Here is an excerpt from what I'm reading today to help stay calm and not obsess over over this.

"And they are at large! Blisters appear upon the skin, enlarge, coalesce, blast, leaving brownish puddles in the declivities. You are becoming gravy. Arriving for the banquet late, of course, and all the more ravenous for it, are the twin sisters Calliphora and raucous Lucilia, the omnipresent greenbottle flies, their costumes metallic sequins. Their thousands of eggs are laid upon the meat, and soon the mess is wav with the humped creamy backs of maggots nosing, crowding, hungrily absorbed. Gray sprays of fungus sprout in the resulting marinade, and there lacks only a mushroom growing from the nose."

- Richard Selzer, "The Corpse" from Mortal Lessons

<3

If only all my research texts were so poetically written. Heh. It also reminds me that when I wrote about digging up a grave in my last book, I was much much cleaner than I could have been. I didn't mention maggots at all.

I've been discussing violence in novels (specifically YA, but it's more widely applicable than that) in several places this past week. At the Flycon panel I participated in last week, on fangs_fur_fey, with m_stiefvater, and over on her blog where she put up some arguments about it yesterday.

Here's my not-so-secret confession: I love writing violence and gore.

If I'm honest, I do it because it can be its own reward. Sprays of blood fill me with glee and I am rarely so bouncy as when I get to write things like His heart was hot and heavier than I expected. Cupping it in my palms, I walked up the stairs. His blood ran down my forearms and pooled at my elbows before dripping onto my skirts or Blood stained the floor behind her like blotches of melted candy. It's fun. And sick. But mostly fun.

However, that isn't enough. Just like every character, every scene, every word has to have purpose, so does the gore. If one drop of blood will suffice, then there is no excuse for a gallon. And here's the kicker: violence is no replacement for good, old-fashioned emotional suffering. Angst is better than physical pain. Tears better than blood.

I have to be responsible for what I want to put into the hands of YA readers. That doesn't mean sheltering them. It doesn't mean not occasionally reveling in some well-placed and fantastic violence or ignoring the fact that getting shot or stabbed causes excessive bleeding, or that five-day old corpses might be bloated and green and nasty. It means knowing why I'm writing what I'm writing, and believing that it only enhances the emotional thread of the story.

There's a scene in one of my novels where the main character kills a rabbit in order to harvest its blood for her magic. It's slightly gratuitous and I'll admit I had fun writing it. But I knew the whole time that the scene was necessary to show the reader AND the mc what she was willing to do and capable of doing. The scene is about her psyche - it's about sacrifice and desperation. Not about murdering a poor little bunny. The best way for me to display that layer of story was to throw in some violence. It allows her to have a visceral reaction (and hopefully the reader, too). And that visceral reaction is the end point - the purpose. It's what we're always going for as storytellers. Some of us (me!) use blood and guts to get there. It's part of my style.

I have a deal with myself: never keep violence in a wip that doesn't have a good reason for being there, where "good" equals character or thematic development. If its only plot, there isn't any need for gruesome. There isn't any need for my glee to show.

But sometimes the characters and themes are directly related to violence. Think of fairy tales for some good examples of horrific violence intrinsically linked to theme. (Little Red Riding Hood, The Little Mermaid, Rapunzel - there's eye-gouging, murder, cannibalism right there in those cautionary tales for kids).

m_stiefvater brought up Pan's Labyrinth as an example of extreme violence that, for her, was occasionally distracting. It's a perfect example, because all of the violence is related to character or theme. The first massive act of violence (the bottle scene - if you know the movie, you know what I'm talking about) is so sudden, and so shocking and unnecessary-seeming that it can turn a person completely off the movie. But it tells you almost everything you need to know about the Captain, the perpetrator of the violence. Ten minutes in and you know he's cruel, ruthless, and sees the world in black and white - and he has no mercy or pity for those who break rules. In fact, he'll sacrifice an innocent man to prove a point to his soldiers.

Plus, as an audience, you know what you're in for. Time to strap in or bail.

In the original Little Mermaid, the mermaid's tongue is cut out. And when she walks she feels the pain of sharp knives against her feet. Compare that to Disney's version, which although sweet, lacks the emotional impact of Anderson's original tale. Not only because the mermaid dies in the end, but because she struggles so much - the violence directly enhances her emotional journey. It makes us believe in her love.

