I need to watch more TV.
This is a statement one doesn’t often hear, particularly as the days are now getting warmer (at least they were last week; damn you, fickle Vancouver weather!) and longer.
It’s also a statement not often heard from me. Always, I have prioritized writing over TV, to the point that I only allow myself to watch shows on weekends and holidays. Even at that, I’ve decreased my TV consumption of late the deeper I get into the revision of my WIP.
The scene at a recent square dance in Vancouver, BC.
The first time I ever square danced was in Hope, British Columbia.
This was a good six or seven years ago while I was attending a canoeing skills camping weekend retreat with a group of friends. I’m as outdoorsy as the next person, but not specifically into canoeing.
Rather than a desire to perfect my J-stroke, I recall my decision to tag along having more to do with FOMO and, if I’m to be honest with myself, the possibility of meeting new people (read: single guys) since the present object of my affection – who was also in attendance and a skilled canoeist – couldn’t care less about me in that way.
Binge-watching is one of the great luxuries of the 21st century, but it does come at a certain cost.
In my previous post about TV, I discussed the shows I’m currently watching. However, one thing about them that I neglected to mention is that they’re what I’m currently watching, not what’s currently airing.
Indeed, of the five programs, one’s next season isn’t starting until spring, two are on mid-season hiatus, one as of this moment has yet to be renewed for a second season, and the last one went off the air fifteen years ago, so I’m watching the DVDs on my laptop.
I can’t even believe I once altogether stopped watching television.
Such is the power of love, I guess, that because the guy I was infatuated with didn’t like TV, I was able to quit cold turkey, enduring years of long, dark, post-Daylight Savings nights Time without it.
Maybe TV sucked anyway during that period. Or maybe my reading list was a whole lot longer. My reading list is still pretty long – never-ending, in truth – as is my writing schedule rather rigorous.
The last little bit to move at my old place.
In life, there are moves and there are good moves.
A “move” is often the term used for a given course of action, particularly one involving bravery or bravado and occurring after a prolonged period of inaction.
Similarly, one’s approach with a romantic interest may be referred to as his/her “move”.
I am perpetually behind the curve when it comes to pop culture.
I enjoy books, movies and music as much as the next person, but somewhere along the way, I got out of the habit of taking part in pop culture trends as they happen.
(Case in point, I’m only just now watching the 2004 remake of Battlestar Galactica).
It’s that time of year again.
Come tomorrow, as the song goes, I’ll be leaving on a jet plane – travelling from sea unto sea to Nova Scotia for my annual Christmas sojourn home.
It’s not that I don’t want to go home or see my family. Rather, there’s just very little in this world I find more arduous than actually getting there.
I mean, to begin with: airline travel at Christmas. Airline travel is bad enough during any other time of year, fraught with such indignities as,
- Having to remove my belt (which, far from being just a fashion accessory, is actually necessary for keeping my pants up),
- Having my hair patted down for concealed weapons, and,
- The full-body “I-can-see-you-naked” X-ray scanner.
At Christmas, I get to enjoy all of the above and wait in a long-ass line for it at that, as if eagerly claiming a special prize.
Today is my birthday.
At around 2:00am this morning, I turned officially 35 years old, thus entering, as someone at work (helpfully!) pointed out, whole new age demographic on surveys.
In my mind, though, it actually happened about six months ago, back in June.
I always make the point of pre-aging myself. This is both to smooth the transition from one year to the next and to prevent subsequently mis-aging my myself, similar to how people often continue to write the old year for months after New Year’s.
Today is also the day I’m supposed to have the draft of my novel-in-progress completed.
That, on the other hand, didn’t happen.
I’ve already decided to forgive myself for that. It was a self-imposed deadline in any case, so the only person I’m really letting down is myself. But I refuse to feel let down.
In writing, as in all aspects of life, one only gets out of it what s/he’s put in. I can honestly say I’ve put a lot of effort and heart into my WIP, and have worked away on it, if not speedily, than with dogged consistency. I’ve been no slouch, so if it’s going to take me longer than I thought to get ‘er done, well, such is life.
The only truly downside is that I’d originally planned to share my novel’s opening on my birthday.
When I was younger – perhaps being around 13 or 14 years old – I developed a fondness for military fiction.
I’m not entirely sure why this was. Even though my father spent 30+ years in the military before retiring, his preferred genres at the time were westerns and historical fiction, so I wasn’t influenced by his reading preferences.
Nor nor was I by his specific profession, for he served in the Navy, yet I was reading primarily about the activities of the Army.
I remember picking up a novel about the Vietnam War at the library. It had an eye-catching cover, and once I started reading, it wasn’t long before I was utterly absorbed.
Every time I get really sick, I end up watching something I otherwise would have avoided.
This tendency is born of a desire for easily-digestible entertainment in my physically diminished state.
Last time I was sick, I watched the entire first season of the cartoon Transformers: Prime (and later went follow the show obsessively to its conclusion two seasons later, but that’s a topic for another blog post).
This time, it was the last three movies of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Saga that I’d yet to see: Eclipse, Breaking Dawn pt. 1, and Breaking Dawn pt. 2.
I’d previously watched the first two films – Twilight and New Moon – years ago at the behest of Twihard friends, and swore I’d never watch another. After all, there was just so much to dislike:
- Edward’s behaviour toward Bella was stalker-ish and controlling
- Bella, as a character, was dull as a spoon, possessing no interesting qualities nor being an active (as opposed to passive) participant in her own story
- Edward was way too old to be in a romantic relationship with Bella
- Neither Bella’s mother nor Edward’s had jobs (unlike both of their fathers)
- As a whole, the story glamourized unhealthy romance for its target audience of impressionable young girls.
Maybe it was the Advil Cold + Sinus at play, but as I watched the final three movies, I found they weren’t all bad. Indeed, there were a number of elements of the Twilight Saga that found quite enjoyable, both as a consumer of stories and a creator of them: