From Now On


The elec­tion of the 45th Pres­i­dent of the Unit­ed States did not go as I antic­i­pat­ed, or hoped.  In the two weeks fol­low­ing D.T.‘s elec­tion, we’ve seen a swell in hate crimes, the appoint­ing of white nation­al­ists to chief cab­i­net posi­tions, and a promise to destroy insti­tu­tions which serve all peo­ple in the US, not just the rich.

The call to hide, to keep our heads down, is entic­ing.  But I can’t do it.  I’ve nev­er been good at stay­ing silent.  I’m too old now to shut up.  You get what you get.


Wise words from a wise woman.

Wise words from a wise woman.


Toni Mor­ri­son wrote these words when W. was reelect­ed.  You can (and real­ly should) read the whole inter­view HERE.

I’m still processing/grieving/railing against the elec­tion results.  I hope to have more words soon.  But I’ve been think­ing of you, all of you, and what kind of world we want to have … and how we fight for it in the com­ing months and years.  One way is with our art.

Be well, speak out, stand strong, cre­ate.





Different Lenses


Find Cotton Valent on Facebook @CottonGallery

The Star” by Cot­ton Valent


Old pho­tos tell sto­ries.  ::stage whis­per::  They steal your soul, you know.   I joke, but I do love the old­er images that show us a time oth­er than our own.  Not nec­es­sar­i­ly bet­ter, but dif­fer­ent.  Old let­ters tell sto­ries, too, through the paper they’re writ­ten on, the hand­writ­ing, the ink, and of course the con­tents.  Tak­en alto­geth­er and they open a win­dow onto anoth­er time and place, a time of ideas we’ve lost, and mind­sets lim­it­ed by what we didn’t yet know, or were unwill­ing to grasp. We are giv­en the chance to expe­ri­ence life, for the span of the pages, through another’s eyes.

For me, tarot cards open win­dows as well.  I had a ton of them at one point — 35 or so decks–which, look­ing back, seems exces­sive. I guess I felt it was exces­sive then, too, as I gave most away. They should be loved and used.  No point in hord­ing, or keep­ing things in a box.  I feel this way about any­thing “col­lectible” whether rare or not.  You won’t do any­thing with it once you’re dead.  May as well enjoy it.

A few years ago I put away my tarot decks.  Stacked them neat­ly in a tray in their wraps, then let them col­lect dust.  There “wasn’t time” for them, and I wasn’t read­ing for any­one any­more, even myself.  I had no more ques­tions to ask.  Life was life, and you take it as it comes, and you make things work.

I some­times drift away from a pas­sion to nev­er real­ly pick it up again.  I’m famous for dab­bling.  Or–as some­one once told me–I take in all I can from some­thing, and when it no longer nour­ish­es, I slough it off, like a snake does its skin, then move on.  I thought that was a very gra­cious way of putting it.  In this case, how­ev­er, it didn’t feel true.

Last week, I met with two friends who also do the tarot thing.  Before we met, I pulled out a few decks to see if I want­ed to take any of them with me on the vis­it.

In going through the dif­fer­ent cards, I felt I was throw­ing back the cur­tains on a win­dow, exchang­ing my black-and-white view to one of col­or and bird­song.  I had a sense of com­ing home again.

I most­ly used tarot for inspi­ra­tion and sto­ry­telling, for clar­i­fi­ca­tion, insight, and even focus.  And when I call them win­dows, I real­ly mean lenses–often 78 dif­fer­ent lens­es in each deck.  They remind me of the gels I used to use when doing light­ing design back in long ago.  The light fix­tures we used were always the same, but by plac­ing a dif­fer­ent col­ored or tex­tured gel front of the beam, it changed the way we saw what was on stage.  Mood, focus, dri­ve, sub­text all changed with the use of a gel.  And that’s how tarot works for me.  I have a sub­ject I’d like to see revealed or enhanced, or what­ev­er my focus is … and the card gives me a new way of view­ing it, of con­sid­er­ing it.  Pret­ty much as sim­ple as that.  There are oth­er ways of using them, of course.  This just hap­pens to be mine.

