“A woman must have money and a room of one’s own if she is to write fiction.“                                – Virginia Woolf, 1929

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Most writers and consumers of the written word are quite familiar with this quote. The words reflect the situation of most creative women in the early 20th century. Although the world is, overall, a better place for women nowadays, I find the statement still to be at least partially true.

I would make these changes to the original quote:

“A woman must have her own money, privacy, time, and a room of one’s own with a lock on the door if she is to be free to create anything that might express her honest feelings, innermost thoughts, or the truth. And maybe consider not showing your work to anyone.”

“A room of one’s own” to me, equates to a place to express yourself freely, without trepidation, distraction, or interruption. Elements that are elusive and rare, especially today.

Assuming one has such a haven for self-expression, God forbid the work falls into the wrong hands; under the eyes of those who aren’t capable or willing to understand the elucidation of the artist’s truth. Eyes of those who possess an underlying agenda or issue that, at its root, has nothing to do with the artist or the work. Writers, as well as all artists, are constantly being scrutinized, judged, blamed, and shamed in today’s society. It is difficult to properly express oneself if we are constantly on guard.

“A prophet is without honor only in his hometown, among his relatives, and in his own home.” – Jesus Christ, Mark 6:4

Those of us with the creative spirit know that we have no choice but to spill our viscera and arrange it in an artistic and aesthetic manner, otherwise, well… being around us will not be a pleasant experience. But if we’re too honest and the entrail arrangement isn’t pleasing enough –  toughen up that skin! Stuff those feelings! Suffer in silence.

Suffer. silence…

When one feels they are being creatively restrained for the sake of others’ feelings or beliefs, imaginary demons, or personal delusions, the artist might become resentful or repressed. Those results have a negative effect on both the artist and the art, particularly if what is being created is therapeutic or cathartic to the artist. We believe what we believe, feel what we feel, love whom we love, we despise what we despise, and express ourselves the only way we know how. That is a truth that cannot be changed. Should not be changed.

“Be truthful, one would say, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.” – Virginia Woolf

In Virginia Woolf’s day, women were looked upon differently in society as they are today. Or so it might seem. It was a man’s job to be imaginative, to create fiction? Really? Was it considered a brave thing for a woman to take on such a lofty task as fabricating a story from thin air?

Today, it seems the opposite is true. It is widely acceptable for women to write fiction. In fact, fictional book series seem to be the de rigueur for female authors. But a woman who has written a memoir or journal of her own experiences – I’m thinking of Mary Karr, Patti Smith, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Hyperbole and a Half author genius/blogger Allie Brosh – they seem to have to work a little bit more arduously to be taken as seriously (or to sell as many books) as, say Bill O’Reilly (who actually just makes up shit and people lap it up), Chris Kyle (American Sniper), or the neverending list of male authors of the plethora of tomes about male politicians and other male figures in history.  Even among the examples I have listed, it is difficult for a female author who writes non-fiction not to be accused of navel-gazing or being self-indulgent for telling her story, warts and all. And that sucks.

For us, the modern artist, we still have a choice to make. Be authentic or be careful. Personally, I can’t do both. I’ve never been one not to take risks or speak my mind.

“Freedom and fullness of expression are of the essence of the art.”  – Virginia Woolf

It used to seem huge. Neverending acres to explore.  A hill, a meadow, a park. And it was all right outside my back door. Memories of being barefoot, standing on the scorching concrete porch, unable to reach the doorknob. I couldn’t have been more than 3.

Everything seemed so clear and bright. The colors were so brilliant and vivid. Everything new and fresh. Nothing looks that way anymore. The flowers, the cool moist grass between my bare toes. Watch out for bees! They like the clover. Ancient and massive trees. One gave us plums. Another, peaches. There was even one that offered a bounty of wild cherries. We ate them like they were ambrosia, fingers and lips stained bloody red. The long fence line was lavish with wild honeysuckle. Pick the flower, gently nibble the tiny green end of the stem – careful, don’t break it -pull, and if you were skilled and delicate enough, you would end up with a drop of the nectar of the gods to place upon your tongue.

