your back hurts. i know because i’m you. you sit at the computer all day jerking and twisting, your neck throbbing and aching, and your fingers twitching and spasming. writing means sitting. and sitting means paining and complaining. we weren’t meant to sit. we were meant to wander nomadically in search of leonard nimoy. besides, you should be spending your time tearing out your hair and wondering if your ideas are any good. back pain is taking away from your special insecurity time…

you need to go from ergoNOTic to ergonomic.

now, there’s a solution, and i’ve done the back-breaking research for you!

last april i enjoyed a girls weekend in seattle with my bffs. whilst whimsically whittling away the world, i happened to sit in the desk chair at the hotel. the sky opened up, light poured down, angels wept, and my body didn’t want to stop–sitting. the only problem was i couldn’t tell just what kind of magical chair this was. i couldn’t find a tag. a brand. nothing. as soon as perfect chair came into my life, it was taken from me. poof!

but back pain is a tricky thing. it leads one to be…persistent. so after a month of being home and broken and pining for the perfect chair, i called the hotel. not only did the lovely attendant know exactly what chair i was talking about–but she also informed that i wasn’t the first writer to call in and chase after it. apparently, the chair gets around. she gave me the info, and i was on the hunt like a hungry nomad with well-calloused footpads.

i was referred to du graf associates in seattle, where i was once again informed that i was not the first to drool for this chair. (it turned out it’s the chair they use day in and day out as well!) so just what is it about this crack chair? when you sit in it, it’s like someone putting gentle support all the way up your spine. what can i say? it’s the only chair that ever allowed me to have the perfect forward tilt for when one is in the writing position, say, for HOURS? plus it has all the bells and whistles. if you’re tall or tallish, i recommend the deep seat. that’s the #1 problem i find with most chairs; they don’t have enough seat for the long-legged.

deep seats? writing positions? strap on your seat belt because, yes, this is chair porn.

the bad news is that this chair is an investment (read: pricey). but if you have to sit (a lot), it’s worth the investment in your RIGHT NOW! and your future. And it comes with a life-sit warranty; i couldn’t be happier.

you can even pick your own fabric! i call mine the volturi chair because i got the voluta fabric but kept forgetting what it was called and saying volturi. did i mention it’s also the perfect chair for being turned into a vampire? why be uncomfortable when crossing over to the dark side? ha ha

okay, well, endorsement over. i don’t know if this is the right chair for you. i’m not being paid to say any of this. buy your own chair at your own discretion, etc. but if you write, if you sit, or if you compute, i’d at least give this chair a try, a sit, a chance, but do your own due diligence, too.

it’s also somewhat enviro friendly–less off-gassing and such. you can read all about it on their website. it’s the junior task chair. i got the 8561. not sure why it’s called junior because this chair is a BIG deal. it should be called WRITER!

chairy on…
~char out

i still think “the man from tallahassee” is one of the most brilliant episodes ever and an absolute work of art. the writing, directing, acting, just all pure and perfect. but i digress. as with lost…

in all fairness, the only thing that did bother me was the “no, they’re not dead” line we’d heard from them since the beginning. we all thought they were dead all along, and they kept saying, “no, it’s not that.” then, it turns out, with a slight twist–it’s EXACTLY that. annoying. but, hey, i’ll take annoying over mind-scrapingly idiotic reality shows any day.

i cried. of course. i mean they gave us all the romantic moments we’d been hoping for, though i still think the desmond/penny reunion on the boat was still the best. but i digress. as with lost…

they may not have come up with some totally unforeseeable ending that came out of lost field, but, c’mon, there are only so many possibilities, and at least it wasn’t a polar bear’s dream or an alien’s mind probe. and although i’m still not entirely sure how a sideways universe is different from a parallel universe, i found myself continuing to be invested, rooting for the characters, wanting them to make it. and that, my friends, is the writer’s job. and they did it. with love.

so, farewell, “lost,” you linear rebels, you walkers to the beat of your own drum. there will never be another you. except in my sideways universe.

heart, char

pain.

the belief that we are unacceptable, unlovable, unteachable, forever imperfect and disconnected.

but we’re not.

for a while now i’ve been trying to zero in on my personal philosophy, the tao of charlotte, so to speak. i’ve long said i don’t believe in god: i believe in good. we can all agree on that, can’t we?