For twen­ty years I’d used them.  Some of these decks are old friends.  They fit my puny hands.  There’s a whis­per­ing *whuf­fle* as they’re shuf­fled togeth­er, a worn soft­ness to their edges from repeat­ed use.  The col­ors please my eyes, the illus­tra­tions intrigue, inform, reas­sure, and reveal.  I love how their depict­ed arche­types and inci­dents cov­er the whole range of human exis­tence.

I’d missed them, and not even known it.

Tarot has its lovers and its haters. For me, they’re a tool, and like all tools it depends on what you do with them.  Evil and good come from the hand which wields the tool.  It is one aspect of my life I don’t talk about much, though.  I find it’s less social­ly accept­able to read tarot cards than it is to be a role-play gamer, which is weird to me, but hey, I don’t write the social norms … I just try to change them.

I real­ized that I’d put aside my cards–my form of med­i­ta­tion and inspiration–because I’d also stopped being in a com­mu­ni­ty which val­ued such tools.  The greater world didn’t seem to have room for them, or me as a user of them.  There’s a lot of side-eye to side­step when you pull out a deck.

And that’s fear talk­ing.  I may write about social­ly unac­cept­able peo­ple, but I’ve always tried to pass as social­ly accept­able myself.  Some­how, after step­ping away from that com­mu­ni­ty, my use of the cards made me an out­lier in my own eyes, and set me up for judg­ment.

Guess whose voice was the loud­est Judgey McJudger­son?  My own.

So … all this is to say, “Just do what brings you joy.”  As long as it harms none, go for it.

As for me, I’m back to my old morn­ing rou­tine of a card with my sec­ond cof­fee, and a page of poet­ry.  It sets my brain right, starts the day with imagery and lyri­cism.   And we all need a dif­fer­ent view on the world now and then.


What’s your jam?  What have you giv­en up from imag­ined peer pres­sure, or the real thing?  What would you do again, if you could? What tool do you like to view the world through?


"Ace of Cups" The Druid Craft Tarot. Illustrated by Will Worthington

The Druid Craft Tarot. Illus­tra­tions Will Wor­thing­ton


It’s Personal




Twice a year, like clock­work, I pon­der the cor­re­la­tions between writ­ing fic­tion and run­ning role-play­ing games.  The first is in the spring when I start think­ing about what games I want to bring to Amber­Con North­west (an excel­lent role­play­ing con­ven­tion in Port­land that cen­ters around the Amber Dice­less RP Game).  The sec­ond time is in Novem­ber imme­di­ate­ly after the con wraps and I have to decide whether my games were a suc­cess.

Some writ­ers I know gam­ing and writ­ing are two very dif­fer­ent things.  I beg to dis­agree.  On the gamemas­ter side of things, you’re cre­at­ing plot, his­to­ry, world-build­ing, sec­ondary char­ac­ters, and con­flict.  The only thing that is dif­fer­ent is that the main char­ac­ters are out of your con­trol … though a good GM will find ways of giv­ing play­er char­ac­ters growth through an emo­tion­al arc–exactly what a good writer will give their own main char­ac­ters.

My met­rics for gaug­ing suc­cess of both nov­el-style fic­tion and gam­ing are the same: Did you enjoy it?  Were you engaged?  Or, bet­ter yet, did you have a stake in how it turned out?  Did the end­ing sat­is­fy?  Do you want more?

The mechan­ics for build­ing a sat­is­fy­ing sto­ry dif­fer for each form–or at least I find them to dif­fer sub­stan­tial­ly in most respects.  The thing I have been com­ing back to though, the sim­i­lar­i­ty between them, is find­ing ways to make the plot per­son­al to the main char­ac­ters, whether they’re yours or a player’s in your game.

Okay, I say that like I know what I’m talk­ing about, but this is all a work in progress–a hypoth­e­sis under­go­ing rig­or­ous test­ing.