Hours and hours we spent there. Hot summer days when we shared lunch with our friends -whoever happened to be around. Sandwiches, hot dogs on the grill, peanut butter and saltines. Kool-aid. Popsicles. The moms, they basked like lizards in the sun. In the days before sunscreen. The swing set. The metallic smell on your hands after holding the chains. Camping expeditions, mansions made of refrigerator boxes. Dad spending the night sleeping on a lawn chair so we could rough it. Warm nights catching fireflies in mayonnaise jars, playing hide and seek, Mother may I, red light green light.

Cool, crisp cotton sheets, having dried in the breeze, caressing my freshly bathed sunkissed skin. No worries, no stress, only the peaceful slumber of a child.

Roller skating on the cement garage floor that I pretended was my private ice rink. Creating song and dance routines on the patio. I just knew I was somehow meant for the stage. Everyone said so.

Put down that book and go play outside in the sunshine. You’ll get pale. Compromise. Outside, I read the book in the shade.

Best friends sitting in a cool patch of clover, making flower crowns to wear in our long chestnut and blonde hair, princesses searching for the lucky, mutant ones. Talking about the older girls and how we couldn’t wait until we were old enough to wear make-up and date boys.

Those days would come soon enough. In the blink of an eye.

Now we were basking like lizards in the sun, reading Seventeen magazine and Judy Blume books, slathered with Hawaiian Tropic, wearing our string bikinis. My favorite one looked like macrame, very bohemian for a small town girl. Gossip, laughter, music from the FM radio playing out the bedroom window. Sugar-free lemonade and Tab. Sometimes we would even sneak a cigarette.

Standing in the kitchen near the door, leaning on the cabinet pretending to talk to my mom. It was really just an elaborate ruse so I could watch the cutest boy I had ever seen mowing the lawn behind ours. He always saw me, I always saw him, and we both pretended we didn’t. Later, he became my first real boyfriend. What were the odds of that ruse paying off? Someday he and I will reminisce about our shy, teenage ritual. He left way too early. But he is always near.

The backyard is different now. An addition added to the house, plus a tiny house they call the shop take up a lot of the space. The clover is covered with stone and moss like you would see in an English garden. Artful and painstaking beautiful. Less maintenance, they say.

But it will never be as beautiful as it was when it was filled with kids, laughter, and music. Splashing in a plastic pool. The creak of the swing set. Sunbathing moms and happy, carefree teenagers. Now only echoes and the lingering vestige of the memories our backyard still holds. Because it is so rich with history, it will always be one of the most precious places of my life. I can close my eyes and again, I’m that chestnut haired little girl wearing a crown of flowers.

Or this kid:

This may be the only photo in existence of me in a bikini. Age 16, summer before my senior year in high school.

Warning: Slightly political, but mostly a rant about dillholes.

God, how I hate election years. Mainly because I LOATHE attack ads by anyone in any party for any reason.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I made my decision months ago.  I don’t need to see muck-raking, slanderous, bullying broadcasts on television during every commercial break. Do these people (excuse me, their PACs) really believe that they are going to garner votes based on who is the biggest bastard?  (Yes, they do and yes, they do.)

That shit doesn’t fly with me. I want a President, not someone who  could pass as a guest on The Gary Springer Show, in MY White House. Not a neo-Nazi. Not a Dominionist. Not a racist. Not a misogynist. Really, is that too much to ask?

About those attack ads: if a candidate (or their PAC – thanks, Citizens United) should make mention or feature an image of their competition in their ads, the attack ad should be deemed slanderous and ILLEGAL. If a candidate can’t run a civil campaign based on their own policies, ideas, merit, and experience, they have absolutely NO business running for office and creating a clusterfuck like we’re witnessing today.  That’s not freedom of speech. It borders on hate speech. As my mama would say “showing your ass”.  Idiocracy brought to full fruition.