When I rewrote the story for An Infinite Thread, I went the opposite way of Disney. I emphasized the agony of the mermaid's transformation from fish to girl because it meant more to me. It made her character and her determination stronger. More real. Sometimes, blood has to be shed.

My overall point is that there's a place for violence in YA novels (and all stories), and it's important. It can reveal character, enhance emotion, highlight themes. Hopefully, all three. It can't replace emotion or identification, but it can be the crux of transformation. It can be beautiful, it can be a counterpoint to whimsy, or a bright red stoplight warning us of danger.

And in the end, the only thing I have to worry about is that I'm being responsible for my depictions of it: responsible to myself, to the story, and to my audience.


images thanks to Spartacus and The Little Mermaid

Remember on Tuesday when I schooled myself about experimenting for the sake of Teh Art?

My subconscious has other ideas.

Last night as I cooked enchiladas for dinner, I was also talking with nataliesee and chatting online with brennayovanoff. Not wise, perhaps, but I rarely make that claim. I recently sharpened all my kitchen knives (with one of the best Christmas presents ever), and as I'm cutting and talking the blade slipped and sliced straight into my forefinger. (The same one as before.)

Eep! I put down the knife (cussed) and watched as blood immediately began dripping. It didn't hurt at all (woo sharp knife!) and I turned on the sink. Just then, the ping of the G-Chat alerted me that I was still supposed to be chatting with Brenna. Still observing the growing splash of blood, I begged Natalie to chat to Brenna why I was ignoring her.

And the following conversation must be recorded for posterity.


Natalie: Hey Brenna - this is Natalie - Tess just cut her finger and is bleeding so she can't chat at the moment.

Brenna: okay. Sorry, I distracted her!

Natalie: She does say that she thinks what you said is awesome and you should write a post about it.

Brenna: hahaha

Natalie: Oh, it's ok. She cut herself while I was tlking to her. :(

Brenna: so it's your fault, not mine

Natalie: Now she's crowing about blood magic. And yeah. All mine, but I think she really likes it.

Brenna: :D

Natalie: She's describing to me how the blood is sliding through the cracks of her skin

Brenna: oh god, that's gross! Tell her that's gross

Natalie: totally. she's giggling. I did. She says she needs to revise her ms now

Brenna: to include the exquisite sensation?

Natalie: Yeah. I think....

(a few moment's later, after running cold water over my finger so I could watch it all well up again, I got back to the laptop and continued.)

Me: I just have to describe that the blood actually uses the little lines of my fingerprint to spread out. it's awesome. really really awesome.

Brenna: like gullies and fissures in the desert!

Me: yes!!! exactly

Brenna: it's a tiny microcosmic flash flood!

Me: heheeh. fortunately, my skin is not being dragged away by the force of the water though. A flash-flood crater would suck.

This is going to seem like another excuse for me to talk about my boyfriend. And it totally is.* ;)

After breaking my novel down onto virtual notecards and an outline yesterday, I was just about braindead. We caught dinner with my mom, bought some books, and came home to watch our brand new DVD of REPO! The Genetic Opera.

It was late (for me) and I was sleepy, so the movie sort of just flowed over me and sank even further into my brain, and I got to thinking about it on a more philosophical level. Although the movie hits a lot of my buttons** the one thing about it that I appreciate not only as a fan but as a creative person is that the filmmakers seem to have a totally silly, yet take-no-prisoners attitude.

Somebody said, "I want to make an opera set in a post-apocalyptic fantasy world where repossessing organs is legal." And then they did it, and didn't let anything get in the way of following the story to its end point. (PLUS they don't take themselves too seriously.)

Even though the logical end point includes gore, lots of death, ridiculous plot twists (not to mention the huge holes and purposefully murky motivations common in opera), and a laughable epilogue, they went for it.

I could pick out themes and meaningful commentary if I wanted to*** but it isn't necessary when looking for a reason to appreciate the storytelling. Sure, the narrative is choppy and the character reactions extreme (and that's a genre thing - when was the last time you understood the plot intricacies or the melodrama at the opera?).

BUT.

