Step Away from the Cliché

Javier Boredom
1212 Superior Lane.
Road to Welleville, USA
RE: Book Pitch

Writers are full of clichés just as old barns are full of bats.
… anything you suspect of being a cliché undoubtedly is one and
had better be removed. ~ Wolcott Gibbs

Dear INSERT AGENT NAME HERE,

Haven’t you had just about enough of manuscript submissions so rife with trite expressions, their heady stench wafts around your inbox long after you’ve hit the delete button?

Writers who employ such pathetic, phoned-it-in-because-I-wanted-to-get-5,000-words-written-today phrases and ideas, which have become the epitome of flotsam bobbing down the proverbial river toward the graveyard of good intentions, will absolutely benefit from my book Step Away from the Cliché.

To transform lackluster seen-it-all-before prose, writers can utilize the handy annotated glossary to look up cliché “keywords” and “phrases” that will turn their customary dreck into dazzling nuggets of literary genius.

Just like Glen Close’s character in Fatal Attraction, sluggish, cliché-ridden prose is hard to ignore. But if writers insist on upping their word count with drivel, at least the drivel should be inspired. Short words are lazy words, let’s be honest. (NOTE: Roget’s Thesaurus is a good companion to my book.)

“Live and learn” could be transformed to “Subsist, observe, and sip a nice cup of coffee while you ponder your lack of alternatives.”

“What goes around comes around,” says your protagonist as he stares (under hooded eyes) at the “villain.” I don’t know about you INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, but when I read lazy dialogue like this, I want to chop the author’s arms off and feed them to my pet iguana. They don’t deserve appendages when they could have written something like this:

“Karma’s a sarcastic bitch and she’s got a wicked backhand.”

At approximately 310,000 words, Step Away from the Cliché is certain to be a must-have for the robust manual-buying body of aspiring writers who lap up every published book on the “art” of writing in the hopes of producing the next vampire tome that has you agents creaming in your Fruit of the Looms.

If you think this book has legs, (and I think we both know it does) you’ll also be interested in my other work in progress - a two part series for screenwriters: Step Away from the Voice Over and Step Away from the Cheesy Flashback and/or Montage.

INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, should you decide to take me on as a client, you’ll be making 15% off me for years to come. I am nothing if not prolific.

Much appreciation in advance for your solicitous (and astute) consideration on this matter,

Javier Boredom

~*~

Dissecting Jake

My son Jake has OCD. In fact, since hitting his teens, he’s practically teeming with hormones and his obsessions have multiplied; like the explosive acne that is sure to follow. For Jake, it materializes in the form of rapid-fire questions that he simply must get answered before he’s able to move on to the next thing.

If he can’t wrap his head around something, he will be asking about it all day.

Well, last week he spent an entire school day obsessing about a frog.

When he plopped into the passenger seat and I pulled out of the school parking lot one afternoon, this was the first thing he said to me:

“I lost a square today because of a frog.”

Losing a square, in the context of his world and classroom, means he got a warning. Squares on the whiteboard, used as visual cues, keep track of how many warnings each student in his ASD classroom has, and once they loose three, they get lunch detention.

“Okay, tell me about the frog.” This ought to be good, I thought. I immediately conjured that Looney Tunes episode where Michigan J. Frog kept making a fool out of his owner. Every time they were alone, the frog would hop out of its box and sing, “Hello my baby, hello my darlin’, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaal…” But whenever the guy tried to show someone his singing/dancing frog, it would just sit like a lump and croak.

“I saw these two high-school kids kicking a frog and I wanted to go rescue it but Chris said that we should just tell Mrs. D. and—”

First I needed to acquire some context. Frog? Where? Inside the building? So I interrupted - which he hates - and found out this happened immediately after I’d dropped him off, earlier that morning. The high school and middle school are attached by a library, so the middle school kids have to pass the roughhousing high-schoolers in order to get inside the building. Apparently the little amphibian hopped too close to the wrong crowd.

“Well I think Chris made the first appropriate choice this morning,” I said.

“But I wanted to hit those stupid kids and rescue the frog and bring him inside.”

“First, we do not hit. And messing with high school boys is asking for trouble. Second, we do not bring any animals of any kind into the school building. Ever. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts. Your friend Chris did a good job giving you advice this morning. What would you have done with the frog if you brought it inside? Where would you have put it?”

“I was gonna take it to my science teacher.”

A giggle started to bubble up from somewhere inside me. The sadistic giggle of a mother about to shine the ugly light of reality across the face of her innocent autistic child. “Uh, Jake… What do science teachers typically do with frogs?”

