The Devil Inside Review

The horror genre has embraced the "faux documentary" form of film-making, and I can  see why. If done well, setting a film up as a documentary  adds an air of credibility that may help today's cynical audiences extend a bit more disbelief. Cloverfield, The Blair Witch Project and Paranormal Activity are examples of films that, good or bad, have effectively used the documentary format.

When done poorly, this approach to a film is just a really lazy way to avoid character development, answering questions that should be answered, and building a coherent plot. Unfortunately, The Devil Inside is the epitome of a poor example of the documentary approach, and just all around really lazy story-telling.

Now, I typically don't go see ANY movie that looks like it might involve exorcism in the theater, simply because they scare the hell out of me and I prefer being at home with the lights on. I am not ashamed to say that I am 31 years old and a well-told demonic possession tale will force me to sleep with the lights on for at least a week. 

So the mere fact that I found this movie so lame says something, and it is especially shocking since I relented and saw it in the theater at a friend's request.

The most unfortunate part of the film's failure is that the premise is really, really good.

Isabella Rossi has lived her whole life knowing that, when she was very young, her mother inexplicably murdered three clergy members in their home. Declared not guilty because of mental disease, her mother is sent to an institution to deal with her mental illness.When Isabella is older, her father divulges that the murders happened while her mother was undergoing an exorcism, and that since her sentencing, she has been moved... to Italy. (OK, I buy that it could happen, but could someone please explain why Italy wants our mentally ill mass murders? Because the move never does).

Isabella then hires a filmmaker to make a pilgramige to Rome and find out what really happened to her mother. She is sick of her whole life (you know, since her father told her a little while ago) being about possession, and she wants answers.

First stop: A course being taught by the Vatican  on exorcism. In the 1-minute span of the class, I come up with three major issues I have:

1. If the Vatican refuses to allow exorcisms to be filmed (a major tenant of the movie) then why would they let the class on performing them be filmed?
2. If the class is for learning how to perform exorcisms, as described in the film, then why are the two priests Isabella teams up with there even in it, as both are already ordained exorcists?
3. And 3... SPOILER ALERT... Was there no better way for the writers here to introduce the kind of possession Isabella's mother suffers from than having it be the only part of the class she attends. Seriously, she is in a class for 30 seconds, the teacher references this term, and I thought "gee, I bet that is what her mother has" and I was right.

This is the root of my entire issue with the film-- the writer took an awesome concept and just couldn't be bothered to spend time developing it. Isabella has no character development. I sat through an hour and a half of a film where she was on-screen almost the whole time, and I cannot tell you a single thing about her, other than the fact that her mother is possessed.

I was not surprised once during this film. More times than I could count, a scene was set up and I thought "this is what is going to happen" and lo and behold, I was right. Even the vile verbal assaults of the multiple demons we meet were trite, and cliche, and more fodder for a high school locker room than the den of the devil.

All in all, I say skip it, unless you want to be really angry that someone had such a great idea for a movie, but didn't spend just a little bit more time developing it to be anything beyond mediocre and predictable.

Dreamy Man Thor!

So I have too long abandoned one of my favorite topics-- dreamy men. I was reminded of this when I watch Thor with my roommate last weekend. Again.

OK, so in fairness, the number of times that I have watched this relatively new movie has as much to do with my general love of superhero movies as it does with my love of ogling Chis Hemsworth. Maybe even more. Maybe.

For those of you unfamiliar, Thor is actually one of my favorite comic-book-turned-movie franchises, as it is based and heavily steeped in Norse mythology. Which I also love.

The new movie version begins as a  young Thor, portrayed by the amazingly dreamy Chris Hemsworth, about to ascend the throne of Asgaard when Oden, played by the always dreamy-in-a-refined-older-gentleman-way Sir Anthony Hopkins, determines that he is too vain and immature to rule. Subsequently, Thor is banished to Earth where he meets Jane, a.k.a. Natalie Portman. Of course, given how amazingly, unbelievably, incredibly beautiful Thor is, a romance ensues as conditions in Asgaard sans Thor get quite dicey.

