Losing my spot by the wall

I’m terrible at social media. Mostly, I think, because it has the word “social” in it.

I’ve been an outcast long enough that certain survival instincts are almost hard-wired into my DNA. Whenever I’m surrounded by a large group of people all chatting together, my nerve endings scream at me to put my back against the nearest wall, close my mouth, and watch the crowd.

 

I learned years ago that I am a profoundly weird person, and if allowed to talk without careful pre-planning I’ll come up with something that will inevitably make the majority of society stare at me in shock and/or confusion. The only safe place was the spot by the wall, where there was less chance that someone would hunt me down and force me to accidentally say something that would make all the normal people stare at me. Later, I learned to study the people around me, figure out what they wanted me to say, and plan a few safe lines in advance.

In time, I learned to love my spot by the wall. People were so fascinating, sending out signals with their faces and bodies that often had nothing to do with the words they were saying. I watched people interacting with each other, listening to tiny slices of life that suggested long, wonderful stories I spun out in my mind. When I was allowed to be invisible, the world opened up to me. It’s that perspective that fuels my vision as a writer, and I wouldn’t be parted from it for all the jewels in the world.

I would love social media if I never had to participate in it. Twitter is sprinkled with the most wonderful insights and witty one-liners, and I’ve read blog posts that made me laugh and broke my heart. Yes, there are the occasional posts about what people had for dinner, but life needs to have its boring bits. They make the hilarity and heartbreak that much sweeter.

But the fact that I have to talk as well makes me feel like a terrified teenager again. I have to watch every word I say, making sure it’s just quirky enough to not be lost in the shuffle but not so quirky that everyone thinks I’m too odd for them to like. Every time I’m confronted by Facebook’s cheerful “What’s on your mind, Jenniffer?” panic claws at me for just a moment.

I know there are wonderful people out there. I’ve met some of you, and I’ve delighted in the conversations we’ve had. But you’re lost in the crowd somewhere, undoubtedly talking to people who deserve much more of your time than I do, and I can’t very well wave you over every time a random thought crosses my mind. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed listening far more than I have talking, and would much rather go over and read your Tweets or blog posts instead of offering up my own.

I know that there are plenty of other social outcasts who have used the Internet to blossom, transforming into the wonderfully outgoing soul they were always meant to be. But I gave my blossom over to my books, and they’ve bloomed around me in an explosion of magic, love and laughter that makes me happy every time I visit it. There’s a bit of me in every word I write, but I like the fact that most people will never be able to see it.

But when I’m on Facebook, or Twitter, there’s no one else for people to see. And I don’t think that will ever stop terrifying me.

One consonant the more, one vowell the less

Hardly anyone spells my name right. The truth is, I can’t even blame them for it – I’ve never run into another Jenniffer who’s rocking both two ns and two fs. It’s a small naming flourish – if I’d been born now, my dad might have tried to name me Apple – but it’s marked me as different since the moment I was born. My name stood out from all of the other Jennifers that filled my elementary school classes, and my quiet insistence on making sure people remembered every one of my additional letters made me stand out as well.

My name isn’t the only thing that makes me different, but over the years it’s become a subtle but important symbol of the individuality I cling to so fiercely. In a way, that second f has helped make me who I am.

So when I discovered my editors subtly changed the name of one of my characters, it felt very odd. They were right to – apparently, when you shorted Jonathan it’s got to be Jon, and John is an entirely separate name. But I’d been calling him John for years, and something of that very common, solid-sounding name had leached into how I viewed him. John doesn’t sound very flashy, and I imagined
he probably got dismissed a lot.

When you take out the h, however, the name somehow becomes more modern. Even more elegant, at least in my eyes. Though it’s ludicrous, I think just a little bit differently about someone who spells their name Jon instead of John (this is probably Jon Stewart’s fault, now that I think about it). My Jon, a prince, is the kind of person that deserves the more elegant version of his name. Had I been dismissing him myself by saddling him with the more boring version?

Even if I was, Jon luckily forgives me. And from now on, I’ll give him the samecredit my second f  gives me.

Fairy Godmothers, Inc. short story: The Elf Question

I have no idea when Walgreens got into
the elf shoe business.