He looked at me but hadn’t put two and two together to equal formaldehyde… yet. That would require a bit more prodding on my part.

“Do you know what dissect means?” I asked.

Jake’s eyes widened considerably. “Oh no! I wouldn’t want him to dissect the poor frog! I dissected one once and now I have guilt about it.”

“I didn’t know you dissected frogs last year.”

“I didn’t. I dissected one by myself. In the basement. When I was ten.”

The LOUD RECORD SCRATCH in my head was immediately followed by a laughing jag that was so boisterous, Jaxson - who was sitting in the back seat playing his DS - raised both hands and yelled, “Guys, guys…CALM DOWN.” (Yes, very clearly. His speech is coming along quite nicely!)

Because I’m getting over bronchitis, I coughed up half a lung, grabbed the antibacterial from Jake - who is on constant on germ patrol - and managed to swerve back into my lane.

“Oh Jake. I love you. But why did you dissect a frog? And how did you kill it, or was it dead when you found it?” I didn’t even want to ponder what implements of torture he’d used.

“I dissected it while it was alive.” Jake mumbled. “I won’t go to hell, right?”

The other half of my lung came up, and out came the hand sanitizer, again.

“No, honey. You won’t go to hell. But you won’t be dissecting any animals outside of science class anymore, right?”

“I’m NEVER dissecting ANYTHING again! I have a passion for animals now.” Jake yelled.

I sighed and wondered how that would go over when the fetal pigs came out in science class in a few years. I remember them being particularly gnarly.

The morning after what will now be referred to as The Frog Incident, I had a meeting with the school psychologist, speech therapist, behavioral specialist and a few other regulars - just for a check-up on Jaxson‘s progress. (Which is rolling along splendidly, I might add!)

But, the first thing on the agenda - because the same staff treats both of my kids - was, “Did you hear about the frog episode yesterday with Jake?”

We had a nice chuckle and I learned a bit more about the story. Like, as soon as he’d entered the building and rushed to his ASD room, he relayed the frog story to his teacher, who promptly took him outside in order to see if they could locate the frog and put Jake’s fears to rest. I think she hoped they’d find the little bugger alive and well and that would be that. I can only imagine what would have happened if they’d encountered a pile of frog pulp.

The school psychologist arrived soon after to head up the ‘social interaction’ class. This is where Jake and his fellow socially inept brethren learn about conversing with others, discuss personal space and facial expressions, and other things that you and I might take for granted. As she exited her car, she saw Jake pacing up and down the sidewalk, watching his teacher look for the frog that would remain on his mind for the rest of the day because the frog would never be found.

And that’s the story of how a frog caused Jake to lose a square.

Today's video--The beginning of our journey...Moving to Michigan and all the changes for the kids.

STAY TUNED! for the next blog post which will include a video showing Jaxson's first developmental evaluation and first day of pre-school in the Early Intervention program.

Not Just a Mama: My Pen is My Sword and it is Rarely Sheathed

My mother tells me when I was a shy little girl in kindergarten, I wrote a story about a gumball machine, comparing the little round balls of varying colors to people in the world. I'd share the poem with you, but Susan isn’t exactly the scrapbooking kind of Mama - no hoarding of precious little memories for her. I'm guessing she read it, smiled, then rolled something into the tiny piece of paper and smoked it.

It was the 70's, after all.

I should note, my mother is the type of mother who would, years later, wake me with a three a.m. phone call: "I just had the best idea for a porn movie!!" What followed was a three hour trip to a local store the next day, where I was horrified to find the toy dolls made for young girls looking suspiciously like whores. Out of that shopping adventure came a three page script for a movie that could only be described as Barbie-Porn, and would years later come back to bite me in the ass.

Mom and I were working on a film project with learning disabled students at the local elementary school when the school administration became aware of Making Porn With Mom. (catchy title, right?) Well, apparently someone thought to look up our production company name and not only found my blog, but also my Internet Movie Database Listing and my cache of YouTube videos. The whole thing left me with a raging case of the runs, but frankly a simple Google search before we spent a year working with the kids might have been a good idea. Alas, they dropped the ball, not I. I was merely doing what I always do.

I have spent almost forty years reading and writing and I've learned to speak out when I have something to say. As a ten year old Catholic School girl I checked out The Diary of Anne Frank and it made a huge impact on me because I related to her. I was about her age. I could be her. I could rage against the horrors of a life lived in secret. I, too, could be remembered long after I was gone.

I asked for and was given a diary to record my own juvenile thoughts. My entries were decidedly less awe-inspiring than Anne's.

