It was while reading Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction that I realized I wanted to write fiction for a living.
More later.
What a person finds funny tells you all you need to know about them.
I find this funny. Very, very, very funny.
I'm still crying as I type this.
My four-year-old son has trouble with transitions. In school and at home moving from one task or activity to another too abruptly causes anxiety, stress and the occasional tantrum. My wife and I try to combat this by preparing him in advance for a change in routine, or upcoming tasks that need to be handled.
"Don't forget, after you finish breakfast, go to your room and pick out your clothes."
"What are we doing after we get dressed? We're going to ride the bus to school."
"Who is picking you up today? Mommy."
From one event to the next we try to maintain consistency. My son likes consistency. Life doesn't. The bus is late and we need to get to the subway. It's raining, which means no outside recess at school. A teacher is sick, so there's a substitute, one he knows and likes, but still he pleads, "Why is he here?"
This morning he was especially slow to move from task to task. We started off early, but by the time we left to catch the bus I was silently praying for patience.
"Please try to walk faster."
I look down and see he's not bending his knees. He's trying out that new robot-walk he's been working on.
"Please come down the stairs normally."
He smiles, takes a one-inch step. "This is how babies do it."
We get to the class; somehow it's still before the class is in full swing. I peel winter layers off him. He walks into the class and I help him find a friend and activity to start in on. He immediately remembers another of his routines that he needs, another habit that helps in his transition from home to school.
"I need to go to the window and wave goodbye to you."
"Of course," I say. First a hug and a kiss, then I'll go out the door and he'll head to the window. From the front steps I will see him. He usually stands there, waving, tears in his eyes. I usually climb down the stairs and turn to find him still waving, then move to the sidewalk and turn to see him still waving. I usually find him still waving every time I look and I smile and I wave and blow kisses.
Usually.
Today I leave through the door and he's in the window, smiling and waving. No tears. And as I'm still in the process of waving myself, he smiles and turns and heads away from the window. I climb down the stairs and turn and check the still empty window, the window I knew to be empty. I check and I stare and I wonder who it is that has trouble with transitions.
What keeps me from working on my writing? Yeah, pretty much this:
My review is now up at Popmatters: here.
A preview:
Imagine you are waiting tables at a wedding reception. You wander among the tables, filling glasses and laying down plates of food. You are likely to hear snippets of conversation, most likely about the bride and groom, about their families, about their past, their plans, their future. What you hear will likely be out of context, sometimes probably even incorrect, contradictory. The groom works for a bank. No, he's in real estate. The bride may or may not be done with medical school. An uncle--his, hers, you didn't hear--may be an alcoholic. Or is he just melancholic?You finish serving the guests. You go home. You think about the newlyweds. Would you say you know them, or learned much about them? Would you even be able to recall from whom you obtained your "facts"?
John Ortved wants your answer to be "yes". He wants this to be your answer because the style in which he has written The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History is "an oral history". In other words, 99 per cent of his book is direct quotes from the people involved. This style of reportage, quote after quote after quote, produces an exhausting book that does little to expand on the idea that (news flash!) television is a collaborative business with massive egos involved.
