Rasmenia

“They’re fancy talkers about themselves, writers. If I had to give young writers advice, I would say don’t listen to writers talking about writing or themselves.” –Lillian Hellman

Know when to tune out, if you listen to too much advice you may wind up making other peoples mistakes.  –Ann Landers

“I always advise people never to give advice.” –P.G. Wodehouse

*

I have a lot of pet peeves. Probably more than a reasonable amount. It’s a rare thing when I can watch TV, leave the house, or hop on the Internet without bitching, mocking, making fun of or simply pointing out something that I find annoying or idiotic. (Unless you’re reading this blog for the very first time, you already know this.)

Often, what I have to do is, I have to stop paying attention to whatever it is that bugs the shit out of me. I must ignore it completely. This isn’t always possible. Try ignoring the human race. It’s tough. Betcha can’t do it for very long. (I’ve tried. People start calling & coming to your house in a panic because they think you’re dead. It’s more irritating than just tolerating them.)

What I have to do then to maintain my serenity levels is, I have to filter out the bullshit to the best of my ability. I’m sure everyone does this to some extent. For me, this is especially true with the Internet because as we all know, the Internet is a never ending flood of bullshit.

However, I’ve been spending more time offline lately. Not having an Internet connection for 6 months sort of weaned me from the world wide teat. I check my mail, I make a few snide comments on Facebook or Twitter, like or retweet some shit, then I go about my day. Every now & then, I’ll get some free time & will spend it surfing around or reading a few articles online. Because I’m connected to several writerly type people & websites, I encounter a shit-ton of writer noise. Some of it is very good, very helpful & very interesting. Some of it is just utter crap.

Especially all of the fucking writing advice.

Advice is helpful. If I do not know how to do a thing, I’ll ask a more experienced person – or someone with a different skill set than I possess – how I should go about doing that thing. I will solicit them for advice. If I want to make my writing better — which I always want to do — I will seek out ways to do this.

So far, the ways I have found to do this are by writing… then writing some more & showing it to the members of my writing workshop. (A writing group works for me. It does not work for everyone. That’s okay.) Then I read books… followed by reading more books, then by writing more stuff.

I will seek out advice in one form or another. When I read a book that just blows the top of my fucking head off with its literary awesomeness, I’ll go out of my way to learn more about the author & their writing process.

I’ll read the occasional book, essay or article on craft. I almost always learn something new by reading these. The only catch is: all of this “advice” should come from a writer who has some serious writing chops. A super word-wrangling champ. If this “advice” is coming from someone other than an author I’ve already read & am familiar with, I want to see the proof in their pudding. Their writing advice essay (or blog post or whatever) should be written well enough to reflect that they know what they’re talking about. I don’t want to read some shit parroting some over-used bits of writer wisdom that we’ve all seen hundreds of times. I want to know what they’ve written. I want to know where their work has been published, whether it’s an essay or short story, or a novel.

Otherwise, I’m outta there. I’ll leave their blog or website, never to return again.

There I go. Down the dark, dusty halls of the Internet.

There is a lot of really bad writing advice out there. There’s a lot of advice that tells you that you can’t. Such as, “you can’t edit as you write”. Bullshit. You can if it works for you. Why not?  Some advice tells you that you must. As in, “you must use an outline”. Please. Good books get written with & without outlines. Stuff your can’ts & musts. These are never good, in any situation. Especially anything that tells you that you can’t. Fuck can’t.

I want more than a blog from someone who just decided to open up a Blogger account & call themselves a writer. I want to see some kind of writer cred. It does not have to be great big massive bestseller writer cred. It can be a wee small mostly unknown indie cred. But for fuck’s sake – it’s gotta be something other than the tired old clichés on writing barfed out on a blog post by an “aspiring writer” who wants to talk about writing more than they want to actually write.

Show, don’t tell. Classic writer’s advice. (How’s that for parroting some shit?) Show me, don’t tell me that you’re a writer. Show me how you’re applying your own advice into your own writing. Advise me by example.

It’s not only the bad, over-used advice from “aspiring writers” with blogs who like to talk about writing & being a writer. Although, yes, I do often find talk about being a writer & “the writer’s life” to just be some boring, romanticized shit.

There is also the fact that one person’s ridiculous & useless piece of writing advice is another person’s magical wand of genius inspiration. It works for one person & for another, it does not & may be scoffed at or made fun of. That’s just the way it is. Not everyone has the same writing philosophy.

What I’ve found is that most writing advice is useless.

What I’ve found is, the more you actually write, the more you can filter the useless dung from the genuine gems of word wizards.

What I’ve found is, it’s better to write than it is to talk about writing & that the teaching should be left to the teachers.

