Misadventures in Relative Pronouns

I may be the proofreader in the house, but the Beautiful Young Man is no slouch in the grammar department. Last week, I handed Michael Jackson's Complete Guide to Single Malt Scotch to a friend planning a tasting party. Out fell my copy of a pamphlet from Edinburgh titled "Distilleries Which Welcome Visitors 1999."

The BYM scowled: "You'd think they'd have caught that before going to press."

Me: "Actually, it's correct usage in Britain."

The BYM: "Is not!"

Me: "It even says so in The Chicago Manual of Style."

The BYM shot me a look of outraged disbelief. When he realized I really wasn't kidding, he mumbled something rude into his Pimm's Cup.

The realms in which he's truly notorious, however, are those of movie continuity and automotive detail. For me, the classic BYM-as-audience moment remains the time I overheard him howling "Goddamn crack-smoking Disney motherfuckers!" at a baseball movie (it showed a car headed the wrong way down a street somewhere near Arlington Stadium).

compulsion vs. courage

I've been musing over something dichroic posted earlier today. Her mini-bout with authorial neediness had led to this conclusion: "It makes me think authors must be stern and resolute people, with strong stomachs."

Well, speaking strictly for myself, one out of three is. . .well, .3333333...

Observation #1, of course, is that no one observation fits all. So whatever I say below only applies to some writers, not all. (And, to be clear, this is less about debating dichroic's conclusions and more about shaking out my own thoughts on the matter.)

Observation #2: as with public speaking, I find it less terrifying to present my work to people I don't know than to those nearer and dearer to me. I don't possess a strong stomach in any sense of the term (other than not being squicked out by discussions of biological, critical or sexual matters over dinner).

Observation #3: what I do have is both a strong craving for attention and an ingrained desire to produce good work. The former propels my escribitionism (both professionally and recreationally) and the latter restrains me from submitting crap (at least when I recognize it as such).

Observation #4: there's a wide expanse between writing for oneself and writing for mass publication, and plenty of bandit verses ready to pounce upon whatever happens to be in one's pockets, be it biscuits or air. For instance, take the two sonnets I posted over at matociquala's last year. "Rejoinder" (which I'd submitted to various venues for years sans success) emerged out of loving Lowell's "Will Not Come Back" enough to reread it again and again for over a decade -- and one day finally seeing it anew from the beloved's point of view and getting really annoyed as a result. That put me in the mood to pick a fight with Lowell (and, by extension, an ex-lover who'd written something similar to me when I broke off our fling), and if one is going to argue with dead formalists (and absent egotists) one might as well go about it properly and glove it up in iambs.

In contrast, "Skill Is Not All" was a casual effort, drafted within a single evening, mainly because the first line got a hold of me and wanted to play. It was not particularly relevant whether matociquala would like it (even though she inspired it) or whether it will ever be reprinted outside of LJ (though one could do worse for an ars poetica, though I say so myself) -- it was a fun line, it had me on the other end of the stick, and it was not going to leave me in peace until I gave it thirteen other lines to keep it company.

Observation #5: it's probably crass and definitely trite of me to say so, but various analogies to sex spring to mind. Sometimes one just wants to be massaged; sometimes one wants applause; sometimes one is vulnerable and tangled up in nerves; sometimes it's just about fun and/or comfort; and sometimes one knows exactly how to strut and flaunt one's best and command every molecule of air in the room.

That's my .33, anyhow. On the one hand, I like compliments as much as any other spotlight sponge, and I do understand that my willingness to show off court rejection via monologues and manuscripts can be seen as strange and brave. On the other hand, it occurs to me that I don't fret overmuch about rejection or indifference: I know it's going to happen, and I still sulk every time I file another slip in the "declined" folder, but it's kind of like going in for my allergy shots every week -- it's there, I deal, I get to tend to pretty things. And sometimes they make a difference when I share them, and when that happens, it is extraordinarily, soul-satisfyingly cool.