You should see it-- it's on Netflix now. Even if you aren't into dreamy, tall, very muscular Australian men like Chris Hemsworth (who is, gulp, younger than me, which troubles me a bit), it is a super-hero movie worth watching. It's well acted, Kenneth Branagh actually directs without over-stylizing everything, and the story is really, really rich and dynamic.

And Thor looks like this. I'm just saying.

I need a little help on Stephen King

So my boyfriend loves Stephen King. And I mean loooooooooovvvvvveeessss him. For those of you who have relegated Stephen King into a pulp horror fiction genre, I actually do think he is much, much more than that. I've read a bunch of his stuff, and I really like most of it. But the boy... he looooooooooovvvvveessssssss it all.

And so, over the past year plus that we've been together, I've been told a myriad of times that I need to read The Dark Tower series. In fact, he is one of about a dozen people who have told me that. But here is my problem:

1. The more people tell me I HAVE to read something, the most I resist (childish, I know, but it isn't just to be obstinate, it is based on past experience). I usually avoid the next great thing that everyone is buzzing about. Sometimes I'm wrong-- I was a late Harry Potter convert and now a big fan. Other times I am not-- I didn't care for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and do not get me started on the Alex Cross books. 
2. I am just not sure I can dive into another series right now. Said boyfriend got me into A Song of Ice and Fire, which I thoroughly enjoy(ed), but five months later I am STILL plugging through book five (I did take a Hunger Games break, a psuedo-I-was-wrong instance referenced in number 1)
3. There are fans, there are really strong fans, and then there are rabid-in-your-face-you-aren't-a-real-person-until-you've-experience-this fans. The latter drive me crazy. These are the people who ruined Pearl Jam for me, the people who heckle me every single Friday for not wearing Ravens-purple to work even though I don't like football. I am a strong fan about a lot of things. I border on rabid from time to time. But the Dark Tower pushers act as though I have not progressed in a literary sense beyond "See Spot run" since I haven't read these books. It drives me bananas and makes me not want to read the books out of spite (yes, I recognize that this makes me sound 12).
4. I like Stephen King a lot, but I am just so skeptical that these books are really the best thing out there...

 So I would like some feedback from any of you out there who aren't rabid and won't make fun of me or declare me to be uncultured and stupid for not reading these books... are they really THIS good?

Consequently, for those of you now worried that I might be in an emotionally abusive relationship, I am not. The boy is actually the mildest in his assertion. From him, I get "Honey, you've got to read these," and not the same "Oh my God! HOW HAVE YOU NEVER READ THIS? I thought you were some kind of writer," that I've gotten from others.

Let it snow!

I have never outgrown the childish delight I feel at the prospect of snow. As an adult there are tons of reasons to hate it:

• It's messy and cold
• It makes driving hell and I HATE being trapped anywhere without the use of my car
• Now that the ability to work from home exists, bad roads don't get me out of anything
• The grocery stores go insane
• My dog has to be forced outside to relieve himself
• It exacerbates my existing lack of coordination, as highlighted by the time I fell down some icy stairs, sprained my back, got a concussion, bruised three ribs, and ended up in physical therapy for two months
• My boyfriend lives an hour away in the sticks and it makes it hard to drive there...

 ...and on and on, but I can't help it. I love the snow, even more now that I live in the city.

I awoke this morning to a very reasonable inch or two of snow on the ground. The sky is still a dark grey, and so I am fairly sure we have more coming.

I feel giddy and peaceful. Everything in Baltimore looks clean and new (quite a feat for those of you who have ever been here-- is is beautiful, but it is rarely clean).

I actually tromped outside at 6:45 a.m. in pajama pants and high heels (the first shoes I could find) to take a picture of my pretty, peaceful city, which I will share with you all... just don't tell my roommate. She is the one that took me to the ER and dealt with my doped up nonsense for weeks after my last tumble in the snow.