But, you shouldn’t take my word for it. I’m just another writer with a blog… & a lot of pet peeves.

We had it all planned out: look at the houses, choose one, buy it, then move into it. Easy enough. Sort of. Olivier & I had both been through the bullshit & hassles of home buying before, though this was the first time we’d be trudging through the muck together.

Finding the house took a couple of months of searching. We got up early every weekend to drive an hour away & wandered through some very cold, damp & creepy houses. Oh… & there was that incident involving my urine. Then, some time during the month of February, we found our house.

So, we started making plans: we’d sign the papers closing the sale of the house on May 27th. We’d move in on May 30th, since there was a family scheduled to move into our apartment on the 31st.

“Damn,” I said. “That’s cutting it awfully close.”

Hell, of course it was too fucking close. You know what they say about how the best laid plans always get shit on.

It was May 25th, just a couple of days before the closing when we found out that our banker had shit the bed – since he didn’t process our paperwork when we sent it to him BACK IN APRIL, money couldn’t be transferred to where it should be in time for the closing. It would have to be postponed. For at least a week.

Dammit.

Ok, so we’d be without a place to live for a week. That sucks, but not as much as trying to figure out what to do with our furniture, dozens of boxes of books & other piles of assorted objects.

Lucky us. We bought our house from a nice guy who rented us the house for a week. As a storage unit. We were able to move our stuff here, but weren’t allowed to live in it yet.

As the movers were dumping boxes & furniture into our house, I walked the cat around on her leash so she could have a nice puke in what would soon be our front yard. I walked her around to the back of the house & right away, I could smell the strawberries in our garden. Cat sniffed around at the enormous rhubarb & the rose bush. “I can’t wait to live here,” I said, pouting at the cat as she lurched & heaved, preparing to spew forth a new wave of barf.

We decided, since the banker would be paying for our lodging, that we’d at least put ourselves in a decent bed & breakfast instead of some dingy hotel. Finding a place that will let you stay for a week with your cat’s decorative & aromatic litter box is no easy task, but we did eventually find a place, just 6 miles from our house.

It wasn’t ideal, but we had our own room, living room, bathroom & even a wi-fi connection. Every morning, we had breakfast in our tiny living room, just outside the door of our bedroom. Not too bad.

Well… except for the two screaming kids, thundering up & down the stairs every 5 or 10 minutes. But, hey… they’re kids. Sure, they were teenagers & probably a bit too old to be bouncing & screaming like monkeys on PCP, but… they were kids. I guess they really weren’t as annoying as the owners wanting to get into the bathroom while we’re taking a shit or a shower because their washer & dryer is in the guest bathroom… or just walking right in while I’m picking a winner at the bathroom mirror to ask, “Um… so, when are you leaving?”

It was a nice enough place, but not the most relaxing bed & breakfast experience we’ve had.

Luckily, during the week we spent there not relaxing, the banker’s blunder had been taken care of & the closing could go on as planned. It went off without a hitch & we were even provided with some comedy at the notarial office when the guy looked over our papers, saw my occupation & asked, “You’re a writer? You write what? What? What have you written? Oh. Okay.”

I think he asked me this about 6 or 7 times during the 20 minutes we were there.

After stopping by a bar to have a drink with the seller of our new house, we bought a couple of pizzas from some surly dude in a pizza truck & went home. To our new house. With no water.

Uh-oh. The water was supposed to be on. Now that we had a home with TWO bathrooms, Olivier & I were looking forward to our first simultaneous poo in the new digs. The poo party only had to wait for one day because a very tiny & adorable old man from the water company came out the next morning.

Now we only had to wait a few more days for the phone. Two guys from the phone company came out later in the week, ran around our property, in & out of our tool shed, up & down the driveway & even in a goddam tree several times before telling me, “c’est pas possible aujourd’hui… la cable est kaput… on dois revenir plus tard.”

Translation: your phone line is fucked.

We made another appointment with France Telecom to replace our cable. They didn’t show. When they called Olivier to tell him they were having “car trouble,” it just got worse.

“I took the morning off work to be here,” Olivier told the guy on the phone. “Can’t you send someone else?”

“No. Not possible.”

“Well, tell me when you think you can get here. I’ll wait.”

“I don’t know. Call France Telecom. They’ll give you an appointment.”

So, we called France Telecom to make an appointment. They said they would call within 24 hours. Some consider 24 hours to be equal to ONE day. At France Telecom, it’s about 3 days.

We listened to the voice mail. “We were calling to reschedule your appointment since you weren’t at home the last time we sent someone out there.”

Um… what?

Ok… just to be clear, we are getting the stellar customer service from: FRANCE TELECOM.

So, in the meantime, we’ve been making trips to McDonald’s, where I sift through my rejections from editors among the shrill sounds of screeching toddlers & their nagging parents while the scent of greasy death wafts around my nostrils.