The same with using religion to lure voters. “Come to Jesus. Vote for me.”  As any real Chrisitan (someone who follows Christ’s teachings) or student of religion would know, using religion to sell is actually the very example of taking the Lord’s name in vain – using God for power and your own selfish gains.  The Constitution plainly states in Article VI, Clause 3, that there should be no religious tests for our leaders. If the candidate is going to run on the Jesus platform, again, they have no business running for office.  Go start a mega-church and leave the rest of us alone. You’ll make more money and still get to boss around multitudes of followers.

Although, I must say that I do get a kick out of the Ted Cruz ad featuring Trump hiking up his britches so high that you see the outline of his package. I laugh ever time. Kudos to whoever found that footage.

The one that gets under my skin the most, however, is the “dangerous time” ad produced by Marco Rubio’s ass-milliner, Conservative Solutions PAC.

This one:

Particularly the quote by the National Review calling Marco “The Democrat’s worst nightmare.”

Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself, pretty boy. This life-long Liberal is not one bit afraid of you.  I have proven I can maneuver myself in boots with 5-inch heels and a mini-dress during high winds. I believe I could certainly kick your dandy ass in your two-inch heels. Not being totally contentious, I will say I liked those boots. Very fashion-forward.

Now that we have the obligatory dick-measuring contest out of the way (I won!), I can tell you what does frighten me about this election cycle and the past eight years.  It is the decline of American civility that has taken place since we elected a black president. Gun sales have sky-rocketed, hate groups have proliferated, and people are just disrespectful, rude, and mean to each other.  It is the simple fact that a presidential candidate – who, if elected, will serve ALL the country – not just those in their party, is bragging about being any American’s worst nightmare. Shamefull and short-sighted. And WTF?

United we stand, divided we fall. Unity. Collaboration. Cooperation. A little empathy would be nice. Literally practice what you preach, or better yet, don’t preach at all.  Those are the things that have made our country what it was – yes I said was. If you look around with honest, open eyes, it seems as though our country that has been shot to hell, thanks in part, to vicious obstructionists, heavily biased media, and unfortunately, a segment of the population to whom facts simply do not matter.  You want to make our country great again? Don’t vote for neo-fascist, control freak assholes. And change the channel once in a while. Read something.

Rubio’s PAC ad also features an endorsement from walking toilet/fat joke Rush Limbaugh, calling Marco a “Disciple of Reagan.”  Oh, really?  Aside from the oh-so-subtle religious connotation and the fact that Ronald Reagan was not, in fact, Jesus, this is a very interesting comment. That is if you take the time to do some reading and research about President Reagan.

Here are a few points about his presidential career that would make the Ronald Reagan of the ’80s look like a left-centrist Democrat (or as they say “a Libtard”)  in today’s political atmosphere:

• Reagan enacted the Tax Equity and Fiscal Responsibility Act of 1982 – the largest tax hike in modern history.
• Reagan tripled the national debt AND grew the government.
• As governor of California, Reagan legalized abortion.
• Reagan gave amnesty and citizenship to 3 million undocumented immigrants.
• Reagan supported a ban on the further manufacture of military-style assault weapons. He also signed into law the Firearms Owners Protection Act. This act protected 2nd Amendment rights but it also banned ownership of fully automatic assault rifles that were not registered by the time the law was signed.
• Reagan supported the Brady Bill, which required background checks and a waiting period for potential gun buyers.

If Rubio is truly a disciple of Ronald Reagan, then I want to see him take Reagan’s stance on THOSE issues.

Meanwhile, I will be recording all network televison programs and watching them on a 15 minute delay. That is why God created the fast-forward button.

There has been a lot of chatter about the new film The Witch: A New England Folktale. For good reason. At first blush, perhaps due to the way the marketing is perceived and the type of movie most horror fans want, the audience is expecting your standard horror movie about, well, a witch.