There is no fear in this movie. This guy makes his living repossessing organs? Let's have him dance with a victim, then, the shove his hand up the victim's bloody sternum and use him as a puppet for a duet. That girl feels trapped? Let's have her collect weird bugs and dress like a baby doll. Let's have faces literally fall off and tempers lead to bloody consequences and why bother hiding the connections between drugs and death and sex and violence? The connections are there, so we might as well revel in them, like in one of my favorite scenes, when the 17 year old protagonist rebels against her dad and suddenly her clothes change, her hair and her attitude change, and she sings a loud, rocking punk song that perfectly depicts her inner world in that moment.

It's the fearless revelry that ties it all together for me. They don't take one thread and run with it, leaving the rest in a groundless whirlpool or boring realism. They take every thread and flee in all directions and somehow that really works for me. If one part had been hesitating, just one part less over the top it all would have suddenly crumbled into senseless, mindless chaos.

So, that's my point: don't be afraid. Because I'm a writer, I think in writing terms, and if I'm going to tell a story about blood magic, I'd better pick my tropes and know my genre and squeeze every last drop out of them. If I hold anything back, maybe a reader won't believe any of it. Readers know when we're lying or being superficial.

And the same goes if you're going to tell a story about faerie rock stars living in NYC, or a rebel army in outer space, or an art historian who discovers the real secrets of the Virgin Mary, or a vampire who falls in love with a teenage girl. Take the risks, fling yourself off that cliff, even if it seems like insanity or like nobody is going to want to read it.

And maybe, maybe that's what Stephanie Meyer did right with TWILIGHT. She had this idea about sparkling vampires and she ran with it. She didn't let go of this crazy idea and she followed it to the gruesome, ridiculous completion. In the process, she hit a legion of hearts: both for and against. She didn't waver from the purpose of the story. Maybe that's success.

I feel like I should have some sort of conclusion, but I don't. Other than to say, REPO! is not for everyone. But I am hard pressed to think of ways to make it more perfect for my tastes. :D



* but it's also more of my never-ending (apparently) quest to understand the Twilight Phenominon.

** opera singing, sexy rock baritones, gothic sensibilities, post-apocalyptic mayhem, dark lipstick, blood and guts, etc

*** starting with the obviously ridiculous idea that a corporation can own your body to the point of being able to murder you to retrieve their property, which is not that difficult to imagine being possible in this capitalistic, greedy society. And also, destiny vs. choice. LOTS of destiny vs choice, and choosing against your genetic destiny.

I had a crappy day yesterday, at work, with my writing, and in general.

So I went home, turned on VAST, and pounded it out on the treadmill. Then I immediately wrote 600 words of bloody, violent fiction that I will probably post at merry_fates on Wednesday.

I felt better.

Odin says: If after twenty minutes dicking around with it you can't figure out what the purpose of a scene is, maybe there isn't one, and you should delete it and move on.

Right. Every scene must: forward plot or forward character, preferably both. Don't waste time wasting time.


Also, sometimes internet research leads to the most awesome things. But beware, there's real photos of death and intestines beyond that link. Alas, my google-fu failed me when I tried to find out what coagulated blood feels like if you stick your hand in it. Because apparently I'm the only one who, if confronted by a pool of blood or say, a Tupperware container of blood, would want to touch it before anything else. And then blog about it. People cook with blood, yet, no one has described the texture and process in English that I can find. Boo.

ps. Dear FBI, I'm writing a novel. Swear.

On Sunday, at the Kansas City Renaissance Festival where I work on the weekends, the Princess Mary Tudor and her husband Charles Brandon graciously invited Madam Red's Brothel to join them at the five o'clock Joust To The Death.

How could those of us unattached to the Royal Cigar Smoker resist the lure of charming knights riding strong horses with their lances cocked upright and ready?

Not to mention the blood.

AWESOME. Of course, sitting on the dais meant the thirty-foot spray of arterial hemorrhaging was less visible, but that was made up for by the expressions on the jousters' faces when they turned to salute the royalty and found Madam, Mistress Ingver, and I bowing and waving back. It was golden.

Princess Mary allowed me to bestow her favor upon Sir Thomas's lance. THAT, my friends, was a moment to remember. He rode toward the dais, lowered his lance (barely managing to control his expression). I slid the tight ring over the tip and walked down the length of the shaft with it, trailing the blue, black, and silver tassels behind.