Consequently, its not a very good picture... if I had crossed the street and walked into the park so I could cut out the road and cars, it might be better, but since I already looked like a lunatic wandering around in pajama pants and high heels, I stopped a few blocks from my house and just snapped and ran/waddled back before any of the neighbors I know saw me. 

Wherever you are, wishing you a peaceful Saturday full of reading, writing, relaxing, or whatever makes you happy. If you're in Maryland, enjoy the snow!

Let's hear it for the testy and dejected!

Or, OK, truth be told, its the REjected and not DEjected I am rooting for today.

See, you work hard, you write a book. You send it to publishers for months or years asking them to like it. You get so many demoralizing rejection letters, while your very-patient friends reassure you that even J.K. Rowling got rejected dozens of times.

Finally one amazing, wonderful publisher does like your book, and even publishes it! And the elation fills you with a fever pitch to keep writing, and keep going, and you write another book and then...

... start another round of rejection letters. I got my latest this yesterday, on a day I was already home sick with a cold.

And I am a "professional" writer. I KNOW form letters saying "thank you for sharing... not for us" are not a reflection of my talent or lackthereof. Furthermore, I work in marketing! I 100% know that there is a vast difference between "good" and "marketable" in the type of fiction I write.

But it still makes me sad.

So, I think we should all do something nice for the writers out there, just in case anyone is having a day like me and is feeling a little dejected.

What's that you say? A contest?

Yes! Of my normal ilk! Go to Amazon, find a book you like that was self-published, or written by a first time writer, or published by a small press, and leave a review about how much you liked it. You will make some author's day, for sure....

... and then come back here, leave a link to the book, and you're in the contest. One winner will get a $20 Amazon giftcard. I'll announce a winner by 1/31.

If you would like some independant or small press publications to consider, think about maybe:

• Twisted Velvet Chains by Jessica Bell, amazing poetry by an up and coming star. Its available for Kindle for only .99, or paperback as well.
• The War Master's Daughter by Elly Zupko, strong and engrossing historical fiction. On Kindle for only $2.99, or available on Paperback as well.
• String Bridge by Jessica Bell, which also just rocked my world
• of (of course) Max and Menna or Listening In, bother available on Kindle for $3.99 and $1.99 respectively. Max and Menna is also in paperback and hardcover, and Listening In will be available in paperback soon.

Come on, make someone's day... and maybe win a prize as well :)

On resembling a maudlin poet

I don't believe in stereotypes about writers. We aren't alll chain smoke (I just quit, thank you very much), job hopping (stably employed), tattooed (I only have 3), moody (Ok, you got me there), morose, wanderers dressed in black, despite what many a movie and most of the beatnicks might tell you. If being a part of the writing blog community has taught me anything, its that today's writers are the most diverse, dedicated, and supportive group of people I can imagine.

But I am working on a project that has me resembling a beat poet more and more (you know, save the drugs).

Even before my mom died, she and I talked about me writing a story about caring for someone with cancer, but not in the traditional way. I never wanted to write- nor did she want to read- an uplifting, you-can-do-it cancer story. We never discussed a morose, woe-is-me tale either, but looked at the book as the not-so-simple truth about what it is like to watch someone you love that much slowly die.

And since her death a year and a half ago, I have attempted so many times to sit down and outline. Normally, I am good at beginnings-- I can begin a story all day. But this one, well, the words wouldn't come. And finally right before Christmas I decided to tell a story about cancer through the eyes of someone very much like me. We'll call it inspired fiction. Clearly, this story will be heavily influenced by my own experiences, but I have very much fictionalized it, partially because there were so many moments during my mother's illness that are mine and I don't want to share, and partially to respect the privacy of everyone else who was so heavily involved in her illness.

And here is where the stereotype comes in: writing this has had such a profound impact on my mood.

I have to write this book for reasons I cannot begin to explain to myself, and yet I feel like I just survived a war and immediately diving back into the conflict. I think about waiting, and then realize that the details of my experience that are so crucial to defining the experience of my narrator are softening. The visceral and raw emotion behind caring for a cancer patient are vital to this story. In fact, without them, there is no story.

Nonetheless, this is reliving everything, and I know the perceptible change in my mood is there. I'm back to talking about Mom more and more, as much as I did shortly after her death, because it is all at the forefront of my mind. I see people around me subtly react when I bring her illness up again and yet I cannot keep the words in. I had finally moved past daily sobbing, and yet here it is again because it is all being dredged back up.

And so, here is the warning that blogs to come for the next several months may border on the maudlin. My biggest hope is that I can keep away from the damned cigarettes that I got hooked on while living the ordeal in the first place.

Here goes nothing...

Some thoughts on the Hunger Games

I am always a bit late to the party. I discovered Adele three months ago, just saw Iron Man for the first time, and didn't realize Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was a trilogy until the shocking similarity on covers smacked me over the head with the fact. Periodically, I discover something new that makes me wish I was more with it!

Several of you bloggers plus a bunch of friends kept nudging me towards The Hunger Games. So over the holidays, I read them. I actually devoured the books, reading the first in six hours.

For the record, if you haven't read The Hunger Games, do it. Do it now! It is an amazing read and you won't regret it. And then... well, you decide if you feel like moving on, because something odd happens in the second two.

One of the things I loved the most about the first book was the main character, Katniss Everdeen. Having read a lot of YA fiction, and living in the era of Bella Swan, I loved Katniss in Book #1, because, quite frankly, she kicks ass. Bold, kind, strong, and fierce, Katniss is an amazing character and a true role model for young girls and grown women everywhere. She takes care of her family, and manages to keep her dignity and humanity in the harshest of circumstances. And then... and then...

In book #2, Katniss is a bit less likeable. I actually 100% buy that she goes through some awful things in book #1, and may be struggling to put her psyche back together. But then, in book #3, Katniss turns into a stereotypical angsty teen. She is moody and rebelious and angry. Though she remains strong, the strength is accompanied by what can only be described as whiney.

I've got to say, thank goodness for Libba Bray and the Gemma Doyle series, because the young women of YA are taking too many hits in the most popular books of the day!

What other books do you think have (and maintain) a powerful and kind female voice? What am I missing?

Yup, I'm admitting I was wrong...

So I said for months and months and even years that I was not a Kindle person. I like paper. I like the way it smells, I like jotting notes in margins and folding up pages and the soft weight of a paperback rising and falling on my chest when I fall asleep reading.

And then I got a Kindle.

I still LOVE everything amazing about paper, and how books look on my shelf, and smell and feel, etc. But I've discovered that I love the Kindle as well. I read faster on my Kindle. It makes it easier to read at night without getting up to turning on the light. It means I am never without a book.

So, I've just finished the Hunger Games triology, and am gearing up to read the Warmaster's Daughter by Elly Zupko. Any other good suggestions on what I just must get on my Kindle?

I need some help on Fantasy...

OK, so I need some help and advice from any of you who may have read more fantasy than I have, because I am struggling. I am 300 pages into the fifth book of A Song of Ice and Fire, which have been (mostly) excellent thus far, but I am dragging because so much of this series (and the other fanatasy novels I have read) is about people trying to get somewhere and getting waylaid en route.

I talked to a friend of mine who is a HUGE fantasy nut and said exactly that-- "It's all people trying to get somewhere, but getting re-routed over and over by stuff" and he looked at me with a puzzled expression and said "Shauna, that's what fantasy IS..."

I do not in any way want to pass negative judgement on a whole genre, because I have enjoyed what little I read, but I am losing steam on the epic journey theme. Those of you who have read Max and Menna, or even most of the stories in Listening In, know that I am temporallly challenged. I cannot tell a story in chronological order, so this is a bit out of my comfort zone to read for so long.

So, you fantasy buffs out there, help me out. I love the writing style, the characters, the plots, etc., but can't jump into any more "journey" books. Have you read great fantasy that don't include the journey theme? Can you recommend some?

One More Preview...