Oh, but this film is so much more. There’s nothing ordinary or formulaic about this film. Not to say that it isn’t terrifying. From the very first frame, a sense of dread sets in and doesn’t leave. I’m still thinking about it and putting together connections. My 15-year-old and I saw it and we both admitted we thought about it all the next day.

To See or Not To See…

I had written an in-depth review citing all the symbolism, metaphors, compared it to other art-house horror films, the director and all of his research, the period authenticity, blah, blah, blah. Then I read it – meh, no.

What people want to know from a film review is this – Will I like it, and should I see it?

Here’s the thing. The Witch can be a polarizing experience.  Some people love it, others, not so much.

If you like a film that makes you think a lot, leads you to read and research some of the symbolism, leaves you feeling not quite sure how to interpret it and a bit unsettled, then this one is for you. If you like spotting imagery used in literature (the Bible, for instance), Puritanism, works of art, and traditional folktales, go.  If you liked The Babadook, It Follows, The Shining,  Picnic At Hanging Rock, and particularly The White Ribbon, see it in the theater. You’re going to want to talk about it with someone else who has seen it and is on the same level of film-geekiness. This is the reason we, the film nerds of the world, go to the movies. We wait years for films like this. Bonus: There a goat named Black Phillip.

If you prefer films like Annabelle, The Conjuring, Mama (all three I LOVED); something with a less difficult narrative, like Saw or The Purge, then wait for streaming or On Demand. You might be surprised how much you like The Witch, though.

So that’s it. No spoilers. None of me showing off my extensive knowledge of film, no pretentious pontificating.  🙂   I’m sure you can decide for yourself.

Have fun!!!

The trailer:

Fashions come and fashions go. Being a 25-year-old in a none-of-your-business aged body, of course I want to be in style and not look like I shop in the Koret’s separates department. Nor do I want to look like a teen prostitute. It can be a fine line to walk.

If you follow trends, looks like this spring my beloved skinny jeans are going the way of the dinosaur, replaced by mom jeans (what sadist thought THAT was a good idea?) and bell bottoms (yes, I have already bought some).  But for the most part, you will still find me in my skinny jeans because 1) I’m short and they don’t swallow me or come up to my neck 2) they hug my legs, which are still in pretty good shape, and 3) they make my ass look great, if I do say so myself.  I’m way too old for those butt-cheek showing shorts that are everywhere in the summer. I never wore those when I could have pulled it off.  I’ll be sticking to my 5″ Old Navys and Gaps, thank you very much.  That’s pretty daring for most women my age.

I’m also very protective of my Uggs. Fashion “experts”, bloggers, and fashion magazines have for years been saying they’re not in style anymore. They’ve always said they’re ugly, unflattering, bulky unless you wear them with a mini-skirt and naked legs.  So now they tell us we’re all supposed to prance around in $1,000+ heels, regardless of the weather. Those fashionistas know nothing about living in the real world, apparently. It gets cold where I live. It snows where I live.  I don’t have a driver or a doorman, so you will never see me running errands in Blahniks, Zanottis, or Louboutins.  Actually, you will never see those on my feet. Even if I had an unlimited budget, there’s no way I would pay that much for a pair of shoes. Think of all the good that money could do put toward a worthy cause. Absurd!

You know what’s NOT in style – frost-bitten toes, bitches!

So, during the fall and winter, I will be sticking to my trusty Uggs. Granted they’re not glued to my feet – I’m still fashion-forward enough to follow trends within reason. But when there’s snow and slush on the ground and the temperature is in the teens, you can bet MY feet are going to be warm and toasty tucked into the luxurious, furry comfort of my Uggs. No magazine editor or red-carpet critic is going to shame me. Because I just don’t care.

Out of style or not -if you want me to stop wearing them, you will have to pry them off my snug and cozy dead feet. That’s MY kind of 2nd Amendment.