The Elf Question

By Jenniffer Wardell

Shoemaker Elves were a completely different species than their taller, more elegant cousins. It was never a good idea to confuse the two, particularly within earshot of a representative of either species who had been drinking heavily. Shoemaker Elves were actually more closely related to fairies, and sorting out who had started calling them elves usually took a good working knowledge of linguistic history and the willingness to tolerate a lot of shouting.

Neither species tended to show up in the Fairy Godmothers, Inc. offices, generally preferring to sort out romantic matters among themselves. This news had no effect on the young Shoemaker Elf sitting on the other side of Kate’s desk, her traditional blue cap clutched to her chest. “I know, ma’am. It’s also not very normal to have clients pay you for themselves. But I’m desperate.”

Kate leaned forward, eyeing the girl carefully. “But you don’t want one of the packages we have available.”

“No. I want you to come to my mother’s party and whisk me away to dental school.” She smiled hopefully. “It’s the only way they’ll let me go.”

“What I’m confused about is why the say-so of a Fairy Godmother would help the situation any.” She noticed the girl’s hunched shoulders, a very unusual gesture for a Shoemaker Elf. When you were short, you generally held on to every inch of height you could get. “I would think Shoemaker Elf parents would approve of dental school. Working on teeth has the same kind of craftsman spirit.”

“Well….” Clearly, the girl hadn’t thought her story through as well as she should have. “They’re very traditional, and though they’ll look at me kind of funny a Fairy Godmother will cause just the right amount of fuss. They’ll have to let me go, because making that kind of scene and then not doing anything about it will just make people talk more….”

“And finding out that their Elven daughter is pretending to be a Shoemaker Elf won’t cause enough fuss?”

The girl sighed. “I’m sorry, but people get so disappointed because I’m really bad at the whole snooty Elf thing. I thought you’d like me better if I seemed like I whistled while I worked.”

“That’s dwarves, kiddo, but it’d probably be a good idea not to mention that particular stereotype to any of them.” Taking pity on her, Kate pulled out a new client form. “And I’m fine with however you want to dress. But if you go around in that outfit, people are going to start asking you to fix things.”

As if conjured, one of Kate’s co-workers chose that moment to pop her head around a corner. “Hey, are you a Shoemaker Elf? I have this desk chair I’d really like you to look at….”

A Handbook for Supervillains: The Female Villain

So You Want to Rule the World

The Female Villain Persona, or Yes, Even Evil is Sexist

The unpleasant truth of the matter is that the majority of the world’s most well-respected supervillains are male. If you’re a woman and have an overwhelming pull towards villainry, you’re usually expected to be the girlfriend of some more powerful villain or sleep with the hero before betraying him. Sure, you get great outfits, but that’s not going to win you the kind of respect that say, subjugating a small country would.

Even the best villains fall into this trap. Talia may have been the mastermind in the latest “Dark Knight” movie, but who do we all remember? Yes, Bane. He got to make the dramatic proclamations, while she missed several opportunities for solid evil name recognition by pretending to be a good guy. This, my friend, will not get people quaking in their boots at the mention of your name. After all, branding is just important in villainry as it is in selling shoes.

 (Just a note to keep you from offending someone you shouldn't and having them convince you to apologize with a ray gun -- "villain" is still the politically correct job title for women who choose this profession. In fact, the only term still under evaluation from several joint committees on political correctness is "bad guy."

"Bad girl" was briefly considered as a replacement, but several women's rights activists in the supervillain community attending the meetings felt that the term was derisive to women and still segregated them from their peers. Since they had conveniently armed themselves before arriving, the rest of the group tended to agree with their viewpoint quickly. "Bad person" is a current favorite, though a small but vocal writer's coalition is complaining that it just doesn’t sound as catchy.)

So, my sisters in dastardly deeds, don’t let yourself fall into the “girlfriend” trap. Believe me, there will be ways to trick the hero without sleeping with him, and the other villains will respect you for it far more. If nothing else, get one of your female flunkies to sleep with him while you get to do all the dramatic grandstanding and evil rants that are some of the most solid benefits our profession has to offer. Then, when the hero thinks he’s lured your flunkie over to the good side, have her bring him to you so you can stab him. Or stab them both, and prove you’re above this whole seduction nonsense. Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have fun with it.