By “make it per­son­al” I don’t mean that the play­er char­ac­ters are the cen­ter of the plot–though if it’s a small enough group and they’re tied togeth­er in some way, maybe they are!–but that the choic­es they make can change the out­come or move the plot for­ward in sig­nif­i­cant ways.  Their choic­es have con­se­quences, for good or ill.  The plot moves for­ward because the PCs made choic­es.  Even choos­ing not to choose is some­thing which should bring con­se­quences.

And that’s not any dif­fer­ent from mak­ing the plot of a writ­ten sto­ry tie inti­mate­ly to the main char­ac­ter, even when the events pro­pelling the MC into the plot didn’t have any­thing to do with them pre­vi­ous­ly.  With writ­ten fic­tion, we have the lux­u­ry of know­ing our character’s back­grounds, and know­ing which part of their his­to­ry is dri­ving them with each scene.  With gam­ing, not so much, even if your play­ers send you a ten page his­to­ry to work with.  The best–if not only–thing we can do to make a plot per­son­al to them, is give them the chance to make deci­sions which mat­ter.  Each time they move on a deci­sion, there’s buy-in.  Once there’s buy-in, stakes can be raised.  Once stakes are raised, con­se­quences become greater and rewards that much sweet­er.

So that’s my goal for my upcom­ing games (and the sto­ry Simone and I are in the mid­dle of) … to make it per­son­al.  I’m sure I’ll let you know how suc­cess­ful I am come mid-Novem­ber.

How do you make your RP sce­nar­ios and/or sto­ries per­son­al to the main char­ac­ters, assum­ing the plot isn’t all about them?  This inquir­ing mind wants to know.


Writers’ Fuel



It is a truth uni­ver­sal­ly acknowl­edged that a word­smith writ­ing a sto­ry is in want of some cof­fee.”


I’m pret­ty sure that’s what Jane Austen said.  Fol­lowed by, “Gimme some java.”

I write, sure.  I plot and plan.  I noo­dle with friends.  And yes, I’m invari­ably in want of some cof­fee.  But more, I want a love­ly, qui­et, clean place where I can sip and type, or lounge and talk in peace for a few hours.


If you’re in the Seat­tle metro area, give Sto­ryville a try.  Four loca­tions.  Two types of extreme­ly fresh­ly roast­ed cof­fee: Pro­logue for the full caff, and Epi­logue for the decaf.  Break­fast bits.  Lun­cheon stuff.  Beau­ti­ful ambiance.  Com­fort­able seat­ing.  Über kind peo­ple behind the bar.

Also?  Hand-craft­ed espres­so.  This means they don’t push a but­ton and let the machine do all the work.  They actu­al­ly know how to pull espres­so.  It’s a dis­ap­pear­ing art here in Seat­tle, lemme tell ya.

What’s more, they have a won­der­ful objec­tive:

… STORYVILLE is a FOR GIVING com­pa­ny, cre­at­ed for giv­ing. At STORYVILLE, our desire is to sup­port the fight against human traf­fick­ing world­wide until no child, woman, or man is trapped in slav­ery.”

This is a cof­fee com­pa­ny I can get behind.

If they were also open until 9pm, it would be a match made in heav­en.  How­ev­er, they are open 7a-6p M-Th, and 7:59a-6p week­ends. [edit: sum­mer hours begin THIS week­end, so they’ll be open at 6:59a Sat­ur­day and Sun­day.  Wheee!]

Pssst … you don’t have to be a writer to enjoy Sto­ryville Cof­fee.  All that is required is a desire for a bit of some­thing love­ly in your day.

Give them a try.

PS:  They did not pay me for this endorse­ment.  I just loved them.


Have you been to Sto­ryville?  What did you think?  What is your favorite place to write, muse, con­verse, chill?

Open Letter


From Me to You

From Me to You


An Open Let­ter to the peo­ple who have shared their sto­ries and their lives with me lately–mostly strangers–but also a few friends.