and that’s still true. but it’s more than that. i suppose my belief that everything is within us if we’d only look and believe it’s there makes me a secular humanist by default. throw in a little of this and a little of that, and i guess like so many people have faith in a certain organized religion, i merely have faith in myself: that i am good. that i try to do the right thing. that i am whole, right now. above all, though, that self-evolution is what keeps one whole.

i guess that means that i also believe that so many people feel unwhole because they’ve given up their power to an idea or a religion or a belief or a person or their own little, negative voice inside their head screaming at them that they are bad and wrong and stupid that they have disconnected from themselves. that we are figuratively chasing our own soul’s tail, trying to grab back on and be whole once again.

but we don’t think we deserve it. so we drink. or eat. or fight. or hate. or war. or fuck. or die.

all so we don’t feel.

when feeling is what makes us so perfect. isn’t that funny?

i often talk about the universal sound of pain. it’s the thing i don’t get about people who abuse animals. whether it’s a baby or a dog or a cow or a tiger, there’s the sound of pain that tells us in the core of our souls that another creature is feeling pain. it’s an unbearable sound, if you have a conscience, so i guess serial killers are exempted from this beautiful warning not to cause pain, not to let pain continue.

so i get it. we don’t want pain. we’d rather hate ourselves than feel pain. but hating yourself in and of itself is a state of pain. so i ask you this: would you rather feel and have the momentary pain of self-growth, of evolution? or hate yourself and be in pain forever?

it is my opinion that if you are the wounded creature, it is, therefore, your duty not to cause this creature (you) more pain and not to let the pain continue.

so to you, wherever you are, whomever you are, whatever you have done, there is a seed of light in you. following it will make you feel whole again, worthy again, right again, good again. it isn’t “out there.” it isn’t a mystery. it stares at you every day in the mirror screaming, “when are you going to believe it?” but you think it can’t possibly be that easy. it must be hard, difficult, you must suffer, that’s the least you deserve.

no, the least you deserve is to see your own light. see it, and it will grow, and you will pass it on. and then maybe once we stop hating ourselves, we can stop hating each other.

the light isn’t just in you. You ARE the light. And when you have those sudden moments of painful, breathtaking beauty at being alive: when the sun hits a loved one’s face just right, and you think you can die right then and be happy. when a stranger does you a kindness wanting nothing in return. when you offer a creature mercy without attention. when you walk with the humble confidence that you deserve to bear the light–for it is both a duty and an honor–you will smile that peaceful smile that says, “here, i have more than enough light. want some?” and with each gift of light, the light grows. in you. in everyone.

and all you have to do is love and accept yourself.

so please treat yourself as you would a creature sounding the universal cry of pain: hear it, then heal it. lead with kindness–for yourself–and that will lead you to see your own light.

i know i’ve gone all kumbaya on you, but i think for some reason we never think to write these things down and share them. we can be soul-searching hermits and hoarders of life lessons.

so, if you can, take a tiny step toward the light. don’t be invisible. don’t hoard attention. you are worthy of love, acceptance, and peace. you have been all over looking for it, yet every day sad eyes look up at you from the mirror “there you are. why so sad? you bear the light. be kind to the light. the light is you.” so try to take ego out of the equation (that’s a journey–not a destination, btw) and decide to choose the light (the true self) over the pain (the lie the false self tells).

the light is enough.

okay, lecture over.

pass it on…

the thing about great art, great writing, is that it gives you a false sense of intimacy–as if the words were written for you alone. so, yeah, it feels like a good friend has been gone on a long trip, and i’m just now hearing that he’s decided not to come back; so i’m pouting. so goddam what?

although i’d waned in recent years, the catcher in the rye was one of those rare books i read annually. my friend cassandra summed it up best when she said, “the cather in the rye makes you want to be a boy.” yeah. i suppose it could have just been the miracle that is writing a character sympathetically, but for all of his failings, all of us were holden, in some way, perhaps for that very reason. you see yourself in the flaws and think, “if he can be that screwed up and still so lovely, perhaps there is hope for me.” perhaps: the very word itself a symbol of flickering hope. perhaps.

and something about the repetitive slang made it sexy. after reading it, everywhere i went, everything was goddam this and gorgeous that and crumby everything. it infected your soul and, therefore, your speech.