July 9, 1978

Dear Diary,

We went on vacation and it was nice, except there was a strange smell in the VW van the entire trip from something Mom and Dad were smoking. She said they were ‘herbs‘.

(note to self: look up the definition of herbs)

At the Grand Canyon I was surprised that the railing to keep you from falling was so small. Resi ran right up and swung from it, but I stayed back. I don't know why but suddenly I thought one of my family members might push me over the edge. Could that happen? I don't think any of them are THAT crazy, but the idea would not leave my head, so I stayed back while they all looked.

(p.s. I do not trust them.)

Then we went back to the campground and while Mom and Dad took a nap, Resi and I played with two brothers named Nick and Roger. Roger asked me if I knew what a ‘blow job' was.

(note to self: Ask Mom what a blow job is.)

~*~

July 12, 1978

Dear Diary,

My parents are horrible, horrible people. I must be adopted!!! Resi asked Dad what a blow job was and he said "What the hell?" and his face got all red and he pulled the VW van over and got out. I hid under my pillow in the back seat and cried, so Mom told me and Resi what it was. My parents are GROSS!! She said when two people love each other, they do certain things. I said "Gross things..." and she said, "Come back and tell me how you feel about it when you're thirty." I told her she was going to hell and so was Dad. Resi just asked if she brushed her teeth after. My sister is so stupid. I hate my family!!!!!!!!!!! ...And I am stuck in this van with them for three more days.

At that point in my writing life, what I was regurgitating was a plethora of unmemorable material which could only qualify as melodrama. Sappy, unrequited love story type of stuff that even now causes my lunch to take a sudden u-turn, heading back from whence it came. (READ: Kind of like anything that appears on Lifetime Television for Women.)

Next came my dark period. I cannot recall what these stories were about either, except to say that after reading some of them, my father had one comment: "Jennifer, must everything you write be so maudlin?"

I had to look up maudlin and thus began another unfortunate chapter in my writing life: my obsession with the dictionary and thesaurus. ...which spawned my poetry phase. It was not pretty, but in my defense, I thought everything was supposed to rhyme.

Today, as a writer, often my job is to put a spotlight on life’s sores. So, if I have something to say about how today’s dolls look suspiciously like streetwalkers - and choose to do that through a satiric Barbie Porn - I’m going to do it.

Just like I’m gonna write raunchy song parodies with two writer friends and assume people get that I’m not singing them to my thirteen and nine year olds.

If I have something to say about former President Reagan and his treatment of AIDS in the 1980's, I’m going to shout it from the rooftops in the form of a short film entitled Macy’s Wait.

If I don’t like what my government is doing, I’m gonna have something to say about that as well, hopefully providing a little entertainment in the process. (READ: Waiting for Karl Rove--Come on publishers, you KNOW you want it!)

And if I want to volunteer my time to help a class of learning disabled children on a project that helps them not only learn the art and fun of writing, but help them gain self-confidence, I’m going to do that too. Until such time as I’m told I’m no longer able to because somehow what I write about or film is unseemly when juxtaposed against working with special needs kids.

Bump that, my friends. I’m not just a Mom. I think there’s an inherent danger in being all autism, all the time. Or all Mommy, 24/7. I’m a woman, a writer, a mother, a sister, a wife, a daughter, a citizen of the world - and so much more. I refuse to make my life all about the one thing in my life (autism) that takes more effort and attention than the rest of those other areas. That would not only be unfair to me, but would be extremely unfair to my kids.

They’re more than their autism. They’re amazing, profound, funny, delicious little creatures that deserve better than to be summed up by a medical diagnosis, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be the person who shoves them into a box.

By all means, stay in your box if that’s where you feel most comfortable. But don’t concern yourself if someone else jumps out of theirs, bends over and takes a crap on it, douses it with lighter fluid and watches it illuminate the sky.

To each his own.

I am one person with many facets, each one as important as the other. I don’t believe one facet negates another. For me, it’s as simple as that.

If this is the one thing I manage to pass on to my kids, then my job here is done.

What are These Two Women Up To?

I think my phone is being tapped.

I’m pretty sure an unmarked FBI car has been making regular trips back and forth in front of my driveway and the cows in the pasture across from my house have become suspicious.

Both of which has led to twice-daily usage of my Preparation-H.™

I believe this is what happens when writers without agents embark upon blatant self-promotion. I could probably use some legal advice. How could collaborating on a book get two gals into so much trouble?

Should Kat and I end up in the pokey, I can only hope I make some new friends.