Our invitation has been extended, and I do look forward to returning. Perhaps I'll see some guts next time - as I've been assured that sometimes one of the knights is eviscerated. Delicious!

*EDIT* I totally forgot to add that when the knights were being introduced, we were told along with the audience that Sir Thomas, Hammer of Justice, Sword of God (aka the Good Guy) saved thirty-seven babies from a burning orphanage.

And Sir Geoffrey, Satan's Own (aka the Bad Guy), burned down a nunnery. We did NOT hear exactly what he did with the nuns. It was left to our more than capable imaginations. :D

Because I was so tired, yesterday was an EPIC FAIL as far as writing is concerned.

So this morning I got up and wrote this for my Wed Fic at merry_fates. There's satire and severed-finger-confetti. Seriously. What's not to love?

It's part of my continuing quest to explore that age-old question: what REALLY makes a monster fall in love?

(hint: not freesia or selflessness)

So, thewakingself is my new favorite internet friend (and not *only* because she reads my writing!) because she keeps track of her gripes with the latest blockbuster YA Epic Fail like this, so she can later post about them in all their gory details:



Which is rather like the way I take research notes.

She asked a question about the hero (in the loosest sense of the term), Edward. He's technically a vampire, but he doesn't drink human blood. And he doesn't really angst about it (like this other famous whiney vampire I could name) at all. thewakingselfasked if Edward is really a vampire. Is he? Can a vampire be a vampire if he or she doesn't drink blood?

Isn't that the whole point?

I think vampires these days get a bad rap for one main reason: they can be absolutely anything and still *technically* vampires. There are a hundred variations of this basic theme I've read. I've read vampires that can walk in the sun, vampires that aren't really dead, vampires that survive on artificial blood. Vampires that are so human you can't tell they're vampires just by looking at them.

That sucks.

I feel like when I say I like vampires, I have to qualify that with "I like scary vampires" or "I like dark, evil vampires who aren't afraid of anything but Jesus Christ and sunlight."

The vampires as romantic hero is the worst. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind them sexy. (But then I think this vampire is sexy. It's my kink, ok?) In general, I don't even mind a relatively unevil vampire as the romantic interest in a novel. I mean, if you want any chance of a happy ending (which is necessary in the romance genre) you kind of have to make your hero not totally evil.

What really chaps my ass is when you have vampires that are vampires because it's cool and makes the book UF or fantasy or horror - and if you made the same characters human, the book would hardly change at all. I want my vampire intrinsic to the story, absolutely un- divorceable from the themes or characterization or metaphor.

It's the difference between a Vampire Novel and a Romance/Action/Horror/UF Novel With Vampires.

Get it? I'm a vampire girl, but not just any vampire will do it for me. Give me well-written, nasty, blood-thirsty, burn-to-a-crisp vampires. Please.

Examples:

SUNSHINE by Robin McKinley
PEEPS by Scott Westerfield
THE NIGHT WATCH by Sergei Lukyanenko (also a FAB vampire movie)
TALE OF THE BODY THIEF by Anne Rice

Back to writing my (sadly devoid of vampires) Wednesday Fiction.

First links:

- A gross, hilarious, delicious claymation-zombie short, Chainsaw Maid. Via rougewench. I know some of you reading will love this piece of unmitigated bloodletting. (I'm looking at you, mdhenry.)

- Why I only get Orson Scott Card's books from the library these days. From the Mormon Times, State Job is not to Redefine Marriage, suggesting that married people will rise up against the government to protect the sanctity of their rights. With guns. Did you know heterosexuality "is a permanent fact of nature"? As Elizabeth Bear said in her blog, this is almost endearing in its certainty, and no one should tell him about the penguins.

Now, the highlights of one of my dreams last night:

I was trying to teach a class about something (theater, writing, reading - something artsy that I've done in my life), and in the third section I was getting frustrated because the students (of various ages) weren't actively participating. One student spoke up and pretty much led a coup. I was ousted, though they voted to allow me to stay and learn if I wanted to. They were going to act out scenes from The Simpsons. I opted to go. So I was wandering the basement of this dark, concrete complex, raging to myself. I couldn't find an elevator that went up to the 16th floor (where my room was) so I couldn't get to my computer or books or anything. I decided to take the lift to the 13th floor, and see if any of the elevators THERE went up to 16.