Dear­est Fel­low Human –

You may know me, or we may have only met briefly in the Star­bucks line, or through a drop-in flash­point in a game, or from a com­ment made in a Face­book group we’re both in, or stand­ing in the sun­shine on the side­walk.  But that’s okay.  How­ev­er we came togeth­er, you were hav­ing a hard time, and you need­ed a friend.  It’s good we talked.  I’m glad that when we part­ed you felt like you were heard and sup­port­ed.  I’m not always good at lis­ten­ing, so I’m glad I could be there for you in that time and place.

A lot of peo­ple I know are hav­ing a hard time right.  They’ve lost loved ones, are strug­gling with health issues, have too lit­tle mon­ey, feel out of con­trol, fear the future, strug­gle with who they are, or sim­ply are so damn tired all the time.  You’re not alone in feel­ing this way.  Truth.

After we part­ed, I wished I could have giv­en you more.  I want­ed to wrap you in a warm blan­ket, hand you a mug of hot cocoa or love­ly tea, read you a good sto­ry, and let you know things can be okay some­times, even if they’re not right now.

There are a few things I wish I could have shared with you, things I think you don’t know how to believe in, or are for­get­ting just now.  And I don’t want to sound pushy, but I hope that you will believe me, even just for a lit­tle while, as I tell you:

  1. You are worth lov­ing just as you are right now.   You Are Worth Lov­ing Just As You Are.
  2. Your sto­ry mat­ters.  You mat­ter.   I want to hear your sto­ry, in what­ev­er way you want to share it.
  3. We can’t save oth­er peo­ple, no mat­ter how much we want to. We can only love them for as long as they’re in our lives, near or far.  The only per­son you can tru­ly save/fix/change is your­self, and that’s where we need to start.
  4. You can only do your best. Some days your best will be excel­lent, and some days you’ll feel it’s not so much.  Cel­e­brate the good days, and for­give your­self the hard ones.
  5. You’re allowed to feel what­ev­er you are feel­ing, even the ones that oth­ers think are ugly.  
  6. It’s okay to ask for help. Some peo­ple won’t be able to do much, but oth­ers will.  We all suck at ask­ing, but every­one needs a hand or a hug some­times.
  7. Be kind to your­self and oth­ers as much as you can. You deserve kind­ness, and so do they.  Some­times kind­ness is hard to come by, but give and receive what you can, as you can. 


I don’t know if we’ll ever see each oth­er again, Fel­low Human, but thank you for shar­ing your time and your sto­ry with me, and for includ­ing me in your life for a while.  I hope it gave you at least the seeds of what you need­ed.  I wish you gen­tle days and rest­ful nights, and all hap­pi­ness in the days to come.


With love,

The Stranger In The Cof­fee Shop / Online / In That Game You Love / At The Park


Review: Ink and Bone


Ink and Bone


Rachel Caine’s new book, Ink and Bone: The Great Library, is the first in a tril­o­gy set in an alter­nate world where the Great Library of Alexan­dria was nev­er sacked, and infor­ma­tion is tru­ly pow­er — in this case, the only pow­er worth men­tion­ing.  In a life where every­one across the globe has mag­i­cal access to every piece of writ­ing the great Alexan­dri­an Library deems worth read­ing, per­son­al own­er­ship of books is for­bid­den.  Young Jess Bright­well grows up part and par­cel of his father’s Lon­don-based black-mar­ket busi­ness, lit­er­al­ly run­ning pre­cious con­tra­band of real books–not mere copies–to buy­ers with the deep­est pock­et.  When his father sends him to train as librar­i­an at the great library itself–becoming an inside source for orig­i­nal vol­umes, the rarest of the rare–Jess’s pri­or­i­ties become tan­gled, and he ques­tions every­thing he’s ever known about knowl­edge and pow­er, right and wrong, cow­ardice and courage.