and who can judge for the need for solitude? despite all of the pitching and meetings and lunches that comprise the hollywood machine, what writers need most is solitude, time with their thoughts, their paper, their words. virginia knew. oscar knew. and so did salinger.

what else can i say? he passed peacefully with his wife by his side. perhaps there will be posthumous works, but, honestly, what can one expect after catcher? it is perfect. even if he spent the rest of his life playing tic tac toe, i’m good. i have catcher. free pass.

what else can i do but kick dirt, perform my best james dean forehead scrunch, and dig my hands deeper into my jean pockets? for crissakes, i feel gorgeously crumby, goddamit, okay?

then again, perhaps that friend isn’t so far, after all. perhaps i can visit him right now, and my side-smile will say it all. perhaps the real word for–and symbol of–hope isn’t “perhaps” at all but, quite simply: paperback; perhaps.

the music of the tinkling drops on the window transports me to my many jaunts to the u.k., especially the year i spent in nottingham as a student living as the locals do. so many bold memories. some memories fade and become hazy with the passing years, but my u.k. memories always seem to push and elbow their way forward; they are brash and dashing hooligans, indeed.

* being bundled up in every article of clothing i owned, fetal (and futile) in my sleeping bag, in bed with the heater on–and still cold. surprisingly, it still counts as a good memory.

* the first time i saw snow falling from the sky. before then, it merely appeared on ground. i knew it to be snow, but i had never experienced its descent.

* trudging over the moors lined with heather entertained only by the breeze and my little voice whispering stories to me.

* gorging myself on raspberries from the unfortunate orchard that became our back garden if one walked far enough. i do believe that counts as stealing, oh dear.

* the joy of country kittens that appeared here and there and grew into tomcats we fed and then tried to pretend we hadn’t actually adopted and named.

* the field trip to paris for the man ray exhibit. although the ferry from dover to calais made me a bit green, the sight of the sacre coeur and oscar’s tomb at pere lachaise more than made up for it.

* touring chatsworth/pemberley and dreaming the dreams only creative writers do.

* starting or returning from a journey and happily walking oliver’s lane, a full mile from the cottage to the road. i can see the bruised sky and lack of fences so clearly.

* being chased from the stone cottage that was the inspiration for Wuthering Heights by surprisingly persuasive sheep who’d claimed the territory. the ensuing, and i suppose obligatory, rainstorm we were caught in on the trudge home was equally fulfilling. oh, england, you little charmer.

* awaking suddenly aboard the flying scotsman with the instinctive knowledge that we had just crossed into scotland–and it turned out that we had; i just knew. there is something so mystical and heartening about that land.

i suppose i could go on and on and on. sigh. the blessing and the curse of being so observant and imaginative is that everything takes on a romantic, heightened hue: receiving the post, drinking tea, walking–all of it seemed so much more poetic and transformative in england.

why have i not been there in so long? perhaps there is a moratorium on romantic americans stealing all of their fresh air, the terrible byproduct of which is producing horrible sonnets.

to the rain! thank you for submerging me in such happy, vibrant memories. try not to knock down too many trees. we writers like those too.

i am home writing. i know–how romancing the stone of me.

it’s a blue moon tonight. did you see it? the man in the moon looked so lonely as i was walking keaton and then seemed to be smiling a knowing smile. he knows why he’s blue, i suppose. new year. blue moon. sigh.

don’t mind me. this is just a side effect of too much pride and prejudice mixed with procrastination. pride and procrastination? not quite so catchy.

tonight feels like the culmination of much winsome writerliness or perhaps just self-indulgent reflection coupled with an overzealous affinity for seeking portents. i claim the blue moon. look away. it was meant for me.

2010, be kind to me. i have plans for you. i will allow you a few hiccups to escape if you promise to mostly be a happy buzz of good times and friendly faces. and the words. the words need a home. and they long for the screen. they won’t rest until they get their moment. you know how persuasive they can be. you know how they scratch at sleep till you commit them to page. you know how they disturb the deepest of dreams and demand depiction. you know how they won’t let go. like aged, fermented embarrassments, they won’t let go but can be called upon with immediate clarity, anything to cause the hands to cover the face. so, 2010, you will have to take them. for new ones are pushing through and in and all around. these must go to make room. 2009 clearance. 2010, be kind to them.