Or, on really special days like today, Olivier leaves his cell phone at home so that I can hook it up to his annoying laptop (ugh… PCs) to obtain a painfully slow, but adequate mobile Internet connection. (If you’re wondering why this post has no photos, there’s your answer.)

We still have no idea when we’ll have a normal Internet & phone connection again, but there are no screaming children or screaming anythings around here. No obnoxious neighbors knocking on my door to ask me about trivial shit, or hammering on the wall & using power tools during my writing time. It’s peaceful.

All of the strawberries have been eaten, but we’ve got 2 enormous cherry trees in the front yard & every few days, we collect a colossal bowl full of cherries, which means that every few days, we eat another colossal bowl full, so we’ve had plenty of opportunities for those simultaneous poos that we love so much.

There’s a strange phenomenon that occurs after living in France even for a very short time.  It’s a little odd, but it does happen.

It doesn’t take very long, but eventually, you can forget how to speak English.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea.  Maybe what you’re thinking is, “Wow…being immersed in the French language can actually push English right out of your brain?”

Of course that isn’t what I mean.  Don’t be asinine.  Besides, what kind of dolt forgets their native language like that?

Here’s an example:

One not so very interesting day, I decided to take my camera & go for a stroll through the Montmartre Cemetery.  I’m all alone & searching for the grave of Degas.  I’m having no luck, so I head back to entrance so that I can take a gander at the map.

That’s when I saw them.  The four of them were wearing matching T-shirts that read “Paris”, all spelled out in glitter.  They were wearing their matching backpacks, with an image of the Eiffel Tower drawn in sequins.  Little Eiffel Tower key chains clanged & dangled from their fanny packs.  They moved as one, like a noisy, rolling blob, flapping their maps & baseball caps.

Tourists.

One of the things that I enjoy about cemeteries is the serenity – no one there speaks.  Dead people are the best company as far as I’m concerned.  Then they showed up.

I continued staring at the map, hoping that they wouldn’t notice me, confident that I could make myself invisible if I just applied myself.

“Excuse me…do you speak English?”

That’s when it happened.  I’d forgotten how to speak English.  I shook my head, gave my best bitchy grin & turned around, on my way to visit Degas.

Ok.  I’m lying.  I’ve never forgotten how to speak English.  The thing is, when I see these sparkling, rolling blobs, I just can’t talk to them.  I mean, there are tourists…& then there are tourists.

I’ve been known to be friendly to the tourists on rare occasions.  Maybe one of them will approach me like a normal person, asking me to take their picture or something.

What’s the difference?

Well, I’ll tell you – one of these is obnoxious & ridiculous.  The other is just a regular person enjoying the sights & culture of another country.  Big difference.  I mean, would it kill people to tone it down?

Now, to be fair, I’ve read plenty of bullshit on the internet advising American tourists & expats that they shouldn’t wear sneakers, jeans or casual wear in general at all in France – especially in Paris – nor should they wear any American brand-name clothing or even certain colors.  This is just fucking retarded.

You know what I usually wear in Paris?  Jeans & sneakers.  Oh…& my jeans are Levi’s, which as we all know, are American.  See the above photo?  That’s me, in Paris wearing American jeans.  I blend in well enough that French people often approach me to ask for directions. A lot of this type of information comes from so-called “travel experts” & snobby American expats.  They can all suck it.

On the other hand, those herds of people that are bumping into one another wearing the black socks & Birkenstocks are another matter.  They get off of the tourist bus wearing a brand new T-shirt that they’ve just purchased at an over-priced tourist shop & have got it tucked in nice & tight into those cargo shorts that they outgrew last year.  There’s a map sticking out of their back pocket & a faded bumper sticker on their suitcase that reads, “Reagan-Bush ’84″.

These are the ones that are likely to become mugging victims somewhere in the métro.

These are the ones that are likely to be heard bitching once they return to the states, whining about the “rude French”.

Now, I’m not telling anyone what to wear – far from it.  I’m not a fashion plate & don’t really put much importance on attire outside of comfort & covering a naked body, especially in the cold.

But, the plain truth is, walking around looking & acting like the goddamn Griswolds might not provide the same European experience as, say…blending in enough to sink into the culture a little bit.

You might learn more & have a better experience, as opposed to being so obnoxious that even your fellow Americans will pretend as though they can’t speak English, just so that they don’t have to deal with you.

Or maybe your own people will mess with you even worse than those “rude French”.

Here’s 2 minutes & 42 seconds of exactly what I mean:

Technocrati Tags: tourists, Americans, French, France, obnoxious, Annoying, Griswolds, Montmartre, cemetery, expats, travel