I loved this book from cov­er to cov­er.  It is con­sid­ered suit­able for grades 8 and up, but there is plen­ty there which skews old­er (char­ac­ters you like die bloody deaths galore).  The premise is fas­ci­nat­ing and per­ti­nent to our world of dig­i­tal media and ques­tions of own­er­ship vs license.  The alter­nate Earth is inter­est­ing, com­plex and well-devised and the char­ac­ters are as inter­est­ing as they are diverse, with the women as unapolo­get­i­cal­ly awe­some as their male coun­ter­parts (peo­ple who know me will under­stand this is huge in my enjoy­ment of a sto­ry).  Caine thor­ough­ly explores the ideas of infor­ma­tion, absolute pow­er, and the cor­rup­tion which fol­lows hard on its heels, and cun­ning­ly weaves them into a plot which will hurl you for­ward like a feath­er in a hur­ri­cane.

For those of us who are audio­book inclined, I give the audio ver­sion of Ink and Bone, nar­rat­ed by Jules Elfer, five gold stars all around.  The sto­ry was con­veyed so well, that I bought the hard­back for my hus­band (who read it in a weekend–and like­wise loved it), and imme­di­ate­ly pre-ordered the next book in the series.

July needs to arrive so I can find out what hap­pens next!



Rock Band Revelation


Image Credit: Rock Band 4

Rock It Like You Mean It

I love music.  Most kinds.  I love every­thing from 13th cen­tu­ry chants to opera to blue­grass, big band, main­stream rock and even some metal–don’t judge, I’m expand­ing my hori­zons.  I love to sing, but only in my car or in the house when no one is around.

I used to love singing even when peo­ple could hear me.  Then, some­one whose opin­ion I held high­ly told me I didn’t have a voice worth lis­ten­ing to.  And that opin­ion was rein­forced by being involved in musi­cal the­ater where peo­ple are lit­er­al­ly judged by how well they can belt a song.  You want the best on stage.  Total­ly under­stand­able.  But I, in my angsty teenage years, heard only that my singing sucked, rather than I sim­ply wasn’t strong (or clear or what­ev­er) enough as a vocal­ist.  So I stopped singing any­where I might be judged, e.g. in pub­lic.

It’s a com­mon sto­ry.  We’re told that what we put into the world isn’t worth someone’s atten­tion, as if our joy needs to equal a prod­uct for anoth­er to con­sume.  No one ever tells us that the mon­e­ti­za­tion of some­thing doesn’t nail down the only way of express­ing or expe­ri­enc­ing that some­thing.  The mes­sage we get is, if we can’t sell it, it ain’t worth shit.

Thir­ty years pass.  No karaōke for me, no sing-alongs, just solos in my car–unless I’m super tired or tip­sy and my guard is down.

Enter the XBox game, Rock Band 2.

Stick (my daugh­ter), Red (her part­ner) and I start­ed up a band, The Face­hug­gers (we’d just fin­ished watch­ing Alien and Aliens, and we’re geeks–but you knew that).  Red is our kick-ass gui­tarist.  I’m usu­al­ly on drums.  Stick does a lot of the singing, except when the game toss­es out a tune from before she was born … then it falls to me. That ver­sion of Rock Band was pret­ty for­giv­ing about how you played, how you sang.  Ener­gy wasn’t need­ed.  You could whis­per or meow your way through a song as long as you hit the beats and phras­ing, so I could hide even as I was singing.  It takes a cer­tain amount of tal­ent to be self-effac­ing when you’ve got a mic up to your face.

This win­ter, we splurged for the newest ver­sion, Rock Band 4, and every­thing changed.  Now the score is based part­ly on how much ener­gy you put into your per­for­mance.  You can’t tap the drums light­ly, you have to play them HARD.  You can’t mere­ly breathe your songs into the mic. The best scores come from rock­ing it like you mean it. And we’re all com­pet­i­tive enough to want the high scores. We have a tour bus to earn and fans to win!

I had to put up, stop play­ing, or fail out of the game, and no one wants to be a los­er in front of their kids.  So I put up, let loose and belt­ed out an old Pat Benatar rock bal­lad.  And it was glo­ri­ous­ly fun!  In that moment, I had a rev­e­la­tion.  We live so much of our lives ashamed for being nor­mal, ashamed of not being what’s reflect­ed in our media.  I know so many peo­ple who won’t sing in public–it’s not just me–or write, or draw, or gar­den, or sew, or any­thing, real­ly, because they fear deri­sion.  They have joys they keep in the clos­et.

