home!), I came home every weekend for months. Missed my parents, my childhood, my privacy. For two years, I despised living "so far away" from home.

And yet somehow, in the span of two years, I decided to make a move. I took a job in Chicago after graduation, lived there for a year, and came to love a place as foreign to me as the moon. I still love Chicago. I think I'll end up there, if I have my way.

The next city on my list was Boston, another city I'd never really seen, visited, or experienced beyond a few books and movies. I hated Boston at first (lousy first impression, we'll leave it at that), but it grew on me. I became a die-hard Sox fan, explored a healthy chunk of New England, and learned to savor my long underwear. I made wonderful friends, worked a 9 to 5 job, and grew up.

And now, four years after college, I've ended up in San Francisco. My family thinks I'm nuts, by the way. Never in a million years did they think I'd move across the country for med school. But here I am, doing my stint in San Francisco, a city that has somehow become my home in spite of the bizarre California culture. I will never be a Californian, and I'm anxious to return to my roots. California is a weird place. San Francisco is even weirder. But living here is an experience worth having, even if SF and I don't quite click.

Next on the list (and believe me, I've thought about this), is probably New York. Or London. Or maybe somewhere truly off the radar. I haven't decided. I'm just grateful for the opportunity.

The Favorite Book Convo

Last night at approximately 4:30 am (hey, it's a Saturday, that's allowed), I was having a deep discussion with two lawyers about books. The subject wandered from Michigan football (which is not my forte), to fine wines (also not my forte), to favorite novels. Lawyer Number One informed me that every work of fiction should include four ingredients:

1. Who Are We?
2. Who Are They?
3. What are we trying to do?
4. What are they trying to do to us?

Can you tell this person works in litigation? He talked quite a bit about this literary theory of his, which he developed while studying literature at Oxford. I still haven't figured out the relevance of that little tidbit, but he made sure I knew it. And that's fine. I'm okay with hearing people's resumes as long as I don't have to share mine.

His favorite book was Don Quixote. I am embarrassed to say I've never read that book. The other lawyer said Hermes, the comic. I've never read that either. He almost said Hemingway, which I found amusing because just the other night, a different friend told me that "anyone who likes Hemingway has a stick up his ass, and is therefore a moron." That person's favorite writer, by the way, is JayZ. To each his own.

I never revealed my favorite book to my lawyer friends, maybe because I didn't feel like arguing with an Oxford-educated litigator. I understand the merits of not caring what people think, but at 4:30 in the morning, I don't feel like defending myself. I feel like sleeping.

I did, however, mention my favorite contemporary author. For the record, they both liked Cormac McCarthy. Is there anyone who doesn't like Cormac McCarthy? I have no problem admitting I tried to read The Road, and I put that thing down. I can't handle the man's writing style. There, I said it.

Which brings me to the point of this post. My favorite books are all great stories. I love story. I crave story. If the story sucks, I stop turning the pages. I appreciate beautiful writing and masterful characters and deep themes and all that, but if the story isn't there, why bother? I have a notoriously short attention span. Entertain me. At the very least, I'll park my butt in a chair and finish the book.

I'm not saying a great story implies great writing, or even a great book. But when that connection is there, I'm sold. My favorite contemporary writer, for example, is Dennis Lehane, who keeps me turning the pages like a woman possessed. But even more than that (and this is where Lehane rises above the Grishams and the Browns), he writes beautifully. Here's a guy who specializes in commercial fiction, but he can write a paragraph about love or heartbreak or loss that sticks with me for weeks. Read Shutter Island. There's a passage in there about the tragedy of first love that just about killed me.

Of course this is my opinion, but I'm okay with the fact that I'm kind of low-brow when it comes to favorite books. I've read the classics, don't get me wrong. And I've loved many of them. But I'm a sucker for story, and if the book doesn't have that, you've lost me as a reader.