sticks and stones merely break bones, but words, words can slay you again and again, the torment growing with each keystroke. words can part or seal two lips forever. words can rent or heal. words, my dear friends, are why poets weep. and without the poets to describe the weather of our hearts, how can we truly live?

writers are not merely observers. we are translators. distillers. we take the small moments and offer them sweeping backdrops. we give a tear its rightful place on the side of a cheek or the back of a hand. we magnify insignificant moments to passersby until they scream, until someone looks up from their newspaper, so that the words can be heard.

that is why anyone does anything ever.

okay, little script, i hear you calling. shh now. be still. i’m coming back–with coffee–and dreams of red hearts on blue moons.

so hear me, 2010. like the moon of blue, be round. be whole. be heard.

the memory of the stuff, the wonder, the ferocious desire to explore that is childhood makes me eager to see the translation, but i do have a word of caution for these book warriors.

everyone wants ready-made audiences these days, the pre-built franchise, but it’s a dangerous thing to mess with the memories of a generation of wild things. i hope they come armed with a heart and plot to match the effects, for we wild things know how to vote with our wallets.

we have bought our tickets, so you’ve at least got our attention for now, but you have to earn the repeat viewing, the dvd sales, the merchandise.

childhood nostalgia on tilt; expectations officially soaring!

please live up to them. please live up to them. please live up to them.

and for those of you who are new to the magic that is maurice sendak, do not let the movie alone be your experience, for nothing can substitute the turning of a page that sparks your own imagination…

**update**
i liked it; i didn’t love it. and i spent pretty much all of act two watching between two fingers to see if the hand-cam would keep me motion-sick; it did. i am sensitive to that, and i know it’s all the rage, but in this case i have to say i think they used it to try and stir up action where there really wasn’t any.

act one was solid, great, expectations still good. i was on board with max; ice-fort problems suck.

they diverged early from the book. i got why, but it was noted.

it’s ironic that in the land of the wild things is where the action pretty much stopped, the dramatic action anyway. lots of activity, not a lot of dramatic action driving the story forward. i really felt the two conflicted voices of the writers. it’s as if they couldn’t agree on whether to be whimsical or edgy, and it wound up being sort of neither: not really for kids, and not really for adults. and, no, not really for wild things either.

depressed wild things. hm, that seems like an idea i would come up with that my agent would respond with, “wtf, you do want people to go SEE this, right?” yeah.

i still cried, but the kid did possess a great deal of pathos, to the actor’s credit. and the directing, especially in the first act, was fantastic. it was from max’s perspective: all the angles of childhood where you basically spend all your time looking up or through things to see life, the world, what’s leaving you behind. yeah.

blink and you’ll miss the third act. there is NO real reason he leaves. he just kinda decides to and goes. it is not well-set-up, and that makes me squint in their general direction. then it’s like boom he’s back, mom stares at him while he eats soup, and that’s sort of that.

i still hate to heart dave eggers, but, um, yeah, i will not be seeing this again. i will not be buying the dvd. i will not be buying a plush wild thing.

luckily, i still have my actual book from childhood, which is, you know, gift enough.

seriously.

i realize that vamp stories are suffering from receding plotline; combo bastardizations a la dracutwangelight are all that seem left, but can a girl get an original bite up in this molar?

and if i see one more teen drama where even the parents and aunts and uncles all look 18, i’m gonna go van helsing on someone.

at least there’s true blood. “it’s got electrolytes. it’s got what vamps crave.”

yeah, the four of you who got that know what i’m talking ’bout.

~char out

A great voice has been silenced. The likes of John Hughes will never be seen again. His work is still THE bar as far as I’m concerned for delivering funny, relevant, and poignant content.

Thank you, John, for your words and your work. Your legacy will inspire for generations to come. I, for one, know that I will continue to enjoy, laugh, and learn from your masterful word-strokes. Your genius, your engaging storytelling, and your commitment to the craft are truly–awesome–and it’s so rare when that word is used correctly.

Farewell, Maestro!

Sigh…

have you spammers gotten the message???

or do i need to ask more nicely or perhaps not so nicely? i can do fierce. if the wand didn’t work, i wave my finger in your general direction.

i’m tired. i delete you. you return in another dress. i delete you. you return wearing a moustache. i delete you. you return with silly questions. i delete you. this dance is getting dull.

please go bug someone else for a while; may i recommend someone in your own family? yeah…