Who are these neb­u­lous gate keep­ers who get to deter­mine how we find our hap­pi­ness?  If we take joy in what we do, what we put into the world as play, as self-expres­sion, isn’t that what is impor­tant?

So sing out, I chal­lenge you. Give your­self per­mis­sion to do what makes you hap­py how­ev­er much you can.  Sing out loud and long.  Paint, dance, yodel, write, role-play, act, build, cre­ate … what­ev­er light­ens your heart.  And for your own joy’s sake, break it out of the clos­et and rock it like you mean it!

See you on the high score list!


A New Hope


No, not that one, not Star Wars Ep. IV, though it qual­i­fies.

I’m talk­ing about the feel­ing that comes from expe­ri­enc­ing a sto­ry with a Hap­py End­ing™.   Not even a Hap­pi­ly Ever After™ end­ing, but sim­ply the hero­ine-pre­vails-in-her-quest end­ing, what­ev­er that quest may be.  It brings sat­is­fac­tion that wrongs have been right­ed, jus­tice pre­vails, and the wor­thy find love.  In oth­er sto­ries, some­thing intrin­sic to the human con­di­tion endures, and we, or those impor­tant to us, will be able to par­take of it.

I remem­ber how ter­ri­ble the last half of 2001 was.   The US was attacked on Sep­tem­ber 11th, and then we took war to the Mid­dle East.  So much pain and nation­al anx­i­ety.  At the end of the year, for the hol­i­days, Warn­er Bros. released Har­ry Pot­ter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.  It was a fun movie, I’ll grant you, full of good per­for­mances by actors I enjoyed.  But what hit me like a blow was how much hope it instilled in me at the end.  I wept as the cred­its rolled.  It was all out of pro­por­tion to the movie itself, but I felt that if Pot­ter could over­come his tri­als and tribu­la­tions, then we, as adults and as a coun­try, could sure­ly emerge from the pain and hatred and fear we were snarled in.  I felt hope again for our world.

That’s some good, heart-tug­ging sto­ry­telling.

Maybe at that time, I just need­ed to believe in the pos­si­bil­i­ty of hap­py end­ings, and that–like young Sky­walk­er, and the hope he embodied–the sun­set would be fol­lowed by a new, bet­ter day.


Epic yearning!

Epic yearn­ing!

Hap­py End­ings aren’t an Amer­i­can inven­tion, but we do tend to eat them up.  I sort of blame Disney–or maybe Frank Capra–and I’m sort of not kid­ding.  They’re hard to get away from, and I some­times won­der if we do our­selves a dis­ser­vice by not embrac­ing more ambi­gu­i­ty as the cur­tains fall.  Ambi­gu­i­ty makes us dig for the hope we want, makes us exam­ine pos­si­bil­i­ties.  End­ing with uncer­tain­ty is less like hot choco­late and Milano cook­ies on a cold winter’s night, and more like a meaty borscht–complex and nour­ish­ing, but we have to work to get it in the bowl, and we often are unsure of the ingre­di­ents.  Ambi­gu­i­ty makes us won­der what’s next?  Hap­py End­ings rarely do.

All this is to say that I won­der about the sto­ries we, as a peo­ple, tell.  I won­der in our com­mu­nal psy­che demands the reas­sur­ance and cer­tain­ty of a Hap­py End­ing, even when we know they’re rarely “real”.  I won­der which sto­ries give us the tool to find our way through this crazy world, and if it’s sim­ply a mat­ter of hav­ing our Milano cook­ies along side our borscht.

What kind of end­ings do you crave?  Which ones sat­is­fy you?  What do you want from your sto­ries?  Inquir­ing minds wan­na know.


"Delicious ambiguity." -- Gilda Radner

Deli­cious ambi­gu­i­ty.” — Gil­da Rad­ner


Star Wars Sans Spoilers


Don't ruin it for others! I mean it!