I am continuing to shamelessly try and drum up interest in Listening In, my short story collection for Kindle (link on the left if you're interested in reading it), and so, here is my last and final preview of one of the seven short stories included.

I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Silent Reel

The strange thing about the music that awoke her was its silence.  Her ears heard only the ocean as her eyes opened and she stared up at the ceiling, encrusted with grime, but the music was loud and vibrant in her mind.  She reached up and brushed the hair from her eyes, and stretched out slowly.  Almost instantly her hand flew to her stomach as she realized the pain was harsher than before.

   Sile sighed, sitting up and glancing about the room, which was just as dirty and familiar at the ceiling. She looked around now, hoping to find Molly, her rag doll, among the debris on the floor, but then remembered that the doll was perched on her bed at home.  Even the thought of the small, twisted doll brought a smile to her face.  Molly had been her protector when she was little and had spent so many nights here, in her grandmother’s house.

   She moved slightly, with the intent to get out of bed, but noticed that her thighs felt soggy and sticky.  She snaked her hand down below the sheets, dreading the possible realization that it was just more blood.   Instead, she felt only her skin, prickly from a few days growth of hair.  She shuddered and spoke to the empty room.  “Great, and now I’m crazy to boot.  Grandma would have loved that.”

Her muscles ached, the bone-biting kind of ache that warned against movement and yet punished lethargy with stiffness.  She ignored her muscles, pressed her hand to her lower stomach where the pain was just as real and impossible to ignore.  She walked to the window and opened it, listening as the sound of the ocean rushed in and battled the imaginary music for control of her senses.

A small spider crawled from beneath the bed and flirted with her big toe.  Sile glanced down, noticed the filth she stood in.  The floor was brown, covered in the thick coat of loose chunks of drywall, rogue scraps of cloth from the bed and blankets, dirt and sand.  

The whole room knew a similar state of disarray.  She turned from the window and felt, for the first time in the week she had been sleeping in this room, her stomach turn.  Her skin crawled as though a hundred spiders had brought her to this realization, and she suddenly thought that she could not get out of the house quickly enough. 

Her feet hit the bottom of the stairs, and then kept heading for the door.  She grabbed her purse and keys from where they had been sitting for the last week, and walked outside onto the porch.

She opened the trunk of her car, an old blue Chevy, and threw her suitcase in.  As she started the beast it sputtered and coughed a week’s worth of phlegm from its exhaust.  She sat, the wheel staring at her impotently.   Sand had collected on the windshield.  She got out, washed it off, and got back into the car.

She leaned into the door, and stopped short.  On the seat where she had been sitting moments before were three, round, fat drops of blood, slowly soaking into the old upholstery.    She ran her hands across them, felt that they were still warm, shuddered, and got in anyway.  Spotting was usual, or so they told her.

Writing as Work?

So every year, I have the same New Year's Resolution: Get back into the jeans size I wore in college. Thanks to random illness in 2011, I am starting 2012 a bit closer to that goal (about 1.5 sizes away), but since I never quite make it, I thought this year I would add a new resolution, one brought on my the experiences of the last week:

Starting April 1, I am going to start treating writing like work. (April 1 because I am then done with grad school and will actually have time).

Here is why...


Writing has always been my hobby- something I did to calm down, cool off, vacate the writing itch from my brain, etc. But I just had 12 days off work. I did not meet my 25,000 word goal for writing, but I did succeed in being disciplined. Excepting weekends, I got up, showered, and set to work. I wrote (or edited) just about every morning for anywhere from 2 to 6 hours. Then I worked on blogging, self-publishing Listening In, my short story collection on Kindle, promoting Max and Menna, pulling together records of last year's activities for the tax man, etc.

In short, last week, writing was my job.

And it is the best damned job I have ever had (and I say that despite mostly loving my actual job now). And I want it to maybe one day be my only job. And that takes more discipline than I typically have for writing.

So once I am a Master, I will pick up an official part time job-- my writing. In 2012, I hope it will finally and officially transcend hobby.