Next: No Capes, or Edna Mode Was Right

Proving my worth

The kanji for worth (with thanks to about.com)

I forget things.

Sometimes, this is where on earth I just put the cordless phone I was holding five seconds ago. Other times, it’s the fact that, when I was in jr. high, I was so terrified about getting a good grade in a class I already had an A+ in that I seriously tried to steal my mother’s books to get extra credit. It’s survived now as a funny story, but at the time I was so desperate to get an A that the fact I already *had* an A didn’t console me in the slightest.

Looking back from the peaceful vantage point of relative well-adjustment, I can see that I was so desperate to be the smartest because I was absolutely desperate to prove my worth to the people around me. I couldn’t fit in with the other kids, and felt that the fact I didn’t even really want to – I was lonely, but they were stupid – was another flaw in me somehow. But I was smart. I was smarter than any of them. And if I could keep stacking up those As, I could show the world just how wrong they were to dismiss me.

Now, I’m not nearly so desperate anymore. I’ve found people who can see my worth without me having to prove it to them – not many, true, but as many as I need. More importantly, I can see my own worth clearly enough that I don’t doubt it anymore. And I wish more than anything that I could reach back in time and convince my teenage self of that very thing. Maybe even hug her.

She’d deserve it.

Desperately seeking Self-Googlers Anonymous

Don’t Google yourself – it’s embarrassing. Of course, I’m saying this as a long-time self-Googler, a shameful secret that I’d like all of you to forget the moment you finish reading this post. Even if you do pop your name into Google now and then, you aren’t supposed to actually admit it to anyone – the hobby suggests some awful combination of desperation and narcissism that normally make people back away from you at parties. Do you really care what complete strangers think about you? (I don’t think I care, exactly, but for some reason I have to KNOW.) Do you even know how the Google rankings work? (I think I do, sort of, in that vague yet unspecified way that leaves me content but completely unwilling to explain it out loud in case I end up sounding stupid.)

Of course, as a writer with several articles posted online I have a variety of legitimate reasons for my name to come up in a search (also, an oddly spelled name is extremely useful for weeding out potential Google-clones). But I’ve also run into a desperately unfortunate picture from college, when I was quoted for a newspaper article and ended up with a photographer who apparently found the worst conceivable angle to shoot me from. I had been successfully repressing any and all memory of this picture, at least until Google dug it out of some dark corner of the Internet and helpfully reminded me of its existence just recently.

I suppose it could be worse – anyone on Facebook who might have embarrassing photos of me seems to take my just-short-of-death threats quite seriously – but every time I see the picture I swear I’m never going to put my name into Google again. This vow usually lasts about a week, maybe longer if I’m feeling particularly self-restrained for some reason.

Anyone know if there’s a Self-Googlers Anonymous out there? 

Boxes, borders and extra puzzle pieces

Society expects people to make sense. In fact, it generally tries to force the issue, squeezing us all into convenient little boxes it can use to label and categorize. The vagaries of the need for solitude are forcibly paired up with those unable to reach out and are called “loners,” while those who love to talk, those who love to have people to talk to, and those who are desperate to keep talking so no one sees inside their hearts are all called “social.” It looks better on a spreadsheet, true, but it crushes the wonder of human complexity into a series of bullet points.

When society can’t find the box to stuff you in, it doesn’t know how to handle you. Where do you put the extroverted introverts, who love talking but only to a very small and select group of people? Or the quiet rabble-rousers, who don’t shout or speechify but are secretly full of righteous fury and desperate to change the world from behind the scenes? Do they move between the boxes, or do they exist outside them somewhere?

If it’s the latter, what happens to those who don’t force the world to see them? Are they free, or do they disappear? Are the boxes cages, or are they tribes?

Sigh. If this is what it’s like for an English Lit major in a quiet moment, I can’t imagine what poor Philosophy majors have to go through when they start thinking too hard. For their sakes, I hope they have an off switch of some kind.