The nos­tal­gia is strong with this one.



I was 14 when Star Wars: Episode IV came out in May of 1977.  My father took my broth­er and me to the now-demol­ished Val­ley Cir­cle The­ater in San Diego.  I remem­ber being dis­grun­tled at hav­ing to go to a movie that Sat­ur­day, as I had a book I want­ed to fin­ish!  I had no idea what the movie was about.  Star Wars?  I didn’t want to see a war movie.  What­ev­er!  It wasn’t even a mys­tery or a musi­cal!

The Val­ley Cir­cle was a huge venue, and it was packed.  We stood in line for tick­ets, and stood in line for pop­corn.  The seats we found were about 3/4th of the way back in the cen­ter sec­tion, and over to the left.  I was cranky about that, too, because all the seats were on one lev­el, and I was very short.  Nat­u­ral­ly, a ver­i­ta­ble pil­lar of a man sat right in front of me.

The lights went down.  The now-famil­iar fan­fare start­ed.  The open­ing titles rolled.  The guy in front of me slouched, and I sat up straight, eyes riv­et­ed to the screen as a spaceship–A SPACESHIP–flew by, tiny lasers pew-pew-pew­ing back­ward at …


An omi­nous­ly dark behe­moth hove into view–a Star Destroy­er!

That was the moment my world changed.

Like many of my gen­er­a­tion, Star Wars ignit­ed some­thing in me.  A pas­sion for sci­ence fic­tion, fan­ta­sy, and orches­tral music lit up, and nev­er left. What’s more, there was a BAD ASS PRINCESS!!!!  I’d nev­er seen a girl kick-ass and take names the way Leia did.

Star Wars changed what I believed pos­si­ble.  A girl could be a princess and a spy and a rebel leader and a sen­a­tor and some­one who shot Storm Troop­ers with the best of them!  With one defi­ant look, Leia Organa rede­fined the roles women could have in any world!

The rest of the orig­i­nal tril­o­gy brought good fun, good adven­ture, and more of my favorite Princess, even though the ewoks made me a lit­tle crazy.  Then came the long, sor­row­ful years of the pre­quels.  Okay,  some of I and II were okay, but for the most part, wow, tru­ly ter­ri­ble.  I hon­est­ly tried to for­get III alto­geth­er as the end­ing made me furi­ous.

And now we have Star Wars, The Force Awak­ens.

Say what you will, I loved it.  Was it a great movie?  Hell no.  Was there great act­ing?  Mm-no, not so much.  Were there any amaz­ing plot twists?  Sor­ry, nope.  Worse, they used some old, crap­py tropes that could have been avoid­ed with just a lit­tle writ­ing.

So what did it have?

SW:TFA had a galaxy worth of nos­tal­gia. It man­aged to con­jure up that old Star Wars mag­ic despite (or because of) being most­ly uno­rig­i­nal.  It brought back old friends, and it set the stage for new adven­tures.  A woman and a per­son of col­or were the main char­ac­ters.  The cast­ing was more diverse than in almost any oth­er recent Amer­i­can-made show.  The CG wasn’t egre­gious­ly used, and I liked the action scenes (we can debate why in the com­ments, if you want).  More, it didn’t take itself too seri­ous­ly.  It was FUN.

And this time, a girl is hav­ing the adven­tures: a non-whiny, capa­ble, intu­itive, kick-ass, Force-sen­si­tive, prag­mat­ic-yet-com­pas­sion­ate GIRL.  This is huge.

I adore the char­ac­ter of Rey, and I’m delight­ed that she held cen­ter stage–right after Han Solo.  She’s been giv­en the cen­tral mys­tery as well as ample room to grow, and I’m look­ing for­ward to dis­cov­er­ing the secrets of the galaxy right along with her.  Thanks to writ­ers Lawrence Kas­dan, J.J. Abrams, and Michael Arndt for giv­ing us a young woman to go adven­tur­ing with, and for some­one a new gen­er­a­tion of girls can embrace as their own.