I get there, and am lured into a lounge by the smell of clove cigarettes and brandy. There's laughter and some jazz playing through crackling speakers. I went to the bar, grabbed a snifter, and glanced around. A group of guys was clustered at two low, round tables in the corner, and they waved me over. I joined them, and we chatted for a while, telling jokes and generally shooting shit. I was on my third glass of brandy when I slowly began to realize that one of the guys was Justin Timberlake (sexy!) with a close-cropped beard and little gangster hat. We shared a cigar and were generally lording it over everyone else, making them sing and entertain us. I thought, wow, I'm glad I got kicked out of my own seminar! And, why isn't chernobylred here?

SIGN: As I was adding a touch of cream to my delicious iced coffee this morning, I jammed the straw up into the roof of my mouth. It scraped off a layer of skin far in the back where the tip of my tongue and fingers can't reach. There's a loose flap of skin tickling the back of my tongue and my throat is filled with the misty taste of copper. Every time I swallow (that pesky involuntary reaction) the wound aches.

I'm not one to complain about a nice ache or the gentle taste of blood under normal circumstances. But I just can't ignore it. The tickle! I'm not sure what this is a sign of. But thus far I am being annoyed by something that I usually enjoy.

NOTE: Despite what most of my recent railing might suggest, I love to write. Stringing words together, arguing with myself over the perfect word, the best phrase, passive versus active, broken infinitives, alliteration... I love it. I wouldn't do it if I didn't. I wouldn't stress myself out so much, wouldn't ache and whine and cry. Even the moments of doubt and fury are exhilarating.

Like being bombarded by cold wind from all sides. Knowing you could spread out your arms and relax your muscles, but all the tempestuous forces would keep you on your feet. That's writing.

You need a skilled surgeon, first of all. And a lot of drugs.

You know there's something wrong. Your stomach hurts a little and you occasionally have intestinal cramps. From the outside, you look fine. No bruising yet, no visible wounds. People who meet you on the street wouldn't know you aren't in perfect shape. Your friends might notice you limping slightly, or that your voice sounds raw. But it's just a little cold or your period and you'll get over it. They suggest remedies, and most of the teas and particular exercises make you feel better for a while.

But there's that nagging feeling that deep inside, there's something wrong. Your bones are strong, you eat well, put work into your health - a little every day. But, but, but.

So you go to your doctor and explain. They make suggestions, but nothing makes that twist in your gut go away. You are convinced that although you might be mostly healthy, at some unknown point the twist will clench and all the cells in your body will unravel. You'll die.

You try more doctors - second, third, a fourth opinion. They're all competent, but they can't find the twist. They can't figure out why your breathing is off when your lungs are fine and all the tests they run don't reveal the cause of that twisting cramp.

Then, when you've almost decided to just live with it, your best friend's cousin's nephew suggests this wiz surgeon who just started up on the East Coast and thanks to the wonders of the Internet you make contact. The first meeting is promising, and everything you read about this doctor suggests you'll get on. So you take the leap and ship yourself out to her.

Carefully, respectfully, she investigates. A-ha! I think it's your cardio-vascular system! That explains the breathing issues and the numbness in your fingertips! she says. Let's open you up so I can show you exactly where the problems are - because you know, this sort of heart issue you have to fix yourself.

And you do know.

You drift into half-sleep while the surgeon slices you open. She shows you the bright colors inside, and in your dream state they shine like jewels. The rotten parts glow green and she deftly points, drawing connections between them and digging deeper until you suddenly understand. You know what happened, and you see the solutions.

The surgeon lets you leave the hospital with your skin cut open and your guts held in by a thin silver net. You are filled with urgency, excitement, love. Your body is vulnerable, but it has to be before you can get to the heart and start it pumping again, before you can move that frisky womb back where it belongs, or reattach the ear that wandered down to your elbow.

Blood drips wherever you step, and it hurts. The drugs have to wear off so you can feel everything. You ache and there are sharp pains when you bend your knees or laugh too hard.

But that doesn't last forever.

Soon, you will catch up with yourself.

And then you send the surgeon a Thank You card.