What I Learned From Watching ‘Hart of Dixie'

 

-                 I already had a dumb stereotype-riddled bias against the idea of my living in a

 small town and this show perpetuated all of them. So thanks for that, Dr. Hart.

-       Many of the jokes are cliché and are inserted into dialogue in such a way that it makes the whole episode script into the softest game of softball imaginable. Part of comedy is surprising your audience a bit, striking the part of the brain that goes, ‘Oh! That was clever, how great!’ and triggers a laugh. If a writer makes humor a very low priority in favor of playing to the basic wants of teenage girls via shirtless guys confessing their feelings to the uninteresting fish-out-of-water protagonist, then the jokes, the characterization, and even the kisses become cotton balls and cosmetic sponges instead of moments fans can cheer about.

About This Dream I Had

As told to my mother:
"I had a sort of lucid dream this morning just before I woke up. I went to see Ellie* at her old place and pulled into the parking lot across the street...I looked over at a nearby car to see a raccoon sitting in it, leaning out of the open window on the passenger side. I looked away for a second, turned back, and I heard feet at my passenger door. Slowly - here's the window (I needlessly indicate with my hand) - the raccoon put its claws on my door and peered in at me. It looked so aggressive that I thought it must have rabies! I knew I could drive over to the police station that was just behind the lot, but instead I decided to flip the bird at the raccoon with both hands! It started attacking my car, trying to get in, which made me think, 'Don't wanna be bitten', and I wondered how scratched that door was getting, but I quickly responded to the attack by sliding into the closest seat and proceeding to sit up tall and make claws and growling sounds." 

Yup. Probably rabies.

Just before my mom leaves the house, I say, "Fine. Telling it to you shows me that it was all my fault."  -eye roll-

*Ellie = Lola J. Massagetherapistfriend

Advice From a Writer: Wendi Aarons

A few months ago, I discovered the writer Wendi Aarons. Her humor grabbed me first, with her website, relatable tweets and always-funny Twitter profile picture, but I also had to appreciate how she keeps things simple in each blog post, choosing a topic and following it through in the ‘short but sweet’ way that I still have to work on. She makes a living based on her work, serves as coauthor of the parody Twitter account @PaulRyanGosling and just seems all-around cool. One day she published something about writer’s block and strangers disliking her style that made me think, ‘I should really ask this woman for a little advice! I want some of the things she has and she’s been in this field a lot longer than I have, so why not take a chance and come up with some questions?' I soon did just that, and – check this out, you guys – she responded! My work life has been eventful lately because I needed to change environments, y' know? It's time for a new adventure, so it was kind of a relief to read Mrs. Aarons' Wendi's answers since they made it clear that yeah, I’m dealing with the industry that Writer's Digest has been talking about. I wanted the combo of hard work, struggles and opportunities, competition, persistence and community, and this world has all that. It’s not like I’m trying to get a job keeping nuclear missiles secure. Writing (especially fiction) is definitely my thing. 

Below are the e-mails exchanged between clever celebrity blogger Wendi Aarons and myself! This has been a good dose of inspiration/reality for me.

July 7

Dear Wendi,

'Scoring Wilder', A Review

Intelligent, relatively self-aware 19-year-old protagonist, check. Hot, talented love interest, check. A number of writing mistakes like "Her and Emily" and "the Coffee Shop", a big ol' check. Well-paced beach read that left me satisfied, check. 

It was refreshing that...

A Scene from My Nonexistent Movie Script

So picture this:

It's a movie - my movie, tentatively titled Drowsy Crown just because I like those words together, and in a kitchen scene, artists of different kinds are all going about their breakfast routines. Here's what I have figured out so far: There's a girl with long, wavy brown hair wearing blue skinny jeans and standing to the left, trying to get the guy in the middle of the room to remember that the white bins in the garage are meant for separating plastic and paper recyclables. She doesn’t have time to clean up after her roommates this week, because she has a test from Professor Lauren, her most challenging instructor. He's taking a break after working through the night on a play he's very cryptic about, what with his being a secret perfectionist, a "you can’t read it 'til it's finished" guy who’d be halfway through a burrito, find himself struck by an idea and forget to finish eating.
In the back right of the room (stage left) is a guy in a bathrobe, tube socks slouching around his ankles, a necklace hiding underneath the collar of his shirt. He has very short hair and is listening to the recyclables conversation, amused, tilting his chair back periodically, eating a bowl of cereal. He doesn't live in this house. His presence will be fleeting and carefully staged on the part of the director so that the audience can better see the shape of this artists' group. I'm afraid to call them a collective at this stage, but the friendships in this gaggle have to make sense. I don't want them to be ragtag. They don't need each other, they choose each other to lean on.

And I've decided that the bathrobe guy is Sam Pink. 

My Dream Hair

I do love my tresses, it’s true; the nearly-black natural color, the fact that I haven’t dyed my whole head of hair, that day in 2001 when I took a chance by having it cut from just-past-the-shoulders to a short almost-pixie inspired by Mandy Moore. That last decision liberated me from a useless obsession with the long, thick hair that I was actually overwhelmed by.

These days, it’s still short, but I’ve learned a few styling techniques and introduced myself to the fun of making it colorful. I’ve had red highlights, blue-green bangs, and at one point, a panel of red, orange and blonde.

When I inevitably get bored with my look, I don’t just think of what I want to do next, but I fantasize, too, about having 22 inches of purple, Joss Stone-style waves to toss over my shoulder and wear with a black dress.

I Thought I Was In Love and Felt Like a Crazy Person

 Could I skip to the stage of a relationship that would have been Liz Lemon's dream and just be done with this? 'Kay, thanks.

          I can't possibly be the only person who has thought to themselves, 'UGH. I am so SICK of this stage of love'. Mind you, I know I previously had limited experience with the emotion: I'm part of a warm, stable family and have some semblance of love with a few friends. But 
I stated in January that I am currently in romantic love for the very first time, and holy s--t - I have been thinking like an insane person for the past - mmm, seven months, I think - going through the scientifically proven stage of love that has me much more attentive to small children, dogs and babies, having more difficulty focusing on tasks, getting annoyed with myself.

 

This piece was first published on 3.29.14 and the title was changed on 11.28.20