Now just give Finn his due, and we’ll be good.

For the rest of you, go see it, if you haven’t already!  Then come back and tell me what you loved or hat­ed about it.  I want to know what you think!!

Swanky -- in that 'the future is now' sort of way. The Valley Circle Theater.

Swanky — in that ‘the future is now’ sort of way. The Val­ley Cir­cle The­ater.


But please, do tell!!


December Nostalgia


Shiny and Bright

Shiny and Bright


Decem­ber is a rough time of year.  In Seat­tle, the days are dark and the nights are long.  It’s damp.  It’s cold–not cut­ting like Mid­west- or Cana­da-cold, just brisk enough for me to com­plain about.  It’s a time when dig­ging enthu­si­asm and impe­tus out from the base­ment is a bru­tal propo­si­tion.  My cre­ativ­i­ty grumpi­ly crawls back into bed, telling me to fuck off until Feb­ru­ary.  Suf­fice it to say, we’re deep into my least favorite time of the year.

It’s the light I miss most.  A qua­ver of pan­ic squir­rels through me come August when the sun­shine shades away from bright gold, and casts the world in a crisp sil­ver light.  That’s how I know the sea­son has tru­ly changed, when the qual­i­ty of light alters.  I strug­gle to con­vince myself that the slow­ly ris­ing dark is not a sign of immi­nent doom, and it will all turn out fine.   It’s not that bad.  No big.

Eh.  My opti­mistic self is a liar.  It is that hard.  Every year.

With my deep and abid­ing antipa­thy for our night-filled months, I find it odd my most pow­er­ful feel­ings of nos­tal­gia are stirred by some­thing that only occurred in deep­est, dark­est Decem­bers.

My fam­i­ly cel­e­brat­ed Christ­mas when I was grow­ing up, and we were lucky enough to always have a tree.  This was a real tree, that gave off a piney, foresty scent for days after we brought it home.  Our lights were the big, fat, translu­cent ones of gold, green, red, and blue, that came out before safe­ty reg­u­la­tions and ener­gy con­ser­va­tion was the norm.  Some  flashed, some glowed steadi­ly, all burned hot and bright.  Tin­sel, paper chains and gold gar­land decked each bough, and the old glass orna­ments gleamed even in the day­light.  We didn’t mess around.

When I was small (and even not so small), I used to wrap up in my bathrobe and sneak back to the liv­ing room in the mid­dle of the night.  I remem­ber hug­ging the wall as I descend­ed the stairs–I’d read in a spy nov­el that the mid­dle of the treads were what squeaked–and extreme qui­et was called for, you see, or I’d wake up the dogs, who would then wake up my mom. My pre-teenaged brain was cer­tain that would be bad.  Nav­i­gat­ing the black-on-dim sil­hou­ettes in the liv­ing room, I’d find the switch to the Christ­mas tree lights.  Then, when they were shin­ing like sun­lit jew­els in the dark­ness, I’d curl under the tree, nestling amid what­ev­er presents were already there.  I’d look up through the boughs at the dance of col­ors and shapes.  I’d smell the resin, and feel the warmth of the bulbs, and gaze in sleepy bliss for what felt like a small for­ev­er.

And that was it.  It wasn’t antic­i­pa­tion of Christ­mas Day and its var­i­ous cel­e­bra­tions.  It was the sen­sa­tion of being cocooned in warmth and col­or, light and shad­ow.  That was the mag­ic.  That’s what I remem­ber.

So now, though I don’t cel­e­brate Christ­mas, per se, we still find a way to get a tree.  We haul out the flash­ing lights along with the mem­o­ries that come with thir­ty-years worth of orna­ments.  Every now and then this rit­u­al con­jures the child­hood mag­ic of won­der and com­fort, beau­ty and light in the dark­ness, dri­ving away the gloom beyond the windows–and in myself–just for a lit­tle while.

Or maybe it sim­ply proves that I’m more like my cats than I want to admit.  At least I don’t knock the orna­ments off the tree.


What is your bright­est mem­o­ry of Decem­bers past?



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